Shelter Me (6 page)

“Whoa, hold on,” said Janie, finally realizing something had transpired that involved her. “I don’t want to go to any class. You have to stop this.”

“Stop what?” Aunt Jude closed the oven. She stood there with the oven mitts held up, as if she were about to perform surgery on a fire-breathing dragon.

“Stop signing me up for things. I don’t want to go to classes or grief groups or harbor cruises or any other crazy thing you find online. The Internet is not the solution to all of life’s problems!”

Aunt Jude tossed the oven mitts on the counter. “You’re just hungry.”

Janie blew an agitated huff. “So? Even if I stuffed myself with frozen pizza, and ate every friggin’ Fig Newton on the planet, I still would NOT GO TO ANY CLASSES.”

“Jane Elizabeth Dwyer LaMarche—”

“And don’t start using all my names, because that does not work with me—”

“Your mother would be so ashamed to hear you speak like—”

“YOUR SISTER is in ITALY. In EUROPE. A whole OCEAN away. She came home for ONE WEEK when Robby died. ONE…GODDAMNED…” Janie clenched her teeth on the ache in her jaw, willing herself, commanding herself not to shed one single drop.

“Yes, well,” Aunt Jude shook her head, opened her mouth to say something, shook her head again. She put the mitts back on and took the pizza out. One side of the mushroom and olive was almost black. “Noreen’s the sensitive one,” she said finally.

“SENSITIVE, MY ASS!” yelled Janie. Reeling away from Aunt Jude she caught sight of Carly sitting in her highchair. The corners of her little mouth were turned down into her trembling chin. Her eyes filled and overflowed onto the reddened cheeks, but no sound came from her. Janie burst into tears and put her hands over her face.

“There, now,” she heard Aunt Jude say, lifting Carly from her seat. “There, there, now.” Holding the baby in one loose-skinned arm, Aunt Jude put her other arm around Janie. Carly reached out to grab a handful of Janie’s black hair. Ashamed of herself, Janie could not reach back.

T
HE NEXT EVENING
, S
ATURDAY
, Cormac stopped by with a bag of muffins.

“Ah,” said Janie. “The Pelham swat team has arrived.”

“Available for crises of all varieties, chickie,” he said, and gave her a hug that lasted a second or two longer than usual. “Aunt Jude came by the bakery for soda bread this afternoon.”

“Give you an earful, did she?” Janie closed the front door and followed him into her kitchen.

“Well,” he said, reaching for the blue flowered plate on top of the kitchen cabinet. “Yeah. You know her.” He took pineapple coconut muffins from the bag and arranged them on the plate. The last muffin, pistachio, he handed to Janie. She poured him a glass of orange juice and they sat down.

“I’m alright, you know,” she said. “It’s only her that makes me flip out. She’s been capable of that my whole life, not just since Robby died.”

“Nah, I know.” His massive fingers delicately pulled the top off a muffin and returned the bottom to the serving plate. “I was just thinking about your mom.”

Janie rolled her eyes.

“No,” he said, “just that it’s weird, her staying in Italy. I mean, I know she loves that job at the American School there. But, you know. It’s summer.” The entire muffin top went into his mouth.

“She can do what she likes.” Janie picked a pistachio, still in its shell, off the top of the muffin. A year ago she had convinced him not to put green food color in the pistachio muffins, telling him it was old-fashioned, like dressing boys in blue and girls in pink. He solved the muffin’s ensuing identity crisis by placing a whole pistachio on each one, like a flag announcing its country of origin.

“She should be here,” he said.

“Well, she’s not.” Janie rolled the pistachio between her fingers. “I’m thirty-eight years old. She’s no longer responsible for my mental state. And, honestly, I don’t even know that I’d want her here.”

“Come on.”

“She’d be watching me like a hawk, worrying, fussing, sewing things like her life depended on it.”

Cormac finished off his juice and dissected another muffin. “Hell of a stitcher, that one,” he said. “Still, it’d be nice to have the company.”

Janie shrugged and nibbled a piece of her muffin.

Cormac licked a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “You thinking about going back to work any time soon? Not like I’m pushing or anything,” he said. “But maybe a little outside contact might be a good thing. People to talk to.”

“People with respiratory problems aren’t usually too chatty,” she said.

“You know what I mean. At the hospital. Co-workers, janitorial staff…flower delivery people…pushy family members…”

He meant well, but the very thought made her stomach clench. “I can’t even imagine getting dressed in work clothes, much less actually getting out the door. Besides what would I do with the kids?” She took another bite of her muffin. “You change the recipe on these?” she asked.

“Not really,” Cormac replied, his mouth full of muffin top.

“You did too.” Janie took a bigger bite. “It’s sweeter.”

“We just added a little brown sugar. Not that much. I can’t believe you can even taste it.”

“We?” said Janie. “What’s ‘we’? There is no ‘we’ at Cormac’s Confectionary. There is only Cormac. Or was that the royal ‘we’? As in ‘We are not amused.’” She affected a British accent.

“One of the employees suggested it, and I decided to give it a try,” he said, though the color was rising on his large cheekbones.

“Cormac McGrath, you have made a career out of never doing what anyone wanted you to do, so don’t give me
that
load of bull. Who, exactly, suggested it?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Let me see if I can jog your memory. Unnaturally tall, thin, and busty? Comes complete with oven mitts and matching flour sack? Yes, it’s Bakery Barbie, now available at a toy store near you!”

Cormac grinned, but didn’t let out the big laugh Janie expected. “She’s nice, you know,” he said.

“Oh, I’m just teasing,” said Janie, covering her surprise and an odd twinge of jealousy. Cormac took advice from Janie only rarely, and virtually never from anyone else. He’d had a lot of girlfriends in his forty years. A few had been serious; one had even enthralled him to the point that he followed her to Oregon and lived with her for a year. But then he came back. Janie suspected him of being too happy for marriage. He never seemed to need anything or anyone in his life that he didn’t already have.

“So what about that self-defense course?” asked Cormac.

“Oh, please!” said Janie. “What are you? Aunt Jude’s minion?”

“If I were Aunt Jude’s minion, I’d have horns coming out of my head and a spiked tail. I know it’s hard to believe, but from time to time I just happen to agree with her.”

“Why, for godsake? It’s not like I live in some bad neighborhood in Boston. I don’t even
go
to Boston very often. I just sit here in boring old Pelham, where the biggest crime is throwing recyclables in with the garbage.”

“Read the police log in the paper. Stuff happens.”

“Oh yeah. I could get my mailbox bashed in by a Red Bull–crazed lacrosse player. You’ve been giving Dougie Shaw too many free cupcakes.”

“Hey, Officer Dougie may not exactly be Starsky or Hutch, but he knows about all kinds of crazy crap that goes on.”

“Like?”

“Like those break-ins in Natick. And he says there’s a whole lot more wife beating than anybody knows about.”

Janie looked away. “I think I’m safe on that score.”

“Oh, shit,” said Cormac. He reached out his hand, speckled with tiny oven-burn scars, and patted her pale arm. “Chickie, I’m sorry.”

She gave him a weak smile, “You’re forgiven if you lay off the self-defense course.”

He leaned toward her and whispered, “No chance.”

T
UESDAY
, J
UNE
19

W
HEN
F
ATHER
J
AKE ARRIVED
that Friday he looked dramatically different. Actually, the difference was rather minor, but it made him seem like another person—his twin, perhaps, who was pinch-hitting while the ghostly priest haunted some other woebe-gone soul. He had on the same black jeans and black shirt he wore every day of his life, as far as Janie knew. But in place of the somber black sport shoes, there were tan low-cut hiking boots. And because the weather had turned cooler, he was wearing a brown chamois shirt over the black cotton button down. Strangest of all, the little white insert in his collar was gone. It was as if Johnny Cash had made a side trip to L. L. Bean.

“Everything okay?” asked Janie.

“What—you mean this?” he asked, holding up a large glass jar with a white screw-top. Distracted by his new persona, Janie hadn’t even noticed what he was carrying. “We had a thank-you brunch for all the church volunteers,” he explained. “This had fruit cup in it. I saved it for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, baffled.

“You’re welcome.” He set the jar on the counter in the kitchen. Carly was sitting in her highchair, aiming her tiny thumb and forefinger at a sprinkling of Cheerios on her tray. “She’s up,” said Father Jake. “That’s perfect.”

“For…?” asked Janie.

“For a hike. I thought we could walk over to Jansen Woods.”

“Well, that’s a nice idea but it’s her nap time.”

“You have one of those baby backpacks, right? Would she sleep in that?”

She’d pass out like a drunken sailor,
thought Janie. “I guess, but we wouldn’t get very far. Jansen Woods is half a mile from here. You have to be back by noon.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. You just always leave at noon.”

“Well, it won’t matter if I’m back later. Do you have sneakers or something?”

Of course she did. There was nothing at all keeping Janie from taking a walk, other than the fact that she didn’t want to. She didn’t even know why she didn’t want to—it was a beautiful, clear, cool day. She and Robby had spent many days just like this one hiking in New Hampshire or Vermont before they’d had kids. She loved to hike. But not now.

Nevertheless there she was, trudging up her shady street. Carly was strapped into the carrier on her back, the wide pink brim of the baby’s hat flopping with each reluctant step Janie took. Father Jake commented on various things around them: a squad of bicycles in a neighbor’s yard, the height of an evergreen, the lack of fences. “How do you like your neighbors?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know everyone,” she said. “Some keep to themselves. But most are nice. A few are still here from when I was a kid growing up in the neighborhood. When Robby died they sent an unbelievable amount of food. Kind of funny because I’d never had less of an appetite in my life, and suddenly I was up to my armpits in casseroles and banana bread.”

Father Jake nodded and strode silently for a few minutes. “You know, I was thinking,” he said quietly. “That’s one of the worst things about being homeless. I mean, other than being without shelter. No neighbors. No one to notice when your life takes an unexpected turn. No one to bake banana bread.”

“So you’re saying I should be glad.”

“Glad?”

“That though I’m a widow, pushing forty, with two small children, at least I have a roof over my head.” She felt Carly slump slowly forward against her back, the little dozing body collapsing by degrees. “Of course, if I were homeless, I suppose I could be glad that I wasn’t also blind. Or lame. Or cursed with the heartbreak of psoriasis.”

Father Jake smiled at her. “You always make things funny.”

“By that you mean I’m a sarcastic smart-ass.”

“By that I mean you’re funny. I wish I had that gift. I imagine it helps.”

Janie stopped and put her hands on her hips. It took Father Jake a step or two to realize she wasn’t moving forward anymore. He turned toward her and waited.

“You know,” she said quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping baby, “you’d have a little more credibility if you weren’t so unflinchingly nice.” His eyebrows shot up. Janie continued, “I’ve been a total bitch to you, and you keep acting like visiting me is somehow pleasant.”

He squinted at her, nodded slightly, looked away. Then he met her gaze. “I guess both things are true. You have been a total bitch to me. You’re antagonistic and snide and a terrible listener.”

Janie stepped back, stunned.

“You’re also…” he searched for the word, “oddly likable, underneath all the sarcasm. And,” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyebrows. “And you bagged me doing my…what did you call it…? My Father Friendly impression.” He chuckled then and shook his head. “I
am
unflinchingly nice, and it’s a kick to be around someone who challenges me to be more than that.”

Janie turned slowly and began to walk again. The baby was now snoring gently against her shoulder blade, the weight propelling her forward. “Where’s your collar?” she asked as Father Jake fell into step with her.

“In my pocket. I got the feeling it annoyed you.”

They turned right at the end of her street, down a less-frequented road; this dead-ended at a path that climbed gradually up a hill. Father Jake matched her pace, neither slow nor fast, and she began to feel her limbs warm up. Not a surging, angry heat, the kind that had become so familiar in the past five months. More of a steady warmth that poured through her like hot honey. “So, I’m a terrible listener,” she said.

“Either that or you misunderstand me on purpose. I haven’t decided which, yet.”

“Probably a little of both.”

“Probably.”

T
HE VIEW FROM THE
top of Jansen’s Hill was obscured by the oaks and evergreens that had moved in since the Jansen family had given up and let the farmland revert to forest in the 1930s. But hikers still got the sense that they had ascended to a satisfying height when they sat on a fallen tree-trunk and smelled the oxygen-rich air.

“Hey,” said Janie. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you see your parents very often?”

“No,” said Father Jake. He inhaled deeply and let the air in his chest out slowly, carefully. “Last I knew, my father was the deputy chief of police in Hamilton, Bermuda.”

“Jesus!” Janie whispered, immediately regretting her choice of expletives.

“Yeah,” he snorted. “Miserable bastard.”

“Your mom’s there, too?”

“No. He left her years ago. I’m not really sure where she is.” He was completely still for a moment, then he blinked. “Where are your parents?”

“My mother lives in Italy. She teaches Home Ec at the American School in Turin.”

“Even during the summer?”

“Nope. She’s off now. Visiting a friend in Naples. Noreen Dwyer spends every cent she earns on travel. She’d rather board a plane than eat.”

“Oh,” he said, watching her.

“My parents split when we were little, and my father took off. I have a feeling my Uncle Charlie, my mom’s brother, made the options clear: you either step up to the plate or you get traded to Siberia.”

“And you have a brother?”

“Mike, my twin. He’s in Flagstaff, Arizona. He’s a sculptor.”

Two crows flew screeching across the treetops and landed in a nearby hemlock. The birds sat quietly on separate branches, as if their prior outbursts had been embarrassing lapses in otherwise decorous behavior.

“And you have Jude,” said Father Jake.

“Like a bad rash,” replied Janie.

The priest chuckled and shook his head.

T
HEY BOTH SEEMED TO
know when it was time to go, and rose simultaneously from their separate spots on the huge log. As they descended the trail Father Jake mentioned, “I’m going over to that soup kitchen, Table of Plenty, to help serve dinner tonight. I guess that’s what got me thinking about homelessness.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Janie, her quadriceps burning as she worked not to jostle the sleeping baby on her back. “Aunt Jude roped you in.”

“She’s definitely blessed with determination,” he said diplomatically.

“If she told you to work on me about that stupid self-defense course,” she said “you can save your breath. I’m not doing it.”

“I’m not going to work on you.”

“But you think I should do it.”

“I don’t think you’ll get anything out of it if you don’t want to be there.”

“She did tell you about it, then,” said Janie.

Father Jake smiled to himself and glanced at Janie. He looked for a split second like he might roll his eyes, but he never did. “A lot of those women at Table of Plenty have been assaulted at some point in their lives. Jude’s probably heard some pretty grisly tales.”

“I’m sure she has. And if I slept behind the Dumpster at Stop & Shop on a regular basis, self-defense would be high on my list, too. But I don’t. Which is why it’s so annoying that everyone’s on me about it.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Well, Aunt Jude, of course. And my neighbor Shelly. Also, my cousin Cormac, who stopped by last weekend to ply me with muffins.”

“So all the people who’ve done the most to support you through this terrible time are asking you to do something that helps them sleep better at night.”

“Exactly—it’s not for me, it’s for them. They just don’t want to have to worry about me.”

He stopped and waited.

“Shit,” she whispered, the sudden realization of her utter self-absorption causing her to slump in defeat. “Sometimes I just can’t stand myself.”

They continued on. When they got back to Janie’s house, Father Jake pulled a rock speckled green with lichen out of his pocket. He placed it in the empty fruit cup jar on the kitchen counter.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Something for your jar.”

“Why that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just liked it.”

W
HEN
J
ANIE WOKE UP
Sunday morning she felt frantic and didn’t know why. She dearly wanted to go back to sleep and wake up the next day, but reminded herself this was not an option when you
have two kids and you’re the only grown-up in the house. Also, it was just generally not a good idea.
I guess everyone wants to spend the day in bed sometimes
, she told herself,
but when you feel half dead to begin with, it’s an urge you really ought to fight.

Dylan was feeling low, too. The first thing he said to her as he climbed into her big Robby-less bed was, “The sky is white.” She didn’t fully understand until he made her look out the window. Sure enough. White. Not a speck of blue, but also not gray. It wasn’t sunny, but it didn’t look like rain, either. It was as if the sky had stayed in bed.

And they had no plans. No one to see, nowhere to go. Well, Dylan had some ideas. As they collected Carly, went downstairs and started breakfast, he suggested that Disneyworld, snowboarding, or a volcano would work for him. Finally Janie offered up Paint ’N’ Plaster Zone, with the cheesy plaster figures that you buy for about a 9,000 percent markup and coat in acrylic paint, which ends up on your clothes no matter how completely you’ve covered yourself with one of their overused, underwashed aprons. She was feeling pretty selfless when she suggested that one.

Dylan wasn’t interested. “What does everybody else do?”

Damned if I know
, thought Janie.

“What does Auntie Jude do?” he pressed.

Janie took a big slurp of coffee, requiring fortification at the mere thought of her aunt. She had more or less decided to do the self-defense course, but couldn’t stand the idea of admitting it, feeling sure that Aunt Jude would be openly and annoyingly proud of herself.

“She goes to church,” Janie told Dylan, never thinking that this would interest him.

“What kind of donuts will they have?”

Janie told him they don’t have donuts, they have Eucharist, which he’s not allowed to have because he’s not old enough. He insisted that he was, too, old enough, and did the U-Triskets have
chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles, because that’s his favorite kind. This got her laughing. All she could think of was some old joke about an ad for “Eucharist Lite—I Can’t Believe It’s Not Jesus!”

Dylan was not amused. She offered to take them out for donuts (such was the level of her desperation). But by then he had it in his head that church was the place for him. She told him they had to dress nicely and sit quietly for a long time, which he was absolutely certain he could do. He went to his room and returned wearing his very best Hawaiian shirt, the one with gyrating hula dancers on it; a yellow clip-on bunny tie from last Easter; red and blue shorts that said “Go Patriots!” courtesy of Uncle Charlie; and his cowboy boots.

The earnestness of the attempt combined with the adorable absurdity of the outfit undid her, and she agreed to take him to church. Then she hid in the bathroom and cried, because Robby would have laughed so hard and been so proud and loved him so much, and Dylan would never again see how happy he made his father. But she would see it over and over in her mind until the day she died.

She took a shower and ran the water just a few degrees shy of scalding to help her stop weeping. When Dylan saw her dressed in gray slacks and a tan blouse he pronounced her not nearly fancy enough, and insisted she wear the macaroni-and-plastic-bead necklace he had made for her at preschool. He thought Carly was okay in a pink ballerina dress, especially after he accessorized her with neon green sunglasses he got at a birthday party. He put his swim goggles on in the car, and refused to take them off when they got to the church parking lot. Finally, they compromised by having him wear them around his neck instead of over his eyes.

Our Lord is having himself one heck of a laugh today,
thought Janie, searching the pews for Aunt Jude.

They found Aunt Jude at her usual post, standing sentry (kneeling sentry might have been more accurate) in a pew by the
pianist. The expressions that passed over Aunt Jude’s face when she saw them troop in were worth whatever lecture Janie knew awaited her. First it was shock that Janie and the kids had shown up at all, then bliss that they were paying a long-overdue visit to God. Then it was pride that evidently she’d gotten through to Janie. Then it was horror at what they were wearing.