Dreamsleeves

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  “Hey, A … A!” Someone’s calling me. Maizey.

  “Hi!” I wave, so happy to see her. “I was just coming to your house.”

  Maizey’s leaning out the window of a brand-new Cadillac. I know because the catalog is on our living room table. Dooley spilled grape juice all over it and boy did he get spanked. This isn’t Maizey’s family’s car. The Hogans have a blue station wagon.

  “Where are you going?” I shout.

  Before Maizey can answer, Snoop-Melon’s face is in the window, too.

  “The country club,” Snoop shouts all happy, pushing her sunglasses up to make a hair band like the movie stars do.

  I didn’t ask you.

  “We’re going to have breakfast and take a tennis lesson and then Maize and I are going to swim and sunbathe on the lounge chairs while my mom plays golf. Then we’re going to have lunch out on the member’s-only terrace dining room and …”

  I wipe jelly from my chin, stupid donut. The light turns green and the Cadillac moves forward. Why didn’t Maizey call me to say they were going? Not that I could have gone anyway.

  Maizey looks sad, but not too sad, as she waves goodbye to me.

  I stuff the rest of the donut back in the bag, scrunch it into a ball, toss it in my basket. Here I am headed back to the jailhouse and my best friend is off for a day of fun with the snottiest girl in the world. This is so unfair. My father has no right to keep me locked up like a criminal. I’m going to find a way to get out. He is the meanest father ever … but that’s not the only feeling making that donut swirl sick in my stomach.

  Am I losing Maizey? She and Snoop-Melon will have the whole long summer together, to go swimming, shopping, to the movies. I know Maizey loves me, but why would she still be my friend when she can have so much more fun at a country club?

  But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  — WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

  On Saturday morning, Dad is all cheerful in the kitchen. He touches Mom’s stomach. “Did you hear the good news, A?” he says to me.

  Dad is always so happy when they are expecting a baby. He loves babies. It’s when they get older and start running around making noise and saying what they want and getting into mischief that he loses patience with them.

  I take advantage of his good mood. “Can I go to Maizey’s?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “Sure, why not?”

  I bike quickly to Maizey’s and ring the doorbell.

  “Sorry, A,” Mrs. Hogan says. “She’s off with Sue-Ellen already.”

  When I get home, my father’s polishing his car, the radio blaring, him whistling along. I go write in my diary, a new wish that Dad will let me go somewhere fun with Maizey tomorrow, maybe Hoffman’s Playland. I put the diary key in a new spot, the pocket of my elf, Jeffrey’s, green felt jacket. I keep changing the key location, just to be safe.

  At four o’clock my father yells to me, “A, you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  Every Saturday afternoon at four o’clock, I have to go to confession with my father. Confession is one of the seven sacraments of the Catholic Church. You tell your sins to a priest and then your soul gets clean so you can receive Communion on Sunday.

  Even though our church, Saint Michael the Archangel, is just up the hill from our house, an easy walk, Dad says “let’s take the car.” After all that polishing, I guess he wants to show it off.

  He puts the top down. I sit up front where my mom usually sits. Mom doesn’t come to confession. She has to watch the little ones. Besides, I don’t think she sins.

  Two winters ago we had a blizzard and school was canceled and the roads were closed. Dad got out an Easter photograph of me, Mom, and Callie with our new dresses and the corsages he bought us standing on the church steps waving and said, “Want me to teach you how to draw?”

  “Yes!”

  Dad and I sat there at the kitchen table for hours, him teaching me things like “perspective” and “scale” as we drew. My mom made us sandwiches and hot cocoa.

  We never finished that picture. Someday, maybe.

  The church is brown with tall spires and stained-glass windows. We walk up the steps and my father yanks open the heavy door. A spicy aroma, incense and candles, whooshes out over us like a veil. It’s dark and quiet. There’s the old man in the brown suit with the gray feather in his hat in his same spot in the last row. He’s always there, like he lives here or something. I don’t know his name. He’s always hunched over praying when we get to church and he’s already gone when we leave. I recognize a few people, no one my age.

  We dip our fingers into the holy-water fountain, make the sign of the cross on our foreheads, and then kneel in a pew.

  Bowing my head and closing my eyes, I try to remember exactly what sins I told the priest, Father Reilly, last week so I don’t say the same sins again because then he might think I was lying last week, which actually I was because I just make up sins to tell him because what else would I have to say to the guy when I go in that dark wooden closet small as the take-your-picture booth at Woolworth’s?

  Nana’s friend Mrs. Casey, the bank robber, smile, comes out of the confessional and Dad nudges my arm to go ahead in. As she passes by me and smiles, I notice Mrs. Casey has a Kleenex tissue bobby-pinned on her head to make like a hat. Nana does that, sometimes, too. Women and girls are supposed to wear hats in church. Men and boys must remove their hats, even baseball caps. Frankly, all the hat rules seem silly to me. I wonder if God really cares. Seems to me God’s got more important things to worry about, like the war in Vietnam, for instance, than keeping track of who’s wearing a hat or not. I think of my uncle Bobby and my mom’s brother, Uncle Jimmy, both serving in the war. Please, God, bring them home safely.

  I enter the dark closet of the confessional and draw the brown curtain closed behind me. I kneel down on the cushion, and fold my hands.

  On the other side of the murky screen, Father Reilly keeps his head faced forward so he can pretend he doesn’t know it’s me, which of course is silly because he knows it’s me because I’m here the same time every Saturday, and he always says “I’ll see you at Mass tomorrow, Aislinn,” after he doles out my penance.

  I make the sign of the cross and start in … “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. It’s been one week since my last confession. These are my sins.”

  I say that I lied two times and disobeyed my parents three times and was “uncharitable” to my sister and brothers four times. There, that was sufficiently different from last Saturday. That ought to keep him happy.

  “Is that everything?” Father Reilly says in a quiet voice.

  “Yes, Father.” What else can I say? All you can talk about in here is what you did wrong. It’s not the place to talk about what your father’s doing wrong, for instance.

  Father Reilly mumbles a short prayer. I wonder what he’s saying? Then he gives me my penance. “Say three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers, and a Glory Be.”

  “Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”

  “I’ll see you at Mass tomorrow, Aislinn.”

  When Dad sees me coming back to the pew, he stands up to take his turn.

  I kneel back down in our pew, make the sign of the cross, and say my penance, “Hail Mary: Full of grace, the Lord is with thee….” Then “Our Father who art in heaven …” Then “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit …” and then I tell God I’m sorry for the only real sin I made, which was just now lying to the priest about sinning, and then I sit back on the seat to wait.

  It’s musty and shadowy in here; the big overhead chandeliers are off to keep it cooler during the summer. The only light is what’s coming in through the stained glass windows and the flickering flames of the votive candles people pay money to light when they want God to help a sick person get better or speed a loved one out of purgatory. />
  Purgatory is where dead people go who had sins left on their souls because maybe they died in their sleep or maybe their priest couldn’t get to the hospital quick enough to administer the sacrament of “last rites,” which cleans away all your sins in one swoop.

  Purgatory is like Limbo except for grown-ups. I had two tiny infant brothers who died of birth defects and went to Limbo — this happened between me and Beck — and I never even got to see them, but I will never forget sitting on my dad’s lap when he broke the news to me that they wouldn’t be coming home from the hospital with Mommy. Daddy kept hugging me and saying how much he loved me.

  When you’re in Purgatory, the only way you can finally fly into heaven is when people say enough prayers for you or pay to have enough masses said in your name. Nobody has ever given me a straight answer about how many actual prayers or masses are required. It’s all very fuzzy. God must have a whole room full of angels keeping those numbers straight.

  I say two more Hail Marys just in case my papa or Uncle Mark are still in purgatory. I highly doubt that though because we all pray for them and Nana buys a Mass in each of their names every month and on their birthdays. You can buy a “High Mass” or a “Low Mass.” The high ones cost more and so I suppose they work better.

  My father’s in the confessional a long time, longer than usual. It’s so quiet in here. Tomorrow these pews will be filled with people for Mass. We’ll stand and sit and kneel together. We’ll sing together, and say memorized prayers together, but the only person who can really talk, say what’s on his mind, is Father Reilly. That can get boring.

  A lady moves to the table by the votive candles where there’s a silver box labeled INTENTIONS. It has a lock on it. There’s a stack of small white slips of paper and short pencils. The lady writes something on a paper and sticks it in the box. She lights a candle and kneels down to pray. I asked my mother once, “Does Father Reilly read all those intentions?” and she said she didn’t think so; they are meant for God.

  I would like to read them. I would love to know what all these people are praying for. Maybe we could help one another out more if we knew what everybody wanted. God doesn’t need to read those papers. God knows everything, right?

  I look around at the stations of the cross and then the statues — Mary and Joseph and Michael with his angel wings — but I’m drawn, like always, to the face of Jesus nailed on the huge cross above the altar.

  For once, I wish Jesus would just open his eyes, just once, so I could see him and he could see me, Aislinn O’Neill, and I could talk to him and tell him how hard it is living in the jailhouse with Dad’s drinking getting worse and how I’m trying, really trying to make things better but nothing I do seems to work….

  Finally the confessional curtain moves and my dad comes out. He kneels back down next to me and bows his head, covering his whole face with his hands, saying whatever penance Father Reilly gave him. He prays for an extra long time today, making a whimpering sound and then sniffling.

  When Dad finally looks up, his eyes are red from crying.

  Good. Maybe this time he’s truly “heartily sorry” for drinking so much and being so mean. Maybe this new baby coming will change things. Maybe instead of heading to the liquor store for his weekly supply of bottles like we usually do, we’ll go straight home and Dad will take us out to the Red Front for pizza and then to Wilson’s for ice cream and then we’ll come home and play Monopoly and the phone will ring and Maizey will invite me for a sleepover and Dad will say, “Sure, go ahead, honey, have fun.” Maybe this time confession worked.

  When we walk outside into the sunshine, I look across the street to the Carrolls’ house. Maria and Leo are holding hands, laughing, walking toward their car.

  “Maria!” I shout across to her.

  “Aislinn! Hello!”

  Leo waves. “Hi, A.” He nods. “Mr. O’Neill.”

  Dad gives a quick wave in return.

  “How’s college?” I shout.

  “Great,” Maria says. “Come visit us and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Come on, monkey, let’s go,” Dad says.

  Leo opens the car door for Maria and when she gets in he closes it. I see her slide across the front seat and push open the door for him. They are so nice to each other.

  We get in our car. Dad looks relieved, happy. “Ready, monkey?”

  “Yep!” I get in and buckle up, feeling hopeful.

  Dad turns on the radio. It’s a corny song he likes called “Tiny Bubbles” and he starts singing. “Come on,” he says, “you know the words,” and I join in like I always used to.

  “Tiny bubbles in the wine. Make me happy. Make me feel fine …” My heart is feeling bubbly all right. Dad’s car picks up speed. My hair’s blowing back crazy in the wind. Maybe I’ll even ask him about going on vacation with Maizey’s family. She asks me every summer, and I can never go….

  No! At the light Dad turns right, instead of left toward our house, and all the tiny bubbles pop, pop, pop. We head up the hill toward the liquor store. I cross my arms, angry, and zip my lips, sad, staring out the window. He keeps singing.

  Dad shuts off the car in front of the store. “Coming in?” he says.

  “No, thank you,” I say, hoping the tone of my voice shows my disapproval.

  When I was younger, I used to actually like going into this store with my dad. The owner was always glad to see us, smiling at Dad and holding out that big candy dish to me, “Go ahead, take a handful, honey.”

  Ugh. I’d like to spit at that man and his candy dish now.

  How am I going to get my dad to stop drinking?

  Nana can’t help.

  Confession doesn’t work.

  My mother … she hates that he drinks and she keeps trying to get him to stop, but she always forgives him. She keeps thinking it will get better, I guess, or that God will take care of it. But she’s our mother, our mother. She’s supposed to protect us, right? I’m going to have to do this on my own. I know down deep my dad is good. He’s still the dad I love. I know he must want to change. Why else would he keep going to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday?

  A blue station wagon pulls up next to our car. It’s Maizey’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hogan. I slink down in my seat before they see me, embarrassed to be at a liquor store.

  “Don’t be a tightwad, John,” Mrs. Hogan shouts out the window. “Get a nice bottle of wine. The Dandridges are classy people.”

  I sink lower in my seat, depressed. The Dandridges, that’s Snoop-Melon’s family, must have invited Maizey’s parents to dinner. Maizey is probably already at their house. She and Snoop-Melon are probably having a sleepover with fancy canapés and ginger ale with straws. I bet the Snoop has a big beautiful color-coordinated room with frilly lace curtains and her own record player and posters of the Beatles and the Beach Boys and I’m sure she doesn’t have to share it with anybody.

  My parents never have friends over to dinner. No St. Patrick’s Day parties like we had down in the basement long ago. Now that Papa and Uncle Mark are gone, Nana’s the only one who comes for our birthdays and Sunday dinners. I could never figure out why Dad wouldn’t let Mom invite relatives over to our house (I love most of my cousins) but now I know it’s because Dad doesn’t want anybody seeing him drink so much.

  And maybe it’s good no friends from school ever come to my house. After that fourth-grade nightmare, I’ve got enough to be ashamed about without adding “and your dad’s a drunk” to the list. Maizey’s the only one who knows.

  But if nobody sees what’s going on … how am I ever going to get help?

  When Dad gets back in the car he puts the heavy brown paper bag full of bottles on the floor next to my feet. “Watch they don’t break,” he says. He turns on the radio, finds a Sinatra song he likes, and turns up the volume.

  He checks out his reflection in the rearview mirror. He drives fast, too fast. Thank God he hasn’t started drinking yet. I pull my seat belt tighte
r around me, holding my hair in a bunch to keep it from whipping against my eyes.

  Dad brakes quickly at a red light and I jolt forward, my head nearly hitting the dashboard, the glass bottles clinking in the bag.

  “I said watch them,” Dad says, looking down at the bottles like they’re fragile newborn chicks. He reaches over, opens the glove compartment, takes out a map, and hands it to me. “Here, wrap this in around them.”

  I unfold the map of New York State and weave it in between the bottles. I have studied this map before. As we drive home I imagine sneaking out of my room late tonight, after my father is out-cold drunk on the couch, and taking all of these bottles and cracking them open, crack, crack, crack, in the sink like one-two-three eggs for a birthday cake, then watching the brown liquid swirl down the drain where it can’t ever hurt my family again. Then I’ll grill four cheese sandwiches, fill a thermos with soda, sling my guitar on my back, open the map of New York and pick a city far away from Troy — past Albany, past Schenectady, past Utica, past Syracuse, past Rochester and Buffalo, maybe as far as Niagara Falls — and I’ll head my bike in that direction.

  See ya later, alligators. I’m the boss now, applesauce.

  Prisoner Number One, Aislinn aka “Dream” O’Neill, has escaped the penitentiary.

  We are the music-makers

  And we are the dreamers of dreams …

  — ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O’SHAUGHNESSY

  When Dad and I get home, he pours a drink in the kitchen and shouts to my mother, who is in their bedroom getting dressed. “Maggie, are you ready yet?”

  “Be there in a sec, Roe,” she calls back.

  My parents are going out to dinner like they do every Saturday night, even though we are saving for a house, even though my mother is nauseated from being pregnant, even though my father shouldn’t drive when he’s drinking.

  “Order a pizza, Aislinn,” Dad says to me. “I’ll go pick it up.”