by Joanna Rose
“Cheers,” he said. “So what’s wrong with Nana Farley? You don’t think she likes you?”
“I don’t think she likes anybody,” she said. “I think she’s cranky from all those years of having kids.”
He worked one shoe off, then the other. “There are seven of them?” One dark red sock had the beginnings of a hole in the toe.
“Eight. She started out with ten. One girl died of appendicitis when they were kids.” She picked a wet blue thread out of her glass. “There was an Uncle Martin who was killed in a car wreck.”
Michael slurped at his martini. “Wow. Ten kids. How many kids in your dad’s family?”
“Two. Uncle Frank. I never knew him. He died of cancer.”
“Ten kids,” he said.
She swallowed the rest of the martini in one swallow. The icy alcohol hit the back of her throat, no taste, just heat and a hint of danger, and she held the empty glass out to him. He reached across the space and took it and then leaned back against the couch.
“My mom’s family had five,” he said. “There are twenty-two cousins on her side, mostly in Pennsylvania, some here, Aunt Claire and Aunt Christine, and I think eleven cousins on my dad’s side, mostly up in Massachusetts, western Mass. He has three sisters.”
He sat there on the floor, holding the empty martini glass by the stem, turning it a little bit in his fingers, staring out the window, the boring, lifeless light of January in his face.
She said, “How about another martini?”
He said, “All this time I guess I thought you came from a small family.”
“I do,” she said. “I mean, our part of the family kind of keeps to itself.”
Which bumped him out of his reverie, and a frown appeared and disappeared between his eyebrows.
He said, “What do you mean, keeps to itself?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We don’t see them much. Holidays, you know. When I was little, I used to get to stay with Grandma Anthony, in her house in Roselle. How about another martini?”
He got up and stood there, bounced his knees. “They all seem to get along.” The window glass shook, and he stepped close to the chair.
“Freezing rain,” he said. “There’s a draft coming in here.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m cold.”
He touched her nose with one finger and he said, “You are,” and then he kind of pinched. Cute move. His fingers smelled like lemon peel. “How about another martini?”
He took both glasses to the kitchen counter and filled them up, emptying the milk bottle. There was vodka left in the vodka bottle, but the vermouth bottle was empty.
She said, “Have you ever had a smoky martini?”
“Ten kids,” he said. He sneezed. “Damn. What did your grandfather do?”
He came back with the two glasses, gave her one, stood there, sipped. He sneezed again.
“I think I’m getting a cold.”
“Steel,” she said. “Pittsburgh. I don’t know.”
“I don’t think your grandma seemed cranky,” he said. “It seemed like she was getting off on all those kids. I mean, all those grandchildren, that’s so, I don’t know, just so cool, all those kids running around. That Stephen, he’s really something. He tried to make a noose out of my tie.”
“A smoky martini is made with single-malt scotch instead of vermouth.”
He said, “She asked me what parish I belong to.”
“And vodka,” she said. “Good, premium vodka.”
He said, “I kind of evaded the question.”
“Lemon twists.”
He said, “I don’t really belong to Christ the King anymore.”
He stared. Squares of window light in each eye.
Pattianne said, “Blink.”
“I go there to Reconciliation with Father McGivens,” he said. He picked a blue thread out of his teeth. “But sometimes I go to Saturday Mass at Blessed Sacrament, or Saint John the Apostle. ’Cause they’re here, in Montclair.”
And she thought When? When did he go to Mass on Saturdays?
She said, “Reconciliation?”
“Confession,” he said, blinking now. “I need a Kleenex.”
Michael in the confessional at Christ the King, confessing the sin of spilling his seed on her breasts, one of his favorite sins, how they discovered it the first time they ran out of condoms. She wondered how he said it, whispering in the dark confessional, kneeling there, like he knelt over her? What did the priest say to absolve him, to make him believe he could receive Communion and then come to her bed and have unchaste, unmarried sex that was definitely not open to God’s intervention for new life?
He said, “I liked being at Mass with you today, you know,” and he closed his eyes. “That’s a nice church, St. Albans.” And this would have been the moment to ask about why she didn’t go to Communion, but he seemed to miss it.
The cold vodka hurt the back of her teeth, and the next burp came up vodka flavored instead of bacon flavored.
She said, “I used to get to stay at Grandma Anthony’s house for two weeks every summer, just me and her.”
The tiny frown came and went between his eyes again. “She’s in a home now? In Roselle?”
She fished out the lemon twist and chewed on it and drank down the rest of the martini through the chewed lemon twist, and the next burp was pure lemon flavor.
She said, “No more bacon.”
Michael said, “No more bacon?”
She said, “Why don’t you pass that milk bottle over here?”
He walked on his knees over to the counter and back with the milk bottle, and shook the melting ice into her glass.
“So,” she said. “We should make smoky martinis next.”
He wiped his fingers on his shirt and he said, “With bacon?”
“Smoky because of scotch. Not bacon, it doesn’t have anything to do with bacon.”
“I ate a lot of that bacon,” he said. “Bacon-butter sandwiches.”
“If you can eat it on bread with butter, my grandmother serves it,” she said. “Poor cake—did you ever have poor cake?”
“What’s poor cake?”
“White bread and butter. Sprinkled with sugar. A lot of sugar.”
He said, “Like a sandwich?”
“Open-ended,” she said. “No. You know. Open-faced.”
“Wow.” He up-ended the milk bottle, dripping a couple last drops into his glass.
“Ten kids,” he said.
He went to the kitchen counter and picked up the vodka. He poured some into the milk bottle, and then he looked at what was left and poured it all into the milk bottle and then he looked into the cabinet over the refrigerator.
“There’s this J&B—that’s scotch, right?”
She said, “It’s supposed to be single malt.”
“Mavis’s is the only place we can get liquor on Sunday that’s close by,” he said.
He opened the J&B.
“Very dry,” she said. “Smoky martinis are supposed to be very dry.”
“Gotcha.” He drizzled a little scotch into the milk bottle and looked at her.
He said, “More?”
“Don’t know. Maybe just a touch more.”
He poured in just a touch more and then he brought in the milk bottle and sat cross-legged on the couch.
He said, “What church do your parents go to?”
“They don’t.”
He said, “Lapsed? Would you say they’re lapsed?”
Abortion, and now sex that has nothing in the whole wide world to do with new life. Once, when she was ten or so, she went to Confession on Saturday morning, stole a Milky Way bar from the Banner Mart in the afternoon, and received Communion the next day. It was easy.
“I guess they are.”
He picked at the hole in his sock. “And you?” He tugged at a long red thread and pulled the hole in his sock down around his toe. “Look. These are brand-new socks. What would you say you are?”
“Drunk,” she said. “I would say I am drunk. How about you bring that bottle over here?”
“You get kind of bossy when you get drunk, don’t you?”
“My feet are finally warm,” she said. “Come here and get the rest of me warm.”
The next morning he went to his apartment early, before going to work. He shut the door behind him and stood there. He’d lived here for three years and could still remember the first day. His first place of his own, no roommates, a bedroom with a bed instead of a futon on the floor.
The blue curtains his mother had put up were all closed. The place was dark and cold. He hadn’t turned the heat on in days. He picked up the clutter of mail that had dropped through the mail slot and sat on the couch. Junk mail, a gas bill, a credit card bill. His cold was worse, and he wanted to go back to sleep. He didn’t feel good about being here. He liked her apartment better. It was bright and always warm, and she was always there. They were always there. Together. He dropped the mail on the couch and got up, went into the dark bedroom. His closet doors were open, showing empty hangers. A pile of laundry was on the bed. He sneezed three times in a row, and he went in the bathroom. The Kleenex box was empty. He blew his nose with toilet paper. The roll was almost empty too. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d taken a shower here.
He had to get to work. He felt like crap. He stuck the toilet paper roll in his coat pocket.
There was no way he could be doing this. His parents would freak. Almost everyone he knew started out their lives as couples by living together, and he tried to imagine telling his parents. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even imagine saying it to Pattianne. She seemed so willing to just go on as they were.
He tried to imagine marrying her.
Maybe he could call Father McGivens. He was more than just the priest who had given him First Communion and confirmed him. He’d been part of Sunday dinners and graduations. He came over on Saturday afternoons to watch football. Sometimes Michael watched with them. Father McGivens had played running back at Fordham. He would pound his big fist on the arm of the chair and yell at the games and act very unpriestly and make them laugh.
Father McGivens had talked with him about Corinne Mullins, who got so angry about the child-abuse scandals that she said she would never enter a Catholic Church again. A quiet, steady example of faith is what Father had advised. So Michael had started going to Mass every Sunday again. He and Corinne broke up anyway.
Maybe he could help him figure out what to say to his parents.
Father McGivens said, “Come on by after work.”
He got to Christ the King and sat in the car, mumbling out loud.
“I met a girl.”
“I know how they’ll feel about us living together.”
“She isn’t into church.”
His nose was running, and he pulled off another piece of toilet paper and blew it. His throat ached a little. He looked at his watch, stuck the toilet paper roll back in his coat pocket, and got out. It was colder now. The wind was sharp and got right inside his coat. When he pushed open the door to the rectory office, there was a fire in the fireplace, and Father McGivens sat at the big desk, leaning back in the chair. A football game was on the radio.
“Michael,” he said, sitting up, standing up, coming around the desk. He gave him a quick embrace. His sweater smelled like cigar. “Always good to see you. How’s the new year so far?”
He was square-shouldered, tall, and straight. Michael stood up straighter just being near him.
“Great,” he said. “Good.”
Father McGivens went to a sideboard. “Cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks, yes, please.”
“Have a seat.” He waved his hand at the arrangement of chairs and the half-couch, away from the desk. Michael took off his coat and draped it over the arm of the chair. He sat down and leaned back. The chair felt too soft, and he sat up. Father McGivens poured the coffee and handed him a cup. He turned the radio off and sat on the couch, resting his arm along the back of it.
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to sign up for the CYO basketball team?”
“No,” Michael said. “I have a pretty chopped-up work schedule, and I’m doing some subbing. Wish I could.”
Michael sipped at the coffee. It was black. He usually put cream in his coffee, but coffee with Father McGivens was always black. Wind blew the branches of a tree against the window, and the heat kicked on with a nice rush of air. Father McGivens crossed one leg over his knee, the knee cracking.
“Well, we can always use another body when it comes to stuffing envelopes. There’s still a chance to get the Family Life bill on the ballot.”
“I wanted to talk to you. You might remember Pattianne?”
Father McGivens straightened his leg and it cracked again. He pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I do,” he said.
Michael gulped the coffee. It was too hot, and his eyes watered.
“Your mother tells me you’ve been seeing quite a bit of each other.”
A sneeze tickled his nose. He set the coffee on the table. “We’re kind of at a point,” he started. “I kind of need to make a decision.”
Father was nodding just slightly. Michael took in the whole of him. Big. Open. Easy. He’d known this priest as long as he could remember. Father McGivens had helped him talk to his parents about his decision to be a teacher instead of going to law school. He’d reassured Michael when Corrine moved away, saying that it was her journey to make.
“And you’re thinking of becoming”—Father clasped his hands and looked at them—“sexually involved?”
Oh God. Suddenly the chair Michael was sitting in felt huge. He felt small. He felt his pulse hammering. His neck was hot. His throat ached. He wondered if he had a fever. He had to say something.
“That’s not it.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Father leaned back. “It’s a big step, one most young people take far too lightly.”
Then Father McGivens said, “She isn’t active in the church?”
“No,” Michael picked up his coffee and saw that the cup shook. He blew on it and set it back down.
“Are you thinking of marriage?”
“I don’t know.”
Father McGivens stood up and went to the sideboard. Poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood there for a moment, his back to Michael.
He said, “If you were sexually involved, the easy answer would be to disentangle. Separate. Cool things off. The issues would become clearer. But that’s not the case, right? So why don’t you and the folks stop by for coffee after Mass some day soon, and bring this young lady along? We can begin by all getting to know each other a little better.”
“Good.” Michael stood up. “I’ll ask her.” He suddenly couldn’t wait to get away. He felt creepy. He was a liar and a sneak. “I’ll call you. I’ll check with Mom and Dad.”
He picked up his coat. The toilet paper roll dropped out of the pocket and rolled across the carpet. Father McGivens picked it up and looked at it.
“I need to buy some Kleenex. I have a cold.”
“Well, take care of yourself,” Father McGivens said. He handed him back the toilet paper. “Flu going around.”
“Thanks,” Michael said. “Thank you.”
His eyes were watery, and he just wanted to get away.
3: STRAIGHT ON TILL MORNING
Pattianne sat at the kitchen table and watched Michael peel a small onion.
He said, “I believe in chili in January.”
He said he had never noticed anything odd about January before he met her, and she would point things out to him, like how people tend to wait a little longer after the light turns green, the whole world sleepy and slow, and he would say, “My gosh, you’re right.”
“So,” she said, “you’re having January opinions of your own now?”
He took a wooden kitchen match from the box and put it b
etween his lips, the match tip sticking straight out. He talked around it.
“The sulfur in the match,” he said. “It absorbs the onion, whatever it is about the onion that burns your eyes.” He blinked. He chopped at the onion. His eyes watered.
Her eyes did not water. Mostly her eyes blinked and mostly on the side of closed.
January was always time out of time. Pattianne felt like it just happened without anyone even noticing. Everyone was home writing their thank-you notes. People forgot to call, or visit, they didn’t notice that you didn’t call, or visit. They saw enough of you over Christmas, you saw enough of them.
Michael had a regular job now. He was a life-skills coach. It was a life-skills program, mandated by the state as a certain condition of parole.
“Not parole,” he said. “Probation.”
He hung out after school with juvenile delinquents.
He said, “They don’t call them that anymore.”
She said, “Little monsters.”
“Not so little. Middle school.”
Worse. Middle monsters. All the energy and bad judgment of little kids with a budding sense of irony and adventure. She’d interned once in a middle-school library. All she could do was laugh at those kids. They were funny and impossible. And sad.
Ten to six, his work schedule, noon to five, hers. Long, easy hours to sit inside, stay warm, read. She bought paperback mystery novels by the pound at the Goodwill. She waited for him to come home to her at night.
His Volkswagen rattling down in the street was a sound her body heard before her brain. She would close her book, close her eyes, listen to the rattle stop and choke and then stop again. She would get up from the chair and let the blanket fall away from her warm legs and look out the window, down to the street, to the orange hump of the Volkswagen under the streetlight. Go to the door and open it, more cold air from the hallway coming up the wide wooden stairs. Go into the kitchen and open a bottle of red wine. She was a careful opener of wine. Nonflourishing. By the time the cork gently popped, there he was, closing the door, dropping his coat on the chair.
They drank chianti from glasses, he drank the taste of chianti from her tongue, she sucked the red of it from his lips. They had red, swollen mouths from kissing and sucking. Drunk on red wine, sucking Michael Bryn’s lips was time out of time. And they fucked, sometimes on the couch, once on the floor, once on the kitchen counter.
