We had quite a time getting Homer Gantry aboard; it took Kermit and Al Pease pulling together and Rufus pushing from behind to do it. Charlesie had the Rolling Stone all dressed, with pennants up the forestay to the top of the mast, and down the back. And he was flying Laurus’s blue flag on the jackstaff, from the years he was commodore. Syl Conary had run the blue flag up the club flagpole too, as Laurus left the dock for the last time.
Charlesie led the way under power out of the inner harbor, and we followed. The three Moss children sat together in the cockpit of the Rolling Stone, and most of the grandchildren were sitting along the deck up in the bow, with their legs dangling over the gunwales. Eleanor’s oldest two, Adam and Annie, came with me, and Adam’s girl Alison Boyd. I used to know her mother, Susanna Boyd, in New York. A lovely person.
Chris sat beside me and held my hand. Someday not so long from now it will be our children, and we’ll be the ones in the urns. I hope all these beautiful young people come along on a day just like this, to see us off.
Eleanor Applegate We got out into the middle of the bay and Woodwind came alongside so we could gam together. Jimmy asked Hugh Chamblee to begin. Hugh put on his patchwork stole, and stood in the stern of the Woodwind. The boats rocked a little. Uncle Neville wore his golf hat and Aunt Gladdy and Aunt Elise both had dresses and big straw hats on. Monica and I were wearing sunglasses and so was Al Pease, a sight I hadn’t seen before. Monica had one urn, and I had the other one. There were stickers on the bottom telling which was which, but we hadn’t looked. It didn’t seem right to turn them over and read the labels, as if they were pickled beets.
Hugh said a prayer, and then read the committal from Mother’s prayer book. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the midst of life we are in death. Then we opened the urns—Charlesie had to help us, they’d stuck the lids on tight—and leaning over the leeward rail, we began to pour. We hadn’t talked about how we would do this; we just did it together that way, and the breeze took the ashes and mixed them together as they fell. When we were done we looked at the labels. I had had Papa, and Nika had Mother. We rinsed the urns out with seawater, so it would be completely over.
Then Monica tried to read “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” the poem she had read when we did this for Aunt Nina, and Mother and Papa were with us, but she couldn’t. She was a mess. Jimmy took the book from her and read it. Then we started the engines again, and went home.
V
THE PRODIGAL SON
Jimmy Moss
Papa.
In the Amazon, I was born from a tree, whose roots I’d seen, whose head reached all the way to the jungle canopy, my blood was sap. Hearing about other people’s sacred visions is like listening to people talk about a movie you haven’t seen. They may want to make you see what they saw, but they just can’t.
So. Later, in San Francisco.
I’d moved out of the Haight, and had a little apartment down in the Mission. It was a barrio, and I liked that. I’d started reading again, which I hadn’t done much of since seventh grade or some such. Reading for me used to be like sweating and rolling a huge rock up a hill, while all around me my little friends were whisking past me up to the top in a trice, swinging their berry buckets and whistling Dixie. I just stopped doing it, right in the middle of David fucking Copperfield. But alone in a room, after where I’d been, it didn’t matter if I was slower than anybody else, nobody else was there. It was only me and the words. Barkis was willing.
It became my new addiction. The main library at Civic Center was my university, and I thought I’d die happy if I could sit there learning about astronomy and Darwin and the lives of the saints for the rest of my life. But I was running out of money. And at that point, after years, one day my father knocked on my door. My earthly father, not the tree fellow.
I don’t know how he found me. Nika, probably, though she says not. He came in. He walked around looking at things. Stacks of books. Half-drunk mugs of tea abandoned here and there. A mattress on the floor, bed unmade. I offered him some herb tea, and he accepted.
When I came out of the kitchen with the mugs, he was sitting in the only chair, beside my stump, studying my book stack. My book table was a tree stump. It came with the apartment. I sat down on my zafu. I didn’t have visitors as a rule, so one chair had been enough up to then.
In the years since I’d been home, I’d pictured meeting them again, my parents who were dead to me, and always pictured them asking questions and then not understanding the answers. In my head I used to work on my answers to the questions they’d ask, about where I’d gone, and what I thought I was doing with my life, and I’d end up angry that I couldn’t get it quite right, and besides, that they were putting me in the position of having to try. But he didn’t ask me anything. He just looked at things, like a stranger with good manners. Finally I asked him what he was doing in San Francisco, and he said he was giving a recital that night at Herbst Auditorium. I waited for him to ask me to come, but he didn’t. I asked him how everyone was at home. He said everyone was well. My nephew Adam was talking. I’d sort of forgotten that Adam existed.
It was weirdly peaceful to have him there. He was comfortable with silence, and he was comfortable with me. It was very surprising. He looked at my stuff, my tiny world, without needing to comment. He hadn’t come to judge, he’d just come to see, and let it be. I had no idea he had that quality. I’d never noticed.
After he left, I went back to sit in the chair, to see my room through his eyes. I saw that he’d moved some of the books. One I had from the library was a Bible, King James Version. I’d been reading about David and Jonathan. I picked it up and it opened to the Twenty-third Psalm. Not very surprising; I read it a lot. Why does it switch from He to Thou, the way it does? He restoreth me, he leadeth me, but in the valley of the shadow of death thou art with me. Who is David talking to? Is it David, really? His voice?
But that afternoon, I saw something I’d read a hundred times and never understood. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
Why in the presence of my enemies? It seemed like a divisive thing for the Lord to do, to prepare a table for me while they eat their hearts out. God as schoolyard bully. And then I saw what it meant. The point is that he prepares the table for me. He has no choice but to do it in the presence of my enemies, because I insist upon carrying them around with me.
I went to Herbst. My father seemed like an alternate version of himself, wearing white tie and tails. He walked onto the stage to a roar of applause, and I had no more relationship to him than anyone else in the hall. He seemed shiny, his smile, his high forehead, his bright white shirt. I didn’t look at the program, I wanted to find out what would happen as he came to it.
He started with the Chopin B-flat Minor Sonata, the one with the funeral march—very big, stormy work. Then, the polar opposite, the Webern Variations—short, sparse, atonal—almost otherworldly after the Chopin. The third piece was the Mozart B Minor Adagio, another very short piece which he started almost without pause and without applause after the Webern. The two textures were so alike, I wasn’t quite sure what it was, whether he was still in the Variations—it was radical, how modern the Mozart sounded. The program was like a funnel, starting with the huge deluge of the Chopin and distilling down from Webern to a simple B minor triad in the low bass in the Mozart.
I don’t remember the intermission.
The second half was the Schubert D Major Sonata, op. 53, only dimly familiar to me at that time. It’s a long four-movement piece, very emotional and melodic. To go from the depth of the Chopin, through the thin tunnel of the Webern and Mozart, and into the sunshine of Schubert opened me up as if it were a can opener. I went home and cried for a day and a half.
Monica Faithful I expected Norman to come back up to Maine when they got Beccy Vogelsang off to the hat factory, but he didn’t. He said he had to go down to check on his mother. Then there were othe
r excuses. I figured the hell with him. Adam and Alison announced their engagement the night after we scattered Mother and Papa. Adam said it really got to him, watching those ashes blow together. At sunset, he took Alison down to our gazebo and proposed. Then they went out to the Salt Pond to tell Eleanor and Bobby, and El invited us all to dinner the next night, with Amelia and Barbara and Aunt Gladdy and Uncle Neville. There was champagne, there were tears. The first of the grandkids to marry. Bobby is going to give them his mother’s engagement ring when they get home, which made Eleanor cry. Everyone loved Bobby’s mother.
The one little burr I’ve got in my sock about this, which I’ll tell you, but no one else, is that some time in the week of the party for Eleanor, a little carved ivory elephant that was on the mantelpiece at Leeway disappeared. I know there were a lot of people in and out, but I’d seen Alison pick it up and study it more than once. I’m just so sorry I know that thing about her mother.
The elephant was something Sydney bought in India, when she and her mother went around the world after our grandfather died. It had tiny little black bead ebony eyes. Nora just lately came across an entry in Mother’s trip diary from the day she bought it. I think they were in Jaipur. It’s not valuable, but it reminded me of her and it’s always been there on the mantelpiece. You know.
Adam Applegate When I got back to D.C. I told everyone at work I was engaged; I couldn’t resist. One of the senior partners, Leonard Rashbaum, asked me where the wedding would be, and I said, “Dundee, Maine, next July,” and he said, “Dundee, Maine. I used to know someone who went to Dundee, Maine. Her name was Monica Moss.” I went, “Monica Moss is my aunt! The wedding will be at her house!” And he said, “Really?” And I said I hoped so, and he said, “I’d like to be invited.” Can you believe that? It feels like magic. Dundee magic. I don’t know if he was serious, but we’re going to invite him anyway.
Sylvia Faithful Things had been really busy at the restaurant. August is usually dead, but we were full and the manager broke his ankle so all the rest of us were filling in. Plus, I’d been busy breaking up with my boyfriend. I finally got a week off and went up to Leeway. I missed the big surprise party for Eleanor, and Adam getting engaged. I was in time for the Brouhaha of the Pillows, however.
Bobby Applegate I drove up to the dump with the whole car full of trash and recycling. I go around to do the recycling first. Have you been up to the dump? Pardon me, transfer station? I sort of love it. The smell isn’t for everyone, but it’s a part of life you don’t see if you live in the city. One area is for construction debris. There’s a lot of that of course. Town planning runs against the Yankee grain, so we’re in the grip of our own little blight of suburban sprawl. There’s another for satellite dishes, you know those huge black ones that sit on your lawn, the size of a barn door? Now that everyone has little pizza dishes attached to their roofs, the old ones have formed an obsolescence club up there. Then there’s the shed where you dump your paper, your glass, and your tins and plastic. I enjoy chatting with the transfer guys. Boy, do they see a lot. Counting the bottles.
When I finished there, I drove up to the garbage pits, which are chutes lined with crushers, and man, they do not smell good. The seagulls love it. I see the ancient truck from Leeway is there. Usually it’s Marlon who does the dump runs for Leeway, and just as well because the transmission on that truck is about gone and you have to have a surgeon’s touch to find third gear. But it’s not Marlon, it’s Josslyn, and what she is throwing into the garbage pit is all Sydney’s down pillows. I swear, I almost jumped in after them. Do you know what a good down pillow costs? I know Jimmy loves her but sometimes I wonder if she has the sense God gave a goose.
Josslyn Moss Boedie’s had a stuffed-up nose since we got here, and her eyes itch. I’ve never had down pillows. Old feathers? It sounds filthy. Plus they’ve been in an unheated house all winter for years. Mold, hello? I think foam is healthier, and I asked Shirley Eaton if down was safe and she said she uses foam.
Monica Faithful Bobby told Eleanor and she came roaring down to Leeway on the double and told me. We ran upstairs, and sure enough, every down pillow in the house was gone. There must have been two dozen of them! Mother always kept foam pillows in the linen closet for guests who were allergic.
Eleanor Applegate When Josslyn came in the door, we happened to be standing there in the living room, and I’m afraid we let her have it.
Monica Faithful Which we shouldn’t have done, I admit that, it was a timing thing. But holy moly and the horse she rode in on, why didn’t she ask first? We are sharing this house, aren’t we?
Eleanor Applegate Why didn’t she give Boedie a foam pillow and leave the rest alone?!
Josslyn Moss That’s it. I’m done. I can’t share a house with those bitches. Everything I do is wrong, no one ever asks me about anything, I wasn’t raised in a barn, you know. I come from somewhere too. This isn’t working. End of experiment.
Jimmy Moss Josslyn didn’t know. She thought she was helping. I put the whole family in the car and we went to Union to the water slides. While the kids were playing, Joss and I talked through it. Then we stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home and bought two dozen of the best foam pillows they had, and I promised my sisters I’d have a dozen down ones sent from some catalogue in the morning.
It made me sad, though. I think it’s good for the family, all the cousins, sharing the house, and Nika and I enjoy the hubbub. But Josslyn doesn’t. She just can’t, and she shouldn’t have to.
Sylvia Faithful I was sorting through picture albums with Nora—we were doing Candace’s family—when I thought to ask, “Where are the urns? Sydney and Laurus’s ashes?” I’d noticed they weren’t on the mantel. Nora said, “We scattered them on the bay last week.” And I said, “What?”
You What?
Monica Faithful She was devastated. I had no idea she’d be so upset…I mean I see now that I should have known. At the time, I think I just thought we’re only missing two of the grandchildren. We better do this while we can. I didn’t stop to think that the two we were missing were the ones who most feel that they don’t really belong. I could shoot myself.
Josslyn Moss I knew it was a mistake. Too bad no one asks me anything.
Eleanor Applegate I went down to Leeway to help Nika explain to Sylvie how it was—there was so much going on, we did what seemed best at the time. It was so too bad that neither Sylvie or Sam could come for the famous surprise party, then they’d have been here too.
Sylvia Faithful Earth to Eleanor. I was working. You know, working? I don’t know how all the rest of them manage to take off for weeks in the summer, but I have a job. So does Sam. Can you say “trust fund”?
Monica Faithful She left that night. She left me a thank-you note, on Leeway Cottage letter paper. It said, “Thanks a lot.” Oh God.
Nora Applegate I told Sylvie about the ashes, and she started to cry. My big cousin, the one who is always cool. I guess you’re never too old to have your family hurt your feelings. She said, “You know, Grandma Sydney loved Sam and me as much as the rest of you. She always always treated us the same.” And I said, “Sylvie, she couldn’t stand any of us! She didn’t like children!” And she got up and left the room, crying. I guess that wasn’t so helpful.
She must be having a really hard summer.
Sylvia Faithful I took the bus home. It’s longer, but much cheaper and people are less likely to interfere with you if you’re crying or something. By the time I got to Connecticut I realized that the one I was really pissed at was my father. He was there when they decided that everyone who counted was in town. He must have known how this would feel to me. Why the hell didn’t he say something?
Norman Faithful Mary McCarthy once wrote, “I am driven to the conclusion that religion is only good for good people. For others, it is too great a temptation to the deadly sins of pride and anger, chiefly, but one might also add sloth.” Isn’t that wonderful?
My curate is either not a simpatico
person or not well suited to this parish. And of course once you’ve got an Iago in a church, it is all too easy for that little sliver of fallen angel to find ready disciples to do the devil’s work. It simply amazes me that people think that Satan is a mythological concept. How do they explain what they see all around them? Oh, Satan is having himself a most joyous little century.
There’s not much one can do in August, however. The bishop is on Martha’s Vineyard and most of the vestry is gone as well. I had to stay where I was and try to keep the lid on the pot and be a healing presence. So I sat in my office and read up on the Arian Heresy. I think there’s a new book in it. We don’t actually have any writings from the Arians themselves, as you probably know, since all their texts were destroyed. We have to piece together what they thought from those who denounced them. History is written by the victors.
To put it simply, the Arians believed that Jesus has not always existed, but was created by God. This horrified the Trinitarians, the One God in Three Persons boys, because it smacked of polytheism. And makes Jesus somehow subordinate to God. But it’s so interesting. Was Jesus created? Was there a time before He existed, as there was with the rest of us? If so, and He was both divine and fully human, did He know from inception that He was God, or did his knowledge of his divinity accrue, as it certainly appears from close reading of the Gospels? His moments of feeling deeply separate from God seem to me to be exactly what makes Him so approachable to the rest of us.
And then the real question is how to define and describe the Holy Spirit. God plus Jesus alive in us all in present time, but how to make that feel real? How to see the living God, the risen Christ, looking out of the eyes of every person we meet? You could have a blessed and holy life riding the New York subways all day long, trying to live by that one thought. A monastic plan the Buddha would approve. And if you succeeded, you’d be a saint. They’d have a room all ready for you and painted your favorite color when you got to Heaven. You can’t do something like that, really do it, without being profoundly changed, and that of course changes the world you move in. In the way Jesus meant us to. Maybe that’s the book—A Priest’s Year in the Subway. That sounds better than Arian Heresy, doesn’t it?
Good-bye and Amen Page 14