by Joanna Rose
Maybe not piano music.
Michael said, “Father McGivens says seven o’clock Mass,” and he stood up, the bed letting him go, the bedsprings making a small sound. The bathroom light clicked, and after a while, he was standing there in his blue underwear, or maybe the gray ones, sexy low-cut underpants that she had bought him that he really didn’t like wearing, maybe because the package said Bikini Briefs in swirly letters, and a really cute guy modeling them. The bathroom light behind him was shining on the curve of his chest into his waist. A waist like a girl. She closed her eyes. Her pillowcase at home was soft and far away.
The bed sank down at the edge again, and he leaned over her, kissed the side of her face, a smooch of a kiss that was all about not being sexy. It was all about cinnamon toothpaste.
He said, “Sweetheart.”
The very idea of cinnamon toothpaste grossed her out. “Why did you bring that toothpaste?”
He said, “Come on.”
A sharp edge of headache lurked behind her eyes. Not enough sleep, still on Minnesota time, and her brain got stuck trying to think of which way the time went.
He said, “You come with us.” He stood back up, pulled on slacks, and his bikini butt disappeared. He put on the same pale striped shirt he’d worn yesterday, left it unbuttoned, and went out the door, his feet bare, his chest bare, the shirt opening behind him like wings.
There was Mr. Bryn, in the hospital, and she was afraid to be mad at Michael for wanting her to go to Mass. For Mr. Bryn, she could go sit in a beautiful big building that would be freezing cold and have about ten people in it. Father McGivens would wear robes and talk about something that probably didn’t really happen two thousand years ago. For Mr. Bryn, she would listen to Father McGivens chant in a language that was not made for chanting, American English with Gregorian rhythms, stupid and unbeautiful. He would genuflect and raise his arms and perform antique, liturgical playacting, and they would all kneel, rise, sit, kneel, rise, sit.
Just for Mr. Bryn, they should all skip church and go find some hobo and take him to brunch. Just for Mr. Bryn, they should invite a hobo under the bridge to stay here. He could sleep in the yellow guest room with its glass case of dolls from around the world, and she and Michael will sleep on the red dragon, where they will have sex at night after people leave, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” echoing around the big empty living room. Who knew what really worked?
Michael came back in with a cup of coffee. He set the coffee on the dresser and stood, looking at it. All she could smell was coffee. It smelled strong, like gasoline.
He said, “When we go to Communion? You can go too.”
The muscles of his stomach in the mirror caught the bathroom light. Those muscles flexed just a touch.
He said, “Cross your arms like this,” and he crossed his arms over his chest, a hand on each shoulder, in the mirror. “When you get to Father, just bow your head and he’ll give you his blessing, instead of offering you the host. If that will make it easier for you. If you don’t want to receive Communion.”
She had one sock on and one sock in her hand, not wanting Michael to look at her in the mirror, and he didn’t. He buttoned his shirt. She hated it when Michael buttoned his shirts, his chest going away from her for the day. The sapphire ring on her hand flashed. Her head ached.
Mrs. Bryn sat in the back seat of the rental car with Claire. One of them had perfume, or hair spray, or something that tasted like rusty metal. Michael steered them under the brick arches of Raritan Valley Acres, out to the curving streets of Edison, orderly and empty, and then the straight, short blocks of Edison where people waited at bus stops and cars waited at stop lights, all the dark way to Christ the King, and the cement steps where they had all stood, Easter Sunday, meet the meerkats, Claire wearing lavender shoes. Now she wore short black boots that zipped partway up the side and disappeared under dark, slim pants. The sky had a sodium orange color on one horizon that Pattianne didn’t think was east.
Michael pulled open the tall wooden doors, all carved with figures, and surely there would be a unicorn in there if she ever had a chance to look, which would not be right now. He held the door for the three of them, Michael Bryn’s three women, and he followed them into the vestibule. The smell was a taste and a memory, all memories, of all churches. Once her parents took them to a brand-new church in Jamesburg, the first Mass. It was a low, modern building of pale brick. The stained-glass windows were geometric patterns of red and pink. The smell was this same old church smell, like it had secretly always been a church, waiting for the building to go up around it.
Michael took his mother’s elbow and went in, then Claire, each of them blessing themselves at the holy water. She dipped her finger into the cold water, and touched her forehead, and her finger was icy cold. She thought, I have lost my mind. She touched the middle button on her coat like she was just touching the middle button on her coat, like she had not lost her mind. Like there was not this burning icy cold spot on her forehead now.
Christ the King was mostly empty, single figures here and there, kneeling, praying, no one looking up at the sound of Claire’s footsteps in her little black boots. A row of old women sat in the very front. There was organ music, somewhere between a roller-skating-rink tune and a Vincent Price movie. The main aisle seemed like it was moving for a second, stretching forward, and she was dizzy for a second, and then she just followed the Bryns up toward the huge crucifix.
Michael pulled the kneeler down perfectly silently, and they all knelt. She was between Michael and Claire, and Claire’s hair was damp, and the smell of rusty metal came closer, like it would burn the skin on her cheek. She shut her eyes, and the sharp edge of the headache was there again, so she opened them.
She didn’t even know any of the words anymore.
She could remember how to say a rosary. Like saying a rosary would help Mr. Bryn. God like a Saturday-night radio DJ, taking requests and dedications. Hey all you folks out there in church-land, this one’s from Pattianne, and it’s going out to you, Mr. Bryn.
There was an aching hollow inside her chest, and she wanted to hold that empty space inside her and send that to him, through the air, setting it on his chest as he lay in bed with his new heart.
What if everyone who knew him sent him invisible boxes full of the space from inside their hearts? Except there is no space inside hearts. Hearts are full of blood and muscle tissue, all that space where hope is supposed to be.
Tears burned at her eyes, and points of light from all around the church broke into prisms and scattered, and the music got louder. A girl and a boy in the robes of acolytes came down the aisle with tall candles, and then Father McGivens in brilliant green vestments that flowed behind him. They all stood. His hands held the big red book of the Mass, held it up in front of his heart, small plump hands, hands that were to bless her by just touching her.
Her father’s hands were thin and knuckled. He wore a signet ring with a black stone.
Her mother’s hands were clenched in small fists, thumbs tucked in.
Jen’s hands were usually in her pockets. Nana Farley was always making her take her hands out of her pockets, especially when Jen actually spoke to her. Nana Farley said it was rude to address an adult with your hands in your pockets.
To think of Michael’s hands was to be touched, flash points around her body in odd places, behind her knees, her ears.
Even-Steven had beautiful, white skin and burn scars and cuts and yellow mustard under his fingernails.
That road worker had red, rough-skinned hands. The thin yellow book on Buddhism had looked small when he held it. He’d reached out one thick finger to touch one crane.
Father Koberstein had been their priest when she was small, at St. Francis. He used to gently shake his scotch and ice when he came over for dinner. She thought he looked like Fletcher Christian in Mutiny on the Bounty. He could have blessed her by touching her forehead, but all he ever did was lay a dry host on her tongue.
How love could flow through skin.
At one side of the main altar, the Prince of Peace glittered in his royal scarlet robes. On the other side was a small altar with its own communion rail, and a tall white statue of Mary, Queen of Heaven, and an arched door beyond that.
A man in a baby-blue cardigan got up from the front pew, went to the pulpit, and read from the Old Testament, and people started calling out names—Mrs. Somebody whose daughter is sick, Mrs. Somebody Else who is sick. She didn’t remember being allowed to yell out names in church. And then Michael, “Lord, bless our father, Michael Bryn,” his voice so suddenly big and loud beside her that she jumped.
Another short reading, Father McGivens’s rich voice echoing in the church, and then Mrs. Bryn and Michael and Claire all leaning across, hugging each other, hugging her, the sharp metal smell a close taste, saying, “Peace be with you,” the old women in the front row moving around in their pews.
Suddenly it was quiet again.
The shrill bells of the consecration rang three times.
The kneelers thumped and echoed when the row of old women got up and went to receive communion, and then Michael raised their kneeler, perfectly, silently.
She could do it. Michael was behind her, Claire in front of her. Father McGivens was laying hosts in everybody’s hands. It used to be only the priest could touch the host. When a priest was ordained, his fingers had to be bound in holy oil for two weeks. The host was made out of a wafer that wouldn’t splinter when the priest broke it apart, so none of the consecrated shards would fall to the altar cloth. The sisters at First Communion said, Don’t even let the host touch your tooth. Now Pattianne did just like Michael said: crossed her arms over her heart, rested her fingertips on her shoulders.
Father McGivens’s hands held the big, bright, gold chalice with its black engraving, curves and lines and letters. He didn’t touch her forehead, and she looked up at his face, and when he reached out then, the green silk fell back with a sound like water rushing. He touched her forehead, the spot where the cold holy water still burned, and his hand stayed there, and his eyes stayed still and open and hard like pieces of rock. He took his fingers away.
Claire moved along the communion rail, where an old woman held out a crystal glass of pale wine. Claire took the glass and sipped and handed it back to the old woman, who wiped the rim with a stiff white cloth. Michael’s hands on Pattianne’s shoulders moved her toward the old woman, the crystal glass starting to brighten, the tiny cuts of crystal sparkling. She didn’t drink from the glass. Michael was somewhere behind her.
Back in the pew, kneeling, she shut her eyes, and where it was usually black behind her eyes, colors jerked, the shape of the chalice, and the sharp edge of pain made its own red line through all the other shapes.
Her eyes opened, and the red line stopped. Sparks off the candles shot in perfect arcs of white that broke in prisms and kept reaching toward her, perfect arcing colors. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t look, and went back to the line of red pain behind her eyes.
The old women stood, everyone stood, left the pews, Pattianne behind Claire and in front of Michael. The organ music roared out and then got quieter. They moved to the back of the church, past the holy water, through the doors, past Sister Anne Stephen in the vestibule. Pattianne’s heart was at the very bottom of her throat beating light and fast, and it tickled. She couldn’t speak around it. She smiled, and her face made that shattering sound, all the edges around her sparkling red. Michael held her, his arm around her waist, out to the car.
She said, “I have a headache.”
After that, she said, “Headache,” again. And after that, she didn’t say anything, not even in her head, no words, only bright red lines. Back home, up the stairs, she got on the bed, the pillow over her face, and red light seeped around the edges of the pillow. When the heat came on and the vent rattled, the red flared. When Michael opened the door to come in, the red flared. When he sat on the edge of the bed, all her bones shattered, and she cried.
She woke up in the dark, lying as still as she could, and the red lines were gone. She woke up again, and then she woke up again, and finally she woke up and Michael was there beside her, sleeping. There was the dresser, with Michael’s slacks hanging from the top drawer. The case of dolls had a curved glass door, and light from somewhere on the surface of glass. Just light. No headache.
There had never been pain like that.
It didn’t even seem like pain now that it was gone.
In the morning, he said, “What happened? What was that all about?”
She said she didn’t know. That it was a headache. That they didn’t have to talk about it, so they didn’t. They didn’t talk about prayer vigils either. Michael and Mrs. Bryn went to Mass, and Pattianne stayed in the yellow bedroom listening to the house, listening to the rain, listening to Claire in the kitchen. Everything seemed normal, except that the muscles in her temples were tender when she touched her fingers there. She went down the stairs to the kitchen slowly. Claire was just hanging up the phone. She had dark circles under her eyes, and when Pattianne hugged her, she smelled like shampoo or maybe soap, not rusty metal, and not a cigarette.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“There’s orange juice.”
“I don’t know what happened, it was just this weird intense headache.”
The phone rang again, and Pattianne took her orange juice into the dining room, into the living room, back into the kitchen, and Claire said, “I love you too,” and she hung up the phone.
“So,” Pattianne said, setting the orange juice glass on the counter. “What’s going on?”
Claire said, “Was it a migraine?”
“I mean, about the prayer vigil?”
“Daddy.” Claire took a deep breath and let it out. “Project Life.” She stopped and took another breath, and then tears spilled over and down her cheek. “I’m just so fucking glad you’re here.” A big gulping sob. “I’m sorry,” she said, and Pattianne knew two things—that Claire had just said “fucking,” and that she herself did not want to fucking be there. And thank God, Claire turned away and tore a tissue from the box on the tiled bistro table. Her shoulders squared a tiny bit, and Pattianne stared at her back, just stared, just stood there watching her get her breath and stop crying. Project Fucking Life.
“I have to go to the hospital.” Claire’s voice was contained and full of held breath. “It’s only immediate family, but do you want to go with me?”
No, she didn’t want to go. No, she didn’t want to say no. The phone rang again, and she put the orange juice glass in the sink and went back upstairs, quick this time, and put on jeans and a sweater and socks and sat there on the bed. The big sapphire flashed on her finger. Claire came up the stairs and stood at the open door.
“I should stay here,” Pattianne said. “I have to call my mother and make some calls back to St. Cloud. Should I make some lunch? When do you think you’ll be back?”
Claire came in and sat next to her on the bed, and Pattianne wished she had at least straightened the blankets.
Claire took her hand. “Will you pray with me?”
Pattianne closed her eyes as if she had said yes. What did she know about praying, maybe not saying no means yes, and she couldn’t pull her hand away, it would have been like slapping her. Claire started in on the Our Father, and she said the words with her, mumbling them, at least she knew the words. But by the time they were finished, amen, Claire was crying again and she put both arms around Pattianne, and Pattianne put her hands somewhere, sitting side by side, kind of patted Claire’s elbow.
Claire said, “Thank you so much for being here. I’ll call from the hospital,” and she left, the tapping of the little black boots on the slate in the entryway, out the door.
Pattianne counted. She counted by twos, two four six eight, and kept counting by fours for a while. Then she said, “Fuck.” Said it as loud
as she could. It didn’t say half of it.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” down the stairs, into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed Jen. Some new smart-ass message, and she said, “Goddamn it, Jen, answer the phone.”
“Jesus, Pattianne, take it easy.”
“Why do you have to screen your calls? Haven’t you ever heard of caller ID?”
Pattianne closed her eyes and talked in the swirling eyelid-dark. “Michael’s dad is in the hospital.”
“So I heard.”
“It’s his heart,” Pattianne said, breathing evenly. “He’s getting a new heart.”
“Damn.”
“I had the headache of my life yesterday.”
“I bet.”
“No, I mean really.” How much to try and say about that? “There were colors and weird smells.”
“Colors?” Jen said. “Smells?”
“There was a prayer vigil.”
“For a headache?”
“Goddamn it, Jen.”
“What?”
Pattianne opened her eyes, to the rain on the deck, the picture of Michael and the black lab. “They all went and prayed at an abortion clinic.”
“Oh, right, Project Life. Your father-in-law was on the news, like, just a couple weeks, month ago. Big crusaders.”
“I don’t know what the fuck to do, this house is filled with priests and nuns, and just now I sat holding hands with Claire and said the Our Father.”
“You?”
“What was I supposed to say? No, Claire, I don’t want to pray with you?”
“Well, did you?”
“Want to pray? With Claire? With anybody? What do you think?”
“Well,” she said, “we never really ever talked about that, did we? I kind of assume you’re kind of like me. But then, I probably wouldn’t marry into a family of religious fanatics.” And she snorted a bit of a giggle.
