All day long I collected and stored up things to tell Waldo. I considered it one of my daily tasks. Was that why I came down to the Hagiographers Club? To entertain my beloved? To learn the stories of saints never encountered by Down East Episcopalians? Or to learn the story of Hubert? Did I keep coming back with some fantasy that I could have Waldo gasping for more?
The question would not have arisen if I were still sitting in my booth at WBLT and listening to the dreams of strangers. Or if I still regaled the girls of Precious Blood with the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.
The silence from the kitchen was deafening.
How long had I been waiting? Long enough. If Ezra were here, he would be clamoring for more food, and stroking the dogs beneath the table, the imaginary dogs. If Henry were here, he would be able to hear every word spoken in the kitchen, assuming there were any words spoken, so sharp were his little ears. Either one would have said, Mom, what's your problem? What are you waiting for? Just go find out.
I pushed through the swinging door into a glaring white kitchen just as Hubert was coming out. We chest bumped, sort of. Just past his shoulder I saw the inverted cone of a light fixture hanging from the ceiling. It swung to and fro, casting an arc of light from one side of the room to the other, slowly, slowly. There was a wall of wooden cabinets painted white, and a large wooden counter in the center. Then I saw on the floor to my right, amid the green lettuce and red radicchio leaves, the shards of shattered china.
"Let's leave Christina to it, shall we?" Hubert said. And we did.
Across the room, in the portrait, Saint Sebastian's chest was moving, I felt sure of it.
"I don't think I've known anyone before who owned actual relics."
"You would be surprised. I think you would be very surprised," Hubert said. "There are so many. So many of them, and so many of us. The garments of the Little Flower, and Padre Pío, some wood chips of Marianna of Quito's coffin. One of my favorites is the dancing shoe of Blessed Humbeline. She's only a Blessed, but she was Bernard's sister, and she has the cachet of having been a reformed sinner. Oh, and lots more. You can't expect me to remember them all."
"Why not? And are those second- or third-class relics?"
"They're second-, because they belonged to the saint. Third-class relics are usually pieces of cloth that have touched the relics of a saint. You might say they are referred relics."
"What kind do you think Ezra has under his bed?"
Hubert chewed thoughtfully.
"Did I say he had a relic under his mattress? I think I merely suggested that were he to have a relic, he might very well hide it under his mattress. I would. And I do."
"I just worry that he's not getting enough sleep. Some people need a lot more sleep than others, and Ezra is one of them."
"Many of the suffering saints deprived themselves of sleep. For that very reason," Hubert said.
"What very reason?"
"In order to suffer. And you know what I think of the cult of suffering. But still, it is a well-known fact that sleeplessness can be the path to enlightenment, to visions."
"He's just a boy. He doesn't need enlightenment yet. He needs a good night's sleep."
The afternoon was wearing thin, and I was no closer to an answer. "Do you think Abelardo has relics?"
"I know he does," Hubert said.
"You didn't tell me," I said.
"You didn't ask. And I only just learned of them. The particulars."
"When did you talk to him?" I demanded. "Did he ask about me?"
"Yes and no."
I didn't trust myself to ask any more. I didn't trust myself to imagine what Abelardo kept between his mattress and box spring. Did they even have box springs in Nicaragua? Before going home I said to Hubert, "Remind me to tell you what my mother-in-law said about Camilla Hyde."
I could never have allowed someone to leave on that note. The toleration of suspense was not my strong suit. I would have demanded an immediate revelation. I would have pleaded and cajoled. But not Hubert. He nodded sagely, as if he already knew and had always known.
18
How Grand Is Grand Central
A WATER MAIN had burst and was flooding a subway tunnel in some distant part of the city, and because of that the northbound trains out of
Grand Central were delayed. Sometimes it amazed me that I had come all the way from Santa Barbara to the eastern seaboard and that I regularly passed through the portals and hallways of Grand Central, that I could suggest meeting someone at Grand Central, that I could say I had been to or was going to Grand Central. It amazed me, and sometimes it allowed me to think that anything was possible; if I could become so familiar with Grand Central, and so intimate, then anything was possible. Even its name was implausible and presumptuous, or it would have been if the building were anything other than Grand Central. There was no specificity to it, no locating it in New York, in any city or state; it was not named for any famous person. It was simply Grand, and it was Central, as in the center of the world. I read the headlines and I contemplated fourteen different coffee drinks I could order; I sniffed flowers at the flower stand and then I went back to the kiosk to read more headlines. I stood on the balcony and looked at the gathering and separating, the threading and massing of the people in the great hall below. Colors spread and mingled. I could not say with scientific accuracy, but it seemed that almost as many women wore high heels as did not. That accounted for a lot of women stressing their ankles and hyperextending their calves, but it did look so lovely, it did impart a shape not possible in flat shoes. Beneath the glittering stars, I realized that high heels embodied the eternal conflict between beauty and comfort, the eternal link between beauty and pain. If Waldo could perfect the collapsing heel, he could surely make a fortune. So I thought.
I called Waldo to say I didn't know when I would get back, and he said he'd feed the boys mac and cheese again. They would be ecstatic. They would watch The Simpsons and eat mac and cheese, and Flirt and Dandy would lick their bowls clean. Even I longed for the comfort of mac and cheese.
It was long past dark when I finally got home. Gunnar was at the station, waiting for Deb. I hadn't seen her, either on the train or at Grand Central. But there she was, getting off the car just behind mine. So they gave me a ride home. As he shifted his car into gear, Gunnar said, "Two lovely ladies, returned from their urban adventures," which seemed to me a completely unnecessary comment. Deb asked me what I'd been doing in the city, and I said I'd been shoe shopping and then had had an early dinner with an old school friend whose husband had just died. Descending from the Sigerson vehicle, I realized I should have reciprocated with an inquiry about her day. But why? So she could lie back to me?
Upstairs, they all slept so soundly. Dandy snored beneath Ezra's bed, so I was certainly not going to disturb either one to search for an old finger bone. What exactly was I looking for? A relic of what?
Waldo was in bed, but not asleep. He was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. I don't know how many times he had read that book. Often, he would read aloud his favorite parts to me, and they sounded so great that I would decide to finally read the book. But I could never finish it. That was one of the many differences between Waldo and me.
I went back downstairs, flipped through the Rolodex, and dialed León, Nicaragua.
"Abelardo Llobet, por favor."
"He is not here. Is this Alice Fairweather?" a woman asked, in English.
"I am. Yes, it is."
"This is Carmen speaking. You have not yet met me, but I feel that I know you." Her accent reminded me of Mami's, which made no sense at all because they came from different countries on opposite sides of the ocean.
"Oh."
"Shall I give him a message when he returns?"
"Just say that I called, please. And regards from Hubert."
"From Alice, and Hubert. I'll tell him. He has meetings all week at the agriculture ministry," she said.
"How is he? Are his eyes okay? Is h
e warm enough?"
"Physically, he is back to himself. Physically."
"Good. I guess," I said. "Thank you. Goodbye."
"Isn't there anything else you want to ask? Ask anything you like," she said.
I could barely breathe. If I'd known what it was I needed to know, surely I would have asked it, but my mind had suddenly gone as white and blank as ... as snow, of course. "I just don't know," I said.
"Alice? Will you say hello to Waldo for me, for Carmen?"
I went back upstairs, climbed into bed, and clung to his warm nakedness. He rolled over on his side; I curled around him and threw my left arm over his torso, opened my palm across his belly, gently probed his bellybutton.
"Waldo?" I said. "You've got to help me. Help me. Figure this out."
I nuzzled my face into his hair.
"Waldo?"
He slept, slept the deep sleep he claimed was dreamless.
Ezra yawned through breakfast. He yawned again and his features disappeared as his mouth widened into a chasm that could have swallowed everything else on his face.
"Tonight you'll sleep like a baby," I said. "I promise."
"Sure, Mom."
Waldo said, "Any more dreams, Henry?"
Henry glared at Waldo. "I never dream," he said.
"Whatever you say, Chief."
While Waldo invented great things, while Ezra and Henry sat in their classrooms with other itchy children, hamsters, gerbils, and God knows what and who else and counted the hours and minutes until the end of school, I entered Ezra's room. With trepidation, I pulled back his mattress. It seemed a terrible invasion of privacy, even a ten-year-old's privacy. Perhaps especially a ten-year-old's privacy, as his options for secret hiding places were more limited than an adult's. So I thought.
I don't honestly know what I expected to find: a dried-up old pea, a dead mouse, a dirty magazine, a nickel bag of pot, nothing at all. I did not expect to find a relic, a laminated holy card with a relic affixed to it, and that is exactly what I found. About six inches in from the edge, between the mattress and the box spring, was an ivory-colored card with a fuzzy photograph of an attractive woman with dark hair, intense eyes, and more intense eyebrows. I read: Tristána Catalina Llobet Otanguez, 1896-1982. Next to the date was a small dark square, smaller than my baby fingernail, smaller than a pea, which I realized was a piece of cloth. This, surely, was the relic. A second- or third-class relic, as I now knew. A piece of the fabric of an article of clothing of the much-bruited Tía Tata, upon whom so much rested, was causing all this trouble. That was what Hubert would have me think, and how could I think otherwise? Surely Abelardo had put it here. He must have put it here before the snowstorm. Or maybe the first night of the snowstorm. Possibly even the second night of the snowstorm, when he might have thought he needed this familial aid in order to get a decent night's sleep. It could only have been one of those two nights. And I could attest that this card, this relic, whatever it was, had not kept him from hypothermia, from snow blindness, from hurtling himself almost naked into a snowdrift.
On the back of the card was a prayer in Spanish, imploring the uncanonized Tristana's help in achieving greater closeness to the Almighty, and also pleading for good health.
I may have been Catholic in my youth, and for all I knew I still was, but this was a mystery to me. This was animistic and totemic, and compelling. I would demand that Waldo explain it to me. He would not, and then I would ask Hubert. The person I needed to ask was Abelardo. This was what I should have asked Carmen. Maybe Carmen knew this was what I should have been asking her.
"I think I may have contributed to the obsolescence of petroleum today," Waldo said as he delicately popped a broccoli floret into his mouth.
"No way, Dad," Ezra said.
"Way," Waldo said.
"You're not serious, are you?" I said.
"Somewhat. We're very close to perfecting the Compost-Car."
"You mean the Offal-Ator? The Garbage-Mobile?"
"That name got nixed, Chief. I told them it was your top choice, and on that basis alone, the brains in advertising took it off the shortlist. Eight-year-olds don't buy cars," Waldo said.
"But we will some day," Henry said. "They're not thinking ahead."
I said, "How are you doing with the collapsing high heels? The more I consider it, the more I think this could be your great work of genius. Your contribution to the world. Women and their ankles all over will cherish your memory."
"Do I really want to be remembered for facilitating silly pointy shoes?"
"Silliness is in the eye of the beholder," I said. "Besides, lots of people are remembered for all sorts of silly but useful inventions."
"I don't know, Al."
"Don't do it just for me. I thought you were enjoying the project. Did something—or someone—come along and sour your opinion of high heels?"
"Stop it, Al. Nothing of the sort," Waldo said.
"Stop it, both of you," Henry said.
"They think we should stop bickering," Waldo said to me.
"We're not bickering," I said. "We're discussing."
"I'm tired," Ezra said. The heaviness of his eyelids was palpable. The arms of Morpheus beckoned.
"You'll sleep better tonight," I said. "I have a good feeling about it."
Waldo gave me the Look. He had many looks, but they were all called the Look. This one said, Don't make promises you can't keep. I liked to think that I knew all his looks, that I knew the difference between Let's go home now and screw up a storm and I hate this guy's guts; between Stop while you're ahead and Do not, under any circumstances, repeat what I just told you; between I love and adore you and I can't stand you. I liked to think I knew all his looks, and he knew all mine, and that such intimate and exclusive knowledge was a foundation rock of our marriage. I liked to think that there was no one else in the world with whom he could communicate so well, so wordlessly.
"More broccoli?" I asked in general. "The pork chops are gone."
"Flirt hates broccoli," Henry said.
"How about some more salad?" I said to Ezra. "Remember about lettuce being soporific?"
"No," he said, with finality.
"What's for dessert?" Waldo asked.
"Since when are you asking about dessert? You don't even have a sweet tooth."
"But he has a sour tooth," Henry said and cracked up laughing. His laughter cascaded over him; he chortled and snorted and tiny green pieces of broccoli flew out of his mouth.
"That's not exactly funny, Chief." Waldo was sonorous, as if relating, with deep regret, the death of an aged but fondly remembered great-aunt.
"It's funnier than the riddles he made up in nursery school," I said.
"Why did the turtle cross the road? Because he saw a chicken," Ezra recalled.
"That's not as bad as I remembered," Waldo said. "Keep it up, Chief. Who knows? Maybe one day you'll tell a real joke."
I was fluffing my pillows, as I fluffed my pillows every night before squashing them into lumps that had the texture of wet newspapers. I loved my old down pillows. I traveled with them whenever possible. I knew, because Waldo had told me, that they were filled with pillow mites, that they harbored millions and possibly billions of microscopic creatures that lived in dead feathers and did nothing all day long but eat dander, excrete, breed, and die. According to Waldo, 10 percent of the weight of a two-year-old pillow was composed of dead pillow mites and their droppings. But he did not tell me if my twenty-year-old pillow was composed of 1,000 percent pillow mites. Waldo said that if I bothered to look at a pillow mite under a very strong microscope I would see something that would most certainly revolt me: the ovoid creature had a tough and translucent shell, eight hairy legs, no eyes, and no antennae. I could not imagine any circumstances under which I would look at a pillow mite under a microscope. I had coexisted with the pillow mites for forty-odd years, and if they were an essential part of my old down pillows, then so be it.
"Waldo," I said. "Ther
e's something I need to talk to you about, that we need to talk about."
"Honey, it's too late to grapple with our issues."
"It's never too late to deal with our issues," I said. What issues did he mean? The same ones I meant? Would it help if there were a Saint Sheila?
"You just say that because you're wide awake tonight. Did you take uppers or something?"
"I found a holy card under Ezra's mattress. That's what."
"What is a holy card?"
"Oh, come on, Walds. Don't tell me you've never seen one. When you and Lalo were roommates," I said.
"Honey, we were roommates at Harvard, not the seminary. We drank together, we played Wiffle Ball, we rowed, we played indoor soccer. Sometimes we talked about girls and existentialism and sports and girls, and even, on occasion, liberation theology. But never, to my recollection, did holy cards cross our lips."
"We used to get them at Sunday school when we were kids."
"I guess we didn't have them in Maine."
I said, "It has nothing to do with what state you're in."
"I beg to differ," Waldo said. "Your state of mind counts for everything."
"Whatever," I said. "And some holy cards have relics attached, little pieces of cloth. I just learned about those from Hubert. And—" I paused for dramatic effect. "I just found such a card under Ezra's mattress."
"So?"
"So? So, Ezra hasn't been able to sleep lately. And Abelardo must have put it there. It has a picture of his Tía Tata, who isn't even a saint yet. Not even close. And, and, a piece of cloth is stuck to it. Probably some fragment of her underwear. A relic. Or it would be a relic, if she were a saint. Which she is not."
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