Bishop's Road

by Catherine Hogan Safer

  So as quickly as she blows up she calms down. Tells Mrs. Miflin she’s sorry for calling her names and making such a fuss and heads out to the garden to see what Eve is up to. When she sees Judy coming Eve takes off her earmuffs and smiles hello. Judy had a grammy once who was nice to her and she likes old women though this one is older than anyone she has ever seen before. She asks Eve what she’s doing and actually listens to the answer. Judy, who has never noticed a flower in her life, can walk on dandelion and crocus alike and not blink an eye, hears where the primrose will grow and how high the clematis will climb and the best place to plant calendula and morning glory. She touches the curled leaves of monkshood and columbine and when Eve describes the workings of a compost bin and where she’d put one if Mrs. Miflin would only allow it, Judy blows her own sharp mind by volunteering to build one.

  “Doesn’t sound too complicated,” she says. “If we had some wood. Do you think missus might have some in the basement? There’s always wood in basements. Probably a saw and hammer too.”

  Mrs. Miflin follows them to the foot of the basement stairs, yammering all the while about the smells and the flies and the rats more than likely and why can’t Eve just get some nice fertilizer instead it’s bad enough what with mud being tracked in over the floor all spring she’s not putting up with rats on top of it, and that she isn’t. Judy says she’s bored out of her friggin’ skin with nothing to do around here and if Eve wants a compost bin why shouldn’t she have one. Judy knows of a boarding house over on Caine’s Street where they let the tenants do whatever they friggin’ well want and wouldn’t it be nice now if Eve decided to pack up and move there. And just think how much you’ll save on garbage bags with the potato peels and all going into the bin. And Mrs. Miflin, who prides herself on the rapid growth of her savings account, gives up and grumbles her way to the kitchen to prepare lunch.

  The old basement is musty and damp, full of boxes and bags and nuts and bolts, trunks and dead things waiting. Mrs. Miflin never comes here if she can help it, lets the furnace man find his own way around. As Judy reasoned, there is wood. Tools. Nails. The only thing missing is chicken wire and Eve says maybe they can buy it at the hardware store out near the mall but it will be difficult bringing it home on the bus. Judy has a cousin who might have some. He’s always collecting junk for one thing or another and after they drag their treasures to the backyard she makes a phone call. Comes out with a grin on her face. Says, “Well now, we got our chicken wire. As much as we need. Harold is going to bring it over this afternoon. I told him make sure he does. I told him if he doesn’t get it here by two-thirty sharp I’m going to tell the cops he’s been trying to get into my pants since I was ten years old. See, Eve, you just got to know how to talk to people.” And Eve smiles the saddest smile. Says, “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Miflin calls through the kitchen window. “One of you run upstairs and bang on Ginny Mustard’s door and tell her to get herself out of that bed and come down for lunch. If she doesn’t eat she’ll be moping around the whole day with her stomach rumbling and I’ll be damned if she’s getting anything else before supper. Go on, now, and get her up.”

  Ginny Mustard has not slept this soundly for a long time. All through the night she was rocked gentle and held so close. When she hears Judy’s knock and opens her eyes it is almost noon. She is ravenous. Races to the bathroom to wash her face and practically leaps over the others to get to her seat at table. She even eats the leftovers that Ruth pushes onto her plate. It isn’t until Mrs. Miflin goes to make tea that she hears the song from the attic - hears hush little baby don’t say a word - and when she begins to hum along everyone stares at her and then jumps when Mrs. Miflin drops the kettle on her way from the stove to the counter and screams. They rush to find her flat out on the floor and burning, boiling water splashed all over her chubby legs. While Eve hurries upstairs to find ointment, Judy picks up the whimpering Mrs. Miflin and carries her - with no more effort than if she were a little bird - to the armchair by the kitchen window.

  “The best thing now, Mrs. Miflin,” says Eve on her rush back into the room, “is to get yourself into a bath and stay there until the burning stops. And then we’ll put this on and you’ll be fine in no time. Ruth, you go run a cool bath for Mrs. Miflin, dear, and while the tub is filling tell Maggie everything’s okay and she can come out of her room. She gets so upset when there’s either bit of noise at all in the house. Ginny Mustard, you go in and start clearing the table and Judy, you help her with the dishes after you carry Mrs. Miflin upstairs so she can have a lovely bath and stop the burning. Now, Mrs. Miflin, don’t you worry about a thing. Once you’re setded in the tub I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and you can just relax.”

  And Mrs. Miflin, whose job it has always been to do what-ever bossing around needs to be done, is at a loss. No one has every volunteered to look after her that she can remember, and the pain is getting to the point where she feels like crying. She folds and gives in. And here’s Judy with the strongest arms picking her up body and bones, carrying her to the bathtub. She sits on the edge while Eve helps her out of her clothes, doesn’t even blush with her round body exposed to other eyes and slides with relief into the tepid water.

  Downstairs the ratde of pots and pans. Sounds of washing and drying and putting away. Ginny Mustard has a vague feeling that she is to blame for Mrs. Miflin’s misfortune but can’t quite put her finger on what she did wrong. Maggie stands at the end of the counter, clutching her shoebox and waiting. Ruth sits in the armchair while Ginny Mustard and Judy work. When Eve comes back she tells them that things are probably going to be a little different around here for a few days while Mrs. Miflin recovers. She can do the cooking if they will help out with the cleaning and whatever else it is that keeps Mrs. Miflin on the run day and night.

  From the bathroom comes a call. Mrs. Miflin was going to pick up groceries this afternoon and now there won’t be anything to eat for a week. She has a list and tells Eve where she keeps her money. Makes her promise not to tell the others, especially Judy, for she might be as strong as an ox but she doesn’t trust her any further than she can throw her and Mrs. Miflin won’t be put in the poorhouse by the likes of that one.

  “Now make sure you go to the corner market for the tinned goods and boxes and Wareham’s for the meat and fish and frozen stuff and go to Murphy’s for vegetables and apples. God. I can’t be making bread in my condition. If I tell you how do you think you can? I’m not paying those prices for bread and rolls. I never did and I won’t be starting now. And bring me my radio off the top shelf in the kitchen. I’m not about to sit here and listen to nothing all day.” Mrs. Miflin needs some control. For a few minutes there it seemed she was losing it and if that were ever to happen who knows what would become of her so she grabs and clutches what little is left to build on until she is back on top where she should be.

  Eve finds the money and the list and the shopping cart and brings Mrs. Miflin a cup of tea. She plans to take Judy with her when she goes but does not bother to mention this to Mrs. Miflin. If she could convince the poor thing to go to the hospital - but no - Mrs. Miflin will have none of it. She doesn’t like hospitals. She’s heard her share of horror stories from people who went to have gall bladders removed or hearts repaired and came away dead or with holes in their kidneys. No hospitals for Mrs. Miflin and that’s that.

  Mrs. Miflin has not missed a Sunday Mass since she was born except for that one time. And now she wants to confess she won’t be there tomorrow. Ruth is dispatched to the rectory to find Father Delaney. Mrs. Miflin cannot have such a sin on her soul. If she should die before she can get back on her feet and over to the church it’s hell for all eternity. Mrs. Miflin knows this for a fact.

  Father Delaney’s housekeeper is not all that fond of living so near such a queer crowd of women. She looks Ruth up, down and sideways before she opens the screen door. Once she does, though, Ruth is past her and down the hall calling out to the old man.

  �
��Father,” she says. “Mrs. Miflin has burned herself with the kettle water. She wants to see you right away. She’s in a state thinking she might die in the night and needs to confess.”

  “She confessed this morning. What could she possibly have done since then that she needs me now? I was just having my tea.”

  ‘She hasn’t done anything. She wants to confess the sin of not going to Mass tomorrow so she can stay out of hell.”

  “I don’t think a person can go around confessing sins they haven’t committed yet. Besides, she was at Mass today and if she doesn’t get there tomorrow it isn’t even a sin. Hasn’t been for years. And the Pope went and told everyone there’s no such thing as hell anyway so what’s her problem? Fool Pope. I don’t know how he thinks we’re going to get them interested in heaven if we don’t have hell to throw at them.”

  “I think you may have missed the point, Father, but that’s none of my concern. Are you coming or not? Hell or no hell, the woman wants to confess and if I go back without you I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll wait until doomsday if I have to so you might as well say yes now and get it over with.”

  Father Delaney trudges down the hall and out into the sunlight, muttering. Looks like he has to go back into that God-forsaken place after all. He follows Ruth. Grumbles all the way to the second floor bathroom. Eve hears him coming and closes the door to hide the naked Mrs. Miflin.

  His conversation with the landlady is not unlike the one with Ruth and the little patience he had is gone so he gives in and, through the door, hears Mrs. Miflin confess that she didn’t go to church tomorrow to which he replies that she should say the Sorrowful Mysteries and if her legs hurt too much to kneel she can say them in bed or wherever else she wants. He leaves the house and Mrs. Miflin yells to Eve to bring her Rosary beads and since she said the Sorrowful Mysteries last night for no reason at all, decides to say the Joyful Mysteries instead and to hell with Father Delaney. Settles back in the tub to purify her soul.

  Eve hasn’t shopped for groceries or anything else in six years, not since she moved to Mrs. Miflin’s house. She is rather excited by the idea but pleased to have Judy along. She rarely leaves home or garden these days and is not sure what is out there anymore because she hears the news now and then and things don’t sound all that pleasant. Eve loves the world but over time she has become cautious.

  So there they go to replenish the pantry. Eve tall and strong and gray. Judy taller and stronger and orange-crowned with rings and studs in her ears and nose and tongue. An unlikely pair if ever there was one. They follow the list to the letter until they reach fresh vegetables and then it’s a bit of this and a bit of that, green leafy things that neither has tasted but they smell so very good and since Eve will pay for the extras with her own money, and Mrs. Miflin will be abed for a few days, they decide there’s no harm in a little change.

  At home they are greeted by Ruth in a mood. Mrs. Miflin is still in the tub looking like a prune but her left leg is swelling up fast and she may have broken something.

  “Oh dear,” says Eve. “She must have hit the floor harder than we thought. I guess there’s nothing for it but to get her to the hospital.”

  “Well, better you than me trying to convince her of that. I’ve been running back and forth since you left the house and I’ve had enough of it. I’m going to my room to finish this damned letter. And there’s about fifty yards of chicken wire in the kitchen that some freak dropped off. Said he’s a cousin of Judy’s though I wouldn’t claim him too loud if I were you, girl. Someone should get it out of there. I don’t have time for any more of this crap, damn it.”

  In the end an ambulance takes the sorry Mrs. Miflin away, Eve and Ginny Mustard following on foot to sit with her until she’s seen to. By the time they find her in the maze of halls she has been wrapped in a cast from thigh to toe and is none too happy. The doctor tells her there’s no point in even thinking about crutches for a couple of weeks and she’ll be in plaster until September. With instructions, “Off to bed with you and stay there, take these for the pain, put this on the burns,” but without telling her how to get ointment under a cast, he rushes away to mend someone else. Eve calls a taxi and Ginny Mustard wheels Mrs. Miflin to it, hoping Judy is at home to haul the victim up over the stairs when they get there.

  She is and she does and once the poor old soul is settled in her bed Eve calls a meeting of the household to discuss the situation and enlist everyone’s help. She has a pen and a notebook and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and looks for all the world as though she knows what she’s doing. Which is more than can be said for the others. Things don’t happen around here. For all except Judy, every day, every month, is pretty much like the one that came before and reruns can be expected next year and the year after and the year after that. Each knows what the other will say or do at any given time. Maggie has never spoken and hides in her room if she hears so much as a dog bark. Ginny Mustard eats and wanders and when she does talk she’s all over the place and no one remembers the last time she made sense. Ruth is bitchy and scowling when things don’t go her way and since they don’t know what her way might be, they mostly ignore her. Eve walks softly but apparently carries a bigger stick than they would have known if it weren’t for Mrs. Miflin’s misfortune. And Judy - well they haven’t really taken a good look at that girl yet but at first glance she’s trouble. Something hovering about her and shining through her eyes all the time puts them on edge and if it were possible Maggie would clutch her shoebox even tighter when she comes around.

  With Mrs. Miflin’s assistance, Eve has compiled a list of everything that goes into being a success in the landlady department. Ruth must argue for a few minutes that someone should be hired to look after the place - they are paying good money and shouldn’t have to work their asses off in the bargain. Ginny Mustard surprises them with “You’re on welfare, Ruth. It’s not your good money.” To which Ruth responds, “Little snip. What the hell do you know about it?” though the fact that she under-stood an entire sentence from Ginny Mustard keeps her awake later.

  Truth is, only Eve is independent of government assistance. The others have, reasons apparent or not, relied on Social Services for a good many years now. While Mrs. Miflin tends to frown on that welfare crowd, these people are her bread and butter and she doesn’t voice her opinion on the matter aloud. The rest of the world is not exactly beating a path to her door to rent a room, for all that she’s a great cook and keeps the cleanest house in the city.

  If Mrs. Miflin could get someone to go to Mass for her every day she would but as it is the only items on her list of things that have to be done are basic and according to Judy, “Boring as hell for fuck sake and instead of everyone doing the same thing over and over why can’t we take turns and switch around a bit? And how is that one supposed to do anything if she can’t put down the friggin’ box for a second. What’s she going to do? Wash dishes with one hand? Not bloody likely. Tell her Eve. Tell her to put it down. She gives me the creeps. What’s in the box Maggie?” And Judy leaps from her chair and aims for Maggie who hauls off and lets her have it square across the head with the precious shoebox.

  “Oh dear,” says Eve. “That wasn’t very nice Maggie. Judy is going to have a lump on her head and a black eye too from the looks of it.”

  Judy is hollering blue murder. Ginny Mustard pulls her hair over her face, the better to hide behind, and Ruth, for once, has nothing to say. If anyone were to look closely she might see a twitch at the corner of Maggie’s mouth - barely there - not quite a smile but what else would you call it? If she hadn’t glanced at Judy as the girl rushed her, none of this would have happened. But there was that something in Judy’s eyes daring her - just daring her - to make a move and so she did. And a little voice is urging her up the stairs and into her room as fast as she can go but another is telling her stay and see what happens next and since the latter controls her feet she eases herself back into the old sofa and waits.


  From Mrs. Miflin’s room comes the sound of pure misery. Judy quits her ranting and they all troop up to see what the devil she wants now. On the bed Mrs. Miflin is a wee, helpless thing. They are surprised. Have never seen her with the wind out of her sails before. Someone must read to her. Everyday. She pulls a battered Bible from her night table. Who will refuse such a request from this wreck of a woman? Ginny Mustard does. She has a reading level of nothing. Maggie as well, by way of Eve, who reminds Mrs. Miflin that if she won’t speak she probably won’t read either. That leaves Eve, Judy and Ruth and they can take turns in the mornings after breakfast if that’s okay with Mrs. Miflin. Eve leaves the room and returns with water. Supports Mrs. Miflin’s head and helps her down one of the doctor’s painkillers. Tucks her in and ushers the others away.

  “She’s really out of it,” says Ruth when they have settled again in the sitting room. “Never even mentioned the racket Judy made when Maggie whacked her with the shoebox. Who’d have thought you had it in you, Maggie? Mousing around all the time and turns out you’re a bit of a wild one after all.” There is some-thing akin to admiration in Ruth’s voice, noticed by no one but Judy, scowling.

  Maggie is back to her statue self, staring straight ahead and through the others from her perch on the sofa. It might all have been imagined but for the egg-sized lump over Judy’s blackening eye. Eve brings a bag of frozen peas from the kitchen, wrapped in a tea towel. Presses it to Judy’s forehead. “Here, dear. This will bring the swelling down. I think it might be best not to bother Maggie anymore today if you can help it. Now let’s try to get our duties straightened out. Perhaps Judy is right and we should not have assigned tasks. Why don’t we write everything on little pieces of paper and then everyone can pick a few in the morning and that way we can all have some variety to our days.”