The Canterbury Sisters (33 page)

“Ah,” said Matthew. “That would indeed seem to earn her a scrap of his sheet.”

“I don’t know how it’s possible,” I say to Valerie, “that you and I would turn out to have the same mother. Because that sounds exactly like something Diana would say.”

“I’ve always thought perhaps all American women of a certain age once slept with Elvis,” Matthew says. “And that perhaps all their daughters were his illegitimate love children, scattered across the land. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to make sense of your country.”

“People go to Graceland,” Valerie says, “to be healed, so I guess it’s the American version of Canterbury. They say it has the same magic.”

I’m not sure she should have called it “magic.” I understand the point she’s trying to make, but I wince again. Because “magic” is a dismissive word, implying that Canterbury is more scam than salvation, more tourist trap than house of worship.

But Matthew seems unperturbed. He brushes back his pale bangs and looks up at the shrine with a small smile. I guess there’s nothing we could say about Canterbury that he hasn’t thought of first.

“I’m sorry,” Valerie says softly, as if she realizes she’s been disrespectful, but Matthew shakes his head.

“No, you’re quite right. It’s just as you say, that Becket became a celebrity. History’s first rock star. The blood of the martyr went up for sale and the claims of miraculous healing began almost at once. There was a stampede of the lost and broken, all heading to this one particular shrine, just as Chaucer tells us in his
Canterbury Tales
.”

“‘The holy blissful martyr for to seek,’” Valerie says, maybe showing off to regain any ground she’s lost. “‘So he would helpen them when they were weak.’ Or I think the prologue goes something like that.”

“Quite good, very good,” Matthew says. “For there is weakness in everyone, is there not? Have not all of us been drawn here to the shrine of the martyr because, consciously or unconsciously, we seek some sort of help?”

It’s just the opening I was waiting for. I get up and wander over to the altar, presumably to study the inscriptions, but actually to give the two of them a moment alone. Because this would be the perfect time and place for Valerie to tell Matthew why she has come to Canterbury. I don’t know if she will, or what she might say, but they need a moment of privacy.

Besides, it’s also a good opportunity to drop a pinch of Diana. There’s not that much of her left, so I’m going to have to be judicious and I don’t want Matthew to see what I’m doing. There’s undoubtedly some sort of ordinance against it. I mean, let’s face it, a rather high percentage of people in the world eventually die and you can’t have all their relatives dragging them to Canterbury and throwing their ashes around the Cathedral. The place is big, but not that big, and while Matthew seems like the kind of priest who might be sympathetic to my mission, I don’t want to put him on the spot.

I fish out a few grains, then let them drop at the base of the shrine.

A cat comes up. He rubs against my legs and looks at me expectantly, as if experience has taught him that sometimes pilgrims carry kitty treats. He notes the crumpled fish-and-chips bag in my hand with special interest, but just then I see Matthew and Valerie walking toward me. It’s only been a minute or two and it’s hard to determine what she’s told him, if anything, but his face is changed. Thoughtful, almost somber.

“Off with you,” Matthew says gently. “Move along.” It takes me a minute to realize that he’s talking to the cat. “There are several of these furry little creatures living within the Cathedral,” he adds, this time to me and Valerie. “One of them likes to sleep curled up on the tomb of the Black Prince just beside the main altar. The ladies who run the restoration council find it a bit scandalous, but—”

“I like them,” I say, thinking of the purple dragon back in that small church where we stopped two days ago. The chapel around us is filling. A large tour group has come in and another waits at the door behind them. The shrine of Becket is one of the most popular spots within the church, and Matthew notices them too and begins herding Valerie and me toward one of the halls.

“This way next,” he says. “Toward the rear a bit.”

Matthew steps between us as we walk along the side flanks of the Cathedral, glancing left and right at the various nooks as we pass. Some are dark and free of ornamentation, while others practically assault you with their displays of glitter and gold. The center section, where Matthew tells us that seven daily services are held, is raised and bright and full of the curious, as well as, I suppose, dead princes and sleeping cats. It is the place for great proclamations, the most public face of the Cathedral. But these side sections of the church, with their mazes of small rooms and narrow hallways, seem meant for a different purpose.

We stop seemingly at random in front of a cluster of pews. I guess this is the rear of the building. I’m turned around.

“We can do the blessing here, if you like,” Matthew says. “It’s private. It has access to water in case you . . . I should have thought to ask before we began. Do either of you call yourself Christian?”

“I do,” I say. I say it so fast that I think I startle all three of us. I certainly startle myself. Where the hell did that come from? Have I been dazzled by the setting, the splendor, the gentle drone of an organ in some distant hall, the story of Becket’s sacrifice, or by the mere fact that Matthew is kind? For he is kind, and this has not been my experience with most holy men, not at all. The cat has followed us. I don’t realize it until I sit down and he jumps on my lap.

“Don’t feel you have to say that to please me,” Matthew says. He makes a halfhearted swatting gesture at the cat, who looks back at him with contempt before settling into the valley of my legs. “Canterbury offers a variety of blessings, suitable for all sorts of travelers. I was only asking if you wanted communion in addition to the prayer and foot-wiping.”

“We want the whole package,” Valerie says, sitting down beside me. “I call myself a Christian too.”

Matthew disappears. Valerie and I wait with the cat.

“Oh God,” she mutters under her breath. “Are we going to hell? We’ve just lied to a priest.”

“And a nice one,” I whisper back. “I think that’s worse. But I don’t believe in hell. I’m not sure I believe in any of this.”

“Then why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. Just in case.”

“It’s easy for you to blow it all off,” she says. “You haven’t gotten a look at your own expiration date.”

“Did you tell him?”

She nods. “You should tell him too.”

“Tell him what?”

“About your mother.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be throwing her around in the church.”

“Why not? They let cats in. You should talk to him. Seriously. He’s different. He looks right at you when he prays.”

“I know.”

He’s also back, coming toward us with a basin, a towel, and two bottles. He has a bottle, in fact, stuck under each armpit, even though one of them presumably contains holy water and the other one communion wine. So far our Canterbury blessing has not been what I expected.

Matthew places the accoutrements of his craft on the stone floor before us.
“Why do people pilgrimage?” he asks.

I assume the question is rhetorical, the start of some prepared speech or prayer. But Valerie sees what I don’t, that he’s really asking us. As he begins to pour water in the basin, she gives him the same explanation that Tess gave us back in the George Inn.

“They come seeking forgiveness and healing,” she says.

“And which do you seek?” he asks.

“Both, I guess,” she says. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

He looks up from the bowl and winks at her. But a priest wouldn’t wink at a dying woman, would he? Of course not. I’ve been teetering on the verge of a full-blown hallucination all week, what with the swarming bees and kisses in the smoking garden and children being struck by cars in the middle of an empty street, and if I didn’t know better I would swear I had somehow gotten myself drunk again. But I guess Matthew might wink at Valerie, that it’s possible they’ve shared something during their brief private talk that I’m yet incapable of understanding. Which at this point could be just about anything, because I’m feeling very stupid and I’ve even started crying again. And I don’t know if I’m crying because my mother is dead or crying because Valerie’s cancer has come back, or crying because someday I will be dead too. Death feels realer than life in this place and despite the fact that Matthew has poured water into the basin, he is now picking up the other bottle, the one with wine. So apparently we are to have communion before our blessing, sharing before absolution. He pulls a plug from the top of the earthenware bottle and a plastic cup from where it has been wedged onto the bottom. This is simultaneously the most humble and most exalted of ceremonies. Valerie looks over at me, and this time the wink is definitely real. What wine will this be—what vintage and what grape? Is God’s sense of humor broad enough to send redemption in the form of a nice white zinfandel?

But instead it is a red wine, blood-colored and serious. Matthew’s hands enfold the plastic cup, and as he moves toward me I can see he has a bump on his third finger, the type of cyst a child gets when he is first learning to write. He raises the cup to my lips and I take a deep breath to pull in the aromas, more from habit than anything else, but there is nothing before me but grapes and alcohol. It feels warm and thin on my tongue.

“This is the blood of Christ,” he says softly, “spilled for you.”

I struggle with it. Dip my head too far and when he tilts the glass I nearly choke. It rushes at me, not a sip but a swill, and I know that whatever I’m feeling is not because I am dazzled by the Cathedral. Not by the riches of Canterbury or even its history. What would happen if I began to laugh hysterically during this communion, here in this holy place? Probably nothing. Matthew would continue with the sacrament. He’s that type. He would soldier on without judgment, no matter what his pilgrims do. The Cathedral is ancient and enormous. Everything that can happen to a human being has undoubtedly happened here at some time or another. People have laughed and cried, died and been born, choked on Jesus or accepted him without question, made love and made murder, all within these walls.

I close my eyes and pretend to pray. Hear the murmur of Matthew offering the wine to Valerie, her own smaller and more ladylike slurp.
This is it, Mom
, I think.
I’ve got you all the way here and if this isn’t enough, then we’re both of us sunk. Because, God knows, we’ve got no plan B.

When I open my eyes, Matthew is back on his knees before me, which seems overwhelming too, and somehow wrong. If it’s hard for a modern woman to bow, it is even harder to be bowed before. To accept the fact that this man has dropped to his knees and is taking my boot in his hand. Or rather Valerie’s boot, for we never bothered to swap them back. He dips the cloth into the basin of water, then wipes the leather with a single damp corner, smoothing away the dust of the trail and a little of Diana too, I’d imagine. Even though this modern version of foot washing is not quite so intimate as the original, it’s still touching, and as he moves to Valerie he continues to murmur something softly. Apparently this is the blessing, and I can’t catch all of what he’s saying. Something about “the circle of life,” but surely that’s wrong, too Elton John and Broadway, and then he says, quite clearly, “May the broken world ride on your shoulders,” and I lean back in the pew and exhale.

It’s a real exhalation, the kind you make only a few times in your life. I sneak my hand into the bag in my backpack, which is balanced on the pew beside me.

The cat’s ears rise hopefully at the reappearance of the white fish-and-chips bag. He is probably thinking
Yum.
I try not to rustle the paper. Valerie and Matthew need their moment, and he has taken her hands in his now. She is bent forward and they hover, their foreheads nearly touching, completely absorbed. I ease the baggie from the bag, slip my fingers inside of it, and then slowly expand them, pushing the walls apart.

The bag tears. Easily. It has been held together by Band-Aids and desperation for some time now. It is more than ready to break. As my fingers continue to open, the plastic gives way, and the last of Diana’s ashes run down my palm, falling to the stone floor.

My mother is gone. My mother is everywhere.

This would be the logical time to cry. The logical time to give in to the emotion I’ve been tamping down all morning. All week, all year, all my life. So of course I don’t. Now that my great quest has been completed, the energy seems to go right out of me. I sit back against the pew. Watch Matthew and Valerie, still forehead to forehead, his lips moving and then hers. I close my eyes too.

Is this enough? Enough for Diana or even for me? Life will always be a mystery. Whatever you think you own can be taken from you in an instant and—even more confounding—all the things you once thought were lost can come rushing back. The veil that hangs between worlds has felt very thin to me lately. As easily ripped as a ziplock bag, and almost illusionary, like maybe death isn’t so awful or even so far away.

I open my eyes and look around me, at the great windows in the distance, high and colorful, full of saints I can’t name and I know that my body, this body I now sit in, dusty and tired, is just one more thing that I will someday lose. And when that day comes, whether it is fifty years from now or tomorrow, whether I’m sleeping in a nursing home bed or looking the wrong way as I step off a curb, I hope I will die exactly like my mother did. I hope that I toss my body aside just as she tossed hers, with no more thought than Claire throwing one of her many sweaters across a rented bed. I hope I leave this world gracefully, like a pilgrim slips from the back of his donkey at the end of a long ride, like a traveler disembarks from an airplane that has carried him across a great ocean. The way a letter slides from an envelope once it has finally been delivered.