This Side of Water

by Maureen Pilkington

  “Well, Vinny, don’t forget your mop! And, it’s Mrs. Knickerbocker, not Mrs. Knickerbooper!” After he left, I picked up his half-smoked cigarette and slipped it under the flap of my bookbag.

  On the way home I caught up with Patty O’Mahoney. Patty was frail. She wore several layers of clothing, because her mother worked at a florist in town. She spent many after-school hours watching her mother arrange bouquets in the coolers. If Patty didn’t go to my house after school, she walked directly to the shop. Patty was a believer. Once I confided to her on the way home from St. Peter’s that the Beatles were using our garage to practice their songs—they were using it as a hideout. Patty wore an “I Love Paul” button on her first layer of clothing next to her heart.

  Today I had more secret information for her.

  Patty talked while walking, never diverting from her route. “Olivia—wanna come to the shop with me? My mom’s getting ready for Valentine’s Day—it’s her busiest time—she’ll let us stick the lovebirds in the dirt.” Patty wore very thick glasses so her eyes looked as big as ping pong balls.

  “Can’t—I gotta go home. Alexander is coming over tonight, and we’re going to smoke a cigarette.”

  I was surprised at Patty’s silence. Perhaps she was suspicious, so I took out the flattened cigarette from my bookbag. I licked it and rolled it between my fingers to plump it up. We stopped at the intersection where Patty was supposed to make her turn up the hill to the florist. I handed my treasure to Patty, but she wouldn’t take it.

  “Does Alexander know how to smoke?” she asked.

  “Yes, his brother taught him.”

  “Where are you going to do it?”

  “In the garage.”

  “What about the Beatles? They’ll see. They’ll tell your mother!”

  “Oh, they smoke all the time.”

  “Your mother’s going to kill you, Olivia. My mother said your mother is a proper lady. My mother said she doesn’t know how such a lady has a little girl like you.”

  Before I left Patty, worried and fretting on the corner, I wrapped the good-sized butt in a piece of loose-leaf paper and pushed it to the bottom of my book bag.

  My mother was a proper lady. And, she was fancy. Every morning I stood on top of the toilet bowl and stared out into the gardens while she weaved glossy ribbons through my black French braid, or pulled back all my hair in a tight ponytail with a velvet bow. Other mothers did these things on holidays or Sundays, but this was just part of my mother’s daily morning routine, like making toast was for others. My father usually appeared in the bathroom to say goodbye while my hair was being done, leaning his cheek my way to accept a kiss if I was fast enough. I watched my parents look into each other’s eyes every morning at this moment and witnessed my family in the bathroom mirror. My mother’s reflection was always a frown, since my father’s starched collars were never stiff enough for her approval.

  I particularly enjoyed watching my mother’s ceremony of dressing on Saturday evenings. Everything she wore, every piece of jewelry she put on, had a legend to go with it. The clump of diamonds on her pinky were engagement rings handed down to her from her great-grandmother. Even the diamond my father gave her was buried in the setting. Mother had all the diamonds made into one cocktail ring. She would hold out her stark white manicured hands and say, “Olivia, this is our heritage.”

  When I came home from school my mother was usually out at her Women’s Club or lunching in New York for various social causes. She told me many times over the phone while I did my homework, “My heart goes out to these people.” And, she would sigh dramatically as she did for everything important and unimportant. Mother always said, “Bye, bye love,” before she hung up, and, “Listen to Bernadette.” Bernadette was our “good soul” who lived in our home and made our schedules run smoothly, gave us bear hugs that could crush you in half, and cooked us meals that were soothing and delicious.

  The next morning the classroom floor was slick, and Mrs. Knickerbocker was standing on one of our little chairs, hanging cupids and red hearts on the bulletin board that ran in a strip around the room. Her calves always looked bloated and her flowered dresses stopped just before the fullest part of her leg. She hopped down when she saw us enter and straightened her chunky necklace.

  She seemed heated from hanging the Valentine decorations. “Be careful class, the floor is still wet from the mop!” Clearly, there were two sets of footprints—the high heels that Mrs. Knickerbocker was famous for and Vinny’s. He wore rubber shoes with gigantic ridges on the bottom. The footprints were all mixed up and jumbled together in one corner of the solid green floor.

  Alexander was already seated in his desk by the time I got to my own seat. Patty was watching me. I put my fingers up to my lips like I was smoking a cigarette to confirm that Alexander and I had smoked our first cigarette together last night in the garage. She wore a look of shock. I excused myself to go to the lavatory.

  When I got to the lavatory the door was wide open, and Vinny’s rusty bucket was being used as a doorstop. This meant that the bathroom was being cleaned and that you had to wait outside the door until Vinny was finished. I heard him whistling, “Oh my darlin’, Oh my darlin’, Oh my darlin’, Clementine, I have lost you, now I found you, Oh my darlin’, Clementine!” Rather than going back to the classroom, I waited for Vinny to finish. He grabbed the bucket and let the lavatory door close itself. He stood there in the hallway with his equipment. All the classes were in session and the hallways were as quiet as I had ever heard them.

  “Miss Olivia de Havilland.”

  Vinny had an odor—I was never sure if it came from the mop or his body.

  “It’s not Olivia de Havilland. It’s Olivia Darnell. And I have to use the bathroom. Excuse ME.”

  The janitor lowered his already low voice and felt in his breast pocket just under the stitching that spelled “Vinny” in script. “Olivia—wanna cigarette?”

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

  “What’s the matter, Olivia? Don’t tell me the cat’s got YOUR tongue!”

  I stared at him to see if he was kidding about the cigarette. He was already removing it from the pack. The crinkle of the hard cellophane was loud in the hallway. I grabbed it from his clammy hand and ran into the lavatory. I slipped on the wet floor and fell hard on my ass. I stashed the cigarette in my knee sock while still on the ground. I got up and pulled my skirt down so no one would see the long thin lump.

  When I returned to class everyone was earnestly cutting red construction paper. I took my seat next to Alexander Lamb. Even though Alexander didn’t say much, it was comforting being next to him, elbow to elbow, working on our Valentine cards. He struggled trying to make his red paper heart perfect for me. I worked silently, nervous about the cigarette in my sock, and daydreamed about getting the finished Valentine from Alexander.

  I brought Patty O’Mahoney home with me after school. My mother was home this time getting ready for her Valentine’s Day party the following evening. She had Bernadette sweating from ironing linens and polishing silver. Surely, the party would not surprise my father who often said, “My wife is never home to greet me—unless she has fifty people home with her.” Mrs. O’Mahoney was there, too, flitting from room to room, delighted to be hired by my mother to create flower arrangements. She hardly paid any attention to us, which was quite unusual. At the florist, she always had a carnation to pin to our uniform lapel, no matter the occasion.

  I led Patty down to the garage and told her that since the Beatles were not practicing—my mother would never allow that kind of noise while she was preparing for her party—I would show her the spot where Alexander and I had smoked. The garage was quite large, big enough for three and a half cars, and Patty was frightened in the dark. Patty and Mrs. O’Mahoney both looked like double-processed blondes, and Patty was quite visible in the black space. “We’re planning to
do it again—here, I’ve got another stogie—that’s what Alexander calls ’em.” I removed the full-fledged cigarette from my knee sock, and Patty practically fainted.

  Sometimes Patty talked about Alexander as though she knew him better than I did. She said, “It’s so hard for me to picture Alexander smoking, you know, with that little chipmunk face and all.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. Alexander Lamb was good and tenderhearted. He had the qualities of a knight. He struggled to get at the truth no matter how difficult. He worked hard at long division, his remainders would carry on to infinity, and he wouldn’t even take the correct answers I offered him.

  I was relieved when I heard Mrs. O’Mahoney call down to us, “What are you girls doing down there in the dark?”

  When the eight-thirty bell rang on Valentine’s Day every third grader was already sitting at their desks, hands folded, ready to say the Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer. I was feeling smug, because Alexander would hand me a beautiful Valentine that he’d made with his own gentle hands. And, I had brought the cigarette with me again in my sock, just in case he wanted to see it.

  I looked over my shoulder for Patty. She was wearing a beautiful corsage made of the tiniest red roses I had ever seen. The miniature bunch was framed by a white lace doily in the shape of a heart and the tip of a silver arrow peaked out on one side of it. Patty looked warm and radiant. I felt pale in comparison to Patty; the red satin bow in my hair was pulled too tight and I could feel a headache starting in my temples.

  Mrs. Knickerbocker was wearing her signature bright red lipstick but it seemed exceedingly vibrant on Valentine’s Day. She had been fussing with herself all day and had on more bangle bracelets than usual, which really caused a distracting racket. Mrs. O’Mahoney said that if the school had enough teaching nuns, Mrs. Knickerbocker would probably have to find another career in another town. However, I knew that I could count on Mrs. Knickerbocker for leaving us sufficient time at the end of the school day so that we could exchange Valentine’s Day cards before the three o’clock bell.

  Our classroom door was wide open when we were told that it was time to exchange Valentines. Mrs. Knickerbocker stood right outside our classroom door to give us a little privacy. Every moment or two she would poke her head in the door to check our behavior, leaving part of her body in the hallway for Vinny to admire.

  The kids in our third grade were giddy, darting all over the room, throwing cards at one another to bypass introductions. Some picked the candy hearts off the floor and read the imprints on them like “Be mine” before popping them in their mouths. Patty was standing alone by the window, being shy. I was making my way over to her to see why she was ignoring me when Alexander stepped in front of me with an armful of handmade things. My heart stopped. I had been waiting for him and his gentlemanly ways all day. I hadn’t been able to find him at recess so I’d figured he’d been saving himself for our meeting now. He looked more handsome than usual in his gray trousers and navy blue jacket. He was wearing a red vest in the same exact shade as my hair ribbon. That, too, meant that fate had a plan for us.

  Alexander Lamb said, “Excuse me, Olivia.” The Valentine he labored over was in his hands in front of his heart. His little chipmunk face was pink.

  “You’re excused,” I said to him in a flirtatious manner, and a sigh escaped me just the way my mother’s did. I was so close I could see the water in Alexander’s eyes. But he stepped in front of me and made it over to the window where Patty stood beaming in her blonde hair and red rose corsage. With a sweetness I have never seen before, he placed his Valentine in Patty’s hands.

  The three o’clock bell must have rung, because I was suddenly alone. In the back of the classroom, I stood holding my own Valentine creation for Alexander and noticed a small circle of dried vomit with granules and red candy hearts lying on top of it. It was a bit of a shock since I hadn’t gotten a whiff of it once all day. Mrs. Knickerbocker grabbed her purse and told me to stop daydreaming and to get going. She had an important meeting and couldn’t wait all day for me to get a notion to leave. Then she was gone.

  I threw my Valentine in the overflowing garbage and stood facing the old chipped statue of Mary. A finger was missing on her left hand but the right hand was all there. I took the cigarette from my sock and stuck it in between her plaster fingers as if the holy woman was about to take a long drag off Vinny’s cigarette.

  HOLY WATER

  Mom stopped short to admire the potted Easter lilies lining the steps to the altar. She wore a pantsuit 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.

  “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 as 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 through the door to the left of the altar and stepped into the Waiting Room. As if she were washing off something sticky, Mom swished her fingers around in the holy water held by the cupped hands of a stone angel embedded in the wall.

  Monsignor Archer, the pastor, was so tall he had to dip down to come through 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 who worked for the church, and she was in charge of the small storage rooms behind the altar where cleaning supplies were kept, the ones which 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, because he was dressed as an altar boy—black, ankle-length robe with white smocking—just out of reverence. He was only as tall as the cherubs, swarming in stone ribbons and piled one upon another at the entrance doors. His crew cut was the color of chalk and stood like the edge of our front lawn.

  How often I have watched him from my seat in Mass, along with the rest of the fourth graders, and wondered if the interior life the priest was talking about at the pulpit was the same interior life that was going on in Carmine’s head. He’d be fidgeting around at the base 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 papered 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. Red crosses, neatly stitched into each one, 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 omen with her back facing me. Usually, 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.

  “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’ lives, doing chores, praying, teaching others by your own unassuming behavior. Mom said all that was easy-as-pie, if you didn’t have children under your feet.