| Mom stopped short to admire the potted Easter
lilies lining the steps to the altar. She wore a pants suit
the color of a camel and carried a pony skin bag. I watched
her face brighten and wondered if the tall lily reminded her
of something—maybe her own figure? It was a pleasure
she was keeping all to herself because I didn't deserve
the easy exchange of conversation. I was in punishment for
an ordinary lie—a forgery she called it. Tests from
school have to be signed by a parent, but I signed her name
myself. Mom said this was just the icing on a trail of lies.
Her expression dissolved now as she turned to me and began
to act out what people said:
"You know what they say about us, Louise, don't
you? ‘Oh, how the mother dresses, how immaculate
she is—not a wrinkle on her—and a widow at her
age—imagine! But look at that little girl. A piggy.
How did a piggy come from that woman?' That's
just what they say as sure as I'm standing here."
She smoothed her hips with her palms the way she did in front
of her full-length mirror in the mornings, while studying
my unkempt hair.
I followed her with my head down, counting the square tiles
with swirls of buff marks, relieved to be as quiet as a mouse
in my Keds while her heels echoed. I shot a quick glance at
the main statue of Mary with those marble ball eyes; her presence
was nothing compared to the aura that followed my mother.
We walked into the side door to the left of the altar, and
stepped into the Waiting Room. Monsignor Archer, the pastor,
was so tall he bent his head forward coming into the doorway.
"Loretta, Loretta" was all the priest said to
Mom, but those two words wafted above us like a soothing hymn.
Monsignor and Mom faced each other, holding hands.
As president of the Ladies' Auxiliary of St. John of
the Cross, Mom supervised luncheons and bazaars. She oversaw
Carmine, the janitor that belonged to the church, and the
row of small rooms behind the altar that made the church shine
and smell of lemon oil.
Carmine walked in with a carton of votives under his arm
and took us all by surprise dressed as an altar boy—black,
ankle-length robe with white smocking—just out of reverence.
He was only as tall as the cherubs that were piled on one
another at the entrance doors swarming in stone ribbons. His
crew cut was the color of chalk and stood like the edge of
our front lawn.
How often I watched him from my seat in Mass with the rest
of the fourth graders, and wondered if the interior life the
priest was talking about up there was the same interior life
that was going on in Carmine's head. He'd be fidgeting
around at the bottom of the pulpit, unnoticed, with that rag
hanging out of his back pocket in the midst of the consecration.
A perfect misfit angel left behind.
"Keep Louise busy, Carmine, she's all yours,"
Mom said, ignoring Carmine as she walked over to study the
loopy script on the wall behind him. She must have been reminded
of my forgery.
Monsignor Archer watched me and Carmine like we were midgets
on a floor about to do a trick.
"I'll be down by St. Frances, kiddo," Carmine
winked.
When he left, Mom reached for Monsignor's hands again.
I left them there to start my own jobs and walked down the
skinny hall with dimly lit sconces that didn't light a path
to anything. I practically felt my way around and found Dominga,
the rectory's laundress, ironing a purple vestment in the
Priests' Dressing Quarters. One wall was coated with Latin
Prayers so the priest about to say mass could read them aloud
while he put on his vestments. Everything in Latin sounded
like hamandeggshamandeggshamandeggs. The open window
was cut out of stone in the shape of a top hat. I loved the
smell of fresh air and starch and wondered why it didn't improve
Dominga's mood. She had a white towel under the ironing board
to prevent the heavy starch from forming a sticky area on
the wooden floor.
"Louise, get me the basket, please."
I found the laundry basket near the chest of small drawers
that, normally, I would have investigated when Dominga was
gone. Not anymore. I was afraid to pick up the basket because
it overflowed with the altar napkins the priests used to wipe
their lips, after drinking wine from the chalice. Each one
had a small red cross stitched in it, which were probably
sewn in by the blind.
Dominga hung the vestment on the door and punched tissue
paper in the sleeves before starting on the pile. "Louise,
I suppose you want the cookies before you get started."
She dished out this warning with her back facing me. Her droopy
eyes hung at half-mast, but apparently, they didn't
miss anything.
The nuns baked sugar cookies with lard and left them around
on plates with doilies. You couldn't even take one on
the sly because each cookie left a grease mark. It was just
one more thing you had to get permission for, or punishment,
if you didn't get the permission.
"No, thank you. I'm going to help Carmine now."
"Don't forget. If you want one, you have to ask."
"I know, I know."
"I know you all right, Lady Jane."
This new honest life was easier than I had imagined, especially
if you started the new life in the Priests' Dressing
Quarters behind the altar with the hiss of Dominga's
iron in your ear. It was sort of like the nuns' life,
doing chores, praying, teaching others by your own unassuming
behavior, and Mom said all that was easy-as-pie, if you didn't
have children under your feet.
Before I left I was drawn to the tall ornate silver chalice,
the top of which was off and placed beside it on the mission
table; the handle was an empty crucifix. There was a similar
line-up of sterling silver at home on the buffet table in
our dining room: candelabras, goblets, coffee and teapots
with creamers of the same family. This chalice, however, had
a majestic presence. If only humble St. Anthony had the same
confident attitude, he might get more followers. The chalice
stood alone with a certain kind of bravery like an oversized
toy soldier, or a statue that could breathe and walk away.
The spell it cast forced me to walk right up to it for a
peek inside. I had had the same feeling looking inside a bird's
nest. Inside was a small mound of hosts, as clean and white
as the sponge of Angel's Food Cake. Each wafer appeared firm
and soft like the napkins in Dominga's "finished pile."
I hadn't received my first Holy Communion yet. I had
one year to go. When St. John's Grammar School attended
Mass, the younger grades watched the older ones receive. Even
the rottenest kids in the school could go up and get it and
look holy with heads bent, hands folded in front of their
hearts.
It was so hard waiting for the taste. The flavor was a mystery
I couldn't get out of my head, more compelling than
the Trinity. Once I asked Mom to describe the flavor and she
said, "It's like nothing else I ever had."
During our first Friday Mass of the school year, I watched
the faces of the kids on the way back to their seats with
hosts in their mouths, their eyes practically closed for a
fine performance. Chuckie Sutton, with the straight, straight
hair that swung back and forth when he walked, was always
scraping it from the roof of his mouth like a wad of gum.
I bet my life that it was Chuckie who spit the host out on
the floor and never owned up to it. I stared at it, too, that
day, on the dirty floor under the pew. It was consecrated,
it had life in it. I expected it to quiver with movement the
way Mexican jumping beans did when they were left in the sun.
Carmine found the host on the floor while he was cleaning
and the entire school was called into the gym over the PA
system by Father Sweeney. Later, at recess, Chuckie told me
he saw Carmine carrying the host like a hot potato, running,
his hand swaddled in the chalice napkin.
During the reprimanding, the rosaries that hung from Father's
belt made a clinking tempo, a light-hearted backbeat to his
speech. The purple-blackish circles under his eyes proved
he was the talking dead. And, he belched in the middle of
his thoughts: "One of you—and God knows who you are—took
the very body of Jesus Christ—our very nourishment,"
he bowed here, thumping his chest with his fist, "the privilege
of being a Catholic, and cast it down to the dirty soles of
your very own feet."
"God knows me, too, I guess," I said out loud
leaving the Dressing Quarters. But, does He know what I'm
thinking?
I began to imagine myself as a Holy Helper with a lace veil,
an image God would easily pick up while he scanned brains
throughout the world. I was on the lookout for holy water,
too, so I could dip my finger in and make the sign-of-the-cross
over my forehead and chest in one full swoop the way Mom did.
I managed to keep a tablespoon of it in the palm of my hand
in case I ran into cripples. This picture in my mind—a
girl driven by good deeds—was taken over by the image
of the silver chalice.
I walked into the church area that was dark but certainly
lighter than the hallway I had just come from on a mission.
A faint smell of incense hung in the church during the Easter
season, a smell that reminded me of the Hara Krishnas in New
York City.
I saw Carmine down by the statue of St. Frances, the saint
that was forever surrounded by birds, and babies without diapers.
Carmine stood there with one hand in his side pocket the way
President Kennedy did on T.V. before he got shot, giving him
a relaxed look. He was talking in his hushed voice to Mrs.
Fanning, another Auxiliary member, with her retarded daughter,
Maddy. They came every Saturday afternoon to help Mom prepare
the church. It was too late to turn around and escape Maddy,
who was twice my size and width.
Maddy was as strong as a man and clamped my head between
her short arm and ribcage. She rubbed my face and head with
the palms of her hands, the way the bowlers in the league
shined their bowling balls on Friday nights. Her fingers smelled
like Silly Putty.
Carmine freed me, reminding me again of how his janitor job
was just a cover-up for his godly ways. "Madeline,"
he called in the loudest whisper he could without offending
the near silence he lived in. Carmine took the long wooden
stick used for lighting votives and held it in front of Maddy's
eyes, then tipped it back to his own eyes like a metronome,
hypnotizing her. Maddy's eyes darted from Carmine, then
down to my head (still rubbing and mashing) then back to Carmine.
Maddy's eyes were never quite still. Her gaze set on
the open space in front of her as if she were watching a little
show, a theatrical performance just for her. Then she clapped
her hands heartily, finally dropping me, and gave in to Carmine's
power.
I looked, too, from the floor to see what he had in his pupils.
More theatre, maybe, but whatever it was the tornado in Maddy
swirled to a halt.
At this point, Mrs. Fanning, watching all this, let her shoulders
fall. She was the only one in the whole place that reminded
me of a saint. Mom referred to her as "Poor Deirdre
Fanning with the Mongoloid." Carmine referred to the
girl as "The Chosen One." Although I think Mrs.
Fanning would have chosen to be in Mom's shoes, because
she treated Mom with a reverence you could serve a queen with.
Mrs. Fanning, seeing her daughter settled and safe, "working"
with Carmine, left us there to start her own duties. Any time
away from Maddy must have been a relief for her, even if it
meant polishing brass in St. John's.
"Take these from the carton underneath the grotto and
put them in here," Carmine instructed us. He held the
votive candles one by one in the palm of his hands like doves,
and placed each one gently in the jar to demonstrate. My neck
throbbed. Maddy was rocking herself, staring into the flames
and I was the only one following instructions.
"Good job," Carmine said to Maddy.
Carmine got up from his knees, although you could barely
tell there was a difference between him kneeling and standing.
"Oh come on Carmine please you promised," I
begged, afraid he would leave me alone with this girl. She'd
get me under her arm again and mash a lit votive in my face,
scarring me for life. Maybe this was part of Mom's punishment
for me.
The church was cold, even in the month of May, and there
were two sparrows flitting up near the basilica-style ceiling,
the way they get caught in the supermarket sometimes.
Carmine stayed and now I was getting the fixed look from
him. I continued to work and he knelt down next to me. I felt
pressure pass through my chest, slowly, the way they say a
soul passes through you if you are next to a loved one when
they die. Carmine put his hand on my shoulder. I felt too
humble to look up at him. Closing my eyes, I let my mind go
blank. I didn't let myself think back to the chalice,
filled to the brim with hosts.
Carmine put his head down, his lips moving like those old
ladies who sat in the back of the church praying madly with
their fist of rosaries over their hearts. He did this, too,
while he worked. He was doing it now.
He looked up and at first I thought he spotted the birds.
"I have to help Jesus," he said.
"With what?"
"Gotta help him carry the cross." He looked at
the middle aisle with worry and dread as if it were the steep
hill of Calvary.
I looked there and saw no one.
I was surprised by this. I realized Carmine, like me, played
pretend games, but he was almost too good at it.
"Louise—you have work to do!" He swiped
my nose jokingly and everything was back to normal.
He got up from his knees, made the sign of the cross, and
headed down the aisle. I noticed he had changed his outfit
to his usual wearing of three sweaters, in all different sizes.
The organist was practicing, "Someone's Crying
My Lord," and with all her stopping and starting it
sounded like she was playing musical chairs. Maddy was humming
her own tune and I figured it was safe to leave her while
she was in a trance.
On my way to the Priests' Dressing Quarters I pretended
to be a weeping lady of Jerusalem, although I wished I could
have turned the lights up.
"Let me help you, dear Jesus." I took the edge
of my cardigan sweater and patted the sweat off Jesus'
brow but it got caught on the crown of thorns. I pulled it,
gently, and let Jesus continue up the hill of Calvary carrying
the huge cross that looked like two wooden beams ripped out
of the church's ceiling.
"Don't worry," I said to Jesus, "Carmine
will be back to help you lift that thing."
I took off my sweater and held it up to catch a little bit
of light, to see if Jesus left the imprint of his face on
my sweater, but there was nothing.
Dominga was gone. The ironing board was pushed over to the
side and the cord was wrapped neatly around the iron. The
purple vestment that hung from the top ledge of the door,
stuffed, nearly gave me a heart attack. The undergarments,
the white gown and sash, were all laid out on a serving board
so the priest could dress easily while praying.
"Dominga," I whispered, to be sure. Clearly,
she had left for the bus.
I felt a breeze skim my face from the open window. I could
see green beading on the trees. I was alone with the chalice
that held the hosts that weren't even blessed.
I figured I better check to see if anyone was around. I walked
out of the Dressing Quarters and came face to face with a
brilliant Lucifer with bushy eyebrows and a scowl identical
to our school principle, Mother Thomas Aquinas. His muscular
arm was ready to reach out of the glass and scoop you from
the hallway, if you looked his way.
I kept going. The doors to all the rooms were closed except
one. It was open just a crack. The sign on the door said Storage.
That's where Carmine kept the spare kneeling benches,
tall screens for the confessional boxes, and cartons of candles
and lighting sticks. I often played in there when Mom worked;
the stacked cartons made great hiding places.
I heard whispers. I looked in the opening and saw Mom. The
cloud of shame came over me, but then then it rose and drifted
over to her. She looked like she was having a special private
confession, without the screen between her and her priest.
In fact, I don't think a screen would have fit between them.
Monsignor Archer was standing straight and tall, his head
tilted back towards heaven. Mom was kneeling down in front
of him so that her head came to where his belly button would
be, if he had one over his robe. The one beam of light in
the whole place exposed a simple smile on her face, as if
she were on stage. Their hands were in an unusual hold—palm
to palm, fingers straight—sharing their interior lives
as if they were the only two people in the world. They talked
so low and lovingly, I wished I could hear their words.
I could see it was true what Mom said. There was a peacefulness
about this Monsignor. Everything seemed to slow down around
him. I watched Monsignor Archer lift Mom's hands and
put them over his face. He breathed so hard, his nose between
her fingers, I could hear him loud and clear.
While their interior lives were mingling, I left and went
straight into the Dressing Quarters. I could picture Dominga,
waiting for the bus with that usual smirk on her face. Now
the wooden floors creaked and moaned like an invisible alarm
system. I picked up the pile of napkins and started walking
in circles around the room in a path that would indicate to
anyone entering that I was just doing my job, placing the
ironed napkins in the "finished" basket.
The circles I made drove me to the chalice each time. The
hosts began to look like hors d'oeuvres. After all,
Carmine said, "A host is no different than toast, until
the priest changes it into the body of Christ."
I wondered if Monsignor Archer could change Mom's body and
blood into something else, too. He changed the expression
on her face as if it belonged to a different woman.
I circled by the chalice and reached over like a batter taking
a practice swing. Just then I heard the cheerful voices of
Mom and Monsignor coming down the hallway. The church bazaar
was coming and Mom was delegating again, telling the priest
that she was making changes after last year's fiasco before
she was President. The door swung open and Mom stood there
looking pleased with me for the first time all day.
"I was just straightening up, Mom. Hello, Monsignor. Were
you doing the silver—want me to finish for you? Look,
I have the rags right here." I pulled one out of the bag and
shook it.
I expected Mom to walk over to the chalice and slam the top
back on because she always said she had a hunch about me.
"No—we had our meeting down in the Waiting Room
with Mrs. Fanning and some of the other ladies on the committee—our
Spring Bazaar is right around the corner."
I looked at Mom in her eyes, the way she did when she had
me cornered, but she was looking up at the priest. I waited
for the cloud of shame to drift in after her. As I stood there,
I remembered Dad describing her as a tall glass of water,
and, for the first time, I could see what he meant. She really
was an imposing sight, standing there with Monsignor Archer.
They looked like beautiful giants, their cheeks flushed with
pink, their brushed-back hair sandy and wavy like brother
and sister. Mom said Monsignor was the most handsome father
she had ever seen, but I never saw him that way. He was a
priest with a brimless hat, and Chuckie Sutton said he kept
two mice under it.
Monsignor had a distracted, concerned look on his face,
which spread over to Mom's. "Smoke?" They
both said it at the same time the way my grandparents say
the same things at the same time because they've been
married so long.
"Stay here, Louise—we'll be right back."
I could smell it, too, and my eyes began to sting. But I
continued my chores. I circled by the chalice, picked up a
host and placed it in my mouth without ever stopping in my
tracks.
"Amen," I said promptly, and dropped the basket.
With my head down and my hands folded in prayer over my heart,
I pressed my tongue on it and braced myself.
Whoever baked them left out the sugar. Even the cookies with
the lard had a little taste. Now I knew why Chuckie was always
scraping the roof of his mouth—it got so dry I had to
use my fingernail to get it out of my teeth. Who could blame
him for spitting it out?
Mom appeared, alone now, pulling me by the elbow. "Thank
God we're right by the exit."
"Fire—a real fire? Mom, I have to find Carmine.
And, Maddy—I gotta get her, too."
All I could see was Maddy, sitting by the candles, rocking.
I tore from Mom but she grabbed the straps of my overalls
through my cardigan. The crotch of my pants jerked and tightened.
"Mom, what about Carmine? What if—"
"What if, what if. Oh Louise, don't you get it? Don't you
ever get it? You're old enough now. He's not right.
Carmine's not right in the head."
I couldn't move. All I could see was Carmine's
watery eyes when he left me filling the jars.
"We have to help him."
Mom pushed me through the heavy door under the exit sign
and shoved me hard into the cool, fresh air. It smelled like
burning leaves, but this was spring.
We stopped near the birdbath by the path to the rectory.
It was filled with fake grass and plastic Easter eggs. There
was another statue of Mary, here, too, and this one had a
powder blue cape made of rain slicker material tied around
her concrete neck. The wind kicked up, raising her cape up
and down in the air as she looked solemnly over to the eggs.
Thanks to the blaring fire alarm, the few of us that were
in the church must have made it out safely, Carmine and Maddy,
too, if not from this back door, then one of the others that
were studded all around the sides of St. John's.
Mom steered me further away. From there I could see the
church parking lot and the tail of Mom's turquoise El
Dorado sticking out of her usual spot.
We were lucky. There were no flames, just a little smoke.
In the relief of safety, now was the perfect time for her
to tell me all the things moms tell their daughters.
"Louise." Mom whispered, looking around to be
sure we were alone.
"Yes?"
"I want you to get me a couple of Easter Lilies from
the altar and put them in the trunk of the car. The church
has too many anyway."
I was unable to answer, but she wasn't waiting for
my response as she brushed off the lint on her jacket that
was suddenly visible.
I noticed how Mom looked different out here in the sun.
There was something tough about her, a streak that didn't
mesh with her looks. You really had to know her like I did
to know you couldn't cross her. The lipstick she applied
so carefully was smudged and faded to a brownish color.
I studied her more closely and looked for the lie she just
told me about where she was and what she was doing. That particular
lie didn't seem ordinary at all. I remembered one long double-thick
shadow on the wall in the storage room formed by her and her
priest. Now her arms were folded across her breasts and I
could tell she was dying for a cigarette. Then I noticed a
cardboardy taste in my mouth. It was a piece of God, or would-be
God, right there next to a cavity with a silver filling. For
a moment I wished I had never stolen the host so I would have
something to look forward to. The speck disintegrated in my
mouth as we waited for the tall figure of Monsignor Archer,
in his long inflated robes, to come around the church building.
|
