The Passion of Mary-Margaret (27 page)
I'm sitting out on Bethlehem Point and it's hot as blazes and not much breeze either. But Mercy House is even warmer. My back is coated in sweat.
I got another letter from John two days ago.
June 6, 2002
Big Bend, Swaziland
Dear Mom,
Since there's that summer intern doing your job, I thought it would
be a good idea for you to come to Africa and visit me and the brothers
here at the mission. There's a little boy here, Samkela, who's exhibiting
extraordinary artistic talent. Of course, since I didn't inherit anything
artistic, I'm of no help, and the others aren't much better if you'd like the
truth of the matter.
Not only that, we're tired of beans and pap. We could all benefit
from your vegetable stew, especially me. I miss you more than I can
express. We've lost so many wonderful people this past month our graveyard
has little room left. Please pray for us. We'll have to clear out more
of the bush on our property soon. My only consolation is that I believe
them to be with Christ now.
Love always,
John
P.S. Plant those bulbs!
Well, in the interest of not getting too far behind on what's been happening here in “modern times,” I simply must tell you about my follow-up visit to the mission just off The Block. I was able to head over there a couple of weeks ago and Angie went with me as I knew she would because she's nosy and likes to be in on things. She liked Brother Joe too.
We started out before dark because I wanted to stop in Pasadena for breakfast at Tall Oaks Restaurant, which is quite the blast from the past, as they say.
Sheltered, as the restaurant's name suggests, in a glade of tall oaks, it looks as if someone sprinkled growth powder on it and rooms were magically added on like a root system. Great plate glass windows look out over the drive and flood light over the long, glossy wooden tables that seat at least eight. At the head of each table, next to the wall, a table lamp casts a warm, homey glow on the polished surface.
Tall Oaks takes its status as a family restaurant seriously and if the size of the tables was any indication, there must be a lot of Catholics in the area indeed!
I ordered the breakfast special: two eggs, hash browns, and toast. Rye is my favorite.
Angie's a pancake type of gal. She splurged and ordered sausage because she likes to swirl the link around in maple syrup before she bites off a piece and we don't eat much meat at Mercy House, so it's a treat.
Had
we been there for lunch, you can believe I would have ordered a crab cake.
The waitress refilled our coffee cups as we sat back to let the food settle.
“I can't believe we're doing this,” she said. “It's so exciting. Did you ever once think, all those years ago, you might find out who your father really is?”
“No. I guess I thought I knew all I needed to know.”
Angie shook her head. “Something doesn't add up, MaryMargaret. If he did rape your mother, why didn't she blow the whistle on him? It would have been the right thing to do considering he was studying for the priesthood and she had taken her final vows.”
“What people should do and what they end up doing are sometimes two radically different things, Ange.”
“I know. What do you think?”
“I think he might have raped her. But I will concede to the fact that there might be at least a little more to the story.”
The waitress presented us with the tab, a sure sign to get a move on and see what we could find out.
Angie arose and smoothed her khaki stretch pants. I yanked my navy pants from behind into a more comfortable position. Our shirts were askew and we laughed. “We're just a couple of old wrecks, Angie.”
“Tell me something I don't know. But here we are, just like we thought we'd be all those years ago.”
“I think we actually look pretty good.”
Angie always wore her hair long, the sides pulled up in two barrettes, one over each ear. Her small, wire-rimmed glasses had come back into fashion again, and her propensity for compulsive knitting, which she succumbed to during the entire drive to the city that day, produced wonderful sweaters. We all looked slightly hip in an old-country granola way. In the summer, we wore shirts I made from the fabric I wove myself, all sewn very simply, like tunics. I, however, couldn't stand to fiddle with my hair, so in May, unable to cope any longer with the feeling of it down my neck and over my ears, I had it cut extremely short at the barber shop. Arty tried to talk me out if it. Even offered me a free haircut. Unfortunately, I'm a woman of many cowlicks and it sticks out all over my head these days. I look slightly crazy, which, upon rereading all I've written about Jesus, I just might be indeed.
Fine by me.
I'm sure you'll have your own opinion on all of this, and that's fine too. I'm dead now, so it doesn't make any difference one way or the other. And now I know whether or not it was all real. You, however, will have to find that out on your own.
It's interesting to think what gave me so much comfort might, if it really wasn't what it seemed, have been my greatest flaw.
When we walked into the Heart of the City Mission, it was clear the building had enjoyed a paint job inside since my last visit. A mossy green covered the walls. Mary-Francis still manned the battered front desk where guests were invited to use the phone when they needed. Her dreads had grown longer and she wore loose black pants and a long black T-shirt. On a leather cord around her neck hung the Third Order Franciscan Habit in what looked like pewter.
“Sister Mary-Margaret!” She stood up and gave me a hug. “I was wondering if you'd ever come back.”
“How did you remember my name?” I couldn't believe it.
“Oh, I make it a point to remember everyone who walks in this door. I've been here ten years and you know, just the other day, in walks James DeLillo. Came in about five years ago on a cold night in January. I sure was glad to see him. That man sure could use some Jesus along with some warmth. But anyways, he came in this time to pick up a prayer book. Isn't that something? He looked pretty good too!”
I was an old friend to her. I could tell that right away and it pleased me as much as a letter from a friend. I introduced her right away to Angie, who asked for a tour Mary-Francis was only too happy to conduct.
I listened and heard about my father. His vision for the place. “Now, he didn't want much more than a safe, warm spot for folk. Those who need more care we send down to The Hotel. You heard of The Hotel? Sister Jerusha runs it. She's a Sister of Charity.”
“I've heard of her,” I said.
Sister Jerusha was a local celebrity of sorts, the way she was always taking on City Hall with the ordinances regarding the homeless. I saw her on the news when students from Loyola were forbidden to give out homemade sandwiches to the street people because the street people had no place to wash their hands. I remember she kept saying it was all “hogwash.” And I wondered why she chose to use that word over and over again.
Apparently Brother Joe ministered to folks at Heart of the City until 1962, about two years after I'd met him. (You'll get to that part of the story in a bit.)
“What happened to him after he left?”
“Well, he finally became a physician, then a Jesuit priest. That took awhile. They don't mess around.”
So . . . the mission was penance, then.
“Really?”
“Uhhuh. You see, the entire time he was here, he was also studying to be a doctor. He ended up in Africa in 1967, I think. Sixty-two years old. The man had a long road, but he remained faithful.”
I felt my scalp heat up like a hot skillet. “Do you know which country?”
“Swaziland, I think.” She crossed her arms, looked up at the ceiling tiles, then nodded. “Yes, definitely. It was Swaziland.”
Angie laid a hand on my arm, obviously noting I was upset. “When was the last you heard from him?”
“About five years ago.”
So he must be dead. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't reÂlieved. And something inside me was happy he'd kept the faith and ended up doing good things even though he didn't deserve to. I knew Jesus better than to think he'd make Brother Joe be an ineffectual member of the flock for the rest of his life. We hugged Mary-Francis and thanked her for the tour.
“I'm hungry,” I said as we climbed into the car, the only parking space we could find near the Gayety. Still there, still having Parisian Art Night, I suppose. Or maybe not. These places don't even pretend to be classy anymore.
And why oh why oh why do they call these nightclubs “gentlemen's clubs”? Would somebody explain to me how watching a naked, or near-naked woman, expose herself, objectify herself for you, would automatically categorize you as a gentleman? I have never understood that. All right, I'll shut up now.
“Well, let's not eat around here.” Angie pointed to the sleazy bouncer sitting on a stool by the front door of the club. He wore low-slung jeans and tennis shoes like marshmallows with laces and soles.
“All right. I don't want to anyway.”
“You're upset.”
“Yes. And I know I always eat at times like this.”
“That's okay. Let's go get a crab cake down at the Inner Harbor. We can sit outside and watch the paddleboats and the water taxis.”
Bless her heart; she was trying.
“Whoop-dee-doo,” I said.
Swaziland. Oh goodness me.
The first thing I'd do when I got home was write a letter to John.
After
some time of deliberation and prayer not only from myself but my sisters, not to mention permission from the order, I actually e-mailed John
after
I ordered the plane tickets. He goes into Manzini once a week to say a daily Mass at the cathedral and checks his e-mail. He should be heading in tomorrow.
Dear John,
I do believe I'm going to take you up on your invitation to come to
Swaziland. I can come next week for the rest of the summer. I'll be landing
in Johannesburg around 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, July 3. The only
flights I could get routed me through Heathrow. An eight-hour layover.
I think I may take the express train into London and have tea with the
Queen since I'll be there for so long! Or I may just bring a good book and
sit in one of the restaurants and drink espresso until they kick me out. Yes,
that's surely what I'll do.
I hope you'll be the one to come get me. It would be nice to have
several hours together on the drive to Swaziland. I love you.
Yours,
Mom
P.S. Remind me to plant those bulbs again right before I leave to come
back to the States. Maybe I'll actually get them in this autumn.
Oh, those blasted flower bulbs! How can one thing just prick at you and you feel powerless to do something about it? I just despise that. Well, anyway.