Beverly Byrne (3 page)

"Well,
if you're near a Schrafft's, get one of those gorgeous fudge cakes. Bessie is a
terrible baker. Warren likes cakes from Schrafft's best of all." Her
attention suddenly switched. "You like Luke, don't you?"

Amy
was startled. "Of course I do. He's been so kind to me. You all
have."

"I
don't mean that," Lil said. "It's just that Luke is such a golden
boy. While Tommy ..." Her voice trailed off.

"Tommy
is very amusing," Amy said. She felt obliged to defend the younger
Westerman boy, though she didn't know why.

"He's
brilliant, you know that don't you? Tommy's going to make his mark. Politics, I
imagine. He's really extraordinarily intelligent. Charles always said so."

Lit
wore a double strand of pearls, and she kept toying with them while she spoke.
Her hands, Amy noticed, betrayed her fifty plus years as none of the rest of
her did. They trembled slightly and blue veins showed against crinkled skin.
"Tommy's quite strong you know. Despite his leg. He does special
exercises, and his arms and shoulders are powerful. He can lift anything."

"Yes,
Aunt Lil, I know. I think both Luke and Tommy are wonderful. And I'm very
grateful ..."

"Shh."
She leaned forward and put her hands on the girl's shoulders. "I don't
want you talking about gratitude. Your mother and father were Charles and
Cecily's best friends. We love you, darling, and we're overjoyed to have you
with us. Particularly just now. That's not what I mean at all."

"What
do you mean, Aunt Lil?"

The
older woman smiled. "I'm a silly old maid who's still a romantic at heart.
I mean nothing, darling, ignore me. Have a nice day tomorrow."

Luke
had to go to Donald Varley's office to sign some papers, one of the reasons for
his trip, so he took Amy to Wall Street first.

"You
know Uncle Donald, don't you, Amy?" Luke asked when they were shown into
the lawyer's presence.

"We've
met," Varley said. "I'm glad to see you looking so well, Miss Norman.
May I call you Amy? Good. The country air must agree with you." He pushed
some papers toward Luke while he spoke. Luke hesitated for a moment and
exchanged a look with his uncle. Then he signed them quickly, without bothering
to read the contents.

"I
had a note from your headmistress the other day, Amy," Varley said.
"She's concerned about you. You should write to Miss Taylor."

"Yes,
I know I should. I will, this week. I promise."

"That's
fine. Now, can I offer you two young people lunch? I've a regular table at Luchows.
The food's quite good."

"Thanks,
but we've errands to do," Luke said quickly. "We'll get something
later."

They
rode uptown on a bus, sitting on the open upper deck, and Luke accompanied Amy
on the foray into Altman's. Then they went to Schrafft's for lunch and bought a
fudge cake on their way out. It had been cloudy during the morning; now the sum
came out and it grew hotter. Amy felt the weight of her black serge dress.

"You're
looking tired," Luke said solicitously. "I have to go up to
Sixty-sixth Street. We'll take a taxi." He hunted until he found one of
the few remaining horse-drawn cabs, and Amy sat beside him in friendly silence,
watching the city pass by. In twenty minutes they pulled up by a large gray
pseudo-gothic building. St. Vincent Ferrer's Church, a sign said. Dominican
Priory.

"What
does that mean?" Amy asked.

"The
Dominicans are a religious order. Priests who follow after St. Dominic. He
lived in the twelfth century."

"Then
they've a long way to follow," she said.

He
smiled his sunny smile, as if her wit were magnificent. "I have to see
someone here. Would you mind waiting? You can sit in the church. It's cool and
no one will bother you. I won't be long."

"I
don't mind."

He
ushered her inside. Amy just stood, but Luke genuflected and knelt in a pew for
a few moments. After he left she sat on one of the wooden benches and studied
the long nave and the elaborate statuary. She had no eye for art, but she
recognized what was here as being better than the pink and white plaster
figures s.cattered around the house in Cross River. Soon Luke returned and they
went outside into the sunlight.

"Look,"
he said as if the idea had just occurred to him, "would you mind visiting
one more church? I'd like to show you something."

"Can
we walk?" she said. "I'd like to."

They
headed further uptown and in half an hour reached Eighty-third Street and
Madison Avenue. This church was different from the first. It was of gray stone
too, but it had no gothic pretensions. The letters A.M.D.G. were carved over
the door. "This is a Jesuit church," Luke explained. "They're
another religious order. The initials stand for their motto. Latin for 'To the
greater glory of God.' It's our parish church. Our house is nearby."

The
interior was bigger and brighter than that of St. Vincent Ferrer. Luke directed
her to a side altar with a statue of the Virgin Mary, drew her to the wall and
pointed to a marble plaque.

It
was obviously new, and bore the names of Charles and Cecily Westerman; 'Lost at
sea and safe with almighty God' it said. Then the letters R.I.P.

"I
just wanted you to know it was here," Luke said. "I don't know why it
seemed important. Crazy, I guess."

Amy
felt a sudden sense of the most terrible and agonizing desolation. In seconds
she was wracked with sobs.

"Oh,
lord! Amy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I thought you'd find it
comforting. The same's true of your parents. It has to be. Oh, please stop
crying. I'm so very sorry."

"It's
all right, it's not your fault," she managed to say. He handed her his
handkerchief, and she blew her nose and looked around. Except for themselves,
the church was deserted.

"I
didn't have any funeral for my parents," she whispered. "I thought
about it, but nobody said anything and we aren't religious so ..."

Luke
looked horrified for a moment, but he masked the reaction quickly. "We can
still arrange something," he said. "I'll help if you like. You're
Protestants, aren't you?"

"No,"
she shook her head. The sobs were still threateningly close. "We're not
anything. Maybe it could be here. They could have a plaque next to this one.
They were such good friends . . ." Her voice trailed away when she saw the
look on his face.

"I'm
sorry," Luke said. "It's not allowed. Because they weren't Catholics.
But I'm sure we can find another church. I'll talk to someone right away."

She
shook her head again. "No, that's all right, it's a silly idea. They were
never religious. Neither am I."

They
spoke little on the journey home. Luke tried to bring up the subject again, but
Amy forestalled him.

When
they were on the train she remembered the chocolate fudge cake. They'd left it
behind in the church. In her mind's eye she could clearly see the white box
with its blue lettering. She'd left it on the velvet cushion of the kneeler in
the side chapel, below the plaque to the Westermans. She wondered what the next
visitor would think of such an offering.

3

"WHAT
 HAPPENED  IN  NEW YORK?" TOMMY flipped a flat stone into the pond and
some ducks squawked angrily.

"Why
do you think anything happened?" Amy trailed her hand in the water. It was
warm and felt slightly slimy. She withdrew her fingers quickly.

"Because
you and Luke haven't said a word to each other since you got back," Tommy
said. "Are you angry with him? Hard to imagine good old Luke being anything
but a perfect gentleman."

"Oh,
no!" Amy said. "It wasn't anything like that."

"But
it was something. What?"

She'd
been trapped into granting his premise. "He took me to a church to see the
memorial plaque to your mother and father."

Tommy
looked at her. "Why'd that make you mad?" he asked in wonder.

 "It
didn't. It upset me, that's all." She told him what had happened.

"My
brother's an ass," Tommy said. "Sorry, but it's true. "

"You
mean I could have a plaque for my parents? Next to the one for yours?"

Tommy
threw another stone, this time with more force. A duck just missed being hit.
"No, he told that one straight. Against church rules."

"Well,
it doesn't matter," she said, just as she had to Luke. "I don't
believe in God anyway."

"Then
why worry? If I could forget about hell, I wouldn't worry about anything. It's
all a damn sight easier if you convince yourself there's no God."

Amy
shook her head and the sunlight glimmered on her hair. She'd been wearing it up
all summer. Now it fell loose down her back in an ebony curtain. "I'd like
to think I'll see them again. I just can't make myself believe it."

Tommy
whistled softly through his teeth. "You shouldn't play about with
philosophy. Women aren't suited for it. C'mon." He rose and pulled her up
after him. It was always a shock to Amy to discover how strong he was.

"Where
are we going?" she asked.

"To
church."

"No,
Tommy, I don't want to. I'm sick of being dragged into churches, first by Luke
and now by you."

"Will
you stop chattering," he said angrily. "Just come along." He
pulled her behind him; his grip on her wrist was unbreakable. Their progress
across the field and up the garden path was marked by Tommy's arhythmic
movements.

He
pushed her into the Pierce-Arrow and started the motor and they headed toward
the village.

Sacred
Heart Church had been built only a few years earlier. It was a small white
clapboard building that existed to serve the Italians and Irish who worked on
the nearby farms. "Father O'Reilly won't be here," Tommy said.
"He always goes to the racetrack on Friday afternoons. But he never locks
the church."

Tommy
did however. Once they were inside he threw the sliding bolt on the door and
walked over to the side entrance to make sure it was locked too. Only then did
he genuflect before the flickering candle near the high altar.

Amy
stood in the dimness and watched him. She felt fear, but didn't know of what
she was afraid. Not of Tommy certainly. Just of his bizarre behavior perhaps. "Right
here," he said, pointing to a bare piece of white painted wall beneath an
elaborate stained glass window.

Amy
looked up and saw a notice. It said that the window had been the gift of Mr.
and Mrs. Charles Westerman. "Right here what?" she asked.

"Here's
where we're going to put up a memorial to your parents." Tommy grinned at
her in his lopsided boyish way. He had a spattering of freckles across his nose
and cheeks; they stood out in the dim interior. "You'll be hedging your
bets, so to speak." he said. "In case we're right and you're wrong,
and there is a God after all."

She
couldn't keep from giggling. "That's ridiculous."

"Of
course it is," he said. He was laughing too. His hair was brown and curly.
A lock of it was always falling untidily over his gray eyes. Tommy had a habit
of sticking out his lip and blowing upward to clear his vision. He did it now.
"It's nuts," he agreed. "But we're going to do it anyway. Wait a
minute."

She
watched him move off toward a small door beside the altar. It was locked, but
he knew where the key was kept. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with
two candles, a brass dish filled with water, and a peculiar wand-like
implement.

"We're
going to do this right," Tommy said. He placed the candles on the floor
and lit them. Then he sprinkled water on the wall using the wand that he said
was called an agpergillum. "It's holy water," he explained.
"Specially blessed. Maybe by the pope, I don't know. But I know the
drill." His voice became solemn. "In the name of the Father and of
the Son and of the Holy Ghost," he said, sprinkling the wall with water
once more. "There, now it's consecrated."

Amy
watched him in fascination. He fished out a pocketknife and stepped closer to
the space he'd chosen for the inscription. "How did your folks spell their
names exactly?"

She
told him, but he got no further than the J in Jessie. "The wall's stone.
I'm not making any impression. "

"Here,
use my ring." She pulled it from her finger and handed it to him.

"This
is real, is it?" he said in surprise. "But then it would be. The
Norman Diamond Mines. I forgot."

"It
was a present from my father for my seventeenth birthday. It's the first stone
he took out of the mine."

"Good,
it'll do the job and it's appropriate." He carefully etched the names
Jessie and Roland Norman on the wall. "What else do you want to say?"

"Nothing,
only their names, that's all."

"You
sure? How about the date of the sinking?"

"No,
nothing more."

"Not
even R.I.P.?"

She
shook her head and he nodded in agreement. "Ok. But we'll say a
prayer." Tommy gave her back the ring and once more donned an air of
studied solemnity. He lifted the agpergillum and flicked holy water at the
rough inscription. "Lord," he said softly. "You know what we have
in mind. May they rest in peace. Amen." He looked expectantly at Amy.

"Amen,"
she said.

"Good
girl."

Afterward,
when they'd put everything back in the sacristy and left, she asked him about
the priest. "Won't you get into a lot of trouble?"

"No.
I'll square it with O'Reilly. He drinks like a fish, a couple of cases of
Scotch will do it."

It
was close to dinner time when they got home. "I have to hurry and
change," Amy said.

"Ok.
And listen, how about giving up black? We've  had a proper memorial service for
them now. That should end your official mourning, shouldn't it?"

Amy
smiled. He had exorcised for her more than the ghost of that stark moment with
Luke in New York. "All right," she said. "No more black."

That
evening she came downstairs in a pale cream dress of cotton lace. It made the
warm pink tones of her skin glow. "How very attractive you look, my
dear," Lil said. "I am glad to see you wearing ordinary clothes
again. You're far too young and pretty for mourning."

A
couple of days later Tommy reported. "Father O'Reilly's hung a holy
picture over the inscription so no one will notice and ask questions. You don't
care, do you?" He looked at her anxiously. "We know it's there.
"

"Yes,"
she agreed. "It's all right, I don't mind about the picture. I hope it's a
nice one."

He
grinned with relief. "It is." He didn't bother to tell her the
painting was entitled "Our Lady Star of the Sea."

August
was a yellow month; a time of buttery sunshine, and goldenrod blooming in the
fields. The sumac trees began to turn color and hint of autumn. It was very
hot, but Amy was used to that. She didn't mind the heat now that she'd given up
the black serge. Slowly her emotional paralysis ebbed.

The
Cross River house was a Victorian folly of turrets and gables and sprawling
porches to which an earlier owner had given the name BalmoraI. It was a self-contained
universe, surrounded by seven acres of grounds, and possessed of a resident
staff that Charles and Cecily had kept on when they bought the place. Balmoral
was isolated by its location, but more effectively by the fact of the
Westermans' religion. The local population were Yankees, and the other summer
residents wealthy New Yorkers of the Protestant elite.

It
had been perverse of Charles to buy in Cross River. He should have chosen a
vacation home on Long Island, Far Rockaway or Southampton, where his fellow
believers congregated. His objection was that those people, the MacDonalds and
the Murrays and their ilk, were Irish. The Westermans were vague about their
ancestry, but they were decidedly not Irish. In his lifetime Charles Westerman
did business with men of every class and shade of belief, but he was more
fastidious in selecting a place to live.

It
was this very isolation which restored Amy. There was a sense in which life at
Balmoral harked back to Jericho. It was a rural fastness without any rural
inconveniences. Every comfort was provided, but no strangers came and went. She
did not have to look from the windows at crowded city streets.

Slowly
she came to life. It was not merely a return to the state before Donald Varley
told her of her parents' death. When she left Africa Amy had suffered a mortal
wound. The ship that sailed out to the Indian Ocean through the strait between
Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar severed her roots. Jessie and Roland knew that she
was sad about leaving, but they assumed that, as they would, Amy would be
secure about returning. She was, however, a child-without control of her own
destiny-and she was gripped by the irrational fears of childhood.

In
the months at Balmoral she began to stop being a child. It was tragedy that
achieved her coming of age, but she needed to absorb the pain of the loss
before she recognized her adulthood. Tommy and the long golden days of that
summer allowed her to do so.

Toward
the end of August Luke was called to the telephone during breakfast. He
returned looking sober and sad. "I'm sorry, bad news," he announced.

Everyone
stopped eating. "We have to leave here right away," Luke said.
"Balmoral has been sold, and the new owners want immediate possession.
That was Uncle Donald on the phone. He's promised them we'll be out in three
days."

"Sold,"
Lil spoke the word as if it were a foreign tongue. "Why ever did you sell
it?"

Warren
cleared his throat noisily. He had spent summers here for the past fifteen
years. "My garden," he muttered. "What about my garden?"

Luke
looked pained. "It's best for the estate. I am sorry."

"You
could have warned us." Tommy's face was deathly white except for two spots
of color in his cheeks. Amy looked at him and realized with shock that it was
fury, not sorrow.

"I
never thought it would happen so quickly," Luke said. "I thought we'd
have this summer. Then I'd tell you, and there'd be the whole winter to get
used to the idea."

Lil
acted as if she'd not heard his explanation. "Why sell Balmoral? We've
always been so happy here. What will we do next year?"

"Go
to the poor house, no doubt," Tommy said, rising quickly. He knocked over
his chair and the noise made a welcome diversion.

Amy
felt herself an awkward witness to a drama in which she had no place. She
responded, nonetheless, to the shock in Lil's face and in Warren's.