It still surprised her that Margaret Foley was immune to this. She didn’t care what Russell Crabtree thought or did, and that made Lily almost laugh again. She stiffened her body and waited for the urge to subside. Then Margaret nudged her elbow. Lily laughed with a loud fake sneeze and rubbed her nose, other hand flat now on her lap, hiding the curling yellowing photograph. Only Sister Mary Claire looked up at the sound and gave her a watery smile.
Sister Charitina was like a terrier at the double door, a signal that Father Mulroney was already making his perilous way. They were always worried about Father. All the nuns fretted as if he were a gigantic infant left on their doorstep. But really, as Margaret had pointed out, he was a fox. When Father Mulroney came over for drinks at Lily’s house, if Margaret was sleeping over, she could be counted on to eavesdrop. Are you sure your mother isn’t dating Father Mulroney? A hilarious idea.
He was her high school teacher!
Margaret gave Lily the long dry look she was famous for. Next witness.
Margaret was a character; that’s what Lily’s grandmother said. A big piece of funny business. But Margaret was in a new phase; she was losing interest in Lily and her family. As if all the drama had faded away. Your friends will like you for who you are, said her grandmother. Not for the news of the day.
Lily held the curling photo in the basket of her linked fingers. It looked ancient, all the faces oddly colored and washed away. She knew from experience that whoever took this Polaroid forgot to use the stick of bitter chemicals that fixed the instant colors. The sky was pink, Anthony Moldano’s face a deep yellow, and his two little boys had fluffy gray hair. Their mother was blue from the effort of keeping them all close in the frame. Anthony Moldano’s small eyes tilted down, as though with sympathy, his mouth compressed, suggesting the resolve to act on whatever was making him so compassionate. Her grandmother loved the word resolve, but she meant it tenderly Lily knew, as something that came and mostly went. Anthony in his policeman’s uniform appeared not to fluctuate in that way.
Who takes a Christmas photo in June? Margaret whispered. His wife is a retard.
Actually Lily’s mother had sometimes made them put on velvet outfits to pose in June when they were tiny, but she skipped Christmas pictures altogether now. Margaret sniffled and Lily gave the photograph her attention. She knew Anthony, of course, but not his wife who was just a blur. It seemed that Margaret may have scratched away some of her features.
Gross, whispered Lily, and slid it slowly across her lap toward Margaret’s extended fingers and felt the relief begin then disappear as Sister Charitina’s head spun around in aggrieved distraction. A noise. Eyes closed! she shouted and all one hundred and forty-eight children knew to either recall their sins or count their blessings depending on who their teacher was that year.
Sometimes Lily thought if she were captured by the enemy and tortured, she would give up her secrets right away. It was something she knew about herself, a part of her character that she was ashamed of. They heard about tortured saints all the time. Red-hot branding irons applied to open eyes leaving only scorched sockets! Just to get them to say they weren’t Catholic, never even liked the Catholics, thought it was a foolish idea. And the saints said no. Then there were the World War II children who had been piled up in dead stacks because of who they were, or who their parents were. They’d been brave in ways Lily felt she couldn’t be. Her grandmother disagreed. Not that they ever spoke about the martyrs and the children in piles or the possibility of torture. Lily never talked about these things, but her grandmother would sit on the blue bed in the dark and hold her hand and say that Lily was a brave kind girl, that Lily had a brave kind heart, and didn’t they know it. Her grandmother would lean down and kiss her and for a brief while it was true. She was brave; she was kind.
Margaret pulled up her knee socks with meaning. Sister Mary Claire was opening the pass-through window of the milk room. Russell Crabtree’s wedge of black hair was visible now beneath the half-raised metal shutter. Sister Mary Claire moved swiftly. Her intention seemed to be to give the boys, though in trouble, the full benefit of Father’s presence when he arrived.
Charitina placed both hands on the glass of the double doors watching Father Mulroney’s precarious walk along the icy path. Once his cordovan boots slipped beneath him tipping him for a moment; she could feel it in her own legs the tensing, the clenching of muscles and then he was fine, just fine, old Teedle ready right behind to create the human pillow in case of a tumble. He was fine and now sliding along like an ice skater, a cautious ice skater unsure how solid things were ahead. With the sunny days and the black bitter nights, you never knew what was happening right beneath your feet.
How good he was to come at all. Not that Charitina needed him. Though she did feel her own heart calm as he came closer slowly, now just under the basketball hoop and soon he would be where the children lined up in classes, according to grade, every morning, even this one, which now in hindsight seemed a mistake. So many falls and bruises. But everyone needed to toughen up around here. That’s why Father was coming, to brace them all, to give them the stamina and fortitude required to ferry all these restless children out of the auditorium and into the safety of their homes, before the blizzard, only a deceptive swivel of fat flakes a moment ago, kept them stranded.
Russell Crabtree was certainly slumping on the floor. Sister Mary Claire pantomimed the emergency of his posture, chin jerking, wrists flicking, urging a straighter spine. Russell sat upright until it was possible to see the entire intriguing back of his head. The blue-white skin with the wash of freckles just between the black curls and the white collar, the clasp of his clip-on tie shiny and bright. Lily considered the brightness of his clip through her squinted closed eyes. He always smelled of blueberries as if he doused himself with jelly before school.
Probably does, he’s so conceited, Margaret had offered. Slowly, slowly, Russell Crabtree turned his head and looked at Lily, looked into her face solemnly until she couldn’t find her breath and Margaret whispered, Shit.
I heard that, Sister Charitina spun round from the doorway, but in that instant Father was upon them. All the children rose to their feet. The loud scrape of metal chairs against the floor and echoing coughs. Teedle pushed open both doors wide so Father could enter and the wind reached the first rows, sharp against the skin. The wind and Father’s cologne.
Good morning, Father. There was a drag and a monotony to the tone that satisfied Sister Charitina. More exuberance would have reflected badly on her. She had matters well in hand. Father Mulroney gave her his private smile; more would be said about this at leisure she could tell.
Sit, children. Good morning to you. Sit now. And Sister Charitina nodded with the right solemnity. The weather may be making Father magnanimous but proper forms would be observed. Thank you, Father, they sang out slowly like a requiem, then sat in a rumble of chairs.
Father’s big velvet throne was up on the dais. Teedle had delivered it from the storeroom first thing in the morning. There’d been a tug of war over that, but now Sister Charitina could see she’d been correct. Dais first, snow shoveling second. But where was Mary Claire? Father held out his coat, wet with snow and there was no one to take it. She’d do it herself. Allow me, Father, and she smiled. This was a special occasion.
You’re too good, he murmured. Now, he coughed loudly and crossed himself, In the name of the Father . . .
Today the children were allowed to pray in their seats. When the whole school gathered there was simply not enough room for kneeling. Another reason to expand this old auditorium. Besides, the children needed exercise, even in the winter, she’d pleaded. Father felt the old altar and the sanctuary took precedence over the natural process of growing bodies. He scarcely needs our interference there! Father had laughed. Are we agreed then?
They were not agreed. Though it alarmed her a bit to think it and here she was holding a sopping wet coat. Of all the children in the front row only Lily D
evlin still had her eyes open, watching her folded hands as if something might explode there. Poor child, well, she’d certainly done her best. Charitina lifted her chin with a quick jut, a gesture sure to catch the attention of anyone with open eyes. Lily looked up with surprise and alarm. Sister Charitina jutted her chin again and indicated the armful of sopping outerwear.
Glory be to the . . . Father Mulroney was humming along. Lily rose from her seat and tucked her hands into the pockets of her uniform. Something they’d been over countless times especially with the older girls, the implications of hands in pockets. Charitina didn’t like it one bit and glanced at Father whose own eyes were, mercifully, shut. What a face that man had, too handsome really to be a priest. She’d heard he’d been the oldest son and that was that. His father had taken the pledge, like so many, on the day of the ordination, and didn’t even keep faith to the end of the party. Spent the night on the Elks club lawn while his mother polished and put in proper boxes all the neighbors’ borrowed silver. She wouldn’t let him in the door. Not on that most blessed night. The poor soul had caught double pneumonia from sleeping on the dewy grass. Father Mulroney anointed his father in the same Cambridge hospital where his mother would be admitted a year later, urgently ready for death’s door.
The guilt! Can you imagine? said Mae Manon. Charitina could not, at least not in the moment of that interesting conversation, but later walking slowly through the schoolyard, she realized why she understood him as well as she did. Of course, she thought, both orphans. Both givers.
She wouldn’t hiss, but she could click her tongue. Get moving! the sound said and Lily picked up her pace.
Mae Manon stared into a coffee cup, sitting at the table. The radio played in the rectory kitchen, a big band and a female singer with a high sweet voice, singing a lullaby about a man gone overseas to war. He might be back someday; he might be alive only in her heart. Or he might give her a start, the start of a brand-new day. Lily didn’t like to knock, so she coughed. Then she shook the snow off herself and the heavy bundle in her arms. Stamped her feet. Mae, she called out, and Mae lifted her head, looking angry. Who would dare intrude?
It was only Lily Devlin. She pushed back the ladder chair, solid polished mahogany, and came to the door. Later on she’d report to her sister about poor Lily Devlin. They all set things aside for that girl; it was a given. Lily’s name had become a kind of shorthand for all the generosity of the St. Thomas Aquinas parish. Lily, she’d say to her sister tonight. And her sister would nod. You’re a good soul, Mae.
What are you doing out in the storm, Lily? Mae asked. Get right back to school before you get in trouble. Father’s not here.
I know! Here’s his coat. Sister Charitina sent it. He needs another.
Mae stared at the thick bundle in Lily’s arms, wrinkled now and soaked through. What have you done with Father’s good coat! Her voice was as high as the lullaby. Look at the mess of it now.
He needs something else I think. Now that Lily thought of it, she wasn’t entirely sure of the sense of this errand, taking Father’s coat away.
There’s nothing wrong with the coat you have right there! Or there wasn’t before you got started with it. What are we going to do with you, Lily? You can’t go on like this, you know. Mae put her rough red hand over her eyes and passed it down the length of her face, as though erasing one expression so another could appear, and just like that she smiled, and said, Well, since you’re here. Since you’re here, you better come right in. She’d show Charitina she could care for Father Mulroney just fine. How dare she, Mae Manon thought, but she wouldn’t mention this to her sister because it felt already, even the anger, that she’d been defeated somehow. Not so fast, Charitina, she said aloud. Not so fast.
Lily looked away from Mae. Toward the orchids swallowing up the last bit of light from the big bay window. A little steamer, something used for colds, sent a filmy mist toward the cascading blossoms. Magenta, ruby, white-laced with veins of pinks. Oh, look at your flowers!
They weren’t Mae’s but they might as well have been. She’d been the one to put up the vaporizer and right away dead sticks began to bud. My kitchen miracle, Father said once, looking at them all and though his gaze was directed firmly toward the flowers, she got the message. She knew her own worth. Whatever Charitina felt one day to the next.
No need for you to wait, dear, said Mae. I’ll bring Father’s coat myself. They’ll be wondering what happened to you, now. She’d be damned if she’d let Charitina pull a stunt like this one. She’d have the hole, and wasn’t that the big problem here today, that tiny, tiny pinhole, the pettiness of some people. Mae would have it sewn up, the coat dry and brushed and delivered to Father’s side before they finished the rosary. Sooner even.
You’re a good girl, Lily, she said and now felt, watching the child openmouthed at the budding orchids, that she couldn’t let her go without a little gift. Yes, it touched something to see the girl and Mae reached into her pocket and took out a scapular she’d found in the ever-growing pile in the church basement. It was true; these days she only tossed donations and closed the door. But this sweet thing had caught her eye and she brushed the lint from the image, a sacred heart, and from the blue flutes of satin surround, it was obviously the sacred heart of the Virgin. Here, Lily, Mae offered it forward. Something for your dear mother.
Then Mae walked Lily to the door, and said, Now hurry. I don’t want you to get in any trouble. She closed the door against the blowing snow, pleased with herself, Charitina’s knot handily untangled for once.
In the five minutes that Lily had been inside the glowing kitchen the snow had sped. Thick whorls blurred the grotto in Father’s garden. High fans of powder covered the carriage barn where he kept the Cadillac. The doors there fastened tight with a black crowbar slid between the metal flaps of the lock. Even there inches of snow teetered.
Lily’s coat was opening at the belly, the teal wool straining at the silver buttons. She hiked her shoulders to settle it down, but snow was already catching in the gaps and melting against her uniform. She’d forgotten her gloves. The school looked like a fat short distant mountain half hidden in the whirl.
Now a patrol car rolled silently in slow motion into the schoolyard. After a long pause the door opened and Anthony Moldano unfolded his heavy body out of the car and put on his cap. He was coming to find Margaret, which meant he’d be looking for Lily, too. Except for Margaret’s normal babysitting pickups, Anthony Moldano insisted that Lily always come with them at least for the first part of any ride. See the world a little, Lido. Have a little adventure. That’s what Margaret would say. This nickname, Lido, and sometimes just Doe, would fill her with a kind of sleepy joy.
In the same spirit, the see-the-world spirit, when Lily moved to London the first friend already invited to visit was Margaret. Now she was just waiting for Margaret to make up her mind.
Anthony Moldano tucked his head low into his shoulders. He looked like a gigantic black turtle. Whatever official announcement he’d come to St. Tom’s to make was quickly done. At the carriage barn Lily held on to the snowy crowbar and watched Margaret duck under Anthony’s big arm. Anthony liked to say they were an inspiring influence. They helped him effectively respond to all he had on his plate as a police officer. But today, Lily felt too tired to be inspiring, as if the snow and maybe the orchids and the too warm kitchen had all conspired to hypnotize her. She would cut behind the carriage barn to the courts of the Tennis Club, then to Love Lane, which connected to Hartshorn Road where her grandmother lived. Her grandmother hated snow and was sure to be home.
Just as she made it to the second tennis court, Anthony Moldano’s patrol car turned slowly onto Love Lane. The echoing crunch of the snow under his fat tires, the blue flashers going. Lily crouched to the ground. She heard the squeal of brakes and the window lowered and Margaret shouted as if something were important: Lily, Lily. Doe, where are you?
It thrilled her a tiny bit, and she almost showed hersel
f, felt the sweet urge to stand up and be embraced by her friend with relief. Lily, Lily, she heard again, but something in Margaret’s voice made her stop. Margaret had played Tiny Tim when none of the boys could be counted on to behave with the crutch and something of her stage voice was there now. The shouted, Lily, oh Lido, sounded pitched in the same way, singing, a little silly.
Lily kept low and waited for them to get bored. Soon enough the blue lights were extinguished and she began to unfold herself, but instead of leaving, the cruiser made a wide swing off the road and edged down the little drive of the Tennis Club. They parked ten feet away from her, blocking the way out. Lily kept down, watching the dull swish and struggle of the wipers. The windshield filled as fast as it was cleared.
A couple of months ago, when the three of them were out cruising around in the patrol car, Margaret and Lily in the backseat as usual, Anthony Moldano had explained that vision was only one of his enhanced senses he used when tracking criminals. This had made Margaret laugh, but he was serious.
Then he told them a confusing story about his father as a police cadet. His father had failed some essential test that had to do with hand-eye coordination and left the academy in disgrace.
Before his draft number could be called up Anthony enrolled in the same police academy and trained his hands to juggle eggs while reading comic books propped on a stand. When the same test was offered to his class, Anthony got a special commendation. He brought home the certificate and presented it framed to his father with a black ink square over the “Junior.” He thought his father would be proud, but instead he got a swat across the side of the head. Anthony’s mother suggested a visit to a cousin in Brielle for a week or two and that’s where Anthony met his wife. It was horrible.
He was quiet for a long time then said, The important thing is I have exceptional vision, certified. For example, remember Fourth of July? Boiling hot, crazy rain? Really hot and wet?
The Loved Ones Page 3
