Songs in Ordinary Time

by Mary McGarry Morris

  It was Mrs. Haddad who had driven them home, he yelled, with the night rushing through the open windows. Mrs. Haddad who had pulled into the wrong driveway.

  “You’re full of shit!”

  “It’s true,” Benjy gasped. “And then she left and you were so drunk you couldn’t wake up, and I kept trying to wake you up to move the car, but you wouldn’t, Norm! You were too drunk!”

  Norm turned on the headlights, but they continued to race along. “So who moved the car?”

  Benjy didn’t answer. Norm jammed on the brakes and they skidded to a stop. He grabbed Benjy’s arms. “It was that fucking Duvall, wasn’t it? He moved the car. He killed Klubocks’ fucking dog and then he set me up, didn’t he?” Norm was shaking him. “And you let him, you little creep! How could you do that?” Norm was hitting him now with the back of his hand on the side of his head, his shoulders, his chest. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any balls? Doesn’t anything matter to you?” Norm’s voice pitched higher, then broke. “I’m your fucking brother, for Christ sake!”

  Benjy was sobbing. “It was me, Norm. I’m the one that moved the car. I’m the one that killed Klubocks’ fucking dog!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Norm roared, staring at him, his raised fists trembling. “And you let me take all that shit, you little bastard. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna…aw shit. Don’t cry, please, Benjy.”

  “I’m so sorry, Norm,” he sobbed. “I was just trying to move the car so you wouldn’t get in trouble.”

  “Oh Benjy Oh shit. I mean, you really liked that fucking dog, didn’t you?”

  Benjy nodded and he realized that Norm was crying, too.

  A few minutes later when they were driving back into town, Norm wondered aloud why Mrs. Haddad had never said anything to their mother about that night. She was drunk, too, Benjy explained.

  “But how come you didn’t tell her it was the wrong driveway?”

  “I was down in back. I didn’t want her to see me.” He tried to clear his throat.

  Norm looked at him. “Why? What else happened that night?”

  He shrugged. “She tried to go parking with you.”

  “What do mean, tried?”

  Benjy related the little he’d seen and all that he’d heard.

  “Are you serious?” Norm cried as they drove by the park, where Joey Seldon sat on his stool in the corner of his stand. “Hey, Joey,” Norm cried out the window, honking the horn joyously. “Mrs. Haddad put the make on me! Can you believe it?”

  Joey raised both hands, waving the way he did whenever any of the kids called out to him.

  The horn stuck and kept blaring up the street, but Norm didn’t seem to care. Though he wasn’t sure exactly how or what it was, Benjy could see that he had just given his brother something wonderful.

  In the next few days a carpet of soggy heat rolled over Atkinson. The trees were dismal in the stillness, their meager shade teeming with mosquitoes. Children stayed indoors. Women dreaded entering their kitchens, where everything seemed to turn rancid and greasy. Ponds and lakes seethed with swimmers and boats, and at night the only breezes came through the open windows of cruising cars.

  An eighty-three-year-old record had been broken. The heat was the topic of every conversation, even eclipsing Atkinson’s crime wave. Though only Celeste’s Beauty Parlor and Spector’s Hardware had reported any money missing, five downtown stores had been broken into, and yet the Atkinson Crier ran a front-page picture of Renie LaChance smiling proudly in front of his window-fan display. “Fan Man,” said the picture caption, calling Renie LaChance “the valley’s largest supplier of fans.” The reporter had asked Renie why he had ordered seventy-five fans instead of his usual fifteen or twenty.

  “I don’t know. I just did,” he had answered, with a small dull ache like a hole forming in his chest.

  “What was it?” the reporter persisted, pen poised. “Some kind of intuition, maybe, like a sixth sense—you know, like some animals have before storms and things?”

  “I don’t know,” Renie said shyly as the photographer pivoted to shoot from another angle. “More like wishful thinking, maybe.”

  The reporter asked what he meant. Renie thought a minute. “Well, some things you want so bad you just forget everything else that’s going on and even good common sense, and then next thing I know, just like that, suddenly I got seventy-five fans being delivered.”

  The reporter wrote down every word. He asked more questions. At first Renie’s answers were tentative and awkward-sounding, but then the more he talked, the better he seemed to get at it. Soon the reporter had him reminiscing about his early years in Canada. It was all printed in the paper, right there on the front page along with his tips on how people could create their own air-conditioning by placing a washtub of ice in front of a window fan. He recommended wearing white garments, drinking tepid beverages, as well as deep breathing through the nose, since mouth-breathing built up gassy poisons in the belly. In that next week he sold thirty-seven fans. Everywhere he went, people said hello. And best of all, the Golden Toastee salesman was coming Friday to see if his business merited his being an exclusive Golden Toastee retailer.

  When the salesman arrived there were four customers shopping for fans. Renie got Hannaby’s shoeshine boy to mind the place while he took the dapper young salesman to lunch at the luncheonette. Renie was proud to be seen with him. People smiled at Renie, and a few even called him by name. He felt like a successful man in the community, vital and respected. So exhilarated was he that when Eunice came to take their order, he knew what he wanted, but couldn’t remember the name. “It’s two pieces of toast, and inside there’s cheese. Melted cheese.” He spoke loudly with exaggerated gestures as if she were deaf.

  “Sounds like grilled cheese to me,” she called back just as loudly.

  “Yah, that’s right!” Renie cried.

  “Jackpot!” She winked at the salesman. “Your turn now. I’m gonna concentrate real hard. Hope I get it.”

  Renie slapped the table as he gasped with laughter. What a sense of humor. That Eunice, she was one funny lady. That’s why he liked her calls the best.

  “Tuna on rye with tomatoes sliced thin,” said the salesman, his quiet dignity a dash of icy water on Renie’s mirth.

  Renie folded his hands on the table. Golden Toastee was serious business. They wanted to be represented by a serious man. “I usually don’t take lunchtime,” he said, explaining the importance of keeping regular hours. “Customers rely on that. Good business means happy customers. Happy customers mean good business.” He’d memorized that this morning off a Golden Toastee pamphlet.

  The salesman said he was impressed by the way Renie handled his customers, but he had to keep in mind that Golden Toastee’s first requirement was a premier location.

  “Which I got,” acknowledged Renie with a confident nod.

  The salesman looked puzzled. “But you’re on a back street.”

  “I know, right across from the parking lot to Cushing’s and the back door.”

  “Cushing’s?”

  “It’s the second-largest department store in the state,” he boasted, a bit deflated until the salesman said that this was new territory for him. To fill him in, Renie explained that on the average day 121 people went through those doors. “I know. I been keeping count every day for years.”

  “You have? Why?” The salesman was obviously impressed.

  “I just like to,” he said with a modest shrug under the young man’s constant gaze.

  The salesman cleared his throat. “Do they sell toasters?”

  “No!” he whispered, leaning forward. “You see, that’s just it. They got a household department, towels and dishes and stuff, but no small appliances, if you can believe it! That’s why I know this is gonna be a big hit.”

  “You know, an intrinsic component of a premier location is a store’s appearance, how it looks inside,” the salesman said, with the last bite of his sandwich. Renie hadn�
�t even started on his.

  “Yah, that’s a good idea,” Renie said, waving Eunice over to the booth. He tried to order another sandwich for the salesman, who kept insisting he was full. “Then just take it for later when you get hungry,” Renie persisted, while Eunice sighed and tapped her pen on the order pad. Apologizing for his indecision, the salesman said he’d love some deep-dish apple pie à la mode and coffee. Smooth, Renie thought, a really smooth guy. He took out his wallet and from a photo slot removed the soiled paint chip. Just holding it gave him a good feeling. “I’m having the whole inside painted. And this here’s the color. Buttercup yellow.” He squinted, pretending to read the back of the paint chip, though he knew it by heart, for he had shown it to so many customers. He held it out to the salesman. “I’m doing everything the same, the ceiling, the walls, and maybe, I been thinking, even the floor.” He stared at the salesman, hoping he got the connection: Golden Toastee—golden atmosphere.

  The salesman kept looking at the paint chip. “How many toaster lines you carry now?” he asked.

  “Four,” Renie said, “but to tell you the troot…troot…trooth, I’d drop ’em all just to get the Golden Toastee.” Damn. He never could say that word right.

  When the salesman had eaten his pie, he seemed eager to leave. He explained that he had to submit the location survey along with his recommendation to his supervisor. That process alone could take a few weeks.

  Renie smiled. He’d know in just a few weeks whether or not he’d been approved.

  The salesman had left his car parked in front of the store. He walked so quickly Renie had a hard time keeping up. As they hurried along through the sharp heat, Renie was dizzied by the contrast of the sun-bleached sidewalks and glaring storefronts and then the deep black shade of the alleys. He couldn’t help noticing that he and the young man were the same height. The salesman’s brown hair was as dark and thick as Renie’s had once been. He asked him his age. Twenty-eight, the salesman said, and for a moment Renie couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. Though he had stopped walking, the black-and-white images continued to flash in his brain. He asked the salesman his birthday. August 21, he answered. Maybe she made a mistake, Renie thought. Or maybe the baby came early. He asked where he’d been born, and the salesman said that, to be honest, he wasn’t really sure, because he’d been adopted. But he’d been raised in Tarrytown, New York. Renie begged the young man to come into the store. He paid the shoeshine boy and as soon as he left, he hung the CLOSED sign on the door. The salesman fidgeted with his car keys as Renie pulled out his slender green ledgers and opened them on the counter. In here, he explained, were all his most important thoughts. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to shock the young man. And of course he might be wrong. But what if he was right? What if this was that moment he’d been dreaming of and dreading all these years? The young man shuffled his feet. Renie tried to ease into it. This was the ledger that contained the daily count of all the people entering Cushing’s by that back door over there. The salesman looked out at Cushing’s lot. Renie found just the page he wanted and began to read: “April 3. 49 degrees. Sunny. No wind. Business medium. Noon count—29 people use back door of Cushing’s.” Here it was. “Very nice family here. Mother, father, and son. They love each other. Father kept tying son’s shoes. Every time father starts looking at stoves again, the boy unties his shoes. Finally father says, ‘How come it’s unlaced again?’ and the boy says, ‘I don’t know.’ Father says, ‘I know—you keep doing it.’ He hugs the boy and they all three laugh. I was happy and I was sad. All day I keep thinking that could be me and him—if only I’d of done the right thing.” He closed his eyes and for a moment could not open them.

  “Mr. LaChance,” the salesman said. “I don’t mean to seem rude, but I have more calls to make.”

  “Oh sure, sure,” Renie said, running his finger down the page as if trying to find something. “I just want to get to the next part, that thirty-one people used Cushing’s back door in the afternoon.” He cleared his throat and tried to smile.

  “Well, that’s certainly good to know,” the salesman said, extending his hand to shake Renie’s.

  The long, thin fingers made Renie’s heart swell with pride.

  He watched him drive away. A few minutes later he saw the salesman drive into Cushing’s lot, then push open the gold-banded doors into the store. Renie smiled. Of course he’d want to verify Renie’s data. Of course. Any son of his would be one shrewd cookie.

  Dr. Litchfield had sent Helen LaChance a treatment summary of her brother’s confinement. The letter ended with the “strong suggestion that Mr. Fermoyle seek more traditional therapy than that available to him at Applegate.” Stapled to the letter was the final bill, $529: $490 for the last week’s regular rate, and the extra $39 for monies a certain Miss Getchell claimed that Sam had “borrowed” from her the night of his escape.

  Helen sent a money order off the next day. She said little to Sam, tolerating his presence in her home, in her life, as another of the inevitable conundrums with which God had burdened her. Two of her apartments were empty; “the” apartments, she corrected herself, bile seeping into her throat as she thought of Jozia Menka, who was threatening to quit if Sam said one more word to her. Besides, she’d whispered shyly to Helen, she and Grondine Carson were thinking of getting married. He wanted to sell his garbage truck and the pig farm and move into a retirement trailer park in Florida. And after thirty years with the Fermoyles she needed a change, according to Carson, who had hiked his collection fee twenty-five cents a barrel, knowing full well there wasn’t a thing Helen could say or do about it. And now on top of everything else there was Renie suddenly, in this heat, an authority in all matters, expounding on the weather, religion, politics, the way his wife treated him. Particularly the way his wife treated him. He was threatening to move back into her bedroom. Let her try hanging her clothes in the pantry closet and see how she liked smelling all the time of vinegar and fish. Last night he had burst into the house weeping and carrying on like a crazy man about the son he claimed he had seeded in the belly of a whore in New York City almost thirty years ago. He had thrown himself across her body and tried to pry her legs apart. For once in his life, he moaned, he was going to act like a man. Something had snapped inside to make her laugh, and that was when he circled his thick hands around her neck, whispering that it was the only decent thing about her, this fine long neck he had admired when he first saw her years ago.

  She sighed now, her fingers pausing on the cold black beads of her rosary. Across the room Sam’s head hung over the columns of figures he’d been adding and subtracting for the past hour. She tried not to smile. Her mind, ever the swifter calculator, clicked over a longer column of figures, sums that bridged years and far outspanned his meager accounting of how every cent of their mother’s ten-thousand-dollar trust had been spent. She knew, remembered every penny, every nickel and dime he’d ever begged, lied for, or pilfered from her.

  He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. He bit his lip, scribbled out one whole row, began again.

  The last bead slid between her thumb and forefinger…as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. She laid the rosary tenderly in its silver case. The rosary, blessed by the Pope, had been given to her by the Monsignor when she donated money for the new sacristy doors. A two-inch thickness of oak, they bore her name engraved on a small brass plate that even years from now would continue to bear pure and fleshless testimony, as no child could, to her sanctity.

  Suddenly a horn sounded outside. Sam rushed to the window and looked out, still afraid that they’d come to take him back to the hospital. She smiled. His money was gone, the last of it in the money order to Dr. Litchfield, who would never see her brother again. Sam could have saved himself the trouble of running away. She had planned on telling Litchfield at the end of that same week to release her brother, because his money had run out. She owed Sam nothing, not a penny. God would be
good to her. She had kept her mother alive well beyond her time. And for the past ten years she had kept her brother off the streets. Hadn’t the Monsignor himself pronounced her a living saint, declaring her path to heavenly reward well paved?

  She got up and went outside, eager to pluck weeds from her vegetables. The garden now took up most of the yard. Every spring she dug up another foot or two, for an additional row of carrots or beets. Because it was too much food for just the three of them, she sent most of it to the rectory. She stooped between the cabbage heads and for a moment felt dizzy. Bees blazed across her vision. The velvety beans trembled with heaviness. Renie lied. He had no child, no son of his own. It was all this attention from the newspaper. Late last night she’d heard him whispering into the phone, insisting “it couldn’t be too late.” Then he’d slumped over the kitchen table staring at his own blurry baby picture.

  The tomatoes were dazzling, but ripening too soon. Already some had split their skin, engorged with her care and the relentless sun. The annual panic seized her. She was never ready for the tomatoes that were almost obscene in their abundance. She was never quite sure what to do with them all. She stood up and straightened her shoulders. She felt old. Her flesh shrank on her bones while her breasts hardened to stone, she thought, as she labored up through the trapped heat of the porch stairs to the kitchen.

  Inside, Jozia sluiced the wet rag mop over the dull linoleum. At first Helen thought the ammonia fumes had reddened Jozia’s eyes until she heard the phlegmy sob. She pushed open the door and started past the crib, where her mother dozed, propped against pillows, chin on her chest. Her mother’s eyes opened wide. “Please wash the rags,” she begged in a tremulous voice, thin as a net snagged on some vivid moment in dreams or memory. “Don’t throw them out. Please wash them.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Please! Oh please, please, please!”

  “We’re washing them!” she snapped, pushing open the door. She bore down on her brother, still hunched over his papers. “What did you say to Jozia?” she demanded. “She’s in there crying”