Songs in Ordinary Time

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “Jozia tells me you lost something and you think she stole it,” she said slowly as if to a child. “What did you lose, Sam?”

  He edged toward the back door. “Nothing,” he said. “She’s just trying to start trouble.” He waved his hand in disgust.

  Jozia’s face constricted over Helen’s head. “Yes he did, Miz LaChance. He said I stoled his bottle and I should tell him where I put it or else he was gonna kick my teeth in. And then he kicked the Hoover and then the bag fell off and I been all this time tryna get it back on right….”

  “Turn the feeb off,” he moaned and, opening the door, stumbled into the trapped heat of the back porch.

  “Crazy man! You crazy man!” Jozia spat over the safety of Helen’s shoulder.

  “Jozia!” Helen hissed, afraid someone would hear.

  “I don’t have to take that. I don’t have to take his mouth. No sir! I can work a lot of better places. A lot!”

  “Oh Jozia, please Jozia, just get back in,” Helen said. She leaned over the railing and called down shrilly, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m running away from home,” he called back and then, seeing Mrs. Clarke, their next-door neighbor, peeking out from her bedroom window, he bellowed, “That’s right. At the tender age of forty-eight, Samuel Fermoyle is running away to find fame and fortune and bright lights and horny broads, and anyone who wants to come along is sincerely invited.” He staggered down the driveway’s incline to the street, his right arm crooked at the end of an imaginary bindle and his other hand tipping an imaginary hat, first to Howard Menka hosing the Monsignor’s hubcaps, then to the three little Clarke girls, who cringed with giggles as their black terrier nipped after his frayed cuffs.

  “Come with me, Howard,” Sam called. “Lay down your hose and follow me…. Get out of here, common cur…. Put aside those menial tools, Howard, and follow me, you stupid son of a bitch.” His heedless voice streamered behind as he crossed Main Street on his way to perform that most guarded of Helen’s rituals, her weekly descension into the Gut, where she collected the rents from her mother’s decrepit tenements.

  In the rectory dining room Monsignor Burke sat at the table, head bowed, hands clasped over his plate. “Amen,” he whispered, crossing himself, his eyes on the kitchen door. Because of graduation tonight, he was eating dinner early. His stomach growled at the smell of frying fish. Mrs. Kilpatrick had sent over trout her husband had caught. Well, not caught, really. Mr. Kilpatrick was a fish-and-game warden whose job it was to stock the lake with trout.

  The doorbell rang. A woman spoke; then Father Gannon spoke. The Monsignor winced. It was that god-awful pest, Mary Squire-man, president of the Sodality. Her husband owned Squireman’s Press, which printed the Sunday bulletins free of charge. “It’s just been too hot for a bake sale,” Mrs. Squireman was saying. “I just told Ann Brody we should wait for fall, but now that she’s treasurer all she cares about is being the best—”

  “Hey now, no back-stabbing!” Father Gannon cut her off. “Maybe we should get Ann Brody in here, too. That way it’d be an honest, face-to-face—”

  The office door banged shut and the Monsignor groaned. A catfight in the rectory, that’s all he needed. This new priest had no polish. His table manners were vile. Even freshly shaved, he had a coarse, swarthy look that embarrassed the Monsignor. As far as he could see, Gannon was a thug whose erratic personality veered between frantic intensity and cold distraction.

  The Monsignor tensed with the sound of flatware clanking and tinkling in the kitchen. Now came the scrape of metal as Mrs. Arkaday shook the sputtering fry pan back and forth over the burner. His mouth watered with the hot buttery smell. He was tired of late dinners, and sick calls in the middle of the night, and six a. m. Mass every single day. The Bishop had promised that this new curate would be as young and energetic and ambitious as his last curate, who was pastor now in Glens Falls. A young man could go places from here. Saint Mary’s could be a real springboard for a curate willing to pay his dues and learn the ropes.

  Mrs. Arkaday backed through the swinging door with the golden trout still sizzling on its bed of buttery rice. The glazed baby beets glistened like jewels.

  “Beautiful,” the Monsignor sighed. Mrs. Arkaday thanked him, then returned to the kitchen. At least he had an excellent housekeeper. He had eaten in other rectories and had seen how deeply the poorer quality of meals could affect morale. After he had eaten only a few forkfuls, he felt calmer and stronger. He picked the tender flesh carefully from the bones. He would be patient with this young priest. He would guide him. Management, he would tell him. That’s what it took. And a good ear. Nodding, he chewed thoughtfully, his rapturous gaze on the plate. He would explain that it takes more than prayer. Today’s clerics needed a pious heart and an astute mind. He had petitioned the Bishop for “a modern man, one burning with the zeal of reality.” There were roofs to repair, a parish hall to acquire, and he needed a practical man. He rolled his eyes at the thought of that ascetic he’d had six years ago, Father Kaminski, who yearned for sainthood. Almost starved himself to death. Wore long woolen underwear in the summer and wept shamelessly in the confessional.

  Mrs. Arkaday returned now with the second trout on a blue platter. It took only a gesture of his fork for her to slide the fish onto his plate. Still chewing, he lifted his napkin to his mouth and delicately extricated two sharp bones. Just then there was a loud bang outside the kitchen door that startled them both.

  “Howard,” he said, shaking his head. There was another bang. Now, suddenly, the rectory, indeed the entire street, quaked with racket.

  The Monsignor blinked with wide wet eyes as Mrs. Arkaday rushed into the kitchen. He clutched his throat, gagging on the bone embedded in his gullet. As the commotion intensified, Mrs. Arkaday’s voice rose angrily from the kitchen.

  I am dying, the Monsignor thought, staring up at the dolorous face that stared back from the crucifix. Your faithful servant chokes to death, and you do nothing! Damn you! Help me! Just then he felt the bone pop, then slide painfully free, and he was not grateful but angry now. Indignant.

  “What is it?” he panted as Mrs. Arkaday hurried back into the dining room.

  “It’s just Grondine Carson’s truck. He’s stopped in front of the Fermoyles’.” She peered out the window. “But that banging noise,” she said, pointing toward the driveway. “It’s Howard. From the way the garage door’s shaking, I think he’s inside kicking it.”

  Norman Fermoyle ran into town hall and up the marble steps to the second floor, where a janitor dozed in a chair. Norm nudged him and asked where Mr. Greene’s office was. “I have to see him about a job,” he added nervously. He had left the car double-parked, with Donna Creller inside waiting for him.

  “Street Department’s there,” the janitor said, pointing across the hall at one door. “But Greene’s in there with the Recreation Department.” He pointed to the adjacent door, and Norm hesitated between them. “Better wait in there, though,” the janitor said, nodding at the first door. “All hell’s gonna break loose.”

  Once inside, Norm sat in the chair by the door. From the next office came a buzz of voices. He picked lint from his pants, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it across the room. Then he retied both shoes. He cracked his knuckles. After five minutes had passed, he got up to examine the map on the wall. Red and yellow pins had been stuck into various streets on the map. He smiled, imagining the chaos of fleets of trucks rumbling into the wrong neighborhoods, their crews leaping out, jackhammers biting huge chunks from all the wrong roads and sidewalks. Idly, he ran his finger down the map to the lot that his grandmother’s house stood on and, there, stuck a large red pin.

  The voices grew louder in the next office. He stepped quickly from the map and turned to the pictures hanging on the wall behind Mr. Greene’s desk. The subject in all these photographs was Mr. Greene, leading his band. From the next office now came Mr. Greene’s irritated voice. “Every year for sixty-two years, the conduc
tors have been able to pick out their own music. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why this year has to be any different.”

  “We just told you!” someone said. “Because we don’t want any more fiascoes like last year.”

  “Then close down that popcorn shack and you won’t!” Mr. Greene said. “The problem isn’t my music, and we all damn well know it! The problem’s Joey Seldon!”

  “No, Jard, it’s the kids. They’re getting restless!” someone replied.

  “It’s the thugs that’re restless!” Greene declared. “So is that what we’ve come to? You want me to pander to thugs?”

  “Jard’s right,” came another voice. “What we need are more cops patrolling the concerts. That’ll put an end—”

  A gavel was rapping.

  “That’s not the issue here!” piped a woman’s high, firm voice. “Here, these are some of the songs the committee’s chosen.”

  Norm could hear papers being passed around. He looked at the clock. He’d been here twenty minutes. He went to the window and looked down at the dented, dusty roof of his mother’s car. Jesus, Donna Creller was waving and hollering out the car window to a group of girls walking along with ice cream cones. He cringed as one of the girls came up to the car and gave Donna a lick of her cone. Damn it, he knew those girls. He should have parked in the lot behind town hall. Not only was Donna Creller a flaming beast; she was only fourteen years old. Weeb knew her from mowing her family’s lawn. He said the trick was to close your eyes the whole time and just keep thinking it was Sandra Dee. But Weeb had made the mistake of telling everyone and now he’d been lost in the shuffle. Every day at three, Holy Innocents was crawling with high school guys all wanting a crack at the fabled Donna. Norm had thought he had everything planned perfectly, but now Greene’s being this late was fouling him up. Donna’s mother worked at the library until five, so now he only had an hour left. Plus, he had to get ready for Alice’s graduation tonight.

  The voices next door rose heatedly.

  “I won’t do it!” insisted Jarden Greene. “A conductor needs license. He needs artistic freedom!”

  “Cripe,” groaned a deep voice that Norm recognized as the mayor’s. “All we’re asking is for you to pep it up a little, Jard. You know, change with the times.”

  “You’re asking me to pander!” cried Greene.

  “No, goddamn it!” the mayor roared. “I’m telling you to quit playing the same boring crap you been playing for the last six years!”

  A door slammed, then voices rose as the gavel banged.

  “Way to go, Greenie!” the janitor called after the hard little footsteps clicking down the marble hall. The door flew open and in stormed Jarden Greene, hands clenched tightly at his sides, his thin mustache quivering over his lip. Norm had never realized how tiny Greene was, until now.

  Greene’s eyes narrowed on him. “What do you want?”

  “I’m supposed to see you about a laborer’s job, Mr. Greene? For the summer?”

  Greene kept staring as if to place him. “You ever work on a town crew before?”

  “No sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, sir.”

  “Who sent you up here?”

  “The town clerk, sir. Mr. Sheets. My uncle, Renie LaChance, asked him if I could have a summer job, and he said you’d—”

  “Oh yes,” Green interrupted. “Sam Fermoyle’s boy.”

  “Yes sir,” Norm said, determined not to take his eyes off Greene.

  “Your father was on one of my crews for a time,” said Greene. “For a very brief time.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that, sir,” Norm lied.

  Greene sighed. “I’m going to put it to you straight, Fermoyle. It shouldn’t be this way, but in the end it all comes down to politics. I pretty much have to hire whatever walks through that door if the town clerk sends him up. Which is how your father got hired.”

  Norm did not even blink.

  “The thing is,” Greene continued, “Sheets can get you on, but once you’re on, I’m the boss, and I run a tight ship in this department, young man.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir,”

  “No six-man crews in my department to do the job of one man.”

  “No sir,” Norm said, rubbing his nose to hide the smirk.

  “Like I said, I’m putting it to you straight, now, Fermoyle, because I shoot straight, and I shoot from the hip.” He looked at Norm, hard. “Your father screwed me bad once. Took off with one of my trucks up to Burlington, and when he came back three days later, he couldn’t remember where he’d left it. You’re not like him, you don’t drink, do you?”

  Norm’s mouth fell open. The little prick…for a moment he thought he’d said it aloud.

  “I’m sorry it had to be said, but I’m that kind. I lay my cards right out.”

  “Yes sir, you sure do.”

  Greene smiled. “I like your spunk, young man. You got a straightforward way and I like that.” He held out his hand. “This Monday, then! Eight sharp at the town barns.”

  Norm looked down at the extended hand and put his own in his pocket. He smiled. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Greene. I’m going to think it over, and if nothing better comes along, maybe I’ll be there Monday.”

  Greene’s pinched expression might have been satisfaction enough, but not for Norman Fermoyle. Jarden Greene would pay for this. Norm left the office and ran down the hallway, taking the steps two at a time. Greene could shove it! Uncle Renie could shove it! And if his mother didn’t like it, she could shove it too. The whole goddamn friggin’ world could shove it. He ran along the sidewalk and jumped into the car, where the beastly Donna Creller opened her mouth, glinting with braces, and started whining about how hot she was and how she was so thirsty she could die. He leaped out, opened her door, and pulled her onto the sidewalk, and then he reached onto the seat for her lunchbox, which he threw at her, then jumped back inside the car and peeled into traffic, all without a word, because in his skull there was this scream, this piercing scream.

  Sam Fermoyle came along West Street. At five o’clock the day was hot and still sunny, though everything seemed smeared with a watery blur. He kept blinking to clear his eyes and now he rubbed his nose. It was in the air, all right, a stink that turned his stomach. He stopped in front of the post office to uncap the half pint of gin he’d bought three blocks back. One more long swallow and the bottle was empty. “Shit,” he muttered, holding it up to be sure. “Shit.”

  A woman in a yellow sundress came toward him, then veered quickly off the sidewalk. She walked in the street.

  “Sealed with a kiss,” he muttered, opening the mailbox. The bottle fell inside with a hollow clunk. He patted his pockets, which bulged with the week’s rents from ten of the twelve apartments his mother owned…or Helen owned…he didn’t know who owned what anymore…it was confusing. He had collected one hundred fifty-one dollars. Most of the tenants hadn’t wanted to pay him; they were afraid of Helen. But in the end, to get rid of him, they had all paid as long as they got receipts. “Poor bastards,” he muttered, sniffing his armpit, thinking that must be the stink: the squalor had soiled him. He squinted ahead, suddenly indignant. Those apartments were nothing more than hovels: broken railings on the stairs, no window screens, toilets that had to be plunged with each crap. Helen didn’t put a penny back into the properties. One older woman had told him that his mother had been kind, but his sister, Helen, was a viper. He had marked the old woman’s rent receipt paid up through the summer, and he had promised to get her stove working again. And he meant it. He did. Somehow. Someday. One way or another. A stab of fear lodged between his shoulder blades. The last time he’d screwed around with Helen’s rents she’d had him carted off to dry out in Waterbury, the state hospital. But this time he was going to give her the money. Most of it, anyway. All he’d wanted was a few bucks, he’d tell her. If she’d just give him a few bucks when he needed it, if she’d just let him run his own life…He’d onl
y done this to prove a point, that was all. That was the main reason. Principle. Sometimes it was just a fucking matter of fucking principle. The important thing was to believe in yourself…to believe yourself…or something like that. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, then crossed Merchants Row, placing one foot directly in front of the other in a rigid gait that by the opposite curbside had deteriorated into a dizzy reel. Heading straight for the signpost, he caught himself, then took a cautious step onto the curb. By the time he got to Hammie’s Bar and Grill, his eyes were sun-blind and raw, his head boiled with heat, and his thirst had become a need so palpable, so beyond his will, it seemed to emerge from his throat of its own accord, unslakable and pulsating, sucking him into this soothing darkness of beer-slicked wood and men’s smoky voices.

  “Jesus Christ,” someone groaned as the door closed.

  All he could see were the amber lights around the cut-glass mirror that glinted with bottles. He raised a hand in blind greeting.

  “No trouble, now you got that, Sam?”

  “No trouble,” he said. “Honest, Hammie. No more fuckin’ trouble.”

  He could barely make them out. Their backs were turned. Their indifference angered him. He knew just about every single man here, had bought them drinks, had poured out his heart to them. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, feeling his way through the tables to the bar. All the stools were taken, so he stood at the end. “Shot and a beer,” he told Hammie with a nod.

  Hammie held out his hand; Sam put a dollar in it. Hammie put that into his pocket and held out his hand again. “And twenty more for the plumber.”

  “The plumber?” Sam peered up at Hammie’s sagging jowls.

  “For the toilet you broke.”

  “Oh my God,” Sam said, laying two wrinkled tens in the soft padding of Hammie’s palm. “Don’t tell me I ripped the fuckin’ hopper off the floor.” He turned and looked at the other men. “My brute strength. Can you believe it?” He grinned, but no one looked at him.