by Lisa Samson
I sat there in the little white car and wept. Then I drove around to Heart of the City Mission, parked, stepped inside, and had a cup of coffee. Mary-Francis, the secular Franciscan running the place, sat with me and told me about their ministry, going on for fifty-five years now.
“Did the famous Brother Joe start it?” I asked her.
She fiddled with a baby dreadlock. “No, but he gave the place its heart. What a saint. Lord have mercy, the stories he would tell. That man knew how to give life.”
You said it, I thought.
A woman, most likely a prostitute, most likely in last night’s getup, stumbled through the door, a gash in her forehead bleeding down onto the hot pink sequins of her minidress. She tottered on a pair of silver stiletto, thigh-high boots.
“Gotta run.” Mary-Francis hurried toward the woman. “Lindelle! Did he hit you again?”
The woman nodded and broke down in tears. Mary-Francis put her arms are her. “Come back sometime and see us,” she said to me, her milky brown skin creasing around her light brown eyes. “We’re always open!” she said. “Right, Lindelle?”
Lindelle nodded and looked up at me, blue eyes shattered into too many pieces for a human to count.
I couldn’t pummel Mary-Francis with questions. They would have to wait.
Perhaps I would be back soon.
Perhaps? I knew I’d return as soon as I could get the time off. Fire spread beneath my scalp and I needed to leave. I hurried back to the car and sat for another hour, watching the foot traffic thicken as the night descended, the slack conditions of the buildings receded, and the carnival lights glowed to attract and feed the soul-starved denizens of Baltimore Street.
I drove right to the motherhouse and proceeded to Sister Thaddeus’s room. She’s in her eighties and is doing well. She dresses simply but somehow manages to look stylish. In other words, she hasn’t lost it!
As always, she hugged me tightly and made me a cup of tea. She wears her hair bobbed and got her ears pierced ten years ago. The little gold balls look positively Parisian on her. I don’t know what her secret is.
We sat on her sofa.
“You look wonderful, Mary. How’s the artwork?”
“Fine.”
She nodded to a picture I painted years before, a wild dervish of color telling only the tale of my heart at the time. “Still holding up, don’t you think, the old gal?”
“Yes. I’m happy you love it still.”
I told her what brought me to Baltimore and come to find out, she realized Brother Joe was my father too. “You two look a great deal alike. I wondered about it when I saw him, but figured you all had that certain redheaded way about you.”
“So, should I follow the trail?”
“Indeed, Mary-Margaret.”
Now you know where that “indeed” comes from.
She invited me to stay the night there instead of spending money on a motel and we stayed up until one a.m. remembering and chatting, me giving her news on the women who once went to school with me, relaying the jaunt to the lighthouse and . . .
“Oh, Mary-Margaret, you’ve always been quite the woman, haven’t you?”
She waved me off in the parking lot the next day, then headed downtown to help out at the sour beef and dumpling dinner at her home parish. I prayed the silly prayer that she’d live for another fifty years or so.
WELL, THE BREAD IS NOW IN THE OVEN AND I’VE GOT THE gardens mulched for the coming winter. And as I finished up I became filled with the minute beauty of nature, thinking about those beautiful, tender little shoots that would come up in the spring, remembering my time in the woods all those years ago, having healed as much as I was going to initially, and ready, finally, to move forward into the order.
I was about to enter my tertianship—a thirty-day period of intense reflection before saying my finals vows. Before it officially began at our retreat house in western Maryland, I decided a visit to Locust Island was crucial, to see the people I cared so much about: Gerald and Hattie, Sister Thaddeus, and the Brays.
And I hoped to get a little time with Jesus. But of course, that was entirely up to him. Checking out one of the school’s canoes, I paddled around the island, not venturing too far out from the grasses. I even spent some time on Glen’s reading island, though Glen didn’t live on Locust Island yet. He was still acting on Broadway during those days. Locust Island provided an escape for him back in 1995. He comes to Mass with me sometimes. I think he used to be Catholic. I think he lost his way and wonders if he’ll ever find it again.
As I expected would happen, a few days into the stay in that sad 1959, I ended up paddling out to Bethlehem Point Light. Hattie saw me from far off, waved her arms in the pale spring sunlight there on the surrounding deck, and hollered, “I was wondering when you’d finally make it out!” She wore pink pedal pushers, a pink work shirt, and had tied her hair back in a pink scarf.
“And here I am,” I said as I pulled up to the dock ten minutes later. “It’s only April, Hattie, I’m cold, and I’d sure appreciate a cup of your spearmint tea.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
We tied up the canoe and she thrust out one of her strong, square hands and almost hoisted me out of the boat by her own steam. We climbed the iron steps. “Let me put the kettle on. You just go ahead and make yourself comfortable in Gerald’s chair.”
“Where is Gerald?”
“In town. I forgot the baking powder on my trip yesterday, and you know that man can’t go a day without homemade biscuits—”
“Yours are the best.” I followed her into the kitchen where the radio burbled “High Hopes” sung by Frank Sinatra. I loved Frank. Hattie was partial to Bobby Darrin, but I always thought he attacked every single song.
To be honest, Gerald’s chair was Mr. Keller’s chair, and I always felt like I shouldn’t sit there. Something sad and sacred went on there for years as he sat in his loneliness, and honestly, I had enough crazy sacredness in my life. If people knew about Jesus’s visits, they would have sent me to Crownsville and committed me for life. And the loneliness? Well, that had never really been much of a problem, but I didn’t want to tempt fate and allow it to ooze into me from the chair, freshly reupholstered notwithstanding, through my backside.
“I’ll just sit right here.” I pulled out one of the wooden chairs and sat down at the table. A straw mat to one side held a napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers, and a sugar bowl. All in a lighthouse theme.
I picked up the pepper shaker. “Isn’t this a little overkill? Out here and all?”
Hattie filled the kettle at the kitchen sink. The rainwater collected in a large cistern at the side of the building. “People keep giving lighthouse items to me. Can you imagine doing the same thing for a person living in a two-story colonial or a rancher?”
“No.” I folded my hands. “So. How’s everything been out here?”
She rested a surprisingly well-manicured hand on her broad hip. You just never knew with Hattie. “A calm year. Mild winter. Not much ice damage. No rescues. Good, I’d say.”
“And Gerald?”
“He’s been sick over Jude, quite honestly.”
I think I imagined a bit of accusation in her tone; perhaps she felt that, as his friend, I should have been able to talk him off the streets.
“Has he seen him?”
She nodded, turned on the burner, and settled the kettle on the gas flame. “He went to Baltimore a few weeks ago. Found him at a mission down there. You heard of Brother Joe?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“Runs a place for prostitutes and the like.”
“Jude being one of the like.”
She sighed. “I don’t know, MM. He really won’t give us any information, but what are we supposed to think?”
“You’re probably right.” I didn’t want to let on what I knew.
“So anyway, it breaks Gerald’s heart. That woman.”
She was speaking of Jude
’s mother, Petra.
“I know, Hattie. How she could take him in with that man . . .”
“Well, at least that’s all over with now. He’ll never have to go back there. Not even to visit. We figure she’s dead. People like that don’t stay gone. The things they do they do for show just as much as for change. You know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“So how long are you here for?” She scraped down a China plate of cookies from the cupboard.
“Just a few weeks, I think. I’m about to say my final vows.”
She set the plate on the table. “You know, it’s funny. I said to Gerald when I first met you that you were destined to be a wife and mother and the sooner you got those ideas about being a nun out of your head, the better. With hips like that, MM, well, it’s a shame to let that kind of baby-making body go to waste.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. But I guess I was wrong about that. Are you sure you’re ready for this, hon? I mean, don’t you want a man? A nice man and a family? Maybe some kids? I know I got the man, and the good Lord hasn’t seen fit to give me the children, but I’d sure welcome them if he did. You’re so good with the kids, MM. Gerald’ll laugh because I was just so sure about it. I guess you never can tell, can you?”
I smoothed my skirt. “Well, to be honest, there’s a part of me that’s always wanted to have a baby, Hattie.”
“I knew it!”
“But I want Jesus more.”
“Can’t you have both?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never even thought of that as a possibility.”
Wouldn’t she have flipped at my visions? Dependable, earthbound Hattie? She’d have thought I was a complete loon.
“It is for a lot of women, hon. Hasn’t there ever been a boy you’ve been interested in?”
“Well, not really.”
“Not really? So who was the maybe interest then?”
You had to be so careful about what you said around Hattie because she didn’t just read between the lines, she read between each word.
I looked down at my hands and whispered one word.
Her fingertips flew to her mouth as she gasped. “No! Jude?!”
“Yes. He’s always made me feel a little . . . excited. But of course, now that he’s . . .”
“Oh that. I mean, why couldn’t you look the other way, a few little indiscretions?” She laughed, but her eyes saddened. “Did he ever know?”
I shook my head vehemently. “No! We’d kiss and all, but that was the extent of it. I never gave him any hope we had a future! Because we don’t.” After all, my mother had given her life for me. It was the least I could do.
“I believe you!” She held up her hands, the palms red and callused from scrubbing the decks surrounding the lighthouse. “But I sure am sorry for it.” She poured the boiling water into a teapot and settled a few tea bags inside, leaving the strings to drape over the neck. “You might have been his savior.”
I dropped my forehead into my hands and whispered, “Please don’t say that, Hattie. I can’t bear that kind of weight.”
She sat down. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Jude wasn’t your responsibility. If he was anybody’s, he was ours. Gerald tried.” She dunked the tea bags up and down. “I tried too. But there was just no getting inside of him. He was so closed up. Except for you. Do you think you could have loved him, even a little?”
“I did. Just not enough to . . . set my dreams aside. And now that he’s taken to this life . . . well, I just can’t imagine . . . Does that make sense?”
“It does. I wish it didn’t. I wish sometimes people could make all the mistakes in the world and go back to square one with everyone they left in their wake.”
“Only God gives us a square one when we don’t deserve it, Hattie. Only God can afford that sort of luxury.”
“Still . . .” She looked out the window. “There’s Gerald! Oh good. He can have tea with us.”
The heavy conversation out of the way, we sat around the table and talked about the old days. Sometimes you just need to talk about the old days.
IT’S BEEN AWHILE SINCE I’VE WRITTEN. THERE ARE ALWAYS a million things to do, it seems.
After visiting the mission in November, I went back to Locust Island and taught for the rest of the autumn and the winter. Angie and I went to Florida for Christmas and remembered the Y2K New Year’s Eve of last year with some Sisters of Providence, one of whom has a sister who owns a condo near St. Augustine, a name quite fitting for vacationing religious!
So back to the story. I was still visiting St. Mary’s before entering my tertianship when, walking down the cloister after supper in Sister Thaddeus’s quarters that night, I saw him across the yard, standing by the gateway where we first spoke.
“Jude?” I called. “Is that you?”
He cupped his hand to the side of his mouth. “Gerald told me you were here!”
I ran across the newly sprung lawn, breathless by the time I reached him.
He looked like he’d just been pushed out of hell.
“Jude! What’s happened to you?” I reached up and touched his cheek.
He leaned his face into my hand and smiled, a phantom of the old charm still hovering around the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were old and tired, their blue faded and shelfworn, their whites pink and weary. He’d lost weight, his collarbones pressing out the broadcloth of his shirt, his cheekbones traceable beneath the skin of his face. At least his hair was still as it used to be. I don’t think I could have stood it if it had changed.
“I just came to see Gerald and Hattie for a few days. I’m finally headed over to Europe.”
“Are you in trouble?”
He looked down, then turned his head to the side, squeezing the top of the iron gate, whitening his already protruding knuckles. “Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Drugs, Mary-Margaret.”
“Are you selling them?”
“I was.”
“And the prostitution?”
“A guy’s gotta make ends meet.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. I could feel the blood pooling in my cheeks and my pulse pounded in my temples. “Are you using drugs? You look so thin.” Now, after that description you might think I’m an idiot. I knew he had to be using, but I wanted him to say it.
“I was using. I’m not now.”
I didn’t believe him. “How long are you on the island, did you say?”
“A few days. Gerald’s going to meet me with the boat in just a minute or two, but I saw your hair through the ironwork, or, well, what I’d hoped was your hair. What are you doing back from Georgia already?”
“It’s a long story. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Say when and where.”
“At Bethlehem Point. By my mother’s tree. Is eleven a.m. too early?”
“I’ll be there.”
And there was no leering stare, no saucy comment. He reached out and touched my hair and before I could say anything, he turned from the gate, shoved his hands in his pockets, and slipped away.
That night I lay in my bed in one of the guest rooms at the school, and I stared up at the ceiling, praying without words for Jude. I had no idea what to say, what to even hope for. I only wished I could do a little something to help him, but he was beyond my aid, wasn’t he?
Wasn’t he?
I mouthed the words and they remained in a mist over my head and I realized the answer just might not be, “No.”
I could barely breathe.
Oh, Jesus, I prayed. Please. Tell me this isn’t what you want for me. Hattie was wrong when she said I could help Jude.
I heard nothing in response.
I got a letter from my son, John, today. He’s taken to sewing clothes in the evenings for some of the orphans who live near his mission. It’s a family tradition, I suppose. One of my favorite memories of my grandmother was watching her sew my clothes. Grandm
om didn’t emote much, being the German type. I rarely received more than a brusque hug and fond swat on the behind as I rushed out the door to school in the mornings. But Grandmom showed her affection in her sewing. In my keepsake trunk I still have three of the dresses she fashioned for me when I was a little girl. The intricate smocking bespoke hours of love oozing from her fingertips, the piping sewed around the waists, the collars, and the sashes told me how much she cared, how glad she was I was around. I still have one she made for my mother, as well as the christening dress we both wore.
Aunt Elfi, on the other hand, was the cook and the love bug. She always made me rice pudding. That was her way. And a lot of hugs and kisses. She’d hold me on her lap, read books, and after the final page was read, rock us so raucously it was a pure wonder neither of us ended up with cracked skulls.
Grandmom showed me what prayer looked like. She’d gather her prayer book, purse, gloves, and a head covering some mornings and we’d let ourselves early into the church. St. Francis was left unlocked because those were the days people sought out God on his turf and didn’t feel silly doing so, and nobody would dream of stealing from a church.
We’d enter the hushed quiet and kneel before the altar in the second pew after lighting several candles. Grandmom would pray for an hour every Tuesday morning. She’d bring paper and crayons for me and she said, “Mary-Margaret, just draw your prayers to God.”
I’ve been doing that ever since, I guess. Each week brought improvement as I figured it out by trial and error. There was no great moment when I knew I loved to create art. I guess, like faith for a lot of people, I learned it in church until one day I realized I was an artist.
Aunt Elfi showed me how to minister mercy. Honestly, she was a little touched in the head. She never did well in school and was probably riddled with learning disabilities nobody knew of back then. But she knew everybody on our street, and when someone was sick, Aunt Elfi was making bean or chicken soup, hoping the chicken was nobody she once knew. We’d deliver her ministrations together and she’d never just drop off the dish; she’d do laundry, mop the kitchen floor, vacuum, or just sit and let the person babble on about their troubles. Aunt Elfi could listen to people complain and moan for hours on end. That, my sisters, is sainthood.
