Twillyweed (23 page)

“Nice wheels,” Jenny Rose, who seemed to know about things like cars, said admiringly. “A classic.” She petted the butterscotch seats.

“Have you any grand shops out in Queens?” Wendell wanted to know as I shackled him into his seat belt. By God, he was taking on Jenny Rose's Irish brogue. I laughed to myself. He looked so cute in his little red plaid shirt. I told him all about the stores I knew and we drove, top down, to Richmond Hill.

Jenny Rose had the stones with her. We'd decided we would tell my mother the story and she would know what we should do. “Take them,” Jenny Rose said as she slipped them into my pocket. “They scare the shit outta me.” She fiddled with the radio, Morgan's stations all too corny for her. Because I'd spoken so highly of the nickelodeon at the original Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor, Wendell had to see it, so we made a stop there. We sat on stools at the counter under Tiffany lamps and drank from authentic Coca-Cola glasses. I had a bad moment when I looked at the table where Enoch and I used to sit. But children have a way of making you move on. And already the day was a success as far as Wendell was concerned. We ran out and stood underneath the elevated trains every time one clamored by. Wendell screamed with delight. Whenever you want to entertain a Long Island kid, just drag him with you to Queens.

At my mother's house, the TV blared as usual. In fact, the living room was lined with consecutive rows of chairs like in a theater, my father's hearing and my mother's eyesight not being what they were but to varying degrees. Wendell went right up to my dad in the first row and climbed over Lefty onto the La-Z-Boy with him. My dad must be the last living pipe smoker who smokes in the house in America. With Lefty at their feet, they watched one World War II battle after the next on the History Channel. You might think that sort of stuff harms children but my father believes it arms them for the world. Or, he points out, is Hansel and Gretel a warm and cuddly story? And what about the Little Match Girl or the Tin Soldier?

My mother made a great fuss about Jenny Rose. They stood together and marveled at her picture in the paper. She told her how she'd sent copies home, but as soon as she'd hugged her and kissed her enough she put us right to work. “Just peel these taters for me, darlin',” she said, handing me a pot and a paring knife, and she gave Jenny Rose the apples to peel for the pie. We sat there at that table at the back kitchen window almost all that Sunday afternoon, drinking tea and eating cheese-filled sheet crumb cake from Oxford's on Liberty, my mother telling stories of when she was a girl in Ireland and Jenny Rose asking her questions and Mom drilling Jenny Rose about whether the Gorta Thrifty Shoppe was still there over the bridge from Bridge Street in Skibbereen and what about Paddy's on the cemetery lane and all and Mom running back and forth finding pictures of Carmela at twelve, Carmela at the prom, Carmela with the perilous mumps.

I watched and listened to all this with interest, but on my eleventh potato, I saw through my peels to a picture in last week's wrinkled newspaper. Distractedly, I pushed the peels aside to read the article. There was that story of the priest who'd been bludgeoned for the valuable statue, and a picture of him standing before the statue in happier times. But as I gazed at the picture, I noticed something else. The eyes of the statue—and here the hairs on my neck stood up—looked just like the two set in silver, blue moonstones that were that minute in my pocket! Oh, my God.

“Mom,” I swallowed, “it's the picture of that statue.”

“Oh, see, now, I kept those papers for you because you said you wanted them for the real estate.” Then to Jenny Rose she complained fervently, “Claire thinks she'll be better off without Enoch. Doesn't know which side her bread is buttered, and him the finest man you'll ever meet!”

Jenny Rose and I looked at each other.

“Any red Jell-O left in there, Mary?” my father called through.

“No,” she called back.

“Mary?”

“No!” she shouted, clicked her tongue and shook her head, and muttered, “His hearing's worse and worse.”

I gave Jenny Rose the warning look, but she snapped at me, “Auntie Claire, don't go giving me no warning looks, now. Who will you be protecting? Enoch? Your mother?”

“What's she mean?” my mother said suspiciously, looking back and forth at both of us.

“The truth is, Grandmother, that that fellow Enoch was prepared to marry your daughter while he's just as gay as a three-penny opera.”

My mother raised up. “What did she say?”

“Mom,” I said as I hung my head, embarrassed for him, “it's like she says. Enoch is gay.”

“What do you mean, gay? Homosexual?”

“Yes.”

“He can't be. You slept with him.”

“I did,” I agreed.

“Well, didn't you know?”

“Mom, he seemed fine. If anything, he was particularly solicitous.”

“That should have been your clue right there,” Jenny Rose snipped.

From the other room there was a noise and we all strained to listen. My mother leaned in and heard my father demonstrating the times tables for Wendell. She cupped her mouth and sat back down. “He'll have given you the AIDS!”

“Jesus, I hope not!” I cried.

“Well, did he wear a jacket or not?”

“Not with me, he didn't. I mean, not lately.”

Wendell stood in the doorway.

“What is it, lad?” Jenny Rose said.

“I've got to go for a little attention.”

“You mean you've got to go pee?”

“Yes.”

My mother said, “Well, it's right down the stairs.”

“He'll not know his way,” Jenny Rose pointed out.

“Or up. Go up,” my mother called. “Stan, take him upstairs, will you?”

My father rumbled from his chair.

“Hold his hand so he won't fall,” my mother instructed. They held hands up the steep stairs. My mother went over and stood at the bottom with her wrists on her hips to watch them.

“Jenny Rose!” I grabbed her arm and whispered a shriek. “Look at this!”

“What?”

“The eyes!” The two of us stared at the picture and gulped.

“Fuck,” she said.

“What did you say, young lady!” my mother reprimanded.

“It's an Our Lady statue!” Jenny Rose exclaimed.

“I never imagined it had anything to do with us,” I whispered, “but it's the eyes from the statue! It has to be,” I cried. “Mom, what's the story with this statue?”

“Sure, that's a terrible, wicked thing. Lust for power, it is.” She stomped back in and tapped the table firmly with her pointer finger. “Those criminals don't know the half of what they've got themselves mixed up in. That there's a miraculous statue.”

I looked at Jenny Rose. “They probably just took the jewels and threw the statue away.”

“Oh, I don't think so.” My mother glanced to the side and leaned in close. “People pray through that statue and miracles happen. Sick people get well. That sort of thing. Really, what's a couple of stones? Stones you can pick up easily enough on the shopping network. It's the statue itself that's of value, the blessing within that contains the mystery of healing.”

We stared at her.

“Sure, look at Sal and Terry down in Florida; his father had the pancreatic cancer and the doctors gave him four months to live. Patsy McKenna told them about the statue and the lot of them came up and stormed heaven. When they opened the old man up, what do you think? There wasn't a trace of cancer! And they couldn't explain it. He lived eight years! That statue will find its own way home. You'll see.”

“You believe in all that?” I said.

She cracked me on the head. “And for what did I send you to Catholic school!”

I ducked and covered my head with my arms. She never hurt you much. “But we were also constantly warned against idolatry,” I pointed out. “And trickery.”

“That's the devil, in case you've forgotten. That's his job. You kids! You act like there's no source of wickedness. It's all understanding the perpetrator and Prozac. That's where the Holy Spirit comes in, filling us up with the courage to fight!”

Jenny Rose whispered, “She means it's not the statue that cures, it's the faith it inspires.”

“That's it.” My mother lifted my chin. “A test. That's exactly it.”

I thought of Morgan Donovan. That great hunk of a man, humble in church. If a man like that ever came at me, I doubted I would have the strength or goodness to resist. “You're the warrior, Mom,” I murmured softly.

“Not anymore I'm not. It's your turn, now, Claire. My fighting's done.” She sighed, worn out, and sat down with a heave, spilling her tea as she reached for more toast. I'd been just getting ready to tell her about the gems and then, for some reason, when I looked at the spilled tea, I couldn't.

“You'd better go collect your clothes, Auntie Claire. I think we ought to be leaving, now.”

“What, leave, now?” my mother cried and I cringed at what was to come, but it turned out she wouldn't get as disgruntled as she used to, as I'd imagined she would. It was getting on late in the day anyhow so we packed up and left, my mother only slightly put out that we wouldn't be staying for supper. Sadly I realized I hadn't had much of a fight with her because, and this came as a shock, she was getting old. My ma. The brigadier general, letting things pass. It broke your heart. But tomorrow my father's sisters—the bad aunts renowned to have a fortune but who were tight as string and would doubtless leave all their money to the dog and cat hospital—would be coming in from Ridgewood and this way she'd have everything already prepared.

“You can drop him off here anytime,” my father said about Wendell. “He and I get along very well.”

“And I don't mind at all that you smell,” Wendell rhymed and my father chuckled.

My mother wrapped her shoulders in a peppermint-striped apron and walked us to the car with enough instructions on life to fill a catalog. “Drive slow. Here, take some gladioli, they're the last of them but they're lovely! Watch out there's no one lurking in the backseat. Put your seat belts on. Have you enough gas? Whose car is that, by the way?”

“It's my boss's,” I said, looking away. The rain had stopped and the stars were out. It was cold now again, and I found I was still shivering but, in an odd way, ready. It always pays to go home, one way and another, if only for how wonderful you feel when you leave. Jenny Rose wrapped Wendell up in one of my mother's woolen blankets, worn soft and pink from years of laundering, and I overheard him explaining patiently to my mother as she strapped him in, “Paige says you must say a
little
attention and a
lot
of attention when you've got to go make.”

“Is that right,” my mother answered him without missing a beat, “and I'll be waiting to hear your multiplication tables when you come back next time.”

“I wouldn't pass any heat on that,” he retorted in a replica of Jenny Rose's fresh way of speaking, and as we set off his eyes batted and struggled to stay open but he lost the fight even as we pulled away. We passed Enoch's and my rented house, but I didn't say so to Jenny Rose. This was my new life, I thought. What was the point? Also, I was ashamed of how ugly that house was. But as we tooled past I caught a glimpse of my dog, Jake, at the window. He was standing up at the glass, his big paws up on the sill and he was gazing forlornly down the road. The house was dark. I only noticed him because of the streetlamp's glare from the huge saliva stain on the glass. I felt an actual tug at my heart. Then I thought,
Hey!
Enoch said he was going to take him with him to the firehouse when he worked. And if Enoch wasn't there, it was a perfect time to pick up some clothes. I turned right at the corner and swung around the block.

While Jenny Rose waited in the car, I went in with my key. You'd have thought I was the greatest person ever invented the way Jake carried on at the sight of me. We hugged each other a good long time and I could actually hear his true pleasure whine groaning from the depth of his rib cage. I was shocked to notice he smelled like he needed a bath. Jake loved his bath. Saturday night, he'd wait by the sink until I would lug him up into it and give him a nice sissy bubble bath. “Enoch?” I called up the stairs. But he wasn't home. I felt my lips tighten at the empty water bowl. Gently I held open the back door and let Jake into the yard to take care of business, which he did with such alacrity and volume I had to wonder just how long he'd been left alone. I stole up the stairs and packed as many clothes as I could fit into Enoch's duffel bag. The hell with him if he needed it. I tossed in my other cameras, cell-phone charger, my electric toothbrush, and my double-duty jar of Nivea cream. I remain loyal to Nivea because when I was in Germany, the company booked me to photograph the still shots of a commercial in Rio, a job so exorbitantly plush and luxurious and fun, I remain impressed and grateful to this day. I took one last look at the neatly made bed. Fussy, when you thought about it. At that moment I felt no remorse, only anger that he'd left Jake alone so long in the dark, cold house. I lugged the bag downstairs and looked out. Violets were strewn across the clumpy lawn and for a second I felt a pull of regret in my throat. Enoch always said how lovely it smelled when you mowed. But Jenny Rose was moving uneasily back and forth in the front seat of the car—probably worried she was in some scary New York neighborhood. I rinsed Jake's bowl and filled it up with nice cold water and called him back in, explaining in a reasonable way about what had taken me away after I'd promised I'd always be there for him. “Look,” I said as I stroked his brown bear fur, pretending to sound happy, “you're better off here with Enoch. Go ahead, now, hop into your beddy-bye. I'll see you soon. I promise. Be a good boy. That's it.”