“IT CAN BE overwhelming,” Lucy says on the drive home. “The first time you get a message. My first time, when Lloyd spoke to me, I bawled my eyes out. A medium named Monique Fontaine. She’s the best.”
I stare ahead at the road.
“This one tonight wasn’t bad, though. After you left, she said she could feel your sensitivity and, you know, very often, sensitive people have the gift of second sight! I’m very sensitive and I could spot it in you right away. That’s why I thought you and I might make a good team. I just had a feeling. I trust my feelings because they’re usually dead-on.”
Oh, please! Was there anyone in the room whose “sensitivity” that medium didn’t feel? Anyone who didn’t have a dead grandmother? Fuck them.
I don’t say a word of that. I don’t say a word.
It’s nine thirty as we turn the corner onto Lucy’s block.
“Why don’t you go ahead and take the car,” she says. “It’s miserable out. I don’t want you waiting for a bus in this rain.”
“No. I can’t take your car.”
“Take it! You can bring it back in a couple of days.”
I don’t want it. I don’t want Lucy. Or her jerk-off, psychic friends. But the rain is coming down in torrents. She pays me eighty dollars for the night and I do as I’m told.
I’M IN HER old gray Volvo now, out in front of my apartment, clenching and unclenching my jaw as I stare through the rain-splattered windshield. Is this where Ben parked? Was he in our car or was he driving one of the limos? In my mind, Ben is sitting in our crummy old beater, looking at the mailboxes, just the way I am now. I picture him scrawling a cryptic note to me on the back of a torn envelope, and then stuffing in two hundred dollars. He gets out of the car, goes over there, and crams the envelope into my mailbox. Was he thinking about doing it then? Did he have the gun already?
When I imagine it, the steel of the barrel, the cool of it against his skull, finger on the trigger, I get a suck of terror in my chest and I don’t know whether it will come out as rage or more tears.
Fuck you, Ben. Fuck you fuck you fuck you for being such a goddamn self-hating jackass! My head drops against the steering wheel and I let the tears stream until the fire in my brain turns to a pile of steaming ash again.
At least he’s alive. He’s not in a coma or paralyzed. The bullet lodged in his skull. If it had been a greater caliber, they said, it would have been different. After they removed the bullet, I saw him in the recovery room, sleeping off the anesthetic. When I called the next day, they said he’d been moved to the psych ward. Standard procedure with attempted suicide.
I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t face him. It’s been nine days now.
I don’t know what to do with the claws in my belly anymore.
I want to be good. I want to love the memory in my lap and be grateful that I had Frankie for the two and a half years I did.
Pulling tissues from my purse, I wipe my face and blow my nose.
At last the rain stops. Out of the Volvo, I lock the doors and look up at my lighted apartment. Francis crosses the window. Father Luke: man of the cloth, brother of the bottle.
Mail key out, I check the box on the way up the walkway. Nothing but junk. A car door clunks open somewhere behind me. Slams shut.
“Excuse me!” A woman’s voice. “Maggie MacDonald?”
I turn and see her trotting across the road toward me.
My stomach twists. Christ, what now?
“Katie Wilks from the Herald. I’m hoping to talk to you about your brother, Luke. Father Luke MacDonald is your brother, isn’t he?”
I look at her extended hand and then up at my apartment. Francis passes by the window again. “I’m not ah—No. I have nothing to say.”
“Please, just give me a second. I know how you must feel after what the police did to him.” She puts her palms together as if she’s praying to me. “Let me tell your side of the story. I know a lot about your family and—”
“You don’t know me.” I start off toward the front door and then stop. “What made you think he’d be here?”
“Father Michael, the rector at Holy Trinity. He said that it made him sick how the media was treating Father Luke.”
My mouth hangs open and Katie Wilks makes a rapid-fire attempt to fill in the blanks. “He said that Father Luke is a good man, and that his parents died in a car accident when he was eighteen years old. Father Luke was left to care for his sister, Maggie. You’re Maggie. You’re—” She pauses for a moment. “You’re the woman whose child fell from the window.”
My hand flies out and shoves her back two steps. “Father Michael? That sonuvabitch told you that? He told you about my—? What kind of—”
“No! I was assigned to that story. When I heard Father Luke’s name something tweaked and it dawned on me. I checked the funeral notices for the church and sure enough, your brother—Father Luke—presided at the funeral.”
I turn from her and storm up the walk to the front door.
Her footsteps follow me. “Maggie, please. I want to help.”
“Sure you do.” My key is in the lock.
“I think the police department should be held accountable. Public opinion is on your side. Listen, just take my card.”
“Go to hell.” I pull the door closed behind me and dash upstairs.
As I open the door to my apartment, I can hear sitcom music, the opening strains of The Golden Girls’ theme song.
Francis is sitting on the couch opening a bottle of red wine.
“Are you kidding me?” I stare from the bottle to the geriatric women on the screen and back. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What’s up your ass, Mother Manguard?” He picks his burning cigarette up off the ashtray.
I shake my head—“Idiot!”—and storm into my closet-of-a-bedroom.
Seconds later, there’s a tap. Francis opens my door. “What is going on?”
I open my mouth and shift my jaw sideways, trying to release some tension, keep from exploding. “You want to know what’s up my ass? You! Some reporter just jumped me out front. Why? You! She found you and she found me all in one fell swoop. Thanks to the rectum at Holy Trinity. Father Luke and his sister, Maggie, whose child—She knew. And then I pushed her. She’s probably going to charge me with assault.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, honey. I’m really sorry.” He looks down at the smoke curling off his cigarette and then takes a drag. He sighs and stares at me a moment. “How did it go tonight?”
“How do you think it went? That old woman is a narcissistic little windbag—and then I come home to the asshole out front and now the asshole on my couch!” I gesture past him to the wine on the coffee table. “Are you really this stupid? Really?”
His eyes roll. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like I’m driving.”
“Sweet Jesus.” I hug my ribs and roll back on the bed. “You’re such an asswipe!”
Francis leans against the door frame. “Listen, sister, it took all my nerve to leave this apartment. I wore a pair of your old glasses and a hat and I went out the back door, got in my car, and headed to the nearest, smallest, darkest liquor store I could find. It’s a shitty, rainy night, but I thought, after your first day back at work, you’d like a glass of wine. I thought I was doing something nice.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did.” I rub my hands over my forehead and eyes. Eventually I look at him. “I’m scared for you, Francis.”
“Me too,” he says. He gives me a soft, lost smile and nods behind him.
Eventually, I get up, follow Francis to the couch, and flop down beside him. “I’m not drinking with you.”
“Mags, honey, in a few days I’ll be in rehab or jail so let’s just be here now.” He mashes the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. Picking up the bottle, he tilts it toward the two empty wineglasses.
He sticks a full glass in my hand. Then he plucks up his own, looks deeply into the burgundy pool, and says, “Hello, old friend.”
/>
I stare at my glass for what feels like minutes. Christ. Why bother? Can’t stop him. Can’t change him. Taking a sip, I glance up at Bea Arthur holding court on television.
Years ago, when Francis was still in the seminary he bought tickets to Bea Arthur’s one-woman show. He invited me but I declined. I told Francis that he was a queer cliché. A few days after the show, he came over to my place for coffee.
“Now, my darling Margaret, you’re going to see what you missed.” He looked so damn proud of himself as he passed snapshots one at a time over my kitchen table. Turned out he had talked his way backstage and each image held the proof: Francis in Ms. Arthur’s dressing room, arm across her shoulders, his big white teeth the perfect accent to her big white hair.
“Yikes. She’s starting to look like Phyllis Diller,” I said. “How’d you get in there?”
“St. John Chrysostom wasn’t the only one with a golden mouth, darling.” My brother winked.
I looked at him. “What?”
“Chrysostom . . . golden mouth? Ah, skip it.”
He looks at the TV now and sighs at Bea Arthur. “It’s sad that she’s gone.” He takes a sip of his wine, looks over, and picks a bit of lint from my sweater. “What happened tonight? Where’d you go?”
“The United Church of Spiritualism.”
His eyes splash wide. “Nice!” He leans close and whispers, “Did you see dead people?”
“I saw dumb people—all of them listening to some woman give messages from the beyond.” I glaze my eyes theatrically as if entering a trance. “I have someone with me. It’s a woman. You—the gentleman with the cigarette—can I come to you? She says you’re a smoker—does this sound like you? A verbal answer, please: yes, no, or kiss my ass. Did you have a great-grandmother? Did her name start with A? B? How about C or F or M—M? Yes, was her name Martha or Madeline? Mary? No shit, that’s who I’ve got here. Mary. Mary says she loves you and you work too hard. Does that sound like you?”
Francis cackles. “So Lucy goes regularly?”
“Yes. And she’s got the balls to sit there telling me how ridiculous the Catholic Church is.”
Francis covers his mouth in mock horror. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine how you must have felt.”
“Shut up. They stole my brother. I’m allowed.”
Francis watches me for a few seconds. “Were you hoping? Just a little?”
I know what he’s talking about. But I don’t want to talk about what he’s talking about.
Big gulp of wine—I grab the bottle and top up my glass, pause to stare at the label as though it’s all very interesting before I set it back on the table.
My brother is still waiting.
“I feel him sometimes,” I say at last. “Usually in bed, just as I’m waking up. He curls into my belly. Sometimes I’m wide awake and he climbs into my lap. I can feel him there, and I can smell his baby smell, his Frankie smell.” I take another swallow. “I wonder if I’m losing my mind.”
Francis lays his palm on my head. His hand smells of soap and nicotine. He tucks my hair behind my ear.
I duck away, and force a weak smile. “I don’t want to get all weepy right now.”
He takes his hand back and runs a finger along the rim of his glass. “Used to happen to me after Mom and Dad were killed,” he says. “In the middle of the night, Dad would throw open my bedroom door and say, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ It was so real. And I’d bolt up and it’d be dark and still and so—empty. Then I’d remember. He never sounded angry. More jovial, you know. But I’d wake up terrified.” My brother’s big hands fidget with the stem of his glass. “I used to feel guilty that I never dreamed about her.”
A long silence passes. I look at my brother’s thick-lashed, sad eyes. “Did you mean it? That you were scared?”
“Who isn’t?”
I turn away, and look at the television again, the odd sight of brawny Bea Arthur bent backward by a man who plants a big wet kiss on her. The canned audience hoots.
“Don’t you ever miss . . . Don’t you want to have a relationship? A life partner?” I keep my eyes on the screen. “You could go over to the Episcopalians. It’s the same thing except they’re okay with gay.”
“You know what Bette Davis said?” Francis looks at the television too. “Gay liberation? I ain’t against it, it’s just that there’s nothing in it for me.”
I look at his profile a moment and wonder at the two of us, the choices we’ve made. It’s too much to think about right now, so I sip my wine, let my head settle back, and close my eyes.
SIX
Ben
For a guy who isn’t Ben, you have a lot of access to Ben’s memories,” Dr. Lambert says. He waits.
What is that? What’s that look on his face? Is that a mouthful of Gotcha?
“Growing up with a man like your father,” he tries, “you must have made a lot of promises to yourself . . . what kind of man you would be, wouldn’t be. When you think about fatherhood, what comes to mind?”
Comes to mind, out of mind, blow your mind. It’s all bullshit, Freud shit, who gives a shit?
Lambert waits. For the other shoe to drop, for another word to pop. He folds his hands and sets them on his notes.
Go ahead. Two can play. First to blink, first to sink.
“Okay,” he says finally. He looks at his watch. “Tomorrow there’s a group session right about this time. If you’d rather, you can skip our session and go to group instead.”
There’s no Ben in group.
“You either are Ben or you’re not,” Lambert says. He’s got his gotcha smile on again. “I think you know who you are. Why you don’t want to be Ben? Give it some thought. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
WE’LL TALK TOMORROW. Today is tomorrow and it’s Lambert time again. Already. From the door of the white, white room, you see it all—all the hall—and there’s Lambert at the nurse’s station, signing in, signing something. Sign of the times.
Ben o’clock. You either are Ben or you’re not.
Fuck him. Rather join the circle jerk in the common room than listen to Lambert.
Lambert turns around. “Morning, Ben. You look like you might be heading over to Group.” He smiles. Smug fuck. Never smile at a crocodile. “Well, good,” he says. “Many hands make light work.”
Many hands are the devil’s tools. Give the devil a finger and he’ll take the whole hand.
SO, THIS IS Group. The group grope. The brain drain. Looking around the common room now, it is clear why many hands require a glass-enclosed nursing station and a locked ward. Home sweet home. A couple of guys were playing checkers in the corner earlier, but they picked up and left when the TV was turned off and ten group chairs were pushed into a circle.
Instead of Lambert, a guy who looks younger than Cola sits at the helm. He’s got a clipboard in his lap. He flips through pages of notes as though a test is coming.
Including the guy with the clipboard, four of the ten chairs are filled. A round brown woman in flannel panda bear pajamas and a long black China girl wig sits directly across. She pets the length of her hair and peers around the circle. Her eyes dart to the door as if it might suddenly close tight. One more locked door.
Two chairs from her is a man who shuffled in here in pajamas and socks. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two, but he still looks clipped and slick. He looks like money.
“Today’s group is a spirituality workshop,” says the guy with the clipboard. “The emphasis will be human spirit. I promise there won’t be too much God talk.”
Why not? If anyone has something to answer for, it’s the sonuvabitch upstairs.
Eyes glittering, Money watches the clipboard man. “Spirituality,” he says. “Right. Good. Cuz that’s exactly what I need—spirituality!”
The woman continues to stroke her wig as she leans sideways to get a better look out the window. She straightens up again. “You sure this is the group? Who are you?”
“My name is Wil
liam,” says the man behind the clipboard. “I’m a chaplain.”
“I ain’t dyin’,” she says.
“I’m glad to hear that.” William the chaplain clears his throat. “No, this is a group where we’ll be talking about healing and hope.”
Hope against hope. Abandon all hope.
William blinks. “Where there’s life there’s hope,” he says.
That’s what you call the old hope-a-dope.
William smiles and clears his throat again. “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? I’ll start. As I said I’m William. Delaney. I’m a seminarian, and a chaplain here at St. Anthony General.”
Just what the world needs, another priest. Another preacher. Another smug bastard who claims he’s got a direct line to the big man. Reverend, rabbi, imam: same shit.
“I’m Greg,” says Money. “I’m an attorney. At least that’s what I was before I realized what God wanted me to see—”
“I’m Keisha,” the round one says.
There’s a long pause. All eyes turn to the body still not spoken for.
“Would you like to introduce yourself?” William asks.
Nobody’s business. Not open for business.
Who’s that at the door? Was that Lambert peeking inside? Is that sonuvabitch spying? You either are Ben or you’re not. Fuck him. Say it loud, say it proud: No self here. Just a skinbag. An empty windsock.
William waits a moment and then says, “I’m sorry to hear you say that. You must be hurting a lot to feel that way.” He gathers himself and carries on with the spiel. “In this group we can talk about anything you want to talk about, but usually I ask people if they could share something about their personal stories—and maybe your feelings about hope and healing.” William looks around the circle. “What gives you hope? Or what might be preventing you from feeling hope?”
“Yes!” says glittering Greg. “I definitely feel hope.”
Keisha gives Greg the once-over and then turns back to William. “We going t’talk about God?”
“God is real,” says Greg. “I found that out this week. God is real and the soul is real. Evil is real too. There’s evil stalking the earth. The Antichrist. And nobody sees it.”
The Crooked Heart of Mercy Page 7
