by Ben Marcus
My second trip to the hospital, then, was a simple twofold errand. David, as soon as we reached the building, adopted a rapid pace; I assumed that his strategy was to divide our errands for the sake of maximum efficiency. After clearing the front desk with a nod from the receptionist, I rode the elevator to the room where I had first been inspired by the photograph. Having been unprepared for Kathleen’s strong reaction to it, I now wondered whether I needed to protect the stillborn’s mother from the reminder of what she had seen, as it were, in the flesh; of her flesh. Probably she too should not be disturbed, regardless of how welcoming the two appeared.
Discreetly I slipped the Polaroid under their door, facedown, and rode the elevator back to street level to find the pharmacy. It was clearly marked and a woman from behind the counter offered me assistance.
“I have been instructed,” I began, but could not manage to complete the sentence; it seemed awkward.
“There is a woman,” I began anew.
She raised her eyes. “Yes, Father?”
“A mother.”
She lowered them again.
“Her milk …”
“I understand perfectly, Father. There is no need to continue.” And she turned her back to me to search the shelves behind her, before handing me a box approximately ten inches high. I felt inside my cassock for my billfold, but she placed her own hand over mine to stop me.
“Please, Father,” she said. “We know about the tragedy. The hospital staff is very concerned, and supportive. Some of us feel the word”—she whispered it—“ashamed”—“is not too strong. In any case, do let this be our contribution.”
“But, miss,” I protested, fearful of appearing ungrateful or obtuse. “I am not certain I have made myself clear, or if I myself am clear, regarding the equipment that is … needed.”
“I am a woman, Father,” she said, with gravity and unflinching gaze. “I know things you cannot know. Trust me.”
I had no response to her authority and conviction. I could only go back to the Callahans8, perhaps not correctly but at least not empty-handed. David may have been required to remain with the child, and it was best for one of us to be available.
This time, however, I did not venture upstairs, but remained in the lower portion of the house, seeking refuge in a room, to the rear of the staircase—a room immaculate and austere, containing a long oak table and eight matching straight-backed chairs with brocade seats, upon one of which I sat. I slid the package to the far end of the polished table, then laid my head in my hands, resting this weight on the smooth wooden surface. After some time I lifted up my head, taking several deep breaths, the last exhalation interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Callahan, mother of the bride.
“Father Faraday, what a lovely surprise! Have you come to say Mass at St. Agnes?”
“No, Mrs. Callahan,” I said, regaining my composure—a man who must attend, through the vehicle of a single sense, to a sequence of stories, of lives, of sins whose range spans from the barely worth mentioning to the most debased; a man who must juxtapose the only confession in the life of an evil practitioner; such a man has evolved the skill of flexibility, of quick recovery; to use the colloquial metaphor of our automobile-dependent culture, the ability to switch gears—“no, another appointment”—there was no need to be specific—“now completed.” Talking was easier than I’d anticipated, even reassuring.
“All the better, Father; you can join us then, for our Sunday meal,” she said, unfolding an embroidered white cloth and spreading it over the table, letting it billow out as one might a bedsheet. “I’m sure the children will be delighted.”
“I wouldn’t assume anything, Mrs. Callahan.” I thought she had not heard me; she was already through the door, then back again, the first of numerous trips to heap the Lord’s bounty onto the table: steaming platters, casseroles, a roast ready to be carved.
“You must excuse the children,” she said, as if there had been no interruption to our conversation, and as she continued to lay out the meal, concluding with, as afterthought, a bottle of fine red wine, and another Waterford glass. “They are not beholden to tradition, as our generation was.” She smiled at me, pausing in her activity. “They will appear when it suits them.”
“Shall I begin carving?” I asked, as she began to light the candles in the candelabra, no trace of concern marring her flawless countenance as the flame drew nearer and nearer her slender fingers. I was fatigued and felt less in command of my expressions. I feared Mrs. Callahan might have thought me greedy rather than eager to offer a gesture of assistance; I was ashamed of how much effort she had expended while I sat immobile in my temporary stupor.
“The one favor I would ask of you, Father Faraday, is to say grace for us, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition—not until everyone arrives, of course.” She sighed, and seemed to raise her voice slightly when she added wistfully, “If we could just for once all be together at the table.” She sighed again.
“Mrs. Callahan,” I sought to console her, “I would urge you to consider that your daughter and son-in-law may be occupied with matters of some significance, and their absence is not necessarily an expression of indifference or hostility. Or, for that matter, ingratitude.”
“No, indeed, Father,” she replied, and with dignity continued, “but you, as a man of the cloth, are unlikely to be acquainted with that wrenching feeling, that torture of wanting to intervene, wanting to make available the wisdom of maturity, but knowing you must not surrender to it, for if you do, every strategy will go awry before your eyes.”
Mrs. Callahan was visibly moved by what she shared, as was I to be receiving her words—more than she knew—and she permitted herself to digress: “Everything today is natural. But would the Lord have allowed man the mind to evolve technology if he meant him to be left to only natural devices? You are obviously the expert here, Father, excuse my … trespassing.” She half-smiled. “I asked them, what is wrong with a good old-fashioned hospital? Now, I was a nurse, Father Faraday, before the Lord blessed our marriage with a child, and I know a bit about these matters, but we left to doctors the work of doctors and did not monkey around, if you’ll excuse the expression, with life and death. There are risks, are there not, in every natural process?”
“You are a thoughtful woman, Mrs. Callahan.”
“I suppose you might as well begin the carving,” she said, resigned; “otherwise we may be waiting here until everything is cold.” As I could infer the tenderness of the meat from its succulent aroma, I was more than willing to comply. “It is nice to have a man about, to lend a hand. My husband, you see, he’s been … unwell.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” My memory of Mr. Callahan at the wedding—robust, energetic—was difficult to reconcile with these words—unless I confused him with the father of the groom; I did not think this was the case. And yet, our world fluctuates before us daily; appearances ever-unreliable indices of truth.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways; isn’t that right, Father Faraday?”—as if she’d read my mind. I could not decipher her tone: conspiratorial, mocking, perhaps even … flirtatious? Fortunately, the moment of intense ambiguity passed.
“So much in life is confusing, isn’t it? Nothing more so than being a parent in this day and age—I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, Father. In fact, I wonder if I might be so bold as to impose upon you for an even larger favor—since we may not get to grace, at this rate.” She made an enigmatic gesture with her mouth, that seemed half sinister, half coquettish, or perhaps neither, some neutral expression colored by my fatigue? My job—I thank the Lord—is not to judge, outside a certain circumscribed, sacred enclosure. “My daughter, I’m convinced, is in need of guidance,” she said, “guidance beyond my capacity. I thought marriage would make a difference, but I’m afraid that in some ways, it’s only made things worse, and I wondered—I thought, perhaps, if you went up, and spoke with her …”
“I would like to very much, M
rs. Callahan,” I said sincerely, “very much indeed; but there are times when no one, not even a man of God, can take the place of a mother.” As I said the last word I rose to procure the package that had remained undisturbed (but for Mrs. Callahan’s occasional furtive glances)—then returned to the seat, placing on the table its contents: a box which I began to push toward her slowly.
“What can it be?” she asked, staring at the thing as if it would speak its name.
I continued to push with my fingers the device I had procured at the hospital pharmacy. Both of us regarded its incremental progress as a child might a caterpillar’s. It whispered across the tablecloth: my fingers its gentle engine. When the box had achieved sufficient distance to be within close range, I drew back my hand and remained silent while she studied the labeling. Mrs. Callahan blushed, giggled, and then rose, smoothing the front of her blouse, and I was reminded, for some reason, of the expression blushing bride.
“You are admirably down-to-earth, Father Faraday, and yet so … discreet. Please do help yourself while I have a brief chat with my daughter.” She grasped the box, tentatively at first, but then walked decisively out of the room, to the stairs. Would Kathleen be conscious? Would her mother’s presence rouse her if not, and stimulate her healing? I hoped it would be so, but my own hunger distracted me from this concern.
In truth, I could not remember the last time I had eaten. Had I even had breakfast? I carved a few slices of beef—it should certainly not go to waste, this bounty—and there was no point in serving Mrs. Callahan’s portion only to watch it grow cold. I passed myself the green beans, the roast potatoes. With the first bite, I realized I was ravenous. What a relief it was to nourish myself without the burden of conversation, to leave the world, for just a few moments, to its own devices.
I ate much more rapidly than was salubrious. Perhaps this was the source of my indigestion, although I suspect it had more to do with the bride’s raised voice, followed by the shattering of glass. I laid down my fork, went back to the living room, and leaned against the banister, wincing at the words toward which I could not keep myself from straining.
“You’re positively medieval, Mother.” At least the bride possessed the energy to raise her voice. The midwife had either cured her—one of the innumerable daily miracles we take for granted—or misapprehended the situation from the start. Perhaps the former was now with David and the child, and all would return shortly.
“Darling, that is very discourteous. The breast pump was a gift from Father Faraday.”
“The priest! Mother, you must be kidding. That man is very peculiar.”
“He’s not a man exactly, is he—a priest? But I think he’s quite nice, dear, and you were rude to him.”
“No, Mother, he was … cruel to me; you can’t imagine.”
“I’m sure you exaggerate, Kathleen; he performed the ceremony so beautifully. He keeps in touch, and you can tell he cares. I sense he’s very … trustworthy.”
I slowly climbed the stairs, no more rapidly than I had pushed the problematic box, now discarded. I climbed almost against my will. Certain projects seem to have no end in sight, before we gain the profit of perspective. Yet we must never cease to strive, to hope. It seemed that the voices grew muted as I drew near.
“Mother, I feel nervous when I know he’s around, and I’m feeling weak as it is. We need a quiet place to talk. There’s just too much going on here, and he is a man after all, no matter what any of you say.”
“Well of course, dear, technically, that’s true. But a priest is a special kind of man, and if you can’t trust a priest, whom can you trust? It isn’t as if he were Episcopalian; they have wives and worse. Father Faraday is a good old-fashioned Catholic priest. And insofar as he’s a man, what’s wrong with having a man around the house?”
I was right against the door now, squatting to make my eye level with the keyhole. There was a long pause in their conversation.
“Mother,” the bride said suddenly—with urgency and a noticeable maturity—no longer whining, “if I asked you to follow me somewhere, would you?”
“That depends, Kathleen. What I mean is, of course I would, if it seemed reasonable, but don’t you think you’d be better off resting for a few days?—here where there are people to look after you, a familiar environment, the comforts of home.…”
“No, I don’t mean to go away from here, to travel, but you have to promise not to ask any questions, just to go with me.”
I was curious myself as to the destination the bride had in mind, although slightly distracted by the pain in my knees, a sensation with which I am well-acquainted, and have, over the years, developed the stamina to endure.
“You are being very mysterious, young lady, but your mother will go along.”
“Thank you, oh thank you, Mother, because I discovered just the perfect place while I was having my contractions, and I was afraid it might … disappear—I mean I might forget it—just like when you have a dream sometimes that’s so vivid and powerful but then you can’t remember anything specific the next day, or even an hour later.”
I watched the bride splay her legs; she spread them as far, it seemed, as legs could separate, and farther still—perhaps she had as an adolescent performed the acrobatic maneuver called a split; she might have been a cheerleader—it seemed it must be terribly uncomfortable but this time she uttered no cries, not a sound, as they, adopting what appeared an exaggerated yoga position, crept inside, one after the other, to be embraced by those contours which are, even in the imagination, forbidden to the man who inhabits, as vocation, a chamber of secrets. I heard them twice removed now, as if underwater.
“I must admit I feel a bit uneasy here, Kathleen; would you do me the favor of telling me where we are?”
“Well, it’s hard to say exactly where, but I can tell you how I found it. In the excruciating and terribly lonely pain of labor, when all of me was opened up, I felt almost delirious, and yet very … present, painfully connected to what was happening, and in between contractions I just decided I should be able to inhabit that space myself, in a soothing way; a therapeutic way, I guess you could call it. Shouldn’t the haven we give others be available for us too? Doesn’t that seem right to you, Mama? Anyway, suddenly I was in a place I’d never known but wanted to come back to, and when I saw you now, I knew I had to bring you with me. I’m very glad you agreed to come.” The two women had no suspicion that they were in some fashion exposed to the practiced ear of a man whose profession is to listen through a membrane to all the world’s secrets.
“No one would ever think to look for us here.”
“I suppose you’re right, dear. But what if someone should need either of us? I don’t feel right to be unavailable. We do have company, after all. I’ve always prided myself on being a perfect hostess.”
“But Mother, we’ve only just arrived. Stay awhile. Besides, it’s only fair I reciprocate,” the bride said, after a brief pause. “My first journey in this world was through a room just like this, that you guided me through. Then somehow we grew estranged from one another.”
“You make it all sound a bit tragic, Kathleen, when we’ve been having such a pleasant, such an interesting visit. I really don’t know what you are referring to. And might I suggest you consider the word estrangement in relation to your own son and husband? But you always take offense when I try to remind you of your responsibilities, even though my only concern is your happiness.”
“Oh yes, let’s not get into it, Mother, I didn’t mean anything by it. I love being here with you where it’s so embracing, yet expansive too, as if it might extend beyond infinity.”
“Such a lovely way of putting it; you are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you? And I will certainly come again, if I’m invited. If nothing else, it’s educational. It shows me just how much we have in common.”
It seemed their session had terminated but it was hard to assess, something of the sensation one has during an overseas phone con
versation: its disorienting static and delays in transmission of sound.
“Is this the exit, honey?”
“You go first, Mama.”
Mrs. Callahan’s next words were clearly articulated; no longer did they sound submerged, murky, as I watched the mesmerizing reemergence of the two women. The bride seemed to turn inside out; I have no other words, as inadequate, as pedestrian as these are; I was reminded of the way certain of nature’s creatures shed their skins. The bride was again lying in the bed; indeed she had never stood during the entire expedition, and her mother was back at her side, seated, now dabbing inside the bodice of the bride’s dressing gown with a linen cloth.
“My breasts feel so swollen.” The daughter’s plaintive voice addressed her mother.
“Of course they do; they are swollen,” the latter replied as she continued to execute the dainty motion with the cloth, the inadequacy of which brought to mind the image of the Dutch boy’s finger in the dike.
“It’s a pity you destroyed that breast pump, dear; rather reckless of you.”
“It was in a moment of passion.”
“Ah, yes. Where did you say David went? Not to mention my grandchild.”
“To investigate something, I think. I’m not really sure. Things are a bit strained between us, actually.”
“No doubt. Well, if we don’t do something soon I’m afraid you’re going to burst, and we can’t have that. There is mess enough around here as it is. I suppose that midwife gave you some lactating stimulant. I’ve never heard of milk coming in quite this early in such … volume. I’m going to have to take matters into my own …” She hesitated, looking uncharacteristically tentative, for clearly she lacked a destination or function for the parts of herself to which her ellipsis metaphorically alluded. As her voice trailed off, I saw Mrs. Callahan gently, furtively affix her mouth to her daughter’s breast, to relieve it of the nourishment meant for another which burdened it so. The bride winced. “Could you try to be gentler, Mother?” she asked. “They’re a bit tender, since this is the first time.”