Bishop's Road

by Catherine Hogan Safer

  “Yes. Everyone in this house knows that. But nobody else does except for Joe Snake and he’ll say whatever Ginny Mustard asks him to,” says Patrick. “Ginny Mustard is claiming that she forced all of you to go along with her. Said she was prepared to shoot the lot of you if you didn’t. And if she wants to say that in court to clear you - well - who’s to say she’s lying?”

  “We wrapped the gun in the rug with him for God’s sake. How the hell was she going to shoot us if she had to dig him up to do it?”

  “That’s her story and she’s sticking to it. I don’t know why but there you have it.”

  “Seems strange that a woman who can barely string two words together on a good day managed to come up with that. Are you sure you didn’t talk her into it?”

  “I would never do that. As far as I’m concerned you’re all guilty of something but it’s hard to say what. Gross stupidity or aiding and abetting or just concern for a friend. Take your pick. In the meantime would you like to go for a walk with me?”

  “Sure,” says Ruth. “You can see me to my nephew’s house. Peter is his name. I’m spending the evening at his place.”

  The walk along the river is not exactly close. No hand holding. No indication that Ruth and Patrick even like each other very much. Ruth’s neck is prickly for want of touch, a stone’s weight heavy on her heart, Patrick’s blue eyes clouded and he finds it hard to swallow. When they reach the garden gate to Peter’s house the children are waiting and Sarah is raking the last of summer’s leaves. When she sees Ruth she walks quickly to greet her, is introduced to Patrick and invites him to dinner. Tells Joseph to run and ask his daddy to set another place before Patrick even accepts. Whispers to Ruth, “I hope you don’t mind but I like the look of him.”

  Dorrie has to wash all of the clothes her Barbies were wearing during the bridal shower to get the smell of smoke out.

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering with that now,” says Judy. “They’ll stink worse after the reception. Might as well do it next week.”

  “I will but I’d like it to smell nice in here in the meantime.” And she sprays another dose of air freshener.

  When Eve goes to put her stockings out to dry there is no room on the line with all the little dresses hanging there.

  Ginny Mustard and Joe Snake have not decided where they will live as husband and wife. His place is only one room with a kitchenette and bathroom but he doesn’t like the idea of moving in here with so many women. A man could lose himself in Mrs. Miflin’s house.

  Ginny Mustard wants to stay with the others. She’s been here so long now it would seem odd to move out. She doesn’t know if her feet would ever get used to it. Thinks they might keep coming back no matter where she wanted them to go. And the nursery is just right. Painted so pretty and cozy. Neither of them will ever raise a voice to the other but it’s easy enough to stop talking since they’ve never done much of that anyway. They are still making wedding preparations, though. There is no question of their calling it off. They will just have to work out the sleeping arrangements another time.

  Judy thinks they’re crazy. “How can you two not know where you’re going to live? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard tell of. Why don’t you get a nice apartment somewhere close? Then you could visit us whenever you want. It’s not like you can’t afford it. Though if you’re going to be in jail anyway I guess it doesn’t matter where Joe Snake lives. Never mind.”

  Sometimes Ginny Mustard thinks about jail. Imagines how it will be. Not just a couple of days like before - that was easy - but a really really long time. Imagines never being allowed to go for a walk by the river or down to the ocean and as busy as she is, every chance she gets she’s out the door and off by herself to look at the wind on the waves or stand on a bridge under the bare trees and she pulls the cold air as far into her self as she is able, feeds like a person starved who knows she will be hungry again soon and forever.

  Eve’s old heart aches for the girl who needs such freedom. Sees her face light when she plays with the kittens and Harvey, when she talks about the baby she will have with Joe Snake, when she buys a recording of lullabies and plays it over and over, memorizes the words. And Eve thinks hard. Remembers the morning of the murder. Comes up with a plan. Walks down to Water Street and the police station to look for Patrick.

  Sergeant Patrick Fahey is in a better mood than he has been in weeks. His dinner with Ruth and her family still warms his belly. They like him and he likes them and Ruth has said she’ll see him when his shift is over today. He is surprised to find Eve waiting for him. More surprised by what she has to say.

  “I am here to confess to the murder of one Mr. Miflin on Bishop’s Road. I was upset and angry because he killed Mrs. Miflin’s baby so I took a gun from the attic and I shot him.”

  “Eve,” says Patrick. “You can’t confess. Ginny Mustard has already admitted that she killed Mr. Miflin.”

  “I can confess if I want to. I just did. If you aren’t going to take this seriously then I will have to confess to one of the other policemen. I think you should just arrest me now and let Ginny Mustard go.”

  “It’s a fine thing you’re trying to do, Eve, but it won’t work. Ginny Mustard’s trial begins in a couple of weeks and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Well maybe you should check the gun because my fingerprints are all over it. Just check. You’ll find them there. In fact, why don’t you take my fingerprints now so we can get this over with? I’m confessing to the crime and I want to see justice done.”

  Patrick sighs. He was hoping to knock off early today but it looks like that’s out the window. Excuses himself and consults with his captain for a few minutes who tells him that if Eve says she killed the bastard and her prints are on the gun he’ll have to investigate. He doesn’t give a damn who did it but it does complicate matters if every old goat in the city decides to confess. Patrick arranges to have Eve fingerprinted and sends her home. There’s no way she’s guilty but he has to go through the motions, is surprised to be told that apparently she did handle the murder weapon and wonders what the hell those women are up to now.

  When Eve tells the others what she has done there’s quite a fuss in the house. Ginny Mustard is upset. Wants Eve to go back and say she was just fooling. Ruth, on the other hand, is ready to have fun with this new development. “In fact,” she says, “I’m pretty sure it was me who killed Mr. Miflin. I just forgot. Doesn’t anyone remember how I was so pissed off that I just grabbed the gun from Ginny Mustard and shot the bugger?”

  “But they won’t find any fingerprints of yours on the gun, Ruth,” says Eve. “Mine are on it for sure because I took the gun from Ginny Mustard after she shot him. Remember? I put it on the carpet next to Mr. Miflin’s body. I forgot that until this after-noon and that’s why I went to the police. See? I even have ink on my fingers still.”

  “The only reason they won’t find my prints is because I had the good sense to put gloves on before I shot him. Blue wool gloves that I happened to have in my room. Remember how I ran upstairs and got them before I took the gun from Ginny Mustard? And how I burned them in the fireplace a couple of days later when Judy got it working again? Cut them up in tiny pieces and burned them and then put the ashes in the compost bin? Come on. You must remember that.”

  Maggie says, “I think 1 must have shot him. I was pretty crazy back then. All anyone would have to do is go to that place I was in and ask the doctors. I’m sure they’ll tell you I’d kill some-one if I got upset enough. I could say I did it anyway.”

  Judy can’t stand it. “You’re all nutcases if you ask me. But, you know, maybe Mrs. Miflin did it. She had plenty of reason and why else would she be so friggin’ out of it now? Because she feels so guilty, that’s why. What do you think of that?”

  “For one thing,” answers Ruth, “she had a cast on her leg and couldn’t get out of the bed. You might as well say Dorrie did it.”

  “I didn’t even live here then. You can’t
say I did it,” cries Dorrie.

  “No one is saying you did Dorrie. We’re just trying to figure it out since it’s obvious no one wants Ginny Mustard to go to jail.”

  “Did you ever think,” asks Judy, “that maybe they won’t find her guilty anyway?”

  “Not bloody likely,” says Ruth. “Her goose is cooked and ready to serve. It’s well and good to pretend we can change things but we can’t and that’s all there is to it.”

  Lights from the north are dancing over Bishop’s Road. Streaking blue and pink and rose, green and yellow, as far as anyone can see. The air is right and the temperature cold but if God has a hand and if it is as big as it must surely be, then this is His work and atmospheric conditions be damned, as far as the people watching are concerned there’s no other reason for the show that covers the city now, than His feeling good about something or other.

  And mothers in the midst of yelling one more time to hang up your coats when you come home for goodness sake and fathers raging because the garbage hasn’t been taken out and why the hell can’t anyone do anything I ask around here for a change, stop in mid-sentence when someone says geez, come look at the sky. And every door is open letting the heat out but no one cares. You never know when you’ll see the likes again and someone is whistling because they say the lights will dance if you do and when it’s all over they are a touch more gentle with their world for the rest of the night. Some of them on into the next morning.

  When Joe Snake began his studies at the university his name was Joseph Benoit, changed quickly to Snake because he was long and lean, and Joe because it sounded better, at least to the other fellows in the residence. They liked him. Enough to hang out and cut class and do a bit of drinking with, but not enough to invite him to their homes for long weekends and study breaks. He was born too late for that. If it had been the sixties they would have been falling over themselves to be cool enough to have an Indian friend but in the eighties he would have dragged them down. Bummer. So Joseph Benoit, aka Joe Snake, went his own way, moved into a boarding house, studied hard and graduated with an honors degree in Chemistry. Ready to teach. But the only school wanting his services at the time was on a reservation and he’d had enough of small town living. He found that he was an excellent bartender. Quiet, patrons thought him a good listener. The better bars loved him but bored him senseless. He prefers the less desirable establishments where drinkers are more interested in beer and a few laughs than philosophizing over wine spritzers.

  Joe Snake’s needs are minimal. His room is tidy, clean. His prayers are honest. He has his computer and a bed, two armchairs, subscribes to Scientific American and Discover and over his desk is a framed poster of the Periodic Table of the Elements. The rest of the wall space is taken up with pictures of bears. He banks one half of his pay and sends the other to his family. Lives on his tips mostly, which were better when he worked uptown but are still enough to keep him.

  Into his life all manner of women have come and gone. The only permanent fixture, the only one whose company he values, is Ginny Mustard. It was Joe Snake who found her in the back pool room of the bar when a couple of college boys out slumming had hit on her, literally, because she said she was tired and had finished work for the night. He took her to the hospital to be patched up and while she was being tended, searched out the boys. He promised them ever so gently that they’d never get it up again if he found them anywhere near her, went back and took her home. Fed her and read to her until she was well enough to leave. He convinced her she could give up the streets, took her to Social Services and helped her find a better place to live. They are the best of friends. There have been times when he hasn’t seen her for days on end. After her first few retreats he stopped worrying. Knows that she is sitting by the river, or listening to the music, walking the waterfront night after night after night. When she told him she wanted to have a baby or six or seven would he please marry her so she could, he said, “Yes.” Wrote to his family. Invited them to the wedding. Sent bus fare.

  Ginny Mustard has arranged for his people to stay at Mrs. Miflin’s house. Rented two rooms for a week. Mrs. Miflin doesn’t like Indians - drunks the lot of them and they’ll have feathers from hell to breakfast most likely - but the money keeps her mouth shut. Joe Snake’s parents and sister are surprised when they meet Ginny Mustard. He is their pride and joy and they trust his judgement but a black-skinned girl with yellow hair is an unlikely choice as far as they’re concerned and they can only imagine what the children will look like.

  Joe Snake’s mom and sister speak in unison, confusing Ginny Mustard, since she doesn’t know how to listen to both and has to make a decision each time they start. Joe Snake points out that they are basically saying the same thing so it doesn’t matter, just nod and smile back and forth and it’s fine. She’s not going to get a word in edgewise so there’s no dilemma really, of whom to answer when a question is flung her way. They don’t need a response. His father is a quiet man. Sits on the sofa and looks inward, goes outside to smoke his pipe once in a while, takes him-self for a walk. Joe Snake says he has to do that or perish with those two yammering all the time. They can’t live without each other, his parents, but they are like chalk and cheese, they have that much in common.

  Joe Snake’s mother has brought along a wedding suit for her son. Of deerskin, beaded and ribboned, as well as her own wedding dress just in case Ginny Mustard wants to wear it. And Ginny Mustard is torn between the gown she bought and this one. Lays them both out on her bed and calls the others in for a consultation. Since long white gowns are a dime a dozen and no one has ever seen anything as exotic as Joe Snake’s mother’s dress the vote is unanimous in favor of the latter with its tiny beads in bright colors and the softest boots.

  Mrs. Miflin is waking from her madness or perhaps scraping the bottom of it but no matter. There is a fury boiling in her. Memory is alive in vivid colour of each wrong done her for the last few months beginning with that damned Judy coming here to live and then Ginny Mustard singing that horrible song and making her drop the water and ending up with her crippled for the rest of her life. This is her home for God’s sake and they have taken over. Filled it with noise and wretched people who ought not to be allowed near a good woman such as herself. This is the work of the devil, of that you can be sure, and Mrs. Miflin isn’t going to have any more of it. She’s up and off on legs none too pleased to be carrying the extra weight she’s accumulated but the will is strong and she only has to stop and lean once in awhile on her way to the sitting room to give them a piece of her mind.

  But the room is empty. Neat as a pin and decorated with candles and crepe paper streamers’ - purple, red, blue, yellow, green, orange - as though a particularly bright rainbow had found its way in and exploded. “Well,” says Mrs. Miflin as loud as she can. “They think they can do whatever they want, now, do they? We’ll see about that. Yes. We’ll see about that all right.” She stumbles about on protesting legs, stands on a chair and now a sofa and an end table to reach the pretty paper, tears it from the walls. Exhausted she goes to the kitchen, crawls back with a garbage bag, fills it with broken candles. The pantry is floor to ceiling alcohol and she carries bottle after bottle to the sink, pours it all away.

  “There’s your heathen wedding, Ginny Mustard, down the drain. You won’t be marrying no Indian in my house and that you won’t.” And she sits on the floor with her back to the stove to rest from carnage. That’s where Ginny Mustard and Judy find her when they come back from the wedding cake shop with Ruth not far behind them.

  “I’m selling this house, do you hear me? I am calling a real estate company and putting it on the market right now.” And Mrs. Miflin gets up from her break. Grabs the phone book yellow pages and dials the first agency that catches her eye. “Someone is coming over this afternoon to look at the place so they can sell it. I’ll get a pretty penny for it too and you’ll be out on the street, the lot of you. What do you think of that?” And for good measure she push
es the wedding cake off the counter and stomps on it with all the strength remaining in her fat, tired body. Collapses in a sugar heap.

  “Judy,” says Ruth. “Carry her upstairs to her bed, will you?”

  “Why? Didn’t you hear what she just said Ruth? She’s selling the house and we all have to get out and what are we going to do? Oh Ginny Mustard! Your beautiful cake is all ruined. Where can we get another one now? The wedding is tomorrow. And she tore down all the decorations.”

  “Just take Mrs. Miflin upstairs, Judy. Then come back and we’ll try to figure it out. I’m not talking about it while she’s in the room and it appears she wore herself out wrecking things so you’ll have to help her. I was gone for an hour and she wasn’t moving when I left. She must have worked like a house on fire to do this much damage in that length of time. It’s a wonder she didn’t have a heart attack.”

  “I don’t think she’s got one to be attacked. What a friggin’ Grinch. Can’t stand to see anyone having a good time,” grumbles Judy as she half drags, half carries Mrs. Miflin upstairs.

  Ginny Mustard is cleaning up the remains of her pretty cake when Joe Snake comes in with his family. His mom and sister don’t miss a beat, start in together about the terrible thing happening. This can’t be good. What can they do? Joe Snake helps Ginny Mustard, watching her face for some sign of feeling about the mess things have become. But there is nothing. He asks if she’d like to take a walk with him and she nods yes. They leave and the restoration crew goes to work. Joe Snake’s dad (Mr. Snake is what they call him though that most certainly is not his name) tells them that he has a light hand for baking. Do they think it would be all right if he makes a new cake for Ginny Mustard. Of course they do. And he sets about finding pans and ingredients. Turns on the oven. Starts measuring flour. Says he’ll need some food coloring for the icing. Do they think she’d like flowers on top and all around the sides or something else? Flowers would be good.