by Lisa Samson
“I want you to get Gerald out to that lighthouse as quickly as you can. Sneak him out of the facility if you have to. And you’ll have to.” He lifted my hand and squeezed it, and it was light and warmth and love. “Touch Gerald for me today, with this hand.”
I will.
I went right over to Gerald’s room, the hall lights low, the floor smelling freshly buffed, the aides’ shoes seeming thicker and quieter, as though nighttime medical footwear had special requirements. The bulletin boards, so cheerful in sunlight, looked drained and depressed. I touched his arm as he slept, then slipped quietly back to Mercy House for Matins.
I returned later this morning after breakfast to find what seemed impossible.
Hattie was slipping away! I couldn’t believe it. Before Jesus said what he did, we all thought Hattie was the stronger one while Gerald sat cross-legged in a pile of ashes on the doorstep of death.
Angie rushed into their room where I sat holding Hattie’s hand. “What’s going on?” She slipped off her jacket, sat down, and took Hattie’s other hand.
“Her vitals are slipping. There’s no reason for it. Her heart is strong, her arteries are in good shape. She’s not having a heart attack or a stroke. It’s medically unexplainable.”
I want to tell you about Hattie before we proceed. Hattie lived for decades out on the light with Gerald. When Gerald came ashore, sometimes for several days to go into Baltimore for major supplies or to talk to his boss with the coast guard, she’d man the light.
Hattie saved the life of three watermen during Hurricane Agnes after their skipjack had slammed into the shoals. She got in her motorboat, ripped the cord of the outboard, and rescued them. I can picture her housedress clinging to her comfy exterior, her bottle-red hair sitting like a soaked octopus atop her head, the tensile muscles in her arms tightening as she reached forward, hand-over-handing the men to safety. Nobody would dare drown when Hattie was on duty.
They weathered out the storm aboard the light with her, the metal pilings creaking and groaning, the waves crashing almost up to the windows as Agnes grew angrier.
Gerald watched from the shore.
“Honest to Pete, when I got out there, Hattie was playing gin rummy with everybody, the place warm and cozy, and she looked up at me and said, ‘Gere, did you remember the sugar?’ And of course I forgot the sugar, so I took those men back to shore, picked up a sack of sugar, and made Hattie and me a tray of sugar cookies.”
Hattie was fifty-five years old when she saved those men.
The lighthouse survived. They all did. Only minor repairs were necessary to Bethlehem Point. Other lighthouses weren’t so lucky, but we all figured that light held together by Hattie’s sheer, strong will. How it lasted the years before she got there, I couldn’t begin to say.
And now, if she wants to die, she will. Most likely, she knows something we don’t. Or perhaps it’s just time. Who can know but God? And maybe Hattie Keller.
An hour later it was evident she was dying. Her heart rate slid down to twenty and her blood pressure barely registered.
“Why is this happening, MM?” Gerald, dressed in plaid pajamas and looking better than he had in a long time, sat in the lounge chair beside her bed. He looked a little lost among the pictures of flowers on every wall (not a lighthouse in sight!), and on every piece of furniture draped a multicolored, granny-square afghan. Little knickknacks—some crocheted with bits of silk flowers cascading from some orifice, some bearing words burned into wood—were evenly distributed around the room. I love Hattie—I hate her taste in decorating being the minimalist I am—but this brave, seaworthy soul can strew whatever she wants around her room as far as I’m concerned.
At least there weren’t any pictures of kittens or geese. Or farfetched English villages.
“Did Hattie ever talk about dying?” I asked.
“Not much. She didn’t like the subject. You know how some people—morbid people—talk about how they’d like to go? Well, Hattie would say, ‘I’ll go when I want to and that’s that.’”
I pulled my knitting out of my tote bag. Sometimes, when a patient is sleeping, I’ll sit and knit. Just being there does a world of good. My propensity was to start something for John and the other brothers, but summer is beginning in Swaziland. The yarn is a mustard gold. So I decided I’d just start on a scarf and see who ends up with it.
“Did Hattie leave you any instructions, Gerald?” I find it’s best to be matter-of-fact about death issues. People appreciate it. It jerks them back from that unreal place where finality hovers in an iridescent hum you can almost see and somewhat hear. But not quite.
He ran a hand across the strings of his hair. “She left something out at the light years ago. And she brought that up two days ago, real wistful. Said she kept a sack under the floorboard near the refrigerator. Well, sort of important papers, she said. Said you’d appreciate it the most. Has something to do with Jude too, some letter to you or something he told her to give to you after he died.”
“My goodness.”
“She said he wrote it years ago, when he was planning on dying the first time. But then . . . well, it’s easy to see how she forgot about it after all that time.”
“Indeed.”
“But she also said something about her mother’s old recipe book too. I don’t know, MM. She was babbling a little. I can’t guarantee anything’s there at all.”
I set down my knitting. “I think it would mean the world to her if we got that book for her, don’t you?” Inside, the thought of hearing from Jude again, across time, gave a greater sense of urgency. And yet, he might have removed it himself decades before. I knew better than to get my hopes up. I learned that lesson long ago.
“It could be a wild goose chase.” He screwed up his brow. “Only the Coast Guard checks up on that place anymore. And it needs a fresh coat of paint in my opinion. They just don’t care about the old gal like we did.”
“They probably won’t be there on a Saturday. We’ll have to sneak by Janice, though, don’t you think?”
“She’s one cranky nurse.”
No sense in delaying.
“Okay. We don’t have much time.” With the way Hattie was slipping. “Can you get yourself dressed?”
“Strangest thing. I’m feeling pretty darned good. Better than I have in a good five years or so.”
Oh Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I should have known Gerald would rally.
Don’t take my relationship with Christ the wrong way. I may be familiar with him, like a loving spouse is familiar with her husband, but I have the utmost respect. I realize he created all things and is the second person of the Godhead; that somehow he is one with the Father, though I don’t feel the same closeness to Person One.
Now, the Holy Spirit and I have been getting to know each other for some time, but still this mysterious Person Three looks on from afar, the scout at the ridge, the captain in the wheelhouse. I know the Father has his eye on me and the time will come when he steps forward and demands equal billing, but I do feel that time will come when I say that final prayer on my knees and he pulls me in like a fish in a net.
God the Father knows I have father issues. And maybe he cares about that. Or maybe it’s too late for any of that to be resolved here on earth. Who knows?
But still, I uttered a little prayer to him as I pulled my Wellies on over my gardening jeans. Today was typical October on the Eastern Shore—warm with a little nip sewn round the edges like tinfoil lace. I buttoned on a dark blue flannel shirt, figuring it would be best if I blended in with the water. Then I made a call.
“Cinquefoil’s.”
“Shrubby?”
“Yeah. That you, Mary?”
“Yes. I need to borrow your boat.”
“You goin’ fishin’?” He started in on our old joke.
“Yeah.”
“You got worms?”
“Yeah, but I’m goin’ anyway!”
We laughed.
“Just need
the one with the outboard.”
“Oh, okay. What you want to do with it?”
Shrubby’s one of the last of the old-style watermen. Rugged but kind. Drinks too much, smokes too much, looks like an old leather portmanteau but with more expression and robin’s-egg-blue eyes where the buttons should be. He needs a wife, but it would take a very unique brand of woman to marry old Shrubby.
“I want to run Gerald out to the light.”
“You could get in trouble for that and you bein’ a nun, well, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I’m a religious sister and we get in trouble all the time. People just don’t know about it.”
He paused. Shrubby’s not exactly the king of comebacks. “I’ll bring it around,” he finally said. “Want me to bring it up to your dock?”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Because that way, you’d be almost there before most of the town would spy you.”
“Excellent thinking!”
“I ain’t as dumb as I look, sister.”
“You don’t look dumb at all, Shrubby.”
Amazing how life can beat down a man, isn’t it?
AS I WAITED FOR SHRUBBY, I COULDN’T HELP BUT STARE OUT at the light and whenever I do that, I think about Jude.
One time when I was fourteen years old I stood out on Bethlehem Point, the spike of land jutting into the cool gray waters of the Chesapeake where I usually park my lawn chair, and I watched, as usual, the light swing round and round in the lantern of the lighthouse. Jude stole up behind me and poked his index fingers into my sides. I jumped. “Why do you always do that?”
He grinned, then threw himself on the ground. I lowered myself, first laying down a towel to keep my school uniform neat.
“Sneak out again?” he asked, pulling out two penny candies from his jacket pocket.
“You know I did. It’s so hot in my room.”
He held out a peppermint and as I moved to take it, he snatched it back. “I want to put it on your tongue.”
There came that dirty thrill again.
But I really wanted the candy. So I held out my tongue. He just dropped it on there, the flesh of his fingertips failing to come in contact with my tongue.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I just wanted to look at your tongue.”
“Jude!”
He laughed. “One day, Mary-Margaret, you’re going to get the real scoop on me. You won’t just think of me as the youngest Keller boy.”
“I’ve heard the real scoop.” Boy, did I! He’d already done it with three girls. For certain. Probably more.
“Then why would you let me put candy on your tongue?”
I refused to answer.
He leaned back on his hands, crossing his legs at the ankles and jiggling them. “One day”—he pointed to the lighthouse—“I’m going to row you out there and I’m going to make mad, passionate love to you on the floor of what used to be my parents’ living room.”
“I’m going to be married to Jesus.”
“Jesus may have other plans.”
“Jesus never has other plans.” At least not for me. I would make sure what happened to my mother didn’t go unredeemed. Jesus said I was his bride. It all made so much sense.
“Mark my words. Someday. I know these things.” He tapped his temple, leaned forward, and kissed me full on the lips.
“You sound like my Aunt Elfi. She knew things too.”
“Yeah, but she was a nut.”
I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and get behind me, Satan. I would not let the Deceiver steal me from my calling. However, I did wonder what a baby made by myself and Jude Keller would look like. But then, so did every other girl at school.
His eyes twinkled. “Yep.”
You see, I told Jude all about my life and he told me about his. Every little thing. At least I thought so at the time. Some he didn’t go into great detail over, and those items, I always followed up with Sister Thaddeus for corroboration. She seemed to know everything.
Apparently not as much as Jude, however.
“I’m going to be married to Jesus,” I said again.
But my lips burned like I’d been kissed by an angel. And I wiped them off again.
“You can keep doing that, Mary-Margaret, and you’ll still feel that way.”
“Do all the girls feel that way when you kiss them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t care a thing about them.”
I took his hand in both of mine. “Jude, it’s hopeless.”
His eyes soaked up the autumn sky and he knew I was right. We both knew. “I’ll take my chances,” he whispered.
My heart broke for him.
We loved each other. In such different ways. And I would break his heart. Again and again. Until he finally left Locust Island. But in the meantime he kept coming back and I kept letting him. He did what he did because he loved me. I did what I did because I loved God. That, as any mom will tell her daughter, is not a combination that will lead to anything but disaster. The truth was, I loved the way Jude’s lips felt pressed against mine. And I let him kiss me more than I should have. I loved the way he never bragged about me like he did other girls, that I was his sacred secret and he was my hidden carnality. It was a dance of sorts that neither of us quite understood or were capable of stopping. Looking back now, I know we both were looking for someone to love us, really love us, like the parents who couldn’t because they were dead or dead to our hearts. I don’t expect you to understand, sisters. (See what a can of worms you’ve opened up, Mary-Francis?)
That night as I helped sort canned goods to be taken to St. Vincent DePaul’s in Salisbury, Jesus joined me.
“Leave Jude to me, T—.”
Will he be all right?
“Eventually. He’ll make terrible choices you won’t.”
But why will he have to go through that?
“Some do.”
I don’t understand that sort of thing. Why some are shielded and others aren’t.
“You and I already love each other. Someone is standing between Jude and myself, and it will take many years and an ocean of love to dissolve that barrier. Do you remember when that beautiful woman broke the box of ointment on my feet?”
I love that story.
“She loved much because she was forgiven much.”
So people like me won’t love as much as those who’ve lived a rougher life?
“Of course not. You just learned to do so a little sooner.”
Or we’re frightened not to.
He smiled. “There are those. I prefer to be followed out of love, not fear, T—. But I’ll take somebody’s hand regardless of why they are reaching out to me. As we get to know each other, the heart grows full. That is always my desire.”
And if it doesn’t, if only the fear remains?
“My hand holds fast. But I grieve. I long to bring people to my Father, to know his love. I’m especially joyful when it happens here on earth. But it doesn’t for everyone.”
I’m not afraid of the Father, I just don’t understand him.
“I’m with you as long as you need me, T—. But I can tell you this. You can trust him.”
And Jude?
“Jude is in my view. I just want you to love him. And listen to my voice.”
Am I supposed to go out with him, Jesus?
He chuckled. “No, my dear. Just do as I tell you. Although there will come a time when much is required of you.”
You sure weren’t kidding, Jesus, I thought as I headed over to spirit away Gerald to the lighthouse. He was dressed when I entered their suite.
I settled Sister Angie’s windbreaker around Gerald, arranging the hood over his head like a monk’s cowl.
“I feel a little silly in this thing.” His gaze skittered down the floral fabric and so much for blending in with the bay.
“We’re being clandestine. You’re Angie right now.”
“I’m much too old and out of shape to impersonate Angie.”
Angie jogs three miles every day. At her age. And she’s not a skinny-mini either!
“Hattie would get a kick out of it.”
“Well, you’re right about that.”
I poked my head into the hallway and scanned each wing. Nobody. “Coast is clear. Let’s go.”
Gerald, who once stalked the decking of the lighthouse with giant, manly strides, who stood ringing the fog bell in the mists of great storms, waves crashing against him, who’d rescued a couple of overly eager sports fishermen who lost their craft and bobbed about in forty-degree water in their life vests, that Gerald hurried beside me in a reduced, scraping little gait, his slippers whush-whushing along the linoleum tile. The plastic tips on the tie of the hood clicked against the tulips on the slick fabric of his jacket.
“Can you try and pick your feet up a little?” I asked. “We have to get there.”
“I’m not so sure Hattie would think this is a good idea.” He paused, then emitted a wheezy laugh. “Forget that. I bet she’ll stay alive a bit longer just to see if we make it.”
“Exactly.”
Exactly, indeed.
You see, I’ve lived my life like the puzzle it is, pieces fitting in here and there, one at a time. Some portions are finished and I can look behind me and say, “Yes, there’s the young bit.There’s the Jude bit. There’s the John bit. And now finally, here I am as I thought I’d be.” But some segments are tinier, made up of only one day, a week, or perhaps a month. And today was a major portion, one I’ll not forget for a long time even though I don’t know where it will lead.
Remember the father issues? Well, read on, sisters. Today was certainly a little crazy in that department.
We sidled through the kitchen and onto the patio where the residents dine during the mellow days of spring and autumn. Hurried as best we could down the brick pathway that leads to the water and from there we slipped behind the snowball bushes and rounded our way toward Bray’s Cottage—our little home. We call it Mercy House these days because Blanca brings in at least one stray cat a month we have to fatten up and send on its way. Oh, the yowling some of those creatures do during the night!
