Very Old Bones (33 page)

Giselle stared at me, and in her look I saw more comprehension of what the will had said about us than I myself possessed at this moment; for while I’d known Peter planned to dispense
money, and suspected I would get a bit of it, no thought of a paternity clause ever crossed my mind. I believed he would die without acknowledging me, and I had decided long ago that that was all
right. Who needed legitimacy? The answer again was Peter. He needed it now that he was going public. He needed to tidy up his life, organize his death.

He had not expected the professional and financial success that was now coming to him at such a late hour. But it happened that a few perspicacious gallery owners and museum people began to see
that his work, despite the varied modes and genres in which he had painted and drawn, had about it a prevailing quality that now seemed to be singular. Recognition came to him as does the fixative
an artist acquires at death: No more innovation for you, my friend; we read you at last. This handful of influential Peter-watchers saw him neither as sectarian of any art movement of his era, nor
as yet another gadfly among trends. Now they saw an artist who had vaulted beyond his matrix, fused the surreal, the natural, the abstract, and the figurative, and produced an oeuvre that was as
cumulatively coherent as his motivation had been in creating the work.

Peter Phelan, obsessive artist of Colonie Street, subsumed in the history of his family, all but smothered under his ancestors’ blanket of time, had willfully engaged it all, transformed
history into art, being impelled to create, and purely, what Picasso had called “convincing lies”; for Peter believed that these lies would stand as a fierce array of at least partial
Phelan truths—not moral truths, but truths of significant motion: the arresting of the natural world at an instant of kinetic and fantastic revelation; the wisdom of Lizzie’s lofted leg
in her dance with the shadows; the wizardly acceptance of chicken droppings by the demented Crip Devlin; the madly collective flailing of arms in
Banishing the Demons.

This latter painting, the largest in the
Malachi Suite
, treats of the collective Peter mentioned in his will. By the light of an oil lamp, a candle, and a fire in the McIlhenny hearth
(shadowed homage to La Tour), the players in the Malachi drama are enacting their contrary rituals: Kathryn Phelan (abundantly pregnant with Peter, the arriving artist) is sitting on the bed in the
background, holding the hand of the beset Lizzie, who is supine in her calico chemise, blue flannel nightgown, and black stockings, her hair splayed wildly on her pillow; and the Malachi
minions—the wizard Crip Devlin; Crip’s daughter, Mab (the image of the child who led me to Francis at the railroad tracks); Lizzie’s father, old Ned Cronin, who badly needed a
shave; Malachi’s ancient cousin, Minnie Dorgan, with her dropsical stomach, and her stupid son, Colm, whose hair was a nest of cowlicks; and, central to it all, Malachi himself, with his wild
curls and his wilder eyes, all these clustered figures pushing upward and outward with their arms (Colm gripping a lighted candle in his right hand and thrusting upward with his left), ridding the
house of any demons that may have been summoned by the archdemon that Lizzie had become. The entrance door and two windows of the house are open to the night, and those errant demons, who well know
that this room is inimical to their kind, are surely flying fearfully out and away, back to their covens of hellish darkness.

Malachi had gathered his counsel, his blood kin, and his inlaws about him for a communion of indignation at what was happening to Lizzie, and also to people his house with witnesses to his joust
with the evil forces. He’d begun that joust with interrogation of Lizzie.

“What is your name?”

“Lizzie McIlhenny You know that.”

“Is that your full name?”

“Lizzie Cronin McIlhenny In God’s name, Malachi, why are you asking me this?”

“We’ll see what you think of God’s name. Why are you four inches shorter than you used to be?”

“I’m not. I’m the same size I always was.”

“Why are you asking her these things?” Kathryn Phelan asked.

“To find out who she is.”

“Can’t you see who she is? Have you lost your sight?”

“Just hold your gob, woman, and see for yourself who she is. Don’t I know my wife when I see her? And this one isn’t her.”

“Well, she is.”

“Are you Lizzie McIlhenny, my wife?”

“Of course I am, Malachi. Can’t you see it’s me? Who else do you think I am?”

“Do you believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost?”

“I do, Malachi, I do.”

“You do what?”

“I believe in God the Father, Son, Holy Ghost.”

“She didn’t repeat it exactly,” said Crip Devlin.

“Let me ask her,” said Ned Cronin. “Are you the daughter of Ned Cronin, in the name of God?”

“I am, Dada.”

“She didn’t repeat it,” said Crip.

“Repeat it,” said Malachi.

“Dada.”

“Not that, repeat what he said.”

“I don’t know what he said.”

“Ah, she’s crafty,” said Crip.

“You’ll repeat it or I’ll have at you,” said Malachi. He grabbed her and ripped her nightgown, then pushed her backward onto the bed. When she tried to get up he held her
down:

“Ask her where she lives,” said Crip.

“Do you live up on the hill with the Good Neighbors?”

“I live here with you, Malachi.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Lizzie, your wife.”

“You’re four inches shorter than my wife.”

“I’m not. I’m this same size since I was a girl.”

“You really are insane, Malachi,” said Kathryn. “You’re torturing her.”

“We’ll see who’s insane. Do you believe in Satan?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie said.

“Crafty again,” said Crip.

“By the Jesus,” Malachi said, “we’ll get the truth out of you,” and from the table he took the cup of milky potion he and Crip had prepared for this encounter, set
it on the bedside table, and lifted a spoonful to Lizzie’s mouth. “Take it,” he said.

She smelled it and turned her head. “It’s awful.”

“Drink it,” Malachi said, lifting the cup to her lips. Lizzie pushed it away and some of the potion spilled onto her nightgown.

“Oh you’ll take it, you witch,” Malachi said, shoving the cup to her lips and pouring it. Some of the fluid entered her mouth and she screamed and spat it out.

“She won’t take it,” said Crip. “And if any of it falls on the floor she’s gone forever.”

“She’ll take it or I’ll break both her arms,” said Malachi. “Hold her legs, Colm.” And the dimwit flung himself crosswise on the bed, atop Lizzie’s
legs.

“Like this?” Colm asked.

“That’s it,” said Malachi.

“There’s rewards in heaven for them that beats the devil,” said old Minnie Dorgan, rocking her body on a straight chair in the corner, plaiting and unplaiting two strips of
cloth as she watched the exorcism. She blessed herself repeatedly, and dipped her fingers into a jar of holy Easter water she had brought with her. She sprinkled the water at Lizzie and then at
Malachi.

“If you get the drink into her, the witch is dead,” said Crip.

“We’ll get it,” said Malachi.

“That’s enough of this crazy talk,” Kathryn said, putting herself between Malachi and Lizzie.

“Get out of my way, Kathryn.”

“I’ll get out and get the police if you don’t leave her be.”

Malachi walked to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key.

“You’ll go noplace till I say you will,” he said. “And neither will anybody else in this house. Build up the fire, Mab.” And Crip Devlin’s child, silent and
sullen, threw twigs and a log on the dying fire. It crackled and flared, creating new light in the bleak room, into which not even the faintest ray of a moonbeam would penetrate tonight.

Kathryn whispered into Lizzie’s ear, “I won’t let him hurt you, darlin’, I won’t let him hurt you.” And she stroked the distraught Lizzie’s forehead and
saw that her eyes were rolling backward out of their rightful place.

“You’re a vile, vile man to do this to her,” Kathryn said.

Malachi looked at the women and walked to the hearth. He picked up a long twig and held the end of it in the fire until it flamed; then he pulled it out and shook out the flame and walked toward
the bed.

“You bring that near her,” said Kathryn, “you’ll have to burn me too, Malachi,” but he quickly put the stick between his teeth, grabbed his sister with his good
right arm, and flung her off the bed and into the lap of Minnie Dorgan, who sprinkled holy water on her. “Mother of God,” said Minnie. “Mother of God.”

“You’ll not be burning her, Malachi,” said Ned Cronin. “You won’t burn my daughter.”

“It’s not your daughter that’s here, it’s not the wife I married. It’s a hag and a witch that I’m sleeping with.”

“It’s my daughter, I’m thinking now,” Ned said.

“Have you no faith, man?” said Malachi. “Don’t you know a demon when it’s in front of your eyes?”

And he had the twig in his hand again, and he lighted it again, blew out its flame again, and put it in front of Lizzie’s face.

“Now will you drink what I give you?”

When she threw her head from side to side to be rid of the idea he touched her on the forehead with the burning stick, and she screamed her woe to heaven. “Now you’ll take it,”
he said, and with terrified eyes she stared at the madman her husband had become; and she knew no choice was left to her.

“Leave her be!” screamed Kathryn, and she tried to move toward Lizzie. But Minnie Dorgan and Ned Cronin held her.

“Give her the drink, Mab,” Malachi said, and the child raised the cup to Lizzie, who stiffened at the odor of it and, retching dryly, said weakly, “Please, Malachi.”

“Drink it, you hag, or I’ll kill you.”

And she took the cup and drank and screamed again as the foul concoction went down her throat, screamed and spat and drank again, then fell back on the bed as the cup’s remnants splattered
on the floor.

“It’s done,” said Malachi.

“And it’s spilled,” said Crip. “There’s no telling what it means.”

Colm, lying across Lizzie’s legs, sat up. “I’m goin’ home now,” he said.

“Indeed you’re not,” said Malachi. “You’ll stay till we’re done with this.”

And Colm fell back on the bed with a weakness.

“When will we be done?” Ned Cronin asked. “For the love of Jesus end this thing.”

“We’ll end it when I’ve got my wife back,” Malachi said.

“How will you know?” asked Ned.

“We’ll see the demon leave her,” Crip said. “But time is short. Ask her again.”

“In the name of God and heaven,” Malachi said, “are you Lizzie McIlhenny, my wife?”

All in the room watched every inch of Lizzie, watching for the exit of the demon. But Lizzie neither moved nor spoke. She stared at the wall.

“We’ve got to go to the fire,” said Malachi. “We’ve no choice.”

“It’ll soon be midnight,” said Crip, “and then she’s gone for sure, never to come back.”

“We’ll carry her, Colm,” said Malachi, and the dimwit rolled off Lizzie’s legs. Then he and Malachi carried the now limp figure toward the hearth as Mab stoked the fire
with a poker. Lizzie’s nightgown was off her shoulder and Malachi ripped it away and it fell on the floor. Mab moved the grate back and Malachi sat Lizzie on it so she faced the fire.

“Are you goin’ to make a pork chop out of me, Malachi?” she asked. “Won’t you give me a chance?” And on the dark side of the room the women fell on their
knees in prayer.

“Do you know what I’m doin’ here, Ned Cronin?” Malachi called out.

“Jesus, Mary, and holy St. Joseph,” said Ned, “I pray you know what you’re doing.” And he knelt beside the women.

Malachi leaned Lizzie toward the fire and when it touched her it set her calico chemise aflame. Kathryn Phelan wailed and screamed at her brother, “You’ll live in hell forever for
this night, Malachi McIlhenny. It’s you who’s the demon here. It’s you that’s doing murder to this woman.”

Malachi let go of Lizzie and she fell away from the fire, burning. He watched, with Crip beside him, and Colm holding the now unconscious Lizzie by one arm.

“Away she go, up the chimney,” Malachi said. “Away she go!” And he waved his good arm into the flame.

“I saw nothing go,” said Crip.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women,” said Kathryn on her knees.

“Come home, Lizzie McIlhenny!” yelled Malachi, waving his arm, watching his wife’s body. The room was filling with smoke from Lizzie’s burning clothes and flesh.

“Beast!” screamed Kathryn.

“Do you think that’s Lizzie that’s lyin’ there?” Malachi asked.

“I saw nothing leave her,” said Crip.

“More fire,” said Malachi, and Colm leaned Lizzie back toward the flames. Another edge of her chemise caught fire and now half her torso was exposed, the flesh charring from below
her left breast to her hip.

“Let her down,” said Malachi, and from the floor beside the fireplace he took a can of paraffin oil and threw it onto Lizzie’s stomach. Her chemise exploded in flame.

“Away she go!” yelled Malachi, waving his arm. “Away she go!” And he threw more oil on her.

Kathryn Phelan ran to the wildly flaming Lizzie and threw herself on top of her, snuffing the fire, burning herself, and sobbing with the grief known in heaven when angels die.

The last painting Peter put on exhibit for his luncheon guests was
The Protector
, a portrait of Kathryn Phelan smothering the flames on Lizzie’s clothing, her own
maternity dress aflame at one corner, the smoke obscuring half her face, the other half lit by firelight. Kathryn’s burns were not severe but her act did precipitate, two days later, the
premature birth of Peter Phelan, child of fire and brimstone, terror and madness, illusion and delusion, ingredients all of his art.

I had asked him why he chose to resurrect Malachi, such a dreadful figure in the family’s life, and he said he could not answer with any accuracy, that the Malachi he was painting
wasn’t the Malachi of history, that, in whatever ways his paintings reflected reality, they would fall far short of the specifics of that reality, which was always the fate of anything
imagined. “We try to embrace the universe,” Peter said, “but we end up throwing our arms around the local dunghill.” And yet he felt that whatever he imagined would somehow
reflect what was elusive in the historic reality, elusive because its familiarity and its ubiquity in real space and time would make it invisible to all but the imagining eye.