‘Didn’t know if it was worth mentioning,’ he said, ‘but there you have it.’
‘Tall, you say?’ Liam’s blue eyes had the gray look.
‘Yes.’
‘And thin.’
‘Very.’ Ichabod Crane personified.
‘Riding a black bike.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would there have been a basket at the rear?’
‘There was, actually.’
‘God help us.’
‘Someone you know, then.’
‘Jack Slade. Th’ blaggard I booted off th’ job. He worked up at Paddy’s a few times, that’s how I found him. I had a hunch about him, figured he was using drugs of some sort, but there’s a lot of that in th’ trade.’ Liam rubbed his forehead. ‘I turned a blind eye to ’t because he was a star at th’ coping.’
‘He was wearing sunglasses, if that means anything.’
‘He worked in sunglasses, almost never took them off. I’ll call th’ Garda, see what they think. Which direction was he headed?’
‘South.’
‘He has a place a few kilometers south. Did he see you, look your way? He would have recognized the vehicle.’
‘He may have seen us as he topped the hill, but no, he didn’t turn his head our way. O’Malley’s shirt is still missing, I take it.’
‘We tore the place apart this morning. Nowhere to be found.’
He wouldn’t mention his cell phone yet-he wasn’t absolutely certain he brought it. ‘Any word on the fingerprints?’
‘They said it could be a while-a lot of latent fingerprints from previous guests. I know a detective at the Garda station in Riverstown, a fellow named Corrigan. I’ll give him a call with this.’
‘Another piece of bad news,’ he said, handing over the keys and hating the remorse. ‘I drove too close to the wall and ruined the driver’s-side mirror. I’ll replace it. I’m sorry.’ He couldn’t remember so many regrets being exchanged in such a short span of time.
‘If that was all the bad news to be had around here, I’d be dancin’ at th’ crossroads. How did it go?’
‘Always the silver lining, as you say-I think I nailed it. But-we met only eight or ten cars on the highway and nothing in the lane, so no great challenge.’
Liam managed a smile. ‘’t is what’s in th’ lane that makes th’ Irish driver. Have another go, anytime. William behaved himself?’
‘We made a short visit to Jack Kennedy. Hope that was all right.’
‘Aye, William will be talkin’ about it for days.’
‘I’ll need to use your mobile to call New Jersey.’ He checked his watch. Still a bit early. ‘Will pay for the call, of course. Can’t seem to find my cell phone.’ For all he knew, it had gone the way of O’Malley’s pullover.
‘I’ll call th’ Garda. Let me know when you’re after usin’ my mobile, and thanks for being buggered into the bridge game. Feeney’s without mercy when it comes to scaring up a fourth. I’ll drive you up a half-hour early tomorrow, if you don’t mind. Seamus is after givin’ you a tour of the place.’
‘Perhaps my wife could come along, just for the tour?’
‘Ah.’ Liam closed his eyes a moment. ‘My mother doesn’t care for attractive women, and your wife is a very attractive woman. If we could wait ’til another day-when Mother’s havin’ her drop-down, as she calls it, I’m sure we can work something out. God’s truth, my mother’s a terror.’
Liam fidgeted, uneasy.
‘And Rev’rend… if you could possibly wear a tie tomorrow…’
‘I would normally wear a collar.’
‘Ah, God help us, she likes th’ Protestant cleric to wear th’ tie.’
‘Not this Protestant cleric.’ He said it mildly enough, he thought.
Buying time, he browsed a recent Independent, then rang Walter. Hurtling through midtown Manhattan in a cab at seven A.M., his cousin expressed dismay over the peevish star this trip had come under; he and Katherine were nonetheless looking forward to connecting at Broughadoon and reworking the schedule; and love to Cynthia who would be in their prayers, God bless ‘er.
He hailed Maureen as he came along the stair hall. ‘How did our patient get on while we were out?’
‘Bella was after givin’ her a hand, but she went up th’ way she came down, except in reverse! She’s a dote, she is, an’ no wonder, with a drop of th’ Irish in ’er. I’ve just done a good cleanin’ on th’ side she goes up an’ down, to keep th’ dust off her skirts. How was your drivin’ lesson?’
‘We made it in one piece.’
‘I hear Jack Kennedy stood you a glass.’
‘He did.’
‘Did Liam tell you we’ve a big surprise for th’ guests tomorrow evenin’? Cynthia says she’s up to it, if th’ rev’rend is.’
‘Consider it done, then.’
She was sleeping, curled like a cat beneath the comforter, the armoire door open, the window closed. He undressed and crawled in beside her and was out like a light.
He woke when he heard her cry out in her sleep, and rolled over and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he said.
She turned to him; he was alarmed by the look on her face.
‘The man…’ She covered her face with her hands.
‘It’s all right, it’s okay. It won’t happen again. Would you like to get out of here? Just say the word. We can take a hotel in Sligo.’
‘It was only a dream, I’ll be fine.’ She shivered a little.
‘You always say that when something goes wrong.’
‘And, of course, I’m always fine.’ She sat up and rubbed her eyes and squinted at his watch. ‘I’m hungry as a bear, and it’s time for you to eat something, too. Did you take the raisins with you?’
‘I did not.’
‘Did you smash into anything?’
‘I did. Tore off the driver’s-side mirror. But I think I got the hang of it.’ He told her about the bike rider he’d seen on the highway, which made her mildly anxious, then reported his phone call to Walter. Her relief was as palpable as his own.
‘I asked the operator for charges,’ he said. ‘Sixty bucks.’
She wasn’t currently into finances. ‘I missed you,’ she said.
‘You did?’ He was a sucker for being missed.
‘I was stuck with Bella as my caregiver.’
‘Tell me everything and I’ll bring our lunch up.’
‘The little wretch. Needs a swift kick in the pants.’
‘On the order of what you used to give Dooley.’
‘Yes, and of course it worked; they beg for it, I think. Needless to say, she’s starving for love-and since I’ve nothing better to do, I’ve decided to give it to her, though she’ll put up a terrific fight.’
‘You’re amazing.’
‘She’s very bright. I asked why she chose the butterfly tattoo, what it means to her. She opened up a little, then, but only a little. The butterfly, she said, has a very short life span. I took that to signify her teenage angst, which can definitely have a suicidal edge.
‘She’s partial to the monarch, which flies from Canada to Mexico, covering two thousand miles in two months-isn’t that amazing?-but only when conditions are perfect and against the most terrible odds. So maybe she’s thinking to fly the coop when the timing is right, and the further away, the better.’
‘How do you know these things?’
‘Very simple. I was a teenager. She did something I wouldn’t have expected. She recited two verses from Frost, from his poem My Butterfly. She seemed to… grow softer, somehow, when she spoke the lines.
‘There’s a collection of Frost poems in the library, so I wrote down the verses.’
She took her sketchbook from the bedside table, and read aloud.
‘It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp / Then fearful he had let thee win / Too far beyond him to be gathered in / Snatched thee, o’er eager, with un-gentle grasp.
‘And so in the poem, the season ends and the flowers die, and the butterfly, too, and she quoted this:
‘Then when I was distraught / And could not speak / Sidelong, full on my cheek / What should that reckless zephyr fling / But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing.’
The sound of a power saw keening beyond the window.
‘Such a sorrowing in her,’ she said.
He saw the sorrowing reflected in Cynthia’s face. If there was ever one to say, I feel your pain, and mean it, it was his wife. ‘Lunch!’ he said in what she called his pulpit voice.
‘Yes. Well. Any sort of sandwich on soda bread with a bit of fruit and tea, and I’ll be your slave.’
‘You’ll forget that heedless remark, but I’ll remember it.’
He pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt, tennis shoes. ‘Back in a flash,’ he said. ‘And by the way…’ He flipped the light switch at the door-on, off, on, off.
‘Hooray!’ she said.
‘The hot bath you’ve been dreaming of.’
He knocked on the kitchen door. Bella opened it, but said nothing. Lunch wasn’t usually served at Broughadoon, but Anna had made special arrangements for the Kavanaghs.
‘If we could get a couple of sandwiches? Anything on soda bread, with fruit and tea.’
She stared, cool.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She closed the door. Robert Frost or no, it would take more than a swift kick to get that job done.
He sat at the table and looked out to the view, noted the faint scent of insect repellent, and remembered hearing that all fishing lodges smell that way, especially in August when the midges are out.
Tonight he would finish the letter-find an envelope large enough for the drawing to be mailed flat, take a wild guess at the weight, put stamps on the whole business, and sayonara. No wonder the postcard was such a popular item when traveling.
Bella entered the dining room with the tray. ‘Shall I take it up, then?’
‘Many thanks, but no, I’ll take it.’ He was pleased to return her attempt at being civil. ‘Mrs. Kav’na loves your soda bread.’
‘Is there anything Mrs. Kav’na doesn’t love?’
Her tone was chilling, he felt the venom in it. ‘Men jumping out of cupboards would be one,’ he said, seizing the tray.
In their room, he set the tray on the foot of the bed.
‘Love her if you like, but leave me out of it.’
She was clearly amused. ‘She’s a terrible pain.’
‘Man,’ he said, quoting Dooley. He needed to get out of here-be a tourist, see a castle, anything. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get a room in Sligo? We can call Aengus Malone to drive us.’ He’d be happy to dodge running up the hill tomorrow to the den of a fire-breathing dragon who devours Protestants and sucks the marrow bones.
‘Calm down, sweetheart. She’s testing us. She’d be thrilled to know she’s upsetting you like this.’
‘What happened to her, anyway?’
‘There was a divorce years ago. She lived with her mother until she was twelve, then went off to Dublin to her dad, a very famous Irish musician. Apparently, his influence hasn’t been the best; she was quite free to do as she pleased, and now his new girlfriend has moved in. It’s someone Bella despises, and so she’s back to her mother after six years.’
‘Eighteen, then.’ His heart was oddly moved, if only a little. He’d been through this himself, through years of Dooley’s arrogance and rage-and then the miracle issuing forth, albeit slow as blood from stone. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Maureen.’
‘She volunteered it?’
‘I asked her.’
‘When it comes to meddling, my dear, you make clergy look like amateurs.’
‘Maureen believes in her. I think Maureen is the unofficial grandmother-Anna’s mum, she says, died in childbirth. Oh, and Bella’s Irish name is K-o-i-f-e, pronounced Kweefa…’
Two castles. A ruin, even.
‘Eat something,’ she said, laying into her sandwich.
Yes. He didn’t want to rile his diabetes, anything but.
He was washing up when the knock came.
Liam’s piercing blue eyes were gray. ‘Corrigan would like us to come to the station at Riverstown. They want to hear what I know about Jack Slade, and what you saw on the highway.’
Come here, go there, do this, do that. ‘What I saw could be told on the phone.’
‘Aye. Of course. I’m sorry.’
He couldn’t tolerate another apology, from himself or anyone else.
‘If they want to talk to me in person, I’d be glad to do it here.’ He would mention the business of his cell phone then.
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Liam.
‘Before dinner, please.’
How simple it was to say no. And it had only taken seventy years.
‘I have an idea,’ he told Cynthia.
‘I love ideas.’
‘After dinner this evening, I’m taking you out.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise.’ They would have daylight until nearly ten o’clock.
He shifted what had become ‘his’ wing chair to face the view, and sat with his notebook and pen.
… are staying here at Broughadoon.
He completed the sentence that had dangled for-how long? It seemed weeks.
Much has transpired since this letter was begun.
In brief, Cynthia was surprised by an intruder in our room, which caused her to wrench her bad ankle-all this followed by police, fingerprinting, and the visit of a local doctor who ordered her to stay off her foot for up to ten days. This, of course, cancels a good bit of our tour with Walter and Katherine.
Happily, W and K don’t mind the upset of plans. They arrive day after tomorrow to spend one night, then on to Borris House and beyond, after which we join up for the last leg (north to Belfast, down to Dublin).
A bit of an expense to cancel rooms on short notice, but worth it, and fortunately our room here remains available. W and K insist they’re grateful for time to themselves, W having been consumed for months by a disagreeable legal case.
C in good spirits and learning to navigate on crutches and true grit. She sends her love along with this watercolor view from our bedroom window. As ever, the very soul of her subject is called forth by her brush.
Goethe said, ‘One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.’
I have heard a little song, as my good wife rattled off a verse or two of Danny Boy this morning. I have read what I believe to be a good poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and looked out to a fine picture on every side. Further, I have spoken, and am trying to write to you, a few reasonable words. In this way, Goethe might agree that I have enjoyed a full day’s pleasure though it is but four in the afternoon.
Just learned that I’m to be questioned by a detective, yet another component of our vacation saga, so will sign off for now with an Irish proverb useful to all:
‘A light heart lives
Something nudging his leg.
‘Pud?’
The little guy was looking up at him, the shoe fastened in his jaws.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Cynthia. ‘He slipped in when Liam came to the door and hid under the bed.’
In terms of never giving up, this was a very Churchillian dog. No, go, get away, heel-what difference would it make? No dog had ever obeyed his commands; his Bouvier-wolf hound mix, in the long years of puppydom, was disciplined only by an emphatic vocalizing of scripture, preferably from the KJV.
Lie… down, he might have commanded early in the game.
Result: Walking about, licking the empty food bowl, possibly scratching.
For God so loved the world, he learned later to proclaim, that he gave his only begotten son…
Result: Instant lying down or, if required, bounding forth into a despised torrent of rain to take care of business. Dog Disciplined by Scripture-it was a show people lined up to see, worth taking on the road. His gut feeling was, it wouldn’t work in this application.
‘Drop the shoe,’ he said.
Pud did not drop the shoe.
‘Roll over.’
Pud blinked.
‘Sit,’ he said.
‘He is sitting.’ Obviously starved for entertainment, his wife was watching this hapless demo.
‘Try fetch,’ she said.
‘Fetch.’
‘You have to throw the shoe first, Timothy.’
‘If I throw the shoe, there’ll be no end to it, I won’t have a minute’s peace.’
‘You don’t have a minute’s peace anyway, since what transpired the other evening. I would throw the shoe.’
‘So you throw the shoe,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t want me to throw the shoe.’
He threw the shoe.
Glee and jubilation, full Jack Russell style. Pud returned the shoe, placed it at his feet, looked up. Two shining brown orbs of hope and expectation…
He sighed; thought of his own good dog; calculated how long he could hold out against a terrier.
‘We’ll be back,’ he told his wife.
On his passage through the entrance hall, he gave a salute to Aengus Malone’s hat. Then he and Pud crunched over the gravel and around the lodge to the head of the lake path. The water’s surface was golden now, hammered by afternoon sun. Bees droned in the flower beds; the trunks of the beeches convened like patient elephants.
It was a wonderland out here, in summer air moved by a breeze off the water. In Blake’s words, his soul felt suddenly threshed from its husk. With no effort, he drew a deep breath; the straitjacket fell away like William’s overcoat.
When he stepped to the mound, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. He was pitching for the Mitford Reds, and they were winning.
Before he delivered the pitch, Pud was racing ahead of it on the path.
He burned the shoe straight down the middle. Pud leaped like a salmon, spun in the air, caught it.
‘Man,’ he said.
Pud dashed back, dropped the shoe at his feet, looked up.
A curve shoe up and away.
A fast shoe high and in.
A sinker low and away.
The aerodynamic of a shoe was unpredictable, to say the least. A rivulet of sweat ran along his backbone.
He smoked a high, looping pitch down the path, sank to his haunches, watched Pud bring it back.
‘Way to go, buddy!’
After the game, the Pitch would have a hot dog with everything but onions, thanks. Ditto for the Catch.
He turned his Reds cap around with the bill shading his neck from the beating Irish sun, and gave Pud a good scratch behind the ears.
Vacation. He was finally on it.