The Canterbury Sisters (34 page)

Seventeen

Y
ou never got to tell your story,” Tess says.

It’s another thing that frets her. One more loose end. There are certain experiences she tries to provide for her guests on each guided tour and she’s afraid she’s failed with this one. Already she’s apologized twice for the fact that Valerie and I had to walk into Canterbury unescorted and, even worse, that we were forced to receive absolution from the hands of a man.

This afternoon has had a great deal of coming and going. When the other women arrived at about three, they’d stopped by the lodge first, only to find Valerie and me bedded down in our separate rooms, both sleeping off the effects of our spiritual bender. Then they had walked over to the Cathedral and had their own ceremony with a priest named Virginia, who’d evidently been quite a hit. When Angelique had asked her, “Where do I go next?” Virginia had said, “Home,” and this had set off their own collective crying jag, followed by what I gather was a couple of rather large checks written to the Canterbury Preservation League, courtesy of Claire and Jean. It is just past six now, and the women are all back in the lodge, putting ice packs on their faces and preparing for their final dinner together. When Tess stops by my room, she seems alarmed by the fact that I am still dozing.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” I tell her, sitting up and propping pillows around me. There are plenty of them here in this bed, overstuffed and heavily tasseled, covered in gold-and-burgundy brocade, the colors of royalty. “I promise on my mother’s grave that I got everything out of the trip I needed.”

But she’s still distressed, perhaps because I’ve told her I won’t be joining them at the final dinner, when they will crown the winner at Deeson’s. She stops just short of pushing me on the matter. She says she understands that I might rather rest. I must have been quite a sight yesterday, lying on that café table giving blood. I must have looked either exceptionally noble or exceptionally pathetic, because the women have changed in the way they’re treating me. They look at me with big wide eyes now, as if I might suddenly take flight.

Although I point to the chair, Tess continues to stand. The poshness of our rooms at this final lodge is a sign, I suppose, that our journey truly has come to its end. Our reward for completing the trail comes in the form of duvets, coffeepots, well-lit mirrors, and pulsating showers with unlimited hot water. And there’s a whole closet for Claire, a walk-in, with thick wood hangers. All the rooms have enormous picture windows looking straight at the Cathedral, or at least some piece of it. We’re positioned too close to get any perspective on the whole thing, but a lovely expanse of stone is outside my window.

“Join us just for a drink,” Tess says, pausing in her pacing. “Or an appetizer, perhaps. You can tell your story and then come back straightaway to bed.”

I start to say something about how giving blood to the little boy was perhaps my version of a pilgrim’s tale. Which would be total bullshit, of course. The fluke of having B negative blood is not a story. Or I could recite the first line I’ve been practicing in my head the last forty-eight hours.
My story begins with the death of my mother
 . . . Either of those things would make Tess feel better. She’s haunted with a sense of unfinished business, of eight women walking but only seven stories told. So it would be a kindness to give her something, anything, some sequence of words that would allow her to check my name off the list.

“The priest who blessed us today,” I finally tell her, “was really good at his job. And while he was serving the communion—”

“Communion?” she breaks in, with genuine surprise. “That isn’t part of the blessing.”

Just a little bonus they throw in for the dying,
I think, but out loud I say, “I don’t know what the standard deal is. I only know he offered and we accepted.”

Tess is frowning, trying to reconcile just one more irregularity in her mind. “I didn’t know either one of you were practicing Christians.”

A bell from the Cathedral strikes. A single gong, and Tess and I both look at the clock on the bedside table. 6:15.

“It’s loud, isn’t it?” she says. “I sometimes wonder why we stay here, so close, despite the view. There’s that big boom every quarter hour and of course when midnight comes, the whole lodge is shaken awake. It sounds as if all the angels of heaven have declared war on earth at once.”

“I think it’s magic,” I say, rolling over in bed to face the window. “Everything about it. Valerie used that word today in Becket’s chapel and at first I was afraid she would offend our priest. But now that I’ve slept on it, I can see it’s exactly the right word, and maybe all places are magical if you stop to pay attention. I mean, look at how many miracles we encountered along the path. They’re all around us, even the way that hops turns into beer . . .”

But Tess is still frowning, her head tilted and her arms folded across her chest. She looks like a buried monarch. She came here expecting me to say something, but this evidently wasn’t it. I try again.

“My trip wasn’t incomplete,” I tell her. “I had to get all the way to the end to see that the end wasn’t what counted. Because the trick isn’t being able to recognize the holiness of Canterbury. I mean, look at it. It’s practically standing there in the window screaming, ‘Wake up, woman. Get out of bed. I’m holy.’ But the real trick is seeing the holiness in everything. Everything along every step of the trail, the whole broken world. You get that, don’t you? You must. It’s why you lead these tours.”

Tess hesitates. She’s more comfortable asking questions than answering them. “I’m not entirely sure why I signed on with Broads Abroad,” she says. “I enjoy meeting the women, of course, and it’s extra income during the weeks when university’s not in session.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t just be that. I doubt they pay you that much money.”

“You’re right,” she says, glancing out the window. “The salary’s an insult and yet I keep signing on for just one more tour. How many times have I been here now? Twenty or thirty? Likely more. I always imagine that this is the trip that will be different. What you Americans call ‘the one.’ Oh, the Cathedral is architecturally marvelous, of course. No arguing with that. And the historical significance is profound . . .”

Her voice fades. So there we have it. The Tale of Tess, the shortest of them all and in some ways the most poignant. She leads tours to a destination she herself can never reach. But she shakes off this singular moment of vulnerability, like a dog shaking off rain, and asks, once again, “But you’re satisfied? You found what you were hoping to find here?”

It’s actually more accurate to say I lost what I was hoping to lose here, but there’s no point in telling her this. It would only confuse the matter more, so I nod vigorously and smile.

“When I was in the chapel I made myself a promise. That tomorrow and going forward I’m going to take a few steps toward Canterbury, every day, no matter where in the world I happen to be.”

“Well, that’s quite marvelous,” says Tess. “Really, very good. Do you mind if I write that last bit down, the bit about walking toward Canterbury every day? Perhaps they’d like to use it on the Broads Abroad website.”

“Be my guest.”

Tess makes one more halfhearted stab at trying to convince me to come to dinner with them, but when I beg off a third time, she lets it go. I tell her all I want to do is order room service, soak in a tub, and make it an early night. And it’s true enough. The symmetry appeals to me. I was not with the women on the first night of the pilgrimage and I won’t be with them on their last.

She pauses at the door and looks back. “And your mother?”

“All gone.”

She nods. “Good. So that’s one thing we’ve managed to finish off properly, at least.”

AFTER TESS leaves, I do everything exactly as I said I would. I order a mushroom flatbread and a Diet Coke in a can, relishing the carbonation like a crack addict. Put some of the lovely ginger-scented bath salts in the tub for soaking, and afterward go straight back to bed, wearing the terry cloth hotel robe. The sun faded while I was lingering in the bathroom and the Cathedral looks especially dramatic at night. It’s lit from below, with golden light pulsating upward like water from a fountain, throwing strange shadows over the facade of the building. I chew on the remnants of the flatbread crust and contemplate the fact that I will probably never dine with another view like this one, at least not from my own pillow.

But it’s not yet eight. If I go to sleep now, after spending half the afternoon in bed, I will awaken at three in the morning and that’s not good. Tomorrow is stacking up to be a hell of a day: the break-of-dawn goodbyes, the train to London, a dash across town to the George on the off chance someone has returned my phone, then six hours on a plane back to America. Fetching Freddy from his kennel and beginning the long slog of making sense of my post-Ned life. It exhausts me just to think about it. If I don’t get a good night’s rest now, I’m ruined.

So I decide to get up and take a few laps around the Cathedral, forcing myself to stay awake at least until ten. The longer I’ve lain here, the more I’ve grown curious about what Canterbury feels like at night. The main gates are said to be closed at seven, so the only people on the grounds are worshippers straggling from evensong and those of us staying in the lodge. Even circling the perimeter of the building should be a decent walk, and when, if ever, will I be here again? Besides, this morning I went to Canterbury for Diana, to fulfill my final promise. I still haven’t gone there for myself.

I only have one set of completely clean clothes left, put aside for the flight home, so I drag a somewhat smelly sweater and dusty jeans out of my suitcase and pick up Valerie’s boots. Just looking at them makes me feel guilty. If she could buck up and make it to the last dinner, it seems like I should be able to. Find my way to Deeson’s and join the women at least for a drink or two. Congratulate the winner. I’ll do that, and then take my evening stroll of the grounds.

I walk down the wide, carpeted hall, past the lobby where a group of businessmen is checking in for a conference, through the well-tended garden, and out the front entrance, which leads me into the city. Tess said the restaurant is on Sun Street, which I noticed coming in today, and I can always ask for help if I need it. More people are out than this morning, college students walking by in packs, tourists taking pictures. A young man is handing out flyers for a boat tour of the city the next morning. I take one.

I should stay longer,
I think.
I should have tacked another day onto the vacation, taken the time to relish a bit of Canterbury now that I’m finally here. Maybe I would like to take a rowboat down the Stour, that romantic little river with its unromantic name.
But I’m booked back to America on the noontime flight. At least that’s what I believe my phone said, so I have little choice but to show up with my passport and half-assed explanations and hope they let me on the plane.

I have no trouble finding Deeson’s, which takes up a broad expanse of a building. The night is fine and the patio is charming, with barrels of what appear to be herbs growing amid the sleek slate-top tables. No one is smoking. I find my friends on the inside, arranged much as they were at our first meal back in the George. One notable change. Becca is now beside Jean. They smile and wave when they see me enter the restaurant, all except for Tess, who wails, “Oh dear, we’ve already ordered.”

“And I’ve already eaten,” I tell her, pulling out the only empty chair. “I just came by for a glass of wine.”

While walking over, I’d decided to buy a bottle for the table, not something merely good enough, but something great, a send-off for our last evening together. The wine list comes in a heavy leather folder, page after page of thoughtfully chosen varieties, and my extended consultation with the sommelier—a real sommelier, for we have somehow managed to return to 2015—clearly amuses the other women. I settle on a Châteauneuf-du-Pape and say, “Okay, who won?”

“Tess won’t tell us,” says Steffi.

“Only because I haven’t decided,” Tess says. “I want to hear what all of you think.”

“I’d say Jean,” says Angelique, carefully pouring the olive oil and then the balsamic until she has made a bit of a flower pattern on her broad white plate. She dips a crust of bread into the heart of the daisy, like a child playing with her food. Since arriving in Canterbury, Angelique has found her whole face again and painted it on. If I’d passed her in the street I’m not sure I would have recognized her.

“I’d agree,” says Jean with a laugh, “if for no other reason than the fact that I told twice as many tales as anyone else. You two missed it,” she adds, turning toward me and then Valerie, “but I came clean yesterday afternoon. Becca was quite right with what she said at lunch, just before the accident . . . Do you even remember what we were talking about? It all became such a mad jumble there in the street, with everything happening at once.”

“I remember exactly,” Valerie says, probably to the surprise of no one. I’m the snob and she’s the blurter and Becca’s going to sulk and Angelique has on enough makeup for ten women and Tess is going to fret the details and Claire sleeps around while Jean writes big checks and Silvia squints and Steffi’s a food freak . . . and it’s all okay, because that’s just who we are. In fact it’s more than okay, it’s perfect. This whole night has an air of perfection about it. It sits here rounded and complete before us, like an unbroken egg.

“Right before the boy on the bike got hit,” Valerie is saying, “Becca was saying that her father was really shot during a drug deal. When you screamed, for a minute I thought that was why.”

Jean nods. “Precisely. My first tale was a complete lie. Yesterday afternoon I finally screwed up my courage enough to tell everyone what it had really been like living in an affluent suburb with three children and all the time trying to hide the fact that your husband’s an addict. To give you the short version, Allen’s drug use started legally, as I gather these things often do. Prescription painkillers and the like, but when he got the chance to go to Central America . . .” She shrugs. “I was afraid he took the job just to give himself better access, and that’s why I was so insistent that we all had to pack up and follow him. And once we were there, I bribed our driver, Antonio, to keep an eye on him, but as it turns out Allen was bribing Antonio too, to keep the truth from me, and since Allen was paying more . . .”