Part XXXIV

On Sunday afternoon, for the first time since he was injured, Ronan decided he wanted to stop in at Sean’s weekly seisiún. We received a warm welcome from regular attendees who had missed us, and were glad to see that Ronan was on the mend.

After the first hour, observing his look of longing, and noting that his feet were actively keeping time with the music, Sean invited Ronan to join him in a couple of vocal duets. He was clearly nervous and self-conscious at first, but it didn’t take him long to settle into performance mode, and soon he appeared to have forgetten about his arms and was really enjoying himself.

“You were right, a cara,” I heard him say to Sean once the seisiún was over.

“About what?” Sean responded, smiling.

“That I don’t need my arms to sing.”

“Well! So, you’re ready to come back to the studio and go to work?”

“Possibly.”

“That’s good news. Come upstairs and we’ll talk about it. You, too, Sarah. Mary’ll join us after she’s finished locking up.”

It was nice to get back into our old routine of having coffee with Sean and Mary again. Sean and Ronan hammered out scheduling details while Mary brewed the coffee, and then we sat around listening to music, talking and laughing for hours, while Rory tumbled around on the floor, playing with a toy truck and a teddy bear. I hated to see it come to an end, but when Rory finally fell asleep on his blanket, we took our leave, and went home to bed.

It was beyond difficult for me to get back into the work week groove when the alarm went off on Monday morning! I bumbled around in the kitchen preparing my lunch, and chatted with Linda when she arrived, making sure to remind her about Ronan’s check-up that afternoon. He was a little past due for it, as the fourth week anniversary of the assault had fallen on Thanksgiving day, and the doctor’s office had been closed for the holiday weekend.

It didn’t seem possible that so much time had passed, though to Ronan, I knew, it had been an eternity. He was looking forward to his appointment, but was under no illusions. He knew he would come home with his arms still in casts, but he would also know more about the progress of his healing, and have a better idea of how much longer his arms would remain immobilized.

Predictably, my work day dragged, and every time I looked at the clock, sure at least an hour had passed, the minute hand had only traveled five or ten minutes. It was maddening, but at last the moment came, and I hurried home, walking much more briskly than usual, eager to find out how Ronan had fared, and confident he would tell me the end of his ordeal was in sight.

I collected the mail from my box in the vestibule, then ran up the stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and went inside, closing the door behind me.

The whole place was dark. Even the night-light I kept in the entryway was turned off. I fumbled under the telephone table and checked the switch. Nothing happened when I flicked it on and off, so I made a quick mental note. If Ronan and I decided to go for a walk after supper, I would try to remember to pick up some replacement bulbs.

I pressed the wall switch and soft light flooded the entryway. I sorted the mail, throwing the junk in the wastebasket unopened, and set the things I needed to save in the top of drawer of the little antique secretary in the niche beside the hall closet. That done, I hung my coat up and stowed my briefcase, then walked into the living room. “Hey, Ro, are you here?” I called softly, thinking that if he hadn’t gone out with Linda, he might be napping.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice sounding strained.

“Can I turn on a light?”

“If you want to.”

I switched on one of the lamps.

Ronan was lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. That, coupled with his failure to utter a word of welcome, was not a good sign.

“Where’s Linda?” I asked. Normally, the girl was bustling around somewhere when I got home from work: a cheerful but jangling presence. I didn’t like being around her much myself, but Ronan certainly didn’t lack anything in the hours she spent with him.

“I let her go home early. She was getting on my nerves, and I needed some time to myself.”

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “But you know you shouldn’t be alone—”

“It’s only been half an hour, and I haven’t moved a muscle the entire time.”

He sounded snappish and irritable: not like himself at all.

I crossed the room to the sofa and perched on the coffee table, and tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Ronan, what happened? You kept your appointment with the orthopedist, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“They took x-rays and put new casts on.” He moved his right arm a bit to show me: black fiberglass instead of plaster.

“Are they more comfortable than the others?”

“Somewhat. They’re a better fit, and not as heavy as the plaster ones.”

“That’s good, Ro, but—you seem awfully down. What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “I’ve got to have my left arm re-set.”

“Re-set?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, sounding grim. “The bones got displaced somehow and the fractures started healing wrong. See?” He showed me, displaying both arms for comparison. The right forearm looked perfectly straight and normal, but the left one had a distinct curve.

“Oh, Ronan! Why did they cast it, if it’s wrong?”

“To protect it. The bones haven’t mended completely, and if I didn’t have a cast and happened to fall on that arm—”

“Ooh!” I gasped, wincing.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “The operation is going to be complicated enough, without adding another fracture to the mix.”

“Even as it is, it sounds horrible.”

“Yes. I fully expect it will be.”

“What about your right arm?”

“It’s healing well, and a bit faster than the doctor anticipated. I’ll have the cast off in a week or two.”

“Good! That’ll make dealing with this other thing a little bit easier, won’t it?”

“Somewhat. I’ll have one arm I can use, so I’ll be able to do a few things for myself, and I won’t need Linda anymore.”

“That’s all good, but what’s the prognosis for your left arm?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but you’ve got to fill me in.”

“All right, then. I’m to go back to hospital early in the morning next Tuesday. I’ll be admitted and prepared for surgery, and sometime that day the doctor will do the procedure. I’ll stay a few days for observation, and then I’ll hang around here until I’m well again.”

“O.K., that’s the logistical detail, but I’d like to know what exactly is being done, and how long they think it’ll take to heal.”

“I told you!” he retorted. “They’ve got to break my arm and re-set it, and stabilize it with plates and screws. Then I’ll have to wear a cast and sling for eight weeks, if all goes as well as it possibly can. More likely, I’ll be out of commission for several months. And once I’ve healed, there’s a chance they’ll have to remove the hardware. If so, that’s another six weeks in a cast.”

“Oh, Ronan!”

“I haven’t told you the worst of it yet.”

“What?”

“There’s nerve damage. I won’t know exactly how bad it is until the bones have mended, but they’re saying I may not regain full use of my hand and fingers.”

His voice sounded cool, clipped, and unemotional, as if he was mentioning someone else’s misfortune in passing: ‘Oh, and by the way, did you hear about so-and-so?’

The O’Farrell bravado in full force: cool and collected on the outside, but screaming on the inside. I hadn’t seen it since the first time I met him, all those years ago, after that poorly-attended concert. Then, all I wanted to do was gather him into my arms and hold him, and tell him to stop pretending everything was all right when it wasn’t. Not knowing him then as well as I did now, it would not have been the right thing to do. And right as it might seem now, I was afraid. Was I strong enough to withstand the torrent of emotions my simple kindness might unleash?

From where I sat, Ronan appeared calm at first glance, but closer study revealed that he was trembling with suppressed rage, right down to the ends of his hair. Any moment now—

I reached over and gently laid my hand on his left arm. Something in my expression must have upset him, because he scowled and lashed out at me.

“I don’t want your pity,” he snarled, trembling more visibly now.

Tears flooded my eyes. I understood his response and wasn’t hurt by it, but I did ache for the pain behind it. “Ronan, I—”

“It’s useless!” he raged. “Just fucking useless! All the pity in the world won’t fix this. If it could, I’d say, have at it. The more pity you can throw my way, the better. But as it is—fuck it. Don’t even tell me you’re sorry.”

“Even though I am?”

“It’s not necesssary to state the obvious.”

“Have you told Sean?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to?”

He shrugged.

“He’ll be really hurt if you don’t. You know that, don’t you?”

Ronan nodded. “But I wish I didn’t have to tell him. I wish I could just disappear, rather than see the look on his face, ’cause this is all my own damn fault. If I had just taken the taxi that night, like he wanted me to, instead of pig-headedly going off on a stroll through the Public Garden at two A.M.—”

That thought had crossed my mind, too, more than once, but now was not the time to let him know it. “What’s done is done. You can’t keep beating yourself up for that mistake. Turn the page. Close the chapter. Carpe diem.”

“What kind of day is left to seize if I end up not being able to use my arm properly?” he responded bitterly. “And the way they’re talking, it sounds like it might not even be strong enough for me to manage my boat when all’s said and done. So, I’m to lose my playing ability and my greatest pleasure outside of music? Great God, what’s left to live for?”

“Things might not end up being as bad as they’re predicting. Give it time.”

“Time,” Ronan snorted contemptuously. “Well, that I’ve plenty of.” He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and rose from the sofa.

“Shall I call Mary and see if we can get together in a bit?”

“I guess. Best get it over with.”

***

Mary was amenable to a visit, so Ronan and I got ready, and soon we were on our way to Beacon Hill. I had lost track of how close we were to Christmas, distracted as I’d been since Ronan was hurt. Now it was early December and a light snow was falling as we walked. Multi-colored lights twinkled around window frames, on Christmas trees, and on handrails leading to wreath-bedecked front doors. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Aye. D’you ever put one up yourself?”

“A Christmas tree? Well, I used to, but now I just have a little one on my desk at work. There doesn’t seem to be much point in decorating for the season when you live alone and you don’t entertain.”

“You’re not alone this Christmas, and it would be a lovely thing to come home to after I’ve had my operation. Could you get one?”

“Sure, and I’ll see if I can find my old decorations. They’re down in the storage room somewhere.”

“I’d really appreciate that if it’s not too much trouble, a ghrá. I haven’t ever had a tree.”

“No?”

“No. There are no trees to cut on Inis Meáin. The winds are too fierce for them to grow. And it’s not an Irish custom.”

“Really? But you must have decorated in some way.”

“Aye. ’Twas simple, though. On the Eve, there was always midnight Mass. Our church had a lovely creche, and there would be holly everywhere. It didn’t grow on the island, unless it was planted right up against a house, in a sheltered place. Otherwise, the winds would kill it. But Father—not my own father, but the priest—would go over to the mainland and order a load of branches, so there was always enough to decorate the church, and to give a bit to everyone who came for the Mass.”

“That’s lovely.”

“It was. I so looked forward to taking that little branch from Father every year, but especially when it was my turn to put it in the little vase on the mantel when we got home. Once it was placed, whether it was Grainne or myself who did the honors, we sat down to a good, but simple dinner: usually some sort of fish stew and fresh bread and butter. It always tasted so good, because we had to fast before taking Holy Communion, and we were starved by the time we got home from Mass. Our earthly representation of the Body of Christ was an insubstanial wafer, and it could never satisfy one’s physical hunger the way stew and bread could. It was hard not to wolf it down, but there was always more than enough food to go around, and we all got as much as we could hold. Afterwards, we set the table with fresh, clean dishes and laid out a meal for the Holy Family, then lit a big candle in the front window, and went to bed.”

“A meal for the Holy Family?”

“Well, being as they were traveling on the Eve, searching for a place to stay, it symbolizes the welcome you’d offer if they happened to come ’round to your home. Each candle in each window was a way of saying there was a place for the Holy Family, or for any weary traveler, who might just turn out to be Christ in disguise. We never had any wandering travelers on the island at that time of year, though once I remember a local family did lose their home to a fire. They all got out safely, thanks be to God, and on Christmas Eve that year, they wandered through the night and found their closest neighbors by the candle in the front window. ’Twas a young family, too. Just the man and his wife and their babe. They were invited in, of course, and given the Holy Family’s meal without question, though they were certainly not the Holy Family in disguise. ‘Whatsoever ye do to the least of my brethren,’ and all that. Or as I prefer to say now, what goes around comes around. Somewhere, somehow, by someone, the good you do for your fellow man is remembered and taken into account.”

“That’s quite a story! What happened to the family?”

“Well, they lived with a succession of neighbors until it was warm enough to begin rebuilding their home, and when the time came, we all pitched in to help. I was just a wee lad, maybe five or six years of age, but by no means too young to slap paint on the outside walls. I painted up as high as I could reach.”

“So, about a foot,” I teased.

“Och, that’s very funny, bean,” he remarked drily. “I’ve always been small, yes, but not that small. I managed a good meter and a half before the taller folks had to take over. Anyway, except for that instance, no traveler ever came by, and in the morning we got to eat the special bread that Mam had put out the night before. ’Twas a nice addition to our breakfast.”

“What about presents?”

“Aye, there was always something for each of us, but ’twas mostly basic things. Necessities.”

“Is that the Irish way of saying socks and underwear?”

He chuckled. “Aye, but often there were hats and gloves as well, and maybe a pullover for each of us, if Mam had the time.”

“What sorts of presents did you give in return, Ro?”

He smiled. “Well, I had my jack-knife, don’t you know? And I put it to good use carving bits of driftwood into little figures that vaguely resembled people and creatures. Mam had a whole army of them lined up on the mantel, on either side of the holly vase. I suppose Grainne must still have them somewhere, though I’ve no idea if they’re still part of her Christmas decorations.”

“If she’s as sentimental as you, then I’m sure they are.”

“Perhaps, but the point is, our Christmas celebrations were very simple. All our gifts were handmade, and if not by us, then by some other craftsman on the island, who could make something we didn’t have the skill or proper tools to make for ourselves. There was never anything like the overabundance I’ve been seeing here when Linda and I go out walking. D’you know, she wanted to run an errand to Copley Place the other day, so I went along for the exercise. God almighty, it’s obscene, the amount of stuff I saw people buying! And though this is supposed to be a joyous season, all I saw were grim faces, and everyone’s rude but the Sallies.”

“Who?”

“The Salvation Army people. When Linda and I go out, I make sure I have her carry a good supply of dollar bills, so I always have something to give them. We tend to run into more than one of those folks when we’re out and about.”

“That’s kind of you. They do a lot of good work, taking care of less fortunate people.”

“Yes, they do in N Zed, too. Occasionally I feel guilty for not supporting Catholic-based charities as well as I could, but the Sallies seem so much more direct somehow. Maybe a good portion of my money goes towards administrative costs, but it doesn’t seem that way when you’re face to face with the person collecting. It’s not like putting a check in an envelope and mailing it off, though Lord knows I do that, too.”

“You’re a generous man.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s easy to give from one’s surplus. I have enough to be comfortable, and I don’t feel any lack from what I give away. If I were truly generous, I’d give it all up and go live and work with the Maori people.”

“Really?”

“Really. When I was at my loneliest, about a year before I met you, I considered it quite seriously. But I made the mistake of telling my sister what I was thinking, and she was furious. Said I wouldn’t last a month living in rough conditions amongst the underprivileged, with my health as precarious as it was. So, I decided from then on that I could help by hiring Maori people to work for me, and pay them a decent wage.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. You don’t think my grounds and gardens would look as nice as they do if I were the only one tending them, do you?”

“I had no idea.”

“I only muck about with the planters on the porch, and the flowers on either side of the front steps. Rangi and his helpers do the rest. And there’s a lovely woman, Pania, who comes in and helps me with the housework. I hired her about a week after I hurt my ankle, figuring it was just temporary and I’d let her go once I was back on my feet. At the time I wasn’t thinking about whether she was Maori or not. She could have been purple with blue polka-dots for all I cared, as long as she was competent to keep house and help me get around while I was laid up. I got much more than I bargained for. She cared for me like no one else ever had, and kept the house sparkling. Wouldn’t let me lift a finger until I was off the crutches. Four years later, she’s still with me, and she’s still a treasure. And though she’s not much older than me, she treats me like a beloved son. If I were a different sort of man, all the attention would have quite turned my head. Not in a romantic way, you understand, but as far as taking things for granted goes. I could have got quite obnoxious, being waited on hand and foot like that. Things are much better balanced now. She assists me, but she doesn’t do everything anymore, since there’s no reason for it.”

“And I never got meet either of them! Why?”

“For one thing, I thought it was high time they had paid holidays. I’ve tried to make them take time in the past, but they never would. They only agreed this time because I told them I had a lady-friend coming for a visit, and I wanted us to have our privacy. I also knew that if Pania had any idea you and I had met on the internet, she’d have kicked my arse, just as my mother would have done, no doubt. She wouldn’t have granted an ounce of credence to my intuition.”

I laughed, recalling how horrified Emily had been when she learned we’d met online. “You’re not the only one who worried about that! But your people did as you asked? Just like that?”

“I made it worth their while,” Ronan explained. “Time off with pay, and a bonus on top of that. Even so, Pania wouldn’t let go and accept it, until I threatened to change the locks on her. Then it was, ‘Yes, Mr. Liam,’ and off she went, though I suspect she didn’t go too far and probably spied on us a bit during your visit.”

“She’s protective of you.”

“Aye, even more than my own mother was.”

“So, what are she and Rangi doing now? You’ve been away a long time.”

“Still doing their jobs as usual. I will be going home again at some point, and I can’t have the place going to wrack and ruin in my absence. I stay in touch with them by telephone once a week, and all’s running smoothly, though Pania’s at her wits’ end, not being able to take care of me now.”

“But you’ve let her know you’re in good hands, haven’t you?”

“Of course, a chuisle. But she’d like to be supervising and making sure you’re getting everything right. I’ve told her she has nothing to worry about in that department, so she grumbles a bit less now and seems content to take care of the house while I’m away. When I do get home again, I expect to find she’s done all the things I won’t let her do when I’m there. Waxing the woodwork and the floors, for instance. I’ll have to watch my step for a few weeks, lest I slip and go flying. Maybe it’s an unreasonable expectation, but I really hope I’ll not break another bone again as long as I live.”

“Can’t say I blame you for that. Ro?”

“What?”

“Besides getting a tree, shouldn’t we make some sort of plan for Christmas?”

“I’d like to, but what if I’m still in hospital?”

“I doubt you will be. You said they’d only keep you a few days.”

“If all goes well,” he reminded me.

“All right, then. Assuming it does go well, Mary suggested awhile ago that we meet at their place, go to midnight Mass, and have a late supper together afterwards.”

“That would be nice, though I fear I may be in too much pain to really enjoy myself.”

I didn’t respond to that, knowing he was probably right, and getting any pleasure out of the holiday would take a great deal of mind-over-matter on his part.

I tightened my arm around his waist and guided him up the steps to Sean and Mary’s front door.

***

C.P. Warner
© 20 July 2008

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