A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  They hear the key in the door, and it marks the end of their discussion. Tiffany is glowing—rosy from a number of downward dogs and a long shoulder stand at yoga class, high that she’s in a new relationship, about which she refuses to divulge information. In fact, she’s been in a good mood ever since Jason showed up—an alluring mood. She may be a lesbian, but she’s a rich, spoiled, hot lipstick one who plays the femme fatale or hard-nosed feminist whenever either suits her. Ryan has known quite a few lesbians-turned-heterosexual. She can’t think of one gay male who has reversed his course. Tiffany thinks nothing of prancing around in front of Jason in panties and seethrough T-shirts when she’s there, which, thank God, isn’t too often lately. But what’s happened while Ryan’s been at work and the other two are alone? Tiffany’s had trouble with boundaries with roommates in the past, but convinced Ryan that she was the victim in such disputes. The two before Ryan had been a lesbian couple.

  Ryan has never lived alone, which is something she regrets: She has her selfish side to consider, one that doesn’t like to share, that wants to keep things—and people—to herself. She can’t imagine ever writing a cookbook (beyond the fact that she isn’t a good cook), can’t imagine how chefs give out secret recipes despite being paid handsomely for them. If anyone asks her how she made something, she always leaves out an ingredient or says she’ll give it but never does. She even hides things from herself, jotting down thoughts in her notebook with such intentional carelessness that even she cannot decipher her scribble afterward.

  * * *

  When Jason is fast asleep, Ryan gets out of bed, takes her laptop to the couch in the living room, and goes on Facebook to check out Tiffany’s most recent posts, to look for photos of Jason in her albums or timeline, to see if she’s changed her relationship status in any way. Absurd. Yet she searches. The only image she finds of him is a selfie of the three of them on the back porch eating breakfast several days ago. Is she searching for excuses as to why he cannot change sufficiently for her? But he cannot be the only one to change: There must be compromise in a relationship; there must be acceptance, a melding of philosophies, a commitment to forgiveness, and trust. Her mother taught her to be selfish, but she was learning that her mother was too selfish for her liking. Ryan knows she can get Jason to the altar, but she needs to know he wants to be there.

  Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, and she’ll suggest they go to Mass together. She can do this. She can sit there and maybe be lucky enough to garner some little piece of wisdom from one of these cool priests who just might surprise her, or else she’ll simply bathe in the comfort of community. And if she can’t, she’ll compose their grocery list in her mind or think up a plot for a new short story. If it gets really bad, she’ll resort to the times tables. That’s what might be missing in her life—the glue, the moral fiber to guide her. She’s no longer a rebellious coed; she’s an adult playing in the major leagues. She can baptize her children. She can send them to religious instruction because that’s where this will lead. But she can also reinforce that the Bible is a storybook of parables, that doctrine, like government, is man-made, an invention devised by humans to get through this life.

  She can make Jason comfortable and happy, and in turn ease him back into the life of the laity. Maybe their children will be more grounded than she is, maybe they’ll know how to find a love interest like themselves because they’ll have more of an identity, the identity Ryan’s grandparents used to tell her parents Ryan would never have. And when they’re old enough, their children can choose to stay the path or go along another; it will be up to them—no strings or guilt attached. She can do all this because she knows her and Jason’s relationship won’t succeed without a change in attitude and behavior from both of them. What she can’t do is second-guess his every conversation, every smile with other women, every minute spent with priests. There can be no others in this relationship.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday, April 20

  JASON IS DELIGHTED when Ryan offers to attend Easter Sunday Mass at St. Gerard’s. She insists they drive to Medford, telling him that if he took her car to work and not the T every day, it would cut his commute in half. He complies for this day only, reminding her how committed she is to public transportation and reducing her carbon footprint.

  She likes the heavy oak doors with their brightly colored Tiffanyglass panels. And she’s never seen a ceiling carved out of wood. Aside from that, everything about the church is modest: pink plaster walls, white rectangular columns, more Tiffany windows with simple outlines of saints that resemble pen and ink drawings, a modern altar.

  The priest saying Mass in his white-and-gold chasuble is middleaged and reminds Ryan of photos of her father when he was younger, with a black beard and long curly hair that crept down his neck and covered his ears and wide sideburns.

  “That’s Father Coluccio,” Jason whispers.

  In the pew in front of them, a couple not much older than Ryan and Jason sit with their two children. The little boy, in a suit with short pants and a crooked bow tie, plays peekaboo with Ryan, his brown eyes open wide, his skin plump and dewy, while his younger sister, in a frilly dress with matching bonnet, sits comfortably in the father’s arms sucking on a pacifier. Ryan studies the mother. She did this, she thinks; she produced these two little adorable beings. She can envision two munchkins squirming between her and Jason, eagerly waiting to drop their pennies into the basket when it’s passed. She can see how this community might be supportive, how ritual can instill security and discipline. Choice is so distracting and at times unnerving. Eliminating some of it can make for a simpler world less fraught with decisions.

  When a lanky teenager steps up to the pulpit, Ryan is unprepared for his eloquent reading of the gospel. Father Coluccio’s homily does not start out as pertinent to modern world issues, focusing instead on the mother of Jesus and the ultimate anguish she experienced and the joy Christ’s resurrection now brings her—brings all of us. Maybe he does this because Mother’s Day is around the corner. Women are valuable, essential, hardworking gifts from God, who sacrifice for their children, he says. The Blessed Mother is the epitome, the representative of all to whom we owe thanks and, to those who have been made to suffer, an apology. He is welcoming and almost as charismatic as the new Pope. He does not mention that women, for whom he urges great respect, can never be ordained, cannot be joined together in a same-sex marriage, cannot be supported in their right to choose. He cannot change dogma, this disciple of the new and popular Pope does not admit.

  That’s what Ryan hears the Irish attorney in her office remark on every news article involving the new Pope, with whom the woman has a love-hate fascination. “Even the Episcopalians have been ordaining women priests for almost forty years; the Jews have women rabbis; but no, not the Catholics,” she says. “Jury’s still out with the Orthodox,” Josh Levy, another attorney, reminds her. Ryan never gets involved in the discussions; she hasn’t really cared about women’s roles in the Church, or whether it recognizes gays and divorced members, or condemns abortion. She hasn’t cared about what the Church professes because she hasn’t cared about the Church. But if today signals a change in her participation, she will have to take a stand.

  For now she chooses to tune out and say the Our Father, the Lord’s Prayer, before the moment for the congregation to recite it. She repeats it over and over again in her head, making her own adjustments: “Our Father—and Mother—who art in heaven …” She has always liked the prayer and for some reason uses it as a mantra for distraction in times of distress. She doesn’t want to analyze the words too deeply; it’s one of the only prayers she learned as a child. She likes its cadence, and actually doesn’t mind the sentiment, except for the part her father says wasn’t said when he was a boy, the part about the power and the glory and the kingdom, which sounds like something from a Harry Potter novel.

  It’s time for Communion; kneelers are lifted. People rise and head to the center aisle. Jason looks at Ryan u
neasily, but she smiles. “This is the best part,” she says as she stands, the part where you get to actually do something, the part she knows gets to Jason because she has never received her First Holy Communion. He lays his hand on her shoulder to hold her back, but she shrugs it off. “Jesus wouldn’t want me not to partake, would he? If you’re invited to dinner, you eat, don’t you?” She’s daring him, leaving him no recourse but to let her join the line leading up to Father Coluccio and his golden chalice of consecrated wafers.

  When Communion is over, the faithful resume their singing. Father Coluccio marches down the aisle, led by an altar girl who holds up a large heavy-looking gold cross. That wasn’t so bad, Ryan thinks. She has reflected deeply on a relevant topic; thought about how to end her short story and, in doing so, passed the hour quite pleasantly.

  After Mass, a beaming Jason introduces Ryan to Father Coluccio, who stands outside greeting other parishioners. With others lined up behind them, they don’t engage in lengthy conversation, but he’s genuinely warm as he takes her hand in his: “I cannot tell you how happy I am you both are here.” She wishes the comfort of his familiar accent could compensate for the failings of his homily, but it doesn’t. Can she really do this week after week? After mourning Jason for over a year and getting a second chance with him, she has to.

  They walk to Davis Square for lunch, but when they get there, Jason suggests they take the T down to Back Bay and eat there instead.

  “Why would we do that?” she asks.

  “Because you love Newbury Street.”

  “We can explore here.”

  “I want to take you to Newbury Street.”

  She relents. “So let’s drive.”

  “Why walk all the way back to the car and then have to drive around for a parking place or spend a fortune in a garage?”

  He takes her hand and pulls her down the station stairs to the inbound Red Line. She fails to see any logic in his thinking, since now they will have to come all the way back for the car. But he is on a high, and she will ride it with him.

  On the train, Ryan asks: “Do you believe in the Trinity?” Her question was prompted by the recitation of the Apostles’ Creed at Mass. The inquiry surprises him.

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I have to admit I don’t get it. I mean, how can they say, And he sits at the right hand of the Father? How can Jesus sit next to God the Father when He and the Holy Spirit and God are one and the same? Makes no sense.”

  “I know you didn’t go to religious instruction, but didn’t you learn that in theology class at Driscoll? At least one was required.”

  “I got out of it by taking the Metaphysical Poets in the English department.”

  “We never talked about this before.”

  “Religion didn’t seem so important before I started dating an ex-priest.”

  “Well.” He furrows his brow and considers, as if the answer were posted in the advertisements above the windows across the aisle. “Each of the three persons in the godhead has the same divine nature; so they are the one true God in essence or nature, not three distinct gods. The Father begets the Son, but that occurs within the inner life of God. So they’re two persons distinctly related, while remaining one in being. The Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son, but in a different sense: It’s spirit—love—that the Father and Son—God, if you will—releases unto us.”

  He relaxes, pleased with his answer, but she looks at him as though he has just produced a rabbit via sleight of hand.

  “Okay,” Jason tries to explain. “St. Augustine says: I am a knowing and willing being, and I know that I am and that I will, and I will to be and to know. One life, one mind, one essence—man. But above man—or woman—” he smiles—“is that immutable being which is and knows and wills immutably.”

  “Still gibberish, Jason,” she says as the train screeches into the Park Street station.

  “No. Listen.” He is intent on making himself understood, as they switch to the Green Line train already in the station. Yet she has to work hard at getting him to divulge most other thoughts and feelings. “God is the being one; the son, Jesus, is the knowing one, the word who proceeds from the Father; and the Holy Spirit is the willing one, the bond of love between the Father and the Son. Three distinct realities in one being. Look, a mother, father, and child can be three distinct persons and yet have the same nature. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are like the family—three distinct persons with the same nature. Combine the two analogies and you have three relationally distinct realities within one being anthropologically, and three relationally distinct persons sharing the same nature in the analogy of the family.”

  He smiles with satisfaction. She returns the smile, eager to drop a subject she regrets having brought up. Relieved when they ascend into the airiness and sunlight of this warm April day, she leads him toward her favorite hat shop, hoping to discover a killer sale.

  Some café owners have already set out their patio furniture. Ryan and Jason agree on one of their old favorite haunts and sit outside, where her new wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with black grosgrain ribbon—bought at full price—fails to shade her face. The Bloody Marys are numbing, the sun blinding. They’ll telephone their parents tonight and reveal the wedding plans; they compile a makeshift guest list on a napkin. Should they search for their own place in JP or move back to Brighton or maybe Brookline? Jason thinks Medford or adjacent Somerville might suit them and their budget better.

  * * *

  Jason wants to tell Ryan’s parents first; he’ll confirm what his mother already knows in their weekly email exchange. Ryan calls Lauren and Joe on their landline so the couple can both talk at the same time: her mother in the bedroom, her father in the kitchen. Despite the fact that there are two of them, the air on the other end goes dead when she informs them about the upcoming Brackton affair.

  “Well, that’s news,” her father says, breaking the silence, partly shocked, partly proud of his daughter’s resourcefulness, and thankful for Jason’s commitment. “We’ll get things rolling.”

  Ryan has her parents on speakerphone, and Jason grins at Joe’s compulsive nature to take on—and over—a project. Still, Lauren has not responded.

  “You don’t understand, Dad. There’s nothing for you to do. It’s all taken care of: the place, the music, the food, the dress, the tux, photographer, invitations, even the rings and the maid of honor’s dress.”

  “I’m able to give my only daughter a wedding, you know. You’re not a charity case. Then again, that leaves more for a gift, a house, your honeymoon—or are they picking up the tab for that too?”

  “No,” Ryan says. “And I appreciate your generosity.” Jason points to himself to be included. “We appreciate your generosity.”

  “It’s a bit of a trip for my family to take, but I guess these destination weddings are the rage now.”

  “It’s Vermont, Dad, not Turks and Caicos.”

  “Well, okay then. Congratulations to you both. Send us our invitation. Great news, isn’t it, Lauren?”

  “I didn’t ask your permission, Joe, since I’ve already done that once,” Jason explains. “And we did get carried away in the excitement of this whole unorthodox affair.”

  “You don’t need my permission, Jason. We’re not old-fashioned. Ryan can make up her mind. But I appreciate your consideration.”

  Lauren breaks her silence. “A marriage is a lifetime. Or at least it’s supposed to be.”

  “We know that, Mom.”

  “Do you? Your generation is so caught up with the wedding and its perfection, the size and style of the diamond, the execution of the proposal, the makeup and hairdo, down to the personal meaning in the favors, as though you were shooting a scene in a movie. A wedding is a lot of hoopla about one day—actually more like five or six hours. Then you wake up the next morning without your professional face paint, with your matted 1930s upsweep, your two-thousanddollar gown a crumpled heap of lace and silk on t
he floor, and your rose-colored glasses askew, and there you are naked, and hungover, like any other couple, facing each other for years on end—”

  “Oh boy,” Joe says, hoping to quiet his wife.

  “Wow,” is all Ryan can muster. Why can’t her mother be as negligent about analyzing the ins and outs of Ryan’s life as she is about cleaning the house or cooking dinner?

  “Just because your generation wasn’t into big weddings didn’t mean they had a better success rate,” Ryan says. “Do you always have to critique everyone’s happiness? Do you always have to make it a generational or societal issue? Can’t you just let things be sometimes? Take care of your own problems? Can’t you be happy for us? I’ve saved you the bourgeois task of going gown shopping with me. I thought you’d be relieved.”

  “Ryan—” Jason attempts to divert her.

  “As my mother used to say, Si vedono loro,” Joe states.

  “I don’t even know what that means, Dad.”

  “They only see themselves, you people are only concerned with yourselves.”

  “That’s what she used to say about you, Dad, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, wistfully. “That’s what she used to say about me.”

  Lauren says: “If you’re happy, I’m happy for you. But a free wedding is no reason to rush into marriage. I just want you to be sure.”

  “How sure can anyone ever be, Mom?”

  “She’s right,” Joe tells Lauren.

  “She’s channeling Faye. And, Ryan, you’re not going to sign up for one of those registries, are you?”

  “Why? We haven’t given enough wedding gifts to our friends’ and family’s kids,” Joe says.

  “Let them decide what to give you. Don’t tell your guests what to get. Money for travel and a house is useful. A registry is so—”

  “So what? Conventional?” Ryan says.

  “Maybe they’d like more than the dripping homemade candles people gave us when we got married,” Joe says. “We would have been better off telling them what we needed, Lauren.”