But You Scared Me the Most

by John Manderino

  I wanted to yell out to him that it’s only an old woman in here, only an old, frightened woman. Just take what you want—that cuckoo clock on the wall is a genuine antique, and some of those knickknacks ought to be worth something, a couple of them are Hummels. Just don’t take the television. Don’t take my shows.

  I laid there listening.

  If only Logan and Briscoe were here. Those are the cops I like on Law & Order reruns. “You’re coming with us, pal,” Logan would tell him. “You have the right to remain silent . . .” Afterwards back at the station Brisco would tease Logan about the way that old lady was looking at him, gazing at him.

  I listened some more.

  Still nothing.

  My late husband had hair like Logan’s—nice, thick, dark hair like that, gray in his later years of course, but still nice and thick. Kind of hard to imagine George as a cop, though. Such a timid man. Very tall, very timid. He would be praying now. He wasn’t a religious person, but in any kind of crisis he would right away turn to God, not for strength or courage but for God to take care of it. Right now he’d be asking Jesus to please get rid of whoever might be out there. Meanwhile, you know what I would be doing? I’d be throwing on my robe and going out there to see what the hell the noise was. I was never scared with George around. He was always scared enough for both of us.

  But now I am. Now I’m scared.

  He’s still being very quiet out there, lying very still, listening to me listening to him listening to me.

  Oh stop it, I told myself. There’s no one out there and you know it, otherwise you’d be dialing 911, but you’re not, because you know you’re being silly. Something fell, that’s all. Things do that, they fall. Go back to sleep where you belong. Go on. You’re tired. Old and tired. Very old, very tired, very . . . very . . .

  I went out there and turned on the light and, sure enough, there was someone lying on the floor.

  “Get up, you.”

  He got up and pulled the nylon stocking off his face. It was George.

  “Oh, for heaven sake,” I said.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Of course you woke me. Is that one of mine, by the way?”

  He handed back the nylon stocking.

  “George, what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Don’t you like it there?” I asked. “Are they feeding you? You look terrible.”

  “I’m dead, Ellen.”

  “You should still eat.”

  “Is there anything good on TV?”

  Every channel had the same thing: me and George sitting on the couch staring back at me and George sitting on the couch.

  “Try the Playboy Channel,” he said.

  “We don’t have that.”

  “Try it.”

  It was me and George sitting naked on the couch staring back at me and George sitting there naked.

  I turned it off.

  “I wish you could see your face!” he said, pointing at me, and went staggering naked around the room, his wiener swinging, laughing like a damn fool, tripping over the ottoman, landing with a thud.

  I woke up again.

  I laid there very still, listening, my heart banging away painfully.

  I remembered the dream I just had.

  George, you bastard, I thought. You sneak away in your sleep, not even a goodbye after forty-one years, and then come back while I’m asleep and laugh at me? Do you know how many times I could have laughed at you, George? How many times I could have flapped my elbows, going “bawk, bawk, bawk” in your pitiful, frightened face? But I never did. You know why? Because I loved you. Did you love me? Did you, George? Ever? Really?

  I was crying now.

  “You bastard,” I said out loud, and got up and threw on my robe and went out there, hoping it was him so I could say it to his face. I turned on the overhead. Nothing. No one.

  Then another thud.

  This one hurt. It nearly knocked me over. I sat on the couch. My left arm felt numb, the fingers tingling. The other phone was right there. But if I called, there would be men rushing in with a bed on wheels, strapping me down, slapping an oxygen mask on my face, wheeling me out, sliding me into the back of the van, racing away, dodging traffic, the siren screaming. I’d never make it through all that.

  I sat there trying to breathe normally, trying to be not having a heart attack, wishing George was here so he could be scared and I could be brave about it. He’d probably be praying, Please dear Jesus, don’t let Ellen die, don’t take her away, don’t leave me here alone, let me go first.

  You bastard.

  George got his wish a year ago last month, April the twenty-third. He went to bed early that night. He usually stayed up with me for Law & Order, but he said he felt tired. When I came into the bedroom I whispered, “George? Are you asleep?” Then I smelled his poop. I knew he had to be dead.

  At the wake he looked better than ever, everyone said so. Except, his mouth had kind of a sarcastic expression to it. George had never been a sarcastic sort of person but now he looked like he was thinking, What a joke. I didn’t know whether he meant what a joke death was, or life. His life. Our life.

  I know we could have watched a lot less television. But at least we watched together. If something was funny we would glance at each other as we laughed, or if it was sad enough we would even hold hands. And if it was really scary George would go into the kitchen and I would yell out what’s happening: “He’s still walking up the stairs . . . still walking . . . still . . . oh God somebody’s stabbing him, he’s falling backwards down the stairs, he’s at the bottom, someone’s on top of him stabbing him over and over. Okay, commercial.” And he would come back.

  Sexy scenes were a problem, though. Sometimes I would tell the fondling couple, “All right, we get the point,” trying to make light of it, but usually we just sat there, embarrassed, and waited it out. I often wondered if George would still be embarrassed if I wasn’t there, if maybe he liked watching people fondle and kiss, especially on TV where all the women were skinny and beautiful instead of dumpy and ugly like his wife. But I don’t think so. I think George was embarrassed about having a body at all. He’s probably very happy now, fluttering around up there.

  I’m not saying we never had sex. We did have separate beds, but every couple weeks or so, after lights out, George would say, “Ellen?” And I would come over. Afterwards I would go back. I would like to have been a mother but it never happened, I don’t know whose fault. Anyway, after I went back to my own bed George would start talking. He was usually very quiet but now for some reason he would go on and on, usually about work, so most of it I didn’t understand. He was a draftsman, all numbers, lines, and angles. I would try to stay awake, but I don’t think it mattered to him very much.

  My arm is starting to return. Still some tingling in the fingers, though.

  George worked in the same office with the same company all the years we were married, but I only saw him there once. I was downtown Christmas shopping—this was maybe ten years ago now—and afterwards I thought what the hell and grabbed a cab outside of Marshall Field’s and headed over to George’s building on Wacker, took an elevator up to his floor, where a woman at a desk directed me down a nicely carpeted hallway, third door on the left. The door was open.

  And there he was, sitting at his desk bending low over a large sheet of paper, with a pencil and ruler.

  “George?” I said to him.

  He lifted his head.

  There isn’t any Halloween mask half as scary as the face that looked up at me. It wasn’t misshapen or anything like that. It was perfectly in place, perfectly calm, and perfectly cold—like I could have been a perfect stranger, like I was one, in fact.

  “It’s me, George. Your wife,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Ellen.” He stood straight up, his chair rolling all the way back to the wall.

  “Just checking up on you,” I said, stepping in. “Mind if I sit
a minute?” There was another chair and I took a load off, my shopping bags on either side. “So. What are we working on?”

  He tried to explain. I tried to listen. When he was through I told him about shopping, how crowded, and about my taxi driver, some Arabian maniac, George meanwhile shooting little glances at the shopping bags. I wagged my finger at him, telling him Santa doesn’t like little boys who peek. He giggled, pulling his bony shoulders up around his ears, back to being George, my George.

  But there was that one moment.

  And do you know what worries me? Maybe it’s silly, but do you know what worries me? When I get up there and we finally meet again, I’m worried that he’ll look at me like that, like he did for that one moment, like I could be anybody. George, I’ll say to him, it’s me! Ellen! I made it! And he’ll nod, and smile politely, and fly off.

  My arm is back, and the tingling in the fingers is gone. I’m going back to bed. I don’t think I’m going to die tonight. But I’ll be there soon, George, I’m sure. Meanwhile, be happy, dear. But not completely.

  SAINT FRED

  One February morning in the last year that the Mass was said in Latin at Queen of Apostles parish, tiny, elderly Sister Alice Marie asked her eighth graders for a volunteer to fetch a pair of bookends from the library down the hall. She looked around at all the waving arms before finally pointing at someone.

  “Fred. You go.”

  Feeling special, Fred got up and headed out of the room, then down the dim hallway swinging his arms, enjoying the cool air of freedom while it lasted.

  The library was a very small one. Father Dillon was in there, alone, sitting at the table with a thin black book.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  “Close the door, Fred.”

  Fred closed it, explaining his mission.

  Father told him to sit down for a minute.

  Fred sat across from him, a cold spot in his stomach.

  Father closed his book and folded his hands over it. “I spoke with Father Rowley this morning. You’ve been serving six o’clock Mass for him this week, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Along with . . . Alex Koenig, is it?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Father nodded. Then he said, “Fred?”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “I would like you to recite the Confiteor for me.”

  Fred’s shoes filled with sweat. “Right now, Father?”

  “Would you do that for me please?”

  He couldn’t. He had never learned it. It was such a long prayer. But you said it with your head bowed all the way down, so you could just mumble until your partner was through. It was all Latin anyway and nobody knew what it meant except Father and God, and Fred was pretty sure God didn’t mind, not very much anyway, given some of the other things people did, murder for example.

  Father was waiting.

  Fred gave it a shot. He looked down and said quietly, “Confiteor deos,” and then began mumbling rapidly.

  “Stop.”

  He stopped.

  “Do you know what the word ‘confiteor’ means?” Father asked him.

  “No, Father.”

  “It means ‘I confess.’ Do you confess, Fred?”

  He looked up.

  Father leaned over the table toward him. “Do you confess to not knowing the Confiteor? To faking it? Faking the Confiteor? In front of the priest? In front of the congregation? In front of God? Do you?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Yes Father, what.”

  “Yes, Father, I confess.”

  Father drew back and studied him, his head to one side.

  Fred looked down again.

  Father said, “Do you have any idea what an honor, what a privilege, what a . . . sacred privilege it is to serve Holy Mass? Do you have any idea?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You do?”

  “No, Father.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t know, Father.”

  Fred heard him sigh, and looked up. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Father nodded. “I’m sorry too, Fred. I’m very sorry. But I’m afraid I have to tell you: I don’t think you’re worthy to serve Mass. Frankly, I don’t think you’re altar-boy material.”

  Fred began crying a little, surprising himself. For one thing, he was thirteen. Also, he didn’t really care very much about being an altar boy, especially the hours, and in fact he’d been wondering lately if there was something like an honorable discharge available. But the way Father told him he wasn’t altar-boy material made him feel like such a failure, not only as an altar boy but as a person, as a human being.

  “Father, I’ll learn it. I’ll memorize it. I promise.”

  Father shook his head no.

  “I promise, Father.”

  “I think you should go back to your room now,” Father told him, and opened his little book again.

  Fred sat there.

  “Go on,” Father told him without looking up.

  Fred got up and trudged to the door. But then he remembered. “Father, I’m supposed to bring back some bookends. Do you know where they are?”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Sister wanted them.”

  “Go on back, Fred.”

  Something rose up inside of him. “She sent me here to get them, Father. She picked me.”

  Father got up from his chair. “Return to your classroom. Now.”

  Fred’s legs felt wobbly but he stood his ground: “She chose me, Father.”

  Father smiled, sadly. “Sister doesn’t need any bookends, Fred. She didn’t choose you. I told her to send you here.”

  “She asked for a volunteer.”

  Father shook his head with that sad, insulting little smile. “She didn’t wish to embarrass you in front of the others, that’s all. She was just being kind. Go on back now. Go on.”

  He went back.

  Fred began noticing other things he faked besides the Confiteor.

  Little things.

  Drying the dishes, for example. His mother would wash and he would supposedly wipe, but not really: he would just make a few rapid passes with the dish towel and put the thing away, the plate or whatever, still wet. Or the fake way he cleaned his room, kicking stuff under the bed or into the closet. Or at school while Sister was explaining long division or the Trinity, he would sit there nodding his head as if he were actually listening. Or coming back after recess: limping, rolling his head around, eyes half closed, as if he’d been in six different fights out there, in case Jean Galloway happened to be looking. He even caught himself doing things to fake himself out. Drinking a bottle of strawberry pop, for example, he would give a phony “Ahhh” after every sip, to show himself how good it was, how much he was enjoying this delicious bottle of strawberry pop, which he was enjoying, but not that much.

  He began wondering if everything he did was fake.

  That was a scary thought. That was a very scary thought.

  He ended up turning to Jesus, the one person he knew he couldn’t fake out. Lord, help me try to be more sincere, that was his prayer throughout the day. And at night he would kneel on the floor beside his bed, raise his face, and spread his arms out wide, like someone in a holy card: Lord, help me, help me . . .

  He began going to confession every Saturday, always choosing Father Dillon’s box. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he would whisper into Father’s ear behind the grate. But by now he was getting to be so upright, honest, and sincere he didn’t have any sins to confess, mortal or venial. So he would mention faults, usually some little fake thing he caught himself doing, some little leftover phoniness: “Father, I was playing touch football and caught a pass and threw myself on the ground to make it look like a diving catch and then I kept rolling over and over.”

  Father would sigh, knowing who it was by now.

  “I think I rolled over three times, Father, possibly four.”

 
Father would tell him to go in peace and slide shut the little window, hard.

  One night, sure enough, Jesus appeared in his room, holding up two fingers, smiling gently. Fred knew this was only his imagination, but he also knew Jesus was helping him imagine, inspiring him. So he listened carefully.

  Hello, Fred.

  Hello, Jesus.

  Congratulations on the way you’ve turned yourself around.

  Thank you, Lord.

  Keep up the good work.

  I will, Lord. You know I will.

  Attaboy. The other thing I came to say, I want you back serving Mass. You’re definitely altar-boy material now, in fact almost priest material. So I want you to go see Father Dillon. Tell him Jesus sent you.

  He won’t believe me.

  Probably not.

  He doesn’t like me very much, Lord.

  I’ve noticed that.

  He thinks I’m a fake.

  He’s jealous, Fred.

  Of me, Lord?

  Of your saintliness. It’s eating him up.

  Lord, I’m not a saint, not even close.

  Spoken like a true saint.

  “Father will see you now,” the squat little rectory lady told him, and stood by Father Dillon’s open door, her arm showing him in.

  Father was sitting behind a large, polished desk, nothing on it but a green blotter with shiny leather corners and a pen in a holder. His hands were folded on the blotter, his head to one side, with the little smirk he always had for Fred, as if he saw right through him, as if Fred amused him.

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  “What can I do for you, Fred?”

  “Father, I would like to get back into altar boys if I could. I think I’m ready now. I’ve memorized the Confiteor and . . . well, I’ve changed my ways, completely.”

  Father shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  That was quick.

  Fred continued standing there.

  Father asked him if there was anything else.

  “May I say something, Father?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Our Lord appeared to me last night.”

  “Is that right.”

  “He said I should try and get back into altar boys, that I should ask you about it.”