Part XXXXI

Ronan didn’t stay in the hospital long, only a few days, and the remaining time before Christmas flew past. Despite his pain, the Eve found us at Sean and Mary’s house according to the plan we had made weeks ago. We arrived on Beacon Hill at eleven and immediately got into Sean’s car for the ride to his family’s church in Somerville.

Midnight Mass in the splendid old church was lovely, with lots of familiar music, and we all had a wonderful time singing along. Ronan entertained me by putting Irish words to the traditional tunes, leaning close to my ear, his right arm curved around my waist.

I knew that was the best Christmas present of all for him: having the use of his right arm again, and thus regaining a good deal of his independence. His over-attentive caretaker had been dismissed, with thanks, a cash bonus, and a sigh of relief. Ronan could now go about by himself as he chose, feed and dress himself, and tend to himself in the bathroom. He still needed some assistance with bathing, but he was good-natured about it, especially on the occasions when I chose to join him in the tub, instead of just scrubbing him down.

In the past week, he had begun cooking a bit again, slowly, but successfully. When I tried to assure him it wasn’t necessary for him to go to the trouble, he explained why he felt he needed to.

“At the moment, ’tis me only creative outlet, a chuisle. I enjoy it, as I always have since I retired, and it really is a pleasure to be able to put a meal together again. If you don’t mind me being slow, then I’d like to keep on with it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

I agreed then, with the provision that he let me know if he wasn’t feeling up to it, so I could take over the cooking on any given day.

So far, that was working out well, though it seemed there had scarcely been a day yet when Ronan didn’t feel up to the task.

Today, with the help of the bread machine, he had prepared his favorite traditional holiday recipe, and was contributing a delicious, colorful, fruit-studded loaf to Sean and Mary’s feast.

He seemed happy, but not completely at peace since his operation, and I understood why. Though he alluded to it as little as possible, as if ignoring it might make it go away, I knew that the pain in his left arm never let up for a minute. A new furrow had appeared between his eyebrows, and a quick glance at its depth made it very easy to determine when he was at his worst. In those hours I kept him company quietly, and did my best to take his mind off it through conversation, playing music on the stereo, and letting him watch as I knitted.

Socializing with our dear friends on this beautiful night was a good distraction, too. Though the furrow indicated that he was in a good deal of pain, Ronan acted as if nothing was wrong. He smiled, and laughed, and chatted, easily and naturally, in spite of it. After Mass, late as the hour was, he got his second wind and was full of energy, a definite spring in his step as we walked from the parking area to the house, and the feast awaiting us.

Mary had everything prepared in advance. Once she had put Rory, who was sound alseep, down in his crib for the night, all she had to do was take platters and dishes from the refrigerator, set them on the table, and uncover them.

Sean had made a big pork pie, and it had stayed in the warming oven while we were at church. It was hot, but not too hot, and Sean quickly cut into it and stuck a server beneath the first slice. “Bring the dishes, Mary!”

She set a stack of square wooden plates at his elbow and passed them in turn to each of us as Sean served our portions.

Ronan inhaled the fragrant steam rising from his plate. “Mmmm. That smells heavenly, Sean. What’s in it besides the pork?”

“Not much. One part ground beef to two parts pork. Onion, celery, salt, pepper, and a bit of clove get added in with a little water. Then I bring it to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer the lot for a few hours. In the meantime, I peel and cube some potatoes and boil them with salt. When the meat mixture is done cooking, I drain the potatoes and mash them in. If the mixture still seems too wet, I crumble up a bunch of Uneeda biscuits—they’re like Saltines, but bigger and thicker—and I mix the crumbs in until the liquid is absorbed. Uneeda biscuits are getting hard to find these days, but I suppose I could try Common Crackers sometime,” he mused. “Well, it’s a fairly simple recipe, anyway. All you need is time for the simmering, so the flavors have a chance to meld before the filling goes into the pie crust. Come on, now. Sit down and see if I’ve done a good job of it.”

I took my place opposite Sean, and Ronan settled beside me. “Can you manage all right?” I asked quietly, so as not to embarrass him. He had been doing quite well with feeding himself, but his hand was weak, and sometimes his fork or spoon slipped from his grasp en route to his mouth.

He nodded and tucked one of Mary’s bright cloth Christmas napkins into the neck of his sweater. “I’ll just take my time, and if I manage to be clumsy nonetheless, at least I’m protected.”

“You do like the sweater, then?” I asked anxiously. Now that it was done, I was afraid it wasn’t good enough, despite the hours I had put into it. Never mind that he had wept when I gave it to him earlier in the day, then examined each and every cable, and finally made the occasion even more glorious by making love to me right then and there.

Now he leaned over and nuzzled my cheek. “Och, sure and I must’ve said so a thousand times by now, in a thousand different ways. ’Tis an even grander thing than I imagined it would be.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he assured me, “and may God strike me dead if I’m lyin’ to ye.”

“Ooh, Ro, don’t even think such a thing, much less say it!” I put my finger to his lips.

He kissed it softly and smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re getting superstitious on me, a chuisle.”

“Yes. I think your influence must be rubbing off on me.”

“Now, now, you mustn’t be letting it get a hold on you. It’s of no use to anyone, just a provincial trait I’ve been encumbered with all my life.”

“What’s a provincial trait?” Sean interjected, having overheard the last bit of the conversation.

“Being superstitious. I’d rather not be, but it’s bred in the bone, and I’ve never been able to overcome it.”

“I’ve a touch of it myself,” Sean confessed, as Mary set mugs of hot cider at our places.

“A touch of what?” she asked.

“Superstition,” Sean replied, and hummed a bit of the famous riff from the old Stevie Wonder song.

Mary chuckled and nodded. “Don’t spill salt around him,” she advised. “He goes into a panic to gather up enough to throw over his shoulder.”

He stopped humming and protested. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve seen you in action.”

“When?” he challenged, good-naturedly.

She leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth. “Whenever you think I’m not watching, Phelan.”

He laughed and grinned, his gold eyetooth catching the light. “Ah, well, then, I can’t deny it, but Mary exaggerates. I really don’t go into a panic, only a simple blind frenzy.”

We all laughed at that as Mary began passing plates of goodies around the table. There was homemade cranberry sauce, a big salad, fresh bread, tortilla chips and guacamole, and an interesting assortment of olives.

Ronan was suspicious of the guacamole. “What the hell is that?” he asked softly, when I offered him some. “It looks nasty.”

Mary hadn’t heard what he said, but she did see his expression. “I’m sorry, Ronan. Don’t you like guacamole?”

“Guaca-what?”

“You’ve never had it before?”

“No, I can’t say that I have. What is it?”

“Avocado mixed with lime juice, sour cream, garlic, spices, tomatoes, and chipotle peppers. It’s really quite nice.”

I scooped some up on a tortilla chip and held it to his lips. “Try it, Ro.”

He gave it another suspicious look, then opened his mouth. It became clear very quickly that he didn’t like it. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, once he’d managed to swallow it. “That really doesn’t rock my world.”

“Then don’t feel as if you have to eat it,” Mary said. “There’s plenty of other food, and look at Sean! He’s overjoyed at the prospect of having more guacamole than he thought he was going to get.”

“It’s true, I do love the stuff,” he agreed. “Hand it over when you’ve had enough, Sarah.”

It was good guacamole, but a little went a long way, garlicky as it was. I passed it to Sean with no regrets. “It’s good, Sean, but it’s heavier on the garlic than I like.”

“I told you not to put in so much,” Mary reproved.

“It’s good for you, and I happen to like it that way.”

“Fine. Just don’t breathe in my direction.”

Sean helped himself to a generous portion and alternated between eating that and taking bites of his pie.

“The pie is excellent,” Ronan offered, to make amends for his reaction to the guacamole. “I’m sorry if I was rude about that green stuff, after all your hard work.”

“What hard work?” Mary returned. “Sean just let the blender do it all. Took him about five minutes of prep time. Don’t give it another thought.”

Ronan relaxed, and started to raise his fork to his mouth. It almost got to his intended destination, but then his hand twitched suddenly, and he lost his grip on the utensil, spilling the food back on his plate. He blushed, but kept his humor. “Well, my aim’s improving, at least.”

I took his hand and massaged it, then gently flexed his fingers for a few moments. “Is that better?”

“I think so. Thank you, a chuisle.” He picked up his fork again, and this time got the food to his mouth without further mishap.

“What happened?” Sean asked, concerned.

“Sometimes my hand gets tired, and it won’t do what it’s supposed to do.”

“Have you been working with the hand exerciser I gave you?”

“Yes. I started right away, when you first gave it to me, while I still had the cast on, and it has helped a great deal. Unfortunately, the muscles are still weak, and their response is rather unpredictable.”

Sean’s brow puckered in a slight frown as he ate his last bite of pie. “Ronan, I’ve been thinking about something for a few weeks. I haven’t said anything before now, because I wasn’t sure if I was making the right decision, but—well, I’ll never know if I don’t take a chance. Mary?”

“You want me to go get it, Sean?”

“Please.”

“You’ve lost me,” Ronan said, looking puzzled. “What’s it to do with my hand?”

“I’ll show you.”

Mary returned moments later, carrying a triangular blue cloth case, approximately three feet long. She set it in Sean’s lap, and he opened the zipper and drew out an exquisite lap harp, somewhat oversized and intricately carved.

My jaw dropped.

So did Ronan’s.

Sean set the harp upright between his knees and stroked the strings gently, coaxing the loveliest sounds from it. “A long time ago, I used to think I wanted to work on medieval balladry, in addition to my traditional and folk repertoire. There was a singer I admired, here in Boston, who was doing just that. His name was John Fleagle, and he was a compelling performer: a real inspiration to me. When I heard he’d built many of his own instruments, I would stop at nothing until I had done likewise. But I only ever got as far as building this little harp.” He plucked the strings a bit more decisively, and then, without warning, he closed his eyes and began to sing:

“‘Worldes blis ne last no throwe,
It wend and wit awey anon.
The langer that ich hit i-knowe,
The lasse ich finde pris theron.’”

The timbre of his voice was so different from his usual style: raw-edged and somewhat strident, and utterly riveting.

Ronan and I stared, spellbound. This was a side of Sean Phelan we had never encountered before.

The song went on for a good five minutes, and when Sean had finished, it was evident he had strained his throat. He cleared it and drank some water, but when he spoke again, his voice was soft and very husky. “I shouldn’t have done that. The style of singing is rough on your throat even in the best of circumstances, and I don’t have the stamina for it anymore. Until last week, it had been years since I touched my harp, but it all came back in an instant. Nice to know I can still manage it if I want to.”

“It’s a beautiful instrument,” Ronan said reverently. “May I see it?”

Mary took the harp and held it while Sean struggled to his feet. Then he took it back from her, walked to Ronan’s side, and placed the instrument between his knees.

It settled quite naturally against Ronan’s left shoulder. He shrugged it impatiently, so I unfastened the sling and released his arm. He managed to lift it, awkwardly, and placed his left hand against the front pillar to stabilize the instrument. He rested his cheek against the polished wood and let his right hand wander over the strings, first plucking individual notes, then building a simple accompanied melody. Finally, he began to sing, and his hand gave up plucking the melody and took up a counter-melody. His eyes were closed, and the sound of the Irish words made him seem very far away from us all. Across the table, Mary Phelan’s eyes sparkled with tears.

Sean remained standing, his hands on the back of Ronan’s chair to steady himself. When Ronan had finished the song, Sean’s hands moved to caress his shoulders. “A cara,” he said softly, “I want you to have her.”

Ronan, deeply moved, answered brokenly. “Sean—a cara—I couldn’t possibly—”

“You must. I built her for you. I didn’t know it at the time, but now that I’ve heard you play her, I see what I couldn’t have seen before. It’s not a matter of whether you can accept the gift or not. She belongs to you, Ronan O’Farrell. She’ll serve you well, and more than that, she’ll heal you. My wish on this holy night is that you’ll agree to take her, and allow her to do what she does best.”

Ronan’s fingertips traced the graceful carvings in the instrument’s frame. “Me granny had an auld, beat-to-shite harp at her house,” he said, his brogue thickening. “When I was but a wee lad, I used to try to play the thing, but I had to be stealthy about it. Granny never minded me settin’ me hands to it, but me mam thought I ought to leave it be, and if she caught me at it, I got a good smack upside me head for me trouble. I hoped the harp might pass to me when Granny died, since she knew how well I loved it. Maybe she did leave it to me, but if she did, I was never told, and I’ll never know now. No one’s alive who remembers, it was so long ago. But the harp was sold, and no matter how much money I had for such things when I grew older, I never had the time for it. Yet I missed it, and hoped maybe someday I might try my hand at a harp again. Maybe buy an instrument and have it sent to N Zed, and reaqcuaint myself with that bit of my past. But I feared it wouldn’t be the same, and that’s why I haven’t acted. Touching this one, though—Sean, the fear is gone. Everything I knew and felt—it’s all coming back.” His hand stroked the wood lovingly. “Do you really and truly mean for me to have her?”

“I do,” Sean answered. “Forever, not just as a loan, and through her I wish you a blesséd Solstice. May the light come into your darkness and burn bright.”

“I wish you the same, a cara,” Ronan replied. “Go raibh míle maith agat.”

Sean pressed his shoulders again, then returned to his place beside Mary.

Ronan, overcome, sat stock-still, his head bowed.

I found my own voice at last, and touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Would you put this away for me now? I’m afraid I’ll drop it if I try to hold it any longer.”

Mary got up and took the harp from him, and together she and Sean put it back in the blue case.

I wondered about something. “Sean?”

“What, Sarah?”

“You’re Catholic, and you wished Ronan a blesséd Solstice?”

“I did,” he answered, smiling. “I’m Catholic, yes, but I’m also a Celt. Some rituals and blessings go back much farther in time than Catholicism, or even Christianity. This is one of those occasions. One bard passing the gift along to another, as John Fleagle did to me, though he wasn’t aware of it. Blesséd be.”

“Blesséd be,” Ronan echoed softly, tears in his eyes.

“You understand, then, the responsibility that goes along with the gift?” Sean asked him.

“Aye.”

“And you accept the challenge willingly, and intend to meet it?”

“To the best of my ability. Aye.”

Sean extended his hand, and Ronan reached out and grasped it. “In that case, a cara, you’re no longer just my dear friend, but my brother. Shall we seal it in the old way?”

Ronan nodded.

Sean rose from the table and picked up his crutches. “Come with me, then.”

Ronan got up and followed, and I started to rise, intending to go with him.

Mary caught my arm and held me back. “This is something they need to do by themselves, Sarah. Let’s leave them to it.”

“But—”

“Leave them to it,” she said, more firmly, “and help me clear the table.”

So I put my hands to work, and the activity kept my mind from wandering. Mary and I had just finished our task when Sean and Ronan reappeared. Ronan looked a bit pale, but he smiled at me as he passed, and sat down at the table. It wasn’t until I took my place beside him that I noticed the bandage encircling his right hand. I looked up at Sean, questioningly, and saw that his right hand was bound, too.

I laid my hand over Ronan’s, and he turned to me. “What happened?” I asked, touching the bandage lightly.

“I—”

“Honestly, Sean!” Mary said crossly.

I was lost. “What’s going on?” I demanded, my temper rising.

“Nought but an ancient Celtic ritual, a chuisle,” Ronan explained. “Please don’t be angry with me. Not tonight.”

Mary frowned. “It could have waited, Sean. You could have given him time to think about it.”

“Begging your pardon, Mary,” Ronan interjected, “but I had all the time I needed to think about it.”

“I told him it didn’t have to be now, and he could take all the time he wanted,” Sean assured her.

“And still I said yes, here and now. Remember, I grew up in the Aran isles. I understood quite well the nature of the vow I was making.”

“Vow?” I interjected. “What are you talking about?”

Mary sighed, exasperated. “They’ve gone and made themselves blood brothers, Sarah. They cut their palms and shook on it, mingling their blood together, then tended each other’s wounds. Sean and I did the same thing when we became handfast, before we got married. It was Matt Curran’s idea, and I didn’t know what the knife on the table signified until the moment came.”

“Matt Curran? While he was still a priest?”

Sean nodded. “He was a bit of a renegade, always on the edge of trouble with the Diocese, though mainly for his views on women’s ordination and the church’s acceptance of the gay community—or lack thereof. Anyway, he wrote a Christian variation of a Celtic handfasting ritual, with enough of both traditions incorporated for proper balance, and he joined us together in the church one night, about a year before we got married, at midnight. I don’t know if he ever had the opportunity to share that ceremony with any other couple, but it was brilliant. The blood vow was a bit of a shock, but once we had actually done it, we both felt it was appropriate to the occasion.”

Mary nodded. “It’s talking about it that sets me on edge. Actually doing it wasn’t so bad.”

“No, it isn’t so bad at all,” Ronan assured me. “The wound isn’t deep, and Sean put antiseptic on it afterwards, so it should heal in no time at all.”

I shook my head. “Honestly, Ro!”

“Don’t fret, a chuisle.”

“That’s right,” Sean agreed. “Nothing to fret about, really. Anyone ready for dessert?”

We all shook our heads.

“I think I speak for us all, a cara, when I say I need more time for the pie to settle.”

“Indeed,” Mary affirmed.

“All right, I have a perfect way to pass the time. Even Mary doesn’t know about it yet.”

“Know about what, Phelan?”

“I have a surprise. Eddie stopped by today, and he brought me something I’d completely forgotten about. A real blast from the past.”

“Sean, you know you’re not supposed to smoke.”

He roared with laughter. “Not that kind of blast from the past, Mair! Though a few tokes of Columbian Gold or Maui Wowie wouldn’t be unwelcome, for old times’ sake.”

“And you a father!” Mary remarked. “Honestly!”

“I didn’t say I’d do it,” Sean reminded her. “Those days are long gone, and while I remember them fondly, I’ve really no desire to turn back the clock. Now, come out to the living room and prepare to be entertained.”

***

C.P. Warner
© 28 November 2008

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