One Year

by Mary McDonough

  “What are you doing over here in the corner?”

  Alexis smiled at her husband. “Looking at St. Patrick. Why are there shamrocks on his robe? Decoration?”

  The shamrock, PJ told her, was the tool with which St. Patrick taught the heathen the concept of the Holy Trinity. “Three leaves comprising one leaf. Three people or aspects comprising one God.”

  “Clever. And the staff?” Alexis asked.

  “The staff was what he used to drive away the snakes plaguing the land,” PJ explained. “Though some say it’s actually a walking stick. It has something to do with his evangelical work, but I can’t remember what.”

  Alexis turned away from the statue. “But is it all real?” she asked. “Did he really drive the snakes out of Ireland?”

  PJ shrugged. “I don’t think it matters if he did or he didn’t. People like to believe that he did. The belief is what matters. The meanings behind the stories.”

  “But what was so bad about the snakes?”

  “Maybe they were poisonous. And remember, snakes are a symbol for evil. Maybe there were no actual snakes. Maybe the snakes are meant to represent the old heathen beliefs.”

  “Right. The Garden of Eden and Satan in the form of the snake. Well, I guess it does make for a good story. Maybe not as good as Snakes on a Plane . . .”

  PJ laughed. “Don’t let Grandmother hear you! Good ol’ St. Pat is one of her favorites.”

  Mary Bernadette announced that dinner was served. They gathered in the dining room and took their seats at the table, Mary Bernadette at one end and Paddy at the other; Jeannette to Paddy’s right and Danny next to her; Alexis to Paddy’s left and PJ next to her. Mary Bernadette had put out the good plates and the good silver and the good crystal. Underneath it all she had laid a beautiful cream lace cloth over a plain white cloth. Two tall, white candles framed a low centerpiece of mini green hydrangeas and pale orange roses. Mary Bernadette had explained that the candles were not to be lit for fear that wax might drip onto the fine cloths beneath.

  Paddy said the grace and Mary Bernadette gave a toast to PJ and Alexis on their first anniversary as husband and wife. It was not as good as going to Charleston, but it was something. Besides, PJ’s mother and father had sent a lovely card and a bouquet of white roses, and her own parents had sent a card with a generous check.

  This evening Mary Bernadette had prepared a traditional meal of corned beef and cabbage. Alexis loathed corned beef and barely tolerated cabbage, but under Mary Bernadette’s watchful eye she ate what she could. At least there was soda bread. Alexis was in love with Mary Bernadette’s soda bread.

  After the dinner plates had been cleared, and before dessert was brought in, Danny, who had a beautiful tenor voice, sang a few old Irish songs. Halfway through “Danny Boy,” tears were pouring down Alexis’s cheeks. She dabbed at her face with her napkin and pushed away untouched the small glass of Jameson that Paddy had poured.

  “My wife’s Irish is showing,” PJ said to the others at the table. Alexis shot a look to PJ as she pointed to her full glass, only to be interrupted by Mary Bernadette.

  “You know I don’t care for stereotyping, PJ,” Mary Bernadette scolded. “That the Irish are too fond of their liquor. That they’re always ready to brawl. That they’re maudlin fools.”

  “Oh, Grandmother, I was only joking.” PJ got up and went to the head of the table, where he placated his grandmother with a hug and a kiss.

  Mary Bernadette disengaged herself from her grandson and rose from her seat at the table. “Jeannette and I will get dessert now,” she announced.

  PJ sat next to Alexis again, and while Paddy and Danny talked quietly together, he said, somewhat sheepishly, “I’m sorry I said that, about your Irish showing. I didn’t mean anything negative by it, really. And I’m sorry that I don’t have an anniversary gift for you. The trip to Charleston was going to be my gift. But then Grandmother said she wanted us here and things are so busy at work, and I didn’t get around to shopping.”

  Alexis tried to smile. She felt a headache coming on, either from the whiskey or the corned beef. What was corned beef, anyway ? “It’s okay,” she said.

  “We can go into Westminster this weekend if you want. There are lots of nice shops there, and you can pick out something special.”

  Alexis looked down at the two layers of tablecloths and thought of the care PJ had put into her birthday gift last November. He had given her a very high-quality edition of the collected works of Vermeer, one of her favorite painters. And then there had been the wonderful Christmas gift of the Adrienne Jonas photo. And then she thought about how his Valentine’s gift had been chosen by Mary Bernadette. And now there was no anniversary gift at all, once again because his grandmother had intervened. And had Mary Bernadette even considered the deposit they had lost by canceling their reservation?

  Alexis lifted her head and, perversely, she found herself telling her husband that it didn’t matter that he had neglected to buy her a gift. “Besides,” she said, “we should save our money so that we can buy a house of our own one day.”

  PJ smiled. “Or build onto the cottage. There’s almost two acres out back, plenty of room to expand, especially when we start a family.”

  Alexis decided that this was not the moment to argue about moving out of the cottage. She thought of Maureen then, for no reason she could identify. “Too bad Maureen isn’t here tonight,” she said.

  PJ looked surprised. “Why? I didn’t think you really knew her.”

  “I don’t. We met in town a few weeks back. She seems nice.”

  “She is nice. I guess. Honestly, I don’t know much about her at all. Oh, except that she dated my father once.”

  “Really?” This surprised Alexis. “How do you know that?”

  “Grandmother mentioned it, years ago. The relationship didn’t last very long, though. My father broke it off.”

  “Huh. Does your mother know about it?” she asked.

  “I assume so. There was nothing to hide. No secret love child, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, of course not. It’s just interesting. Your mother seems so different from Maureen.”

  PJ laughed. “I think that’s what attracted Dad to her. Besides, he told me he always thought of Maureen as more of a sister than a girlfriend, and you don’t marry your sister.”

  “No, I guess not.” Alexis lowered her voice to a whisper. “PJ, when can we go home?”

  “Right after dessert.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course.”

  PJ joined the conversation between the other two men and Alexis busied herself refolding her linen napkin. She had little faith that they would be going home right after dessert. Her husband had broken a promise or two before. But it was all right. She got up from the table to get an aspirin from her bag.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mary Bernadette had decided to present the coffee that evening in the silver service she had inherited from her father’s sister, Catherine. Aunt Catherine had married well and, with no daughters of her own, had left her favorite niece a few good pieces of her accumulations, as well as her wedding band (now worn by Alexis). Mary Bernadette kept the coffeepot, creamer, and sugar bowl in sparkling shape, though she doubted that anyone else appreciated its beauty as she did.

  For dessert, she had assembled a trifle in a large Waterford crystal bowl. The layers of ladyfingers, red gelatin, custard, and canned fruit cocktail, all soaked in sherry and topped with hand-whipped cream, made for a special dessert on a special occasion. It was only too bad that the entire family wasn’t there to share it.

  “Where is Maureen this evening?” Mary Bernadette asked. “I thought we might see her here. She knows that she’s always welcome.”

  “At a party with some friends from her office,” Jeannette said. “They get together every year. It’s a nice group of people, Maureen says. And what about Pat and Megan?”

  Mary Bernadette frowned. “At home. I do
n’t understand why they didn’t come down to Oliver’s Well. It’s not like they had other plans. Pat told me they’re not even celebrating the holiday! Can you imagine?”

  Jeannette shrugged. “Well, it is the middle of the week, and both Pat and Megan work and the twins have school tomorrow.”

  “That’s not the point. How will David and Danica ever learn about their heritage if their parents don’t keep up the traditions ?”

  “I’m sure the twins know about St. Patrick’s Day. Doesn’t everybody? It’s not a holiday solely owned by the Irish, not anymore.”

  “If you mean, have the children seen those awful bits on TV with grown men in ridiculous leprechaun costumes eating cupcakes with green frosting and quaffing green beer, then, no, they do not know about St. Patrick’s Day!”

  “Well . . .”

  “You might have talked some sense into Pat, Jeannette. You are his godmother.”

  “You mean I should have made him feel guilty that he wasn’t coming to Oliver’s Well?” Jeannette laughed. “Mary, the nonsense you talk!”

  Mary Bernadette did not believe she had spoken nonsense, but she let the matter drop.

  “Is everything all right with Alexis?” Jeannette asked now.

  “Of course. Why would you ask?”

  “Oh, it’s just that she seems a bit—not her usual self today.”

  Mary Bernadette shook her head and busied herself with dessert plates and spoons. Really, Jeannette could be so melodramatic. If there was one thing Mary Bernadette was sure of, it was that her grandson and his wife were a happy young couple. Although she did have to wonder why Alexis wasn’t pregnant yet. Maybe there was a medical problem. Maybe, God forbid, they were using birth control. Mary Bernadette was intelligent enough to know that there were situations in which birth control might have its very good uses—in spite of what her beloved Church had to say—but a young, married couple, employed and with the full support of their family, had, in Mary Bernadette’s opinion, no business fiddling with it.

  “The coffee’s ready,” Jeannette announced. “I’ll carry it out.”

  Mary Bernadette picked up the bowl of trifle. “I’ll be sure to pour a nice, big cup for Alexis.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Mary Bernadette opened the door of her bedroom closet and removed a large black binder from the top shelf. It was the third volume of her clippings file, something she had been keeping since giving her first interview on behalf of the Oliver’s Well Historical Association thirty years earlier. She had served on the board for a few years at that point and was already considered a valuable part of the organization. That was not pride speaking. That was public fact. Since then, the Oliver’s Well Gazette had described her career with the OWHA as “illustrious” and “inspiring.”

  Mary Bernadette perched on the edge of the neatly made bed and opened the binder at random. Here was the article from a Lawrenceville paper, chronicling the occasion on which she had helped to facilitate the acquisition of the Spencer Homestead. And here was an article that described how she had generously acted as an unpaid advisor to the struggling historical society of a small town in Massachusetts. For two months she had spent countless hours on the phone with the members of the society, sharing her experience and offering advice on everything from preservation methods to garnering public support. Mary Bernadette chose another page from the binder. Here was a piece from the Gazette about the revival of the OWHA’s educational programs for children. It was by far the achievement of which she was the most proud. Currently, the OWHA offered a variety of workshops focused on the realities of childhood in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. Participants learned in a hands-on way about the games children played, the lessons they were taught at school, the essential skills they learned at home, the songs they sang in church. Mary Bernadette also believed strongly in laying bare the harsher aspects of life long ago. Those who led the workshops, all volunteers from the community, were schooled in the sobering statistics of child mortality, the plaguelike diseases that could decimate a settlement almost overnight, the dangers of childbirth in a culture without advanced medical knowledge, and of course the terrible realities of war.

  Grammar, middle, and high school classes from as far away as Lawrenceville and the even larger town of Nicholsborough came to Oliver’s Well for these workshops, which included visits to the town’s more important historical properties. In addition, for the past twelve summers, the OWHA had held a three-day camp during which children between the ages of twelve and fifteen had the opportunity to spend two nights in one of the homes on the historical register and live much as their ancestors had—eating the sort of meals they would have eaten, reading by candlelight, learning how to execute stitch work, tending to the family’s farm or gardens. All in all, the educational program was enormously popular as well as being fairly, if not hugely, lucrative.

  Mary Bernadette turned another page and ran a finger over a photographic image of the Wilson House, taken in the early twentieth century. She remembered as if it were yesterday the first time she had walked through the doors of the OWHA’s headquarters with the intention of putting herself forward as a candidate for membership on the board. Pat was fifteen at the time, busy with after-school sports and his studies. Grace was only seven, but she had always been terribly independent and was perfectly capable of walking to a friend’s house after classes to do her homework and wait for a parent to fetch her. Paddy, of course, had given his wife his full support.

  Her motives for joining had been twofold. She had seen membership in the OWHA as a way to further the family’s standing in Oliver’s Well, and she had a genuine interest in the preservation of the town that had been her home since shortly after coming to the United States. She had been interviewed by the current chairman and then elected to the board unanimously.

  Mary Bernadette flipped forward to a recent article and noted that she would soon need a fourth binder to allow the continued documentation of her career. Of course, the OWHA kept an official file at the Wilson House (currently, Anne was in charge of keeping it up to date), but Mary Bernadette’s file was private. She made it a point never to take it out unless she was alone in the house. She didn’t want her family to think that she was being vain, poring over articles in which her name appeared and her words were quoted. And then there were the photographs. She had always felt comfortable in front of a camera and was justifiably proud of several of the portraits that had appeared in newspapers and magazines over the years. Reviewing the file gave her a sense of accomplishment, and reminded her of why she bothered to work so devotedly for a cause that some unenlightened people might deem unimportant. And there was an added benefit to the documentation of her career. When she was dead and gone, the next generations of Fitzgibbons would have this treasury as something by which to remember her.

  The phone rang and Mary Bernadette put the binder back on the shelf in the closet before answering the extension in the hall.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Mary Bernadette sat at the little table on which the phone and a notepad and pencil rested. “Grace,” she said, “how good to hear from you.”

  She was immensely proud of having a daughter with a calling, especially in this day and age when it was regrettably rare. Still, it would have been nice if Grace could be stationed closer to home. It would have been nice if Grace had wanted to be stationed closer to home, but Grace seemed very happy to be working far away from the scene of her childhood. There were, she had said, so many people elsewhere that needed the help she could offer, whereas in prosperous Oliver’s Well, the most good she might affect was to point out to a stupid teen that texting while driving was not a good idea.

  “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  “You’re a busy woman. Still, it would be nice to hear from you more often.”

  Grace laughed. “Then you’ll agree to getting an e-mail account ?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You know, Mega
n and I communicate all the time via e-mail or text when we can’t carve out the time for the phone.”

  “Well, be that as it may . . .”

  “And how are the Klines?” Grace asked. “How’s Maureen?”

  Mercifully her daughter had dropped the topic of twitting and tweets and God knew what else. “Maureen is fine,” Mary Bernadette replied. “As far as I know. Certainly Jeannette hasn’t said anything to the contrary.”

  It was no great secret that Mary Bernadette had always thought of Maureen Kline as a model of daughterly devotion. When her own daughter had chosen a life as a Bride of Christ, Mary Bernadette had hoped that Megan would prove to be her Maureen. But that hope had been dashed long ago, and now her expectations were directed toward her grandson’s wife.

  “That’s good. And how’s Dad?” Grace asked.

  “Your father is fine.”

  “Good,” Grace said. “Tell him I said hello.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way you might make it home for Easter?”

  “Unlikely, Mom. Duty above all—you taught me that.”

  “Of course. Idleness is the fool’s desire.”

  Grace laughed. “Well, I have to admit there are moments when I’d welcome a little idleness, but that’s another conversation. So, how’s everything with the OWHA?”

  “Excellent. Alexis is finally showing some real interest. She led one of our most popular tours recently, and she’s involved in an important photography project.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Any pitter-patter of tiny feet in the offing?”

  Mary Bernadette, who had been wondering about the same thing, pretended indifference. “I certainly have no idea when PJ and his wife are planning to start their family,” she said. “And I certainly have no plan to ask them.”

  “Well, they’re young. They have plenty of time. I hope they have some real fun before becoming parents. Live it up a bit. Maybe travel to some place exotic. Alexis has been abroad, hasn’t she?”