Come Sunday: A Novel

by Isla Morley

  COME

  SUNDAY

  COME

  SUNDAY

  ISLA MORLEY

  SARAH CRICHTON BOOKS

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  New York

  SARAH CRICHTON BOOKS

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  18 West 18th Street, New York 10011

  Copyright © 2009 by Isla Morley

  All rights reserved

  Distributed in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First edition, 2009

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from “Come Sunday” by Duke Ellington, copyright © 1966 (renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Morley, Isla.

  Come Sunday / by Isla Morley. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “Sarah Crichton Books.”

  ISBN-13: 978-0-374-12687-2 (alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-374-12687-9 (alk. paper)

  1. Daughters—Death—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Bereavement—Fiction. 4. South Africa—Fiction. 5. Honolulu (Hawaii)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.O75518C66 2008

  813'.6—dc22

  2008038829

  Designed by Gretchen Achilles

  [http://www.fsgbooks.com] www.fsgbooks.com

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  TO BOB AND EMILY

  GOOD

  FRIDAY

  ONE

  A bad sign, my grandmother would have muttered, looking heavenward. She would not have had to say another thing and Beauty, nodding, would have taken off her apron and her starched doek covering her peppercorn curls and headed out the back door into the African night with its sick moon. The Cape veldt was different at night, alive with the wild smell of fynbos; a thing with its own heartbeat, its own snorts and threats. Children were called in from its heat at dusk, long before the earth cooled and its worn paths began to vibrate with the invisible steps of the ancestors and the menacing Tokoloshe, long before the moon would rise over the kopjes in the east. But under a bad moon, no one went in the veldt—not even the ancestral spirits. Only a sangoma, a witch doctor, whose magic her old white madam had come to rely on. Beauty Masinama, grounded in the tradition of the Ndebele nation, knew all about lunar tidings. My grandmother, a woman whose superstitions grew up in the crack between her Christian faith and the lore of her Scottish ancestry, knew about them too.

  Beauty would have walked into the bush with measured haste, to the foot of the kopje over which the sickly moon rose, to the source of her muti, her medicine. Tracing her steps back to the farmhouse before the moon had completed its arc, pigskin bag filled with twigs and rocks and bones and feathers rattling with each step, Beauty would have chanted a liturgy as ancient as the hills themselves. Only after she had laid out her wares in an elaborate tapestry on the back porch and kindled the blood of the long-deceased with her invocation under the moon gone bad would she go into the madam’s room with her early-morning tea tray and reassuring, toothless smile: all would be well. Maybe.

  IN AFRICA THERE are good moons and bad moons—moons that foretell of bounty and fortune: the long-awaited birth of a chief, a wedding, a visit from relatives, rain. Eclipsed moons, yellow moons, upside-down sickle moons are bad—famine, crop failure, war, sickness. Moons with gossamer halos—nooses, the sangomas call them—mean only one thing: death. People in Africa will go to great lengths to stem the doom of a bad moon. But here in Honolulu, a half spin on its axis, the world is bright with fluorescent bulbs and can barely be bothered to look up.

  It is a cool night and the heavy clouds are spilling over the mountain behind us, right on schedule. Solly is eager to go back inside, forgoing his leisurely round of leg-lifting for a quick pee against Mrs. Chung’s mailbox. Attaboy. I look up once more at the moon and its ring before both are blanketed with clouds, and feel a twitch of foreboding and a longing for one of Beauty’s spells.

  I WAKE UP to a stiff neck and a throat that feels like it has dry ice stuck in it. Every inhale sears my throat and I quite expect steam to come billowing out my nose on each exhale. My left eardrum pounds and I can hear, for brief moments, the sound of blood flowing in my head. Just then Cleo marches into my bedroom and snaps to attention next to my side of the bed. “Mommy,” she orders, “put this on!” “This” happens to be her purple bathing suit, an item decidedly inappropriate for a spring morning, chilly by Hawaii standards.

  “Darling,” I croak, squinting through puffy morning eyelids still crusty with sleep, “don’t you think it’s too cold to wear that?”

  “PUT IT ON!” she commands.

  “Let me get up; hold on a moment,” I say, knowing that this is a battle I do not have the stamina to win.

  “Put it on, put it on, putitonputitonputiton!”

  “Please!” I swivel around and glare down at her, totally awake. “Do NOT start whining.”

  “Can you put it on?” she persists, and I wonder whether three-year-olds have selective hearing like the husbands of naggy old women.

  I shiver barefoot, hold out her bathing suit so she can slip one foot in one hole, then the other, and try not to feel as though my watermelon head is about to roll off its stand. Before I can pull the straps up over her shoulders, she yanks them out of my hands. “I can do it!” she insists.

  “Fine,” I say, and reach for my robe. One foot finds the slipper. “Goddammit, Solly,” I hiss, because instead of bunny fluff there is only the soggy mess of an indoor dog’s sacrificial kill.

  “Mommy!” Cleo reprimands. “You took the Lord’s name again.”

  “Don’t tell your father,” I grunt.

  When I get downstairs, Greg is still asleep on the couch and I roll my eyes for the benefit of the unseen entities that may or may not inhabit the lonely spaces of my house. Today is Thursday, the last day of my vacation, and I am not looking forward to returning to the world of editorial deadlines. I feel the resentment rise like bile: for just one morning I would like Greg to be the one to drag his tail out of bed and hup-hup-hup to Cleo’s endless list of orders. I bang the microwave door on purpose and he wakes up and says, “Huh, what?”

  The hammering sound coming down the staircase is Cleo in my silver high heels, which were in fashion the last time they saw the light of day, possibly last century, and the pounding on the parquet floors makes Greg frown and rub his brow. “Cleo,” he calls.

  “Morning, Daddy,” she coos.

  “Cleo, do you think you can take Mommy’s shoes off for now?”

  “Will it wake the neighbors?” she asks.

  “Yes, it might,” he answers. “It woke me up and it will most certainly wake up the cat.”

  She grins sadistically as she spots Pilgrim curled up on the rocking chair, in hibernation mode. She thuds over to him, more determined than ever to keep the heels on, and says, “Pilgrim! Wake up!” and then she roars at him and the poor feline lunges past her before she can grab him. I place a warm mug of milk at her place at the table and fix my own cup of tea and a slice of toast.

  “Did you hear the thunder last night?” Greg asks.

  I shake my head in reply. “But I saw the bad moon before we went to bed.”

  “It started about one o’clock,” he continues, ignoring my comment. Greg doesn’t like it when Africa seeps through me, as though he were a missionary watching his converts go native. “I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I stayed up for a while. Bet there were flash floods down in the valley,” he says, passing me on his way to the refrigerator.

  “Got your fingers crossed?” He means about the
new garage roof and its first test. I nod.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I point to my throat.

  “Oh, you got it now,” he says. I am the last one to get a cold, having nursed Greg and Cleo through theirs for the past two weeks. “That’s terrible,” he says, and fixes himself a bowl of cereal. I look at him while he sets his bowl down and empties the last of the orange juice into a coffee mug.

  “What?” he says, looking up and seeing me stare at him. “Did you want some?” Before I have a chance to nod, Cleo is back with a pair of dirty pajamas from the laundry room.

  “Mommy, put this on,” she says, already tugging at her bathing suit straps.

  “No,” I say, “those are dirty. I didn’t wash them yesterday.”

  “But they are clean,” she argues, and thrusts them toward me.

  “Cleo, they are dirty and they are your pajamas; you don’t wear them during the day.”

  “Put them on!” she insists.

  “Look,” I say, pointing to the front of the shirt, “those are yucky, dirty stains; and smell that. See, it’s stinky too.”

  “I don’t smell anything. I like these.”

  “No,” I say, wondering why it is that I am debating with a toddler. In the half-breath interval it takes for her to whiplash her head and convulse her body as though it had just received an enormous electrical pulse, I think, What am I doing wrong? Are we too lenient with her? Is she becoming the typical precocious preacher’s kid? How do you insist the Fifth Commandment be complied with by a child who requests her own time-out? I hate myself the instant I listen to the voices of the women’s church auxiliary take up their seats in my head and with downturned mouths say, And she’s the minister’s child! It’s because the mother was raised in Africa, by the natives, you know.

  “But I like them!” Cleo cries, and, quick as a leak, big tears plop over her eyelids and land on her chin. My goodness, but the passions do run deep in this one.

  I take a deep breath while Greg’s contribution to the kitchen debacle is his usual halfhearted, exasperated “Cleo!” to which she seldom responds.

  “Look,” I say, trying to find the compromise, “you can wear pajamas today if you want to. Just not these.” And then, in the familiar parlance of preschoolers, I say, “They’re so stinky they will make you puke!” and wrinkle my nose.

  It works. She smiles conspiratorially, “Puke! Ugh! They are so stinky they will make me poop!” And then she laughs mischievously because she hopes to get away with saying her favorite word without its permissible context of the bathroom. We go upstairs while my tea gets cold and undertake the laborious task of choosing just the right pajamas for the day. She decides on the ones that are too small for her, the pair I forgot to take out of her closet and put in the Goodwill box. But I cannot object again. So she squeezes into the shirt with the sleeves that come up to her elbows and the pants that are now pedal pushers. My old pair of pantyhose pulled over her springy blond curls passes for a wig and the pink purse clutched under her armpit completes the ensemble.

  “I’m ready, Mommy,” she says. “Where are we going today?”

  “How about to the table so we can have breakfast?” I suggest.

  “I had breakfast already.”

  “What did you have?”

  She mouths something inaudible, which is a sure sign that I will disapprove.

  “What?”

  “Mints,” she whispers, and I follow her eyes to the empty box of Tic Tacs on her bedside table.

  “You ate them all?” She nods. “Cleo, that’s not breakfast. You need to eat,” I say.

  “No I don’t!” is her reply as she waltzes out of the room, flinging one pantyhose leg over her shoulder.

  “I am going to lose it with this child, Greg,” I announce as I pin my whining daughter to her seat at the breakfast table. She immediately quiets and I feel her seal pup eyes, wide and dark, on me. Ignoring the tittle-tattle old ladies wagging their fingers and chanting, Not a good mother, I continue, “If she says ‘no’ to me one more time . . .” and I can’t finish. Then what? Then I will beat her the way your mother has been insisting we do since she was ten months old? Then I am going to throw the mounds of toys I have yet to pick up at you, you in your insulated world of Scripture readings and sermon notes? But none of the “thens” take into account that I have to face myself in the mirror each morning, so they turn to “whens,” as they usually do: when Cleo gets a little older she will be more cooperative; when Greg has more time he will be able to help a little more; when I start to feel better I will have more patience.

  “Let me handle this,” Greg offers. He puts down the paper and takes off his reading glasses and peers at Cleo, who will not look anywhere but at my face. She is inches away from crumpling like a discarded tissue, not liking it when her mommy is cross, which is too often these past months. I know she is scared, and for one delicious, sadistic moment I feel pleased at having the upper hand.

  “Cleo, listen to your mommy, okay?” instructs Greg with the kindness of a benevolent guru and a matching amount of detachment. She blinks and looks at her hands in her lap when I return her stare. “You have got to be nice to your mommy, sweet girl, okay? She’s not feeling well today.” She nods at him and he says, “Good!” and then to me, on a winning streak, “I have to leave pretty soon; what would you like for me to do?” It is a patient question, one anxious to redirect the squall. A question that elicits the opposite effect, stirring up the storm in my teacup.

  “I don’t know why I have to be a bloody thundercloud before anyone listens to me,” I say, taking quantum leaps that Greg has learned to follow. How quickly the insolence of a three-year-old can come to represent the civil disobedience of all humankind does not strike me as silly, and if it does Greg, his face does not betray him. I cannot simply say, “How about you fix her breakfast while I go take a bath,” which is what I know he can safely deal with. Greg chews on the corner of his lip because he knows he cannot say anything that will help, and takes a furtive look at his watch.

  “When did I become everyone’s flunky?” I continue, restacking the piles of dirty dishes. “Why is it I seem to spend all my time picking up after everyone else? Why is it that when I ask you and Cleo very nicely to put your stuff away and tell you that my tolerance for the debris in this house is reaching an apex, nobody listens? Nobody hears me, nobody answers me; if I didn’t know by looking in the mirror, I would think that I didn’t exist!” My throat is seared with the effort of a straining pitch.

  “I am sorry, Abbe. I’ll do better, I promise. I’m over the worst of this flu bug and have some energy to do my share around here.” As if doing his share is the answer to all the unnamed things that stand between us.

  He gets up and pulls me into his arms. “Come on, cheer up. When I come back from the office, I promise I will help clean up and do a load of laundry.”

  My tirade is not about to be petted back into its kennel. “But I thought you were going to take the day off.” I muffle away into his shirt and the smells of day-old cologne, and he hugs me tighter.

  “You’re right. Just let me make a few calls, then.”

  The words and fever drift away like the spray off easterly blown waves.

  We feel the clamp around our thighs as Cleo joins our embrace and all is forgiven. “Jesus says, ‘Love one another,’ ” she recites. And I rub her head and say, “That’s right, darling, and we love one another by being nice to each other.”

  “And kind,” she adds, the litany complete.

  “And kind,” I agree, seeing the little old church ladies vaporize.

  Cleo makes patterns on her place mat with the cereal I give her while I load the dishwasher. “You got plans for the day?” Greg asks.

  “I promised Mrs. Scribner I would take her to the hairdresser around eleven.”

  “You’re not required to do that, you know; it’s not in the Preacher’s Wife Manual, is it?”

  “That’s not why I
do it.”

  “I know, I know. You’re recruiting for the Abbe Deighton Lonely Hearts Club.”

  “Go ahead and mock me; see how funny it is when you are all alone one day with no one to listen to your clever ideas and laugh at your lame jokes. See how you like it when your idea of companionship is when the cable guy comes to sell you channels you don’t want.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to tell me something,” he jests.

  “I am being serious. It’s not just that she’s lonely; it’s that she’s treated like an outsider and I can’t stand that.”

  “Abbe, no one lets her in because she’s crazy and she smells bad.”

  “It’s not funny, Greg. She’s doing her best just to hang on; the least we can do is give her some small encouragement not to let go.”

  “ ‘We’ meaning me, you mean?” Suddenly Greg’s tone is defensive.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” I protest, although I do not think it would hurt Greg’s ratings, ailing as they are, to spend less time at the office and more time in the field, so to speak.

  “Okay, so I guess you don’t want me to call in sick for you?” he asks, and I shake my head. “All right, then. ‘The time has come, the Walrus said,’ ” he quotes, heading for the front door.

  “What walrus, Mommy?” asks Cleo.

  “Dad means he’s going to check whether our new roof kept the garage dry.”

  The two-car garage and workshop, up until a couple of days ago, functioned alternately as a cistern and a sieve, seldom as a dry shelter for the car. It has been patched so many times that instead of being flat it sagged in the middle so that the birds bathed atop while buckets were positioned beneath it. We made do with buckets until Greg had the gumption to ask his mother for a small loan to help pay for a new roof. He insisted it was a loan, but I am the one who pays the bills each month and who notices that there is never a little row of numbers on our bank statement we can theoretically call “savings,” or which can go toward reducing our indebtedness and my mother-in-law’s righteousness. We will not be able to pay her back the two thousand dollars for roofing materials, just as we have not been able to pay back the airplane tickets for the family get-together last Christmas or her contribution to the down payment on our house. Not unless the church decides to pay its minister a salary roughly comparable to that of a car dealer. Maybe that is what Greg should consider doing: trade in Jesus and start selling Jaguars to aging symphony supporters. Bet he would have more takers than he does now.