Any Bitter Thing (42 page)

Authors: Monica Wood

“He loves cats,” I said to Frannie.

“Oh, yes, I know,” she said. “I’m allergic, unfortunately.” She put up her hand. “It’s okay, don’t move him. For short periods, it’s fine. I can’t
live
with cats, that’s all.”

“Dogs either,” the boy said morosely.

With forced brightness, Frannie told him, “Life’s full of sacrifices.”

Drew rescued the ensuing silence by offering to show the boy his studio. Frannie got up, too. She watched us for just a moment—with an alertness that made me feel benevolently memorized—before leaving us there alone.

“He seems like a sweet boy,” I said to Father Mike. His eyes seemed to lurch behind his glasses in the way I felt my own eyes doing. Trying to see, then see harder.

“He is. He’s a sweet boy.”

“What happened to his father?”

“Cancer.” He reminded me of a held-back dam.

“I guess it must have been hard on him.”

“It was. Frannie, too. They lost a good man.”

What followed felt like the opposite of silence.

“Did you ever think of me?” I asked.

His face was fully emerging now; this was surely the man, I could see it, who used to be my young and dashing uncle. I half expected to hear his younger voice, those round and doting tones, but all he managed was a graveled “yes” that sounded like the groan of a long-tethered dog.

He used to say
I beg your pardon
after a sneeze. He used to hide presents inside other presents, a doll inside a new pillowcase, a bike horn inside a new lunch box. There remained always more magic in the magic trick of our existence. Everything I shook rattled with possibility.

“Have you seen her yet?” I asked after some moments.

He regarded me in that seeing-harder way. “I saw the district attorney’s people. It looks as if they’ll go easy, especially after all this time.” He paused. “Ray had a history. You children didn’t know.”

“I remember a bag of peas.” I didn’t elaborate, preferring to let Ray Blanchard rest in peace.

Other memories arrived instead. The brushed fedora Father Mike sacrificed to a snowman that took seven weeks to melt. How he kept his eyes open when saying yes, closed when saying no. A church picnic, not my first but the first I remember well, the croquet game set up, the races and whistles, the tables dragged up from the parish hall and set with flapping paper tablecloths. The grand prize was a sugary, hill-shaped blueberry pie. We formed our team of two and won everything—the three-legged race, the horseshoe tournament, the balloon toss. They let him win because he was Father. I knew this and he didn’t. He thought we won because I was irresistible to the judges—parish ladies all, mothers with soft hands. After that fragile day of favor we lugged back to the house, spent and happy, and gorged ourselves on our prize.

“Her sister made a statement, too,” he said. “You remember Pauline?”

“of course I remember Pauline,” I said. “I remember everything.”

And this—this very moment—would compose part of that everything. His pressed blue shirt, the pleated skin at the base of his neck, the thin and glinting rims of his glasses, all of this was mine.

“I have a thousand memories,” I said.

He whispered, “Good ones, Lizzy, I hope.” His hands opened, a priestly gesture of praise, or offering, or submission. His palms were the color of unlighted candles.

“Father,” I said. “How could it be otherwise?”

As he wiped his eyes I caught sight of his ring, the flash of cat that my mother had found so enchanting. It came over me then—almost before I fully registered that he was sitting in a stuffed chair, drinking coffee that had been ground with eggshells,
petting a cat that drowsed on his lap, a living tableau from the frozen past—that I was happy to see him. Desperately, bloom-ingly happy.

He rested his drained eyes upon me. “Do you remember the caseworker who came to the house, Lizzy?”

I nodded. “It was quite a while before I put it together.”

His face rushed with color. “I wanted,” he said, “at the very least, to protect your innocence.”

We fell silent at the word “innocence.” For my part, I conjured a painted kitchen chair with a white sticker reading
la chaise.

“Mrs. Blanchard told me I was your penance,” I said. “Is that true?”

He set the cat down as if it were a piece of crockery he was being careful not to break, then dropped his face into his hands and wept. My first memory reeled in—my only uncle, asking my permission to cry. I slid off the chair and sheltered him into my arms. He was shockingly slight, his spine a beaded line, though possibly the sensation of smallness was only that I had grown while he had not. How could he be this small? I rested my cheek on the eroding rack of his shoulder and found some comfort there.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I whispered. “You can’t imagine.”

He clutched me with the fervency of the dying, and I felt like the single thing tethering him to Earth. From the reach of childhood there washed through me an old surprise, an intimate, potent, and all but forgotten sensation: power.

He prayed then, in his old way
—our
old way—asking for the simple mercy of God. I believe we received it. The room had lost its bright afternoon light, and my worldly goods—my chairs and lamps and curtain rods and drapes—had taken on the colorlessness of early dusk and an aspect of steadfast waiting that I associated with convalescence. I helped him up, or he helped me.

He asked me again to forgive him, and this time I said yes.

When Drew and Frannie and her son joined us again they were chatting—easily, it seemed to me—the boy atwitter with discovery after seeing Drew’s darkroom, all those chemicals and attendant paraphernalia. He had a voice like a cricket, though I guessed in a year’s time he would begin to sound more like a man. Father Mike and I had seated ourselves again, facing each other in a soft silence, preparing ourselves, I understand now, for a journey we have yet to complete, though it looks to me as though we will. The five of us reassembled, snapping lamps on, mustering our most romantic hopes for connection, in the way we would continue to, like all willing but scattered families.

“She looks like her mother,” Father Mike said to Frannie.

Everyone turned to me. I think I smiled, as my mother would have. The moment seemed to call for a toast, so I took my husband’s hand, lifted my cup, and recited the only one I knew.

“All joy, all love, all good wishes to you,” I said.

And my uncle said, “In God’s good name.”

After that, I asked for a story about my parents.

We begin there.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted, first and always, to Gail Hochman, not only for her expertise as an agent but for her sharp editorial eye; and to the incomparable Jay Schaefer, my editor for six years now, which in the book business is a
very
long time. I appreciate my Chronicle Books family, especially Steve Mockus; and my paperback champions at Ballantine, especially Allison Dickens. For enhancing my understanding of the priesthood, thanks to Eddie Hurley. For guidance on French Canadian language and culture,
gros bisous
to Theresa Vaillancourt and Denise Vaillancourt. For help with certain plot points, thanks to Geoff Rushlau and Don Marsh. Much appreciation, also, to my readers: Dan Abbott, Anne Wood, Monty Leitch, Paul Doiron, and Jessica Roy; and my listener, Mary Jane Johnson.

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