Songs in Ordinary Time Page 44

  “Alice,” he said as the door opened; then he cleared his throat.

  Looking back, she was repelled again by his intensity, a rawness pulsating like an exposed nerve.

  He took her hand. “Thanks,” he said, squeezing so hard her fingers hurt. “Thanks for listening to me.”

  “Oh God,” she groaned, running up the driveway.

  Norm was allowed out of the house to go to work, but he had to come straight home afterward. He still couldn’t use the car or the phone or see his friends. He lay on his bed like this in the dark, night after night, his insides shriveled, a mass of pain in the cavity where his heart had been. Even swallowing hurt, with this constant lump in his throat. Every day a new crop of pimples erupted on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. With his hands under his head he listened to the branch scraping back and forth across the screen. Hearing another sound, he sat up and listened. Was someone crying? He put his ear to the wall, but his mother’s room was silent. Was it Benjy? Was it Mrs. Klubock?

  His stomach turned every time he thought of driving the car over Klubocks’ dog. He’d tried to get Benjy to tell him what had happened, but he wouldn’t. Benjy could barely look at him. The poor kid had probably felt every crunch and crack under the tires. His last memory that night was Weeb’s sister, Janice, pushing him away as she told him to stop slobbering over her. He didn’t know why his pants were unzipped, and he couldn’t even remember driving home. When he asked Benjy if there had been any close calls, all he’d said was “Nope.”

  He was worried about his brother, but if he said anything the whole mess would be thrown in his face again. Benjy was always in the house, either watching television or sleeping. And now that the couch had become Duvall’s bed, Benjy spent most of the night in his room.

  There it was again. He sat up. It sounded as if Benjy was crying. He got out of bed and tapped lightly on his door. Shadows flickered on the stairway wall. Omar was down there, laughing at something on television. Benjy didn’t answer, so he opened the door. Benjy was sitting on his dark bed in this niche the previous family had used as a sewing room. There was just space enough for a bed and small chest of drawers. There was a doorless closet and one narrow window, directly over the bed.

  “Jesus, Benjy, it must be a hundred degrees in here.” He knelt on the bed and opened the window. He braced it with the split yardstick from the windowsill. This had been the last sash rope to fray and break. Getting off the bed, he told Benjy he still remembered how when they’d first moved in every window had stayed open by itself. He knew from Benjy’s breathing he was trying not to cry. “I even remember there was a door on that closet, but it wouldn’t open with the bed in the room, so me and Mom had to take it off.” He didn’t say it, but his most vivid memory of the day they had moved in had been their mother’s elation at having their own home, and his sense of power and pride at being the man of the house carrying boxes and dragging rugs inside with his mother. Funny how these tiny rooms had seemed so enormous then.

  Benjy knelt on the bed. He was trying to close the window.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  “It’s that smell. I hate that smell.”

  Norm sniffed. “It’s just the pig farm. It’s not even that bad tonight.”

  “It makes me feel sick,” Benjy said, letting the window fall shut. He locked it, then sat back against the wall and slapped the broken yardstick against the mattress.

  Norm turned on the light, and Benjy squinted in the glare. “You’re scared. Why’re you scared?”

  “I’m not scared.” Benjy stared down at the weathered stick.

  “Then why’re you up in your room all the time? Why’re you acting so creepy lately?” His chest ached with anger. Why couldn’t Benjy be as strong as he was? There was nothing and no one to fear. No one but their mother.

  Benjy shrugged.

  “Why won’t you even look at me? What is it? What the fuck did I do?” he demanded.

  Benjy kept flipping the yardstick, his features dulled by teary bloat.

  “You think I ran over that dog on purpose? You do, don’t you?” he cried, grabbing his brother’s wrist and yanking him close, but Benjy stared past him. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t! I wouldn’t have done that, you know that. I never would have. I know I wouldn’t.”

  The tears running down his brother’s face revealed the truth, the vast and horrible truth about himself: he had aimed the car and killed the dog coldly and deliberately, and Benjy knew it. He stood up and began to pound his head with his fist. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he groaned as Benjy sobbed into his pillow.

  He was going into his room when the television went off. Duvall was roaming around downstairs. It was all his fault, the peddler, Norm thought, crawling into bed; because the money he’d gotten drunk on the night he humiliated himself in front of Janice Miller, the night he killed Klubocks’ dog, probably chasing him, crossing over the grass strip and Klubocks’ driveway as the dog dove into the lilac bush, that money had come from Duvall in a twisted convolution of betrayal and setup. And ever since that night Duvall had been completely in charge here. Duvall was calling the shots, with everyone just where he wanted them. He closed his eyes. Duvall was pulling the strings, making them all dance faster and faster. His heart began to race. And now through the hollow wall between the rooms, there came that thin cry, that gasping again.

  He rolled over and listened in astonishment. That’s what he’d heard before. That’s what he’d walked in on. Jesus Christ, his little brother hadn’t been crying, but going at it full throttle. Imagine that. He pulled the pillow over his head, to muffle the last pathetic groan. That bastard Duvall. It was all his fault, everything.

  On Friday morning when Alice got up, Benjy told her that Father Gannon had called earlier. He’d said not to wake her up, just give her a message. He was going to be in Proctor late tonight helping Father Krystecki stack firewood, and he’d stop by the A+X and give her a ride home from work. She was mad at Benjy for not waking her up and mad at Father Gannon for being so nervy, but then by the end of the long, hot night was too tired to care anymore.

  Father Gannon arrived the minute the lights went out. He waited while she finished her closing chores. She saw Blue Mooney peer down into the Monsignor’s car on his way into the kitchen. She began to hang the clean pots over the grill. Mooney was telling Fawnie Anuta about a fight he’d had earlier this evening with two creeps who thought he’d tried to cut them off the road. His voice rose and she realized the story was really for her benefit. Now he was bragging about some job he was trying to get. He’d be driving a truck. Far from here, she hoped.

  Father Gannon grinned when she got into the car. As he drove he told her how Father Krystecki was clearing the lot behind the rectory himself so that a new parking lot could be paved. Whenever he could, Father Gannon went out there to help him split and stack the wood.

  “What a workout,” he sighed.

  “Sounds like it,” she said, both yawning and rubbing her nose against the sharp smell of sweat.

  He slowed down as he approached her street. “You’re tired, huh?”

  “Yah I am. I really am.” They’d been busy all night and she couldn’t wait to go to bed.

  “Here we are,” he said, turning into the driveway. “Well, that didn’t take long.” Something in his voice made her think of that dark rectory, the only sound the Monsignor clearing his throat, grunting, and sneezing the way he did all through Mass. Before she could close the door he leaned across the seat to say he’d be coming back from Proctor this same time tomorrow if she needed a ride.

  At eleven o’clock Saturday night it was still eighty degrees, with the temperature in the A+X kitchen at least a hundred degrees. They had been too busy all night for anyone to take breaks. Even Blue Mooney had been put to work on the grill with Anthology, who bullied him and laughed every time his cousin made a mistake. Mooney was rolling a trash barrel through the lot when Father Gannon pulled in. A
lice saw him lean into the priest’s window to tell him they were closed. Father Gannon gestured toward the building. Mooney pointed toward the street and said something. When Father Gannon started to back up, she ran outside. “He can wait here!” she said.

  “Well, I just didn’t want people thinking we’re open,” Mooney said, his face reddening.

  “I can wait out there. That’s no problem.” Father Gannon started to shift again.

  “No!” she insisted, surprised at how angry she felt. “You wait right here, Father. I’ll be done in a few minutes. And no one’s going to think we’re open!” she said, glaring at Mooney.

  “Father!” Mooney said, on her heels heading toward the kitchen. “What do you mean, father? Like someone’s father father?”

  “He’s a priest,” she said, even more annoyed by his relieved grin.

  Instead of his collar Father Gannon wore a soiled dark-blue shirt. He apologized for his appearance, the bits of bark on his shoulder and even in his hair. He and Father Krystecki had been splitting word since suppertime. When they finished they’d collapsed on the back porch, both so thirsty that Father Gannon said they’d each downed three beers one after another.

  Something went cold and tight inside. Three beers. She kept glancing at him, but he seemed perfectly normal. Definitely more relaxed, if not a little silly. He was laughing now because he had early Mass tomorrow and he still hadn’t prepared his sermon.

  “So what’re you going to do?” she asked, yawning.

  “Actually I was thinking I’d work on it now if you don’t mind riding around awhile.” He looked at her and smiled. “I’ve kind of got the gist of it.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sure,” she said, trying not to show her exasperation. She was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open, and now she had to listen to a midnight homily.

  He hunched over the wheel and cleared his throat loudly. He drove down Main Street. In the moonlight the marble church glowed a ghostly white. He passed her corner. “My sermon today is about value and redemption,” he began. “Now I know not everyone collects the same kind of stamps, but you probably all have the same difficulties when it comes to redemption….”

  Her eyes closed. Her head bobbed as she dozed, lulled by the drone of his voice and the car’s engine. She dreamed she was in a store filled with feathered hats, bright silk dresses, and soft leather shoes. Her arms ached from carrying all the beautiful clothes she wanted to buy if only she could find a cashier. She staggered up and down the aisles, but there was no one to help her. Finally she saw a tiny woman standing by a cash register at the front door. The woman, who was no bigger than a child, kept shaking her head as she piled the clothes onto the counter. “You’re just wasting your time,” the woman said.

  “Alice!” Father Gannon was nudging her arm. “Alice, wake up! You’re home.”

  She stared at him. Her eyes were burning. Her thoughts raced. She was home. The woman would only take green stamps. And Father Gannon had just been saying there weren’t enough redemption centers.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boy, that was record time. You were sound asleep two sentences into my sermon.”

  She tried to explain how tired she was and what a long day it had been, but that it had been a wonderful sermon, really. And now he was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

  “I was only kidding,” he finally managed to say. “I was talking about saving green stamps. It was a joke.” He turned so instantly somber that she thought he might be angry. “I was trying to be funny,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. He kept looking at her as if he needed to say something.

  She could feel him watching her as she hurried down the driveway.

  She lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep. She kept thinking of him saying her name, “Alice? Wake up, Alice,” over and over. Alice, Alice, with his hand on her arm.

  By the end of the next night she kept glancing up at the clock. She was in the supply room when Mr. Coughlin limped out of Carla’s car on crutches. Carla had driven him to the hospital, where they’d been for the last hour. Earlier in the evening one of Carla’s customers had driven off with the tray attached to his car, an oversight that always enraged Mr. Coughlin. While he and Carla were screaming at each other, he reared back and kicked the side of the building. His big toe was broken.

  Mooney came to the door. “That same guy’s here, that priest,” he said.

  She looked out and waved. Father Gannon raised a hand to tell her to take her time. She could feel Mooney watching as she jammed the last dispenser with napkins and wedged it onto the full tray. Before she could pick it up, he had the heavy tray balanced on his fingertips. The muscle in his arm bulged his American flag tattoo in and out.

  “He a relative or something?” he asked, holding the door open with his foot.

  “No, he’s just a…a friend,” she said, surprising herself.

  “That’s weird,” Mooney said under his breath. “That’s really weird.”

  Father Gannon’s clerical collar glowed under the passing streetlamps. He hadn’t been able to help Father Krystecki with the wood because he’d been at the nursing home all night with an old woman who was dying. Her family, who lived in California, had asked the Monsignor to be there, but his gallbladder had kicked up.

  “Did she die?” Alice asked uneasily.

  “No.” He sighed. “As a matter of fact, she was having some broth when I left.”

  Somehow, though, she didn’t believe him. He seemed too nervous. He kept sighing and rubbing his chin. The woman had died and she, Alice, was the tail end of a death mission.

  When he turned at her corner she was surprised at her disappointment. Lately it seemed she was always either working or getting ready for work.

  “Tired, huh?” he asked.

  “Not really. I had coffee right before I left, so I wouldn’t fall asleep.”

  “You did?” He smiled at her. “How about a little ride, then?”

  “Oh a ride’s fine,” she said and he headed back toward Main Street.

  “I hope the coffee doesn’t keep you up all night,” he said.

  “That’s one good thing about this job. I can sleep late in the morning.”

  He groaned with envy and said he had the early Mass.

  Feeling guilty, she pointed to the stop sign ahead and told him if he turned right, then he’d be back by her street.

  “It’s okay.” He laughed and said he hadn’t been sleeping too well lately. “This is good, getting out like this. Especially with someone under the age of forty. God,” he added, “thirty.”

  “Twenty,” she said in a small voice, and he laughed.

  “That’s even better,” he said, and he laughed again.

  They seemed to be following the moon as they drove into the hills. The pastures looked wet in the moonlight, the trees of the bordering woods dense with shadows. The houses they passed were dark and still. In all this way they had only seen a single car, the one that seemed to be aiming straight at them on this narrow winding road. Father Gannon jerked the wheel, pulling onto the soft shoulder to let it by.

  In the last few minutes they had been matching mother stories: holes in socks, burned toast, and for some reason tears right before Sunday Mass.

  He pulled back onto the road.

  “Maybe all mothers do it,” he said. “They just get so exhausted trying to get everything to go right.”

  “Well, I won’t!” she said so sharply that he looked at her.

  “Won’t what?” he asked. “Go to church?”

  “Not if it means getting everyone all upset.” Actually she hadn’t meant that until she’d seen the look on his face. This was the same thing she’d done to Lester She’d enjoyed shocking him. But Lester’s reaction had always been so pained and personal, while Father Gannon seemed amused. “I mean,” she continued, “you go to Mass to be close to God, but then the whole time you’re sitting there a nervous wreck and you can�
��t concentrate on one single word the priest is saying, much less pray yourself, so what’s the point? I mean, wouldn’t it be better to just stay home and be quiet and calm and filled with good feelings instead of worrying what everyone around you is thinking!” Her voice had gone too high.

  He glanced at her. “Is that a question?”

  “Yes. Really, I mean it.” She took a deep breath, uneasy with his silence.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I guess it’s the good-feelings part. You can get good feelings from a lot of things, right? A big juicy steak? A funny movie? Being with someone you really like?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s quite the commitment Christ had in mind.”

  She looked out the window.

  “Do you?” he asked after a moment, when she still hadn’t replied.

  “I don’t know.” She felt young and stupid. She watched the fence along the road, its barbed wire glittering as they passed.

  “No, tell me. Tell me what you think,” he insisted.

  She looked at him, shocked by what she was thinking and feeling right now.

  “You meant what you were saying. Why won’t you explain it? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was just sounding off or something, I don’t know.”

  “You can’t talk to me.” He sighed. “I make you feel uncomfortable, don’t I?”

  “No, it’s not that. I just, I don’t know, I’m just starting to feel really tired, for one thing. I think my coffee’s wearing off, and gosh, it’s really getting late,” she said, studying the moon as if it were the bright face of a clock. “You’ll never get up in time for the six.”

  “I can turn here,” he said, pulling onto the soft shoulder. He sat so still, staring over the wheel, that she thought something was wrong with the car. Or maybe with him. He spoke suddenly, in a faltering voice. “Alice, I’ve got this terrible feeling, this awful pain like an ache that goes from here,” he said, gesturing at his throat, “right down into my stomach.” And then for a moment he didn’t say anything.