by Suzzy Roche
He leaned against the trunk of the giant elm tree across the street from Immaculate Conception. Luke didn’t always meet his son at school, but when he did go, he parked himself at a distance, and kept his arms crossed. Today he wore sunglasses, as if that made him less visible. Now, because of the letter, everyone in Hanzloo was a suspect, and Luke found himself scrutinizing the crowd.
At three o’clock, Sister Annunciata unlocked the gates and stood with her hands folded into the long sleeves of her habit, overseeing as children charged out of the playground.
One girl, whose arm was in a sling, burst into long sobs at the sight of her mother, while a group of boys grabbed a smaller boy’s sweatshirt and tossed it around. A few kids wrestled, and some jumped around the sidewalk as if communing with some inner demon. Others took hold of their mother’s arms and pulled for attention while a few whined and begged for something intangible, like a break from their own existence. Felix was no different from these children, thought Luke. They all seemed insane, and no different from the kids in New York City, whom he’d often watched at Washington Square Park, while Felix fingered through the sand, searching in vain for magic pennies.
The mothers were harder for him to observe directly, and he resisted the urge to look at them too closely. They doled out plastic bags of snacks, their slender arms expert at maneuvering strollers, grabbing tissues, or tending to toddlers.
The other day Luke had painted a quick study of tulips in a field. (So, now he painted tulips.) He’d made each one a different color, but they seemed all the same, and afterward he suspected that what he’d actually done was an abstract of the mothers. He supposed that was his way of keeping them at bay. He never liked tulips. As he eyed his finished sketch, he laughed out loud, wondering why he would ever think that a woman was like a flower.
He looked for Clarisse McCarthy in the crowd. Her body was an open invitation. He’d found her at once irresistible and repulsive in the crudest way; there was something about the cultivated curls in her hair, the small crucifix around her neck, the cloth-covered buttons on her cotton dress, and that marvelous ass. She’d be so easy to wreck. He wondered where he got the nerve to think like that. When he spotted her, he quickly looked away.
He had to watch his step. Those kinds of scenes with women he’d hoped were in his past. There had been so many of them: poor Maria Zoble, on a bench in front of the bakery on Fourth Street, in tears in the middle of a thunderstorm, asking him how he could have taken her virginity without loving her, and all he could do was watch the raindrops fall off her ponytail. Or that crazy Clair What-Was-Her-Name, who threw a beer in his face at the White Horse Tavern and wound up getting them both kicked out on the street, because the drink had gone right past him and landed all over another guy’s jacket. It made him sick to think of it. Part of the deal he’d struck with himself when moving to Hanzloo was that he’d live like a country priest. Besides, he was hoping that Joni would come back.
Felix came out of the playground with his schoolbag dragging on the sidewalk. It was heavy with books, and he wasn’t able to close it. His shirttails hung over his trousers, and his shoelaces were untied, as usual. Luke often thought that Felix looked like he’d been beaten up when he emerged from school. There’d been a runt of a kid at Holy Angels—Rusty Ixter—and Luke and his friends used to rough him up under the stairwell by the gym. Luke was pretty sure that kids were picking on Felix—and he felt that if he’d somehow managed to make amends to Rusty Ixter, his own son would have been spared a similar fate. You don’t get away with anything, really.
Luke waved and Felix crossed the street to meet him.
“Hi Luke,” said Felix. His hand rose to shade his eyes.
“Hi son.”
They shuffled along in silence for a while. Felix kept stopping to put his book bag down and lift it up again.
“Want me to carry that for you?” asked Luke.
“Yeah, it’s a little too heavy for me,” said Felix.
“Got tree trunks in there again?”
“Naw, just books.” It was hard to get the boy to lighten up, and they meandered home in silence, past the front yards where leaves had been raked into small piles, and the garbage cans had been dragged to the ends of driveways for pickup. Felix occasionally crouched down to look for four-leaf clovers in the cracks between the sidewalks. It didn’t take long to make their way home, and as they stepped onto the stairs of the porch Felix pulled at his father’s shirt and pointed up. “Look,” he said.
Luke saw that a skywriter had drawn a message in a blue patch of the sky. He got down on one knee and put his arm around Felix while they watched.
“What does it say?” asked Felix.
“I don’t know. I can’t make it out.” Luke squinted.
“As soon as they make the letters, they disappear,” said Felix.
They watched together as the rest of the word was written. “Why bother if it’s only going to disappear? I’d like to write a message in the sky, one that wouldn’t go away,” said Felix, waving to the message as if it were a friend of his.
“Yeah? What would you write?” said Luke.
Felix raised his hand and moved it across the expanse of the sky. “Rock … of … God,” said Felix.
“What the hell?” said Luke.
“Nothing,” said Felix, and Luke did not pursue it further.
“You know … speaking of messages … I got a message in the mail today,” said Luke, and he sat on the steps of the porch. “Do you know a girl named Alice O’Brien?”
Felix was still gazing up at the disappearing letters in the sky.
He blew a big sigh through his lips. “Yeah, I know her, she sits in front of me.” He climbed up to the next step. “Can we go inside? I’d like a glass of milk.”
Luke followed Felix inside the house. The boy sat in his little red rocker in the middle of the living room. Aside from the rocker and Luke’s big easy chair, there wasn’t much else in the room. Beside Felix’s rocker, a cold grilled cheese sandwich sat on a plate on the floor. A TV, up on a card table, sat against the far wall, its antennae reaching up toward the ceiling in a V. On a whim, Luke had painted the walls light green, and now they were covered in Felix’s drawings.
The sketches, like hieroglyphics in a cave, were drawn directly on the wall, and they puzzled Luke. By now, spread over two of the four walls was a mountain range, and stick figures walked up and down the hills in an endless procession. It had all started a few months back. One night, out of the blue, while Luke watched the evening news, Felix had carried his bag of colored pencils up from the basement and outlined the first mountain directly on the wall, as if it were just another piece of paper on his art pad.
Luke had been torn between delight and concern. Too curious to interrupt him, Luke watched as Felix put the first tiny stick figures on the mountain; each had a different face and hairdo, some carried swords, some held hands.
That the boy had no inkling he might be punished for doing such a thing made Luke envious. If Luke had drawn on a wall, his father would have knocked him upside the head. To be so free. How radical. How simple. What a great idea, but he didn’t want to spoil the kid with praise, so he didn’t say a word about it. Neither of them did. But since then, Felix had settled into a nightly ritual of drawing his masterpiece, usually when Luke read or watched the news. And it was always the same thing, mountains and meticulously detailed stick figures on an endless trek to no obvious destination.
Luke brought two glasses of chocolate milk out from the kitchen.
“Here you go, tiger,” he said. Felix took his glass, sipped the milk, and rocked back in forth in his chair. “So, who is this Alice O’Brien?” said Luke, pulling his easy chair around to face Felix.
“Just a girl. She lives on Mundy Lane. Remember that lady who slapped me? She lives over there. You know, there’s the twins’ house, then those old people, the Chinskys, and Alice lives right next to them. Her house is yellow.”
�
�Oh, yeah? So, she’s a friend of yours?”
“I don’t know.” Felix sat rocking on his chair for a moment and then looked squarely at his father, as if bracing him for the news. “Kids don’t seem to like me too much.”
Luke’s heart sank. “What do you mean? That can’t be true. Why do you say that?”
“Nobody likes her, either,” he said, as a matter of fact. Felix wiped chocolate milk away from his mouth with his sleeve.
“How come?” said Luke.
“She’s always crying. She’s practically a crying machine. Or it might be her hair. It’s really orange, like a pumpkin. People make fun of her. You know what, though. I’d like to invite her over, someday.”
“Really? Well,” said Luke. “She must be special, then.”
“I’d like to show her the paintings in the basement, and all my stuff, the marbles and the soap dolls, and even maybe some of the things inside the wood chest. It might cheer her up.” Felix finished the last gulp of his chocolate milk and handed the glass to his father. “Can we stop talking now?”
Luke let it drop. Ridiculous. Felix was not a child molester; the whole notion of it was absurd, and he felt somewhat relieved.
The next day, though, the poison letter lingered in his mind, and after dropping Felix at school, he walked up Mundy Lane and stood in front of the O’Briens’ yellow house. The place looked shuttered up. He had the letter folded in his shirt pocket, but once in front of the house, he thought twice. Uh, excuse me, but my son might have … might have … what? Should he handle it through the school? Speak to the old nun instead? That would be awkward too.
He rang the bell twice before Lil O’Brien opened the door a sliver. Her eyes squinted in the sunlight.
“What,” she said.
He thought he’d woken her from a nap. “Are you Mrs. O’Brien?”
She moved her hand over her mouth as if to wipe something away, and her fingers lingered on her lips. “Who are you? Do I know you?”
He wondered if she’d been drinking, or maybe she was ill. “It seems I’ve disturbed you. I can come back another time,” said Luke.
“Sure,” she said, wearily. “Go away if you want.” With that she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, letting out a sigh.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The woman was thin; the delicate bones of her clavicle were visible through her skin. Her reddish hair fell around her face, untended. She wore a white nightgown, and Luke followed it down to the outline of her breasts, but stopped himself there, returning to her eyes, which were a striking green. She grabbed the neckline of her gown to cover herself.
“Forgive me, I’m not dressed,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go,” said Luke.
“Are you from the doctor’s office?” she asked, opening the door further. “I don’t feel good.”
“No, I’m not a doctor. Look, do you need help?”
“Yes. Yes. I do. Can you come inside?”
Luke glanced back at the street, uneasy, but he entered the house. Identical to Clarisse McCarthy’s, it was also its opposite. Unlike Clarisse’s spic-and-span living room, Mrs. O’Brien’s had disintegrated into chaos. Pill bottles, magazines, books, and laundry. But even in the dim light he could see that this woman liked colors. The pattern on her rug was a collage of cubes, and her furniture, dark blues and reds.
“Did something happen here? You are Mrs. O’Brien, right?”
She stood before him, barefoot, swaying slightly, with her lips parted and her eyes lowered. Her nightgown, so threadbare, he could see the slender outline of her body. She looked to be about thirty, but something about her was ageless.
“Yes … something has definitely happened here,” she said. “Wait a second, who are you?”
“My name is Luke Spoon. My son is in your daughter’s class.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Not sure,” she repeated, as if distracted by another thought. But then she snapped at him. “Alice? What happened?”
“I don’t really know.” He pulled the letter out of his pocket and debated whether or not to show it to her.
Lil stared at the folded paper and tears welled in her eyes. “Are you being sent here by the doctor? Did something … did I do something?” she said.
“No, of course not. I told you, my son …”
“Right … that’s … but … you’re playing with me,” she said, and backed away.
“No. Your daughter is fine … I mean she’s not hurt. She’s at school, I’m sure.” Luke put the letter back into his pocket.
“Okay, then what?” She pulled her hands into fists and laid them aside either cheek, as if it were all too much for her.
“I’m not well.” She stumbled, about to fall over.
Luke rushed over in time to catch her, and she collapsed in his arms. She was light as a child. As he carried her, he felt his hand inadvertently brush against her breast.
“You’re touching me,” she said, as he laid her on the couch.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”
“Mrs. O’Wrong,” she said, pressing her face into a pillow. Luke stood over her, bewildered. This was not the visit he’d imagined.
“Listen, do you want me to call your husband?” he asked.
“No!” she wailed, turning toward him. “Can’t you stay, can’t you just sit next to me for a while. What’s it to you? A couple of lousy minutes.”
He didn’t want to stay but sat down on the edge of the couch anyway. She curled into a ball, rocking gently back and forth.
“Mrs. O’Brien,” he said, but no words came, so he sat with her, watching her breath rise and fall. Her gown was like a translucent second skin. It was the closest he’d been to a naked woman in some time, and he took her in. He felt something akin to arousal, but it wasn’t that. The curve of her hip, the pale skin on her legs and feet, helpless and exposed, stirred a kind of desire in him that he couldn’t pinpoint, as if he envied her proximity to complete despair; as if he’d only been dancing around its periphery, and, until this moment, he hadn’t even realized it.
“Tell me something,” she whispered, with her eyes closed. “Tell me something good.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, staring blankly at the basket of laundry in the middle of the room.
“Yes … anything. Please. And then you can go.”
He glanced at his watch, torn between wanting to get out of her house and feeling that he couldn’t leave her in this condition. He thought about calling an ambulance, but that seemed extreme, and being discovered in a house with somebody’s wife, who was obviously doped up on something, didn’t seem wise.
“Look, Mrs. O’Brien, I came here to talk about our kids.”
“Yes, the kids. Okay.”
“I can come back another time.” Luke stood to leave.
“No, please, let’s talk about the kids,” she said with her eyes closed. “You know what I wonder? When is it, that precise moment when you’re not a kid anymore? You are suddenly grown. You know how to act; you do things right. I forget. When is that moment?”
Luke looked down at her.
“Why are you in such a hurry? Can’t you sit for a minute and talk to me? Is it really that hard?” said Lil, wiping her mouth, again, as if there was something sticky on her lips that wouldn’t come off. “Something has happened to me.” Lil drew her knees up to her chest.
“I can see that,” said Luke. He felt bad for her. “I’ve actually wondered about that very same thing, you know, about kids turning into adults … it seems arbitrary.”
“Huh?” Lil rubbed her eyes as if she had a headache. “Everybody loves kids. Kids, kids, kids,” she said in a whisper.
“Okay, well …,” he said.
“Could I trouble you for some orange juice? Maybe there’s some in the kitchen. And then I promise, you can leave.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” he
said. A warm sweat broke on the back of his neck as he rushed across the room toward the kitchen.
In the kitchen, the smell of garbage was strong. He spotted an open can of tomato juice on the counter, and poured some in a glass, grabbing a packet of saltine crackers from the table.
When he returned to the living room, he was relieved that she had covered herself with the sheet and propped herself up somewhat. “Have this,” he said. She took the juice and drank in small hurried sips while rocking gently back and forth.
“You seem so irritated. What have I done? I didn’t mean it, whatever I did.” She nibbled on a cracker.
“I’m not irritated,” he said, though he was. Against his better judgment, he sat down on the couch again.
“We were talking about the kids,” she said. “Soon Alice and I will pack it up and go to New York.”
“I live in New York City,” he said, blankly.
“Really?” Lil’s eyes brightened. “Have you ever gone to Madison Square Park in the rain, and met a young man called Matthew?”
“New York is a big place. There are a lot of people there,” said Luke.
“He dies at the end. But first he sits on a bench in the rain.”
“Oh, I see,” said Luke. “He not a real person.”
Lil looked at him sadly. “I guess you’re right. He isn’t real. Are you real? Am I?”
“I don’t know what makes the world go ’round if that’s what you’re driving at, Mrs. O’Brien. I ought to get going.”
“Yeah,” she said, wiping her lips again. Then, with startling clarity, she added, “Why did you come to my house?”
Luke thought now might be the time to show her the letter. He reached into his pocket. “Like I said, it’s about the kids.”
A rapid pounding on the door and several sharp trills of the doorbell interrupted their conversation, and they sat up straight on the couch. Lil grabbed her sheet and pulled it up to her neck.
“Lil? Lil? Are you in there? Your door is open!” The front door swung wide, casting a triangle of light across the room. Clarisse barged into the room, trailed by Stephanie.
“Good grief, what’s happening here?” said Clarisse, gripping a tin pie plate of brownies on either side. “What in the world … ?”