Songs in Ordinary Time (90 page)

Fermoyle?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” she growled into the phone so Alice couldn’t hear, so that Alice could hear, wishing both to protect her and yet to em-phasize the vile one-sidedness of sex with the humiliation and suffering it caused a woman. “It’s not only a sin, what’s happened here, Monsignor, but a crime. My daughter is only seventeen and your priest…your priest is an adult. I’m warning you, if he comes back here, I’ll call the police.”

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” Alice moaned in her room.

Norm went in to her, then Benjy, and now Marie. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to hold her, but Alice stiffened away. It just wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right. Especially now when she was so close to finally being able to give them a better life, after so many years of scrimping by and being scared. She touched Alice’s sweaty head. Alice curled forward until her hand fell away.
Is that it
? she wondered, her ears ringing with the old rage.

“You don’t want things to change, do you? It’s easier to hide, isn’t it, and never face up to anything. Well, goddamn it, no matter how bad things got, I could never hide. No one ever took care of me while I whimpered in my bed! No sir! No one ever did!” She panted, trying to pull her up.

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 439

Alice’s chest heaved up and down. She was gasping. Her eyes were bulging.

“What? Say it! What is it?” Marie demanded. “Tell me!”

She was conscious now of Omar behind her. “Let her be,” he said softly.

“Say it!” she cried.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? Oh God, what’s wrong with me?” Alice was moaning.

“Self-pity!” she hissed over the bed. “That’s what’s wrong. That’s all that’s wrong!”

“Oh God, God, God.” Alice pummeled her own chest with blows that were sickeningly loud.

Omar grabbed Alice’s wrists, and she froze so rigidly her back appeared to arch. Marie closed her eyes.

“No,” said Omar, his voice soothing but emphatic. “There is no wrong here, child. I know. I know how it goes. I know how it went. There’s only goodness in you, and love, and came a moment in your faith and trust when you were asked for more, more than you should have been, and you did not turn away. Because you are an innocent. You gave, and in the giving you were taken advantage of. Why, in the very asking you were taken advantage of! Nothing’s going to change what happened. But that happened to a different person. You’re someone else now, Alice Fermoyle. Don’t you see, you’re a brand-new person now.”

In the hallway Marie covered her mouth so they wouldn’t hear her cry.

Thank God for Omar, she thought. She just couldn’t do it alone anymore.

T
hat night Alice dreamed that she was on television. Sitting at a table in front of thousands of people there were three of her. There was a glass of red wine in front of each contestant.

“Will the real Alice Fermoyle please stand up,” the host called into the microphone.

The audience clapped. She looked down at the other two Alices. They looked at each other, then back at her.

“Will the real Alice Fermoyle please stand up,” the host urged with an impatient gesture.

They each started to get up, then hesitated at seeing each other rising, then quickly sat back down again.

“I repeat, will the real Alice Fermoyle pu-leeese stand up!”

They rose in unison, standing while the audience hissed and booed.

The announcer snatched up their papers, wineglasses, and microphones.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to the angry audience. “There’s been a terrible, terrible mistake.”

T
he weekend was dragging by. Every time Norm looked out the window he saw his car filled with junk, all that crap piled to the roof for Duvall’s sake. He was everywhere. The kitchen table was covered with Presto order 440 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

forms and pamphlets. His razor was on the back of the sink, his black hairs clogging the drain.

On Saturday night Norm walked all the way to the Millers’. Weeb’s sister, Janice, left the room when he came in. It was the first time he’d seen her since that night at the lake. “Barf time,” Weeb grunted, making it to the couch on his crutches. Norm asked if she was sick, and Weeb grumbled something about her always being sick.

“What do you mean, always sick?” Norm asked, and Weeb said it was nothing, never mind. “No,” he insisted. “Tell me, tell me what you meant.”

“I didn’t mean anything!” Weeb said, looking at him.

“Yes, you did. You said she’s sick all the time.”

“What? What do you care? You getting weird or something, Norm?”

Weeb said, his voice cracking. They watched television for a little while, and then Norm headed back home. Not having a car was humiliating. It was embarrassing to be seen walking all over town. He felt like Howard Menka. On his way home he passed by the industrial park. Curious, he went in and roamed around until he came to the Brace Paper Division building. He considered knocking on the door and saying hello to his father.

If he was here, he’d be sober. He hadn’t seen him since graduation night.

Standing under the bright streetlight, he thought of the men he worked with and how proud they were of their kids. Kenny Doyle, who was the toughest man he’d ever known, stopped on his way home every Friday night to buy ice cream and root beer for his five kids. But Kenny was a good guy and his father was an asshole, so why waste time on a lost cause. Relieved that he’d talked himself out of it, he went home.

On Monday he got to work twenty minutes early. The town barn stank of grease and fertilizer. The men said that on one of these hot days the place was going to explode. The barn was actually an airplane hangar—government surplus the town had purchased right after the war to garage its Street Department trucks and heavy equipment.

Jarden Greene was in his office, berating Leo, a shy soft-spoken man who’d been the department’s head gardener for twenty years.

“Don’t tell me the fuck about elms!” Greene’s voice rose, and the men looked up from their coffee.

“Yah, don’t tell him the fuck about nothing,” Kenny Doyle said in a low voice. “’Cause that’s what he knows best.”

Their heads bobbed with swallowed laughter, and once again Norm felt proud that Kenny had chosen him for his crew. Kenny believed in fair play.

He watched out for the little guy. He was tough and wise as hell and every man here respected him.

The office door opened, and Leo scurried out with his head down. Greene followed, clapping his hands for everyone to get up. “Let’s get a move on, now. Come on, come on!” he ordered, going out to the trucks.

“Pompous little asshole,” Kenny muttered as he walked to the back of the truck with his hand on Norm’s shoulder.

That evening Kenny let Norm stay on for the weekly poker game in the SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 441

foremen’s cramped office. His job was to fetch beers and keep an eye out for surprise visitors, namely Greenie. He stood by the window behind Kenny, his heart sinking with every lousy hand. Talk about bad luck. At one point Kenny had lost fifty dollars. Now Norm was lighting one cigarette off the other as he peered down through the wafting blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke. Sixty-five dollars. The pile of bills grew in front of Lonzo Thayer, who had stripped down to his undershirt. Lonzo Thayer didn’t work here, but it was obvious he often played cards with the men. Norm didn’t know how much Kenny made, but he was sure sixty-five dollars had to be a week’s pay. On this hand Kenny lost eight more dollars. “Last hand,”

Lonzo announced.

Norm passed each man another beer, but he deliberately skipped Kenny.

“Hey, Norm, am I that much of a loser?” Kenny called, gesturing impatiently until Norm gave him a beer.

“Tonight you are.” Lonzo laughed.

“Tough luck,” Ed Jessing said.

“Hey,” Kenny said, wiping his mouth after a long guzzle. “Cum see, cum saw, you know.”

It’s not right
, Norm thought as Lonzo shuffled the cards. Wetting his fingers he began to deal, snapping each card onto the table. Kenny finished his beer. His hand was pathetic. His face was red, and he kept blowing out of his mouth as if he were trying to cool off. “Gimme a Bud, Norm.” He held his hand back for the cold wet bottle. It was his tenth beer. Jesus Christ, the man was destroying himself. How many times had men handed his father another beer, another shot, another slug. Of course the difference was his father would be wiped out by the third round and all Kenny had was a red face. And no money. He’d just lost again.

Norm watched Lonzo’s manicured nails tuck the bills into his thick black wallet, which he set on the table. This was nothing to him. He probably did this every night of the week. Norm thought of Kenny’s five little kids and his pretty pregnant wife. Jesus Christ, didn’t Lonzo or any of them care?

They were talking about the pennant race. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Lonzo was worried about the Yankees and Bobby Shantz’s arm, and Kenny’s kids were probably going to be hungry all week. Lonzo stood up, and as he reached for his shirt on the back of the chair, Norm was shocked to see the butt of a gun in his pocket. That explained everything.

Thayer was a crook, a gangster. From outside now came a loud banging sound, then headlights filled the window.

“Jesus Christ! Shit! Turn out the light!”

The room went dark as the men crowded around the window. “It’s a green Buick,” someone hissed.

“Lemme see,” Lonzo said, pushing to get near.

Norm’s hands groped on the table for Lonzo’s Thayer’s wallet. No time for counting. He slipped a thickness of bills into his pocket, then refolded the wallet and stepped among the gaping men.

442 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

“Just parkers,” said Charlie Puleo with a sigh of relief as the car pulled off the road and the headlights went out.

“Jesus Christ.” Lonzo kept groaning even when the lights came back on.

“When I heard green Buick I almost shit.”

“Why, what’s a green Buick, undercover?” asked Charlie Puleo, his eyes gleaming with admiration for slick Lonzo.

“No, worse. My wife,” Lonzo said, and the men all laughed. He slipped the wallet into his back pocket, then buttoned the loop.

Norm felt dizzy. He could barely breathe, he was so nervous. He staggered a little when he stepped into the pure night air.

“You been drinking, kid?” Kenny eyed him suspiciously over the wheel as he started the car.

“No!”

“That’s good.”

They drove in silence. They were halfway across town when Kenny sighed and kept tapping the wheel with his fist. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “I really took a beating tonight, didn’t I?” He tried to laugh, instead had to keep clearing his wheezy throat. He pulled into Norm’s driveway. “See you tomorrow, kid!” He gave him a jab in the shoulder.

“Here,” Norm said, tossing the bills at him before he closed the door.

“Norm!” Kenny called him back. “Where the hell’d you get this?” He kept looking at the money and then at Norm.

“From that fucking Lonzo,” Norm said, his heart finally beating.

“Norm, you shouldn’t’ve done that. Jesus Christ! That was stupid! I can’t believe you did that!”

“But it’s your money. It was all you had, and that fucking Lonzo, he’s a crook. He had a fucking gun!”

Kenny covered his eyes with the bills and groaned. “Lonzo’s a trooper, Norm. He’s a fucking state trooper!”

The next morning the crew was in high spirits. Jarden Greene had come down to the truck barn with coffee and doughnuts for everyone. Norm was relieved when Kenny sat next to him on the bench. He’d been awake most of the night, replaying in agonizing detail every stupid move of his life—getting thrown off the baseball team, beating up Billy Hendricks, getting slobbering drunk with Janice Miller, and then last night. Jesus, it was like having this crazy jack-in-the-box tucked in his brain. And right when it seemed things couldn’t get any better, out he’d spring to screw everything all up.

“Here,” Kenny said, offering him another doughnut.

Norm thanked him. He ate it in miserable silence, awaiting his bitter pill.

And as sure as he knew Kenny he knew it was coming: Kenny would insist that the money be returned to Lonzo, which he’d already made up his mind to do, with or without Kenny, but in his most optimistic scenario it was the two of them meeting Lonzo somewhere by the side of the road, sitting in the trooper’s cruiser, telling it straight, black and white, no excuses, just the SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 443

facts, setting it right like a man. Jesus, it wasn’t easy, learning this all on his own, not from any father or uncle, but from so much constant watching and listening that sometimes he felt like a goddamn spy out here in the world, an actor in constant rehearsal for the big performance.

Kenny and Whitey Martin were laughing at Jarden Greene’s khaki shirt.

“How many fucking pockets he got in that shirt?” asked Martin under his breath.

“When’s the fucking safari starting, that’s what I want to know,” Ed Jessing said as Greene headed out to the trucks.

The men hurried to finish their coffee. Kenny stood up. “Butt?” He held out his pack. Norm took one and Kenny lit it for him. He took a deep drag.

Now, he told himself. Have some balls. Say it now.

“Hey, Kenny,” he called, as Kenny started for the door. “You know last night, what I did with the money and everything, well, I want you to know—”

Kenny gripped his shoulder hard at Whitey Martin’s approach. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, but I—”

“Forgotten!”

“Yah, but—”

“Didn’t happen.” Kenny snapped his fingers. “A little amnesia goes a long way, kid.” He winked. “A long, safe way.”

They piled into two trucks, with Jarden Greene in the lead cab, his arm out the window, his smooth head gleaming through the dusty glass. The heat prickled Norm’s face and it felt good. The men squinted into the early-morning sun as the old trucks lumbered through town. Horns tooted here and there and people waved from the sidewalks. When a worker spotted a buddy, he called out his name, “Hey Bopper,” and everyone on the truck hollered the name after him. “Hey Bop…How’s it going, Bopper!” Norm smiled. These were good men, and Kenny was the best of the bunch.