Polly needed a mother, and he needed a wife. But they only wanted the one they had lost in one fevered night seven years ago.
Lost with such incomprehensible speed and with such absurd finality, lost so wrongly, that they both waited to learn there'd been some mistake, waited for Pauline Hedgerow to come back into the room where she belonged, to open the door and call as she always had, "Anybody home?" They waited, and postponed things.
I am a melancholic, thought Hedgerow; how could I not be?
Still, the sun came easily through the kitchen window. And untended, the hawthorn outside the window blossomed, and there unending was the song of blackbirds and sparrows. Lift up your hearts.
We lift them up unto the Lord, sang the birds.
Limus Barnum had a motorcycle. Gravel spat like bullets in the sun when he spun it out of his driveway to scare Polly Hedgerow. She swung her bike away from his approach. His machine skidded sideways, and, embarrassed, Lime skipped off to run beside it, as if he had planned all along to walk it down the lane.
"Hey, watch out!" Polly yelled, to be sure he knew she knew he had fallen.
He knew. "Where's your pretty friend?" he asked.
"I couldn't presume to say," she replied. "Did you get hurt falling off?"
"You're the one that's gonna get hurt, riding that bike in the middle of the street like that." Barnum tightened his helmet, popped his clutch, and jumped away like a racetrack rabbit.
Sleepers wake. "That asshole Barnum," said one of them, roused to consciousness by the roaring motorcycle. A.A. Hayes, Lime's next-door neighbor, hid his head under the pillow. His wife left their bed.
Sleepers wake. Coleman Sniffell, who worked for A.A. Hayes, said to his wife, Ida, who worked for Dr. Scaper, "Ida, don't tell me I have to like my life. I don't like my life. I have to live it, but I don't have to like it. And I don't like my job either, but I'd still like to get there before noon." At the breakfast table, Ida was reading aloud from Like Your Life!, now in its sixteenth week on the bestseller list—a good reason, thought Sniffell, for the author to be pretty fond at least of his own.
"All I'm saying is, make a list," prescribed Ida, "of seven little things you could do that would give you pleasure, then do one of them today, and one more every day after that. Learn the habit of happiness."
The first little thing that came into Sniffell's mind was the thought of spooning arsenic into his wife's cereal; the habit of happiness was obviously too dangerous for him to cultivate. So he just said, "Pass the sugar." He scooped it out despite the news that it was a serious health hazard and that the cereal was 90 percent sugar already. "Who cares?" he told Ida.
Sleepers wake. Sidney Blossom woke when a phone sang into his cottage, the reconverted Dingley Falls train depot. "Sid? This is Kate.
I bet I woke you up. Can you have lunch with me? I'll be at the Club playing tennis." Melody poured out of the librarian's shower. "No ear hath ever caught such rejoicing."
Kate Ransom's parents woke and stepped out on opposite sides of their expansive bed. Each went into his or her bathroom.
Tracy Canopy woke when her book fell off the bed. Evelyn Troyes woke to catch Today on television. So bright, so light, so right as a song was the sun that Dr. Otto Scaper woke when his radio told him to. Walter Saar woke and put on a record; the headmaster, who knew he should prefer the late sonatas, put on Beethoven's Ninth instead. Freude, schöner Gotterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium sang out the deaf old dead man in a hundred voices, and with him Walter Saar sang. He revenged himself on his students' midnight stereophonic gibberish in this way. Late to dining hall, Ray Ransom galloped past the master's house. "I bet Saar's on drugs," the senior decided. "Blasting that junk out at eight in the morning."
Prudence Lattice woke and waited for Scheherazade to insist on breakfast. Orchid O'Neal woke and was driven by her sister, Sarah MacDermott, over to Elizabeth Circle to wait on people. Judith Haig woke at the very same minute she had always been awakened by the nuns. Winslow Abernathy, who always woke early, slept late. Lance Abernathy, who always slept late, woke early. He sat up and yawned, he stood up and stretched, he did a dozen sit-ups, push-ups, and chin-ups. He slipped into French jockey shorts of a bold design. He slipped into a blue leisure suit, and at his leisure drove to the Dingley Club for breakfast. Old Mr. Bredforet was already there at the billiard table, waiting with a Bloody Mary for anyone else to arrive.
The sun to Lance was a golden girl. The sun to his brother, Arthur, was a pocket watch that warned him not to be late for his meeting with Ernest Ransom. On his way to the bank, the sun to Ernest Ransom was a giant coin. The sun to Father Highwick, on his way to church, was a glad Communion wafer. And to Tac Hayes, soaring toward the hoop, the sun was a yellow basketball, while to Luke Packer, bicycling to work, the sun was a globe mapping paths to shiny foreign places.
To Sammy Smalter, the sun that morning, for no very good reason, seemed to change from glory into glory, as he leaned against the porch rail of his aunt's white, white house, lost in wonder, love, and praise.
And the birds kept on.
Gloria.
chapter 24
Father Jonathan Fields was awake, but still lay in the single bed which pressed its white coverlet against the white wall of his little bedroom. Across the dark oak floor was his desk, and on the desk, vows in a gold frame: "Thou did'st give Thyself to me. Now I give myself to Thee." St. Andrew's stone cottage had only three rooms—study, bedroom, and kitchen. Each was furnished with simple but good pieces (gifts of Father Highwick's, to whom they had been given by parishioners). The curate had himself bought only a few things (a secondhand upright piano, a copy of an engraving by Burne-Jones), and he thought he owned too many, and he wished to own many more. And he feared that if Christ had come carrying His Cross past him down the street, he would have fled up a side alley hugging his puny desires under his coat. Jonathan hated himself because he did not labor in a leper colony, did not carry stones to build a Harlem schoolhouse, lay not on iron but on ironed sheets, lay there with an erection he could not will away. Though not purposely evoked by thought or deed, though raised in a dream, still, might not the dream itself be unforgivable?
Indulgence in remorse was rarely an early morning opportunity for the curate, to whom had fallen nearly all the impersonal church duties. The rector's delight was to officiate over Sunday Solemn Mass; he loved a crowd. Today, however, Highwick had offered to take Morning Song service, despite its unpopularity, since he was leaving that afternoon for two days in Manhattan, and therefore leaving Jonathan to draft the financial report, pay the sick calls, listen to confession and conversions, and celebrate Communion, alone.
On the other side of the garden from the curate's cottage, now before the altar, Highwick was intoning to Prudence Lattice and three other early risers: The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.
Sliding away the sheet, Jonathan looked down on his risen demon. He let his mind haul up the cannon of its constant war: had his calling been active desire, or had he, as he had once painfully confessed in an anonymous church, run to God so that he could not hear the call of active desire? Was he gay? (He certainly wasn't happy.) If he could not marry, was it then better to burn in holy fire?
That anonymous confessor (had he been gay?) had claimed that Christ, indifferent to the particulars of whom we love, just commanded us to love. Let us love one another as ourselves. The hardest part of that, thought Father Fields, would be to love himself.
Let us humbly confess our sins unto Almighty God, said the Reverend Mr. Highwick with a broad smile.
Jonathan clenched his pillow. How could he have been so ashamed of his mother's shabby dresses, so ashamed of the sores on her legs, that he had refused to walk beside her anywhere his friends might see them? He had been ten.
We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts, the rector told the four people in the pews, who would agree that they had followed their desires, but add that they had
never caught up with them. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.
Jonathan pinched his arms. How could he have been so careful in high school to shun the unlucky ones, the unhandsome, the ungifted and uneasy, all those whom no one else had liked? He had been sixteen.
He pardoneth and absolveth all those who truly repent, said the rector, nodding reassuringly.
Jonathan winced and prayed, I will be kind. I will not envy my classmates who got assigned to rich, alluring cities. I will not be impatient with Father Highwick. I will go back to Miss Dingley's and try again to help her. I will be careful, I will care. I will not waste my time. I will not waste Your time, Lord, in trying to make Walter Saar like me.
Let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation. The celebrant laughed across the garden.
Does Walter like me? Why should he? But he seems to want to be around me. Don't, don't, stop it. Forgive yourself. Is he gay? How can I be sure? How do people know? Is there a signal? Should I say something? Talk about Rimbaud, or Benjamin Britten? Suppose I said I loved him and he just said I'm sorry?
As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be…
Jonathan's hand circled the outward and visible sign of his inward spiritual disgrace. The warmth was wonderful.
0 ye Fire and Heat, bless ye the Lord: praise Him, and magnify Him forever.
Jonathan looked on at his hand caressing him. A deeper rose was rising and the sweetness of the feeling caught his breath.
Father Highwick hurried happily on. The Peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds… Faster and faster . Highwick longed for a cup of tea. And the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always. Amen. Depart in peace, Alleluia.
Too late now, Jonathan was sighing, as across the garden the rector blessed his parishioners, shared with each a little private joke, and then returned them to the world. Too late now to stop, Jonathan went on. With thumb and fingers he rang the ring of up, down, up, down, root to rim, rim and root again. How could he, he who wore the black wedding band of Christ around his neck? How could he not now? Best not to think and so postpone the end. Get it over with and then get on with it. "Hey, hey, beat the meat!" Down the college hail the call had gone. Guys would yell it out, laughing, poking, easy joking. Jonathan would shut his door, disgusted, thrilled. Flong the dong, pull and push, pull and push the dang dong dick stick. Funny how the mind will never shut up. But here it comes, up and over. A jismy fountain of old faithless at last. O come all ye! O hell!
Someone was opening his cottage door. Someone was singing away with great good cheer: "Guilty now, I pour my moaning, All my shame with anguish owning." The goddamn rector. He never knocked.
"Jonathan! Lovely day! I hope I'm not disturbing. Still in bed?
Ill? Quite flushed! You may have a fever, let me feel, well, all right, but you can't be too careful, you know. Health is all that stands between us and the grave. Some tea will fix you up. No, no, no, no trouble at all. Have you any though? Good, I'm all out. If it's bowels bothering you, tea will help. Did I ever tell you about my Alexandria dysentery? The trip to the Holy Lands? Yes. Runs you wouldn't believe. Oh, ho-ho-ho-ho! Quite literally, too, oh, ho-ho. I raced from water closet to water closet like the woman at the well. Maybe it was Baghdad, though. Was it? I couldn't keep anything down, not even bread or soup or—"
"Just let me get dressed," his curate replied.
chapter 25
Sammy Smalter was not an outdoorsman; he hadn't the stature for climbing or the stamina for hikes. But today, as soon as he walked into his pharmacy, its shades unraised, the dark, closed space felt stifling. So, in a rare disordering of habits, he relocked the store and stepped back into the sunshine. He even took his car top down to spin off for a quick ride around Lake Pissinowno. Just as he reached the Falls Bridge on Goff Street, he saw a half-circle of large, scrawny dogs baying a woman up against the wood rail of the bridge. The woman was Mrs. Haig. Braking quickly, Smalter called to her, then yelled at the dogs. Unable to make himself heard over the pounding rush of the nearby waterfall, he slammed his hand down on his horn.
The pack turned toward the blare, finally broke, and fell back to the vacant lot near the Optical Instruments factory. Mr. Smalter crawled out of his roadster and chased after the dogs, crying, "Scram!" Most of them were big—a gray, brown, and black mottled progeny of half-breeds; mongrels in whom only a few signs of past heritage were scattered: a shepherd's coat, a weimaraner's milky eye.
The pharmacist reached for a rock, but following some undecipherable message from somewhere, the pack, tails twitching, loped away. Mrs. Haig's face was gray. "A mean-looking bunch," he said.
"Underfed. Aren't they almost wild?"
Judith let out a slow breath. "Some of their owners left them behind. They scavenge at the trailer park."
"Ah, they've really frightened you."
Judith made herself take ordinary breaths.
"Something like that would scare me to death." The midget smiled. "'Nature red in tooth and claw.' Let me drive you to the post office; were you headed there? No. I insist. I'll turn around."
"Then my playing hooky is transformed into a good deed. Come on now, if you think you can squeeze into this little sewing machine case of mine." Mr. Smalter opened the door for Mrs. Haig. She folded herself into the little seat of his MG. She was a tall woman, and her legs made a long curve to the floorboard; she clasped her hands over her dress at her knees. The car, even open, smelled of leather and of the pipes that stuck out of its ashtray. There was an intense intimacy in the smells, and in the act of entering this car, this private space long familiar to a stranger. The feeling startled Judith. Had the top closed over them, the invasion would have been worse, indeed, impossible for her.
"I hope you're not too uncomfortable," said Mr. Smalter. "Have you a scarf? Ah, well, we'll go slowly then."
At the intersection of Goff Street and Cromwell Hill Road, the yellow roadster stopped to let a black Lincoln pass by. In that car Father Highwick exclaimed to his driver, "My goodness! Isn't that something, Jonathan? Poor little Sammy Smalter out driving about town with the postmistress! And with his top down like a teenager.
Peculiar. Shouldn't they be at work? Now, let's not stay too long with poor old Oglethorpe. When people are feeling that ill, it's really unkind to put them to the trouble of conversation. And don't mention religion to him. Just a quick word of cheer, then let him get his rest. Chills in June! Well, such is Life." They motored on to call upon the oldest teacher at Alexander Hamilton Academy. Jonathan was wondering if Walter Saar would sense his presence on the premises and appear around some corner at some moment during their stay. He might, if only Jonathan could maneuver the rector into staying more than two minutes. Or if only the rector had ever learned how to drive so that he could leave his curate behind to sit by those sick beds so antithetic to Highwick's untroubled disposition.
Jonathan felt that he could deal with illness, with tragedy, even with death. It was the life in between that was giving him trouble.
The Tea Shoppe kept irregular hours. This morning it was closed when Sammy Smalter helped Judith Haig out of his car. She had decided to go in to speak with Chin Henry and was relieved not to have to. Luke Packer, sitting on the curb with a book, stood up to wave at the embarrassed pharmacist, who had, in fact, completely forgotten about his new employee. Together they watched Mrs. Haig walk up the street to her post office. "She seems like a nice lady," said Luke.
"Yes," said Smalter. "I've always thought so. Well, to work, Luke, such as it is. My apologies for keeping you waiting. Too bad Prudence isn't around; we could go get a cup of coffee."
"Shouldn't we open the pharmacy?"
"Might as well, I suppose."
Luke thought that while Mr. Smalter might be interesting to talk to, he was certainly not much of a businessman, and that the key to his store was not going to
unlock the gate to golden opportunity.
Luke was in a hurry.
Behind the post office counter, Judith Haig helped Alf Marco pack into his cracked, worn leather bag her careful arrangement of Dingley Falls's communications. The two worked, as usual, without conversation. Alf, the second of Mama Marco's sons, was a slow, thick-set man in his late fifties. He was a reticent, resigned man caught between his grocer brother Carl's energetic drive and his gardener brother Sebastian's moody artistry. Alf had grown up in the middle of his family, and worked now in the middle of Dingley Falls largely unnoticed by anyone. As a result, he had no sense of how it would feel to be singled out for special attention. He felt no lack of, or need for, unique gifts or unique recognition. He carried the mail for Dingley Falls. That was all. Soon, when Mrs. Haig retired, he would be postmaster of Dingley Falls. He would have refused had he not thought his doing so would have caused trouble.
"Nice day," he suddenly said.
"Very nice," said Mrs. Haig. "How are you today, feeling better?"
"'Bout the same, I guess. Well, not so good, tell you the truth."
"Why don't I call Argyle and get somebody to take the mail around for you? Just for today."
"Naw. There's not much, don't worry about it." Marco shouldered the bag and rubbed his neck. "So long."
"If you…Alf? Alf. If you start feeling tired, come back, will you?"
He nodded without looking around.
Judith now made three telephone calls, thereby breaking in one day an eleven-year weekly record. They were hard for her to make, and she wasn't sure why she felt she had to make the effort. First she was told by an operator that there was no phone in Maynard Henry's trailer. Next she was told by Prudence Lattice that Chin Henry was there with her at home, where Prudence was staying because she had had a bad night. But Chin had asked for extra work, and so the shopkeeper had asked her to come help with the baking. "The child looked so exhausted, Mrs. Haig, that I just now insisted she lie down awhile.
Michael Malone Page 18