by Joanna Rose
She said, “You have to mix the oil in slowly. I use this little whisk.”
She said, “Why don’t you open that pinot blanc?”
When Pattianne looked out again, Michael and his father were standing at the railing of the deck, looking out over the backyard, and they each had their arms crossed. They looked the same from the back, same shoulders, same neck, same light blue shirts. Her head was swimming a little, vodka tonics in the heat, garlic and ginger in the air.
They sat down to eat at the table out there, and Mr. Bryn said grace. He said, “Bless us as we struggle with our decisions,” and then they ate the beautiful pink salmon, and the green salad with radishes and carrots and ginger and garlic. They drank pale gold pinot blanc. The air was thick with humidity, and she thought that was all, the gentle Atlantic humidity that pressed down on your head and made white wine more dangerous than vodka tonics.
On the way home, she asked Michael what they’d been talking about.
He said it was nothing. Then he said it was okay. Then he said, “Dad wants what’s best for me.”
Mr. Bryn wanted Michael to take the job in Minnesota. Said it was good to take a year off, get out in the world a little bit. Said his health was fine, not to worry. When they got home, he called his father and they talked for a long time. She fell asleep on the cool living room floor.
Now the doorbell chimed, a soft, three-toned ring that scared the shit out of her, sitting there at the bistro table, and both her elbows knocked on the tiled edge. She went down the stairs without even wondering if she should open the door, who it could be. She didn’t live here. She opened the door, and a small, old woman with bushy white eyebrows stood there in the porch light. It had gotten dark. She came right in. She wasn’t any taller than a kid. Pattianne stood there rubbing her elbows.
“You’re Pattianne,” she said. “I know you are. Well, I saw your wedding picture, but I bet I would know you anyway—well, I knew you would be here, too, Dory told me, but I would know anyway. How are you doing, dear? I am so glad to meet you. We are so glad you came.”
She took off her coat and gave it a shake, black drops on the slate floor.
“I can’t stand in the rain. I had the pneumonia last year. Well, I’m seventy-six trombones this year.” And she opened the door of the coat closet and hung up her coat.
“You have to be careful sometimes, and I can’t stand in the rain, but I can still make coffee with the best of them,” she said, six stairs up.
She stopped on the third step.
“Oh, well, I’m Sister Anne Stephen. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Ha, ha!”
She took a deep breath and sucked on her teeth.
“I know that coffee machine Dory has is a ten-cupper,” she said, and she was going up the stairs in her blue Keds, not like seventy-six trombones. “But I know where the big dealie is. Did she say to make it in the big dealie? An urn, it’s a great big coffee urn,” and she went through the kitchen to a pantry that Pattianne didn’t even know was there and stood there pointing up.
“Up there,” she said.
Pattianne said, “I’ll get a chair,” and she dragged in one of Mrs. Bryn’s kitchen chairs, set it next to the shelves, and Sister Anne Stephen hopped right up. Didn’t groan, didn’t even lean on the back of the chair. Didn’t even come anywhere close to reaching the urn. She got back down a little slower.
She said, “The knees aren’t what they used to be.”
Pattianne got up there and got down the big silver dealie, set it on the pantry counter, dragged the chair back to the table. Sister Anne Stephen brought the silver dealie from the pantry and set it next to the sink. It was as tall as she was. She pulled out the spray nozzle from the sink and aimed it into the top of the dealie.
Pattianne took the nozzle. “Let me.”
Sister Anne Stephen said, “Why don’t I go back down there and unlock that door? There’s to be folks coming by, and they’ll just come on in if the door’s unlocked, so I’ll just be unlocking it.”
Within her vowels was music, and within each word, a secret R somewhere. Whatever she said ended up like an invitation. Irish maybe, or South Boston.
“The coffee is in that thing there,” she said when she came back up the stairs. “That canister. Isn’t it cute now, a cow, coffee in a cow? Makes me think of how the cow ran away with the spoon and all. Here, it’s a twenty-six cupper, I got to count, hold on.” Counting scoops of coffee into the filter. Her hand shook in the few inches between the coffee cow and the filter, but she didn’t spill a single grain of coffee. Twenty-six and then one more.
“One for the urn now,” she said, and then she put the filter into the top of the urn and plugged it in and said, “There,” and she sat down. Her face was evenly bright red, and she fanned herself with a dishtowel.
“Got to sit,” she said. “Here, sit by me. I got to sit for a bit. I got the pressure.”
Pattianne sat.
“So,” she said. “Dory says there’s pound cake in the fridge, and we got cookies, and we’ll set out a couple bowls for whatever folks might bring. Tell me about yourself. You and Michael got in this afternoon? It’s so good of you to come,” and she leaned forward across the table. “Have you seen Michael Senior?”
“Michael went over to the hospital as soon as we got in.”
“I think he’ll be okay, you know, I just bet.” Her pointy chin was pointing, her eyes milky dark brown, long white eyebrow hairs curling right into her eyelashes. Her face wasn’t as red as it had been a moment ago.
“So you’re Michael’s bride,” she said. She swung her blue Keds, her feet not touching the floor. “I’ve known that boy since first grade, a good boy, just like his father, a lot like his father, you know.”
Sitting at a table with a tiny nun in Mrs. Bryn’s kitchen.
“And come back to do his father’s work at the clinic,” the tiny nun said. “That will help a lot. The praying at the clinic is Michael Senior’s most important work, you know.”
Praying at the clinic.
Sister Anne Stephen said, “What are you looking at?”
“I’m sorry?” Pattianne said. She was too tired. She couldn’t figure out what she was hearing.
“Chin up, Bridey,” the tiny nun said. “I learned that early, being shorter than most, you know—had to be looking up, chin up. Even if you’re afraid, it will make you feel better. Don’t look down.”
Pattianne lifted her chin. That meant looking slightly down her nose at Sister Anne Stephen, who chattered on. “We got to make this little gathering a little upbeat. It could get depressing, as they say. That’s not what the Lord has in mind for us, not in my opinion. What with Michael Senior being sick, and praying out in the rain, that can be a sad thing.”
Looking down her nose made Pattianne feel cross-eyed. And this nun had said praying in the rain and praying at the clinic, and Michael coming back to do his father’s work, and two tight fists were forming and unforming in Pattianne’s stomach. The smell of coffee was starting up.
The nun said, “They still got the folk Mass where you kids are?”
Pattianne’s head ached behind her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Now, folk Mass, that was a good thing, they don’t do it as much as once upon a time, but it made folks smile, tap their toes a little bit. I think snapping fingers is a good idea. Sister Francine, she cantors at Christ the King, she tends to disagree—well, on most things, but especially folk Mass, and especially finger snapping. But then, she was once upon a time Sisters of the Holy Names, them with their ways of thinking about music, plus she’s even older than me. Never was too happy out of the holy habit. Good Pope John wasn’t quite to her liking, God bless him and keep him. I say you got to go hunting around for joy, it sure isn’t going to come hunting for you on this good earth.”
She leaned forward again.
The coffee started to steam. The coffee cow sat silently. The stack of paper filters was left out on the counte
r.
Sister Anne Stephen’s feet quit swinging.
“Now, for joy,” she said, “there’s babies. That’s their work in the world. And that’s all I’m going to say. It isn’t polite to be asking young folks about when they’re thinking the babies might be coming along, but there you have it. You want to make joy, babies bring joy right into the world with them, and as long as I’m saying something—only once and then I’ll be shushing up about it—it would sure be the thing to bring Michael Senior around, I just bet.”
She blinked, and her whole face got caught up in a wrinkly smile, and she sat back in her chair and kicked her feet out.
“So,” she said, “Tell me what Minnesota looks like that’s different from hereabouts.”
And, “Share a piece of that pound cake?”
And, “How old are you?”
When the phone rang, it was Michael calling to say they were on their way home, he and his mother. Pattianne said, “Sister Anne Stephen is here.”
Sister Anne Stephen nodded and waved at the phone, and then slipped out to the dining room.
Pattianne said, “So, tell me about this, where are you and all? How’s your dad?”
He said, “He’s tired. Is Claire there yet?”
“No, just me and Sister Anne Stephen, and twenty-six cups of coffee.”
“What?”
“How’s your mom doing?”
He said, “We’ll be there soon.”
Claire got there right after that, with three wet kids—an older boy, maybe ten, and two smaller ones, little kids. She herded them all in the door ahead of her, a big to-do taking off coats, then up the stairs, into the living room, and then into the kitchen. She hugged Pattianne. There was a faint smell that wasn’t right, a smell Pattianne knew, cigarettes, in her hair.
“This is Joel,” Claire said. “This is Theresa. And this is their cousin, Paul Junior. You guys, this is Uncle Michael’s wife, Aunt Pattianne.”
Uncle Michael. Aunt Pattianne. The kids had red noses and red cheeks. They had all been out in the rain praying—Claire, Paul Junior, and two little kids whose names were already lost. Paul Junior was the big kid.
He said, “I’m supposed to bring out the sugar thing.”
Claire said, “Take.”
Paul Junior stopped, like a game of statues, then put his hands deep into the pockets of his big, baggy pants. He had to bend down to get his hands into his pockets, his pants hanging low like that.
Claire said, “Take to, bring back.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what Sister Anne Stephen said, take that sugar thing and put it on the table.” And he picked up the sugar bowl and went sliding along in big sneakers, back out to the dining room. More people arrived, and Sister Anne Stephen’s voice was all hello hello hello.
The two little kids had dark, damp hair hanging in their eyes, which were big, and staring at Pattianne from down around Claire’s blue jeans.
The boy said, “We can go sit under the piano now.”
The girl said, “On the red rug.”
The boy said, “It has dragons.”
“One dragon,” the girl said. “It’s only one dragon really, but it’s all over the rug.”
They were talking to Pattianne.
“Um” was what she said back.
Claire turned them around by their heads and said, “Go ask Sister for some pound cake. You can take it under the piano.” And they went.
Pattianne said, “How are you?” and Claire’s eyes flowed over, just like that, before Pattianne could say, How is your mom holding up? Before she could say, Where’s Michael? Before she could say, What’s this about praying at the clinic? Pattianne put her arms around Claire’s thin shoulders and Claire squeezed and pulled back.
“Okay,” she said, blinking and breathing in deeply, once, and then again. “Okay. We’re so glad you’re here. Michael can tell you all about it. You guys are in the guest room, right? Michael’s old room is the computer room now.”
“So, how was the, at the clinic?” Pattianne wasn’t even sure what she was asking, but it was the right thing because she smiled, beautiful Claire, and said, “There were forty-five of us, not counting the kids. Two hours. I wish you could have been there, but thank you so much for waiting here with Sister Anne Stephen and all.”
Why wouldn’t you count the kids?
Michael came in then, wet, and Mrs. Bryn, wet, and she came to Pattianne and hugged her, kissed her cheek, and said, “Is everything okay?”
Sure, Pattianne thought. My husband isn’t the one getting a heart transplant. I’m not the one who’s been standing in the rain at an abortion clinic. She said, “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, dear, that would be great. Father?”
And there he was, right behind her, Father McGivens.
“Hello, Pattianne.”
He got called back out into the other room somewhere, and Mrs. Bryn followed him, and Michael kissed her and whispered, “Thank you,” and then he went out too.
She was alone in the kitchen for a second, before she followed them all out to the dining room. The people there looked at her. Two women said, “Michael Junior’s little wife,” and “Hello, dear.”
Pattianne poured Mrs. Bryn a cup of coffee from the big silver dealie, and said hello back, and went through the big archway to the living room.
A large, pale gray room with dark wood and all the empty space accounted for, with small, upholstered chairs at neat angles, and two couches facing each other, and the piano on its red dragon rug. Mrs. Bryn sat on the piano bench, her long legs in gray slacks, the two kids sitting still and tidy beneath the piano, eating pound cake. And there were others, a lot of others. Maybe a dozen of them. Not counting the kids.
She gave Mrs. Bryn her coffee, and she said, “Oh thank you, perfect. Pattianne, this is Lynn. She was Michael’s second-grade teacher at Christ the King.”
Pattianne said hello to a woman who didn’t look old enough to be that old, a tall, dark-haired woman with freckles, who said, “We’re so sorry you couldn’t join us tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Did you want some cream or sugar?” Pattianne asked Michael’s mother, who always took her coffee black.
“No, thanks, this is perfect.”
There was a burst of laughter from across the room—Michael, standing there with three guys, making them all laugh. He looked around the room, found her, and opened his arm toward her, her husband, so she went to him. His hair was damp and curly, his cheeks red, his hands cold.
“This is Rory, and Jerry, and this is Pattianne.” And they all said hi and hello, and she wasn’t she sure who was who. It didn’t matter. Michael kept talking.
“Fishing for teachers,” he said, and they all laughed.
“There was this rule. No playing with sticks on the playground,” Michael said. “But I was using a stick to show how I learned to cast.” He held his hands out, like he was casting a fishing pole. “The first time I did it, I have a long stick, I’m casting, and here comes some teacher.”
“Mr. Blewitt.”
“Old Mr. Blewitt,” one guy said. “The playground cop. ‘Put the stick down, boys,’ he says.”
“After that, it worked every time,” Michael said. His hands fishing. “I’d pick up a stick, start fishing, and here comes a teacher.”
“Fishing for teachers,” another guy said.
“Caught one every time,” Michael said.
Saving up their laughter like applause.
Claire sat next to her mother at the piano, and then she turned and played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” slowly, softly. The two kids came out from under the piano with their cake plates and stood next to her to sing, but they didn’t know the words. They looked at each other, and the little girl put her finger in her mouth.
Pattianne knew the words, even to the second verse, and the third verse, but she was tired all the way to shaky, and the gray carpet was too thick and soft, she couldn’t feel her feet,
and she couldn’t sing either, couldn’t even carry a tune. She went up to the yellow guest bedroom while they were working on “The Moon Sees You.”
What is this business about prayer vigils? Or maybe just, You didn’t tell me there was going to be a prayer vigil. Or maybe, We should talk about these prayer vigils. Or maybe just, Michael, my darling, I had an abortion, it might have been your baby, and I sneak a birth control pill into my mouth every morning of every day.
She couldn’t think of what to say to him.
Late at night she woke up, that quiet waking, no-dream slipping away, eyes just open. She slid away from Michael’s sleep-warm body, his even breathing, out into room, to the window. The numbers on the clock were red cuts in the dark, 1:15. The heater vent under the window blew warm air on her ankles, and the café curtains on their little rings were a metallic moment of sound. Down on the back deck, in black and white, Claire was having a smoke, in her bathrobe. The moon was full and lopsided in the sky. When Pattianne closed her eyes, the lopsided moon was still there.
She hated digital clocks. She liked friendly clocks with faces and hands, clocks that were about the past and the future, clocks she could ignore in the dark.
Rain at 2:43.
A motorcycle at 4:18.
A train at 5:10.
Piano notes dropped into the middle of a dream of starlings.
Michael hit the button on the radio alarm and got up out of the bed in the cute yellow guest room of this house in River View Estates, or Metuchen Meadows, or whatever it was, the river long since disappeared under a highway through a drainage pipe. The meadows plowed under fifty years ago. Her mother-in-law’s house in Edison, New Jersey. Her father-in-law in the hospital. 6:15.
Michael came around and sat on the edge of the bed, and she curled around him where he sat, her face on his thigh, a taste of yesterday’s shower still there. He whispered, “Mass.”
She kissed his thigh, kissed again, slid her hands like a prayer between her legs, the warmest place on her body, warmest place in the bed, warmest place in this house. Mrs. Bryn’s house.
“Okay,” she whispered back. “See you in a little bit,” and she turned the pillow over to the cool side, turned onto her stomach. The pillowcase didn’t feel anything like her pillowcase at home. It was ironed, crisp. The dream had starlings in it, and a big backyard, and piano music.
