Yes, here they were. This was their start, their new beginning, the university president was telling them from the pulpit.
Then what was this overwhelming dread like a huge black wave that hung in the air ready to swamp her? Her thoughts began to race. My God, Sam, Omar, what poor choices she had made in her life. There was a hole in her shoe and a small yellow bleach stain on the hem of her dreary skirt. Norm’s last year of high school and then there would be two of them in college, and how would she ever pay for that? Benjy would be alone. She would be alone, alone, always alone, with a garage full of soap and an ancient car. One more major car repair would ruin her, but what did they know or care. No. Nobody cared. Not really. Not Sam, not her own children. In this whole world not one person cared what happened to her. She had tried too hard, worked too much, and now she had nothing. She didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it. They could hear her pounding heart. They could feel her trembling limbs. She had to get out before something terrible happened. She excused herself along the row of angled knees and hurried outside.
A few minutes later everyone streamed through the doors, and Alice rushed down to her. “I didn’t know where you were!” she cried, linking arms. “I never went to a concert before. Wasn’t it beautiful? Jean said they have them every Friday night. She plays the violin. She’s going to try out for the orchestra.”
She stiffened, wanting, needing to pull away, but did not until they crossed the street; then she extricated herself, gently so that Alice might not notice.
“I’d love to play an instrument,” Alice said as they walked toward Redstone campus. “That must be so wonderful.”
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t afford the lessons,” Marie said in a low clipped voice. There were parents and their children all around them.
“I know that, Mom. That’s not what I meant. But anyway Jean said I could take lessons here.”
It was too late, and this was her fault, too. There were certain things children had to be given early and if deprived they would never catch up. She knew this but did not say it.
The last event was the dorm reception, tea and cookies with Alice’s housemother. She told Alice she had a headache and if she left now she could beat the traffic. Alice begged her to come, even if she only stayed five minutes.
“But I hate tea,” she said, hesitating at the door Alice was holding open for her.
“Then don’t drink it,” Alice said. “I just want you to be with me.”
The housemother’s sitting room was packed with weary parents and their bright-eyed daughters. Alice led her straight to Miss Grady, the housemother, in pearls and a pale-blue suit, who stood next to the silver tea service.
“This is my mother,” Alice said.
“I’m Rosemary Grady,” she said as they shook hands. She paused expectantly. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Marie said, confused, but certain that something had been overlooked.
“I didn’t get your name,” Miss Grady said softly.
“Fermoyle,” Marie said, stiffening. “We have the same last name.” Did the housemother think because she was divorced their last names would be different?
“I meant your first name.”
“Marie.”
“Alice looks like you, Marie,” she said.
“Well, I hope not now, but a younger version of me, maybe. Before all the wrinkles and bags set in,” she said, in an attempt at modesty, graciousness, wit, anything but the inanity she saw reflected in Miss Grady’s polite smile.
“You probably already know this,” Miss Grady said, turning to Alice. “But for my money you have one of the best rooms in the whole dorm.”
“Really? Actually it looked so small compared to the others,” Alice said, and Marie glared at her.
“The thing is, it’s right next to the kitchen and the lounge, so it always seems like a little apartment setup to the girls who live there.”
“Rosemary!”
Miss Grady turned to greet a tall slim man and his blond wife, whose older daughter had lived in this dorm four years earlier.
“When you introduce me,” Marie hissed, “you’re supposed to say my name.”
“I forgot.”
“And don’t be complaining about your room.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” Alice whispered.
“You said it was too small.”
“Mom, please.”
“Well, you don’t want to be like your aunt Helen, do you, always negative, always complaining.”
“Mom! Please. Not now, not with all these people around.”
“It’s important to get off on the right foot with people.”
“Mom, stop it! You’re a nervous wreck. Your mouth is twitching.” Alice touched her own mouth. “Please, Mom!”
“I want to go!” she hissed. “I have to!” There was no air in here. Everyone had someone to talk to. She had nothing in common with these people, who were probably all college graduates themselves.
“No, not yet. You can’t. Come on over here,” Alice said, leading her to a small wooden chair in the far corner of the room. “I’ll get you some water.”
Alice was on her way back with the water when her roommate, Laura Morgan, arrived with her parents, Marilyn and George. They were late because one of their cows had had a difficult delivery. Laura, who wanted to be veterinarian, had assisted in the early-morning birth.
“At one point I think George had both arms in up to his elbows,” the mother said, and George nodded; miserably, Marie could tell, knowing just how out of place he felt. Clearly, this was the last place George wanted to be, perched on the edge of a fancy loveseat, his shiny dark suit pants hiked up over short white socks. Laura brought her father a plate of cookies, which he was devouring. “Poor thing hasn’t eaten since last night,” she said, patting his head. Full-busted and short, with muscular arms and and legs, Laura was built like her mother, who had just come back from the truck with three blackberry pies, one for Miss Grady and two for “the girls on First,” as Marilyn now called the ten girls on Alice’s wing. Marilyn had a faint mustache and she wore a handknit yellow sweater over her thin cotton housedress that snapped up the front. She wore wide black flats, no stockings, and she had a laugh like a roaring bonfire. Astonished that so many of these Vermont girls had never spent a day on a farm, Marilyn was making plans to drive down to campus in three weeks and fill the truck with anyone who wanted to come for the weekend. “By that time,” Marilyn promised, with her arm around Alice, who still held Marie’s glass of water, “the girls on First’ll be just dying for some home cooking.”
“Me too! Me too!” Miss Grady called, waving her hand as the girls and their parents laughed. George was pouring tea from his saucer back into his china cup. Marie watched Alice’s widening smile, and she realized that she was smiling, too.
Now that she was on her way home, she could think straight. Alone, she was starting to feel calm again. She envied Alice this new life, this opportunity to be anything and anyone she wanted to be. If she gave them nothing else, she could give them this. Their future was all that mattered. It was all she wanted. There would be no more misplaced hope. Never again would she wait for a man to save her. Omar was gone, leaving her with all that soap and a bank payment she would have to scrimp and scrape to cover from month to month for a long time to come. The worst of it was everyone knowing how weak and foolish and vulnerable she had been. Pathetic, really. So desperate for love that she had ignored the obvious signs. But then she hadn’t been the only one, had she? Harvey Klubock and so many others had also fallen for his promises.
A few more miles and she’d be home. It was five-thirty. Right now Alice was probably eating her first meal in the cafeteria. Tonight there’d be a dance. Maybe she’d meet a nice boy, someone who would love her forever. She would have loved Sam forever, but now all she dared feel was pity. As long as she lived, she would never trust or have faith in him.
The sun was be
hind the trees. It would be an early winter. Each night came cooler than the night before, with the leaves on the trees already starting to turn. Now there were mostly yellows. Soon the hills and mountainsides would be aflame with red and gold. There would be the long nights, the long darkness, the first snow, all the dead earth. And when her children left she would be alone.
She drove along Main Street. It was a good feeling to be almost home. The closer she got, the stronger she felt. The air seemed clearer. She would tell Mr. Briscoe she could do Astrid’s work as well as her own for whatever Astrid’s salary had been. Maybe Sam was finally ready. Renie might be right. This was the first time he had ever hospitalized himself. Maybe now with the kids older he would feel less pressured by life. Maybe if he only worked part-time, there would be less stress. If Mr. Briscoe did pay her more, and if Sam could work part-time, and of course there would be the Fermoyle house and the three tenements when Bridget died, then maybe…What was she doing? No. She would not doom herself to such tenuous hope. She would do what she had always done. She would rely on the one person she could trust, herself.
She turned the corner, driving a little faster than usual. She couldn’t wait to get home to her boys. Maybe they’d all go to a movie tonight. When was the last time they’d done that? She couldn’t remember. This is how it would go, she thought with a burst of expectation and joy. She would move from moment to moment. She would make her way gradually. Because she was strong, they would succeed. It was all she wanted. By the force of her will she would keep them safe.
She peered over the wheel, bewildered by the activity at the end of the street. There were wheelbarrows in the road in front of her house. There was a woman kneeling on the corner of her lawn, a man pushing a roller out of her driveway. There were people everywhere. They were her neighbors. There were two ladders leaning against the front of her house, three on the driveway side. Harvey Klubock was on one of them, Norm on another, Bill Costello, Jim Wilbur, Cyrus Branch. They were all painting her house. Dick Fossi’s married son knelt on her roof as he nailed shingles around the chimney. Her front lawn had been dug up, smoothed, and seeded. Straight lines of lime were disappearing as the sprinkler waved back and forth, settling dust and soaking the dirt. Jessie Klubock came around the back of the house with a trayful of paper cups.
They have no right, she thought. Who said they could do this? Benjy and Louis were dragging boards out of the garage. Nelson Hammond was on top of the garage, pushing a roll of tar paper over a new section of roof. She couldn’t turn around and leave. She had no choice but to pull into the driveway. She sat in the car, trapped, stunned, as they turned, looked down, came from around corners, stood up to see her.
They have no right. Trembling, she opened the door.
“Mom!”
“Marie!”
“Surprise!”
“Surprise, Marie!”
Grinning, they came toward her, bearing hammers, saws, shovels, brushes, these strangers she had lived among for ten years and did not know, did not like, or want to know, or want to like, much less be now beholden to, as much the object of their pity as she had been of their scorn all these years, ten years of looking the other way, pretending not to see or care or hear. Hypocrites. All of them. Sanctimonious hypocrites.
“What do you think?”
“Hope you like it so far.”
“What do you mean, so far? We’re almost all done!”
Laughter! How dare they? Who did they think they were? What gave them the right to intrude in her life like this? She walked slowly. She would not pass out. Her ears were ringing, and she was dizzy, but she would not grant them this final satisfaction.
“We wanted to do this,” Jessie said, hurrying alongside her to the back door. “We all got together. We just wanted to lend a hand.”
But they had no right. Who gave them the right to turn her life into an occasion of public charity?
“Please go home,” she said. “Just go home and leave me alone.”
“Mom!” Norm said, touching her arm, his soiled face so close to hers she could smell his earthy sweat. “Everyone’s been so nice. They just want to help, Mom, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice that could be heard now only because the yard, the valley, the universe had grown perfectly, dreadfully still. “But I don’t need anyone’s help. And I don’t want anyone’s help. So please just go.” She stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, then stood there with her hands over her face.
“No!” Norm said outside. “She doesn’t mean it. I know she doesn’t. She’s just not used to this. She doesn’t know what to do.”
The door opened, and Jessie Klubock came inside. “Marie,” she said, touching her shoulder, then petting, stroking her as if she were some dumb creature. “It’s okay, Marie. We just wanted to do this. We just wanted to do something.”
But she had nothing to give back. Nothing.
“That’s okay, honey,” Jessie said, as if she could read her thoughts. “You just have a good hard cry now. I know just how you feel,” she said, then tiptoed outside, closing the door softly behind her.
The kitchen wall rumbled as a ladder was being climbed. There was hammering on the far side of the house, the eastern side, where the woods began and ran for miles to the mountain that always brought the earliest light. The smell of fresh paint pervaded the house. Outside, the murmurous voices rose and fell.
Alone, she kept thinking, alone, alone, alone, alone; then suddenly she burst into teary laughter and could not stop.
Songs in Ordinary Time Page 85
