One Year (27 page)

“I
agree that what she did was wrong, but it wasn't a crime, Mary.”

Mary Bernadette and her husband were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Two barely touched cups of tea sat in front of them.

“Her irresponsible actions,” Mary Bernadette replied, “have further painted this family in a bad light.”

Paddy sighed and took a sip of his lukewarm tea. “She was no more than immature.”

Mary Bernadette pushed her own cup away from her. “Fine,” she said, “take her side, but I have no further use for that girl. I wish I had never given her my aunt Catherine's wedding ring. She has no right to be wearing it.”

“Now, Mary,” Paddy said. “You don't mean that.”

“Don't I? In fact, I hope the marriage ends before too much more time passes.”

Paddy's face grew red. “Divorce is a terrible thing to wish upon anyone,” he said angrily. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Mary Bernadette was speechless for a moment. Her husband had never contradicted her so strongly. But in another moment, she had found her voice. “I'm not in the least ashamed of myself,” she said. “I have my family's best interests at heart. I have my grandson's happiness to consider. Someone has to take charge when things go awry.”

“Mary, PJ's marriage is between PJ and his wife.”

“Be that as it may, I can't in all good conscience sit idly by while my grandson's wife wreaks havoc with our good name. Reputation is more enduring than life. My poor mother, God rest her soul, used to say that, and she was right.”

“A family's reputation means nothing next to—”

Mary Bernadette rose from the table. “That's final, Paddy. Now, I'm going to bed.”

Leaving her husband to put the teacups in the dishwasher, Mary Bernadette climbed the stairs to their bedroom and closed the door behind her. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. Her eyes, usually so keen and bright, looked dull. She felt unhappy and afraid. She was not in the habit of losing her temper, and yet she had been losing it often lately, too often. Her admirable self-control was slipping away. And to what living creature could she turn for help? She was trapped within the bonds of privacy she herself had put in place long ago. Her isolation was her own doing.

Mary Bernadette opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and reached for the locked box containing the photographs of William. And then she withdrew her hand. Suddenly, without warning, there had come that needle-sharp worry, that dreadful suspicion that somehow she had been responsible for her son's untimely death. More than fifty years had passed, but still in her darker moments Mary Bernadette was assaulted by feelings of guilt that her child's passing had been a divine punishment for her overweening pride in him, for the intense joy she had found in his presence.

“A man may be his own ruin,” her father used to say. “It's a wedge from itself that splits the oak tree.” All the years after his death Mary Bernadette could still hear his voice, rich and mellow, as if he were right there in the room with her. Her beloved father. He had been right about most things but . . .

Mary Bernadette shook her head. No. The fault for William's death did
not
lie within her. It
could
not. And neither was she the author of her current woes. The cause there was to be found in the person of Wynston Meadows. And a family might be its own ruin, too, Mary Bernadette reflected, with one troublesome member acting as the wedge that drove the unit apart. And that wedge was her grandson's wife.

Mary Bernadette reached into the drawer now for her old missal. Its black leather covers were soft with age, the thin paper almost fuzzy. She turned to the last page and read aloud a prayer written there in her mother's hand. It had often brought her comfort.

“Oh, Mary, who had the victory over all women, give me victory now over my enemies, that they may fall to the ground, as wheat when it is mown.”

Mary Bernadette gently closed the old book. “Amen,” she said.

T
he only other time Alexis had been in Oliver's Well Memorial Cemetery was when she had substituted for Richard Armstrong in leading the Haunted Oliver's Well tour. That was long before she had known anything about William Fitzgibbon. The cemetery wasn't Catholic, but Alexis thought that Mary Bernadette's devotion to Oliver's Well might have convinced her to lay her child to rest in the company of the town's earliest settlers. If William's grave was not to be found here, Alexis would look elsewhere for it. She had a very strong need to visit the little boy's place of rest.

The cemetery was a jumble of half-crumbling headstones dating back to the early seventeenth century and newer, shiny marble memorials erected as late as the 1980s. There were a few mausoleums, largely covered in lichen and moss. Some areas were overgrown with weeds, though other areas were well cared for. Alexis wondered if the cemetery was owned by the OWHA. She had never bothered to ask.

Alexis had no clear idea of where to begin her search. She didn't want to ask the custodian for help in locating the site. She didn't want it advertised around town that she was aware that William Fitzgibbon had lived and died. But luck was with Alexis, and she found the gravesite before long. It was, as she knew it would be, well tended, probably by Mary Bernadette herself.

Alexis felt immeasurable sadness descend upon her.
So few words to commemorate a life,
she thought.
The poor little thing
. She hoped that he hadn't suffered, but a child that young wouldn't understand that he was dying; he wouldn't understand why he was in pain. All he might have known was that his mother wasn't making him better. All he might have known was confusion. And it was awful to imagine what it must have taken Mary Bernadette to survive the death of her firstborn and to find the courage to give birth to more children. Every time Mary Bernadette kissed her second son and her daughter good night, had she wondered if they, too, would be taken from her before their time?

Alexis gently touched the stone. She didn't know if PJ had ever visited William's grave. She wouldn't ask him, not now. She wouldn't tell him that she had been here, either. He might think she had no right to pay her respects. He might think she was being careless with the heavy veil of silence his grandmother had chosen to lay over the past.

But maybe she was being unfair to PJ. She had to learn how to school her thoughts toward reconciliation and kindness. She
had
to. So much was at stake. Alexis sat carefully on a crumbling stone bench not far from the headstone. She had been thinking about how it might have been for Megan when she first came to the Fitzgibbon family. There was no doubt in her mind that her mother-in-law had met with much of the same domineering behavior from Mary Bernadette as Alexis was experiencing now. She saw the way Mary Bernadette still criticized her. But Megan was such a strong person, so much more mature than Alexis felt she would ever be. And she had a husband who stood up for her no matter what.

How sad, Alexis thought now. Once she had believed that she would find all the meaning and purpose she needed in being PJ's wife. But now, being his wife didn't seem enough at all. Maybe it had been foolish to think that she could find perfect fulfillment only in relation to another person. She was embarrassed that she had fallen victim to such an archaic way of thinking. How—and why—had she so absorbed the notion of . . . of subservience? Was she so fundamentally lazy that the notion of forging her own life was unappealing? Or was she at heart a coward, afraid that if she tried her hand at an important task—like living an examined life of her own—she would fail and not find the energy to try again?

Alexis sighed. She wanted to pray for peace of mind, but she didn't quite know how. As best as she could, she put aside all distracting thoughts and began to recite the Lord's Prayer.

Forgive us our trespasses/as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Alexis knew that she should forgive Mary Bernadette for her interference and her insults, but she wasn't sure that she could. And she believed that Mary Bernadette should forgive
her
for having abandoned the project for the OWHA, but she wasn't sure that Mary Bernadette would. And PJ . . . Did he need forgiveness ? Was it wrong of him to love his grandmother to the point of ignoring his own wife? Yes, of course it was. But was love to be regulated and restricted? That couldn't be right, either.

What was true forgiveness, anyway, Alexis wondered, looking at little William's grave. Could anyone, even the wisest person, understand the nature of something so intangible? Was forgiveness real, or was it just an end product of the human desire for peace? Did it matter?

And lead us not into temptation . . .
Oh, those words came too close for comfort! Morgan Shelby certainly presented a temptation for her to break her marriage vows, and for the sake of what? Momentary physical excitement? Alexis sighed. It was no good. She felt more troubled and tormented for her efforts at prayer. Prayer was supposed to comfort those in need, but too often Alexis found that it only made her more acutely aware of her misery.

“God,” she said now, “if you are there and if you hear me, please help me. Please help me see my way through this troubled time.”

And oddly enough, after a few moments Alexis did feel a small sense of peace steal over her. She wondered if it was a gift from William.

T
hat evening, Alexis made one of PJ's favorite meals—oven-fried chicken with crispy kale and home fries. After dinner, during which neither had spoken much, she reached across the table and laid her hand on his. He flinched, but he did not pull away.

“PJ,” Alexis said. “I want to apologize. For . . . well, for everything. I . . . I don't know what came over me for a while.... But I'm very sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

PJ seemed to sag in relief. He laid his other hand over hers. “It's all right,” he said. “Of course I forgive you. And I'm sorry, too. Really, I am. Will you forgive me?”

Alexis nodded. PJ's apology had sounded entirely sincere. But she suspected he had no real idea what he was apologizing for. She suspected that he just wanted things back the way they had been, before her discontent had taken shape. Maybe that was all she could expect of him. Maybe that was enough.

“I can't stand being mad at each other,” he said. “It hurts too much.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I feel the same way.”

“I hate when we fight. It's all so . . . so pointless.”

“Yes,” she said, though she believed that there were points to be made.

“We never used to fight like this. But ever since that Wynston Meadows came to town . . .” PJ frowned and shook his head.

Alexis refrained from pointing out that her discontent had begun before Wynston Meadows landed in Oliver's Well.
Maybe,
she thought,
I should speak. Maybe this is part of the problem
. But she held her tongue. This truce was too new, too fragile.

“Have you apologized yet to Grandmother?” PJ asked.

“Not yet,” she said, forcing a smile. “But I will.”

“Good. Then everything can get back to normal.”

“Yes,” she said. “Back to normal.”

PJ stood, and still holding her hand he led her to the bedroom. They made love for the first time in a long while. After, in an attempt to maintain the delicate atmosphere of reconciliation, Alexis suggested they watch a movie together, something they hadn‘t done in months.

“Great idea,” PJ said. “I'll make some popcorn. And let's watch something funny. We've had enough doom and gloom around here lately.”

Alexis waited on the couch for her husband. She felt vaguely depressed and at the same time vaguely comforted. She knew that nothing had been solved, but at least a bit of the tension between them had lifted, if only for the moment. And for that she was grateful.

PJ came into the living room carrying an enormous bowl of popcorn. He was smiling. Alexis couldn't remember when she had last seen him smile, and it made her smile in return. He put the bowl on the coffee table and sat down next to her. Alexis took his hand.

“How about
Caddyshack
?” PJ suggested.

Alexis nodded. “Sure,” she said. It was one of PJ's favorite movies. She had watched it with him five or six times. And she found it more boring with each viewing. But she had never told him that, and she wouldn't tell him that now. Since the beginning of their relationship she had hated to disappoint or to disagree with him. PJ was a sensitive person. She had always been so careful of his feelings. She would try to be careful of them still. After all, she loved him. She loved him.

M
ary Bernadette locked the front door and turned toward the driveway. “Oh Lord,” she muttered. There was her neighbor, Lucy Burrows, hurrying up the drive, a big smile on her overly made-up face.

“Mrs. F!” she called. “I'm glad I caught you.”

“Mrs. Burrows.” Mary Bernadette hated being called Mrs. F (let alone Mary B.)—it was so common—but she had long ago stopped correcting Lucy Burrows, as her admonitions fell on deaf ears.

Lucy came to a panting halt. Mary Bernadette noted with distaste that her bra straps—bright pink—were showing. “You look lovely as always,” Lucy said.

“Thank you.”
It's because my underwear is safely secured,
she added silently.

“Mike and I are having a small party Saturday night, just a few people from the neighborhood and one or two from Mike's job. Did you know he's got a new job? It's at the dry cleaners. Anyway, very casual, pigs in a blanket and chips and dip, though if you wanted to bring something fancier, you're welcome to! Oh, what I mean is, we'd love it if you and Paddy could come, too. Starts at seven and goes on till who knows when!”

Mary Bernadette was briefly stunned. There was very little in the entire known world that she would like to do less than to spend an evening hobnobbing with the Burrows and their mates. Really, she thought, what had possessed the woman to invite people so clearly not of their social circle?

“Thank you,” she said, regaining her voice, “but I'm afraid we have a prior commitment that evening.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” Lucy said. “Well, maybe some other time then.”

Mary Bernadette smiled slightly.

It was then that Lucy reached out and put her hand on Mary Bernadette's arm. “You take care, Mrs. F.,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Don't let them rich types get you down. Pardon my French.” Lucy removed her hand and hurried back across the street to her house with the perpetually broken shutter.

Mary Bernadette got into her car and sat for a moment before starting the engine. The encounter had left a bad taste in her mouth. The last thing she wanted was pity from the likes of Lucy Burrows. And that's what the invitation to that dreadful party had been, an act of pity. The last thing Mary Bernadette wanted from
anyone
was pity.