Miserere

by Caren J. Werlinger

  “For real,” Elizabeth replied. “And that’s the first thing we’re going to change. Come on. Let’s get cracking.”

  Several hours later, the bedrooms were cleaned and beds made up with fresh sheets. The station wagon had been unloaded, the bikes untied from the roof and stored on the back porch. Elizabeth had found screens in the attic so they could open as many windows as possible to let fresh air into the musty rooms.

  “Anybody want another sandwich?” Elizabeth asked, peering into the cooler serving as their makeshift ice box as the electric one wasn’t yet cold, though so far, it seemed to be working.

  “No,” Will answered with a big yawn.

  “Bed time, then. It’s been a long day.”

  They made one last trip to the outhouse by the light of a flashlight. Elizabeth supervised the brushing of their teeth in the kitchen, pumping water for them at the sink, murmuring a prayer of thanks as it drew water after only a few dry pumps. Upstairs, she listened to each of the children as they knelt beside their beds and said their prayers, then kissed them both goodnight.

  Will was asleep almost immediately, but Conn waited awhile then quietly stole out of bed and crept down the hall to her mother’s door. She sank to the floor, her back resting against the wainscoting, and hugged her knees to her chest as she listened to the soft sounds of her mother crying.

  As she sat there in the dark, Conn tried to remember how things used to be when Daddy was home with them. He was a Marine helicopter pilot at Sandia and mostly flew high-ranking officers to other bases. She remembered hearing his car pull up, and running to leap into his arms, his bristly Marine haircut tickling her cheek. Then, last summer, just before Conn was to start the fifth grade and Will the second, they got the news that their father was being deployed to Vietnam. Most of their school friends already had a parent serving in Vietnam – mostly fathers, but a few mothers who were nurses. Sandia Base was shared by the Navy, the Marines and the Army, and was so big that it had its own schools for the children of the military personnel stationed there.

  After their father deployed, she and Will would sometimes come home to find a letter from him waiting there. “My little leprechauns,” he called them. They would snuggle up on either side of their mother on the couch and ask her to read the letter over and over. Usually, there came a point when Conn could hear a shift in the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, and she knew her mother was close to tears. Conn would take Will to the kitchen table then, and help him write a reply to Daddy.

  As hard as those months were, spending Thanksgiving and Christmas without him, it all got harder in April. Conn remembered precisely when. It was April 5th, the day after Martin Luther King was shot. She remembered because they didn’t have school that day, so she was home when the doorbell rang. Will was still in bed, but Conn crouched at the top of the stairs and peeked down at the two Marines in their dress blues. They removed their white hats respectfully when Elizabeth opened the door, and one of them read from a letter in his hand, “It is with regret that we must inform you that Lieutenant Colonel Mark Mitchell has been shot down and is reported missing in action.” They spoke words of regret and condolence, handed Elizabeth the letter and left. As Elizabeth closed the door, she looked up and saw Conn. They stared at each other for several seconds before Elizabeth walked to the kitchen.

  Conn went back to her room and waited. She tried to read the Nancy Drew mystery she had started, but she found herself listening for the sound of her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. When Elizabeth knocked softly and opened the door, Conn put her book down.

  “You heard?” Elizabeth asked as she sat on the side of the bed.

  Conn nodded. “What do we do now?”

  Elizabeth laid her hand on Conn’s knee, still scabbed from a crash on her bicycle last week. “If anything happened to him, Daddy wanted us to go to Nana’s. We’ll wait for him there,” she said.

  Conn nodded again, staring hard at Nancy Drew’s blond hair and blinking back tears. Elizabeth kissed Conn’s forehead and went to Will’s room to tell him.

  That night, Conn had tiptoed to her mother’s bedroom door where she could hear her mother crying. She slid to the floor and sat there until the sounds quieted, and then went back to bed.

  She had done this nearly every night since, standing guard as she was doing now in Nana’s house on this cool May night. She listened to the unfamiliar sound of crickets chirping as she waited. At length, her mother’s room was quiet. She padded back down the hall and crawled into bed.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next morning, after a breakfast of cold cereal, Elizabeth and the children got back into the Nomad and drove to town. Like many small towns, Largo, West Virginia had a few houses lined up on a grid of dirt streets that surrounded a few prominent structures: a white clapboard Baptist church, a brick funeral home and a General Store, painted a dark, barn red. Elizabeth parked in front of the store and led the way up the wooden steps to a covered porch with several rocking chairs. Three old men sat there, gathered around a checker board on a barrel. They tipped their caps to Elizabeth and went on with their conversation.

  Will climbed into one of the chairs, rocking madly, while Conn followed Elizabeth inside. Ceiling fans moved the air in the dark interior of the store. It took a moment for Conn’s eyes to adjust after the bright sunlight outside. Everywhere she looked, there were shelves packed with goods – groceries, hardware, books. From the ceiling hung plows, chairs and rakes. It seemed that every available space was crammed with things for sale. She paused in front of large wooden barrels filled with nails of different sizes.

  “Can I help you?” asked a man behind the tall glass-fronted counter. He peered at them through thick glasses, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the ceiling fans. He had a heavy walrus moustache that obscured his mouth.

  “Mr. Walsh? Do you remember me?” Elizabeth asked. “Elizabeth Cuthbert. Fiona Cook’s granddaughter.”

  “Elizabeth!” Mr. Walsh exclaimed. “My goodness, girl, it’s been an age since we seen you ‘round here!” He turned to the doorway behind him, pulled aside the curtain and bellowed, “Betty? Betty! Come on out front and see who’s here!”

  A large woman emerged, her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun from which several strands of hair had escaped. She was drying her hands on a white apron that covered her front, stretched tightly across her ample bosom. She looked curiously at Elizabeth for a moment before exclaiming, “Land sakes! Elizabeth, I don’t believe it! What brings you back to Largo?”

  “We came here to wait for Daddy,” piped up Will, who had come unnoticed to his mother’s side.

  “Are these your children?” Mrs. Walsh asked, noticing Will and Conn for the first time.

  “I’m Will,” Will announced, standing on his tiptoes and pulling himself up with his fingertips to see over the tall counter.

  “Pleased to meet you, Will,” Mr. Walsh smiled. At least Conn thought it was a smile. All she could actually see was his moustache moving. His bespectacled gaze shifted to Conn as he asked, “And what is your name, young lady?”

  Conn looked at him for a couple of seconds before answering, “Connemara Faolain Mitchell.”

  “Good gracious,” said Mrs. Walsh, her eyebrows lifting, “That’s quite a name for such a little thing.”

  Not wanting to be left out of the conversation, Will quickly added, “My whole name is William Joseph Mitchell.”

  “Well, well,” Mr. Walsh chuckled, “welcome to Largo, William Joseph and Connemara – ?”

  “Faolain,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a family name. Anyway, we’ve come to live at Nana’s house while my husband is overseas. We need these groceries and cleaning things,” she said, handing Mrs. Walsh a list. “And I wondered if you could recommend someone who could do some work around the house.”

  Mr. Walsh frowned as he thought. “Probably the best handyman ‘round here is Abraham Lincoln Greene. He don’t have a telephone, but tomorrow is Saturday. He always
comes to town on Saturday. I’ll tell him to come by your place,” he paused, glancing around to make sure no one else had come into the store, “if you don’t mind that he’s a Nigra,” he whispered loudly.

  Elizabeth blinked two or three times before replying, “No, I don’t mind. Ask him to come by the house whenever he has time, please.”

  She turned back to Mrs. Walsh who was boxing the items on the list. “Are you still postmistress here, Mrs. Walsh?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Walsh smiled, looking up as she put a sack of potatoes into the box. “I’ll get you set up with a postbox when I’m through here.”

  Conn wandered off, exploring the mysteries of this store. It was so unlike the military exchange on base. She sniffed, and followed the scent of leather to a series of hooks anchored to the wall in a back corner, hung with bridles, halters and lead ropes. Longingly, she ran the smooth leather of a bridle through her fingers. Conn’s dearest wish was to have a horse of her own, but being in a military family made that impossible. They’d never even been allowed a dog. The closest she ever got to her dream of having a horse was in her detailed and vivid games of make believe. She heard her mother call her name, and reluctantly put the bridle back, enjoying the lingering scent of leather on her hands.

  When they got home, the children helped Elizabeth with a more thorough cleaning of the kitchen. They gathered up and sorted all the food that had been left, throwing away anything that looked too old or showed signs of animals having gotten into it, and wiped the pantry shelves clean before putting any of the new groceries away.

  “Let’s see about this stove,” Elizabeth said. She opened one of the enameled doors and placed a few small pieces of kindling inside on top of some crinkled newspaper. When she lit the paper, the dry wood quickly caught, but smoke soon began backing out of the open door into the kitchen.

  “Conn,” she called, still squatting in front of the stove, “turn that handle,” pointing to the coiled metal flue handle on the stove pipe.

  Conn did as she was told, and almost immediately, the stove belched a thick cloud of black smoke and ash into Elizabeth’s face.

  Startled, Elizabeth fell back onto the kitchen floor and blinked, everything except her scrunched eyes blackened by the smoke. Sputtering and coughing, she got to her feet, waving her arms to fan the smoke away.

  “Well, I don’t remember Nana doing it that way,” she said ruefully as Conn and Will giggled.

  The children pumped water for her so she could wash her face.

  “Let’s have lunch,” she said as she toweled off. “Then you can go play.”

  After a quick lunch of sandwiches and milk, Conn and Will hurried outside to explore. The barn near the house immediately drew their attention. Built into a hillside, the stone foundation opened onto the low side of the hill by means of a huge wooden sliding door that was too heavy for them to open. They climbed up the hill and around the other side of the barn where there was a smaller sliding door they were able to push aside enough to slip through. Taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, Conn saw an old tractor sitting there, its green paint chipped away in places. There were old gas and oil cans and a mower meant to be pulled along behind the tractor. Up above them was a loft accessible by a wooden ladder. Over at one end of the barn was a set of wooden steps leading down to the stone level below.

  “Wait for me!” Will cried as Conn disappeared down the stairs.

  It was much darker in the lower level, and Will clung to the back of his sister’s shirt. This level had a packed dirt floor and several stalls. A few bits of harness hung from nails, the leather cracked and brittle.

  “Let’s go,” Will whispered. “I don’t like it down here.”

  “Okay.” Conn agreed grudgingly, deciding to come back later with a flashlight and explore more on her own.

  Will started back up the steps, and as Conn reached for the handrail, she thought she detected movement out of the corner of her eye. She stopped and stared into the darkness, but could see nothing. She was aware of a sudden chill and realized she had goosebumps.

  “C’mon,” Will urged her.

  “I’m coming,” she said, with one more glance around.

  §§§

  Orla and Eilish sat outside the cottage, a freshening breeze tickling their faces as they sewed new undergarments for the girls to take on their voyage to America. Eilish had looked sadly at the few things they had to pack in their small bags – an extra dress for each of them, Orla’s handed down from her mother, and Caitríona’s from Orla; an extra pair of shoes, bought used with some of Eilish’s precious lace money.

  “At least you shall have something new to take with you,” Eilish had insisted, using a bit more of her lace money to buy the softest, finest linen she could afford.

  Caitríona sat in the grass, keeping an eye on the baby, who was beginning to crawl. She watched her mother worriedly; her face looked wasted and ill.

  “You’re not strong enough to have another baby,” Brónach had pronounced, laying her knowing hands on Eilish’s swelling belly. She was known to all as the seanmhair, though she wasn’t actually anyone’s grandmother. She was the mid-wife and knew much of the old ways. “‘Tis not moving enough. You need to eat more.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Eilish had insisted, but Caitríona could see that this baby, her twelfth, was sapping her strength. She knew her mother’s heart was as broken as hers and Orla’s, though she would never show it. She had seen her mother slipping food from her own plate onto theirs, trying to make sure they were strong enough for the journey ahead of them.

  “All because that bastard won’t keep his hands off her,” Caitríona thought angrily as she watched her mother sewing. In a one-room cottage separated only by a drape, she heard things in the night. “No man will ever do that to me.”

  Eilish glanced up and caught Caitríona’s eye. “Daughter,” she said, “go to my bed and fetch the parcel under my pallet.”

  Caitríona did as she was bidden, returning a moment later with a cloth-wrapped parcel which she handed to her mother. Eilish set her sewing aside and unfolded the cloth to reveal a small leather-bound book and a smaller leather pouch. She handed the pouch to Orla, who opened it and pulled out a wooden rosary.

  “Oh, Mam,” Orla breathed, “it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s been blessed with holy water,” said Eilish, her voice cracking just a wee bit. “To keep you safe in your travels.”

  She turned to her younger daughter and held out the book. “I know you write things.” Caitríona flushed. She hadn’t thought anyone knew about her small collection of “scribbles,” as she called them. Paper was hard to come by, and she hoarded every scrap she could get her hands on. “Now, you can write your thoughts properly. And show them to me someday.”

  Caitríona’s face hardened as she tried not to cry.

  “It’s not a wake, child,” Eilish said.

  “‘Tis!” Caitríona cried. “We’ll never see you again!” She couldn’t stop her tears, and ran from the cottage. She ran through the neighboring fields where sheep and cattle grazed until, clambering over a stone wall, she topped a hill at the bottom of which was the seanmhair’s cottage, surrounded by old trees which sheltered it from the winds. The old woman was outside, tending to her plants. She spotted Caitríona with her red curls blowing in the breeze and waved to her, beckoning her down the hill. Wiping her tears from her cheeks, Caitríona descended the slope, crossing a small rocky stream at the bottom before climbing the gentle rise to the neat white cottage. This cottage had always seemed mysterious to Caitríona, with its bundles of flowers and herbs hung to dry from the rafters and little urns filled with roots and leaves.

  “Come in, lass,” said Brónach, leading the way inside. “Sit with me by the fire,” she said, her black eyes peering up at Caitríona. Caitríona took the other stool near the fire, watching the seanmhair as she pulled the steaming kettle toward her and began dropping crushed leaves from some of her po
ts into the hot water. It was impossible to tell how old she was, with her white hair contrasted against her smooth skin. Caitríona knew that Father Cormac, the local priest, disliked Brónach, disparaging her as “unholy.” Eilish said that was rubbish. She said it was only because the seanmhair knew how to brew teas and medicines for ailments that Father Cormac could only pray over, big lot of help that was.

  Brónach put another block of peat on the fire and swung the kettle back over the flames to heat. Caitríona watched as she took yet more leaves from other pots and crumbled them into two earthen cups. Within a few minutes, she poured the hot water from the kettle into the cups, allowing the leaves to steep.

  All of this took place in silence. Brónach put the kettle back on the fire and turned to Caitríona. “I hear,” she said at last, “that you and Orla are to go to America.”

  Caitríona nodded as Brónach handed her one of the cups, and took the other herself. Caitríona sniffed at the aromatic steam rising off the hot liquid. It smelled of heather and lavender, and it smelled like the wind blowing in off the sea. It made Caitríona’s heart ache for all the things she would never know again.

  “Drink, child.”

  Caitríona had the feeling Brónach could read her thoughts as she raised the cup to her lips. She could feel the brew warming her as it went down her gullet, spreading out to her limbs with a tingle and making her face feel as if it glowed.

  “What is this?” she gasped, a little frightened.

  “‘Twill help us see what is in store for you,” said Brónach.

  “You can do that?” Caitríona whispered.

  “Aye, if the Dagda will show us,” Brónach said, her eyes narrowing a bit.

  “The Dagda?” Caitríona repeated, her mouth gaping. She made a quick sign of the cross.

  “Do not insult the old ones with Christian nonsense,” the seanmhair snapped. “The Dagda, his daughter Brighid – they cannot kill the old ones, so they turn them into something they can understand, into saints. Phah!” she said, spitting into the fire where her spittle sizzled and steamed.