Delaney. Part XXVII

Mr. Byrne has helped Delaney to create a moon garden. “’Tis best to enjoy Foxglove and White Nancy and the like in moonlight. They ‘ave a tender white flower what’s blooming only at night.” And so, Delaney has grown fond of gardening in the moonlight. No one to interrupt her thinking, and a moon garden can produce even more powerful fragrances than flowers that bloom by daylight.

Now that Adrienne has returned to England with the Rourks along with Shelly and her little girl Fiona, Brother Frank hasn’t been around so often, and Delaney doesn’t mind. In fact, she is glad of it. And yet she is frustrated by his absence, wants to finish the argument he began about the Care Home.

Sure, there have been challenges, even abuses back in the day, but it’s too easy to criticize something from afar. He’s not there every day like she is, seeing the kind of care delivered to those whom society casts off. Nor is he privy to the challenges of trying to increase output to keep the Care Home up and running. Some families who commit their relatives may pay the required fees for the first few months or years, but then payments fall off. The Drogheda Care Home doesn’t just turn residents out, so they continue to room there, to eat there, to work and to receive the care they need. Yes, the corporation pays for their labor. But Brother Frank is well aware of the forces of the free market – seeking the least pay for the greatest output – that’s how things work. Think of the expenses to house and feed 250-300 residents year-round.

She is brewing a bitter tea with the argument raging in her head, steeping it over and over again until Brother Frank begs her forgiveness for his thoughtless and idiotic arguments.

“Some people welcome their cleansing.” Delaney is only peripherally aware that she is speaking out loud as she kneels in the dirt.

“It is a form of dignity, Brother Frank. Cleansing is a form of dignity. And I can see that you know very little of dignity by the way you tormented me those weeks I was in the Friary. And I doubt very much you’ve truly changed.” Delaney visits in graphic detail the bully, Frank, tormenting helpless toads and kicking poor Jack between the legs, or the cruel things he said to her in those days she bunked above him.

“Talk about a Murder Factory,” she mutters. “What is the Friary but a kind of murder factory. Murdering a child’s dignity by putting her in in the same room with idiots. If there’s any building in Drogheda that needs to be shut down, it’s that prison for orphans. I dare say the boys would be better off in the Care Home. At least they’d be producing things of value!” And this thought strikes her as an inspiration. While the Friary relies on charity, the Care Home actually puts out things everyone needs. And she knows from first-hand experience the bathroom in the boy’s dorm of the Friary is far more foul than the decent toilets in the Care Home dormitories.

“If it was ever in my power to make the world a better place, I’d shut down the Friary and take those boys into the Care Home. Give them decent work and a purpose for living.” And she repeats the mantra she’s heard from her father and which she hears each day ringing out throughout the Care Home factories and warehouses; “Workers with purpose are workers with power.”

****

Sister Mary Eunice has developed enough strength in her hands and arms that orderlies regularly wheel her outside and leave the woman unattended. She has enough mobility to wheel herself under a patio umbrella if she’s discomfited by the sun, or it begins to rain. But September has come gently to eastern Ireland, and the nun is content to sit outside for long periods.

On this afternoon she observes Mr. Vadik doing something with the horse drawn Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. He pays her no heed looking to her and thinking to himself, mindless old bitch. But she is studying him carefully. The man appears to be doing something to the hitch where the carriage frame connects to the horse harnesses. He has a hack saw and looks to be cutting a pin, but not all the way through. The way Mr. Vadik keeps looking around, as if to insure no one is watching, convinces Sister Mary Eunice he is up to no good. She tries to practice saying the word “sabotage” but can only manage sab-age.

“Sister!” Delany calls from across the lawn.

Mary Eunice lifts a hand in a weighty wave. It requires such strength for any movement or speech, but less so than it did a week ago, and a week before that.

“I’m glad to see you outside again.” Delaney says. “I was late to work this morning. I was up late tending my moon garden. That, and the fact that my mind was churching with too many thoughts to sleep soundly. Does that happen to you, Sister? Do you find yourself brooding over the silliest things at night?”

It appears to Delaney that Sister Mary Eunice is in great earnest to say something, but not in response to her query.

“Cut … cut …” and she is pointing a quivering finger at Mr. Vadik who sits waiting in the driver’s seat of the Cosgrove carriage.

“Yes,” Delaney responds after looking to the vehicle. “It’s father’s Cutlass. His Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. But I myself don’t care to ride in it. Draws too much attention, everyone gawking and pointing.”

But the woman is not satisfied. She keeps pointing.

“Cut. Cut.”

“Yes, Sister. The Cutlass.”

The old nun drops her head shaking it. She tries another approach.

“Va … Va… Vadik.”

“Mr. Vadik. Yes, our driver.” Delaney says.

“No … good.” This time the Sister annunciates clearly, but it has zapped all her energy.

“Oh, Mr. Vadik? You say he’s no good?”

Mary Eunice nods her head in a pronounced manner.

“He’s an odd fellow, I’ll give you that, Sister. But ‘no good?’ That may be a bit harsh, don’t you think? He has served the family faithfully these last few years and knows as much about the strange machine as my father does. Possibly more.” Then Delaney pats the Sister’s hand.

“He’s strange, indeed. But I think you judge him too severely. Now, I should bring you back to your room. I was late coming to work so I need to finish my shift. I’m afraid I won’t have time to read to you today, Sister.” And Delaney moves behind the wheelchair and pushes the nun back to her room.

The elderly woman has spent herself in the short exchange, and it does not take long for her to doze off after being laid in her bed, regardless of the fact that Mrs. Orlanbury has launched into one of her monologues and continues her stream of consciousness well after the nun is sound asleep.

That evening at dinner, Delaney asks her father, “Papa, do you think the things we do at the Care Home are wrong?”

“Oh Delaney,” Her mother chides. Whatever brought this on?”

But Mr. Cosgrove puts a hand up to his wife while looking at his daughter and says, “You’ve been working there for some time now. Tell me what you think.”

“Well, no.” She says. Then, “Yes, maybe.” Finally, with exasperation, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that Brother Frank said some things.”

Mrs. Cosgrove sets her fork down and glares across the table in offense.

“Brother Frank is about as qualified to comment on our business as I am about the Church.” Mr. Cosgrove says laughing. “The Friar’s a communist. He knows nothing about business. God forbid he should give any counsel on how to run the Care Home. And I do mean ‘God forbid!” And the man is humored by his unintended cleverness.

“What about the things the children make?” Delaney asks, “The clothes. They’re both beautiful and profitable, right? You don’t have to choose between making artists out of the children and making profits from them, do you?”

“You’ve got it, my girl!” Mr. Cosgrove beams, and if he were near his cane, he would surely have it raised in the air. “Profit is its own artistry.”

“And the people who are euthanized,” she continues, “it’s a mercy for them isn’t it?”

“A mercy of the greatest magnitude, my dear.” Her father replies. “Listen Delaney, it’s possible to outlive one’s dignity. And what person in their right mind wants to live beyond their dignity – bodily functions gone, mind turned to mush, unable to enjoy life! It’s a beautiful thing to embrace life’s end while you still have the faculty to do so.”

Then, leaning across the table with a mixture of fatherly compassion and contempt for public opinion he says, “And don’t you fret when people call it a Murder Factory. Let them! Tell them we’re putting to death dishonor. We’re murdering pity for the handicapped and elderly and giving them purpose. We grant them value by drawing value out from them!”

“And our wealth, Papa,” she says. “It’s not ill-gotten gain, is it?”

“Not in the least.” He says with cheerfulness. “I’ve worked hard for what we have here. Ingenuity is hard work and should be rewarded. And so should risk. It requires a good deal of energy to find new ways to reduce cost. And I take risks every day when we receive new residents. Those are forms of hard work that deserve compensation.”

Delaney sits back in her dining chair in visible relief. “Oh Papa. I’ve been so fraught with worry over this.”

“Delaney,” Her mother says, reaching over to take her hand. “People are jealous, and you just have to get used to that. Sometimes they even want to make excuses for the poor choices which have landed them where they are. Now just be gracious and lady like. Shouting matches convince no one. Let Frank and others be convinced about the worthiness of our business by your good nature and your generous charity. And if they are offended by our wealth, well that’s their problem not yours.”

“I love you both so much.” She tells them.

“You’re the light in our lives, child,” her Papa says. “But!” He states this with some fanfare as he stands up from the table. Then walking over to snap up his cane, “Your mother and I are off!”

“Where are you going?” Delaney asks.

“We have a function tonight. A gathering of other Care Home owners. But it is some distance away, near Old Dublin. We’ll need poor Mr. Vadik to test the speed of the ol’ Cutlass tonight.”

“Oh Alex, you know how I dislike galloping in that contraption.” Mrs. Cosgrove says.

“Not to worry dear. We’ll be traveling at a fraction of the speed the Cutlass was designed to go. The thing is practically indestructible at whatever speed the horses can manage.