Black Apple

by Joan Crate

  That must be the church at the end of the street, the steep roof and cross. She thought of the prayer she had started to write at Sister Simon’s desk just before sunrise that very morning. She had called it the Orphans’ Prayer, an appeal for all children whose relations were scattered or dead, who had no one close by to protect them. Hail, Holy Mother of Heaven and Earth, Mother of Christ, Mother of all we who are motherless. Be our most gracious advocate and help us to accept our losses and submit to God’s will.

  That’s where she got stumped. The prayer was incomplete. It needed one or two more lines, but she couldn’t think of what else to say to the Virgin that was suitably reverent yet expressed a child’s plight. Or even that of a young woman. Possibly a young man who was beaten and then made to do things by a priest when he was just a little boy, who was so miserable when he grew up that he hanged himself.

  She stopped to put down her suitcase and switch hands again. She wanted to fit in phrases like advise God to keep us safe from those who would do us harm, and give us love in our lives, real true love from people who are with us, and a real true home to live in, a family, even, but she wondered if that made her sound ungrateful. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. After all, she had Mother Grace and the nuns had taken her in. And if they didn’t love her, some were fond of her. Sisters Joan and Margaret were used to having her around, at least. And Jesus Christ had revealed the sins of the past to her, a sign to the religious of St. Mark’s that they might go forward, redeemed by God’s forgiveness, into the future. Even Father William.

  It was also a sign that she was meant to live among women of God and learn to be a holy sister, that she might one day return to St. Mark’s and sleep in the small bedroom on the second floor that she had slept in each summer since her seventh birthday, though since Sister Simon’s arrival, she had slept on a cot. The same room that Sister Mary of Bethany, God rest her soul, had once occupied. That’s what Mother Grace had told her.

  Though she had been beaten, locked up, and made fun of at school, she had not been hurt in that other way, like the big-eyed boy who became a young man who went against God’s law and killed himself. She was lucky, even if she didn’t feel it. She should be grateful. Mother of Heaven and Earth.

  * * *

  No one was inside the church, though the scent of incense hung heavy in the air, and vases of flowers were stuffed around the altar. Bowing, she backed out and dragged her suitcase down the stairs. Too exhausted to carry it, she pulled it along the boardwalk to the back of the church, where she found a small, flat-roofed building with faded gingham curtains hanging in the window. The rectory. Such a grand name for this stooped shack. Taking a breath, she knocked on the door.

  It creaked open on a short, round woman about the same age as Mother Grace, with an apron slung over ample breasts. “Yes, dearie?”

  “I’m Rose Marie Whitewater.”

  “Yes, dearie?” the woman repeated.

  A stickiness in her throat. “I’m from St. Mark’s.” It caught her words like flypaper. “I’ve been sent here. To work.” She wanted to say, For Father Patrick, but it wouldn’t come out.

  “Why, bless me, yes!”

  “I’m sorry about Father Patrick, his unfortunate . . . his death. I just found out.”

  “Goodness gracious Sunlight soap, we forgot all about you, didn’t we?” The woman’s voice had a pleasing lilt, though it was different from Mother Grace’s accent. With plump arms, she pressed Rose Marie against her, the smell of pastry lifting from her grey hair. “You come right in.”

  “Father Seamus,” she called, turning her head, “it’s the girl who was going to work for Father Patrick.” She turned back to face her. “We’ve heard about you, we have. I’m Mrs. Rees, Father Patrick’s—God rest his soul—housekeeper.”

  Father Seamus took a half step forward and glared down at her.

  Still dazed by the long bus ride, by Dead Fox Man, Fire Indian, Father Patrick’s death, all the terrible events of the past day and a half, and now by Mrs. Rees’s effusive hug, she stared back at him, a tall, imposing man with a black beard.

  “You’re the residential school girl who had this—what is it your Father William calls it?” His nostrils flared. “A Visitation? I read an article about you in the Register—”

  “Well, love,” Mrs. Rees cut in, steering her to the table, “I’ll get you something to eat.” She tugged at the collar of Sister Bernadette’s voluminous coat. “Let me hang that up for you.”

  Father Seamus retreated down the hall. Mrs. Rees filled the kettle, opened cupboards and cookie tins, buttered bread, and made tea, chattering all the while.

  “Father Patrick’s death was unexpected. In his sleep, love. Very peaceful. And such a good man, he was, working wonders in the parish.” She brought Rose Marie a cup of tea, a meat pie, a biscuit, butter, raspberry jam, and two fancy squares, then sat across from her with her own cup of tea, hurriedly praying before taking a sip. Rose Marie, feeling dazed, followed suit.

  “Left over from the funeral,” she said. “Everyone brought something—buns, cakes, roasts—such a fuss.” Glancing down the hall where Father Seamus had retreated, she lowered her voice. “Father Patrick started social evenings, bingos and monthly dinners for the down-and-out. When there was talk of a strike at the mines in spring, he was all set to offer suppers every Friday for the families. He was very popular. Father Seamus and some of the others weren’t happy with, you know, the unions, dear. Say the miners are all atheist communists, don’t they? Blame the Bohunks mostly, but that’s not really right. It’s all the miners. Tired of the long shifts, I expect. Dangerous work.” She sighed, shaking her head. “At least Mr. Rees is out of the mine now.”

  Rose Marie, her mouth full, nodded. She had no idea what Mrs. Rees was talking about—she couldn’t concentrate—but she appreciated the newsy prattle she wasn’t really expected to reply to.

  Hearing Father Seamus approach, Mrs. Rees popped up from her chair. “Father Seamus, a nice cup of tea?”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Rees. I must be off. I can drive the girl to the Tortorelli house, if she’ll hurry.”

  “Mrs. Tortorelli,” Mrs. Rees said, leaning towards her, “agreed to board the parish worker—that’s you, dear—for the three months you’ll be helping out at the church.”

  “Mrs. Tortorelli is a devout Catholic widow,” Father Seamus stated, glancing over her head and not at her face. “She runs a boardinghouse with her brother-in-law. Her late husband was most generous to the church. He was with the Knights of Columbus right up until his death.” He frowned. “Mrs. Rees, she’ll have to hurry if she wants a lift. It’s starting to get dark, and I have to drive back to Coal River.”

  “I’ll get your coat, dear.” Mrs. Rees scurried off, and Rose Marie carried her dishes to the sink.

  “I’ll just wash up and be on my way too, Father,” Mrs. Rees said. “Unless there’s something else you’d like me to do before I leave?”

  “No. Just keep things up until I get back on Friday.”

  * * *

  Father Seamus pulled his car in front of a grand-looking two-storey house with bay windows on both levels, and pointed. “The Tortorelli house.”

  Rose Marie peered through the windshield. The building, in contrast to its short, shabby neighbours, looked large and commanding, with what appeared in the gathering dusk to be a new coat of paint: gleaming white with green trim around the windows and at the eaves. Noticing that Father Seamus wasn’t getting out of the car to help with her suitcase, she slid off her seat, opened the back door, grabbed the suitcase, and yanked. It toppled out, landing in a puddle and splashing her already muddy stockings. What a sight she must look.

  “Thank you, Father Sea—” she began, pushing the door shut, but the car was already rolling away.

  As soon as she knocked on the heavy green door, she heard high heels clicking over the floor and the door was pulled open. There stood a small, thin woman with hair gathered in a neat, grey
bun. She wore a crisp white apron, but everything else she had on was black: her dress, shawl, stockings, and shiny leather shoes. A frown seemed to be etched permanently into her forehead.

  “I’m Rose Marie Whitewater,” she said, but the woman didn’t respond. That stickiness in her throat again. “Mrs. Tortorelli?”

  The woman nodded, her chin raised in Mother Grace’s gesture of superiority.

  “I’ve been told you have a room—”

  “No,” the woman replied. “I’m full.” She pushed the door shut.

  She didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Rees had been about to leave the rectory when she and Father Seamus left. She’d be on her way home by now, wherever that was. Shifting from foot to foot, Rose Marie considered the possibility that Mrs. Tortorelli didn’t realize she was the parish worker sent to serve the local church. Maybe she thought that young woman wouldn’t be coming now that Father Patrick was dead. Maybe she had rented the room to someone else.

  Rose Marie’s hand trembled as she knocked a second time. “If at first you don’t succeed,” Sister Joan had impressed on all the girls, “try, try, try again.”

  This time when Mrs. Tortorelli opened the door, she was clearly annoyed. “I told you, I have no rooms left,” she spat. “If you want a cheap room, try the old Mooney place.”

  “Where?” she managed. “Where is the old Mooney place?”

  “Farther down the street. The big pink one. The only other two-storey. I run a respectable place here,” she added, slamming the door. “No Indians allowed,” came a muffled voice from behind the freshly painted wood.

  As Rose Marie struggled down the street with her suitcase, she thought maybe she wouldn’t ask Mother Mary to give us love in our lives, real, true love and a real, true home. That was presumptuous—a word that Mother Grace used from time to time when she thought a student or even a sister was asking for “undeserved privileges.” Perhaps she would simply ask “to belong” somewhere in some sort of family or community, even if it was just a bunch of nuns. But that too suddenly seemed like an enormous request, and maybe, for her, an impossible goal. Would she ever feel like she truly belonged?

  The sun was nothing but a sooty red streak skidding behind the mountains, and as she plodded towards the old Mooney house, shadows crept under its eaves, alongside the upstairs windows, and beneath the lurching porch. Once the house had been impressive, she could see, at least as grand and even bigger than the Tortorelli house, which had somehow escaped the black dust that appeared to coat every other building in the town. But now the house was neglected, the fence leaning precariously into the street, the wood rotting. The gate was completely gone and the yard overgrown with weeds. She dragged her suitcase up the steps to the front porch.

  She knocked but hadn’t even dropped her fist when the door swung open and she was greeted by a bright yellow light and the intermingling odours of tobacco and cooked cabbage. Then a man stepped into view. She started. Fire Indian! His laugh flickered over her skin.

  “Well, well, you bin following me, haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  Frank turned his head to the interior of the house and called, “Hey, Eugene, remember that pretty little lady from the bus? She’s here to take me out on a date.”

  “I’m here about a room,” she mumbled.

  “Well, come on in.”

  She didn’t go. Presumptuous.

  “Mrs. Mooney,” Frank yelled up the stairs, “a young lady is here about a room. At least that’s what she says.” He turned to wink at her, then called up the stairs again. “Actually I think it’s me she’s after. Hey, Mrs. Mooney!” His grin again, his flashing white teeth.

  “Just a minute,” a voice yelled from the second floor.

  “You okay?” He stepped towards her, suddenly serious, his flaring fingers touching her arm, making her skin tingle. “That bastard in the bus depot didn’t—”

  “No.” She stepped back.

  “Okay, but you let me know if he gives you any trouble.”

  A heavy woman trudged down the stairs, and Frank stepped out of her way. Her abnormally bright hair was gathered on top of her head in a bun that was as unruly as Mrs. Tortorelli’s had been neat. Rose Marie had never seen dyed hair before, but she suspected that this hair, the colour of the oxblood shoe polish Father David had sometimes smeared in broad streaks over his brown shoes, was just that.

  “Whaddaya want?”

  “I’m looking for a room.”

  “Well, well, ain’t that convenient? One just came up.”

  Thank you, Holy Virgin.

  “Bed, dresser, closet, share the bathroom down the hall with two others: Cyril, a miner, and Ruby, who works at the hotel. Downstairs men have their own bathroom. Eighty bucks a month includes breakfast and supper. You pack yer own lunch. Pay in advance. You got a job?”

  “Yes, at Our Lady of Sorrows.”

  Mrs. Mooney’s eyes travelled over her head covering. “I see.” Turning to look at Eugene, who was slinking down the stairs with a box under his arm, she bellowed, “Everyone’s supposed to give a month’s notice, right, Eugene?” She turned back. “So, you want it, honey?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You’re a lucky bugger, Eugene.” Mrs. Mooney turned back to him. “If this little cookie hadn’t arrived, you’d be eighty bucks in the hole.” The woman grinned down at her. “He’s going back to the Reserve to get married, the stupid son of a bitch.”

  Surprisingly, Eugene grinned too.

  Rose Marie shut her mouth. “You look like you’re catching flies,” Sister Margaret had accused her more than once. Oh, but she couldn’t help it; she wasn’t used to such language. Not from grown-ups.

  “That’s eighty bucks, honey.”

  The grand total of her cash was exactly eighty dollars! Her room and board were supposed to be provided free of charge—Mother Grace had promised. If she handed the money over to Mrs. Mooney, she would have nothing left for a bus ticket home or anything else she needed. She dug into the secret pocket Sister Bernadette had sewn in the side seam of her school dress—her fingers scrabbling at the wad of bills. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

  “Sure that’s eighty?”

  “Yes, Sis—ma’am.” She had almost said “Sister.” So much, dear Mother of God, so very much to get used to.

  Mrs. Mooney shoved the bills down the front of her dress. “I’ll get the room ready. An hour should be fine, since it’s gettin’ dark. I guess you can come in the kitchen and wait, or else go an’ get yerself something to eat at the bus depot Chinese café. Suit yourself.” She jabbed a chipped red fingernail at Rose Marie’s suitcase. “You can leave your stuff here if you like.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll go for a walk,” she muttered, sliding her case across the doorstep. She had to get out of here, yet she was frightened of the town. She felt the same way she had when she left St. Mark’s that morning: she hadn’t wanted to go but she really hadn’t wanted to stay either.

  Twilight leached colour from the wilting tomato, potato, cabbage, and beet plants that clung to the cooling earth in the front gardens of the houses. She’d be quiet, and maybe no one would see her wandering under the sickly elms stuck haphazardly along the street. She slipped through the weedy playing field of a school, rubber boots sliding against her raw calves. Turning a corner, she sidestepped deftly into a garden as a man wove through the evening towards her. Farther along, she heard voices and glanced up, looking to the other side of the street.

  The door of the Dominion Hotel swung open, and two men staggered out in a burst of music. “Your cheatin’ heart . . .” twanged before the door banged shut. She froze. Dead Fox Man leaned against the side of the hotel, fumbling inside his dirty coat. He pulled out a paper bag, brought it to his lips, threw his head back, and swallowed.

  He hadn’t seen her. She backed away from the streetlight and crouched in the weeds of a vacant lot. Motionless, she watched the other man stagger awkwardly towards Dead Fox Man, mumbling somethin
g and grabbing for the bag.

  Dead Fox Man shoved him away, but the man reached again, this time yanking the bag and its bottle from Dead Fox’s mouth, spilling liquid down his chin. Pulling the bottle back, Dead Fox Man swung his other arm up from his waist in a quick arc and socked the man soundly in the jaw. The man spun, hit the side of the hotel, bounced off, and fell backwards. His head smacked the curb, bone striking stone. Rose Marie sank to her knees in the wet grass.

  Dead Fox Man yelled something at the man twitching at his feet, then kicked him. He looked up and down the road. Oh, right at her! She didn’t move a hair. Dead Fox Man slipped around the corner and was gone.

  She ran in the other direction. She didn’t care where she was going as long as it was away, far away from Dead Fox Man. Finally, dizzy and gasping, she staggered against a tree. Just down the street she spotted the cross on the peaked roof of Our Lady of Sorrows.

  She darted up the church steps and pulled at the door. Locked. What church was ever locked? Down the steps. She crept along the boardwalk and peered through the window of the rectory. Dark.

  She stole through the grimy streets. In lit kitchens, people drank tea and read the newspaper. A man and woman walked arm in arm down an alley, and a few minutes later, two stray dogs came yipping out of the schoolyard. Trembling, she stayed in the shadows and crept through the town, searching for the old Mooney house. Finally she spotted its high roof against the dark sky. Hail, Holy Mother of Heaven and Earth.

  A fight, she told herself. She had witnessed a fight, just a fistfight, and most likely, part of life in this town, this Sodom and Gomorrah. She recalled the indignant expression on Father William’s face as he gave a sermon about “centres of sin, profane in the eyes of the Lord.” But she could no longer think about Father William without feeling a wave of nausea.

  She’d be quiet and good, biding her time in this horrible town until she could return to St. Mark’s. There, she’d avoid Father William as much as possible before going to the Mother House. And here, she would avoid Dead Fox Man, who had just knocked a man senseless, who might have seen her in the grass, watching. Who might have killed the man. Please, Mother Mary, advise God to keep me safe from those who would harm me. Her skirt and stockings were soaked, her entire body trembling.