“Wait!” he called as she ran back inside the hotel. He took a step, then stopped, conscious now of Jimmy and Al Bibeau watching him. “Little cunt,” he growled, and they laughed.
“Monsignor, wake up! It’s Sam Fermoyle,” whispered Mrs. Arkaday, the rectory housekeeper. She glanced anxiously at the vestibule.
The Monsignor had fallen asleep over his chessboard. With a fitful snore he snuggled his face into the dark wing of the chair.
“You in there, Bubbles?” came Fermoyle’s voice from the other side of the door.
The Monsignor’s eyes flew open. He blinked and gripped the chair’s velvet arms at the hateful nickname of his drooling childhood.
“Come on out, Bubbles.”
“I don’t understand this, Mrs. Arkaday,” the Monsignor said irritably.
Mrs. Arkaday bristled at the sharp tone. “I told him you were asleep, and then he started to go upstairs.” She sniffed. “He said he wanted a room with a view.”
The Monsignor sighed and hefted himself from the chair. The gleaming parquet floors creaked underfoot. He was tired. Graduation had been too long; endless, like the Mass he said daily. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “And where’s Father Gannon?” he asked wearily. It had been just an hour ago that the president of the Holy Name Society had called, upset because at this morning’s breakfast meeting, Father Gannon had suggested that their Spring Dinner Dance profits be used to bring a poor Puerto Rican family from New York City to live in Atkinson. The Monsignor had tried his best not to lose his temper, but he ended up shouting at Father Gannon to “be realistic!” Father Gannon had stalked upstairs in the middle of his tirade.
“He said he was going to bed,” Mrs. Arkaday said, then stepped closer to confide, “but his radio’s playing and I can see the light on under the door.”
“Get him down here!” he ordered before he stepped into the hallway.
Fermoyle leaned against the front door. He grinned when he saw the Monsignor. “Hey, Bubbles, that was a great job you did tonight,” he said, holding out his hand to shake the Monsignor’s.
“Zip up your pants, for heaven’s sake, Sam!” The Monsignor turned away, his face purpling with revulsion, while Fermoyle swore and struggled with his zipper.
“Okay, Bubbles, you can look. The pecker’s gone now,” Sam laughed.
“What do you want, Sam?”
“I need some help. It’s my sister,” he said with a sudden sob.
“Sam, look—go home and sleep it off, and then we’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”
“But she won’t let me in!”
“She always lets you in, Sam. You know she will.”
“Not this time,” Sam cried. “She won’t!” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Sam, I’m very busy here tonight,” said the Monsignor, turning to his study door. “You go home and go to sleep and then…”
“Jesus, Bub, you’re not listening!” Sam exploded. “She won’t let me the hell in my own house!”
The Monsignor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Why not, Sam?”
Sam looked at him. He opened his eyes wide and drew back indignantly. “All I did was use the rents to buy Alice a present. And the reason I did that’s because she steals my money, Monsignor.” Sam shook his head sadly. “My sister’s a thief! She’s a common, fucking thief! Now I could report this to the police, but first I wanna give you a chance to talk to her.”
“Helen?” he asked softly, stalling for time. He glanced up the stairs. Where was Father Gannon?
Sam nodded. “Yes, Saint Helen with all my money in her underpants. You don’t know the shit I have to put up with! Talk about being on the dole, she doles me out haircut money, aspirin money, laxative money, newspaper money….” Sam took a step, teetering close to the Monsignor. “Wanna hear something? If I want some new socks, I gotta show her the old ones with holes before she’ll give me fifty fucking cents for some new ones.” Sam laughed bitterly. “Almost as bad as being a priest, huh?”
Father Gannon was coming down the stairs. He kept his hand in the pocket that contained the letter he had been writing to Bishop O’Rourke when Mrs. Arkaday called him down here. At the bottom of the stairs, Sam Fermoyle smiled, then threw his arm around the young priest’s shoulder.
“Hey, Bub, I remember when you were a young piss-ant like this guy. Every time you gave a sermon, your face got red and your voice’d get all high and screechy like an old…”
“You can take over from here, Father?” the Monsignor said sourly. “Good night, Sam.” He slipped into his study.
Fermoyle slumped onto the mahogany bench below the staircase. He folded his arms and crossed his legs, as if settling in for a long stay. Father Gannon leaned against the curved balustrade, his thoughts still jumbled with phrases from his letter. The last sentence bothered him. He had written: “There are too many reasons to write of here.” That sounded childish. Now it came to him! He took his pen and paper from his pocket, crossed out the last line and wrote, “The reasons are too many and too compelling to list in a letter.”
Just then Fermoyle broke wind. “You’re excused,” he said solemnly to the young priest.
Father Gannon folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. “Have you tried AA, Mr. Fermoyle?”
Fermoyle chuckled. His eyes were closed; his chin lay on his chest.
“They’ve helped thousands of men like you, Mr. Fermoyle.”
Sam raised his hand to reply, then shook his head as the hand sank over the arm of the bench.
“I could call them for you right now.” Father Gannon sighed. He wasn’t up to this, not tonight.
“Bubbles coming back?” Fermoyle muttered.
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s a horse’s ass, you know.” Fermoyle looked up at him.
“He’s very dedicated,” Father Gannon said dutifully.
“A dedicated horse’s ass, then.” Fermoyle shrugged and burped. “But tha’s okay. Don’t get me wrong; we all got tricks. ’Cept I don’t like it when a horse’s ass starts believing his own tricks.” He looked up expectantly. “I’m a horse’s ass, too.” He smiled. “But I don’t believe my own tricks,” he said in a ragged whisper that startled Father Gannon.
Fermoyle was on his feet, moving unsteadily toward the front door. “Thanks for nothing, Father Piss-ant, and tell Bubbles not to worry, I’ll be back!”
Father Gannon trudged upstairs and flopped down on his hard bed. Mrs. Arkaday had turned off his radio and the lights. From the bathroom across the hall came the sounds of water splashing into the sink and the Monsignor’s explosive gargling. He lay with his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling as the Monsignor grunted and groaned. The toilet flushed. The light switch clicked, and past his door padded the Monsignor’s velour slippers.
His eyes widened. He should have gone after Fermoyle. He should get out of bed and write his letter. He should pray. His arms grew so numb he could not move. He would lie forever in austere rooms, listening to the intimate sounds of strangers, all the while waiting for the ring of a phone or a knock at the door. His superiors had cast him aside. They would forget him here. He would grow fat and pale, and every Sunday at noon he would giddily lock the study door, his fingers trembling as they stacked the quarters and lovingly smoothed out the dollar bills.
The night had grown cooler. Still dressed, the young priest was dreaming now, dreaming of blankets, a rainbow of blankets piled to the sky, enough blankets for the hundreds and hundreds of people waiting in line. The line stretched for blocks. They waited quietly and patiently. They were accustomed to waiting.
One young woman in the middle of the line began to cry. She lay down on the sidewalk and wept, her body trembling with the cold. “It’s too late,” she sobbed. “No, no,” he tried to placate her, but she would not stop, and soon the crowd took up her cry. “It’s too late!” they chanted and began to step from line, milling into sullen clumps. “It’s too late!” s
he began to scream. “It’s too late!” they all screamed.
He sat up and jumped off the bed. They wouldn’t stop screaming. Lights flashed around him. Spinning red lights. The room tumbled with lights. “Help me! Help me!” he whimpered as he moved in a crouch along the wall. When he came to the window, he blinked with a sheepish smile. The screams had been sirens and the spinning lights were from the police car and the ambulance that had backed up to the Fermoyle house across the street. He leaned on the windowsill and saw Helen LaChance in her bathrobe on the front porch. “I had to hit him. He wouldn’t stop,” she called out to the approaching officer. Then, as the attendants emerged from the house with the stretcher, she followed them toward the ambulance, wailing, “Is he dead? Oh God forgive me if he’s dead!”
Her husband came out of the house then and attempted to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away. “You let him in!” she moaned, then rushed toward the Monsignor, who hobbled barefoot across the street with a black topcoat thrown over his pajamas.
Father Gannon ran down the stairs and out onto the front lawn, waving his arms frantically as the ambulance tore past him down the street.
Sunday’s heat felt like a damp-sheeted dream trapping Alice, her hands weighted at her sides as she came down the marble steps from church through this buzz of parishioners, most of whom she knew and hated because they knew, knew and only pretended not to see her past the clasping hands and cheek-brushed kisses in this welter of perfume and Sunday sanctity, their balm of weekly virtue as they waited in line to greet the Monsignor.
She had been forced to do this, to come to Mass this morning. Her mother had made them, had sent them off, once again had thrown them over the side to teach and inoculate them, to rescue them from fear, and as their heads bobbed up she would push them away, whispering, insisting in that low, unbodied voice, urging, shoving, thrusting, nudging them along, her last words at the door, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Remember that. He did. Not you. Not one of you!” While behind her, in the safety of the house, Omar Duvall sat contemplating the perfection of two fried eggs, their round yellow yolks shimmering on the plate.
They had come, but Norm had refused to go inside. She and Benjy had stood at the back of the church, and when she returned from Communion he was gone.
And so now she had to wade through the toothy ardor of these sun-drenched worshippers alone, her straw hat bobbing crookedly with every step, but she would not straighten it, or look right or left. Hurry. Hurry, she thought as the crowd stalled on the marble path. Ahead, the Monsignor was shaking hands, grabbing arms, calling out hearty introductions between each parishioner and the new priest beside him. “Jim Brody and Claire, come meet Father Gannon…. Estelle McManus! Look at you all decked out…. My Lord, and these are the Hannons, all twelve kiddoes, six of each, Father Gannon.” Now there were only a few people in her way. No, she thought. No, I won’t let it happen. Won’t let him say, “And this is Sam Fermoyle’s daughter. This is the one, the one.” All voices ceased, drowned, as a small plane flew overhead, low enough that its shadow darkened their faces, and in the droning lull, her eyes locked on the Monsignor’s in a quick wordless scuffle. She stepped off to the side, then, turning, cut quickly across the lawn.
She was still on Main Street. Someone was calling her name.
“Alice! Alice Fermoyle!” Father Gannon had been running, and now, as he reached her, he was out of breath. “I’m Father Gannon,” he said, panting, his hand at his heaving chest. “I just wanted to say how badly I feel…and how…how responsible….” He waved his hand. “For what happened…your father…”
“That’s all right,” she said, cutting him off quickly, her face so red the flesh stung. No one had ever spoken like this to her. It was an invisible stain, a burden to be borne, not examined in the light and dissected.
“No! No, it’s not all right!” He kept waving his hand as if to generate the words. “I could have done something! I should have! And I didn’t! And that…that was wrong!”
“That’s all right.” She stepped away. He seemed to radiate heat. “Really.”
“No! No, I was too self-centered. I…I…” His dark eyes were oddly bright. “I didn’t have it! I saw a man’s hand come up from the depths, and I didn’t grab it!” With his New York accent and rapid speech she could barely understand him.
“Well…I…” Again she stepped back. “Thank you, Father.” What else was there to say? He came closer. His agitation confused her. She thanked him again and said she’d better get home, but he kept walking with her, gesturing, his hands flying in a commotion of energy, his sentences unfinished as yet another thought churned out of him. A gust of wind whipped the lacy hem of his alb around his legs, and he tugged it free. She was painfully aware of cars slowing to look at them.
“Would you like to see him at the hospital before he leaves?” He stopped suddenly.
Her father had been in the Atkinson Hospital since Friday night. Today he was being transferred to another hospital near Burlington.
“I’ll go up with you!” Father Gannon said, taking her hand. “They said eleven! There might be time!” He had turned and was tugging her back toward the church. “If we hurry…Maybe we can get there….”
“No…no,” she had been saying. “Please,” she said, stopping. She pulled away. “I’m going home!”
“It might be just the boost he needs!” Father Gannon said, with his hand on her arm. “Seeing you there would—”
“No, Father!”
“You’ll feel bet—”
“Please, Father! You’re embarrassing me!” she said, glancing at the line of cars at the red light.
“I’m sorry.” He looked shocked. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Head down, he continued walking as he tried to explain. His voice, lower now, was still fueled by an intensity she found draining. “I wasn’t thinking of you…. I just got so…it was just how your father’d feel…because, you know, I just…I just felt like I’d messed it all up. It was shortsighted of me.”
She had come now to the mouth of her driveway. “Well…I…thank you, Father.”
“You’re not upset, are you?” he asked. “I mean, I know you’re upset, but I mean, you’re not still upset with me, are you?”
“No. Oh no, I’m not upset. Thank you, Father,” she said, backing down the driveway. Anything to get rid of him. “It was nice talking with you.” She waved. “Bye!”
“I’d like to speak to your mother,” he said, following her to the door. “Just for a minute…and tell her…well, to see if there’s anything…if maybe she’d like to go up and see him.”
“No!” she said, shocked. “She can’t. I know she won’t. She’s—”
“Just ask her. I’ll wait out here.” He was waving his hands again. He scraped his foot back and forth in the hard-baked dirt. “I’ll just wait.”
The door closed and her mother slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “What’s wrong with you, bringing him here, this morning of all mornings?”
“I didn’t bring him!” Alice whispered. “He just came!”
“That’s all I need, a goddamn nosy priest out on the front steps! And you know who’s upstairs?” she hissed. “Mr. Duvall, that’s who!”
In the kitchen Duvall’s suit was draped over the ironing board. Benjy sat at the table brushing polish on Duvall’s shoes. Marie flew around the living room, tidying up. Onto the coffee table she piled the Sunday paper sections that had been on the floor. She kicked Norm’s bathrobe and dirty socks into the bathroom. Alice moved toward the door. “I told him he couldn’t come in. I’ll tell him you’re asleep, that’s all.”
Her mother raced over and grabbed her arm. “It’s too late now. He’ll know something’s funny,” she moaned as she scooped a fistful of dustballs from the corner next to the sofa. “You should’ve thought of that before,” she cried, shaking her head and stamping the curled edges of the gray rug into place. She leaped onto the couch and wrestled with the pitted mirror
until it hung straight. In the mirror’s reflection her eyes blazed into Alice’s. “Do something, damn it! Help me!” She jumped down, ran into the kitchen and covered the dirty dishes on the counter with a towel, then ran halfway up the stairs to tell Omar to stay up there. A priest was outside.
“What do the police want?” Omar called back.
“A priest, not the police,” she said. Facing the door, she wiped her hands on the sides of her skirt and took a deep breath. “Go ahead, let him in,” she said wearily, then smiled brightly.
They’re crazy, all of them, Alice thought, turning from the opening door, her gaze scanning the holes in the walls and Omar’s white pants in the kitchen while in the doorway stood a man in a white dress. Her mother thought Omar Duvall could save them. Father Gannon wanted to save them.
“Won’t you come in, Father?” her mother was saying. “Sorry you had to wait so long, but I was getting dressed for the twelve-thirty Mass.”
Father Gannon blinked uneasily, then, seeing Alice, he smiled. “I won’t hold you up, Mrs. Fermoyle. I just—”
“Come in! This is such a surprise….”
“I just wanted to say, if there’s anything I can do to help…you”—he gestured to Alice—“or your children…you know, feel free to call me.”
“Well, thank you, Father. That’s nice to know.” Marie took a step, as if to close the door.
“I’m driving up to Burlington soon to see the Bishop…. just a personal matter.” His hands began to fly. “If you’d like, I could bring something up to Mr. Fermoyle, food or clothes…or…or maybe I could take the children to visit him, or even yourself, Mrs. Fermoyle, if you’d like to go.”
Songs in Ordinary Time Page 18