Riley Keep lay among the ancient roots and drank again, less urgently this time, but still deeply. As the sunrise spread out on the Atlantic, he realized it was gorgeous. The rosy feeling rose and Riley thought of Homer’s “rosy-fingered dawn.” Ah, the irony, if only blind or drunk men truly saw the sunrise. Riley was proud of this cleverness, the professor returning, summoned from across the Styx by the warmth expanding in his caved-in belly. All was well in the fading rays and paler pinks and purples. He resolved to slow it down, the rising, to make it last as long as possible, and so began to sip instead of drinking as if bottomless.
Time passed, time to savor, time for deep reflection. He considered the beauty of the scene below, the harbor in the virgin light, lobster boats alert and at attention, all pointing the same way, deep green spruce on the far hill across the water, the comic complaints of wheeling gulls, the perfectly proportioned church facing this little pocket park, its brick facade in exact conformance to the golden mean, the bell in its steeple ringing now, calling in the faithful. Riley’s lacy rising breath reminded him of his wife in her white gown, walking toward him down the aisle of that very church, sunlight streaming through the stained glass, sunlight come a billion miles to dance on his bride in that multicolored moment. He thought that memory might mean something. He thought there might be something in it of the reason he now lay among the ravenous teeth of a Maine winter, something of why he was not in Miami, a reason he could add to Brice, although the memory was frayed and hard to hold and very doubtful, as was the future and every other moment but the one that he was living then and there, if one cared to call it living.
Riley took another careful sip, and ungrateful wretch that he was, not till then did it cross his mind that this was an answered prayer. He had asked for something good to drink, and look what he was holding. The finest kind, the absolute best Scotch in the world. He thought of something from the Bible, that most enduring work of literature, something about man’s inability to imagine what God has in store. The exact words had long before dissolved in spirits with a hundred thousand others, but he seemed to recall it applied to God’s beneficent plans for those who love him, as opposed to the wrath awaiting those God hates.
Why had God granted his request? Riley did not love God. Riley had once thought he did, had once even tried to serve him, had asked for many things in return, and receiving no answers, had become sure God was not there, or not interested, so Riley had stopped asking. You could no more love a god who didn’t answer than you could love a ghost. But if Riley did not love God, it was also true he did not hate God. He felt nothing except a little anger at the sunrise. He had no expectations whatsoever, and maybe that explained the Scotch. Riley tried to imagine what it must be like to be God, everybody always asking for something, pretending love when what they wanted came and angry when it didn’t. Maybe God was glad to give a little Scotch to a fella who asked for very little and expected nothing.
Riley remembered asking to be freed of his addiction, years ago right there in Dublin. He remembered asking that a thousand times to no effect. But never had it crossed his mind to ask for something good to drink, never but this once, and look at the immediate result. Clearly, it had been a matter all along of asking for the proper miracle.
Riley Keep lifted the bottle to the risen sun, offering a toast. “Thanks,” he said, and took another drink. His second prayer that morning, his second prayer in years. It did not seem enough and so he added, “Thanks a lot,” and took another sip. But such casually expressed gratitude seemed insufficient. The Scotch was a thoughtful gift. He should go and thank God properly.
Looking around, Riley saw a hedge. He rose unsteadily and slipped the bottle into the branches, making sure it was completely hidden, and then filled with happy feelings, knowing anything was possible, knowing he was a giant and all was well and would be well forever, Riley crossed the street and climbed the steps and went to church.
CHAPTER FIVE
SITTING IN THE LAST ROW with her back to the wall as usual, Willa Newdale watched the man step into church and knew right off who he was. He walked in like he owned the joint, head up, full of himself, his condition obvious to her practiced eye: not sloppy drunk but in his cups for certain and trying hard to cover. He took a seat in a pew a few rows up. She said a little prayer inside her head, asking God to keep him out of trouble because if he caused a commotion they would look to her to handle things, and she must not be noticed.
Her prayer done, she opened her eyes in time to see Dylan enter with his new deckhand close behind. She was glad that was working out. Jim-Jim was a good old soul, and he deserved the job.
Dylan glanced her way and smiled. She nodded. It was good to see the lobsterman here, good to see him bringing his new hand to the Lord’s house, even if it did mean she would be out of part-time work. She looked down at the ugly old fingers clasped together in her lap, worn and scarred from labor at the shelter and out on Dylan’s boat. She shivered. She stomped her feet a little, the wool of her long skirt scratchy against her unshaven legs. Why did they have to keep this church so cold? She knew for a fact the furnace was serviceable. She could smell it plain as day. All they had to do was turn it up, but every year was just the same, sitting there with freezing feet in spite of two pairs of socks and a sensible pair of Rockport shoes.
One thing was certain: It wouldn’t be getting warmer for a while. Coming on time for long johns. Should have worn them today, in fact. Would’ve taken care of the scratchy wool against her legs. There was no other solution, really, since she had just the one winter skirt, and it made no sense to buy another— not when Sunday mornings were the only time all week she would risk dressing fancy.
It wasn’t just that she needed a low profile. She disliked jewelry for the most part, and makeup and hairdos and skirts and anything else that called attention. Her one and only concession to fashion was the bone-and-palm-nut necklace with the wooden cross, which she always wore underneath her blouse. When you wore old work clothes all week, dress clothes were pretentious—maybe not outright vanity, but unnatural for certain. She was probably not alone in this belief. Dylan didn’t wear a tie, for example. Neither did most of the other lobstermen, though a few of the women seemed to have a different pretty dress for every Sunday of the year. But Willa Newdale did believe in looking decent for the Lord’s day, so there she was in one of her two skirts, with cold feet, itchy legs, and her back to the wall as usual.
Reverend Henry stepped up behind the podium and asked them all to stand. Willa noticed the drunk man wobble just a little on his way up to his feet. O Lord, she prayed again. Please don’t. What if he passes out, or goes to chummin’? She tried not to imagine the contents of his stomach on the back of Emily Weatherspoon, who was standing just in front of him, tried not to think about the outrage, the disapproving stares as she went up to help him, which of course she would. She wished there was a way to get him out right now, before he drew attention to himself, and to her. She should have seen this coming. There were just too many of them now, and more arriving every day. Her fault, of course. She had to stop, that was all there was to it. She had to stop before it spread too far.
She thought about Steve and Hope, sitting in her office, wanting to talk about all these homeless people from away, and that fella dying in the laundry. What if his heart hadn’t picked that moment to stop beating? What if they had gone on with their questions and asked her something direct, something she couldn’t avoid, something she would have to answer, one way or another? Would she have lied to those good people? Hating the thought of that, she felt her breath come fast and shallow. She told herself to calm down. It would be all right, somehow. It had always been all right before.
But Willa Newdale knew it was too late already.
Behind the podium Henry called out a number, and everyone flipped through their hymnals, including Willa. Then the organ started playing and she stopped looking for the hymn. It was going to be “Take My Life and Let It
Be,” a good old song she remembered well from back before her troubles.
She tried to sing, and thought about the words, and wanted them to be the truth. She wanted to be consecrated, had given nearly everything for that—her past, her career, her name—but still she stood there breathing way too fast and shallow, and no matter how many times she told herself it would be all right, the pounding of her heart was certain proof that giving nearly everything was not giving near enough.
The singing concluded. Henry made announcements and they passed the basket. It reached her. She hesitated. After this, there would be no turning back. Her hand shook as she dropped her offering in and passed it on.
She had no moxie; it was just that simple. All those years, and still she couldn’t make herself stand up and say “All right, you son of the devil, come and get me if you can.” And if she couldn’t do that, she ought to stop. Or else she ought to go. Because backing into it this way was worse than hiding. At least up to now she had been an honest coward. But if you did a frightening thing without thinking much about it, if you just let it happen, then you were still a coward, but you were a liar too. Imagine if she did not come out of hiding exactly, but also did not stop; imagine if she did that and survived anyway. It wasn’t likely, but just say things went that way. If all was well and she somehow survived to look back later, would she have a right to pride? She would not. That belonged to people who made their choice flat out, who did what was right no matter who might be watching, and said “Here I stand.”
She saw Bill Hightower spot the drunk, her great disappointment. Her heart began to race again as the usher went to stand in the aisle beside the poor man. From the stiffness in the old Pharisee’s back, the way he held his shoulders, she could see he was getting angry. What was that fool of a drunk doing up there? Please, God, don’t let him make Bill Hightower mad. You know how I dislike that man. You know I can’t just sit here and let him disrespect that guy, and you know that’s just what he will do, given half a chance. Please don’t make me stand up here in front of everyone. You know I need to keep a low profile. You know I do, and you know why I do, so please. . . .
The lanky usher bent down over the homeless man like a spider over a fly. Willa Newdale held her breath. She thought her heart would come out through her rib cage. But then Bill Hightower stood up straight again and she remembered to exhale. He was just doing his job as an usher was all, just passing the collection basket.
Willa let herself smile just a little.
If he only knew.
CHAPTER SIX
THE SOUR-LOOKING USHER by the door nearly blocked his way, but clean clothes and regular showers got Riley Keep inside. Also, he had not yet reached the stage when his efforts at uprightness became stiffly transparent, when he held his head too high and forgot to bend his knees. No one here could possibly see him for what he was. Not yet. So, hiding the proof required to bar him from God’s house, Riley approached with the fluidity and grace of the apparition that he was.
The pews inside were mostly full, everybody dressed in Sunday best, some of the ladies even wearing hats. They had always been a conservative bunch, these Dublin Congregationalists, and yet a fertile field for abolition and suffrage. Riley believed that was why his wife had loved them so. She got to wear nice things, the rules were clear, and all was clean and orderly, although the mind was unconstrained. Being an obvious exception to all this, Riley’s confidence abandoned him in the face of it. Instead of marching boldly along the aisle as planned—the prodigal returning—he took a seat at the first open pew a few rows up, hoping his entry had been barely noticed.
The organist held forth with a hymn as familiar as the seasons and just as old. A hundred voices joined, albeit faintly. The sun shone through the old stained glass, and Riley’s gratitude to God evaporated in the subtle scent of heating oil and a sudden burning realization that his ex-wife and his daughter might be here.
Three years drunk out on the streets was long enough to build a little universe. In rare moments of sobriety, as he huddled under bridges or falsely pledged to work for food at busy intersections, Riley had often thought of his wife and daughter, refashioning them into something he could bear, reducing them into an image cobbled together in haphazard fashion, pliable in faulty memory and comfortably unconnected to the facts. Although he had not come to church expecting a challenge to the petty way he had installed them in his visceral world, that familiar lofty space, the firmness of the pew, the smells and sounds and dimly recognized people in the sanctuary conspired to face him squarely with the fact that somewhere his ex-wife and child remained in total independence of his fantasies.
Nothing of consequence outside of Riley Keep had truly changed despite his efforts to deny it. His family might actually be there, in the flesh. They were certainly somewhere, not just inside his head but out beyond him somewhere, seeing real things and breathing true air, possibly just a few pews up ahead of him right then, singing ancient hymns. This was obvious of course, yet to know it in a rush after forgetting for so long—to unwittingly come so close to the truth of his living family after years of fantasy—was terrifying.
Riley Keep had entered sacred space with grand plans of thanking God for gaining whiskey, only to receive the crushing weight of vast forgotten loss.
Of course Riley knew the way to bear that burden, and as if in miraculous endorsement of his method an offering basket was passed to him. He stared at the contents. One-dollar bills, and tens and twenties, and small white envelopes with the name of the church preprinted on the outside. He knew the envelopes contained the real money, perhaps as much as a hundred dollars each. He lifted one. To hold so much was a heady business, enough to drive away all thought of his ex-family’s exterior existence. Here were paper metaphors for many bottles of his method. Enough excellent corked Scotch to last a week. Enough to send his flesh-and-blood losses back into his head where they belonged, so everyone could be more comfortable.
Riley dipped his hand into the basket, slipping spread fingers through the bills and envelopes, like a pirate sifting treasure. Should he limit this to just a little? Or, being near the door, should he run away with everything? It did not cross his mind to simply pass the basket until the watchful usher stepped too close. With the tall man looming at his elbow Riley had no choice. He passed the basket on.
As the money it contained was borne away and the promise of good whiskey became merely hypothetical, Riley Keep emerged briefly from the power that had nearly driven him to steal these people’s tithes. He remembered where he was and why he had come. He remembered who he had once been. He sat empty-handed as a man stood up to preach. Ignoring his words, Riley thought of sunrises on the Atlantic and the harbor at the center of his hometown and bridal gowns and belated christenings in this very space where he was sitting, and he thought about the fact that he could go from mourning for his friend and longing for his wife and child to lusting for good whiskey in the time it took to sing a hymn. What kind of man could do a thing like that? It was an old question with an answer he knew well. The answer was the reason people would not meet his eyes, the reason sunrises made him angry, the reason he had stayed away from Dublin all this time. The real question, the one he couldn’t answer, was why he had returned.
He thought about his answered prayer, that excellent bottle of Scotch.
He thought about the message on a lobsterman’s bumper.
Jesus Loves You.
If that were true it would have been a kinder thing to leave him with no conscience, no remorse, no empathy at all. Yet here he sat in Dublin, having braved the deadly cold for the sake of someone else, to no avail. When would he learn his sacrifices were unacceptable? Why could he not simply be a drunk, a thief, a loathsome man who had abandoned wife and child for alcohol? Why could he not settle for the numbing anesthesia of all that? If he couldn’t care about himself, why must he care for anything at all?
And yet, God help him, care he did.
The fella f
inished preaching, and someone passed the Communion platter to Riley Keep. The tray held many tiny glasses shaped like thimbles. Riley remembered how it was: little glasses filled with grape juice around the outside of the tray and red wine in the center for the purists. His eyes welled at the thought of Brice, who was beyond all this. He thought of his wife and daughter, possibly right there in that meetinghouse, a few rows up, facing forward and well beyond the sight of a man with such weak vision. They might be holding little thimbles full of wine like these, contemplating lofty matters, preparing to commit themselves to something greater than themselves. And knowing that—even knowing that—still he dreamed of something good to drink.
How he hated himself. How he longed to dream of other things, or failing that, to dream of nothing. But he had prayed that prayer a thousand times without results, except to learn that no one gets to choose his dreams.
Riley thought about his wife’s and daughter’s minds on lofty matters and knew he could not join them, but against his will they had one thing in common. Right here in his hands, like them he held a thing much greater than himself.
Riley took a thimbleful of wine and drank it without pause. Then he took another, and drank it too. He took a third, a fourth, a fifth . . . he would have drunk it all had not the outraged usher in the aisle seized the platter and his feeble upper arm and pulled him to his feet and pushed him through the doors and on across the vestibule, and out the building and down the steps to shove him sprawling to the sidewalk.
Riley rose without a pause and charged across the street into the little park where the answer to his first prayer in many years lay waiting for him in the bushes. He searched the hedge, and after one long frantic moment when he thought it had been stolen, Riley found the bottle. He removed the cap and drank a burning drink and settled down into the writhing oaken roots again with the blood of Christ and good Scotch mixed together in his belly, thinking, thank God, thank God, thank God for something good to drink.
The Cure Page 4