by Lesley Kagen
“You’ve got the wrong idea about our church,” I tell Ethel. “You’ve only been up there for funerals. You don’t know how bad it can get.”
“Mmmm . . . hmmm.” In southern, that means, Go on, tell me more.
“You gotta starve yourself for hours before you receive Holy Communion.” Ethel would especially not like that part. She adores a big country breakfast with ham first thing every morning. She wouldn’t like the taste of the body and blood of Christ. He’s really bland. (I’m too nervous to bring this up to anybody who might know the answer, but isn’t swallowing down Jesus kinda like being a cannibal?) “And the nuns, they got ways of torturin’ people that are worse than the Red Chinese.”
“That’s nothin’ but your big ’magination talkin’,” Ethel says with a snort.
“No, it’s not! Swear to God. The sisters tied Mary Lane down and dripped holy water on her forehead after they caught her peepin’ on them.”
“Sounds to me like that girl was spinnin’ one of her no-tripper tales,” she says, still slicing away at those berries, making them not too thin so they fall apart, but not too thick either. “I only know the one nun. Sister Jean seems real nice.”
“She’s only bein’ nice to you because ya aren’t a Catholic.” Ethel doesn’t understand how those crabby penguins work. “You can’t believe how bossy they are. They’re the brides of Christ so that makes them almost as powerful as priests,” I say, hoping that I’m getting through to her. “If you join up, you’ll be under all a their thumbs. Even in your dreams they can come after you.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t like that.” No, she wouldn’t. She needs her beauty sleep and takes pride in her freedom. “Here I been thinkin’ that was a place of worship all these years. That only goes to show ya how wrong a body can be about something, don’t it? Thank you kindly for the warnin’, Miss Sally.” Ethel’s teeth are enormously white. She sucks on lemons to make them that way. She shouldn’t be smiling, though. I’m not kidding around. “But I’d be keepin’ my voice down ’bout that church stuff if’n I was you,” she says.
As usual, the smartest woman I know is right. Catholics are not supposed to even think something bad about the church, so saying it out loud has gotta be worse.
Ethel lifts her chin and nods it at the window. “Ya wouldn’t want Father Mickey to hear ya.”
I jump up off the stepladder and almost knock it over. “Father’s right outside?”
“He’s out back with Miz G. Surprised ya didn’t see them when ya got here.”
Shame on me. I was in such a hurry to escape from Fast Susie that I wasn’t paying attention to the details. I creep over and inch back the white kitchen curtain. Just like Ethel said, there’s Mrs. G in her wheelchair under the crab apple tree and Father Mickey’s by her side. “What’s he doin’ here?”
“He’s been comin’ to give Miss Bertha comfort and the Holy Communion you was tellin’ me ’bout. Too hard for her to get up to church much as she’d like.” Ethel cracks opens the oven door to check on her cake. “Father’s also been kind enough to watch over her while I run out to do my errands.”
Seeing handsome Father Mickey has made me come up with an even better reason to keep Ethel from turning her back on the Baptists and joining forces with the Romans. “If you changed over to Mother of Good Hope, you’d never get to see Ray Buck.” That’s her boyfriend, who is a bus driver. They spend every Sunday together, which is Ethel’s day off.
“Don’t see that as a problem,” Ethel says. “Ray Buck could join up, too.”
I’m not gonna be the one to tell her that I don’t think that would be allowed. I’m sure they only let Ethel go up to church because she has been in the neighborhood for so long. Ray Buck doesn’t live around here. He lives in the Core with the rest of the Negroes. Ethel might think that Father Mickey’s the best thing since the invention of aluminum foil, but I got news for her.
Before I can stop myself, “I don’t like him” just dribbles out.
“Whaaat?” Ethel says, wiggling the cake out of the oven into her dish-toweled hands. It’s perfectly browned on top, just how she expects it to be. “Since when don’t ya like Ray Buck?”
“What’re you talkin’ about? I adore Ray Buck.”
(More than she’ll ever know.)
“Is this heat gettin’ to me or is my imagination gettin’ more het up than yours?” Ethel says. “I swear ya just told me ya didn’t like him.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean Ray Buck.”
Ethel sets the angel food cake down on the top of the tall green bottle she uses to cool it off. “Who did ya mean then?”
It’s too late now. I am putty in her hands. “Father Mickey,” I say, getting right up close to her so there’s no chance he could hear me with his all-powerful priest ears.
“For heaven’s sakes, what could be wrong with . . . wait a Tallahassee minute.” When she turns her head my way, her warm cheek is pressed almost on top of mine. I can smell the violety toilet water behind her ears. “This is soundin’ awful familiar to me,” she says with suspicious eyebrows. “You’re not gettin’ a bee in your bonnet over Father Mickey the same way ya did with Mr. Dave last summer, are ya?”
No matter how hard Ethel tried to convince me that I was wrong about him, I was sure that Dave was the murderer and molester. So I could have a bee in my bonnet and not even know it. I can’t seem to get a grip on these sorts of things.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“I should hope not,” Ethel says, getting back to sprinkling powdered sugar over those berries and mixing it in with a wooden spoon. “It takes a lot to dedicate your life to our Savior. Ya need to respect that.” She’s shown me pictures of her brother named Gaston, who is a preacher back home in a country church, so I knew she might take that the wrong way. That’s why I haven’t told her how I felt about Father Mickey before now. “Sacrificin’ the pleasures of life for the ways of the Lord ain’t easy.”
“I know, Ethel, I know. That’s really nice of people to dedicate their lives to God. That’s why I am gonna try my hardest not to feel that way about Father from here on out.”
When she doesn’t say anything reassuring back the way she usually would, I slip my arm around her waist. “Are ya mad at me? For not likin’ Father?”
“Your feelin’s is your feelin’s. I’m just ponderin’ the why of ’em. Last summer, it was Mr. Dave that got ya all worked up and now it’s the priest.” She holds out a spoonful of sweetened strawberries for me to taste. “Maybe ya got something against men in uniforms. Had me a dog like that once. Wouldn’t let the ice man get within ten feet a the house.”
I don’t know the reason I don’t like Father Mickey, but I don’t think it’s because of the way he dresses, which is your basic black. He hasn’t done anything wrong to me, just the opposite. He always admires my long legs and asks if I’d like to sign up for the girls’ basketball team when I pass him in the hallways at school. And he’s being extra, extra kind to Troo. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like all of the time him and her are spending together. Mother is jealous of all the time Dave is spending with his partner, so maybe it’s like that.
“You sure you’re not mad at me?” I ask Ethel because she hasn’t said anything for a minute or so and is mixing the berries more than she should. They’re starting to look floppy.
Ethel sets down the spoon and says reluctantly, because she is not a complainer by nature, “It’s not you, honey. I got a few other things that’s makin’ my mind distracted.”
Since she’s my sounding board, I always try to repay the favor if something is bothering her. “Like what?”
“I can’t hardly put my finger on it . . . but . . . something strange is goin’ on round here. Miss Bertha, she had me call up Mr. Cooper to come over last week.” He is the man Mr. Gary Galecki picked out to make sure his mother’s bills are paid. He also signs Ethel’s paycheck that comes in the mail every Friday from his office called Cooper, Cooper and Barrow. I
’ve only met him once. He was carrying a briefcase and didn’t say hello back to me. “After Mr. Cooper arrived,” Ethel says, “Bertha shushed me away and the two of them and Father Mickey got settled in the parlor and had a nice long visit. Usually I’m included. Can’t figure out why I weren’t.”
I bring my hand up to my chest, roll my eyes and do my imitation of her. “Lord, I can’t imagine.” That’s a very Mississippi thing to say when you’re stumped. “Maybe Mr. Cooper’s fixin’ to fire ya.” I’m trying to make her laugh because that is so silly. She will never get let go from this job. Nobody could take better care of Mrs. Galecki than she does.
When all Ethel gives me back is a small smile as she slides the bowl of strawberries into the fridge, I tell her in my regular voice, “Don’t feel bad.” Long as she’s in there, she takes a breath of that cool air and paddles some down the front of her dress. “I got worries, too.” I’ve found when somebody tells you something that’s bothering them they appreciate it if you tell them something’s bothering you, too. That way it doesn’t seem like you think that you’re better than they are. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about Greasy Al and how he’s gonna—”
“Whoa up.” She closes the fridge door and flips up both of her pink palms. “Like I told ya before on this subject, ya gotta think a something else ya really like when that boy comes to mind.”
What she really told me was, “When I’m ’bout to blow a fuse, I think about dancin’. And Ray Buck. You could think about Henry . . . or you could read or pray.”
I tried doing what she wanted me to do, I really did. The second I started thinking about Greasy Al, I tried to switch gears and think about my future husband. Or driving around the countryside with Nancy Drew in her blue coupe. But somewhere down the road, Molinari would flag us down and ask us for a ride back to 52nd Street so he could murder my sister. I also tried praying to Daddy, but all that did was make me feel like if I didn’t work harder at keeping Troo safe, how disappointed he was gonna be when we met again in heaven.
Ethel runs her big cool hand down my arm and says, “All right then. Think we ’bout wore this conversation out, don’t you? Time for storytellin’.” She steps into the back hallway and opens the milk chute, which is where I keep my book so I don’t forget and leave it at home.
“Are you gonna come out, too?” I ask when she hands over The Hidden Window Mystery.
This is the third Nancy Drew that I’ve read to them and, by far, our favorite. There’s a colored woman in this story. Lovable old Beulah who serves corn pudding and strawberry shortcake. Just like my Ethel! The story also takes place in the South so that’s gotta give her a home, sweet home feeling.
“Ya know, sittin’ down in the shade and listenin’ to ya read sounds mighty nice,” Ethel says. “Don’t think the sheets are gonna dry on the line today anyways. Too hot and wet.” She does her slidey walk to the kitchen window that makes me think she’s hearing Waltzing Matilda in her head. She calls out, “Y’all ’bout done out there, Father?”
I couldn’t hear his answer, but Ethel turns back and gives me a look that says whatever it is you are thinkin’ at the present moment, it’d be a mighty good idea to keep it to yourself and get your behind outta that door.
“What a delightful surprise,” Father Mickey says when we join him and Mrs. Galecki under the crab apple tree. He is a different kind of Irish than our family is. He is black Irish, which doesn’t mean he’s a Negro born in Killarney the way people might think. It means that Father has hair the color of a funeral, not a stop sign. Most Irish people have bad tempers, but black Irish people are famous for having the worst. “Hello, Sally. Haven’t seen you since school let out.”
“Good afternoon, Father . . . I . . . I came over to read to Mrs. Galecki.” I hold up the book so he doesn’t think I’m lying.
“Ah, yes. Your sister tells me you’re quite the reader.”
“Don’t you mean she tells you that I’m a bonehead?”
When Father Mickey smiles grandly, I can see what everybody goes silly over.
“That’s a beautiful watch you’ve got there.” He taps his finger on the face. “A Timex, isn’t it?”
“It was my daddy’s,” I say, forgetting that pride is a sin. Father musta forgot that, too, because the watch he has on is very fancy. “Mother got it made small for me.”
Father says with a twinkle in his eye, “Helen’s always been a very considerate person.”
I wouldn’t use that word to describe Mother in a million years. I guess he must be referring to the way she used to be back in the olden days. Before Daddy died. Before she got married to Hall. Before she got sick.
“Is there anything I could offer ya before ya go, Father?” Ethel with the perfect manners asks. “A glass a fresh-squeezed lemonade should set ya right.”
“I cannot imagine anything I’d enjoy more, but I’m afraid I’ve got another parishioner to attend to.” He lifts up my wrist and taps my watch. His fingers are soft and his nails are shiny like they’ve been painted with something. “Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’,” he says, not to me, but Mrs. Galecki. “Just like you, Bertha.”
Mrs. Galecki’s head bobs up and down, but that doesn’t mean she is agreeing with him. She’s got some palsy.
Father slips his golden chalice that he brought the Holy Communion in over from the church into a black velvet bag and says, “Tell your sister to come a little earlier Tuesday night, Sally. We have a lot to discuss.”
That’s the day Troo goes up to church for her extra religious instruction. If she doesn’t get holier soon, she’s gonna end up going to Vliet Street School. I will miss walking up to Mother of Good Hope with her and eating lunch together and even ringing doorbells on our way home, but most of all, how will I ever keep watch over my sister if we’re not going to the same school? The thought of her being out of my sight that many hours of the day makes me want to curl up. The only one that could prevent that from happening is Father Mickey.
He tells Ethel, “Tomorrow, same time,” and heads toward the front of the house, but stops at the bushes that run alongside it. When he trots back and lays the pale pink flower in Mrs. Galecki’s lap, he says, “A rose by any other name.”
Now, if you weren’t me, you would be thinking to yourself, Boy, how did this neighborhood get so lucky? This priest is really something! He can even make the same quote that Donny O’Malley would make when he’d stuff fallen petals into his daughters’ pillowcases so they would be guaranteed sweet dreams. But on this hot, hot day, all I can think of as Father Mickey leaves to minister to another one of his flock is how much he reminds me of the black ice we get on the streets during winter. It’s slick. And invisible to the naked eye.
What’s wrong with me?
Ethel places the rose Father picked off the bush gently into Mrs. Galecki’s high hair and says, “Don’t that look nice. Miss Sally’s gonna read to us now, Bertha.”
Her patient doesn’t answer. She’s fallen back to sleep again. She does that. I can be right in the middle of a sentence and kablooie—she’s dead to the world. That’s okay. I decided a long time ago that reading still counts as a charitable work even if she can’t hear it. I open the book and bring my face down to the pages and breathe. Books do not have the reputation of smelling nice, but they do. Not as good as mimeograph, but still very good.
“The name of this chapter is ‘An Angry Suspect,’” I say, kicking off my sneakers and getting comfy in the backyard chair. “ ‘Bess was so startled to hear the name of the man for whom the girls were searching that she—’ ”
“Bertha? Bertha?” Ethel shrieks. She pops up and presses her ear down to her boss’s lilac blouse. I am not worried. This happens all the time. At least once a week, Ethel is sure that Mrs. G has sucked in her last breath.
While Ethel’s still down on her chest, Mrs. Galecki’s eyes fly open and she says in the meanest voice, “What’re you doing? Trying to steal my locket like everything else?”
&
nbsp; That completely flabbergasts me. How dare she say something so cruel about the woman who gives her bubble baths and wipes the drool off her mouth and sometimes her heinie?
Before I can suggest to Mrs. Galecki that she should count her blessings, Ethel lifts her head off her chest and says back so kindly, “Locket’s safe, Miss Bertha.” My good friend stands and pulls me a few steps away. “She’s been gettin’ more and more confused the last coupla weeks. This mornin’ she went yelly about how her emerald necklace was missin’.”
I don’t understand why this is bothering her so much. Being a nurse, Ethel should know the same way I do that old ladies’ brains can really go to pot when their arteries get hard. Our other granny changed her name from Margie O’Malley to Marie Antoinette on her eighty-sixth birthday.
“Where did ya end up findin’ it?” I ask.
“Tha’s the funny thing. I looked and looked for that necklace, but it weren’t in the hatbox under the bed where it usually is or nowheres else. Bertha didn’t come right out and say so, but . . .” Ethel shrugs. “I think she’s believin’ I’m the cat burglar who’s been sneakin’ around.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. Ethel is way too big to sneak around anywhere. When she’s somewhere, you know it.
I remind her, “Once somebody’s mind takes a turn around the bend like that, not only do their memories get backed up, but they can start sayin’ strange things.” What I’m trying to tell her as politely as I can is that Mrs. Galecki’s brain has gone as stiff as her hair. “Granny Marie Antoinette used to misplace stuff all the time and then blame her husband, Louie, for stealin’ it. Her husband’s name was Alvin.”