The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  “There is more than one kind of Christmas tree?”

  “Yes, several. Firs, pine, spruces. And then, within those categories, there are other kinds. Douglas firs. Black spruce. Scotch pine, white pine. Norway spruce. I don’t know how many kinds this farm has, but I knew that we’d have a better shot at it there than in the city. Wallasey fared better in the storm.”

  I was intrigued with the kinds of things he knew.

  As we drove, he pointed out various sights—farms whose owners he and his father had had dealings with, features of the landscape—and offered bits of intriguing or amusing trivia about them. I had driven this way before, but without such an expert tour guide. The unwelcome image of him standing at a pulpit, sharing his knowledge with a congregation, entered my mind. I closed my eyes and thought instead of his nearness, his warmth.

  “I’ll tell you my favorite story about Wallasey.”

  My heartbeat coursed through my body. His audience of one. “What is that?”

  “In the early eighteen hundreds, some roguish people in the town used to shine lights out to sea, and ship captains would mistake them for lighthouses. But they were really heading straight towards dangerous rocks, and the ships would crash. Then the bandits of Wallasey would raid the ship and store the cargo in underground tunnels.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, it’s true. You can still visit some of the tunnels today.”

  “I would love to do that.”

  “Maybe we can sometime.”

  Unintentionally, the puppet master pulled the strings of the marionette. When he said things like that, it sounded like an invitation for something more. But I knew that it wasn’t. He was exactly what he presented himself to be, and I had to swallow away my hopes that anything more would come from our attraction.

  We pulled into the tree farm shortly after that. I stepped out into the cold and pulled some gloves from my handbag. Kyle watched me as I did so, waiting for something.

  When I started walking away from the truck, he stopped me. “Don’t you have a hat?”

  I put my hand on my head and patted the black felt hat. I could see where he was going with it, though. It was not exactly sparing me from the elements.

  “You call that a hat?” He laughed. “Here, try mine.”

  He took mine off, tugging where the pins fought to keep it in place. He tossed it onto my seat in the truck, oblivious to how much it cost. Then he took off his own cap and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to put it all back in place. With two hands, he placed it on my head, pulling it over my ears. I felt a shiver run through me when he was that close. He lingered more than seemed absolutely necessary, and I breathed in the moment as our eyes locked.

  “There.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. “It’s not the latest in London fashion, but at least I’ll return you home as healthy as I found you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t need one. I am a strapping young man, and you are a damsel in distress. My hat is yours, m’lady.”

  I punched him in the arm playfully, and we turned toward the entrance.

  The tree farm was expansive, and I could see why he thought it was worth the drive. There were hundreds and hundreds of Christmas trees of every variety. Kyle asked for my opinion as we sorted through boughs and measured the trees, but I knew who the expert was here and I tried to select my choice based on what I thought he would say. I chose differently only one time—I liked the evergreen better than the pine for the main fireplace, and he deferred to my suggestion.

  This prompted another story, one regarding the original inhabitants of the United States, who evidently used evergreen boughs as body cleansers. I told him that I would stick with my lemon verbena soap, thank you very much.

  We walked for about an hour through the rows of trees. Being next to Kyle made me feel absolutely weightless. I couldn’t even hear the sound of my own feet on the ground. Early in the day, the mere sight of him had sent my head spinning and my heart heaving, but now I began to feel calm. The more I discovered about him, the more time I spent at his side, I knew that I was inching into something that felt like real love. And it was made up of so much more than childish daydreams.

  After four trips to and from the truck, Kyle was satisfied with everything that we had selected. We paid the owner and hopped back into the cabin of the truck, smelling of winter and evergreen.

  “Well, now. I’m sure that you’ve worked up an appetite. I know that I have. Would you like to have supper here in Wallasey before we head back?”

  That sounded perfect. My stomach was growling at an embarrassingly audible level, and I wasn’t ready to go home and have this all come to an end yet.

  We drove along the water and found a little restaurant near the town hall. Several patrons were leaving, as we had arrived at the end of the supper hour, but a few lingered over their plates, the remnants of their meal sitting forgotten. The dimly lit candles and small tables made for close company, and music played from an unseen radio. In another circumstance, I would have said that it was romantic. But I reminded myself that we weren’t in another circumstance.

  Kyle lightly touched the small of my back, guiding me to a table by the window where we could see the water. He pulled out my chair and took my sweater from my shoulders. We were greeted by the elderly waiter, whose gaunt frame did not do much to endorse the food. But the menus suggested otherwise, and I found it difficult to decide between all of the offerings.

  “Something for the young couple to drink?” The young couple. I felt my cheeks redden by several shades, and I avoided Kyle’s eyes by focusing on taking off my gloves, drawing it out by loosening one finger at a time.

  As Kyle ordered a Coca-Cola for me and a Newcastle Brown Ale for himself, my attention was turned to the radio. An Artie Wilson song was on, and his words seemed to mirror my thoughts:

  Did I tell you that I adore you

  And you’re all I think about at night?

  Did I tell you that I’m my best around you

  And how you make everything just right?

  It was impossible to hold on to my resolution with lyrics like that and a setting like this.

  Kyle turned to me, hands folded on the table, and leaned in. “It smells so good in here. What are you in the mood for?”

  I looked over the options. Leek soup sounded inviting on this cold day, but so did the shepherd’s pie.

  Our waiter came back holding a small black tray. He set my Coca-Cola down in front of me and placed an empty glass in front of Kyle. He poured the ale into Kyle’s glass, stopping just as the foam grew to the rim, and left the bottle on the table to be finished later.

  I decided at last on the lamb with mint sauce, my perpetual favorite, and Kyle asked for the tatws popty. I smiled at the thought that his selection suited him perfectly. Simple and straightforward meat-and-potato stew.

  The foam in Kyle’s glass had started to deflate into a thin tan line above the darker ale. He poured more from the bottle at a slight angle that he said kept it from rising again.

  When the bottle was empty, he placed it on the table facing me.

  “Do you know why there’s a blue star on the label?”

  “I don’t.”

  “It stands for the five original brewing companies in Newcastle.”

  “You know a lot of little facts like that, don’t you?”

  He put his hand to his chest and feigned offense.

  “They’re not just ‘little facts.’ You never know when they might come in handy. You might fall into a ditch, and a passerby hears your cries. ‘Help me,’ you say. ‘I will,’ he responds, ‘but only if you can tell me how many stars there are on the Paramount Pictures logo.’”

  “How many stars are there on the Paramount Pictures logo?” I asked.

  “Twenty-four, one for each of the stars that they had under contract at the time the studio was founded.”

  “And what other morsels of knowledge a
re swimming around up there?” I twirled my finger around his head.

  “Did you know that the name of every continent ends with the same letter it begins with?”

  I furled my brows and tried to remember all of them. “Wait—you’re wrong,” I said. I sat a little bit straighter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “North and South America. They don’t begin and end with the same letters.”

  “Well, you have to take out the ‘North’ and the ‘South.’ It’s the ‘America’ part that counts.”

  “That’s cheating.”

  “Suit yourself. But it’s not a very interesting fact if you look at it so precisely.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

  He grinned at me and could have kept me captivated for hours with such trivial things.

  “Well, I don’t want to bore you now,” he said, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. “Tell me all about school.”

  I entertained him with stories about Abigail and Dorothy, the London sights we’d seen, the Jitterbug Club, and the horror of having to wear hairnets to class. I didn’t mention anything about Roger, who I realized was rapidly fading from my memory. I couldn’t even bring his image to mind, seeing only blurred features and outlines.

  One thing was startlingly clear, however. After spending this much time with him, I could not continue to deny what I felt for Kyle, even if a future was impossible for us. But it also made me know that I wasn’t willing to settle for anything less. My affection for Roger was no more than that. And he deserved to be with someone who felt that way for him. I didn’t know how I would do it yet, but I was going to have to tell him.

  But that was for a later day. Right now, I had such precious, limited time with Kyle.

  The meal arrived just as I finished my narrative about the last three months. Betty made a much better mint sauce, but the lamb was tender enough, and I was starving. Kyle was clearly enjoying his stew, and he stopped his fork midair when he saw me looking at him.

  “You have to try this,” he said. I expected him to set some aside on the bread plate for me. But instead he stuck his fork into his meal and reached his arm across the table to feed it to me. My eyes widened with surprise. I had never shared a dish with a man before, and there was something about it that felt so intimate. Almost scandalous. I opened my mouth, though, and sampled the perfect trio of meat, sauce, and herbs. My lips closed around the cold metal, and Kyle slid the fork out, setting it back on his plate. I felt him watching me.

  “Delicious, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, silenced by the taste and aroma of the stew, but more by the kind of connection that could be made from such an innocent gesture. “Winter Wonderland” came on the radio. I was relieved to have a break from the love song that seemed to take delight in taunting me.

  I turned the questions to Kyle, and asked him about school.

  He sat back. “Well, being in seminary in Durham isn’t quite as exciting as swinging in London dance halls, but I am enjoying it. The town is well known as the final resting place of Saint Cuthbert and Bede the Venerable, so we get a lot of visitors. As I’ve assisted with Mass, I’ve met people traveling from all over Europe, making a pilgrimage. There’s one old man who comes up once a month from Leeds to pray for the soul of his dead wife. He’s been doing that for twenty-six years.”

  “Wow, that’s dedication!”

  “It is. I get to witness so much devotion in people. Last month, I met a woman who claims to have been cured of epilepsy after praying to Saint Cuthbert. We get a lot of people looking for miracles. There is so much sadness in the world. But pain and sadness have a way of drawing us closer to God if we let them.”

  I listened intently, not just because I loved the sound of his voice but because he had so much to say that was different from what I knew.

  “I love meeting the people,” he continued, “but most of my hours are spent in school or studying. It’s still fairly introductory at this point. Some philosophy, early church history, and lots of Latin. I was put in upper-level Latin class.”

  “I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”

  “He is. It was my mother’s dream to have at least one child enter the religious life.”

  “I’ve never heard you mention your mother.”

  “She died along with my two sisters during an influenza outbreak when we lived in Wicklow. Paula and Catherine, although I don’t remember them. I was two years old. My sisters fell to the illness first, and from what I’ve been told, it tore my mother apart. I got sick next, and my parents prayed to John Vianney, a well-known priest from the last century. They told him that if he would spare my life, they would do all that they could to foster a vocation in me.”

  “And their prayers worked.”

  “Yes, but my mother died before I recovered, and she pleaded with my father to continue the prayers for me after her death.”

  “He obviously did.”

  “Oh, yes, and very ardently. He had not been a very spiritual man before that, but it became his sole mission to fulfill my mother’s request. After her death, he moved us out of Wicklow because it held too many memories for him. Once we settled here, he started taking me to Mass on Sundays and on all of the feasts, and signed me up to be an altar boy.”

  “So your destiny was laid out for you long ago, and you didn’t have a choice?”

  “No, I had a choice. I don’t want to make it sound like this was forced on me. If I were unwilling, I know that my father would understand. But it was so thoroughly encouraged that I suppose it was natural for me to pursue a vocation.”

  The Christmas program on the radio had ended, and the warbles of another crooner came on.

  In the glow of the candlelight, by the light of the moon,

  All I can do is dream that we will be together soon.

  I tried to expel the lyrics from my thoughts.

  Kyle glowed when he talked about this life that he had set upon, and I could see that he was, at least, content. I didn’t understand it, though, and felt compelled to probe a little more.

  “Kyle . . .” And I couldn’t get the words out. How do you say the words that are so pivotal to your life?

  “What is it?” he asked, concerned.

  I took a breath. “Forgive me if I am being offensive, but please know that I just don’t understand. Why can’t Catholic priests be”—I almost said “married,” but that would lay my hopes too bare—“in love?”

  He put down the fork that had been idling on his plate and sat back. He sighed, as if he were looking for just the right words. My own words had set my face aflame, but I wasn’t sorry to have asked the question. Without great risk, there is no great reward.

  He leaned forward, and a serious expression came over his face. He took my hand in his and held it, looking at me with a gentle intensity. I quivered at his touch, as if we were on the precipice of something we couldn’t turn back from. I didn’t feel anything like this when Roger held my hand.

  “Julianne,” he said softly. “It’s not that we can’t fall in love. We are only human.”

  He continued, as if he were convincing himself as much as me. His thumb circled over my skin, and I felt every movement. “But how can I give myself entirely to God if I am also the head of a household? How can I lead my congregation if I have a wife and children who need me, too?”

  “But other ministers are married, and they seem to do just fine!” Part of me wanted to fight for him, to take on a millennium of tradition.

  “Their calling is different from that of a priest, even though it can look like the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I guess the best way to put it is that a priest takes vows that are modeled after the life of Jesus. We take a vow of poverty, to live simply as he did. We take a vow of obedience, since he was obedient to his father. And, as he was unmarried, we take a vow of celibacy.”

  I had no response to that. It was so disparate fr
om anything I’d known. I had been brought up to be a good person, and to follow good examples—just not so literally. I supposed you had to respect someone who could be that scrupulous about it.

  “That’s very—admirable,” I said, restraining myself from so many other words I was thinking. “I don’t know that I could do it.”

  Squeezing my hand, he said, “There are times when I don’t know how I’m going to do it, either.” And he let go.

  It seemed to be the end of the conversation for him, and I wasn’t going to push it. I bit my lower lip to prevent me from saying something I would regret, and I let my eyes wander over the triple molding that framed the ceiling of the restaurant.

  The owner laid the bill on the table. As this evidently was not a romantic occasion, I reached for it—Kyle was on an errand for my mother, and it was only fair that we pay for supper. But he stopped me, insisted he be allowed to pay, and handed the money to our host.

  As we prepared to leave, Kyle helped me with my coat, and his scent and closeness made me swoon. A new song assailed my ears.

  I thought for sure that you were mine,

  The way you made me feel so new.

  But you’ve chosen another love.

  And I don’t know how I’ll ever live without you.

  That bloody radio was playing like a movie soundtrack to my life.

  I fell asleep on the way home, despite the truck’s jostling. I was so tired after a night without sleep and drained from the daylong emotional tug-of-war. It was just as well, because I didn’t know what I had left to say.

  I dreamed, although in flashes instead of complete scenes. I saw glimpses of us together, but the settings were too unclear to make out. I woke up just as we approached Newsham Park, but kept my eyes closed, not wanting the moment to be over. “Kyle?” I was imagining us in a four-poster bed, with billowy white linens. My head lay on his bare chest, and we were sleeping.

  “Hmm?” In my vision he looked down at me, and I saw that I had interrupted his own thoughts.

  “Are we allowed to be friends?”

  I opened my eyes then and saw that precious grin that I had missed for the last few hours.