Even So

by Lauren B. Davis

  Janelle laid down an eight of clubs, looked at Angela and said, “What’s going on with you? You got a new boo on the outside, or what?”

  Angela chuckled, raised an eyebrow, and throwing down an eight of spades on the eight of clubs, said, “A boyfriend? Hell, no. I don’t care if I ever have one of those again, but I think maybe, well, maybe, a new pen pal.”

  Ellie popped a six of clubs onto the pile. “You don’t need a pen pal … you need a man. Yum, yum, yum. Puh-leeeze.” She smacked her lips. “Or am I talkin’ about me?”

  The look on Lynne’s face showed how gross she thought it was that a woman of Ellie’s age, being over fifty, would want a man.

  “Don’t give me that look, girl,” said Ellie. “You’ll see once you been here a while.”

  “You go to one of them prison pen pal sites?” Janelle asked. “I didn’t think you was the type.”

  “No. Hardly. Just someone I met once. We have a mutual friend.’

  “Well, good luck to you,” said Janelle. “That’s me in!” She tossed her last card onto the table. “I win!”

  Epilogue

  It is an early October morning, six and a half years since Angela went to prison.

  Eileen looks up from her prayer journal and gazes at the maple tree outside her window, vibrant in the apricot light of the rising sun.

  She will leave for the Pantry soon, and there she will see her friend Angela.

  And it had happened this way: year three of Angela’s incarceration. The same metal tables. The same children playing and crying. The same Cokes and cheap snacks. The same officer at the door. Angela in her orange jumpsuit. After all these months of visits, after all the prayers, after all the conversations Eileen had with Brigid, after all the conversations Eileen had with Connor, after Connor began to accept Angela’s calls … Angela had been different.

  She had leaned across the table toward Eileen, rolling a can of Coke between her palms, and said, “Listen, I know everyone hates being told someone else’s dreams, but I’d like to tell you mine. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I had this dream, and in it I had died. I was dead. I was in some place without form, and really dark, but not black, more reddish. And next to me was this — I know it sounds corny — light.” She ran her fingers through her now short hair, more grey than auburn now. “Capital L light. In a sort of column. How Biblical, right? And here’s the thing — I’m on my knees with grief. Absolute, inconsolable grief, the kind a child has when she’s like, accidentally killed her puppy. That grief. It was crippling. And I kept saying, over and over, if only I’d lived my life differently. It would have been so easy. If only I’d lived my life differently. It would have been so easy. But it was too late. I’d fucked it all up. Like, I’d damned myself. But here’s the thing, that Light, that Light, it knew all this and loved me still. There was no judgment, except the judgment I was passing on myself now that I knew, I understood, and it was excruciating. But that Light. It was nothing but mercy.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, that sounds cheesy.”

  Eileen said, “There’s nothing God can’t forgive. But like you’ve talked about with Brigid, sometimes forgiving yourself is more difficult.”

  Angela wiped away tears. “And here’s the other thing. I read this book of poems last week — it’s here in the library — by a woman who wrote it while she was dying of leukemia. Jane Kenyon. There’s a line that says something about how God is like mercy wrapped up in light.” Angela shuddered and laughed.

  Eileen sat quietly, and then she, too, chuckled. Because God was funny that way. Turning up where you least expected, okay, her. But turning up. Playing with time. Even in Angela’s heart, it seemed that every vestige of resentment and anger was washed away.

  “You’ve had an encounter with the Sacred.”

  What a day that was. What a moment of grace.

  ANGELA WORKS AT THE PANTRY part-time as a sort of general dogsbody now, doing whatever is required, from stocking shelves, to gardening, to dealing with clients. She is good at her job. Carsten even pops in from time to time to see how the garden plots are faring and to help if needed. He and Angela are friendly now that the initial awkwardness has faded. Eileen credits Angela with the ease between them. Angela had been genuinely happy to see him and had even apologized. There is a new woman in Carsten’s life, Pilar, quite young, unmarried, a girl who fancies long flowy skirts, lip piercings, and has a python tattoo slinking up her right arm and shoulder. Angela seems to like her, and if she is in any way envious, it never shows.

  Claire, who handles communications and fundraising at the Pantry, plans to leave when her baby is born in three months and Eileen hopes Angela will take over. She also works part-time for an organization that brings literature to marginalized populations. Neither job pays much, and she lives in a little one-bedroom apartment down the street from Eileen, Ruth, and Caroline. Her social circle is comprised of people in the neighbourhood, people who work in the Pantry, and people she’s met at church, and one other person: her son, Connor, with whom she is slowly rebuilding a relationship. She missed so much of his life — the whole of his undergraduate and most of his graduate years. He works with his father now, and is engaged to Harper. It’s slow going, this rebuilding, but Eileen is more than hopeful. Connor even came to the Pantry twice to volunteer and Eileen had been concerned Angela might explode from joy and pride.

  After months of warily circling each other, a number of emails, telephone conversations, and several coffee dates after Angela was released, with Eileen acting as mediator, and even more with just Angela and George, the two have become unlikely friends. And not merely because of the trust Angela had set up so George and Darlene need no longer worry about making the rent or about health insurance. It turns out George, Darlene, and Angela share a love of popcorn and jigsaw puzzles and old classic movies.

  Eileen shakes her head now, and smiles. What a gift Angela is to her. It is easy to love those who have been harmed by life. But not so easy to love and to forgive the ones who have done the harming. It is easy to love the old lady who’s been robbed, but how to love the man who robbed her? How do we love the boy who shoots the man waiting at the bus stop in order to steal twenty dollars? How do we love the woman who leaves her children alone for days at a time while she’s out getting high? How do we love Angela, who lost herself, became terribly selfish, and hurt people? How does she love herself, a woman who slapped a child?

  It is good to have an angel to wrestle with. Angela had been her angel disguised, as angels often are, in the clothes of the sinner, disguised even to herself. Not that Angela is an angel, or even a saint, not even close, but she is full, full of life, of love, of passionate care for others, full of surrender to grace.

  Eileen says a prayer of thanks. She opens her eyes and once again looks out the window, thinking how autumn is a lesson in the beauty of letting go, releasing, allowing the good air to take you where it will, and letting the good earth hold you when you got there. In this moment, the leaves shine copper, bronze, and brass. When the wild music of the wind blows, the leaves flurry and swirl in their unrestrained, irrepressible dance, free at last, and joyfully surrendered.

  ANGELA SITS ON THE BENCH in Cadwalader Park, a small dog beside her. Prison life has trained her to get up early, very early, and she is grateful for that. She often rises before 5:00 a.m., prays and does a little yoga, and then takes Bailey, the whiskery rescue pup, to the park for a frolic before going to work. (Bailey has become something of a mascot at the Pantry.) Just to sit or walk in the green (safe at this hour of the day) is a blessing after so long in small, noisy, locked spaces. Oh, the gift of quiet. Who knew she would cherish it so? To sit in a quiet room, by herself, or to sit here, with the cathedral of trees, the stained glass of the leaves, is a luxury beyond measure.

  She loves the mourning dove who calls with her plaintive song, and the nuthatches, the chickadees, the wrens and sparrows, the robins and wagtails and finches.
She loves the pigeons, too, and the mice and rats and foxes and the possum she’d seen once, although Bailey remained unconvinced about the possum. This time of day is good for the creatures, before people come and stake their claims. She loves the squirrels, too, and laughs at their antics, their nerve and irritation. Every creature going about its business, needing nothing but what it is meant to do next. A place without fame, or spotlight, or craving.

  She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, letting the sun warm her.

  Bailey makes a little noise and then a little yip of greeting. Angela opens her eyes. A woman approaches, pushing a rickety shopping cart filled with plastic bags and cans and some things that might be sweaters or T-shirts. She wears camouflage pants and a black sweatshirt and a red jacket far too large for her. The clothes are soiled and stained. Greasy tendrils of brown hair escape the baseball cap she wears. On her feet are canvas sneakers, but no socks, and her ankles are smeared black and grey.

  Bailey’s tail wags like crazy. The woman nears Angela and says, “Give me something.” It is not a request; it is a demand. She is malodorous, with scabs on her face, one of which she picks at.

  Angela wears a small leather pouch across her body, containing a small amount of cash, her keys, a driver’s licence (although she doesn’t have a car), and a bus pass. There is no makeup; she gave that up in prison. She has a ten-dollar bill, which was supposed to be used for a few groceries later. She hands it to the woman, who takes it without thanks, and it disappears into her coat somewhere. Bailey continues to wiggle and tail-wag.

  “Dog looks friendly,” the woman says.

  “Hasn’t met a person yet he doesn’t love, in spite of the abuse he suffered as a pup.”

  The woman reaches out to pet Bailey, who squirms with joy.

  “Would you like an orange?” Angela takes the small clementine from a brown paper bag she carries and holds it out.

  “Yeah,” the woman says and sits down on the bench, her feet hooked around her cart, as though afraid someone will make off with it. She begins hurriedly to eat it, tearing it apart rather than peeling it, and biting into the flesh, the juice running down her chin.

  “What are you doing here?” the woman asks.

  “I like it here. It’s quiet and pretty. What about you?”

  “Me?” The woman cackles. “Well, sweetheart, I have a broken heart to heal and a broken soul to save.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “True, that is true.” The woman chews on the orange peel, her hand on Bailey’s head.

  “I think I’ll take another orange, if you’ve got one. Or maybe a sandwich. You got a sandwich?”

  Acknowledgements

  First, I must give my deepest gratitude and love to Sister Rita Woehlcke, SSJ, for her incredible generosity and wisdom. You guided me through the writing of this book, all thirteen drafts, as you guide me through life. I honestly have no idea where, if anywhere, I would be without you. All my love.

  I’d also like to thank all the Sisters at the Saint Raphaela Retreat Center in Haverford, Pennsylvania, for letting me come and live as one of you. Special thanks to Sister Kathy Gazie, ACJ, for making me feel so welcome, to Sister Lyan Tri, ACJ, for sharing your own writing with me, and to Sister Jessica Kerber, for the great chat and incredible lunch. You all taught me many wonderful things, including the proper way to use an industrial dishwasher. I don’t know where you get your energy!

  Thanks as well for nick-of-time guidance to Sister Kathleen Rooney, SSJ, chaplain at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for making sure I didn’t make too many mistakes. You were a godsend (literally) right when I needed you.

  To Lynn Wilson. You got me all the details I needed. Thank you SO much.

  David Forrer at Inkwell Management, you believed in this book so much you called me early to tell me! Ha! Thank you for your continuing support. This is our sixth book together. Let’s do at least six more. You’re the best. I’ll try to earn an early call on the next one, too.

  Thank you to everyone at Dundurn who shepherded this book through a pandemic! It’s a real pleasure working with everyone: Jenny McWha, Scott Fraser, Rachel Spence, Sophie Paas-Lang, Sara D’Agostino, Kathryn Lane, Heather Wood, Kendra Martin, and Lisa Marie Smith. I hope we’ll have a long association.

  Shannon Whibbs, most excellent editor. Thank you for your patience as I flapped around on the final draft. Your calm, confidence, and willingness to take somewhat panicked phone calls saved me.

  Thank you to Heidi von Palleske for urging me to submit to Dundurn. I’m so glad you did! Delighted to be sharing such a fine publishing house with you.

  The pleasure of sharing literary pursuits with Sandra Kasturi is considerable, as is my gratitude for her instincts and humor.

  Susan Applewhaite, what can I say? Constant as a northern star. My talented friend.

  Thanks to Sarah Unger, who provided insight into the workings of a food pantry, and all the wonderful work you and others do at Arm in Arm Trenton.

  Ron. I love you. The light in the window still guides me home.

  About the Author

  Lauren B. Davis’s previous books include The Grimoire of Kensington Market, Against a Darkening Sky, The Stubborn Season, and The Empty Room, which was named one of the Best Books of the Year by the National Post and the Winnipeg Free Press and an was Amazon Editors’ Pick. Her novel Our Daily Bread was longlisted for the Giller Prize and named as one of the Best Books of the Year by the Globe and Mail and the Boston Globe. She is also the author of the bestselling and critically acclaimed novel The Radiant City, a finalist for the Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize. Lauren has published two short story collections, An Unrehearsed Desire and Rat Medicine & Other Unlikely Curatives, and her short fiction has been shortlisted for the CBC Literary Awards and the ReLit Award. She was born in Montreal, lived in France for ten years, and now lives with her husband, Ron, and their dog, Bailey-the-Rescuepoo, in Princeton, New Jersey.