The Memory of Us: A Novel

by Camille Di Maio

  He smiled—just a hint, but it was there. Pulling out another key, we arrived at No. 33. He knocked first, then opened the door.

  The interior was different from what I had expected. The few windows brought in a surprising amount of light, and bright paintings of green hills adorned the walls.

  “My father’s hobby,” he said, answering the question that I didn’t ask. Standing by the nearest window was an easel supporting a half-finished canvas, a layer of dust settling over its tray. “He remembers Ireland that way,” he said when he caught me looking at it. “I’m not supposed to touch it.”

  Otherwise, the flat was as neat as a pin. He said, “I cleaned up last night, knowing that you were coming over. We can’t have a lady seeing the squalor that two bachelors can sink into.”

  “It’s very cozy,” I said, returning his smile.

  “Dadaí!” he called, and then whispered to me that this was an Irish word for “father.”

  A cough came from another room, then the squeak of springs as he adjusted himself in the bed. When we entered, I saw an emaciated old man struggle to push himself up on his arms and then rest against a pillow. He placed a ribboned bookmark inside the prayer book that he was holding.

  “Dadaí,” Kyle said, “I brought Julianne here, like we talked about.”

  “And I told you not to bother with that!” he said gruffly. “I’ll be fit as a fiddle by tomorrow.”

  “You are not fit. You are ill. And, since you won’t see a doctor, Julianne generously offered to come and talk to you.”

  “I don’t need any help, boy. Take that young thing out of here, and leave me alone!”

  “Mr. McCarthy,” I said quietly, inching toward the head of the bed, “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to, but I would really love to visit with you.” I slid into the chair at his bedside, took his hand, and turned upon him the most imploring expression that I could muster.

  He flinched at first but then softened at my smile. “Well, since you came all the way out here . . .”

  “Kyle,” I said without taking my eyes from his father’s, “why don’t you make us some tea while we get acquainted?”

  As though acknowledging that this would go better if I was alone with the elder man, Kyle slipped away and closed the door after him.

  “Mr. McCarthy, while it’s true that I’m here to help you get better, don’t think that I’m just doing it to help you. My mother’s rosebushes need work—and don’t go repeating that to Kyle!”

  I saw the first glimpse of a smile, which rolled into a slight chuckle. He shifted onto his side and the bedsprings cried out. “He does his best, cailín,” he allowed, “but he’s best suited to hauling the peat and trimming the hedges.”

  “Yes, so you see my dilemma. If we don’t get you better, our garden will never look the same. I know that she’s been quite happy with your work since you starting coming over.” And with that, the manipulative charm I’d learned from my mother found a good purpose.

  Distracting him with what my father would call prattle, I surreptitiously examined him. I held his hand and felt that it was clammy. When I wanted to check his temperature, I pulled a lock of hair from his face, brushing his forehead with my hand and feeling the heat coming from it. He coughed intermittently, covering his mouth with a brittle yellowed handkerchief and quickly stuffing it under the blankets. But I had a chance to notice that the cloth was stained with varying shades of red blotches. Even a novice like myself could easily diagnose his malady.

  Kyle knocked gently and returned with three cups of tea in a delicate flower china pattern. I wondered if it had been his mother’s.

  He gingerly handed one to me, one to his father, and kept a chipped one for himself. I caught his eye and gave him a slight nod to indicate that I knew what was wrong. We didn’t rush out of the room, though. He pulled up a chair, and the three of us talked while we drank our tea.

  When we were finished, I stood up, smoothed out my skirt, and placed my teacup on the chest of drawers.

  “Thank you, Mr. McCarthy, for letting me come visit. I plan to tell my mother that you will be by soon to tend to the garden. Don’t forget what I told you!”

  He winked at me, enjoying the conspiracy I’d created. “Don’t you worry, darlin’. I will be there as sure as Saint Paddy can quiet a snake.”

  Kyle approached to place a kiss on his forehead, but the old man shooed him away. “Oh, go on,” he huffed. “I’m sure you’ve got some work to get to.”

  As I stepped back from the bed, Kyle gestured for me to leave the room first, and then closed the door behind us. He put his teacup in the sink, and we sat down at the table in the kitchen. Seeing the distress in my face, he became alarmed.

  “It’s not good,” I said. I hung my head, because I couldn’t bear to look at him with this news. “It’s tuberculosis, clear as day. I saw several cases in the hospital. He is very advanced. I’m so sorry, Kyle.”

  He sighed. “Yes, that’s what I thought, too. I was just hoping that you would confirm it and I might be able to convince him then to get some help. When I came home that week during the spring, it was pretty bad. He improved a little at first, but his condition has worsened since I came home again. I didn’t know what to do. You don’t know how much it means to me that you came.”

  This was going to be hard to say. “Kyle, you must know he doesn’t have much time, and you need to prepare yourself for that. At this stage, even if he allowed a doctor to see him, there is so little that could be done. Maybe nothing.”

  A tear rolled down my cheek and then another. The first one was for his father. The second was for Kyle, as I realized that he was about to lose the only family that he had ever known. He lifted his hand and wiped the droplets away from my face with the back of his finger. He stood a head taller than me, and I looked directly at the day-old stubble on his chin. My chest tightened at his nearness.

  “Thank you for caring. He certainly warmed to you.”

  “Oh, you know, I used all of my feminine wiles on him.” We spoke in careful whispers.

  “They can be quite dangerous, I expect.”

  “Well, I only bring them out in emergencies.”

  We both grinned, a respite from the sadness in the adjacent room. But it overtook us again just as quickly. “I wish that I could bring a priest to anoint him,” he lamented, “but he’ll probably throw a bigger fit than he did when I brought the doctor.”

  “Why don’t you let me work on him? He did like me. Maybe I can bring him around.”

  For two weeks, at every opportunity, I came to sit with Mr. McCarthy. I read the newspaper to him, made him tea. I drove myself when Father would allow it, having told him about the situation and how it would be good experience for me. But just as often, Kyle would pick me up. On a few occasions, Kyle cooked for me, and not surprisingly he was good at it. He seemed to do everything well.

  Soon enough I gained the confidence of his father, and I was gently able to tell him the truth about his condition, though I was unable to convince him to see a doctor. It didn’t come as a surprise. In fact, he even looked forward to death, since his faith promised that he would see his wife and daughters again. His only regret was leaving Kyle alone.

  “He won’t be alone, Mr. McCarthy,” I said. “I’ll always be his friend. And I’m sure he has many friends at school, too.”

  I thought I detected a look of appreciation.

  Convinced that he had accepted the truth, I told him that it would mean a lot to Kyle to have him anointed. I didn’t even understand what that meant, but if it was important to Kyle, then it was important to me to make it happen. Like butter on a hot pan, he melted to my request. I couldn’t wait to tell Kyle the news on the way home.

  Elated, and not satisfied with waiting, he drove us straightaway to his church so that we could see the priest.

  Just as I had not thought of where Kyle lived, I had not thought of where Kyle worshipped. I was glad to be entering a more intimate par
t of his world.

  The exterior of Saint Stephen’s reminded me a little of the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, but then again, I was not skilled in seeing the nuances of religious architecture. The interior was noticeably different, though. It had the same basic features—mosaic floors, stained glass windows, an altar—but it was not as ornate as the one that I had visited in London. I liked it better—it was more welcoming and less intimidating to me.

  We walked over to the rectory, and although the hours posted had long since passed, Kyle knocked on the door. A housekeeper answered, a bitter-looking old sourpuss who lit up like a young girl when she saw who was on her doorstep.

  “Kyle. It’s good to see you. How is your father?”

  “He’s not getting any better, Mrs. Mawdsley. In fact, that’s why we’re here. I would like to have Father Sullivan give him extreme unction.”

  Extreme unction? I didn’t know what that was, but it sounded so, well, extreme. I would have to ask him about that later.

  “That’s a shame, dear.” Only then did she seem to notice me, standing just behind him. “And who is this?” Her tone changed to one of malice as she eyed me. I had no doubt that she knew Kyle was studying to join the ranks of this Father Sullivan. Who was this little blond girl with her recruit?

  “How rude of me. This is Miss Julianne Westcott. She’s a nursing student, and is the only one that has been able to get my father to face this reality. Julianne, this is Mrs. Mawdsley.”

  She continued to eye me as though I’d been sent by the devil himself to tempt Kyle from his vocation. “Well, come in, there’s no use, you standing outside like this. Father Sullivan is in the dining room, but I’m sure that he’ll want to talk to you. Have a seat over there, and I’ll call for him.” As she limped out of the room, I was reminded of Quasimodo and amused myself by imagining her crying, “Sanctuary!” I knew that it was wrong, but it helped leaven my discomfort in these surroundings.

  We sat on the sofa in the parlor where Kyle looked as if he was at home within its creamy yellow walls, and it occurred to me that he must have spent a lot of time here. But his familiarity appeared to provide little comfort tonight. He put his elbows on his knees and folded his hands together. Not wanting him to catch me studying him, I looked around at the bookshelves that lined the walls and didn’t recognize any of the titles. Several were in Latin.

  Minutes later Father Sullivan came into the parlor, hurriedly dabbing at the corner of his mouth with the napkin in his hand. He was shorter than Kyle, with the beginnings of a paunch and a bald spot. Unlike his housekeeper, the presence of a young lady with Kyle appeared to neither scandalize nor infuriate him. In fact, I almost thought I saw a little amusement in his expression, which I did not understand. I followed Kyle’s lead and stood up when the priest entered the room. He motioned that it was unnecessary and that we should sit, but I rather liked standing in the presence of this man. I was drawn immediately to his kindness, and I thought that this was the kind of priest that Kyle would be.

  We explained the seriousness of Mr. McCarthy’s condition, and Kyle said that it was time for him to be anointed. I gathered from their conversation a couple of things. First, anointing and extreme unction were interchangeable terms. (I liked anointing better. Far less severe.) And second, this was reserved for those who were very close to death.

  Father Sullivan grabbed his long black coat, excused himself to retrieve his kit of oils, and followed us out the door. We squeezed into the cab of Kyle’s truck. It was an odd feeling to sit between the two of them. Shoulder to shoulder with Kyle, my senses were on alert to his every movement and my body felt as if it were on fire where we touched; I had to press my hands together to keep them from involuntarily reaching out to him. On one side, then, an urgent reminder of what Kyle could never be. And on the other, an equally stark reminder of what Kyle was destined to become: a gentle and kind priest. I was thankful that the ride was brief, because jostling between the two was suffocating for me.

  We walked down the now all-too-familiar, dark ground-floor hallway and up the three narrow flights of stairs. Mr. McCarthy could no longer sit up in his bed, but it was obvious that he was happy to see all three of us. Father Sullivan asked us to leave the room, and he closed the door behind him. Kyle explained that he was hearing his father’s confession. I knew little about that and of the anointing in general, and Kyle patiently explained it all to me. This was considered one of their sacraments, and it was intended to help the dying person get his spiritual house in order to prepare for whatever was coming next. I found comfort in what he was describing, and I thought that it must be nice to have someone praying for you in your last days.

  After the confession, Father Sullivan came for us. Although Kyle offered me a chair, I stood with my back against the wall, observing the rest of the ritual. Father Sullivan didn’t look our way, and Mr. McCarthy had his eyes closed, with the most faint smile on his lips. Kyle explained things to me whenever I looked confused, translating from the Latin when necessary.

  As Father Sullivan blessed the old man’s eyes with oil, Kyle whispered the English translation to me. “Through this holy anointing, and through his most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon you what sins you have committed by sight.”

  Father Sullivan followed with gesturing crosses over his ears, and Kyle continued. “Through this holy anointing, and through his most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon you what sins you have committed by hearing.”

  The ritual continued with the nose, the lips, the hands, and the feet. Every avenue that might have caused offense in one’s lifetime. Kyle looked at the scene, entranced, and I looked at Kyle. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his shoulders curled in. My heart ached for his sadness.

  Kyle stepped forward at the end and made the sign of the cross over himself. I gripped the footboard of the large iron bed and watched with fascination.

  Kyle was quiet on the way back home, and I didn’t pester him with idle conversation. I nearly fell asleep. I was both bewildered and moved by what I had witnessed, and my body was exhausted by the toll that had been taken during the weeks of helping his father.

  “Here you are,” he said as we drove up. The truck idled while he opened his door.

  “Please don’t get out,” I said. “I can walk myself up, and you need to get back.”

  He sighed, a commonplace sound in these past weeks. “You’re probably right.” He pulled his door closed again. “Thank you for everything. And for being there tonight.”

  Silence lingered between us as our eyes met. I looked away first.

  “Don’t mention it,” I said. “It was—well, different. I can’t say I understood it all, but it was kind of beautiful.”

  “Now you see why the seminary takes eight years.”

  “Yes. So much to remember.”

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  I wanted to say yes. With all my heart. But I couldn’t. “No, I’ve neglected much at home lately, and I should try to get up to Bootle later in the week. I’ve only seen my brother once since Christmas.”

  “I shouldn’t have monopolized your time these past few weeks. I wasn’t even thinking. I’m sorry.”

  “No—don’t be sorry. I was glad to be there.”

  “We’re glad you were.” He paused. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Really, don’t say that. He would have come around eventually.”

  “Why don’t I come by in a couple of days and let you know how he’s doing?”

  “I’d like that. Now, go get some sleep. Your eyes are bloodshot, and your father needs you.”

  “You’re right. Good night.”

  Our gaze lingered. If this had been a date, it would have been the moment where I’d be wondering if he would kiss me.

  “Good night.” I broke the spell abruptly and slid off the seat. The door made a rusty thud as I closed it. “I love you,” I said into the cloud of exhaust left behind. I stayed unti
l I could no longer see it.

  I hoped that the next few days would fly by until I could see him again. I’d grown so accustomed to these daily visits.

  But as it turned out, I saw Kyle much sooner than I expected.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I missed breakfast, but felt greatly renewed by the additional sleep. Mother peppered me with questions now that I had time to visit with her. They were suspiciously inquisitive more than conversational, but I think I finally convinced her that this time with Kyle’s father had been an exercise in nursing and nothing more. I could see that she thought I was spending too much time with the younger gardener, and she didn’t like it.

  I caught a matinee with Lucille, whose company I had missed not only for the last few weeks, but ever since the days that we were inseparable. How distant was our childhood, where the dilemmas were no more difficult than deciding which dolls to invite to a tea party.

  She let me pour my heart out about all that had occurred lately. There were so many emotions. I had really grown a soft spot for Mr. McCarthy, ill-tempered with the world but sweet to me. I had felt so alive being near Kyle for such an extended time, and the more I learned about him, the more I loved him. And so, the more I bemoaned what kept us apart.

  I apologized to Lucille for being such a scattered mess, but she hugged me tight and listened as if every word I said made perfect sense.

  Lucille’s Ben met us for supper. I was pleased to have a chance to get to know him better, and I instantly liked him. He was so solicitous of my best friend, and I was gratified that she was in good hands. Lucille seemed to feel a little guilty for being so happy in front of me, but I made sure that I wore my biggest smile so that she could see that I was, indeed, sharing her joy. It was nice that, for once, she was receiving all of the attention. She certainly deserved it.

  The clouds were looking dark and heavy as I headed home, and just as I arrived, they burst open with rain. I played backgammon with Father for an hour while he smoked his pipe. He had picked up my enthusiasm for the game over Christmas, and we made bets on the outcome for silly stakes. If he won tonight, I would have to clean his pipe collection. If I won, I didn’t have to work at the warehouses for a week. Mother wasn’t one for games, and she rolled her eyes when we were getting competitive. She went back to reading a magazine that had arrived in the post that day.