Fall on Your Knees (26 page)

“Let’s play ‘Little Women’, okay?”

“Okay, Mercedes.”

“Lily, you be Beth, okay? And we all tell you how much we love you and you forgive us for ever teasing you and then you die, okay?”

“Okay, Frances.”

Mercedes would be motherly Meg, and Frances would be tomboy Jo who cuts off her hair but gets married in the end, and Lily would be delicate Beth who was so nice and then she died.

Even though the Little Women in the book were Protestant, “Let’s say they’re really Catholic, okay?” and Frances and Mercedes would do extreme unction on Beth in her death-bed and apply a holy relic to her burning forehead, let’s say it’s a piece of the Shroud of Turin, okay? No, let’s say it’s Saint Anthony’s tongue.

“Goodbye, dear sisters, I’ll pray for you. Thank you for always being such dear sisters and for making cinnamon toast, and Jo for letting me play with your Spanish doll, and Meg for always being such a good cook. Good … bye.” Lily’s eyelids would flutter convincingly, then she would lie perfectly still not breathing. It was great. Mercedes would cry every time. In the early days so would Frances, but later on she would wreck it all by saying, “Now let’s go and steal her pennies and divide up her clothes.”

A year or so before Mercedes stopped playing, the game deepened. It darkened, time distended and they entered another world. They played “Little Women Doing the Stations of the Cross”. Lily got to be Beth being Veronica wiping the face of Jesus with a cloth and the picture of his face goes perfectly onto her cloth as a gift for her kindness. Mercedes got to be Meg being Simon of Cyrene who helps Jesus carry the Cross, and Frances wanted to be Jo being Jesus but Mercedes said that would be blasphemous so Frances got to be the Good Thief hanging next to Jesus. That is, she got to be Jo being the Good Thief.

They descended another level and shed their intermediary Little Women personae. They entered the world of “The Children’s Treasury of Saints and Martyrs”. They went through the canon. They’d always start with Saint Lawrence, who got roasted alive on a grill and halfway through said, “You can turn me over, I’m done on this side,” and became the patron saint of people who roast meat for a living. At which they’d laugh uncontrollably, even Mercedes. They all three felt hot and wicked, but as they played on the game grew grave and reverent and they reached heights of pious fervour.

They each had favourites. Sometimes Frances was Saint Barbara, whose father was a pagan and when she wanted to be a Christian he took her up a mountain and cut off her head while she was praying for him. Or else Saint Winnifred, who once knew a man who wanted to do wrong with her but she said no so he cut off her head but her kind uncle put it back on her leaving only a thin white scar. Or sometimes she was Saint Dymphna, who had a father who wanted to do wrong with her but she wouldn’t so she escaped with the court jester, but her father found her in Belgium and cut her head off but she didn’t have a kind uncle so she died and got to be the patron saint of crazy people.

Mercedes’ favourite was Bernadette.

“That’s no fair, Mercedes,” said Frances, “Bernadette’s not even a saint yet.” True, Bernadette had only recently been beatified, but because Mercedes was the eldest they played the game of Bernadette being such a good daughter and having asthma and seeing Our Lady in the grotto at Lourdes where Our Lady told her three secrets.

Lily only ever wanted to be Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus, which got tedious after the nth time and Frances and Mercedes would try to persuade her to be someone else.

“Why don’t you be the little boy saint who gets his hands and feet cut off but then he gets nice new silver ones?”

“Why don’t you be Saint Giles, who was the patron saint of cripples, Lily?”

“Lily, do you want to be Saint Gemma, who had tuberculosis of the spine but Our Lady cured her?”

“No,” said Lily, “I want to be Veronica.”

All right, all right — if you don’t let her, she’ll scream and Daddy’ll come running and that’ll be it.

They always exited their passion plays of ecstatic faith and glorious martyrdom with the same story, in which they all starred simultaneously: that of Saint Brigid. She was the most beautiful girl in Ireland but she wanted to be a nun, but there were too many young men who wanted to marry her so she prayed to God, “Please, dear God, make me ugly.”

And He did.

One by one, Frances, Mercedes and Lily would crumple and wither till they were wicked-witch ugly. Then, bent over and shrivelled, they’d join the convent with cackling voices — “Hello, sister, how are you today, ya-ha-haa!” — where they’d kneel down at the altar rail and the miracle would happen: Saint Brigid turns beautiful again. “Why sister, you are beautiful!” “So are you, sister!” “Oh, sisters, look at my beautiful golden hair!” “And look at my lovely lips!” “Oh, look at my ballgown!” “Look at mine!”

Many a long Saturday and Sunday afternoon, while Daddy slept off his night’s work in the wingback chair downstairs….

It was short days ago, but it seems like for ever since Mercedes got her period and fell in love and lost her mind. Oh well. At least Frances and Lily still know how to have fun.

Cat’s Cradle

Frances and Lily share a room. James would have preferred that Lily share with Mercedes, but Lily insisted — to Mercedes’ silent relief. Frances has set up their bedroom so that there’s two of everything and Lily knows exactly which side of everything is hers and which is Frances’s. You might think Frances would be a slob, but she isn’t, she’s very neat and organized. She has accommodated Lily with a framed magazine photograph of Mary Pickford in a stupid gingham apron. It hangs next to Lily’s colour print of Jesus with the lambs. Jesus looks sad, of course, “because he’s thinking about how much he likes lamb chops,” says Frances, but Lily is not fooled by that. The rest of the walls are covered in Frances’s collection. She writes away for publicity photos. There is one of Lillian Gish trapped on an icefloe. There is Houdini naked and furious in a milk-can. There is an actual poster that an usher at the Empire gave her of Theda Bara in
Sin
, holding her unbelievably long tresses at arm’s length above her head like a madwoman. Frances calls her Head of Haira. Mercedes thinks the picture is immoral.

One evening, Frances is seated at her side of the desk, pen in hand, doing her “homework”:

Dear Miss Lillian Gish,

I am writing to you to respectfully request an autographed photograph of you in any picture. I have seen them all. It would mean so much to me because I am a crippled girl and have spent all my life in a wheelchair. I rode the wildest horse in the stable. I was dragged, but I did not die, thanks to my Guardian Angel. I wish I could run and play like the other children, but at least I am glad that Daddy dear can wheel me to the picture house so I can see you. Thank you.

Yours truly….

Frances muses for a moment and then it comes to her … who the letter is from, that is. She signs it, tucks it into the envelope and addresses it to Miss Gish’s fan club in Hollywood, California. Then she looks up at Lily, who has been waiting obediently for playtime to begin, and says, “All right, Lily, come with me.”

Lily follows Frances up to the attic.

“I was going to show you something but now I think maybe you’re not old enough.”

“I am, Frances. I’m old.”

They are seated on the floor, cross-legged before the hope chest. “This was Kathleen’s room, eh, Frances” always must be said, and the response, “That’s right, Lily, this is where she died,” before they can get on with whatever game Frances has in mind. This liturgy serves to honour the story that no longer needs repeating. The story that Frances told Lily so long ago and so often:

“Our beautiful older sister, Kathleen. She had red hair like an angel on fire. And she had the voice of an angel. God loved her so much, He took her. She was only nineteen when she died of the flu. I was there when she died and I closed her eyes.”

There is always a pause here while they both picture it faithfully. Then Frances continues, “Her last words were … ‘Dear Frances, you are my favourite sister. And you are also the most beautiful next to me. Please. Look after Lily.’” Frances’s eyes start to glint green, but it is a serious glint. Scary. Lily’s eyes grow round and wet. The bump appears in her forehead.

“Why did she say look after me?”

Frances doesn’t take her eyes off Lily, she just says evenly, “Because she loved you, Lily.”

“… I love her too.” Tears.

Frances puts out a hand and barely strokes Lily’s long hair that’s never been cut. Then … “Okay, quit blubbering, let’s play.”

It is understood that Kathleen is not to be mentioned around Daddy, “because, Lily, it would hurt him terribly if you even said her name.”

On this particular evening, Frances has decided that the time has come to talk of other things. She reaches into her pocket and produces the key to the hope chest. Lily gasps.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Lily.”

“What’s melon dramatic?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Oh.”

Frances repockets the key. “I made a mistake, you’re too young.”

“I am not!”

“Keep your voice down.”

Whispering passionately, “I am not, Frances, I won’t tell.”

Frances raises an eyebrow, shakes her head, mutters, “I must be losing my marbles,” and inserts the key into the lock. Raises the lid. The waft of cedar…. Frances gets a lump in her throat, blinks past it. Lily knows better than to ask.

“Close your eyes, Lily.”

“Okay.”

“There are things in here that you’re not ready to see.”

Rustle, rustle.

“Put your hand out.”

Lily does. “It feels silky.”

“It’s pure satin. Open your eyes.”

Frances holds what looks like a miniature wedding gown, gone a little yellow with age.

“It’s beautiful,” Lily breathes.

“It’s the christening gown. We were all baptized in it. Kathleen, Mercedes, me, you. And Ambrose.”

Lily looks up. “Who’s Ambrose?”

The thin white stripe appears across the bridge of Frances’s nose. It usually only appears when she’s laughing, but she’s not laughing now.

“He’s your brother, Lily.”

Lily stays perfectly quiet, looking into Frances’s eyes, waiting. Frances says, “Here. You can hold it.”

Lily takes the gown from Frances and cradles it in her arms, such a precious thing, an heirloom.

Frances says, “Ambrose died.”

Lily waits. Listens. Frances tells the story:

“On the day you both were born, a stray orange cat came in through the cellar door. It climbed the cellar steps. It climbed the front hall steps. It climbed all the way up to the attic without a sound. It came in here where you both were sleeping and it leapt into your crib. It put its mouth over Ambrose’s face and sucked the breath out of him. He turned blue and died. Then the orange cat put its paws on your chest and it was about to do the same thing to you but I came in and I saved you. Daddy took the orange cat and drowned it in the creek. Then he buried it in the garden. In the spot where the scarecrow used to be but now there’s a stone. I helped.”

Lily doesn’t move a muscle. Frances takes the gown carefully from her and calls, “Here Trixie,” making kissing sounds with her mouth, “Come on Trixie, come on,” until they hear the loping
pad pad
up the stairs and Trixie appears in the room, blink. You called?

“That’s a good Trixie, c’mere.”

Trixie comes. She always does when Frances calls. She found Frances three years ago. Trixie is pure black with yellow eyes. Although, who can say, maybe her missing front paw had a white slipper on it, we’ll never know.

“Frances, Lily, supper.”

“Coming, Mercedes.”

Downstairs, Mercedes pops her head out the front door, looking for Daddy’s Hupmobile. He had to do an emergency delivery to Glace Bay this afternoon. Someone needed twenty pairs of shoes right away. Mercedes is proud that Daddy works so hard, and always at night, just so he can look after Lily. Otherwise Mercedes would have had to leave school. Daddy drives all over the island delivering dry goods he picks up in Sydney. And often he makes boots all night in the shed. Mercedes has seen the reassuring glow of his lamp down there in the window, athough she would never dream of disturbing him — Daddy doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working.

Mercedes is proud they have an automobile, athough she knows she should only be grateful. Here it comes, right on schedule, long and boxy, bobbing over the ruts. And here come the girls down from the attic; it looks as though supper will be on time for once. Tonight it’s an old Cape Breton recipe that Mercedes got from Mrs MacIsaac:
ceann groppi
. That’s Gaelic for “stuffed cod head”. It’s taken Mercedes all afternoon, she sincerely hopes Daddy will be thrilled: take a big cod head, take a lot of cod livers, scrape off the iffy bits, take rolled oats, cornmeal, flour and salt, stuff the head through the mouth, holding it with a finger in each eye. Boil.

James tosses his cap onto the halltree hook and says, “Come and hit the ivories, Mercedes, I feel like cutting the rug with my best girl.”

Mercedes smiles at Daddy and proceeds obediently to the front room, forced to wait dinner after all. Tortured as though by tacit conspiracy involving her entire family. She sits at the piano and grits her teeth at the sound of Lily giggling and running to Daddy. Mercedes opens the old
Let Us Have Music for Piano
and plays.

Lily places her left foot on top of Daddy’s right one, her right one on his left, and they dance to “Roses of Picardy”.

Until finally “I’m starved,” says Daddy. “What’s for supper, Mercedes?”

Supper.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” says Frances.

Even James. “I’m sure it’s delicious, Mercedes, but I have a hard time eating with my dinner looking me straight in the eyes.”