The Irish Revels

         Feeney kept his eagle eye on the path that led to the Thorntons’ door. Fahy, Owen Glynn, Dan Tobin and others were off in the corner with Michaleen, whetting their whistle and laying odds on the gender of the wee one that would be arriving in the Spring. I had a good mind to wager it would be a boy, but for the priest to gamble would be unseemly, especially on the Eve before Christmas. Despite my reticence to bet, I could not help but overhear what was on the minds of my gambling parishioners.

         “I’m taking three to one it’s a boy.”

         “I’ll take some of that action, Michaleen. It has to be a boy; the father will not have it any other way.” Wagering is next to imbibing in Innisfree, holy day or not.

         The little man jotted something in the book in his hand, and with his other reached to embrace the money Owen Glynn offered.

         “A man that set in his ways is leading himself on to be disappointed so I’ll take some action on a lassie, Michaleen.”

         Another man in the shadows was offering his opinion. In the light from the kerosene lantern I could not make out his face, but thought it was Forbes. I will never understand Sean Thornton’s rejection of the electricity brought by that movie company when they came that same year that Sean returned to the soil, but it was his choice to make and not mine, nor God’s.

         His fair Mary Kate was stirring one of the large pots on the fire, her red skirt and green blouse making a wonderful tribute to the blessed birth we would celebrate the next day. Her back was to me, but I thought I could hear a muttering bouncing off the masonry of the fireplace. To my trained ears, I could swear she was taking the Lord’s name in vain, but I did not want to prejudge her. Under my breath I asked Father Paul, standing next to me, to prick up his ear and see if he might interpret her words.

         The master of the house stood in the far corner with the Reverend Playfair and his lovely wife. I could not hear what they were talking about, but more than likely it was the manly art of boxing. Sometimes I wish Sean showed more interest in my beloved avocation of fishing, but I guess I should be thankful he comes to Mass every week with his lovely bride.

         I could feel Father Paul tugging my sleeve and turned to learn the results of his reconnaissance, but only heard the croak of Ignatius Feeney as he informed his boss of the next arrival.

         “I thinks your In-laws are arriving.”

         Feeney was trying to ingratiate himself with both Thorntons, but I doubt he needed to announce the coming. The booming voice of Will Danaher could be heard outside, wishing a passer-by a “Merry Christmas.” In a second he was at the door, behaving like the perfect gentleman, holding it open for the love of his life, the former Widow Sarah Tillane. The green frock dress she wore only emphasized the state of her maternal expectations. When alone in my room thinking about it, I ascribed her condition to a miracle come to us in the little village of Innisfree, but in public I followed the suggestion that “Red” Will Danaher could do anything he set about doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the look on the face of Mary Kate Thornton. I wanted to tell her quietly that envy was a sin, but kept my own counsel.

         “A Merry Christmas to all, and especially to you, Yank!” shouted Danaher. Even after two plus years the name Sean Thornton was still rendered as “Yank” by the Squire Danaher. Led by Mrs. Playfair, several women bade Sarah to take a seat in the rocking chair that was one of Mary Kate’s prized possessions. While the expecting mother was being pampered, Will continued to take over the room. His eye never left Thornton as he bellowed, “You’re mighty slow, Yank. When will I become an Uncle?”

         A look of anger passed across Thornton’s face, but receded quickly. He cleared his throat before replying. “We’re in no hurry, Danaher. I’ve got to get this farm on a paying basis first.” The look on his countenance seemed to say, “Do you have anything to say about it?” Mary Kate’s brother was still "Danaher" to Sean Thornton, not “Will.”

         Danaher ignored the challenge and moved to get a drink. It appeared that Christmas Eve would pass as a time of “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to all men,” but now an unexpected voice was heard. From her post by the Dutch oven on the fire, Mary Kate turned, and speaking with that same determination that insisted she be given her dowry two years before, took the evening into uncharted waters.

         “A good husband would have the sense to let his intended know that he had taken too many blows below the belt in the ring before he married, that’s what I say.”

         By now the women gathered around the pregnant Mrs. Danaher had stopped their chatting and were listening. All realized the meaning of Mary Kate’s words. The men were all ears too; Owen Glynn had dropped his mug on the floor in surprise. Will Danaher simply stared at his sister. It was Sean who opened his mouth, and in steely reply said, “A good wife would stick to her cooking and know that certain secrets should remain behind bedroom doors.” He glared at Mary Kate with a baleful look.

         A buzz of noise filled the air; Feeney had taken out his little pad, awaiting the word from Sean Thornton to add Mary Kate’s name to his list of enemies. One woman asked Thornton if he wanted her to find a switch with which to beat his young wife. Mary Kate placed her hands on her hips, looked defiantly at her husband and quieted the hubbub.

         “Cooking he calls it. Every meal in this house is prepared over that fireplace that has been here since the day this cottage was built. I ask him ‘Sean, why can’t I have a proper stove like I had at my brother’s house?’ His reply? ‘It was good enough for my mother; it should be good enough for you. Don’t you go putting on any airs, Mary Kate.’ I was only asking for a proper stove, wood or coal burning. You might think I wanted electricity too.”

         In the same dead reckoning voice, every word almost spat out, Sean threw back, “That’s exactly right, Mrs. Thornton. My sainted mother raised me using that fireplace, and by kerosene lantern. See how I turned out?”

         Mary Kate was warming up. Her words came rapidly, “Yes, I see, just look at you! You take yourself off to Cohan’s every night to carouse and then come home, all stinking of the liquor, and want to fall in bed with me. There are times I’d rather sleep with McGivney’s cow.”

         Sean’s fists were clenched. Reverend Playfair must have noticed for he stepped between them, admonishing them that this was the holiest night of the year, but having let her frustrations out of the closet, Mary Kate was in no mood to calm down. I could smell the meat on the fire was on the verge of burning. The liquid had boiled away, but I could think of no ecclesiastical argument to get the angry wife back to her cooking. How could I ever have expected Will Danaher, of all people, to play the Angel of Mercy.

         He stepped to the fore, between the warring parties, pounded on his chest and announced, “Me and the Missus, the wonderful Sarah Danaher, came to this cottage this Christmas Eve to give a gift, as it were, to the happy couple that might solve their problems. Do tell them, Sarah.”

         With the spotlight on her, the former Sarah Tillane never had looked as radiant as she did when she announced that she and Will had agreed to leave his homestead and move into her house in town. She left the implication of this deed for Will to announce.

         “As I shall now become a father, and a respectable man about town, I have made this decision to move into the house of my bride and wife, and there raise a family. In doing so I shall have no need for the house that I was raised in, and have resided in until this day.”

         A wee voice popped up from the rear, “Get to the meat, Will Danaher, we wants to get back to the food and drink.” General laughter erupted until Will Danaher held up his hands to silence the multitude.

         “As I was saying, being that I will have no need of my house, I am giving it to my sister, Mary Kate Thornton, who was born Mary Kate Danaher, not in fee simple, but as a household free from rent for the next ten years commencing with the beginning of the New Year next week. There she may live in matrimony, and raise a family, with this lovely Yank who goes by name of Sean Thornton. Merry Christmas, Mary Kate, and you too, Yank.”

         There were smiles all around and I thought I heard a ‘Hip, Hip, Hooray’ developing. Mary Kate had tears in her eyes as she hugged her brother and kissed her sister-in-law. Goodwill flowed from every heart, except that of our American immigrant, Sean Thornton. His eyes had the coldness of steel as he watched and waited for the noise to die down. Then he spoke his mind.

         “Nothing doing, Danaher. I was born, raised and have come back to this lovely cottage, and here I will live my life and die. I’ll not have your fancy house with its electricity and all those things.”

         “Will you listen to him now?” Mary Kate could barely get the words out fast enough. “He’s going to live here, and die here, but he shan’t do so with me. I will accept my brother's generous offer, and live my days in the house in which I was raised. You may stay here, Sean Thornton, but see that you move my furniture to my new residence. And I know you, you will do it yourself rather than hire any able-bodied man because you won’t want to pay him. Besides being pig-headed, Sean Thornton, you’re cheap!”

         “You’re my wife; you’ll live where I live and do what I tell you, Mary Kate Danaher Thornton.” Thornton’s voice turned the name ‘Danaher’ into a sniggering, sneering sound.

         “I’ll do no such thing. For two years I’ve put up with this place, thinking that with my furniture and heirlooms it would be a home that would grow around my treasures, but you, Mr. Thornton, seem to think it’s a museum. I’m going home to the house of my raising, and just you try to stop me.”

         Her eyes were blazing as she said the words. Feeney was busy writing her name in Thornton’s book. Her brother looked on stupified, while the woman that wanted to bring Thornton a birch now mouthed “You tell him, Mary Kate.”

         With her last words, she edged toward the door. Thornton’s arm reached out and grabbed her wrist. He demanded she stay and serve her guests the food she had made. She struggled, yelling at him to let her go. Several of the men, thinking that music would tame the savage breast, launched into song, but the first lines of “The Rising of The Moon” were drowned out by the awakening of big brother.

         “You take your hands off my sister, Yank.”

         “She may be your sister, but she is my wife. A wife must obey her husband, you dumb blockhead.”

         “Not a husband who must have taken too many punches to the head and gone off his rocker.” I am not sure Danaher actually said ‘gone off his rocker,’ that may have been my imagination for the sentence was interrupted by Thornton’s thundering right hand that landed on Danaher’s jaw.

         “Hit me, will you Yank? And this on Christmas Eve, with me being a family man, which is more than you will ever be.” It was the last line that launched Thornton through the air at Danaher and led to him sitting atop the prone farmer. It was when Will Danaher heard Sarah say, “Wherever is my big strapping man who fought this bully for a whole day?” that he began to fight back.

         And fight they did. While Danaher and Thornton pummeled each other about the cottage floor, the guests lined up to save Mary Kate’s treasures as best they could. The stumbling Danaher knocked over the pot of now charred meat and potatoes, to the delight of the neighborhood dogs. While they brawled, Dan Tobin and others began carrying the furniture out the door to save it. The spinet stuck fast in the portal until Thornton was thrown against it, dislodging it and leaving it none the worse for the experience.

         Father Paul stressed to me the need to break up this brawl that was taking place on the night the shepherds had gathered in a field 2,000 years before. “Go right ahead, Father Paul. I will behind you all the way; all the way to the hospital.” I chuckled at my little joke. Michaleen was having trouble keeping bets on the fight separate from those made for the impending miraculous birth, but he was doing a lively business.

         Most of us were outside the cottage now, and only Sean’s mother’s furniture remained. While all would have liked to watch, the windows were small, and few could fit into the doorway, where the danger of being hit by a flying combatant was great. The fighters were largely silent. Only their grunts and groans and the sound of flesh hitting flesh or masonry could be heard.

         Mary Kate was busy organizing the men to carry her furniture to her brother’s house. A horse and wagon were pulling up. It was at that point that, from I could learn later, Thornton threw Danaher with extra fierceness against the front wall of the cottage. The hovel, perhaps one hundred years old and the survivor of many wet Irish winters and summers, decided it had enough of the crazy Thorntons and Danahers. The wall shuddered, and then collapsed, bringing stucco, beams and thatch down on the battling brawlers.

         There was quiet, and then men ran to the wreckage and began to search. Rubble moved in two places, and shortly the upper bodies of both Sean Thornton and Will Danaher emerged, each with white hair and chalky faces. Like dogs they began to shake the debris off. Danaher spoke first.

         “Are you okay, Yank?”

         “I got all my limbs, and they seem to work. How about you?”

         “I’ll make it to Mass in the morning.”

         Neither tried to stand yet; they were about fifteen feet apart. Fahy was giving Danaher a drink from a bottle while Feeney had rushed to his employer’s side. They mattered little. The two giants continued their Christmas dialogue.

         “I know one thing, Danaher.”

         “What’s that, Yank?”

         “I’m like one of those shepherds. I’ve got no place to sleep tonight, except out in the fields.”

         “You have my gift, Yank, and if ever a man needed such a gift, you do tonight.”

         “But your sister, my wife, is angry.”

         “How can anyone stay angry on Christmas, Yank?”

         “You’re right, Danaher. I’ll ask Michaleen to talk to her for me.”

         “You won’t need Michaleen, believe me, Yank. She threw me out many times only to let me return. She’s Irish; she has a quick temper.”

         “We’ll see.”

         They’d each emerged now and began to walk away from what remained of the cottage. Their voices grew faint as they forded the stream, but I clearly heard,

         “Merry Christmas, Danaher.”

         “Merry Christmas, Yank.”

Ocean Gate, January 7, 2004