Embracing Darkness (24 page)

Jessica jumped excitedly off Sister Ignatius’s lap and ran into the kitchen. Taking another sip of his coffee and getting his thoughts together, Father Poole said, “You know I value your opinion in all this, Sister.”

She concentrated on a fray in the tablecloth, poking under it to find the loose thread. Then, finding it, she tried to break it off while holding the fray down with the fingers of her other hand. She attended to it as if she were being judged on every little imperfection in the house by the
Your
Home
Your
Life
people and needed to get that fray out before it was spotted.

“It’s been eight days,” he went on. “We’ve got to notify the authorities. She can’t just stay here.”

Sister Ignatius let the fray in the tablecloth alone and fired back at the priest, “And why not? She has no one, Father, except
us
.”

“It’s not that simple, Sister. You know that. There are adoption laws to consider. We can’t… that is to say, we don’t… .”

“Do not presume to tell
me
about adoption, Father. I’ve been down that road and know all the ditches in it.”

Father Poole hadn’t the slightest idea what the woman meant. Did she mean that she once had looked into adopting a child? Did she know what it was like to be an adopted child? Had she once been an orphaned child?

“Sister,” said Father Poole. “We need to stay impartial and reasonable about this, as we are not members of the Benson clan. Now I’ve been on the phone with Dolores Pennywhistle, and she’s agreed to come up this afternoon so that we… .”

“DOLORES PENNYWHISTLE!” Sister Ignatius roared. “WE ARE NOT GIVING THIS CHILD UP TO THAT WOMAN!”

The nun pushed her chair back violently, causing it to slam into the already much-abused hutch, breaking one of the small panes of glass in the left door. “That child would be better off here with us,” she continued. “
We
can raise her better than anyone. She’ll grow up with love. Love for us, love for God, love for… .”

She paused, not able to think of another thing to add. Her head swiveled back and forth like the pendulum balls in one of those gold-faced clocks you see nowadays that’s protected by a glass dome.

Then she blurted out carelessly, “Love for those cookies Mrs. Keats keeps baking for her.”

Father Poole got up and approached the nun. He rested his hands on her shoulders. Expecting her to flinch, Father Poole was surprised that Sister Ignatius seemed receptive to his touching her.

He then said to her in a quiet voice, “I know you’re thinking of what is in Jessica’s best interest, but so am I. We have no authority to raise a child. We cannot adopt her legally, and you know that. What’s more, we could never be a
real
family to her, any more than if a couple of muskrats came by and took her for one of their lost young and decided to take her in. She belongs in a home with a man and a woman who can
be
her parents, not pretend to be. And perhaps have a sibling or two, and a puppy or a kitten to cuddle with at night. We can’t offer her any of that.”

Sister Ignatius’s expression still appeared hard, but her voice was soft, possibly as soft as Father Poole had ever heard it. “Don’t you think we could be the girl’s parents?” she asked.

Father Poole suddenly realized that he had never before felt as close to Sister Ignatius as he did at that moment. He shook his head and whispered, “No.”

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the rectory’s front door. Argyle Hobbs could be heard shouting from the porch, “IT’S MI-SS-US PE-NNY-WHI-STLE!”

Dolores cleared her throat to get the handyman’s attention. He glanced slowly over to her, as though he weren’t in any rush to hear what she had to say. As he did so, she saw his eyes roll a little, as if he were about to pass out.

“For your information, impertinent old man, it’s ‘
Miss
.’”

Confused, Argyle Hobbs asked, “Eh?”

Dolores huffed in frustration and wished that she had never agreed to come here.

“I said that it’s not ‘
Mrs.
’ You referred to me as ‘
Mrs.
’”

Argyle Hobbs answered, “Ah yeah?” as if waiting for her to make a point.

“I’m not a ‘
Mrs
.,’” she reiterated, as if every insistence on making the point drew half of what remaining energy she had left in her after her trek up Holly Hill. “I’m a ‘
Miss
.’”

Argyle Hobbs blinked twice. He really didn’t know at first what in the world the woman was making such a fuss about. Then it came to him that he had messed her title up something awful. He slowly removed his dirty hat, mockingly bowed to her as a court subject would to his monarch, and replied, “Oh, so sorry, ma’am.”

As Father Poole opened the front door, Argyle boomed, “IT’S
MISS
PENNYWHISTLE!”

Father Poole greeted Dolores, then inclined his head to Hobbs and said, “Argyle, you don’t have to shout.”

Turning back to his guest, he courteously gestured to the rectory’s entranceway. “Please, Mrs. Pennywhistle.”

She grunted, annoyed that he too had referred to her as “Mrs.,” and then decided to let it go. She entered the rectory, and Father Poole shut the door behind them.

As Argyle Hobbs walked back to the lawn, he said to himself, “Actually I
did
know she wasn’t married. Judgin’ by the sight o’ her, who in his right mind would ever make
that
mistake.”

Dolores was a pudgy woman who stood about five feet tall. She wore her bright red hair short and had pale white skin. She always wore shoes that were too tight, and so the tops of her fat feet bulged out. Dolores Pennywhistle also had a terrible habit of wearing the gaudiest outfits of anyone in Holly.

Miss Pennywhistle particularly loved gardening. She’d won the Annual Holly Gardening Expo the last three years in a row, and the two years before that she was runner-up. She assumed she would be a shoe-in the following June and had already begun preparations for which vegetables she would grow. It had even crossed her mind to attempt orchids, but she thought better of it since vegetables were cheaper and less risky. Not only was Dolores Pennywhistle as thrifty as a Scotsman, but she also was not as confident of her gardening skills as she made people believe. In fact, every time Mayor Aberfoyle pinned a blue ribbon on one of her tomatoes, she’d think to herself how lucky she was that everything went as planned in the end.

Since she had such a green thumb, or acted as though she did, Dolores Pennywhistle was quite keen on anything associated with horticulture. As a result, she adored sunflowers and watering cans. They would, of course, be a fine combination on fabric for anything ranging from tablecloths to a quilt.

When Dolores first saw a bolt of such material in Mason’s General Store, she became hysterical with joy. Its pattern of sunflowers and watering cans was intended for lining a chair or shelf, but that did not deter this enthusiast from envisioning a host of other possibilities.

Speaking as quickly as she could, which meant that the average person perhaps understood one word in three, she said, “Oh, my stars and gardens! I can’t believe it! My two favorite things in the whole wide world! Sunflowers and watering cans! You can’t have one without the other, now can you?”

She posed that question to young Dwight Mason, who responded with a shy, confused expression on his face. “Uh,” he began, “how much of it do ya want?”

“HOW MUCH?” she shrieked in a playfully surprised voice. “Oh, I am such a fan! I will take no less than eight… no, nine… no… . You know what? You better make it the whole thing. Yes, I shall take the entire bolt! I can’t see my way to not getting all of it. I simply MUST have the ENTIRE BOLT! I can’t RISK another woman coming in here and taking a few yards of it for herself and attempting to steal MY IDEA and make a dress out of this fine material, now CAN I? You see, they are two of my favorite things. Them and CHOCOLATE! Chocolate is DIVINE as well, but I can’t very well wear CHOCOLATE on a DRESS, now CAN I?”

Dwight flinched every time Dolores’s voice shrieked. Almost like Morse code, where some of the taps are longer than others, so was Dolores Pennywhistle’s staccato voice. Stupefied and slack-jawed in disbelief, Dwight stared at her blankly. “I guess,” he said, “but I can’t see wearin’ watering cans neither.”

Dolores, however, didn’t hear his remark. She took the entire bolt home with her and had enough material for two dresses and three scarves. She would don the scarves every day, wrapping them tightly around her bulky neck. She would even wear them in the summertime. They became her trademark, bright yellow sunflowers and dark green watering cans on an insipid background of white.

She was dressed no differently for her visit to St. Andrew’s. “I hope this isn’t going to last too long, Father,” said Dolores. “I have many engagements back in town, you know. As you are well aware, not only am I instrumental in finding homes for all our poor, unfortunate, parentless children, but I am also chairwoman of Wheelwright Academy’s Annual Spelling Bee, chairwoman of the Chocolate and Strawberry Day Feast, and chairwoman of WHALE, which as you probably know stands for Women of Holly Against the Legalization of Exeter Ale.”

“Exeter Ale?” Father Poole inquired, biting down hard on his lip to keep from laughing at the acronym WHALE, which he immediately thought must have been named in her honor.
Add
that
to
your
list
of
sins
for
the
week,
ol’
boy
, he thought to himself.

“Yes, Father. Exeter Ale, as you may know, was a popular brand of beer that was the most consumed type of alcohol before Prohibition. And
I
happen to know for a fact that that cursed ale is still being distributed.” She let out a chuckle as if to excuse her digression. “But
that’s
not why I’m here, is it?”

“Mrs. Pennywhistle,” Father Poole said, as she bridled again at the marital title. “As I told you on the phone, we have a bit of a situation here on the hill. As you know, Ben Benson died a short while ago, as well as his grandson a short time before him and the grandson’s wife just a week ago. They left behind a beautiful child, a two-year-old daughter. She’s been living with us ever since, and I… .”

Dolores, who had been only half listening to Father Poole while busy with adjusting her scarf, interrupted. “Father Poole, I doubt very much that you’d be able to adopt any child. Why, what would your congregation think if their own priest had a child? Oh my! The scandal that would ensue!” Then Dolores began talking faster and faster. “I mean, certainly you’d be able to explain that the child was adopted, but then having to keep on explaining the situation for every newcomer who walks into your church? I mean, on and on and on? It would be never-ending! It’s a well known fact among us Protestants that you Catholic priests aren’t allowed to marry or to have children.”

Father Poole, who had tried to interrupt many times during this latest of Dolores Pennywhistle’s rants, finally stopped her before she could continue further. “Uh, Mrs. Pennywhistle.”

She flinched again.

“I have no interest in adopting this child. Lovely as she is, this is not the place for her. Furthermore, my diocese would never allow it. I called you up here to take the child back with you to the orphanage. I wish to leave her in your charge.”

Dolores was annoyed. “Father Poole, if that is the case, why in the world did you have me traipse up here?”

The priest frowned and said, “I didn’t. You told me you’d be right up after I told you I had a matter that concerned the orphanage, and you promptly hung up on me.”

Dolores in turn frowned now.

“Don’t you remember the conversation we had?” he continued. “I said to you, ‘Mrs. Pennywhistle, please come up at your earliest convenience. There are some matters we need to discuss that are of great importance.’ When you asked me what exactly it was in reference to, I replied, ‘It has to do with your orphanage.’”

She shied away from the priest, trying to remember the conversation. “Yes, but I thought you were referring to our annual church fundraiser for the orphanage. I thought that you were going to give me a substantially increased donation. OH, FOR PETE’S SAKE!”

Dolores Pennywhistle promptly tightened her scarf about her neck, clutched the chair’s arms, hoisted herself up, and made her way over to the door.

“Wait, Mrs. Pennywhistle. Where are you going?”

Waddling as fast as she could to the door, she snapped, “I’m getting off this God-forsaken hump.” She then flung the door wide open and stormed out, headed toward “The Path to Salvation.”

Father Poole called to her retreating figure, “What am I to do with this child?”

Stopping once she had reached “The Path to Salvation,” Miss Pennywhistle turned and yelled loud enough for the priest to hear, “THERE IS NO ROOM AT MY ORPHANAGE! I CAN’T TAKE HER NOW. THERE ARE NO FREE BEDS. I’LL NEED TO CONTACT THE STATE AND HAVE
THEM
COME AND COLLECT HER!”

Father Poole called out as she wobbled down the path, “WHEN CAN WE EXPECT THAT TO BE?”

She stopped once more to face him. “AND TELL THAT GIMPY OLD FOOL OF YOURS FOR THE LAST TIME THAT IT’S ‘
MISS
’!”

Four days passed, and not a word did Father Poole hear from Dolores Pennywhistle. He began to think that perhaps she hadn’t been sincere in her promise to call the State. And each day that passed since Dolores’s visit, Sister Ignatius grew happier and happier. Father Poole noticed that there were no more sudden mood swings and that the glue smell had been replaced by lemon verbena. For this the priest was grateful. Nevertheless, Father Poole knew that Jessica couldn’t legally remain at St. Andrew’s. Neither he nor Sister Ignatius, for obvious reasons, could adopt the toddler.

On the fifth morning Father Poole asked Sister Ignatius to dress Jessica. They would be going down to the orphanage to see Dolores Pennywhistle.