“Okay, Dad,” said Lauren.
“Let’s go enjoy our salads.” Mike put the foil back over the turkey and sliced meat and then he and Lauren went into the dining room, where Sam was drawing circles on his plate with lettuce leaves tined onto his fork, and Ann was pouring herself a glass of wine at the sideboard, and Eileen was asking Nate about his physics class. Minutes later, they all filed through the kitchen, filling their plates—Eileen helping Sam—with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, and green beans. Everyone including Ann and Nate, a picky eater since early childhood, took a hearty portion. Back in their seats, they ate eagerly. Lauren talked about her upcoming volleyball tournament. Nate talked about his football game on Saturday. Eileen discussed the simple ingredients for turkey soup with Ann. And Sam occasionally glanced up from his plate and nodded his head, seeming to absorb bits and pieces of the conversation around him. An animated table full of relatives, temporarily void of misunderstandings, sarcasm, and awkward silences, their Thanksgiving dinner reminded Mike of a scene in a holiday movie he had seen several years before.
It was a bitterly cold Saturday morning. Two inches of snow covered the ground and swirled around the house, carried by an angry wind that howled at the windows and bent the tops of the evergreens behind the guesthouse. Ann got out of bed and walked to the windows. “There’s no way I’m going to that football game,” she announced, arms across her chest.
Mike rolled over to look at his wife, and then beyond her to the blowing snow. “It’s perfect full-length mink coat weather,” he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “And I’ll bet a hundred dollars you have boots to match.”
Ann stared at the snow. “I’ll still freeze.”
Mike threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He stretched his arms out wide and then stood and walked to the bathroom, where he urinated loudly. “It’s a two-hour commitment,” he called. “You’ve suffered through worse.”
Ann shivered, then got back into bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She felt the beginnings of a cold in her nose and throat. She swallowed; her throat was definitely scratchy. She put the back of her hand to her forehead, which felt slightly warm. Going out in this weather would be a mistake. Mike walked out of the bathroom and glanced at Ann before he walked to his closet. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “The game starts in ninety minutes.” Ann said nothing. She would wait until he was dressed and on his way to the kitchen before she verbalized her plans. Nothing and no one could make her go out in that weather to that game. Five minutes later, Mike walked back into the bedroom from the closet. “Let’s go, sleepyhead.”
She turned to face him. “I’m not going. I don’t feel well.”
Mike frowned. “I think Nate will be disappointed.”
“I don’t,” said Ann. “Seriously, I have a sore throat and a headache and I think I should just stay home and rest. I’ve had a crazy week.”
“And too much wine?”
“I’m just tired, Mike.”
“We’re all tired, Ann. And my week, I would imagine, has been just as crazy as yours.”
“Yes, but you’re not ill, are you?”
“No,” said Mike, on his way out of their bedroom. “I’m not.”
Downstairs, Eileen, Sam, and Lauren were sitting at the kitchen table eating something that looked and smelled like Mike’s grandmother’s cinnamon buns. He hadn’t had one since his early childhood, but he instantly remembered the warm, sweet taste. “What wonderfulness have you prepared today, Eileen?” he asked, pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the counter.
“Gran made cinnamon swirls,” said Lauren, frosting on her upper lip. “They are the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Well, that’s high praise,” said Mike, sitting down. “Pass one to me, please.” Lauren handed the platter of buns to her father. He put two of them on his plate.
“Where’s Ann?” asked Eileen.
“She’s not feeling well,” said Mike. “She thinks she has a cold coming.”
“Don’t we all,” said Sam, his mouth full.
“She’s going to Nate’s game, though, isn’t she?” asked Eileen.
“I don’t think so,” said Mike. “She’s in bed. Eileen, this cinnamon roll is amazing. You’ve done it again.” Eileen said nothing. “Where’s Nate?” asked Mike, chewing. “He’s up, isn’t he?”
“Up and gone,” said Eileen. “His team is having breakfast at Bob Evans before the game.”
“Unbelievable,” said Mike, looking at his watch. “Football is the only thing that can get that kid up before noon on a Saturday.”
Eileen pushed her chair back from the table and stood. She put a cinnamon bun on a plate. “Maybe this will cheer Ann up,” she said. “Do you think she’d mind if I paid her a visit?”
“Go ahead,” said Mike.
Eileen walked out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and up the stairs. She walked the few steps to Ann’s closed door and knocked. Hearing no response, Eileen knocked again and then walked in. “Why in the world would you knock on your own bedroom door?” called Ann, still in bed.
“Because it’s not my bedroom,” said Eileen, approaching the bed.
Ann rolled over and faced her mother. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you were sick and not going to Nate’s game and thought I’d check up on you,” said Eileen. “I brought you a cinnamon bun.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Ann.
Eileen set the plate down on Ann’s bedside table. “Perhaps it will make you feel better,” she said.
“I doubt a butter-laden cinnamon roll has any medicinal qualities whatsoever,” said Ann.
“Well, think about it,” said Eileen, turning to leave. “You have an hour before we have to leave.”
“I don’t have to think about it,” said Ann, rolling back over. “I’m not going.”
“I think Nate will be disappointed,” said Eileen.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that this morning.”
“That’s because it’s true,” said Eileen.
“You don’t know Nate very well,” said Ann. “He couldn’t care less if I’m at the game or not.”
“You know as well as I do that that’s not true,” said Eileen. “It certainly wasn’t true with Lauren. She was thrilled to have you at her volleyball game.” Ann said nothing. “We’ll be downstairs if you change your mind.”
“Why can’t I just stay here? I don’t feel well. Doesn’t anyone believe me?” said Ann.
“Of course, we believe you, dear. And if you absolutely can’t go, everyone will understand. However, if there’s any way you can find the energy, even for an hour, I think Nate would notice.”
Eileen walked out of Ann’s room, closing the door behind her. She quietly descended the stairs, walked into the kitchen, and sat back down at the table, where Mike, Lauren, and Sam were still eating. She forced a smile. “Any luck?” asked Mike.
“I don’t think so,” said Eileen. “Poor Nate.”
“He’ll understand,” said Mike, taking another bun from the platter. Eileen took a sip of her tepid coffee.
Mike, Sam, Eileen, and Lauren, huddling under the Dilloway wool stadium blankets Mike kept in the trunk of his car, watched the marching band maneuver around the field. Their black boots lifted the snow, like a gust of wind shifts sand, as they formed themselves into a tiger, Dilloway High School’s mascot. Dressed in black pants and orange jackets and berets, the musicians played the theme song from a
Rocky
movie. Sam clapped to the music and then sang along with the national anthem in a clear, resonant tenor. As soon as the players ran onto the field, the crowd cheered and applauded. Mike, who hadn’t been to a game since the previous Thanksgiving, felt his chest swell with anticipation. Just after the kickoff, Lauren excused herself to sit with friends. Mike, Sam, and Eileen immediately filled in her space, leaning closer to one another for warmth. From a large canvas bag she carried from the car, Eileen extracted an old-fashioned, red plaid pattern thermos. “Hot chocolate, anyone?” she asked.
“Oh boy,” said Sam. “I’ll take a large.”
Hands wrapped around their plastic cups of cocoa, they turned their attention to the game. Five minutes in, Nate jogged out onto the field. Two minutes after that, he made one of the cleanest, most effective tackles Mike had ever seen. And in the second half, he helped score the touchdown that cemented the game.
Ann opened her eyes and immediately looked at the clock on her bedside table. She had fallen asleep for what had seemed like minutes but had been more than an hour. She sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and took a deep breath, which she was able to do through her nose. She swallowed; her throat, while still sore, felt a bit better. She got out of bed, stripping off her pajamas on her way to the closet. If she got dressed quickly, without showering, and made a quick latte to go, she might be able to make the fourth quarter. Silk long underwear on the top and bottom, wool socks, jeans, a cashmere turtleneck, a wool sweater—she was dressed in two minutes. She jogged into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Her hair, looking like it had no master, she would hide under the fur-trimmed hat that matched her coat. She scurried down the steps and into the kitchen, where she made herself a vanilla latte, tapping her foot as the milk warmed. When it was warm but not as hot as she liked it, she poured the milk into a travel mug with the espresso and snapped on the lid. She glanced at the microwave clock, and then dashed down the hall to the front closet that held her furs. She chose the full-length mink, as Mike had suggested, and threw it around her shoulders. She grabbed her hat, scarf, gloves, and her warmest boots, and rushed back to the kitchen to put everything on.
Coffee and car keys in hand, she stepped out into the garage and could, immediately, see her breath. She could feel the cold working its way, like a determined lover, through her layered clothing. She wrapped her arms around herself as she ran to her car. Inside, she started the engine and pushed the remote button affixed to her visor to open the garage door. Nothing. She pushed the button again, but the door refused to rise. This had happened before, once, when the mechanism had frozen. Ann looked over at the opener connected to Mike’s bay. He had had to release the spring and raise the door manually to get his car out. Ann looked at her watch and then rested her head, briefly, on the steering wheel before turning off her engine, getting out of her car, and walking back into the house.
C
HAPTER
6
“I
’d like to go to church,” said Eileen, dressed in khaki pants and a cream-colored cashmere cardigan sweater over a navy blue cotton turtleneck, sipping coffee at Ann’s kitchen table.
“Go for it,” said Ann, in exercise clothes, reading the newspaper and drinking a large mug of latte.
“I mean with you,” said Eileen. “Do you ever go to church?”
Ann lowered the newspaper and looked at her mother. “I don’t have time for church.”
“It’s only an hour on Sunday mornings, Ann,” said Eileen. “What do you mean you don’t have time?”
Ann sighed loudly but kept the newspaper in place between her and her mother. “We’re busy people,” she said. “We have a lot going on in our lives. Since you’ve been here, we’ve been home, but it’s not usually that way. Sometimes, Mike and I go out for brunch on Sundays. Or, we go away for the weekend.”
Eileen finished her coffee and put the cup down on the saucer. “I can understand that,” she said. “And you can go away anytime, Ann. Your father and I didn’t mean to change your life.”
Ann lowered the paper again, just enough to see her mother’s eyes over the top edge. “That wasn’t my point,” she said. “We run all week long. When we’re in town, we like to sleep in or just relax on Sunday mornings. Didn’t the Lord himself call it a day of rest?”
“That’s not what He meant and you know it,” said Eileen, out of her seat and pouring herself more coffee from the pot on the counter. “Growing up, you went to church with us. You even seemed to enjoy it.”
“I didn’t
enjoy
church,” said Ann. “Children go to church because their parents make them.”
“Well, nobody makes me go and nobody makes my friends go,” said Eileen. “The people I know enjoy church very much.”
“And the people you know are all in their seventies and eighties,” said Ann. “What else is going on in their lives?”
“Actually, they aren’t all in their seventies and eighties,” said Eileen, returning to the table, to a face-to-face conversation with her daughter, who had set the paper aside. “There are a number of young people at our church. They go, even though they are busy like you, because they want to go. They are thankful for what they’ve got.”
“Oh,” said Ann, “and I’m not thankful, right?”
“I don’t know,” said Eileen. “Are you?”
Ann lifted her mug and sipped her latte. “In addition to not having time for church, I don’t have time for discussions like this,” she said. “Life is different now, Mother, plain and simple. Children have activities. Men work twelve-hour days. Women have lives outside of the home. When I was growing up, people weren’t busy like we are today. There were many days, I remember, you never left the house, for God’s sake. You cleaned, you cooked, and you sewed. I mean, no wonder you wanted to get out on a Sunday morning. It’s the exact opposite now. We’re out all week and on Sundays, when we’re home, we want to stay home.”
“So, church is irrelevant now?” asked Eileen. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“In some ways, yes,” said Ann, getting up to reheat her coffee in the microwave. “People have since found other places to gather and socialize.”
“How about worshipping God?” asked Eileen. “Can you do that at the mall now?”
“I get enough sarcasm from my children,” said Ann. “I don’t appreciate it from you.”
Eileen brushed the hair from her face with her fingers. “Go with me,” she said gently. “Go with me just once. If you hate it, you don’t have to go back.”
When the microwave beeped, Ann removed her heated mug. “And I won’t have to listen to you harp about it?”
“No,” said Eileen.
Ann waited a moment.
“Okay,” she said, hardly believing she’d consented. “But I’m telling you right now, once will be more than enough.”
That Sunday morning, Eileen, wearing a gray wool skirt, pressed white cotton blouse, navy blue cardigan sweater, and pearls under the camel-hair coat she’d had for thirty years, knocked at the back door. Mike, dressed in jeans and a Brooks Brothers shirt, got up from the table where he was eating a bagel to let her in. “Don’t you look nice,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Eileen. “Is Ann ready?”
Mike looked at his watch. “She’s in the shower. She didn’t think the service was until ten o’clock.”
“It is at ten,” said Eileen. “I like to get there a little early.”
“Well, it’s nine now,” said Mike. “How about sitting down for a few minutes? I’ll get you a cup of coffee and something to eat.”
“Coffee would be great,” said Eileen, shedding her coat. “I’ll wait to eat, though, until after the service.”
“Ann was thinking about going out to brunch afterward.”
“That sounds delightful,” said Eileen. “Will you let Selma know I’ll be gone a bit longer?”
“Will do,” said Mike, putting a mug of black coffee down in front of his mother-in-law.
“And how about you?” asked Eileen, using the fingers of both hands to coax some life into her still damp hair. “Can you come with us?”
“For brunch or for church?” asked Mike, amusement in his eyes.
“Both,” said Eileen.
“You two head off on your own this morning,” he said, sitting. “I’ll catch up with you when you get back.”
“We’d love to have you come,” said Eileen.
“And I appreciate that,” said Mike, taking a bite of his bagel.
“You were raised a Catholic, weren’t you?”
“I was,” said Mike, chewing.
“But you don’t go to church at all now?”
Mike wiped the cream cheese from his mouth with a paper napkin. “I had a lot of religion early on,” he said, “and that was okay because everyone else did, too. As soon as I went to college, I needed a break. When Ann and I moved here, and I was getting my MBA at Michigan, there simply wasn’t enough time for church. We all worked so hard. In the rare instances when we weren’t studying, we wanted to relax. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I found church to be many things, Eileen, but relaxing wasn’t one of them.”
Eileen smiled. “Perhaps you’d feel differently now.”
“Perhaps,” said Mike, looking at his watch as he took his last sip of coffee.
Upstairs, Ann couldn’t figure out what to wear. She wanted to look good but not sexy. She wanted to be comfortable but not casual. She wanted to impress those around her but not appear overly ostentatious. Classy was the look she needed. Her mother, Ann knew, would be mortified if she wore pants. Women from that generation didn’t understand dress pants and never would. Ann ran her hand along the multicolored row of skirts hanging on the lower bar of her winter closet section. When she spied the bottom half of her camel-colored suede suit, she pulled it out.
Perfect,
she thought as she removed the plastic dry cleaner bag. She found the suit jacket on the top bar and removed its protective covering as well. Crossing the closet, she surveyed her section of black blouses and sweaters and chose the cashmere turtleneck she had bought the week before. Satisfied, Ann dressed, put on as little makeup as she could bear, brushed and sprayed her hair, and grabbed her black pearl necklace and earrings from her safe. She hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the first word out of her mother’s mouth was a loudly whispered “Finally.” Ann said nothing in return. Wishing she had worn pants, Ann walked to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t think we have time for that, Ann,” said Eileen, getting out of her chair.
“We do if I bring it with me,” said Ann. “I don’t go anywhere without a cup of coffee first.”
“I would guess not,” said Eileen, walking toward the door to the garage.
“For God’s sake, Mother,” said Ann. “I know what time it is. It takes exactly four minutes to get to church.”
“How would you know?” asked Eileen.
“Okay,” said Mike, “off you go.”
Ann snapped the lid on her travel mug and took her car keys from the basket on the counter. “Let’s go,” she said.
St. Paul’s Episcopal Church was more crowded than Ann would have guessed. They arrived ten minutes ahead of the scheduled service, but it took them half that long to find a parking place and walk into the church. Eileen frowned as she stood on her tiptoes, looking for a place to sit. The only seating available was in the front, the first two pews on both sides. “Up front,” she said in a loud whisper, discreetly pointing an index finger.
“I’m not going up there,” Ann whispered back.
“And I’m not standing back here,” said Eileen. “They’re going to process right past us if we don’t get moving.”
Behind them a robed teenage boy with sleepy eyes and flyaway hair held the worn wooden handle connected to a polished bronze cross. Behind him were two younger boys, dressed in the same white robes, solemnly carrying lit candles. And behind them was an adult choir, several members looking more annoyed, Ann thought, than anointed. She moved forward. “I
hate
sitting in the front,” she said.
“Most people who don’t go to church feel exactly that way,” replied Eileen.
They scurried down the center aisle. Ann’s heels tapped loudly on the slate floor, even though she tried to walk on her toes. People’s eyes followed her as she made her way down the aisle, as if she were a bride. “There’s Ann Barons,” someone said in a hushed voice. When they reached the second pew, Eileen ducked in and Ann followed. As soon as Eileen sat, she removed her overcoat, and then quickly knelt on the mossy green rectangular cushion on the floor in front of her and closed her eyes. Ann, too, closed her eyes, picturing the Bloody Mary she would be sipping by eleven thirty.
Thank You, God, for alcohol.
The first organ blast startled her. She glanced at her mother, who was already standing with her hymnbook open. Ann grabbed a hymnal from the rack and stood next to her mother. As Eileen sang, Ann read the lyrics extolling a virtuous, God-fearing existence. This, she thought, was the reason she quit going to church. Afterward, they sat and listened to the priest ramble through the announcements before a young woman in dress jeans strode to the front and read a lesson from the Bible. Ann tried to listen, but she was distracted by voices behind her.
“That’s Ann Barons,” said a woman.
“I can’t believe she’s here.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, I thought they worshipped at the bank.”
Ann face warmed. She glanced at her mother, wondering if she’d heard their spiteful remarks. If she had, however, Eileen gave no sign. She appeared content, her eyes fixed on the reader. Ann looked at her watch; the service was already dragging, and they had been there only seven minutes. Sometime later, when Ann was making a mental shopping list of Christmas presents she needed to pick up for Mike, the man next to her cleared his throat in a meaningful way. She looked at him and he glanced downward. He then handed her the silver offering plate, already holding a white pledge envelope and a $5 bill. Flustered, Ann took the plate and set it down in her lap while she dug through her purse. She found her wallet, which contained three fifties, a five-dollar bill, and three ones. Sweating, Ann put $5 in the plate and then handed it to her mother.
“Would you look at that?” whispered one of the women behind her. “All the money in the world, but only five dollars for the Lord.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, dear,” said the other. “She simply spent all of her money yesterday—on herself.”
Ann stiffened, but refused to turn around. She took a travel bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse and rubbed a few drops into her palms. The husbands of the gossipers behind her probably worked for Mike’s company in low-level management jobs. They would never amount to anything. Ann glanced at her mother, again wondering if she had heard anything. But Eileen was busy pulling a $20 bill out of her wallet. She passed the plate back to Ann and then dropped to her knees again. Ann handed the plate back to the usher and then knelt beside her mother and looked at the words Eileen pointed to in the prayer book. They were familiar, although they didn’t seem to be the same words Ann remembered from her childhood. She found interesting the resurrected notion of being held accountable for things she hadn’t done as well as things she had. Could anyone get it right? After a fifteen-minute sermon about a poor widow, communion—including the interminable Prayers of the People—and the final hymn, Ann felt like a sprinter seconds before a race. She turned to her mother. “Let’s go out the side door. The line is building quickly in the back.”
“I want to say hello to the minister,” said Eileen, grabbing her coat. “He gave a good sermon, don’t you think?”
“If you mean good as in trite and predictable, yes, it was right on target,” said Ann, standing.
“The line moves quickly,” said Eileen. “It won’t take more than five minutes.”
Ten minutes later, she was shaking Father David’s hand. “Hello,” he said warmly. “Welcome to St. Paul’s.”
“Good morning,” said Ann politely.
“Are you new to us?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” said Ann.
“Are you new to town?” Father David asked gently.
“Oh no,” said Ann. “We’ve been here for years.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m so glad you’ve come to pay us a visit. There are green newcomer cards on the table in the narthex, on the other side of the glass doors. Take a few moments to fill one out and tell us about yourself. We’d be happy to have you join our family.”
“Thank you,” she said, releasing his hand.
“Lovely sermon,” said Eileen, next in line. “It’s a familiar message, but a good one, especially this time of year.”
“Thank you,” said Father David. “Are you new to us today, as well?”
“Yes,” said Eileen. “My husband and I live in Pennsylvania, actually. We’re temporarily living with our daughter, Ann, who has graciously taken us in. My husband is not well, and we’re on the waiting list for an assisted-living facility. We’re hoping a spot will open up some time in the early spring.”