Last Call

by Laura Pedersen

  Diana takes his arm again, more firmly this time, and says, “Hush, before you wake the neighborhood.”

  “Shhh,” slurs Hayden and puts a finger to his mouth. “You know why yer not supposed ta talk in church doncha—so you do’an’ wake anyone.” He laughs uproariously at his joke.

  “Stop making God jokes,” says Diana, out of respect for Rosamond.

  “I do’an’ make jokes, God talks to me,” insists Hayden. “For instance, just this evening He said, ‘Hayden, don’t make me come down there again!’ ” Hayden erupts in another gale of laughter.

  Diana realizes that as usual, chastising her father only encourages him, and the best thing to do is separate Hayden from his audience.

  Meanwhile Rosamond briefly considers that it might be bad form to be amused by such jokes about God, but Hayden is so charming in his mischief that she can’t help herself. As father and daughter exit the room Rosamond allows herself a hearty laugh, which fortunately doesn’t lead to her doubling over with a cough, but just a few short hacks, after which she easily catches her breath.

  “Say good night,” Diana says to Hayden as she finally maneuvers him into the hallway.

  “But how can I miss you if you won’t go away?” asks Hayden and chortles some more.

  “Say good night, Dad,” Diana says more sternly.

  “Good night Dad,” Hayden repeats and begins a new song in Gaelic as Diana leads him back down the stairs and to his room.

  When Rosamond kneels down to say her prayers, thoughts of Hayden’s silliness keep intruding until she finally has to settle for a quick Twenty-third Psalm and give it up for the night. At times like this she finds it impossible to believe that a person with the tremendous vitality that Hayden possesses could ever be taken from the world. Surely a mistake has been made somewhere.

  chapter twenty-five

  Before breakfast the next morning Rosamond works with Joey in the backyard, patiently showing him how to cast an adult-sized fishing rod. She stands behind the boy while holding his wrist in her hand and together they swing the long aluminum rod over their shoulders and around to the side so that the nylon thread sails out across the far hedge.

  Inside the house Hayden sits at the kitchen table grudgingly drinking a glass of fresh carrot juice, waiting for Diana to pack her lunch and leave for work so he can make a pot of coffee and nurse his hangover without having to listen to her sermonize on the evils of caffeine.

  Hayden is also mentally preparing for her to give him heck about being drunk two nights in a row, but she continues to chatter away as if nothing happened. Only he doesn’t trust the cheerful front for a minute. Surely she’s going to try yet again to persuade him to trade in the rusty old station wagon by claiming that it isn’t safe because it doesn’t have airbags and antilock brakes. Or else ask him to splurge on an air-conditioner as his penance, the way Mary once bought an expensive carpet right after he’d gone on a particularly colorful bender.

  Hayden is correct that his daughter has a hidden agenda, but he’s not even close to guessing what it is. After last night’s conversation with Rosamond, Diana has changed her strategy with regard to reforming her father. It’s obvious he isn’t going to try the experimental cancer drugs for her sake, or even Joey’s. But perhaps he would if he were in love.

  “Rosamond’s pretty, don’t you think?” she begins innocently.

  “Sure enough, though I don’t think you have to fear anyone around here competing with you in the looks department. Every morning Pete at the gas station asks me why you don’t call him.”

  “That was a big mistake. I should never have gone out with him in the first place. He just wore me down. Anyway, have you noticed that Rosamond’s cough seems much better?”

  “That’s why they call cancer the silent killer, my darling. You do’an’ cough yourself into a coma or start having seizures on the subway train.” Hayden, who is always so careful to hide his failing resources, yawns and adds, “You just feel tired all the time and wonder how you ever used to make it to lunch without a nap.” He stretches his arms out to his sides and yawns once more as if to exemplify his point.

  Diana is stunned that Hayden has let down his guard for a moment. Only she can’t decide whether it’s a good or bad sign that he’s started talking reasonably about his disease. Up until now he only trafficked in extremes, either making jokes about it or else planning his death for a Friday evening so that she won’t have to miss a day of work.

  “Maybe I should take Joey to the office with me today so you and Rosamond can stay here and rest up a bit,” she offers.

  “Rest?” Hayden clears his throat and forces himself up from the table. “We’ve got places to mow and people to tree.”

  Diana heads toward the door with her lunch in a brown bag. “The way you glad-hand around town all day a person would think you’re running for president.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Tonight I’ll make some Collops of Beef and Oaty Crumbles for you and your friends.”

  Hayden can’t believe he’s managed to escape without a temperance lecture. And not only that, but landed one of his all-time favorite meals. He goes to the back window and shouts to Rosamond and Joey in the yard, “Last one in the car has a face like a hen layin’ razors!”

  At the prospect of an outing they quickly put away the fishing pole and dash inside the house to get ready.

  Hayden enjoys taking Joey and Rosamond on explorations of Brooklyn’s history and cultural diversity. Today he drives them to Brighton Beach, the once predominantly Jewish neighborhood that’s now a jumble of Russians, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Mexicans, and African Americans. Still, the boardwalk between Fourth and Sixth streets lives up to its name of “Little Odessa.” Small family-operated cafes offer black and red caviar, giant herring, and borscht along with cappuccino, vodka, and kvas, a homemade drink similar to beer, which Hayden rarely passes up an opportunity to sample. And being that he’s on good terms with the hostesses and wait staff, he’s always given special treats and the best seats available. Hayden inevitably asks if Abraham Lincoln used to request a table or a “Booth” and they just nod and smile heartily, unable to comprehend. And Hayden reciprocates by patting the person on the back as if they’re indeed in on the joke.

  While they relax at one of the inviting restaurants with swirled Cyrillic letters on the menus, Hayden attempts a conversation with a Lithuanian family at the next table. When that fails he shows the children how he can balance a spoon on his nose, which is always a great success.

  Next they stop at the crowded Mrs. Stahl’s for baked pockets of bread dough mixed with potato and onion, known as knishes, slather them with mustard, and wrap them to eat on the boardwalk. Down by the water groups of elderly people gather to kvetch, play chess, and people-watch, just like an old-fashioned town square.

  Afterward Hayden takes Rosamond and Joey to some of his favorite monuments, including General Grant on his horse, presiding over Bedford Avenue near Huntington. Then they head to the Hall Street Kosher Café across from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where Hasidim with dark beards wearing long black coats and wide black-fur-rimmed hats crowd around cases of fish, blintzes, and matzo balls. On the streets of Williamsburg it’s not unusual to see Satmar families with eight or ten children. Joey is fascinated by the ringlet curls that the males, even the small boys, have tucked behind their ears, which Hayden explains are called payis. And Joey carefully studies the young mothers to see if they are really wearing wigs, as Hayden claims, and that it’s not just his grandfather getting up to his regular tricks.

  Rosamond is always surprised to see that another group of individuals, much like her order of nuns, has chosen to live according to their own religious beliefs in this bustling and in every other way modern city.

  chapter twenty-six

  On this particular Thursday they must be home early because Hayden’s Greyfriars Gang is coming over. After moving in with Hayden, Diana had initially banned the raucous gatherings, claiming they were
a bad influence on Joey, though her real motivation was to force Hayden to cut back on his drinking. But the men simply changed the location of their lively meetings to Duncan’s home. He was also a widower, and without eating any proper food throughout the evening Hayden arrived home more intoxicated than before.

  Thus Diana decided she was better off having the men ’round to their place, serving them a good dinner, and breaking the party up when things got out of hand. In fact, she finds that she actually enjoys preparing some of their favorite dishes, the way her mother used to do.

  Rosamond helps Diana in the kitchen as the men gather in the living room. As the Glenlivet begins to flow they toast the Scottish-born American John Paul Jones for his raids on the British and hotly debate the new Scottish parliament.

  “Preparing a meal while listening to the men in the other room makes me think of Martha,” says Rosamond to Diana, who is removing the heavy casserole dish from the oven.

  “I don’t think Martha Stewart ever had to contend with a rowdy gang like this,” says Diana.

  “I meant Martha in the Bible, preparing a meal for Jesus and his disciples after Lazarus was raised from the dead,” explains Rosamond.

  “Oh,” says Diana. “Well, it’s safe to say that the ruckus the Greyfriars Gang makes can also raise the dead. We may as well go out there and introduce you and get it over with. Brace yourself!”

  Diana leads Rosamond into the living room where the men are gathered around the TV watching Chariots of Fire on the VCR for the umpteenth time.

  “He wins because he’s runnin’ for God, doncha see?” insists the devoutly Protestant Alisdair.

  “Oh, so God do’an’ like the looks of the rest of th’ atha-letes?” Hayden loves to spar with his cronies and emphasize his points by applying his thickest brogue. “Get out of here will ye! Eric Liddell wins because he knew how to run in the Scottish Highlands. It gives ye good strong lungs.”

  Diana hits the pause button and nods to her father indicating that he should introduce their guest. Then she hurries back into the kitchen to make sure the soup doesn’t boil over.

  Hayden clears his throat and stretches out his arms as if presenting royalty. “Let me present my fellow Idleonians!” He rattles off the names of his cronies, “Alisdair Blaine, Hugh Drummond, Duncan Osgood, and Patrick Fitzgerald.” Then he points to her and proclaims, “Rosie here was a nun, but she recently kicked the habit.” He laughs uproariously at his own pun.

  But Rosamond doesn’t hear what Hayden says. Not accustomed to hiding her expressions, she is still staring at Patrick Fitzgerald, who is a black man. Almost half the nuns she knew were from Irish families, but she’d never met a black nun of Irish descent. Nor a priest, for that matter.

  Hayden takes her shock in stride, as if he’s used to pulling this joke on newcomers. “I know you’re surprised that Paddy’s got an Irish name. Or I suppose he’s what you might call Black Irish.” Hayden chuckles some more. “His grandmother was from Dublin, which at one time was a popular destination for the Moors. Anyway, we allow him to stay as a way of thanking Ireland for safeguarding the Book of Kells during the war. Isn’t that right, Paddy?”

  “Do you know why Scottish pipers march when they play?” Paddy asks Rosamond.

  She thinks about the question for a few seconds and then shakes her head.

  “Because a moving target is harder to hit!” Paddy shouts and slaps his knee.

  “If ye do’an’ take that back right now I’ll get me pipes and play ‘I Laid a Herrin’ in Salt,’ ” threatens Hayden.

  “And if you do that I’ll start singing ‘Danny Boy,’ ” counters Paddy.

  “Well, I do’an’ know as to how I’ll recognize it since every song your people ever wrote is in a minor key and features a bloody fun’e’ral.” Hayden continues in his lively whiskey-heightened voice, “Three Scots were in church one Sunday morning when the minister made a strong appeal for the orphans and ast’d everyone to give twenty pounds. So the three become very nervous as the collection plate nears and then one of them faints and the other two carry him out!”

  Hugh, Alisdair, and Duncan roar with patriotic laughter while Paddy prepares to top him with an Irish joke. “Have you heard about Irish Alzheimer’s disease? You only remember the grudges!”

  Hayden is both pleased and slightly vexed by the way the Greyfriars Gang shows off for Rosamond and gives her appreciative glances. He’s happy they find her attractive since it serves to confirm his good taste. However, Hayden’s innate sense of old-fashioned propriety makes him reprimand the boys when they start becoming overly friendly by placing their arms around her waist while cracking a joke.

  It isn’t long before he delivers her back into the kitchen under the safe watch of Diana, who only appears among the Greyfriars to serve, clear, and scold. She loves them well enough; however, she’s also taken them aside individually to suggest that all this drinking is literally killing her father. But will they say anything to Hayden or try to stop him? Not a chance.

  From the kitchen Rosamond continues listening to the men’s revelry. They’ve apparently embarked on a toasting competition, which Diana insists only serves to give the men an excuse to keep refreshing their drinks.

  Paddy begins with an Irish blessing. “May you have food and raiment, a soft pillow for your head, may you be forty years in heaven, before the devil knows you’re dead.” Laughter explodes from the room followed by the sound of the men clinking their glasses.

  Hugh counters with a Scottish toast. “When we’re goin’ up the hill o’ Fortune, may we ne’er meet a friend comin’ down!”

  Hayden can be heard chiming in. “Here’s to the heath, the hill, and the heather; the bonnet, the plaid, the kilt, and the feather! Here’s to the heroes that Scotland can boast, may their names never die—that’s the Highlandman’s toast!”

  Paddy quickly retorts, “May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent.”

  Alisdair takes his turn. “Here’s to the health of your enemies’ enemies. Here, here.”

  “No fair!” Paddy complains. “That’s an Irish toast!”

  Duncan shouts, “The Irish aren’t the only ones with enemies, you know.” The men descend into another round of good-natured arguing.

  Diana watches with amusement as Rosamond eavesdrops. “You should have been here for Beltane when Hugh served haggis while Dad and Alisdair climbed out onto the roof and played ‘Scotland the Brave’ on the fife and bagpipes.”

  “Roof I understand. But Beltane and haggis?”

  “Beltane is the fertility festival on April thirtieth, though the boys have figured out a way to make it last for an entire week. And haggis is minced heart and liver mixed with suet, onions, and oatmeal. It’s supposed to be boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal, but that’s where I draw the line.”

  “Draw a line for me, too,” concurs Rosamond.

  chapter twenty-seven

  As the days dissolve into weeks, Rosamond’s thoughts often return to her old life, not the convent itself so much as the simplicity of her former existence. It’s not that God wasn’t a complicated partner in a relationship, He was. But she’s beginning to suspect that relationships between men and women are somehow equally as intricate.

  Prior to her diagnosis, Rosamond had settled into a peaceful routine, though one could argue that she’d become almost like a sleepwalker. And from time to time she was concerned about the numbness creeping into her soul, but according to her Sisters, this was supposed to be a growing ecstasy as a result of her love for Him. Thus she would often pray to be overwhelmed by grace and filled with an awareness of divine presence in order to counteract what she feared was simply an increasing lack of sensation.

  Then she met Hayden. And her interior exploded into a riot of feelings as if an overture had suddenly started playing in her barren soul, encompassing every emotion from fearfulness and trepidation to amazement and unbridled joy. They were the antithesis of the virtues sh
e’d been trained to cultivate—piety, conformity, purity, duty, reverence, solitude, and compliance.

  In an effort to bridge the gap between old life and new, Rosamond decides to start attending Mass at the Catholic church at the end of the street. It certainly wasn’t the same as going to chapel five times a day, but it helped her maintain a connection with the past.

  And though Rosamond rarely mentions anything about what went before, it’s obvious to Diana that she’s wistful for something lost. She often comes upon her friend gazing at the Hummel figurines above the mantel, silently moving her lips and twisting her wedding ring, as if in prayer.

  It soon becomes apparent to Diana that Rosamond has no other friends in the area, and though she would never be so bold as to inquire, it doesn’t seem possible for the former nun to go back and visit her old life.

  “Why don’t you come along to my book group?” Diana asks her early one evening as Hayden and the Greyfriars Gang settle in to watch Braveheart. (He has recently increased their meetings from once a week to whenever possible.) “It’s with some old school friends in Larchmont, where we used to live. And driving along the water is so pretty this time of year.”

  “If you don’t think they’ll mind,” says Rosamond.

  “It’s really more to socialize,” says Diana. “We don’t know how to play bridge. Our grandmothers tried to teach us when we were growing up, but back then we thought it was totally uncool.”

  Diana navigates the station wagon along the Bronx River Parkway and through a maze of overpasses and viaducts. Rosamond is fascinated at how the boarded-up buildings, billboards for discount mattresses, and auto junkyards suddenly metamorphose into tree-lined neighborhoods with soccer nets in the front yards. The sun is low in the sky as they drive down Chatsworth Avenue, giving a shiny cast to metal signs, store windows, and gutters along the edges of building roofs as they catch the sharp slanted rays of light. Diana turns right onto Boston Post Road and then makes a left onto Larchmont Avenue. After passing the firehouse and police station she points to a gorgeous stone church in Fountain Square. “That’s Saint John’s, where my grandparents went. And where my parents were married.” She pulls the car over for a quick look. “It’s Episcopalian.”