Maine (41 page)

   The next morning, Kathleen woke early and went outside, barefoot, just as they had always done when they were young. She took note of Alice’s garden, which she had to admit looked damn good. She would have to tell Arlo about it the next time they talked.

It was raining lightly, and she welcomed the rain, walking down to the beach with her face upturned.

She had forgotten that you experienced weather differently here. Rain and clouds were no longer an annoying distraction, but a welcome change in the atmosphere—a chance to curl up with a book and eat a grilled cheese sandwich by the window, and not get out of your pajamas all afternoon. Dampness hung in the air and clung to every surface. The waves lashed at the shoreline, getting frothy white and taller than any man, and everyone would go down to the beach and stand in awe as drops of water fell against their shoulders and the fog rolled in. Umbrellas seemed absurd.

Arlo would love this place. She wondered if it was sheer stubbornness that had made her never once even consider coming back.

In many ways, the past decade had been the happiest of her life, even though ten years earlier, she had lost her father and thought that she could not go on. But before long, she had met Arlo. Falling in love couldn’t make up for what had happened; nothing could. But Arlo was her protector and her confidant, the same way Daniel had been. Sometimes she looked into Arlo’s eyes and would swear she saw something of her father there. She wanted the same kind of love for Maggie.

After meeting Arlo, Kathleen had felt quite certain that her bad marriage and subsequent romantic disappointments had all led her to him. They were her blessings, disguised as burdens. Suppose she had stayed with Paul Doyle. By now, she’d be living on the south shore of Boston with a pickled liver, bickering daily, and probably up to two hundred pounds.

When Paul had an affair all those years ago, she had asked her father whether he thought Paul might somehow transform into a good husband.

“In my experience,” he had said, “people can change, but most people don’t.”

He was right about Paul. But Kathleen had changed. At the age of thirty-nine, she reinvented herself, leaving a bad marriage, getting sober, finding meaningful work. She did it again at forty-nine when she met Arlo. She was fifty-eight now, so who knew what she’d do next? This was a life lesson she wished she had taught Maggie sooner—if you didn’t like yourself, you could just become someone else. Of course, that wasn’t exactly so when you had young children.

She wished Alice would understand this, too, but her mother was too far gone and bitter for life lessons. She’d rather just stew in it. She had certainly never had a suitor since Daniel’s death, which in a way made Kathleen feel relieved.

It was strange to ponder, but Kathleen was fairly certain that her parents had actually been in love, right up until the end. At the top of Briarwood Road, her father had carved the initials
A.H
. into an old pine tree. (Kathleen had once drunkenly told her children that this tribute to her mother stood for Ass Hole.)

Alice’s House
. She imagined them young and in love when he did it, not a care in the world, just starting out and expecting life always to be perfect.

Kathleen heard footsteps behind her now. She clenched her hands.
Please let it be a brutal serial killer and not Ann Marie
.

She turned around.

“Hi,” she said tersely.

“Good morning,” her sister-in-law replied. “Do you know where Alice is? It seems early for her to be at church.”

“I have no idea,” Kathleen said. “You spent the night with her. Oh God, is this the beginning of your elaborate cover-up? You pretend you don’t know where she is, but then we find the body in your trunk a week from now?”

“Stop that. I’m concerned.”

She could see that yesterday’s insanity was over, and Ann Marie had returned to her pod person self.

“I liked you better when you were acting nuts,” Kathleen said. “Can I see some more of that?”

Ann Marie pursed her lips. “Let’s try to be civil, okay? I’m sorry for how I acted. Pat will be here in a few days and you and Maggie will be leaving and we’ll each have time to sort ourselves out.”

Kathleen got a wicked thought in her head, the sort Maggie would say was childish and mean. She couldn’t help it. “What makes you think we’ll be leaving?”

Ann Marie’s eyes grew big. “July first is in four days,” she said.

“And?”

“And July is our month.”

“Well, June is my month, and you’re here now.”

Ann Marie sounded panicked. “We’ve invited friends. It’s going to be a full house, Kathleen. You can’t just stay.”

Kathleen grinned. “Watch me.”

Alice

Alice chose a table in the sun.

She assumed that’s what Father Donnelly would pick, since given the choice, everyone always tended to want to sit outside. It seemed pointless to her in a setting like this—a busy Portland street, traffic flying by, smog in your pancakes. But when the waiter had asked, “Inside or out?” she immediately answered, “Out.”

The one advantage was that she could smoke while she waited. It wasn’t technically allowed, but no one had tried to stop her yet.

When Boston enacted the smoking ban a few years back, she had thought of her father, imagined him walking into a bar and being told to put out his cigarette. He would have been more likely to knock out the bartender. The older she got, the more she realized that while most girls grew up and turned into their mothers, she had become more like her father. Better to be an angry old bully than a passive little wimp, she supposed, though people were more inclined to pity the wimp. That seemed to be Ann Marie’s approach.

The previous night, Father Donnelly had called and asked her to meet him for an early breakfast before Mass. He wanted to talk about the house, he said; he had some concerns. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being sent to the principal’s office:
Alice Brennan, did you steal the new
pastels? Absolutely not, Sister Florence. I haven’t a clue how they landed in my pocket
.

They usually ate somewhere close to home, but Alice had chosen this place—the closest thing Maine had to an anonymous city, far enough away from Briarwood Road, as if to distance herself from yesterday’s mortifying scene. She had gotten used to Father Donnelly’s company these past few months. She was furious with herself for how she had acted in front of him, how they all had acted.

Ann Marie had behaved as though Alice was robbing her of her ancestral home, and Alice had seen in Father Donnelly’s eyes that he felt pity for her daughter-in-law. She hoped she could make him understand the reason for her decision.

They were meeting at eight, but she had intentionally arrived early. Now she drank her tea and looked out over the crowded sidewalk, hoping to see him first. He was such a polite young man, so sweet and understanding. He was probably scandalized by what had gone on at her house the day before. In a way, whatever he had to say would be a welcome distraction set against her family’s problems.

Maggie was pregnant. Kathleen had accused Alice of not caring because of some lack of interest in the girl. But honestly, it wasn’t that. It was the nerve of Maggie, coming to her home, stirring up the pot, asking questions about Alice and failing to mention her own circumstances. And all right, yes, it would have been more shocking coming from Fiona or Patty. Maggie was Kathleen’s daughter, after all. There wasn’t much she could do in the way of poor decision making to shock Alice.

Alice had enjoyed the past few weeks with her granddaughter. She may have gone a bit far calling Maggie a tramp, especially in front of the priest. That was one of the moments when she could actually feel Daniel looking down from Heaven, disapproving of her.

Ann Marie seemed convinced that Kathleen had come to persuade Maggie to have an abortion. If that was true, Alice might just be done with her daughter, once and for all. It sickened her that Kathleen would even think of it. Alice thought the only logical action for Maggie to take now was to marry Gabe. He wasn’t all that bad when you got down to it. He was handsome, he came from money. He seemed to make her laugh.

Alice took a sip of tea. She felt exhausted. She had spent a long, hard night with her daughter-in-law, regretting ever having invited Ann Marie to bunk with her in the first place, regretting asking her to come back once she drove away.

And afterward, she was up thinking of what she’d say here this morning.

After their fight the previous day, after Ann Marie sped off, Alice had walked Father Donnelly to his car (calmly, as if to offset Ann Marie’s insane behavior). She apologized. She couldn’t stop talking. She didn’t want him to leave with a bad taste in his mouth. When he had left, she thought she might talk some sense into Maggie. But once she got back to the house, she found Maggie and Kathleen gone. Shortly thereafter, she watched them drive off somewhere. Alice sat alone for a bit, thinking about it all and sulking.

Ann Marie had told Kathleen that Alice was her responsibility now, as if Alice were some drooling old invalid. It was an unforgivable thing to say, not to mention highly out of character for Ann Marie. She was in trouble with her daughter-in-law, that much was clear. But Ann Marie was such a big softie. How long could she possibly stay angry? Alice needed her, especially now, with Kathleen lurking around.

Eventually, she had called Ann Marie on her cell phone.

“Where are you?” Alice asked.

“In Portsmouth. I stopped off for a minute, but I’m heading home to Patrick now.”

“Don’t go,” Alice said. “Come on back here and let’s have a glass of wine and calm down. Can’t we laugh about this?”

“No,” Ann Marie said.

“Please, darling. I can’t have you angry with me. Especially after Kathleen just shows up, and considering this terrible news of Maggie’s. I’m hysterical; I’m afraid something awful will happen if you don’t come back.”

She began to cry the sort of crocodile tears she had used on her mother as a kid, whenever she wanted to get out of some unpleasant chore, or when one of her brothers caught her snooping in his desk and wanted an explanation.

There had been a long pause before Ann Marie said, “Fine. Do you need anything from Ruby’s? I’m going to stop for paper towels on the way back.”

When Ann Marie walked in a while later smelling faintly of booze and something Alice could swear was men’s cologne, she stiffly apologized for being so cruel, but said she was still very upset. Alice told her it was all right.

“I can’t believe you sold the house,” Ann Marie said.

“Donated it,” Alice said calmly.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“Well?” Ann Marie had said.

“Well, what?” Alice said.

“Is there any explanation?”

Alice felt indignant, though she tried to suppress it. Who did Ann Marie think she was, demanding to know? How was it any of her business? Of course, there was a damn good explanation, but all the same, if she told her children they would only try to talk her out of it. She attempted to sound jovial, but she felt like telling Ann Marie to get the hell out.

“Calm down,” she said. “At this rate, you’ll be choking on your own tongue in a minute. Now look. The church doesn’t get a thing until I croak, and you know mean old creatures like me live forever. By the time I go, that dashing son of yours will have made millions and bought you ten beach houses better than this dump.”

Ann Marie didn’t crack a smile. “I’m a good person, Alice. I don’t deserve this.”

Alice paused. “I know you’re a good person. What I don’t know is where Maggie and Kathleen have gone, but shall we boil up some spaghetti to go with that sauce for just us two?”

“Sure,” Ann Marie said glumly.

After that, they didn’t talk about the house. They spoke about Maggie’s situation and Ann Marie said she was furious—about that. Then they turned on PBS and pretended to be engrossed in a fairly bland production of
Pride and Prejudice
, which they had both watched in full only a month earlier.

The phone rang every hour or so, and Alice glanced at the display screen to see the number. Each time, it was Patrick on the line, and each time she ignored it.

“Go ahead and pick it up,” Ann Marie said.

Clearly, she had asked him to do her bidding.

“No, I think I’ll let it ring through,” Alice said. “It’s probably one of those lousy telemarketers calling from India.”

   The waiter came over with a basket of bread. Alice asked him for a Bloody Mary. The place was filling up. It would be rude to hold the table without ordering something besides tea. When he walked off, she unfolded the cloth napkin in the basket and pulled out three tiny jars of jam, which she promptly shoved into her purse. A moment later she gestured toward a busboy and said, “Could I get some jam, please?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” he said.

A driver leaned on his horn, giving her a start. That got a few other drivers going, and soon the whole street was an ugly symphony of honks and shouts. She never came this far north anymore, even though she could remember darting around these streets as a younger woman, ducking in and out of shops with Rita in tow. Nowadays she couldn’t always trust her eyesight. She had had to squint at the road signs all along 95 on her way here, especially near home, where it was misty and gray.

Alice felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Hi, there,” Father Donnelly said. “Thanks for meeting me.”

He looked as handsome as ever. He was wearing his collar. A couple of youngsters in suits at the next table stared. Had they never seen a priest before? Alice was embarrassed that she’d chosen this place. She hoped he didn’t notice them.

She straightened up in her chair, turning her head. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to sit outside or in. We could move inside if you like.”

“This is fine,” he said. “This is lovely.”

He sat down across from her. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m sure yesterday took a lot out of you.”

“Yes. Once again, please let me say how sorry I am that you had to see all that. I, for one, am so embarrassed about how I acted.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. Sometimes these things happen in families.”

The waiter came by with the extra jam, and filled the priest’s cup with coffee. Father Donnelly paused, waiting for the young man to leave.

“Alice, I thought you’d told your children,” he said a moment later. “And while I’m eternally grateful even for the thought, I’m starting to have reservations about accepting the house. I don’t want to be the cause of strife.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said.

“Your daughter-in-law seemed beside herself yesterday. I’m sorry that it had to come out that way, but—”

“My daughter-in-law is the hysterical type,” Alice said. “Always has been.”

“I’m confused about why you haven’t discussed this with anyone,” he said.

“They’ll get used to it,” she said.

“Well, that’s what I mean. I’m not sure I feel right about that.”

“It was a momentary shock for Ann Marie,” she said. “But believe me, none of them value the place.”

“Even so,” he said.

“When you get old like me, you’ll start to view your life as a whole,” she said. “You’ll see the things you did right, the things you made a mess of. I’ve always tried to do right, Father, but usually I muck it up somehow or another. Just look.”

“At what?”

“Look at my children, for starters.”

“I think you’ve raised a wonderful family, Alice. I’ve enjoyed getting to spend some time with Maggie these past few weeks.”

“Maggie’s pregnant,” she said. “Kathleen hates me and so does my other daughter, Clare. Ann Marie only ever tolerated me because she wanted my house.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “As for Maggie—”

She interrupted him. “Please. I can’t talk about that now.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, and she nodded. “Why did you decide to give your house to the church in the first place? It wasn’t to get back at anyone, was it?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. She felt embarrassed that he would even think so.

“Then why?”

“That church is incredibly important to me,” she said. “I gave a lot of thought to what you said about good deeds back when I called you about my sister last winter. This is a small way for me to atone. I know it’s nothing, compared to my sin, but—”

“Alice, you can’t blame yourself,” he said. “There’s no sin here. It was a fire. You had gone home before it even started.”

“That’s just it,” she said softly. “There’s a part I left out. If I tell it to you now, here, will you consider it a confession?”

“If you like,” he said.

Alice knew she would only ever manage the courage to say it once. For that reason, she wanted her brothers to hear it, but they were gone. She wanted Daniel, but he was gone too. As she heard herself begin to tell the priest the truth, in a way she felt like she was confessing to them all. She pictured Mary, twenty-four years old for the rest of time.

“I didn’t go home,” she said quietly. “That’s what everyone always thought—even my husband—but I was there all along. I’m the reason Mary was in the club when it burned.”

He looked confused, as if he was unsure of whether she was telling the truth.

“There was this blasted pair of gloves, and I refused to go inside to get them because I was angry about Henry proposing. Not that I should have been, but—” She stopped herself. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

He gave her his warmest smile. “Take your time,” he said.

Alice felt all riled up. Her heart pounded. She took a deep breath and started again. This time she told him everything. It surprised her how well she remembered exactly what she and Mary had said to each other, precisely how she felt watching her sister go back in to fetch her precious suede gloves. The high-pitched moan of the fire alarm.

As the words came out of her mouth, she was back on that frigid Boston sidewalk, immersed in chaos, taking in the sight of the dead and wounded, too fearful to do a thing for Mary, who lay dying on the other side of a plain stucco wall.

She recalled walking into her parents’ living room and feeling filled up with relief at the sight of her brothers. And then, moments later, how she had told them that Mary was inside the club, though that was as much as she could bear to admit.

She spoke of how little she had felt for Daniel then, how cold she had been to him. But how his presence after the fact seemed like a way out of the horror and a means of living a more virtuous life.

She confessed that she had never told Daniel the truth about that night, never told a soul.

Father Donnelly was too young to remember that the Cocoanut Grove fire had remained a fixture in the Boston papers and in common conversation for years after it happened. She told him how she had devoured the stories, though they always made her morose, and Daniel warned her not to read or listen to them.