In the Company of Others

by Jan Karon

  He does not look at me, nor at Brannagh, but into the long distance. We are silent for a bit--the wind is getting up.

  Can we stop in to see her, he says at last.

  We've no time, I say. We must keep to our appointed rounds. If a doctor says he's coming, he comes.

  Now your Brannagh, I say . . . (I realize I have let the badger out of the bag & hurry along to distract him) . . . is a full fifteen hands high & can do anything at all from hunting to driving to carrying heavy loads, but--& this, lad, is a very fine feature--tis her grand intelligence & big heart she's famous for.

  He has not heard me.

  Eunan? I say.

  Yis?

  His eyes are bright, too bright, I think. I put my hand to his head & find it burning. Something tells me not to wait.

  Tis your own pony we're driving, I say. And a merry Christmas to ye.

  I hand the reins to him & he is unbelieving.

  Take the reins, lad, & do as you've seen me do.

  Brannagh stops in the lane.

  Ah, now, she wants the taste of the whip. Give it to her on the flank like this.

  I demonstrate the flick of the whip & say, Giddyap, ye little brute.

  But I have given the lad too much at once--too much joy, perhaps, & too much to do with taking the reins & learning how to sting the lovely flank of his Brannagh.

  20 December

  The lad took only broth last night & that very little. We suspected a type of influenza. C put him to bed & said prayers over him. When I went in to wake him this morning he was not in his room. We commenced a search throughout the house including the upper floors, then out to the carriage house where we found pony & cart missing.

  I saddle Adam & meet Fiona & Keegan on the path from the cabin. They have not seen him. I ride along the lake road but do not find him. I call in at several cabins but he has not been sighted. Then the Clooney lass says she watched pony & cart go by while emptying their chamber pot. She threw up her hand in greeting she says, but he did not appear to notice & was going at a trot.

  As E would not know how to find the O'Leary cabin, I dismiss this train of thought & continue my search. At a little past noon I return home in a state of frenzy & spy pony & cart coming up the lane. Tis O'Leary the Shoemaker & the lad delirious with fever.

  We live in a country rightfully terrified of the many fevers that court us. O'Leary is furious & demands I keep the boy from their door.

  My God, he weighs nearly nothing, is less heavy than my heart as I carry him in to C.

  21 Dec

  Late evening

  The lad very ill.

  At her insistence, we move him into C's chamber on a cot. We tremble to name it, but given the symptoms, are pressed to believe the worst--Typhoid Fever. Tho it prevails in the autumn, it may occur in any season & in epidemic proportions.

  We are treating it as such & burning the soiled rags & bed linen. Though possible to receive the poison by inhalation, it is most frequently passed through the urine, stool, & vomitus of the victim. I have mixed a solution of Chloride & lime in which the same must sit for an hour before being emptied into the Trench Keegan is digging. The two porcelain bed pans are scalded after each use & stand for an hour filled with the solution.

  Fiona sensing danger & fearing for her life but willing to keep after the bed linens. As reason returns, we realize we cannot continue burning good linens, & will instead let them lie for some time in a strong antiseptic after which they must be boiled. Keegan to maintain a fire under the iron pot in the carriage yard.

  We keep him well away from Jessie for the unborn infant's sake & from Keegan who goes among the neighbors. We have not spoken the name of this wracking Fever, but have nonetheless sworn our household to secrecy. Cleanliness is the sermon we repeatedly preach to Fiona.

  Aconite our principal drug with Specific Echinacea, Jaborandi & others as useful--Hydrochloric Acid for the sores of tongue & lips. I am ever at the pharmacopoeia for any wisdoms unknown to us.

  Jessie admitting she gave the lad direction to O'Leary's cabin, not knowing his intentions. He harnessed the pony badly, yet well enough--I am struck by his native intelligence & his strength to perform such a task.

  I have sent for Fr Dominic. Mother of God, have Mercy upon this innocent lad.

  As I write, the snow begins.

  'Poor dear Eunan,' said his wife. 'Have you ever found yourself praying for these people?'

  'Can't say that I have.'

  'Twice I've prayed for them before realizing the truth.'

  It was Maureen stopping by their half-open door.

  'Come in, come in!' he said.

  'Lord love ye!' She limped to Cynthia and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. 'I'd stick me own foot in the air if 't would help ye get through this. But ye're lovely in that green chair with your blue eyes shinin' an' so talented with your gift for makin' people feel special. I hear Herself has asked ye to do up her portrait, an' if that isn't th' cat's pajamas I don't know what is, an' her lookin' like a witch on a broom, poor soul . . .'

  Maureen McKenna. Good medicine. His own spirits lifted.

  22 Dec

  Consummatum est.

  Danny Moore & Sullivan the Mason have done a fine, quick job of it & gone home with jingling pockets after the snow began. Keegan has hung the door.

  I had thought of having a quarantine room, but would not have acted so quickly without the three words on the white sheet which I took to be urgent. Conceal a room, it said in India ink.

  Tis a tidy small room with but two cots & a table. To have a morsel of light from the outside is an advantage to both doctor & patient, but a disadvantage to Privacy. We think no one will easily spy the window for its small size well-hidden by trelliswork propped against the exterior wall. Nor will anyone suspect that along the hall from the Surgery & behind the tall bookcase well-fitted with volumes & concealed casters is a door. What is done in that room shall be coram Deo--in the presence of God alone.

  The lad in for a long siege, God help us. Snow & Christmas together will reduce the patient load thereby freeing time to attend him. He must be sponged each day with soda water & given milk every three hours. C making a sherry whey--one forth cup sherry to three forth cup hot milk & stir to curds. She strains & adds a little sugar & he seems avid for it. I read that broths at this stage aggravate the diarrhea.

  He must be kept to bed & turned regularly to prevent Sores. His fever high, the pulse small & frequent, a sign that heart action is weak & must beat faster to make up the difference. It is to our advantage that Fiona possesses an unbridled liking for him--she is sleeping with Keegan on a pallet in the kitchen, and makes herself available when called. Jessie weeping a good deal but carrying forth her duties.

  It snowed throughout the night & has come down heavily all day. We do not expect brother & niece, nor C's sister on tomorrow's train which we would be unable to meet in any case. I think of my brother, badly stooped with arthritis, unwrapping the twenty-year-old ham he has put by for so long, & hanging it up again in his storeroom. He had been excited that we would all enjoy such a treasure together. Tis tender as goats butter, he had written to say.

  By the time Fr Dominic reached us, the snow had become too heavy for return travel & thus he is unable to celebrate the Holy Mass of Christmas in the parish church. Not even the faithful remnant would be getting about, he says. Fretful over missing the first Christmas Day Mass of his priesthood, he nonetheless remains cheerful.

  I shall be your Christmas Goose, he says.

  Keegan has shoveled a path to the carriage house where we now keep our fire in a pit beneath the wash pot. He measures six feet & ten inches fallen upon what will be our kitchen garden.

  Christmas Eve

  Snow abated. A final measurement of seven feet four inches altogether.

  The lad very ill.

  We do not succeed in lowering his temperature, but seek to fortify the heart so that it may stand against the strain. On my knees, I recall w
hat I can of Mother's native wisdom. I am at once given the memory of Lobelia, much recommended for the oppressed pulse & labored breathing.

  Fr Dominic prays over the lad untiringly--this evening he said Mass & we received Holy Eucharist by the kitchen hearth. All seemed to find the greater heat & Christian fellowship consoling. I believe we felt a moment of happiness in wishing one another Nollaig shona dhuit!

  A child is born for us, a son given to us . . . The darkness that covered the earth has given way to the bright dawn of your Word made flesh.

  On his evening call, Feeney brought a moon boot. A once-despised thing of no beauty whatever, such a boot now seemed to possess a good-humored cachet.

  'I had a suspicion,' said the doctor, 'that the time had come, and indeed it has. Well done!'

  He turned away from the sight of his overjoyed wife, wiped his eyes.

  Thirty-four

  Evelyn Conor appraised his wife, eyes narrowed. 'Crutches.'

  'Yes. But we don't talk about it.'

  'You're an attractive woman.'

  'You're the one for that,' said Cynthia. 'The lovely portrait after Sargent . . .'

  'The artist painted the truth. You must paint the truth.'

  'I'd find no satisfaction in doing otherwise.'

  'The ring is on the table. The white gold setting was designed by a jeweler in Belfast. The pearl is from the Pacific and good enough for evening. 'Tis all I have to offer.'

  'I'd like to paint you for pleasure only, Mrs. Conor. I hardly wear jewelry.'

  'Call me Evelyn. When profit is in it, one does one's best. You must take the ring.' The tremoring of the fingers, the sweat.

  'Profit isn't interesting to me,' said Cynthia. 'You are.' Emptying the hamper, setting out the jar of water, the paints, the brushes. He sat quiet in the corner, the dunce.

  I washed her poor face, Fletcher had said, and did up her hair but I'm no beauty parlor, for all that. She had a desperate tongue this morning and no wonder, with her diet nothin' but air.

  'What do you want me to do, Missus Kav'na?' Impatient.

  'Please call me Cynthia. You needn't do anything at all. I'm sketching a quick impression as an exercise, we'll see where it leads.' The ferrule making its music against the water jar. 'You have a splendid nose, Mrs. Conor. Where does such a nose come from?'

  'Do you mean from which marauding horde? Africans, Vikings, Mongols--Huns, perhaps?'

  'Exactly.'

  'It comes from the fairies.' Her jaw set, eyes distant.

  'The fairies! Have you seen one, then?'

  'Of course I've seen one. I've seen many.'

  'What do they look like?'

  'No one who sees fairies tells what they look like. When someone tells what they look like, you may rest assured they have not seen fairies.'

  His wife was smiling. Her cup of tea.

  'May I ask where you were educated, Mrs. Conor? You have a grand way of expressing yourself.'

  'I read my husband's library. It's unfortunate that the son who inherited his father's books does not read.'

  'I imagine he has no strength left to read, Mrs. Conor, what with keeping his guests happy.'

  A very civil remark, he thought.

  'Are you a woman of faith, Missus Kav'na?'

  'I am.'

  'Your husband presses it upon people.'

  'Does he? I've never noticed him pressing it--not very much, anyway.'

  'Do you believe as he does?'

  'I do.'

  'Have you no mind of your own, then?'

  Cynthia laughed. 'Too much a mind of my own, some say.'

  He reached down to Cuch and gave a scratch behind the ears.

  'How is your impression coming?' asked Evelyn.

  'Very well but for the mouth.'

  'How do you mean?'

  'A certain . . . something there, I can't say what. Hard to grasp with the brush. Subtle.'

  'My teeth are quite ruined. I take trouble to hide them.'

  'You wish to be painted at your worst; you may as well grant the poor things freedom to be seen.'

  'I'm an oul' hag, it's come to that.'

  'A beautiful old hag, I think. God showed great favor when he cobbled you together.'

  'It's been my undoing.'

  'Yes, well, they do say beauty has its curses. I wouldn't know.'

  'False modesty is unbecoming.'

  'So be it,' said his wife. 'The silver streak in your hair--very handsome.'

  'It came in after the death of my mother and sisters; I was but a girl.'

  'There. That's all that can be done. Let's have a go at the real thing. Water?'

  'Yes.'

  The bent straw, the slightest raising of the head.

  'May I see it?'

  'I don't show the impression, it's for myself alone.' The tearing of the painted page from the sketchbook.

  'You can be hard like your husband.'

  The chime of the ferrule. 'Keep looking beyond me, as you're doing. Yes, he's a hard old thing.' She glanced over at him, sly as a ferret.

  'What favor has God shown you?'

  'Every favor,' said his wife.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Companionship in loneliness, peace amid chaos, hope against desperation. Among other things.'

  'Why would he do that?'

  'He loves me. Your eyes, yes, keep looking just there. He loves me desperately.'

  'Desperately. A childish thing to say.'

  'It's okay. I'm his child.'

  'I don't understand you people.'

  An actual giggle from his wife; the true music for him.

  Panting, now. 'You've been good all your days, I suppose.'

  'Good? Me? Hardly. I once tried to kill myself. It was the greatest impertinence of my life. But he gave me beauty for ashes, Evelyn. He unbound me and opened my prison.'

  'Why did he do that?'

  'Because I asked him to. I cried out to him with everything in me, I gave my old self to him, and he gave me a new self in return.'

  'Were you frightened to do such a thing?'

  'Frightened to do it, frightened not to do it. Yes.'

  'My heart is gall,' said Evelyn Conor. 'I realized that while lying here alone. I cannot imagine living with nothing to soften the blow of such knowledge, the loneliness of it. The drink was my friend. Do you understand that?'

  'I do, yes,' said Cynthia. 'Completely.'

  A long silence; his wife visibly moved. 'Friends can deceive us,' she said, 'even the best of them. God does not deceive.'

  Evelyn gasped, closed her eyes against the pain.

  'Do you want Fletcher?'

  'No. Paint me.'

  'I had thought he might be deceiving, that he might even be fierce and churlish. But I found him gentle. I couldn't have known that until I gave myself to him. I had gone to live in the country after failing to put an end to my misery, and it was there that it happened, that he came into my heart and spirit and changed everything. Of course, it had been happening all along, his coming to me and I to him, but I hadn't seen it. All my life, I'd felt a famishing void, the thing Pascal talked about. There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every person, he said, and it can't be filled by any created thing. It can only be filled by God--made known through Jesus Christ.'

  'You gave yourself to him, you say. All your control surrendered. I can't imagine it. If he gives us the free will everyone seems so excited about, why would you give it back? That alone is an impertinence.'

  'Good question. What would you say to that, Timothy?'

  'Do not ask your husband to speak for you.'

  'Well, then, I gave it back not because I despised it but because I had no idea how to use it.'

  'That doesn't make sense.'

  Cynthia smiled. 'You're a difficult woman.'

  'You flatter me.'

  'You're doing a very hard thing here, and you're doing it alone. Fletcher, Seamus, Dr. Feeney--in this, no one else counts, really. You're doing it alone and p
roud of that, I suppose.'

  'I've always been proud to do something alone, without assistance from the weak and cowardly.'

  'I found doing it alone too great for me to bear. It was disabling. I was Atlas with the world on my shoulders, I was Sisyphus--my heart the stone.'

  'I cannot fathom that kind of talk. Leave off, now! Leave off.'

  The buzz of a bee marked the runes of his prayer.

  'Do you know what happened to my mother and sisters?'

  'I do.'

  'I have spent these many years trying to keep them alive. Thinking of what they would be doing, where they would be sleeping--sometimes in summer, Ailish slept on the roof. Would you sleep on a roof, Cynthia?'

  'I would not!'

  'So many crawlers in the thatch, I could never understand why she did it, she was peculiar, Ailish. Day after day and night after night, I have forced myself to think what they talked about and had for supper, about the dresses and aprons they wore--I have tried to remember the colors, the patterns in the cloth. I have tried to keep their smells alive--Aileen smelled of garden peas when the shell is opened, and Ailish, always of sweat, no matter how she washed off in the pond. My mother had a sour smell, she was a sour woman with sour thoughts.'