Mae stood and took her Bible from the shelf. It had been a gift from her mother on Mae’s first communion. The Bible was bound in white leather. As always, Mae opened it to the passage that made her feel sick, Proverbs 19:5. It was like poking a sore tooth—she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes she felt cleansed after forcing herself to stare at the words. There they were—small black letters. They were unyielding, simple, true:
A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who pours out lies will not go free.
Mae hadn’t been to confession in months, maybe a year. She wasn’t sure she even believed the Catholic doctrine anymore. But her father had once told her that was what faith was—going to church even if you weren’t sure. Following orders. Maybe she should tell the priest about Victoria, just lay it all out from the beginning: what had happened and what Victoria had confessed and what Mae had forced the girls to do. Mae could let it go and let God decide on her punishment once and for all.
Let go and let God.
She wished she had decided to confess when Father Gregory was in charge, before he retired to Palm Beach. Mae had known Father Gregory since she was a young bride, and he was a comforting presence, a kind old man. The new priest, Father Richard, was a bit too attractive for his own good, too eager to please. In all honesty, Mae wasn’t sure he was up to the job of absolving this big a mistake. It had been a mistake, after all! Just a terrible, brutal mistake.
Mae closed the Bible firmly and put it back on the shelf.
2
St. Gabriel’s was a beautiful building, and inside, it was dim and cool, smelling of wood wax and incense. Mae was immediately calmed. The church had answers. It had rules and regulations. Her father had believed with his whole heart in Catholicism, which had to count for something.
“Mae! What a nice surprise.” Father Richard walked toward her, his arms outstretched.
“I’m here for confession,” said Mae.
Father Richard’s face remained exactly the same—a genial, welcoming arrangement of his features. Mae had to admit he was a professional. “Of course,” he said. “Follow me.”
One of the things Mae could not stand about Father Richard was that he wanted parishioners to sit across from him in his bright office while they confessed their sins. Mae, whose husband had never seen her in the altogether, squirmed under Father Richard’s aggressively benevolent gaze. She missed the old days, the shadowy figure behind the screen. She didn’t know where to look: there was the picture of Father Richard on the golf course, and there was his dirty coffee mug.
Mae decided to focus on her toes, then the wall to her right. Mustard-colored stucco. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began.
Father Richard sat back in his ergonomic chair, which squeaked. He crossed his stubby fingers over his stomach. After a minute, he tilted his head to the right, toward the window. Outside, Mae could see, it had started to rain. “It has been over a year since my last confession,” she said.
“Mm-hm?” said Father Richard.
Mae knew that this young (she didn’t want to use the word whippersnapper—who was she, her grandmother?—but that was the right word, it simply was), this young priest was allegedly able to absolve her, but what could he possibly know of sin?
“Well,” said Mae, “here’s the thing.”
“Go on, my child,” said Father Richard.
“When Victoria was a teenager,” said Mae, changing tack, “once, when she was a teenager, Victoria came home in a state.” She took a deep breath, remembering the morning when Victoria and Sylvia had come home smelling of beer, looking uneasy and frightened. She and Preston had giggled in the kitchen, thinking the girls had sneaked a drink or two at their sleepover. How naive they had been. She remembered herself, winking at Preston. So stupid. She was so stupid.
“Mae?” said Father Richard, piercing her reverie.
“One morning, when she was seventeen, Victoria asked me for advice.”
“Go on,” said Father Richardson.
“It was August,” Mae whispered.
“Okaaaay,” said Father Richardson in a syrupy tone. He wanted her to share more, to expose her heart. But Mae felt as she had always felt during Victoria’s stints in rehab, when she and Preston had to fly out to Hazelden or Betty Ford: all this disclosure was a bunch of hooey. What on earth was the point of blathering about your private affairs, your secrets? Saying them out loud didn’t change the truth—didn’t undo anything.
“I just wanted to say,” said Mae, realizing the futility of trying to make peace with God using Father Richard as a conduit, “I did not attend mass on many Sunday mornings when Victoria was growing up. I was extremely busy, and some Sundays I just didn’t get to church.”
“I see,” said Father Richard, lifting his index fingers, touching them to each other in the universal pose of someone who is trying to look as if they are smart. “I see, Mae. But I think God understands the trials of a mother.”
“How comforting,” said Mae.
Father Richard nodded. Why didn’t he wash that disgusting mug? And there on his desk was a broken pencil, the lead tip smashed to the side. What kind of an adult man broke a pencil and didn’t throw it away or sharpen it? Mae was seized with a desire to stand up and leave. “May I have my penance?” she asked impatiently.
“Say three Hail Marys, and try your best to attend mass regularly,” said Father Richard. “You’re not a young mother anymore,” he said with an obnoxious chuckle.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” said Mae.
Father Richard gave her the benediction, and Mae remembered the dark sacristy, the soothing voice of Father Gregory. Why hadn’t she tried to atone when she’d had a real priest to unburden herself to?
“By the way,” said Father Richard when he was done, leaving Mae frustrated and irritable, “please take a flyer on your way out. I’m starting a new rock-and-roll mass on Wednesday evenings to try to bring the youth back into the flock.”
“The youth?” said Mae.
“I thought you might give a flyer to your granddaughters,” said Father Richard. Mae pictured Georgia and Sunny, so worldly and disdainful that they scared Mae. There was something missing in them, and Mae lay awake some nights trying to figure out what it was and how it could be replaced. Father Richard’s orange flyer filled Mae with pity.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be sure to pass one along.”
“The church is as relevant now as it always was,” said Father Richard to himself.
“I’ll let myself out,” said Mae. She walked slowly downstairs, enjoying the dusky smell. The scent had brought her so much comfort once. Mae could remember coming to St. Gabriel’s as a child, watching light pour through the stained-glass windows and filling with awe, clutching her mother’s gloved hand.
Next to her favorite window (it was Mary, her arms outstretched), Mae stopped. Had Mae’s mother, Dottie Pendelton, ever made a mistake? As far as Mae knew, her mother had died free of sin or complication. She was a strict Catholic and raised Mae to be the same. What would Dottie have done in Mae’s place?
I never would have let her go out in the middle of the night! Mae could almost hear her mother’s indignant voice. And furthermore, said Dottie.
Mae looked up at Mary Magdalene, who gazed back beatifically, though surely, thought Mae, Mary Magdalene had some secrets of her own.
Back out on the street, Mae saw a homeless person leaning against the wall. “Lady,” the person said, “can you spare a dime?”
Mae squinted. “Are you a man or a woman?” she asked.
“I’m a woman,” said the homeless person. “I have a mental problem.”
“I see,” said Mae, and she opened her wallet, took out eighty-some dollars in cash, and rummaged around in her purse. She unearthed a new tube of Clinique lipstick (Mulberry Morning) and handed the money and the lipstick to the homeless person.
“God bless you,” said the woman.
“Let’s hope so,
” said Mae.
3
Back on Madison Avenue, Mae tried to hail a cab. Across the street, she saw a subway station, and without much thought, she brought her arm down. Though Mae hadn’t taken the subway in years, she felt drawn to the cavernous passageways, the stench of humanity.
She passed a few disadvantaged men and women as she descended the stairs, all with their hands out, begging. She lifted her chin and strode past. You couldn’t help everyone, thought Mae, and this was the essential problem. If you gave your lipstick to one homeless person, you’d just be denying it to another (not to mention yourself). Lipstick, of course, being a metaphor for your money, your belongings, your heart. Though, also, your lipstick.
The subway car pulled up; Mae was surrounded by sweaty people. When the passageway was clear, she stepped into the car and found a seat next to an obese woman and her little boy. The boy looked up at Mae and smiled. He was missing one tooth. “Hello,” said Mae.
“Hello,” said the boy.
“What’s your name?” said Mae.
“Deeshawn,” said the boy (or it sounded like Deeshawn).
“You sure are cute,” said Mae. “How old are you?”
“None of your business,” said the boy’s mother, glaring at Mae and yanking her son upright, lumbering away. Though the subway car was crowded, with many people standing up, no one filled the seat next to Mae. She rode for five stops, reading the subway advertisements, scanning the faces of strangers. Finally, a twitchy white teenager practically fell into the empty spot next to her. His face was thin, and he sat forward, resting his bony arms on his knees. He stared at the subway floor, and the train began moving again.
“Are you—” said Mae. “Are you all right?”
“What?” said the teenager sharply. His jacket was cheap, and his jeans looked dirty. He wore large sneakers patterned with red and black boxes.
“I was just asking if you were all right,” said Mae.
The boy laughed, one quick bark. “I’ve been better, lady,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mae.
Incredulous, the boy sat back in his plastic seat, but his knee didn’t stop moving. “I lost my job,” he said. “I was working, and I lost my job.”
“What happened?” asked Mae. She felt both excited and terrified.
“What happened? I’ll tell you what happened,” said the teenager. “I was walking to work and a man fell on me.”
Mae nodded. Her heart hammered in her chest.
“He fell on me. From a platform. He was washing windows. I was just walking to work.”
“Oh,” said Mae.
“He still had the fucking wiper in his hand,” said the teenager. “Jesus fucking Christ, you know?” As he talked, some color came back into his face. Mae knew he could be lying, but he didn’t seem like a liar. Then again, what did a liar look like?
“That’s terrible,” said Mae. Around them, a few other passengers were listening. Mae felt redeemed. See? I wasn’t preying on that little boy! I’m a good person. I care. “What happened next?”
“The guy, he didn’t even move,” said the teenager, shaking his head. “I was just fucking standing there, you know? I was walking to work. Then blood started coming out the guy’s head, like real slow, just fucking leaking out his head.”
“What did you do?” asked Mae.
“So I, like, called 911 on my phone, you know? And I was late to work. But you can’t just leave some guy who has his brains leaking out of his head!” The boy’s voice rose in pitch. “So I stood there! And I was, like, should I talk to the guy?”
“Did you talk to the guy?” asked Mae.
The teenager looked up at Mae, his forehead creased with lines. “I bent over, you know? I said, ‘It’s gonna be okay, man.’ But he didn’t answer me.”
“Was he dead?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “I don’t know, lady. I think so, though. I think so, lady, yeah.”
Mae watched him, a boy in pain. Tentatively, she touched his shoulder, wrapped her fingers around his shirt. The boy moved toward her. He smelled like a fried egg. “I think so, lady, yeah,” said the boy, and Mae put her arms around him.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mae. “It’s not your fault.”
“He just fell out of the sky,” said the boy, and as he spoke, his breath was warm against her skin.
The boy got off a few stops later, thanking Mae for listening, even squeezing her hand with his own cold one. Mae walked home feeling light and somehow cleansed, despite her incomplete confession. But when she opened her purse to get her elevator card, she realized her wallet was gone.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Bright?” asked the doorman.
“I just …” said Mae. She stared into her bag, at the dark place where her wallet had been.
“Ma’am?”
“I forgot my key card,” murmured Mae.
“Not a problem,” said the man, swiping a card and handing it to Mae with a flourish.
In the elevator, a heavy sadness pressed her down. She should not be so upset. People stole, that was just the way of the world. People were dishonest and unkind. But Mae felt as if she’d been operating under a happy trance: the delusion that she mattered. In reality, she had mattered for a few years, when Victoria was young. Mae remembered the open-faced toddler who had run around the Maidstone Club with such joy, crying, “Mom-maaay, get in water! Me jump you, Mom-maay!” It had all been so easy—and she’d complained about having to get her suit wet. She could just slap her former self. Pay attention, she wanted to tell young Mae, checking her tan in the East Hampton sunlight. Let her jump to you! Hold her, love her, look up. This is the best it will be.
The apartment door was locked, which was surprising. Luckily, the boy hadn’t stolen her set of keys on the silver chain. In her living room, Mae found Sunny and Georgia eating her Hammond’s ribbon candy and watching people in leather pants play guitar on the television. “Girls!” she said. “What are you doing home on a school day?” They looked at her dully. “Where’s your mother?” asked Mae. Sunny pointed to Victoria’s bedroom.
Mae walked quickly down the hall, opened the door, and shrank back at the smell of … what was the smell? “Victoria!” she said, trying to sound firm but only sounding wavering and old. “Victoria, wake up this minute.” Mae approached the bed and saw her daughter curled up.
“Leave me alone,” said Victoria.
On the bedside table, Mae saw two wine bottles, empty. “Victoria, what are you doing? Your girls—”
“Oh, they’re fine,” said Victoria, sitting up, pressing her hands to her face.
“They’re not fine,” said Mae. “They need you, Victoria. They need their mother. Why didn’t you take them to school?”
“Why didn’t you take them to school?” said Victoria. She was quiet for a minute, and then she shook her head. “They don’t need me.”
“Clean yourself up,” said Mae. “Take a shower. I’ll call Hazelden. We can work on this together. This is just a relapse. It happens, honey.”
“No,” said Victoria. “I’m not going back.”
“You don’t have a choice,” said Mae.
“What’s the fucking point?”
Mae sat down next to her daughter. “Come here,” she said.
But Victoria moved away from her, climbing out of bed. “I’m going out,” she said. “I’m getting out of here. I have an appointment.”
Mae looked up and saw Sunny and Georgia in the hallway, holding hands. They looked much younger than twelve and ten. Victoria pulled on pants and slipped her feet into shoes, and the girls watched Mae, waiting to see what she would do. They didn’t seem hopeless, but they were wary, unsure, starting to lose faith that the world had simple joys in store for them. Mae could help them. She wanted to—more than she had ever wanted anything.
“You’re not going anywhere, Victoria,” she said.
“Watch me,” said Victoria.
“This is my house,
” said Mae, “and I make the rules. Everything is going to be fine. You just need to pack a few things in a bag, Victoria. Do as I say.”
“Do as you say?” said Victoria.
“Yes.”
“You can go to hell,” said Victoria. “I should have told you that a long time ago. Girls, we’re leaving. Your grandmother doesn’t want us here.”
“That’s not true,” said Mae.
Sunny’s and Georgia’s eyes darted from their mother to their grandmother. “Nana?” said Sunny.
“Shut up,” said Victoria. “Everything is fine. Come on, girls.”
Mae felt her strength ebbing. “I can help you, Victoria,” she said. “Let’s just talk this over now.”
“There’s nothing to say,” said Victoria. She went to her daughters and took them by the hand. “We’ll be fine. I’m fine, girls. Let’s go.” She walked to the door, holding them firmly. First Sunny and then Georgia looked back, a question in their faces.
But Mae was silent.
“You can’t take them away from me,” said Victoria as she pressed the button for the elevator. “No one can.”
4
By the time Sylvia’s bus pulled in to Port Authority, it was past midnight. Sylvia was glad to depart the airless bus. She stretched and shouldered her duffel, stepped on a whining escalator. The shops were gated and locked, and no one in the terminal seemed up to any good. By the exit, a slight girl played a mournful song on a violin. Sylvia dropped a dollar in the case as she passed, and the girl whispered, “God bless.”
Sylvia ached to see Victoria, to huddle together like they had as children, spilling secrets in Victoria’s beautiful room high above the city. Sylvia craved the sense of belonging that only Victoria could give her. All these years, Sylvia had kept the secret about the night on Ocean Avenue so she could remain inside the circle of the Bright family. The terrifying dreams, the regret in the pit of her stomach: this was the cost of loyalty, the price Sylvia had to pay. Victoria had done it for Sylvia, after all.
Close Your Eyes Page 16
