“I know we ain’t Catholic,” Bernice said. “We ain’t anything. But I don’t know any other way to get this money to Ma. If I sent it by letter Pa would get it and have it drunk up before the postman had reached the next mailbox.”
Father Kerrigan promised to deliver the five dollars the following day. Hester Proddy was alone in the house when he drove up. She was a frail little woman who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds and was fast becoming an invalid from overwork. She seemed confused at having a visitor whose hands and face were clean. When the priest told her who he was and explained the nature of his visit, she kept referring to him as “Preacher” Kerrigan.
“Priest,” Father Kerrigan reminded her. He delivered the five dollars, saying: “Your daughter, Bernice, was very anxious that you spend this money on yourself. Get yourself some medicine, or a new pair of shoes.”
Hester Proddy seemed more perturbed over how Bernice had got five dollars than what she herself intended doing with it.
“I do hope she’s talking good care of herself,” she said. “Pa’s awful mad at her for leaving home just when she was big enough to really help around the farm.”
Mrs. Proddy’s maiden name had been Callahan, the priest discovered. “Weren’t you raised in the Catholic faith?” he asked.
“I don’t rightly know, Preacher Kerrigan. My real father was killed in the War between the States. Ma married again … some man from the North. I had four half brothers and sisters but none of us went to church much.”
Jesse Proddy had crept up outside the house and was going from window to window, peering in. Hester saw him. “Jesse’s outside afraid to come in,” she said to the priest. “He’s askeered of preacher folks. They always scold him for not taking better care of his family.”
“I’m not what you call ‘preacher folks,’ but I’d like to scold him, too,” Father Kerrigan said grimly. He took his hat and went outside, but Proddy had sensed his coming and had taken to his heels.
“I want a word with you, Jesse Proddy,” he called, “and I want to see the children.”
At an interval of fifty yards Jesse’s fear of priests subsided. “They be hiding in the timber and they ain’t coming out ’til you’re gone, you fiend o’ Rome,” he shouted. “Now git off’n my land.”
“Stay where you are … I want to talk to you,” Father Kerrigan insisted grimly. He started toward Jesse but the farmer retreated again, keeping the same distance between them.
“I’ll have the law on you,” Jesse threatened.
The absurdity of exchanging threats at fifty yards was apparent to the priest. The children were leaping and grimacing at the edge of the woods, like gamins. “A poor excuse of a husband and father you are,” Father Kerrigan shouted, determined to have the final word. “And I’ll be back.”
He returned to the house and found Hester Proddy standing in the doorway wringing her rough, toil-hardened hands. “You mustn’t mind Jesse,” she pleaded. “He’s askeered. We ain’t got a friend in the world, and he don’t trust nobody … leastways preachers.”
“Listen to me, Hester Proddy, and mark what I say,” Father Kerrigan said sternly. “I’m not a preacher, I’m a priest … your priest … because you were born a Callahan and a Catholic; and once a Catholic always a Catholic.”
Hester seemed gratified by his words, though their significance had plainly escaped her. “I’ll be back to see you as often as I can so that you and those children will get proper religious instruction,” the priest continued, “and mind you, keep that five dollars away from your husband.”
He had learned later that Hester hadn’t succeeded in keeping the money. Her husband, Jesse, was part fox where dollars were concerned. He had suspected that Father Kerrigan came upon more than just a friendly call. By shrewd and persistent questioning he had made Hester admit that the priest had brought something. Then, with the eagerness of a child on a treasure hunt, Jesse had set out to find it. He was vastly good-natured about the search, making no threats and never losing his temper.
“I wonder just where you coulda hid it, wife,” he would say to Hester. Or rummaging about in the kitchen, he would plead for some clue. “Won’tcha tell me if I’m gettin’ warm?”
There weren’t many places to hide things in a three-room shack and Jesse soon found the five dollars. Hester had cried and pleaded and finally admitted the money had come from Bernice, which made Jesse so mad he had walked all the way into Atlanta and got himself drunk on his wayward daughter’s earnings.
That had been Father Kerrigan’s first experience with the Proddys. After that the girl, Bernice, brought him five dollars every month. “Tell Ma to hide it in the barn,” she would suggest. “It’ll be harder to find out there.”
Once Bernice brought two five-dollar bills. “If Ma hides them in separate places she’s sure to save one,” she said.
For nearly a year Father Kerrigan had been Bernice’s monthly emissary. During that time he and Jesse Proddy had never come closer than fifty yards to each other. The children learned to watch for and shrill the news of his approach, but never did they speak to him or answer his queries. Even Jesse grudgingly came to look forward to his visits. He no longer hurled insults and sometimes crept to a window and listened while the priest spoke consolingly to Hester. If Father Kerrigan stayed too long, however, Jesse would grow fretful. He was eager to get on with the search for whatever prize the priest had brought. Sometimes the children sneaked near the house for a look at what their father called the “fiend o’ Rome,” but Jesse promptly chased them.
“A man’s gotta pertect his offspring,” he would say, taking a stick and flinging it in their direction so that they scattered like quail.
As he turned Brian Boru into the lane, Father Kerrigan saw their pinched faces peering at him from around the house and barn. The children ranged in ages from five to fifteen but seemed stunted for their years. When the priest’s horse came to a grateful halt in the yard, they scattered squealing like little gnomes.
Father Kerrigan waved good-naturally and climbed from the buggy. He was halfway toward the house when he heard a noise behind him and turned. The youngest Proddy, a boy of four or five, stood only a few feet away, cut off from his brothers and sisters and immobile with fright. He had been playing on the other side of the house and failed to hear the cry of warning until too late.
“What’s your name, little man?” the priest asked, extending his hand. The child drew back, poised to flee like an animal.
“Sure now you’re not afraid of me, are you?” Father Kerrigan continued cajolingly.
The little boy gave no sign that he heard. He was hatless and shoeless, and a great swatch of uncut, uncombed hair hung almost to his eyes like a tangle of wet straw. Beneath the curls was a face of extraordinary beauty, dominated by an enormous pair of blue and frightened eyes. The child stood staring at the priest until a shrill whistle cut the air, then he bounded away with the speed of a wild thing. Down the hill Father Kerrigan saw Jesse Proddy beckoning to the boy.
Like he would whistle for a dog, the priest thought grimly.
Inside the house Hester Proddy was in bed. She spent more and more time there now. It was chest pains again, she said. “I scarcely been outta my bed the whole week, Father. Nighttimes my chest feels like it was on fire.”
“Wouldn’t you like the doctor to come and see you?”
Hester appeared genuinely frightened. “Lawd-o’-me, no. Jesse don’t hold with doctors. Besides, there’s no money to pay.”
The priest asked about the children. “I saw your youngest one up close today. He’s a fine little boy, Hester.”
“The baby? He ain’t quite right, Father. He ain’t never spoke a word, not since he was born.”
“That’s a pity,” the priest said sympathetically. “What’s his name?”
Hester was confused. “His name? I declare, I don’t rightly think Jesse’s given him a real name yet.”
Father Kerrigan was shocked.
“You have to call the child something!”
“The other children generally calls him ‘little Number Seven,’ but Jesse just whistles when he wants him,” Hester said apologetically.
The priest had learned long since that he couldn’t wage the battle for Hester’s immortal soul on moral or theological grounds. Christ and the Virgin Mary, the Trinity and the saints, were characters from a book she had never read and were quite devoid of meaning for her. The question of sin was also remote. There had been as little time for sin in her life as there had been for salvation. They were abstractions existing in a far-off, nebulous world of other people and other places.
Father Kerrigan had discovered one route by which he could enter and capture the simple Hester’s imagination. On each of his visits he talked about her father’s family, the Callahans.
“What’s happened to you, Hester Proddy, is that you’ve lost your most precious possession—next to your immortal soul. Your identity … your name, that’s what you’ve lost. And it’s a terrible thing to lose your name … especially a fine one like Callahan.”
He began reciting the ancient Irish legends, tracing the history of Ireland through the centuries as if it were nothing but the personal record of the Callahan clan. Hester’s faded eyes grew bright with childlike fascination and wonder at the tales.
“Great chieftains they were, and kings, too, Hester Proddy,” the priest said. “They wore an O on the front of their name in those days, like a blazoned shield, proclaiming their superiority. But humble in the sight of God they were, too. Wherever St. Patrick knelt to pray, sure a Callahan was there kneeling beside him. And when Brigid was a young girl and laid her rain-wet cloak upon the dancing sunbeams to dry, and the blessed sunshine held it suspended in the air, sure it was a Callahan that witnessed the miracle and tried to do the same thing—without succeeding, of course. Then who do you suppose had the courage to stand all alone on the shores of Ireland’s bottomless lake and answer the fearful question of the giant sea worms, when they rose from the depths on the fateful day and asked in Irish: ‘Is it tomorrow’?”
“A Callahan, maybe?” Hester said hopefully.
“A Callahan, positively,” answered Father Kerrigan. “Sure he faced the prehistoric monsters, and while the remainder of the population took to the hills, this mighty Callahan made the sign of the cross, and shouted—with a voice that shook, I’m thinking: ‘No, it is not’; thereby sending the creatures back to the bottom of the lake for another seven years.”
Hester closed her eyes in dreamy rapture. Father Kerrigan took her thin, worn hand. “Now do you understand the wonder of a fine name, Hester Proddy? It’s like a suit of armor, helping you fight life’s battles; and when your fighting days are finished, it honors you in your old age.”
He glanced toward the door in time to catch the flash of a blue eye peering through the crack. The little nameless boy had crept back to listen outside the door. Before the priest could call him in, Jesse’s shrill whistle sounded again, and boy and blue eye vanished once more.
“Who takes care of the children when you’re sick like this?” Father Kerrigan asked.
Hester opened her eyes but they were still dreaming in a far-off time. “Jesse can cook up a mess o’ greens and fat back as good as anybody. I’ll be all right tomorrow. The pain in my chest is almost gone.”
“I’m going to leave you this little book. Will you study it and teach it to the children? It’s your catechism.”
The sick woman nodded. The excitement of listening had left her weary and spent. Father Kerrigan took two five-dollar bills from the money Shiel Harrigan had given him and put them in Hester’s hand. “Better put them away before Jesse comes back,” he advised.
Hester roused herself. “Put them in the book, Father,” she said, indicating the catechism. “Jesse’d sooner pet a rattlesnake than touch a church book.”
Obediently the priest folded the money between the pages. The sick woman thanked him, and as he slipped quietly from the house, she was holding the book clasped in her worn hands as if in prayer.
VII
Next day brought more and more groups of horse traders, until the woods beside the Chattanooga Turnpike were crowded with tents and laughing, chatting people. With each arrival, the newcomers swarmed from the wagons and buggies to be met with hearty but dignified greetings. Even the children showed well-mannered restraint, extending a polite welcome to playmates not seen for a year, as if their separation had been only for a day.
The women grouped themselves about the tables and stoves, their fingers busy with knitting and mending while they chatted of births, deaths, engagements, and marriages. The men wandered in small groups to examine each other’s horses and mules, exchanging jokes, trade secrets, and the ever-present problem of animal sickness, its symptoms and remedies.
Among the first group arriving was Travis Bunn, Maeve’s fiancé. Jamie recognized him instinctively. He was taller and older than Jamie, with dark hair and eyes, and arms and shoulders like a blacksmith’s. The men in the camp greeted him pleasantly but without undue cordiality. His overbearing brusqueness and freedom with his fists had made him somewhat unpopular with the men, but the women considered him a great catch. In business he was one of the shrewdest of the horse traders.
He swept through the camp, laughing and calling greetings right and left. “And where is Maeve Harrigan and why was she not by the turnpike to meet me?” he shouted good-naturedly. “Have I worn the axles of my wagon thin to get to her—and for this kind of welcome?”
Bunn’s appearance and arrogant assurance so filled Jamie with loathing that he left the camp to avoid meeting the man. He found the solitude soothing. Woods and fields were unbelievably beautiful to a man in love. The green, rolling hills were gashed here and there by plowing, exposing the moist red earth to glisten like new bricks in the April sun. Against the grayish green of new-leafing trees were splashed the early dogwood blooms, white as a bride’s veil. Jamie walked for miles before turning back.
When he returned to camp, the merrymaking had begun. Dan Devlin was playing his pipes accompanied by an old man on the fiddle. The sight of Maeve dancing with Travis Bunn made Jamie sick with rage. He tried not to watch and took no part in the dancing, but he was unable to keep his eyes from the couple.
Seeking Owen Roe Tavish, he was told that the Speaker had caught a ride into Atlanta, intent upon finding his cousin, Power O’Malley.
“He sought you, Jamie,” Jaunting Jim Donner said, “but you were nowhere about.”
Jamie spoke his thanks and went back to the exquisite torture of watching Travis Bunn dance with the girl he loved. A devious and half-diabolical scheme began to form in his mind. Thrusting his hands in his pockets he began to stroll back and forth beside the throng of dancers. Not for an instant did he remove his eyes from Maeve. Aunt Bid saw him and muttered under her breath:
“Now what is that one scheming? Like a caged animal he is, full of malignity and mischief.”
Tavish had ridden into the city with Me-Dennis O’Ryan, one of the shrewder traders of the camp who often acted for the group in collective business deals. Me-Dennis’ mother had referred to her son so constantly as “Me-Dennis” when he was a child that the name had stuck. He was a wry, dry little man, whose wife had borne him seven children, and now patched his trousers at the seat and knees with leather. It gave him the odd appearance of never being completely separated from a saddle.
“If you be coming back tonight, Tavish, you can ride in style,” he said. “Six more surreys for Sunday, I’m renting; to bring the women and children to church. Some years we hire every hack in Atlanta.”
“Oh, no,” Tavish said, with the loftiness of a man whose future is assured. “I couldn’t be leaving my blood cousin with just a ‘how-de-do’ and ‘good-by’; and after coming all these thousands of miles to visit him. Power O’Malley would never forgive such a slight.”
“How long do you figure to stay?”
“A
month or a month of Sundays. Who can say? Cousin Power may even want Jamie and me to make our home with him. He’s quite rich, ’tis said.” Tavish savored the prospective meeting with his long-absent cousin with satisfaction. “He has no family of his own.”
Me-Dennis had lost interest. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be at Rush’s livery stable on Marietta Street. I won’t be taking the horses out until after feeding time. That way I’ll save oats. Oats for twelve horses is no small item.”
“It’s more than forty years since I’ve seen Cousin Power,” Tavish said, ignoring Me-Dennis’ muttering. “Och, what a lad he was at home. Generous to a fault. Sure his right arm grew longer than his left from the giving of gifts to others. Oh … he’ll want Jamie and me to bide with him until I’m ready to go back home. Maybe he’ll go with me … for a visit.…”
Me-Dennis didn’t answer. He was busy pursuing his own line of thought. “Let Rush furnish their supper. After all, they’re his horses. What kind of a man is it that expects someone else to feed his horses?”
“Sure it would be a piece of wonder to come home in style, with a new vest and shillings clanking like bells in my pockets,” said Tavish dreamily.
Me-Dennis had worked himself into a full-scale row with the absent livery stable proprietor. “If Rush don’t like it, then I’ll take my business elsewhere. Who does he think he is, asking me to feed twelve horses?”
The vehemence of his companion called Tavish back from woolgathering. He asked the horse trader where he might find his cousin’s shop.
“He’s a stonecutter … a very dignified profession,” he said.
“Now that I put my mind to it,” Me-Dennis answered, “there’s a stonecutter some of the camps do business with—named O’Malley. Could that be your cousin?”
Three Wishes for Jamie Page 8
