“Do you think he’s really buying another bull?” I asked, amazed that a man in Mr. O’Neil’s condition would buy anything.
“Likely he couldn’t resist,” Patrick growled as the wet grass swished around our ankles. “The bull is descended from Graham Red, so Dad will have to get him before someone else snatches him up. ’Tis the pride thing, don’t you see? The old fool won’t listen to reason.”
A moment later I saw James O’Neil standing outside a bullpen, his thumbs hooked into his vest, a proud smile gathering up his sagging cheeks. The bull behind him was the spitting image of the animal I’d seen in the Ballyshannon barn, but this creature wasn’t slow and shuffling. His beady eyes were alert and dark, his hooves pawing the dirt as the crowd churned around him.
“Will you pose for a picture, James?” a photographer called, balancing a Nikon atop his nose. “I don’t expect you to climb in with the wee beast, but if you could get a little closer, I could get the animal in the shot. But hurry, the rain is coming again.”
“I’m not eejit enough to climb in with a bull,” Mr. O’Neil answered,“but a shot with an animal would be nice, wouldn’t it now?” He turned and moved toward the gate of a pen in which a black-and-white cow stood with her calf. “Take your picture here, with the cow,” he called to the photographer. “They’re both out of me own Graham Red, and it’s proud I am of having a part in such fine animals.”
The cow blinked and turned her massive head toward the interloper, but Mr. O’Neil went through the gate and walked toward her, his hands confidently parked in his vest pockets. Outside the pen, Mrs. O’Neil held a sheet of damp newspaper over her hair and gave her husband an encouraging smile.
Hanging over the railing, the photographer leaned from left to right, striving for the best shot of James and the cow. “There now—just there. Och, can you back up a bit? If you could just take another wee step back, James, I’ll be able to get the calf in the picture.”
Mugging for the camera, Mr. O’Neil took another step back while I rose on tiptoe to whisper in Patrick’s ear. “Your dad sure looks like he’s enjoying himself.”
“How’s this?” Mr. O’Neil beamed for the camera, the crowd clapped in appreciation, and the startled calf mooed at the stranger who had invaded her space. The mother cow moved forward and butted Mr. O’Neil’s back with her head, causing him to lose his footing in the mud and fall backward against the calf.
The events of the next few moments will forever be imprinted in my brain. I froze, one hand lifted toward Patrick, as the calf bawled out its anxiety and leapt forward. The protective cow, displeased with the stranger molesting her baby, lunged toward Mr. O’Neil, her huge head flipping him onto his back in the mud. While he gazed up at her with wide, startled eyes, the cow pressed her head against his chest, then brought one hoof forward and stepped on his abdomen.
A scream ripped through the astounded crowd, and for all I know the sound could have come from anyone, including me. Through a haze of disbelief I saw Mr. O’Neil flailing at the cow with his fists, but that bony head didn’t give way for an instant. She just kept pressing on him, and through the din I heard sharp cracking sounds of breaking bones.
Like a child, I lifted my hands to cover my eyes, but then Patrick made a hand-leap over the railing. As he rushed toward the determined cow, I experienced a moment of empty-bellied terror, the sort you get at the top of a roller coaster. I found myself praying out loud:“Help him, Jesus. Protect them both!”
The crowd around me seemed thunderstruck. The cows in the milking shed had impressed me as the most placid animals on earth, but this beast was a wrathful mother intent upon killing the man who’d dared touch her calf. Strangely enough, she seemed not to even notice Patrick, who grabbed her by the ears and braced his heels into the dirt to pull her away. The muscles in his back knotted and writhed beneath his jacket, his face darkened with exertion, but that cow didn’t budge.
An idea struck me, and now I’d have to say simple ignorance probably saved the day. A more experienced farmer might have tried something else, but I did the only thing I could think of—I reached through the fence and grabbed the calf around the neck, then hugged him to me with every ounce of my strength. More frightened than ever, the calf bawled in earnest, and that jittery, bleating sound cut through the screams and shouts and curses long enough for the cow to lift her head and look for whoever was bothering her baby now.
She looked at me, blinked, and stumbled forward with a bellowing roar. I released the calf and scampered back so quickly that I fell hard on the ground, but the distraction worked. Once the cow’s attention was diverted, a half-dozen men leapt into the pen and formed a human fence, separating the animal from the O’Neils, while Patrick stood over his father and hoarsely called for help.
I sat on the ground, breathless and shaken. The cow, only inches away, eyed me through the fence and bumped her head against it. For a fleeting moment I wondered if the temporary pen would hold her if she charged it, but something about the calf’s warm presence seemed to satisfy the cow’s thirst for vengeance. Breathing heavily, she stood and stared out at me, twin streamers of drool dripping from her velvety mouth.
An ambulance appeared as if from nowhere (I later learned it had been parked at the dog show), and Patrick dismantled a section of the pen so the paramedics could reach his father. The members of the human fence remained in place, several of them calling encouragement as the paramedics lifted James onto a stretcher.
“There now, girl, are you all right?” Mr. Murphy appeared from the crowd and helped me to my feet. “That was quick thinking, if I do say so myself.”
He looked at me, obviously expecting an answer, but I couldn’t speak. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper, and the warm scent of damp cow seemed to choke my breathing.
“Ah, now, and I’m sorry you got a fright. ’Tis the way of the beasts; they’re unpredictable at best and mostly temperamental with a calf. But the ambulance will have James in hospital before you know it.”
I looked at Mr. Murphy through a haze of confusion. “In hospital?”
“Aye, he’s pretty shaken up. But Paddy will ride with him, and Maddie and her young man will bring Fiona. Do you mind riding with me then?”
Too upset to ponder travel arrangements, I paused to brush the mud and grass from the back of my jeans. “I’m awfully dirty. I’d hate to mess up your car.”
Mr. Murphy threw back his head and laughed, and I marveled at the Irishman’s ability to chuckle in the face of calamity. “Listen to her,” he slipped his arm around my shoulder,“worried about my car! Nothing beats a Yank for worrying about unimportant things.”
Bewildered, I pushed my hair out of my face and followed him as the rain began to fall in earnest, sharp as needles against my skin.
An hour later, Maddie and Taylor joined me in the waiting room of the hospital. They had been inside the emergency ward with Mrs. O’Neil and Patrick, but after the doctor’s initial examination, he suggested they wait outside. I thought it a little strange that Patrick did not come out too, but perhaps he wanted to remain with his father.
Maddie wept openly, her pretty face all red and splotchy. Taylor sat beside her, cradling her head against his shoulder, and for a moment I longed for the strength of a masculine, comforting arm. Abruptly, like an afterthought, a realization struck me. Six months ago I would have wanted Taylor to comfort me, but now I didn’t want him at all. I wanted Patrick.
The wide double doors opened, and Mrs. O’Neil stepped out, marks of grief etched into the lines beside her mouth and eyes. “He’s going to be all right, thank God.” Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion. “Or as well as he can be, in his condition.” Her gaze moved across the room and met Maddie’s. “Though he has a couple of broken ribs, we’re not going to lose your dad yet, love. He said he still intends to walk you down the aisle.”
Maddie broke into fresh tears at this, and I closed my eyes, relieved beyond words. James O’Neil was a dying man, bu
t God had decided to leave him with his family for a few more months. That was a mercy.
I looked up and caught Mrs. O’Neil’s eye. “Is Patrick all right?”
A small frown settled between her brows. “I haven’t seen him, dearie. I thought he was with you.”
I sat back, momentarily confused. Where could Patrick have gone? He had left his car at the cattle fair, so he couldn’t have left the hospital. This was the emergency waiting room, so if he wasn’t here or in the examination room, he had to be in another public place, perhaps the cafeteria or the gift shop, if there was one.
I stood, and squeezed Mrs. O’Neil’s hand as I moved past her. “I’ll go find him.”
I asked a nurse for directions to the cafeteria, but Patrick wasn’t among the visitors or white-coated doctors eating at the small tables. I asked for directions to the gift shop, and was directed to a closet-sized room filled with cards, crucifixes, and arrangements of silk flowers. No sign of Patrick.
Standing in the gift shop, I considered one other option. “Can you tell me,” I asked the young girl behind the counter,“if there’s a chapel here?”
That’s where I found him. The small room was lit by candles and a single light burning over a huge wooden cross, but I immediately recognized the broad shoulders hunched over the railing before the kneeling bench. Entering silently, I walked forward and knelt at his side, then closed my eyes as I added an“amen” to Patrick’s prayer.
When I lifted my head, Patrick was looking at me, an almost imperceptible note of pleading in his face.
I sank back to the kneeling bench, then reached out to touch his arm. “Your father is going to be fine. A couple of broken ribs, they say. But he’ll be well enough to walk Maddie down the aisle next month.”
For a brief instant Patrick’s face seemed to open, so I could look inside and watch my words sink in. I saw surprise, a quick flicker of anxiety, then his tense expression melted in an outpouring of relief.
“Thank God. I thought I was going to lose him. I’ve been kneeling here, trying to pray, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so far away from God. Why is that, Kathy?”
“God is not far away, Patrick. He’s right here, waiting for you. But you must set things right with your father because you can’t be angry and in close fellowship with God. He will not allow anger to consume people, and he doesn’t want you to remain separated from your father.”
He stared absently over the railing at the cross, with only a slight squint of his eye and a sideways movement of his jaw to indicate he had heard.
I took a deep breath and tried again to reach him. “You are going to lose your father, Patrick, for these physical bodies aren’t designed to live forever. But you don’t have to spend your father’s remaining days in unhappiness. Go to him and make things right. There may never be a better time than now.”
“I was afraid he would die without giving me the chance to ask what I’ve done to make him hate me so.” He spoke the words without heat, but they fell with the weight of stones in still water, spreading ripples of pain and regret. “Now that he’s going to live, I don’t think I have the courage to speak to him.”
Turning to face him, I took his hand and held it between both of my own. “Patrick, I can’t imagine how your father has hurt you, but I do know this: Jesus understands. He was hurt too. And still he taught that we must be open and honest with those who wound us. Just as we are to ask forgiveness from those we wrong, we must also go to those who wrong us.”
“I’ve tried so many times.” He spoke in a wavering, tremulous whisper. “Everything I did, I did for him and Ballyshannon, but he never appreciated anything.” A dry, cynical laugh escaped him as he raked his hand through his hair. “Once, in school, I did a project on the results of inbreeding grade Holstein-Friesian cattle. The work took every spare minute of nine months, and I earned top marks for it. But was my father impressed? Not a bit! He just remarked that no bull would come near the quality of Graham Red, and only an eejit would waste his time studying such things.”
His chin wavered, and beneath his strong countenance I saw traces of the boy who’d been crushed by his father’s harsh and careless remark. Opening my arms, I drew him close, letting him spend the tears of a frustrated and anxious childhood. He clung to me like a drowning man clings to a buoy in the water, and something in me marveled at the strength in his shaking shoulders. My own childhood had been stable and happy, so I found it difficult to believe that mere words from a parent could so wound a child and haunt an intelligent adult.
But hadn’t Felim O’Connor wounded his daughter with words and prejudices? In the same way, something had turned James O’Neil against his son, and Patrick still struggled beneath the weight of that rejection. Yet he had only exacerbated the problem by pulling away.
Cold, clear reality swept over me in a terrible wave. Patrick’s anger and disappointment had burdened him long enough.
“It’s time to end this, Patrick,” I whispered. I pulled his head upright and gazed into his wet blue eyes. “Misery depends upon isolation, and you don’t need to be miserable anymore. Go upstairs and talk to your father. Don’t put it off another hour.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, then he nodded slowly and took my hand, lifting me with him.
We found Mr. O’Neil in a large, rectangular ward of eight beds. A nurse smiled at us as we came in, but her sober eyes flashed a silent warning: Don’t upset my patient.
Mrs. O’Neil was sitting in a chair by the bedside, but she stood as we approached and came forward to slip her arms around Patrick’s waist. “Maddie and Taylor were just here,” she whispered, patting Patrick’s back. “But they’ve gone now, and Taylor’s going to bring your car from the fairground. I thought you and Kathleen might want to head home soon.”
“I do, Mum, but first I have to speak to Dad.”
Mrs. O’Neil’s bright eyes searched his face, then she nodded and stepped away. I watched her retreat, certain that she, too, knew the time had come to settle old scores. I crossed one arm over my chest and watched her, wondering if she understood the barrier that stood between this father and son.
Patrick moved to the edge of his father’s bed and looked down.
“Dad?”
James O’Neil’s eyelids flickered, as if his eyes were moving behind the closed lids, then he opened his eyes and managed to give his son a tremulous smile. “Paddy.” He spoke the name with quiet emphasis. “I hoped you’d come. I wanted to thank you…for saving me miserable neck.”
“Somebody had to. Besides, you should be thanking our American guest. ’Twas Kathleen who got the terrible beast off your chest.” Patrick’s words and smile were playful, but his meaning was not, and James took the hint and turned toward me.
“’Tis true, I should thank you, lass. I’ll never be forgetting what you did for me out there.”
I gave him a smile that said no big deal, then looked at Patrick, silently urging him on. He met my gaze and seemed to take courage from something he saw in my eyes. Taking a seat in his mother’s empty chair, he leaned forward and braced his elbows upon his knees.
“Dad, I want to talk to you. There’s been something between us for years, and ’tis more than the fact that my ideas and your ideas don’t mix. I don’t think I’ve ever had an idea you liked, but let’s forget about that now. Truth to tell, I don’t want to be your enemy, Dad. I’d really like to be your son.”
Overcome by raw emotion, I glanced away and saw Mrs. O’Neil standing in the ward doorway. Tears glistened in the wells of her eyes, and she held a handkerchief knotted in her hand.
I pressed my hand to my forehead, hoping to stifle the fountain rising inside me, then looked back to the man in the bed. His face had twisted at Patrick’s words, his eyes screwing tight as if to trap the sudden rush of tears, but they streamed down his temples and into his dark hair while his shoulders shook in silent sobs.
“Dad, I don’t want to upset you.�
� Patrick reached out to smooth the sheet over his father’s chest. “I’ve caused you enough pain over the years. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for all that—just like I’m sorry ’twas little Mark that died instead of me. I know you doted on that baby something fierce.”
I heard Mrs. O’Neil’s quick intake of breath and realized that this revelation was as much a surprise to her as it was to me. James shook his head back and forth on the pillow, like a sick child refusing the medicine that would make him well.
“Ah, no, Paddy, you shouldn’t blame yourself for that.” Mr. O’Neil’s voice scraped terribly, as if he labored to produce it, but the words began to come faster and flow. “The troubles between us had nothing to do with the baby, nothing at all. ’Twas just that I didn’t know what to do wit’ you.” He paused, one hand rising to claw the air as a harsh keening sound rose in his throat, then he closed his eyes as a wall of resistance seemed to break inside him. He took a deep breath, pulled his mouth in at the corners, and brought his trembling hand to his lips. And then, though his face looked old and tired, a younger, more insecure man looked out from those blue eyes and stared at his son.
“Ah, Paddy, you should know the truth, I owe you that much. The teachers said you were bright, and you came home wit’ all sorts of ideas that made no sense at all. At first I let you go your way, prattling about this and that. But when you began to look about the farm, you talked of ideas I couldn’t follow, let alone put into practice. Sure, I wanted you to help me with Ballyshannon, but everything with you had to be more complicated, more economical, and more sensible. I could never see any sense in any of it.” A note of wistfulness stole into his expression. “You were always so far ahead of me, Paddy. I had no idea how to keep up wit’ you.”
“I’m so sorry, Dad.” Patrick gulped hard, tears slipping down his own cheeks. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You’re a good farmer, and no one knows cattle like you.”
“You wouldn’t have known that today, would you now?” James barked a short laugh, then grimaced in pain and pressed his hands to his ribs. “Och, I can’t be laughin’ for a while yet, my ribs pain me something fierce.” His gaze moved into his son’s, and his hand rose from the blanket and reached for Patrick’s. “But I want you to know that even though I didn’t know what to do wit’ you, I always knew you were special. Trouble was, I thought God gave you to the wrong man. You should have been the son of a doctor or a barrister.”
The Emerald Isle Page 36
