“What was your Confirmation name?” I ask.
“I almost chose Rose, my most favorite bloom, but then I read about St. Thérèse, who was also called The Little Flower, and I thought, Why not cover them all?”
At least Joy wasn’t just picking a name so her initials spelled a word.
“I do remember that after church we had a special breakfast, and my mother served tiny butterfly cakes with plum jam. I didn’t touch mine, it was way too beautiful.”
I can hear Matilde calling me from Number 23 for dinner.
Joy tells me to just ignore that for the minute, and she takes me by the hand to her bedroom. Still holding the glass bottle to her eye, she goes through a number of trinket boxes on her dressing table until she fishes out a tarnished silver medal that she pins to my T-shirt.
“My favorite aunt, Katherine, gave me this medal on my Confirmation day. She was my sponsor and a most glorious woman. Sadly, poor Katherine died a terrible death from tuberculosis only eighteen months later.” The glass bottle is filling fast.
“You can keep my medal, darling, and you might like to wear it on your own special day. Now, off you trot for dinner, and keep that medal safe.”
I’m almost out the door when Joy says: “And Ally, pet, thank you for asking me. I couldn’t be more thrilled.” Her face looks backlit with moonlight as she wipes her cheek and places a tiny cork in the glass bottle.
Usually when I make Joy happy the right side of my heart pumps little pulses that send thinned blood to my head, sharpening color and sweetening sound. But today, even though Joy is tickled pink, I know that Matilde is bruised blue, and the left side of my heart is pumping hardened blood to the back of my throat. All color looks muddier and sound seems duller.
I realize something for the first time, the way you can at eleven and three-quarters when suddenly you feel twenty-two. Joy and Matilde make up my right side and my left side. But now I’ve put that out of balance and I don’t know how I can feel right again when I’m leaving one of them feeling wronged.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kimberly manages to keep the Popular Group constantly impressed. Today it’s her new take on lunch that draws mini-gasps from all the girls jostling to sit next to her. Dipping deliberately into an Esky cooler, she produces a devon-and-tomato-sauce sandwich prepared like a gift in rainbow-colored wax paper. And if that’s not enough, she follows through with still-frozen orange segments and chilled chocolate crackles. I’m sitting a few benches behind with Patricia, and we’re trying to ignore the performance. But then it gets worse.
“My mother says she wants me to shine on my Confirmation day, so she’s taking me late-night shopping in town tonight, and we’re going to buy the most beautiful dress there is. She’s spoken about it with Daddy, and he said he doesn’t even care how much it costs.”
Patricia is rolling her eyes into her plain SAO biscuits. She tells me quietly that she’s just going to wear her school uniform next Sunday because her dad is on another bender and has stopped giving her mum any housekeeping money. I nod, although I’m not really sure what a bender is, and I tell her not to worry because I’ll be wearing my uniform too. That’s a good thing, because having chosen Joy as my sponsor, I didn’t feel right about expecting Matilde to make me a new dress, and besides, solidarity with Patricia feels way more important than any outfit right now.
* * *
■ ■ ■
It must be busy in heaven this morning as the Holy Ghost limbers up to descend on all of sixth grade and turn us into Soldiers of Christ on our Confirmation day.
With Joy’s help I’ve chosen my name. Well, she chose it, really, following a message she got from her long-dead aunt Katherine. Apparently after Liberty Club last Monday evening, while watering her maidenhair fern near the magnolia tree, Joy appealed to her glorious aunt for a suitable Confirmation name for me, and Katherine whispered on the wind that it simply must be Liberata. Joy absolutely loved the sound of that, and now there’s a small violet-colored bottle of tears in her glasshouse labeled LIBERATA.
When Sister Josepha told me that Liberata was actually the patron saint of women trying to escape difficult marriages, and that her prayers to be freed from a persistent suitor were answered when the twelve-year-old Liberata sprouted a luxuriant beard, I wasn’t so sure she was the saint for me. But with the delay in choosing my sponsor, and returning my forms so late, I was running out of time, and any better ideas.
Then in bed on Tuesday night, while listening to Matilde adding up numbers with her pinwheel calculator, I worked out that even though I don’t really want to be like St. Liberata—and sure don’t want to have to escape a difficult marriage, or grow a beard—if I at least go with her name, mine would become Allegra Belinda Liberata Elsom, and my initials would spell ABLE. So, this is my inside-out secret way of keeping things balanced, making Matilde proud and choosing her too. I can’t tell Matilde about this, of course; she’s still acting a bit tongue-ticky and bruised. Both of us are avoiding any mention at all of this Confirmation business.
And I sure won’t be telling Patricia, because she’d never share her Twisties with me again if she knew I had chosen a name that makes my initials spell a word.
I haven’t sighted Matilde this morning, but I heard her machine going all night. She’s left my breakfast set for me with a note to see her before I get dressed. While I’m finishing off her rice pudding and poached pears, Rick comes to the back porch and asks me to go next door and let Joy know that we’ll be leaving for the church at nine-thirty.
“Tell Joy she can sit with you in the back of the van,” says Rick.
I’m starting to understand the meaning of things when adults speak their leaving-out-words language. What Rick is actually telling Joy, even though he never really speaks to her, is that she can get a lift with us to the church and she doesn’t even need to look at Matilde.
At Number 25 Joy is on the phone. Her hair and makeup are done, but she’s standing in her mint-green silk kimono with red cherry blossoms along the edge, listening with careful eyes to whoever is speaking. Then she says: “No, no, it’s best if you leave before he gets home. Go back to the first plan and wait at your place.” She hangs up, does a slow whirl and takes me by both hands.
“My luscious little Liberata! So today is the big day.”
Joy has a switched-on happy face, but her neck is flushed and her hands are cold. She goes for her matte makeup and hurriedly covers my birthmark while I tell her we’re leaving for church at nine-thirty and Rick is really stoked that she’s my sponsor and says that on the way there he’d love for her to sit in the back of the van with me.
“Ally, darling, how about the three of you go ahead. It would be nice for Matilde to sit next to you on the way to the church. I’ll just meet you there.”
That’s certainly a surprise; I’ve never known Joy to think of what would be nice for Matilde before. “But Joy, how will you get there?”
“Wendy will bring me in her V-Dub. We have a little something we need to do beforehand; she’ll drop me there afterward. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be there in plenty of time.”
Joy mustn’t want to even breathe the same air as Matilde. If she can’t sit in the same van, how is she going to sit in the same row at the church? I wonder if there is a patron saint for kids with grandmothers who can’t stand each other.
I head back to Number 23 to get ready. The clock in the hall says it’s ten past eight, and I remember that Matilde wanted to see me before I get dressed. Her bedroom door is all but shut, and for the first time ever I see Matilde lying down when the sun is up. She is dressed in church clothes, but her eyes are closed.
“Matilde, are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes, yes. I’m perfectly fine, Allegra. Did you eat your breakfast?”
“I did, I ate it all up, it was delicious. Thank you, Matilde. Rick says
that we’re leaving at nine-thirty—oh, and that he’d love for you to sit in the van right next to me. I’m going to go and get into my uniform now.”
“Wait, before you do that, Allegra, look behind the door.”
There on a hanger is a beautiful blue dress. It is the exact same color—Oriental Blue—that I have loved ever since I first saw Kimberly’s complete set of seventy-two Derwent watercolor pencils when she displayed them, one by one, for show-and-tell in second class. It has a cream ruffle on each side of the bodice from the neck to the waist and cream piping around the cuffs. It is way more beautiful than anything you could find late-night shopping, even if your dad didn’t care how much it cost.
“I thought you were working on a rush job, Matilde.”
Matilde gets up, laces her shoes and straightens her skirt.
“Well, I was, but that can wait for now.” She helps me into the dress.
“Ah, good. Yes. This is perfect—it fits you like a glove. Go and take a quick look.”
I see myself in the mirror at the end of the corridor, and for the first time ever, I think…maybe…I might be pretty. Maybe I’ll have dainty wrists and the ankles of a ballerina, and boys with counterclockwise cowlicks will admire me. Today I might have the weirdest Confirmation name, but I’m sure I’ll have the best dress.
“The blue matches your eyes precisely,” says Matilde, standing behind me and tying the sash.
I see in the mirror that my eyes and Matilde’s are actually the same color. Both sets are looking at me now as though I’m a reflection of her. Then, while doing up the buttons on the left cuff, Matilde sees the matte makeup covering my birthmark and snaps: “Don’t admire yourself for too long, Allegra. Vanity is the domain of fools.”
My heart drops down a few floors…and I remember Patricia O’Brien. If I wear this dress, she’ll be the only one in all of sixth grade in the school uniform. Kimberly and the Popular Group will crucify her. My temples start to thrum. I can’t let Patricia be made fun of by the Popular Group. But Matilde has been up all night making this Oriental Blue dress with the ruffles, cuffs, piping and sash especially for me.
She put off her rush job. I’m in it now. I have no choice. I have to wear it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mrs. Perkins with a holy tilt sitting at the organ is respiring gently; “Breathe on Me, O Breath of God.” We’re seven rows from the altar, arranged alphabetically, behind the Egans and in front of the Ervings. I’m sitting next to Matilde, and Rick is on her other side with something of a space between them. I slide along and leave the spot next to the aisle for Joy.
I’m half proud of my Oriental Blue dress, wanting Kimberly and the Popular Group to notice the ruffles, cuffs and piping—but I’m half ashamed of it too, hoping that Patricia doesn’t think me a Judas, or worse still, a Kimberly.
Roslyn arrives, all pleased and prancing in purple crushed velvet. She spots me and looks longer than usual, clearly impressed with my dress but not with who’s wearing it. She sits in the same row but across the aisle from us and shares a joke with her sponsor.
And then in flounces Kimberly, flanked by her proud parents. She’s wearing all manner of lemon—head to toe. Her dress is soft lemon hail-spot tulle. Her perfectly tied hair ribbon is mid-lemon satin, and her shoes are deep lemon patent leather. Even her socks are cream touching on lemon. I hate to admit it, but she does look KOOL.
If Patricia were next to me now, she’d whisper, “She looks sour!”
I scan the rows behind me but can’t see Patricia.
And there’s no sign of Joy, either.
The organ pipes up and begins pumping out “Spirit of God in the Clear Running Water.”
We all stand. Father Brennan begins his procession, followed by twitching altar boys in long white robes, their dirty sneakers poking out from under the hem with each step.
Then, after the third verse, the bishop appears at the church entrance, backlit by God.
The bishop is big and gold and red and wears a pointy hat. He’s carrying a rod that is hooked at one end like a shepherd’s crook. His eyes are raised so he’s not noticing any of us, or our dresses. He’s looking straight ahead at Jesus on the crucifix above the altar as he proceeds steadily down the aisle.
But where’s Joy?
Mrs. Perkins’s tilt starts to sway, and the organ plays louder. The congregation responds with raised voices, singing of their lonely and hungry hearts that are watching and waiting.
I’m watching.
I’m waiting.
I’m watching and waiting for Joy to appear. My heart is lonely—and a little bit cranky.
Come on, Joy.
If she just walks in now, that’s okay. We’re still standing. All eyes are on the bishop, so she could slide in unnoticed.
Where are you, Joy?
The bishop has finished welcoming us and tells us to sit. It’s too late for Joy to slide in unnoticed now. Hopefully she will know to come through the side door rather than walk the full length of the aisle. Not that she’d mind the attention.
There are readings and offerings, more hymns and a creed. But still no Joy.
And now the renewal of baptismal promises. The bishop asks the candidates for Confirmation and their sponsors to stand. Rick squirms, rolling his head around on his neck. Throughout the church, sponsors are beaming, proud as punch, ready to support those who have chosen them. Matilde’s head and neck are dead still, but I can hear her tongue ticking.
I stand on my own.
With the group—and my out-loud voice—I reject Satan and all his works and all his empty promises. In my heart, my inside voice mutters, I know how Satan must feel; I am what rejection looks like.
From across the aisle, Roslyn no longer sees my Oriental Blue dress, or its ruffles, cuffs and piping. She sees me standing on my own, exposed. I may as well be standing here in the nude. That part of my heart that dresses my pride is stripped bare.
I’m cold.
Mrs. Perkins takes up her post at the organ again, and the church is filled with “The Lord’s My Shepherd.” Sister Josepha is slowly walking backward down the aisle. As she approaches each row, she nods and a child moves forward to the altar with their sponsor by their side. They kneel reverently in front of the bishop. The sponsor places their hand on the child’s right shoulder as the bishop asks for the Confirmation name and turns them into the latest chuffed Soldier of Christ.
Sister Josepha has come to the end of the D rows. Rick is rubbing his fists along his thighs toward his knees, back and forth. Matilde turns around, and for the first time ever in my whole entire life she is looking for Joy. She inhales deeply through her nostrils and exhales with a small noise from the back of her throat.
I’m standing Joyless.
Sister has arrived at my row.
“Allegra, where is your grandmother?” she says. Then, glancing at Matilde, she specifies, “Your other grandmother?”
“She’s been caught up with Whisky Wendy,” I whisper, realizing that mightn’t sound like someone full of God’s grace.
“Whisky Wendy?…Oh…I see,” she says.
“Mrs. Kaldor, would you like to accompany Allegra to the bishop?” Sister clearly has absolutely no idea.
“She can’t,” I say in a rush. “She’s Jewish!”
“So was Jesus Christ, dear.”
Sister steps aside and ushers Matilde and me into the aisle, but instead of continuing backward she moves forward, walking behind us.
I’m breaking church rules, and I can’t believe I’m doing it with a Jew and a nun.
I arrive at the altar, and kneeling in front of the bishop, I try to look extra holy to make up for what’s going on behind me. Sister takes Matilde’s left wrist and places it on my right shoulder, then steadies it there with her own hand.
The bishop’s ey
es widen—slightly—but only after Sister tells him my Confirmation name.
“Liberata,” he announces, making the sign of the cross with the oil of chrism on my head. “Be sealed with the Holy Ghost.”
On the way back to our row, I’m at least partly dressed again. No one appears to care much that we’ve broken church rules and a Jew was my sponsor. In fact, the only person who seems to notice Matilde at all is Mr. Linton, Kimberly’s father, who weirdly gives a small but definite nod in her direction as we take our seats again.
Moving into Joy’s empty spot by the aisle, I’m just too spitting mad at her to feel anything near full of God’s grace. I reach across to hold Matilde’s hand, but it’s not available; she’s moved it to clutch her left wrist. Instead, I take my own right hand to my left wrist and start rubbing away the matte makeup.
I wait for Patricia to walk down the aisle, but she never does. Maybe she was worried about being mocked by the Popular Group for wearing her school uniform to the Confirmation and stuck her fingers down her throat?
* * *
■ ■ ■
Patricia must be really-truly sick, because it’s four days now since the Confirmation, and there’s been no sight of her at school. I miss the broad smile and fresh smell of my only friend and spend lunchtime reading alone on the benches under the mulberry tree.
I haven’t seen Joy, either. When we got home from the church, I rushed through the brown gate, expecting to find her back at Number 25, full of remorse, filling up glass bottles labeled NEVER SO SORRY with a forgivable reason for letting me down. But her house was silent, empty and completely Joyless, and there wasn’t a single clue as to where she might be. So I left and bolted the gate from our side—loudly—with an eemmff.
If she’s slunk back home since, she certainly hasn’t hovered on her front veranda to catch my eye, or beckoned me in with her wind chimes.
A Girl in Three Parts Page 6