by Suzzy Roche
GIBSON HOUSE PRESS
Flossmoor, Illinois
GibsonHousePress.com
© 2020 Suzzy Roche
All rights reserved. Published 2020.
ISBNs: 978-1-948721-12-7 (paper); 978-1-948721-23-3 (ebook)
LCCN: 2019953837
Cover and book design by Karen Sheets de Gracia.
Text is composed in the Odile and Antraste typefaces.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992
(Permanence of Paper)
“My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world, and exiles me from it.”
URSULA K. LE GUIN
Hanzloo, Pennsylvania, 1961
You are now entering Hanzloo
Where dreams come true
ONE
ON A MUGGY Sunday morning in late August, parishioners knelt in the pews of Immaculate Conception, fidgeting and fanning themselves with church leaflets, while Father Bruno lifted the host toward heaven and droned on in quiet prayer, “Domine, non sum dignus”: Lord, I am not worthy.
Jim O’Brien, who for the past few months had skipped church, was taking his seven-year-old daughter, Alice, out for a drive. They didn’t get far.
He turned his green Impala onto the Post Road, pulled into the empty A&P parking lot, and shut off the engine. It was only ten thirty, and already the sun blazed in the sky. Despite the heat, Jim rolled up the car window when he spotted the stranger Luke Spoon over by the entrance to the grocery store. He’d heard about Luke Spoon. He’d moved here from New York City; some of the guys at Flapdogs had mentioned him the other day, and not in a good way.
Spoon was with his young son, and Jim watched them with interest.
“That boy is Felix Spoon,” said Alice. “He’s the one who peed on the floor during morning prayers last year.”
“Peed on the floor? Why?” Jim squinted for a better look. “I wonder what they’re doing over there. Don’t they know that stores are closed on Sunday?”
The father and son were peering into the A&P, cupping their hands around their eyes and pressing their faces against the window.
“Weird,” said Jim. “Best to steer clear of those two.”
Alice said nothing.
Soon Spoon and his kid wandered away from the store, hand in hand. They crossed the parking lot and disappeared down the road.
When they were out of sight, Jim got down to the business of this drive. A slender, fair-haired, soft-spoken man with a recently ballooning paunch the size of a basketball, Jim was the kind of father who preferred silence to conversation, but he knew something had to give. He had to give. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel.
“Alice, we have to have a talk about Mom.” Letting out a long, slow sigh, he chose his words carefully. “Your mother has developed … a problem.”
“Uh-huh,” said Alice, her eyes widening. “I know.”
“She has a sort of disease, a disease of the soul.”
Jim looked over at his daughter, who sat poker-faced beside him in the front seat. Her orange pigtails were lopsided, one much bigger than the other, a leg of her shorts was stained with chocolate, and her shins were dotted with red mosquito bites.
“Your mother is sick,” he said, as if she hadn’t heard him.
Alice didn’t move a muscle. “Is that why we don’t go to church anymore?”
Leaning his forearms on the wheel, Jim put his head down and wondered why everything had to be so hard. In no time, his shoulders heaved up and down, and he uttered a series of stifled cries that sounded more like sneezes. When he glanced sideways at his daughter, he saw that she was staring at the dashboard where the small plastic statue of Saint Francis, attached by a suction cup, sat atop a coiled spring.
“Don’t cry, Dad,” she said.
“I’m sorry I’m crying. But it’s a relief.” As he pulled himself together, Alice picked at a small scab on her knee.
“Alice, honey, it’s not your fault and I don’t want you to worry about it. This happens sometimes.”
“I guess I figured,” she said. “You sleep in the cellar; she sleeps on the couch. Is the disease catching?”
Jim put his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. “It’s, well, I’m having a hard time sleeping, worrying about her. She’s sick, very sick.”
Alice raised her eyebrows, and a ripple of fear crossed her eyes. “Really? Is she … could she die?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Like I said, it’s a disease of the soul. You know what a soul is, right?
“It’s invisible,” said Alice.
“That’s the idea,” he said.
“How can something invisible get sick?” asked Alice.
Jim had planned this conversation all week, and he’d come up with the phrase disease of the soul himself, but he hadn’t thought through the basic premise of a sick soul. He was struck by her logic and forced a smile. “Good point, but yes, a soul can get sick, it really can. It’s complicated, and human beings don’t fully understand it, but the upshot is your mother might be … not herself for a while. If I were you, I’d act as if nothing is wrong, and really, don’t feel like you have to tell people about it. It’s our business. A family matter, okay?”
He pointed his thumb up and winked, but he wasn’t a winker, so what he was doing? Alice didn’t seem to be buying it. The lengths he would go to for pretense baffled him. He wished he could weep; even those muffled sobs had felt good. Why should he be the only one in the world who never cried?
“Remember, it doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, and hopefully she’ll get better soon.”
“She’s Mom, and I love her,” said Alice in a feeble stab at loyalty, but then she added, “I never thought there could be something really wrong with her.”
“Well, there’s nothing really wrong with her,” said Jim.
“But you just said there was,” said Alice, who was now blotting the blood from her scab with her elbow.
“Yeah, but … I don’t know, Alice. It’s like Mom’s made of eggshells. Not tough like you and me.”
“I don’t think we’re tough,” said Alice.
Jim wanted to reach over and take her hand, but he didn’t do it. The poor kid.
“Look, I’m your father and I’m tougher than you think. I’m going to take care of us,” he said. But truthfully, Jim O’Brien didn’t know what to do. His wife was a medicated mess.
“Dad,” said Alice, “Everybody knows that Mom is sick. The kids on the block are calling her crazy. And who’s going to take me to school next week? I always walk to school with Mom, but now it’s like I’m afraid of her, plus she hardly ever gets off the couch. She used to be great.”
“I know,” said Jim, and in that moment his heart was gripped with longing for the wife he’d thought he had. When they’d gotten married, he felt like the luckiest man in the world. And years before that, when he first laid eyes on her at the high school talent show—her reddish curls around her shoulders and her soft, smart voice reciting a poem that he couldn’t begin to comprehend—Jim knew then that she was it, the one he’d love forever. They’d moved to Hanzloo about six years ago, but a few years in, he started to notice changes in her, as if she were allergic to the town itself. He’d watched her turn into her own ghost.
Alice’s bottom lip began to quiver now. The kid could break into tears at the drop of a hat, and Jim didn’t want that.
“Hey. Second grade is a pretty big deal,” he said. “I bet you could walk with Clarisse McCarthy and her twins if Mom isn’t quite ready by then. They’re starting kindergarten this year, right?”
“No!” said Alice. “Not th
e twins!”
“Come on. You’re bigger than they are; don’t let them push you around. I told you before, Alice, you have to put some wind in your sails.”
“Puh,” said Alice, blowing through her lips.
Jim folded. He was done with this conversation. As a last resort he said, “Alice, do me a favor, I know you do the rosary sometimes, just add in a little something directly about Mom. You know, a little prayer.”
“What?” said Alice, looking at him as if he had just suggested she cut herself up with scissors. “Why should God listen to us? Mom said she doesn’t believe in God.” The car was airless, warm as an oven. Alice wiped the sweat off her upper lip with her finger.
“Let’s keep what Mom says between you and me. You see, that’s what I’m talking about, her soul is sick. Of course Mom believes in God. She’s practically an angel herself. Just try to say an extra prayer that’s personal from you. God cares.”
“How come you can’t do it? God doesn’t even know my name. There’s too many people in the world.”
“I think he probably does know your name.”
“No. He probably remembers who you are, but since then too many people have been born.”
“Alice, it’s stupid to argue about God. I’m just saying, pray or don’t, okay, or maybe just try. It might be good for you to talk to somebody about Mom anyway, and the best part is God is private. You know what I mean?” Jim wondered what the hell he was talking about. He’d actually rolled around to the same conclusion his wife had; there probably was no God. But you can’t tell that to your kid.
Jim reached over and grabbed Alice’s knee. “We’ll get through this, right?
Alice turned to him, and the look in her eyes spooked him. Seven years old and the map of sadness was already routed in her eyes.
TWO
SUMMERS IN HANZLOO, Pennsylvania, could be long and boring, especially in the searing heat. This summer, eight days had crept past ninety degrees. Late on many afternoons, after the laundry was pinned to the line, rugs vacuumed, and the dishes steamed dry in the Westinghouse, a certain group of mothers looked forward to circling their lawn chairs in Clarisse McCarthy’s driveway for a pitcher of whiskey sours, an hour or so before the men came home. They shooed their kids away across the lawn, kept an ear out for telephones that rarely rang, and shared puffs from one another’s menthol cigarettes, flicking the ashes over the metal arms of their lightweight chairs.
Today was that last lazy afternoon before school began, and the women wiped their faces with ice-soaked napkins. They talked in wonder about Lil O’Brien, who had apparently been acting strange, like nervous breakdown strange.
“What a shame,” said Vicki Walsh. “If Hanzloo had a town flower, it would have been Lil.” Some of the women nodded in agreement, as if this were her funeral.
“It reminds me of that soap, The Guiding Light,” said Stephanie Conte.
Few had seen Lil since the beginning of June, when she’d collected her daughter, Alice, on the last day of school. She didn’t look good then, thin and pale as paper, and the rumor was that things had slid from there.
Clarisse McCarthy claimed to have the scoop.
“Can’t you tell us more?” said Ginny Rice, who had tanned herself into leather. “I mean, something must have happened in the marriage. You don’t just fall apart. What exactly is wrong with her?”
“I’m not going to gossip, and please don’t ask me to,” said Clarisse. “Suffice to say, yesterday when I came home from church, I saw her wander out to the curb to get her mail in a nightie. Like there’s mail on Sunday, right? She looked, I don’t know, like a ghost. I walked right by with the twins, and I don’t think she saw me. No sign of Alice anywhere.” Clarisse paused here to blow smoke toward the sky. “Jim’s withered by it, he told me so. You should hear him. Can you imagine being married to Lil right now? She’s always been a sad little thing.”
“Well, she’s sweet,” said Steph.
Ginny Rice didn’t seem convinced. “But what did Jim say? Maybe she’s … I don’t know, I always thought she was artistic, that strawberry blonde hair, those gorgeous green eyes. She’s special. Are you sure you’re not exaggerating, Clarisse?” Ginny brushed a crumbled pretzel off her lap. “Anyways, I like Lil.”
“Yes, Ginny. Everybody likes her,” said Clarisse. “But if you had seen her yesterday, all greasy-haired, I think you’d understand what I mean.” Clarisse looked to the others for support, and at the same time decided that she didn’t want Ginny at any more of these gatherings.
Secretly, Clarisse McCarthy resented that Lil O’Brien hadn’t fallen under her spell like the other women had. It was true, Lil O’Brien stood apart. “Look, let’s stop talking about Lil,” she added.
Clarisse, a vivid blond, had curves strikingly reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe’s. As if to offset the impression that she resembled the film star in any other way, Clarisse leaned toward the demure—shirtwaists and knee-length pencil skirts—though not every pencil skirt was meant for such a full and luscious figure. A highly regarded member of the parish, Clarisse even had Father Bruno, the pastor of Immaculate Conception, wrapped around her finger. She ran every bake sale, clothes drive, and potluck dinner. Still, no amount of good works could keep people from staring at the slow sway of her behind when she walked. It was the one thing in all of Hanzloo that Clarisse McCarthy could not keep an eye on. As one sorry husband had once made the mistake of saying out loud, “It’s like a giant juicy peach.”
By the second round of drinks, the conversation turned to Luke Spoon and his son, Felix, which was not unusual. Luke Spoon had been a favorite topic all summer. Why would a single man with a kid move from New York City to Hanzloo?
“He walks around town like he owns the place,” Ginny remarked.
“He’s never at church,” said Clarisse.
“I just get the feeling he thinks he’s better than everybody,” said Stephanie.
“Where’s the wife? That’s what I’d like to know,” said Clarisse.
“Oh please, are we playing ‘where’s the wife’ again?” said Vicki.
“What if there is no wife?” said Ginny. “Wilbur thinks he’s gay.”
“Gay?” said Steph. “What?”
Clarisse leaned in. “Homosexual.”
“Oh shush,” said Steph. “Don’t say that.”
Privately, some of the women thought Luke Spoon was attractive, almost handsome, in an offbeat way. Even Clarisse McCarthy had those moments. His dark hair was a wavy mess, and his face often hid behind a five-o’clock shadow and dark-rimmed glasses. The husbands didn’t trust him, but for the wives he provided endless fascination.
“As long as he keeps that creepy kid of his on a tight leash,” said Clarisse. “Let’s not forget how he peed during prayers.”
“Oh yes, wasn’t that interesting,” said Stephanie, wiping the sweat off the back of her neck.
“I did not find it interesting,” said Clarisse. “Peeing on the floor? Disgusting if you ask me.”
Across the lawn, a chubby boy had plopped his bottom onto the sprinkler to block the spray of water. The other kids were screaming at him, and Dawn, one of Clarisse’s twins, started beating him on the head with her fists.
Clarisse, hearing the commotion, turned toward the group of children and shouted, “Thomas Walsh, get off my sprinkler! And don’t make me come over there.”
Thomas, who had forgotten his bathing suit and was now in sopping wet underpants, quickly got off the sprinkler, because people did what Clarisse McCarthy told them to do.
“Anyway,” Clarisse continued, “That Spoon kid is a menace. Felix the brat, I call him.”
Felix Spoon was indeed a scrawny, sullen child, with dark, glistening eyes, like smooth black olives, and long eyelashes that any woman would envy. His mouth curled down in a way that could easily be taken for a scowl.
“I’ll tell you what, that peeing incident really rattled Sister Lorretta,” said Ginny. “You won’t fin
d a sweeter nun in the entire state of Pennsylvania, but she was mad.” The women suddenly exploded with laughter. Ginny Rice laughed so hard that her drink sprayed through her nose.
“You have to admit, it is kind of amusing,” said Stephanie, trying to recover. “Peeing at prayers?” The thought of it set them off again.
“Never a dull moment here in Hanzloo,” said Ginny, after they settled down.
The women looked across the lawn at their children and sipped their whiskey sours in silence for a moment. It had been a hot, tedious summer, and by now they had tired of the endless bother of their own children and the constant distribution of Popsicles and bologna sandwiches. Once school began, they’d have a few hours of peace each day.
When five o’clock rolled around, one by one, they glanced at their wristwatches. Husbands had to be picked up, dinners cooked, and kids dealt with. “Well, I’ll miss these driveway gatherings. Summer’s over, I guess,” said Vicki Walsh. The women gathered their children, hungry, and wet in their swimsuits, and went home.
“Let me help you clean this mess,” said Stephanie, who lived across the street.
“Thanks, Steph, you’re a good egg.”
What Steph wanted to say but didn’t was, I’m not an egg, Clarisse. Nobody envied Steph, in her old slacks, and her brown hair plastered down by two clips. Nor did they listen too closely to what she said, but Clarisse relied on her loyalty and compliments.
Last spring Steph had really come through for her when a couple of the girls went to lunch in the village of Farrow’s Corner, ten miles away, to complain about Clarisse being too bossy, this regarding the Let’s Adopt Africa tag sale. According to the women, Clarisse had sashayed around the school cafeteria with a black charcoal pencil, crossing out and reducing the prices on other people’s items. At the lunch, Steph listened to the complaints while picking onions from her salad with a fork, but once back in Hanzloo she’d relayed the entire conversation to Clarisse.
That evening, when Clarisse’s husband, Frank, found her sitting in the dark kitchen with a spoon in a quart of butter pecan ice cream, she said, “Everybody hates me, and I hate them.” Frank had buried his nose in her hair, and said it all boiled down to petty jealousy, and she shouldn’t let it get her down. Clarisse smoothed her mouth over a lump of ice cream and sucked, leaving an exposed pecan on her spoon. “I can’t win,” she said. “I just can’t win.”