Songs in Ordinary Time

by Mary McGarry Morris

  She dragged a moldy braided rug into the driveway. Most of this junk had been here when she had moved in. If it weren’t for the soap coming next week she wouldn’t be doing this now, with the million and one other things she had to do. Damn. Where was everyone? She ran into the house and yelled up the stairs for the third time for them to get out there and help her this minute, no ifs, ands, or buts, goddamn it! Footsteps moved overhead. Doors opened.

  She went back out and decided to move most of this stuff out of the way until they could get it to the dump. She began to slide boxes onto the back floor of Norm’s car. She even jammed newspapers and a smelly old shoe under the front seat. In no time at all, she had filled the trunk and every inch of his car, with just enough space left for the driver. There. She shoved in five paint cans.

  “What’re you doing?” Norm said as she was forcing the door closed.

  “This way when the car’s fixed all you have to do is go to the dump,” she said.

  “I can’t believe you put all that junk in my car, Mom.” He threw up his hands and his voice cracked. “I can’t believe some of the things you do!”

  He’ll be a good man when he grows up, she thought, as startled by the realization as by this surge of happiness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It just seemed like such a good idea. Once I got started I couldn’t stop.” Looking at the packed car now, she burst out laughing.

  “Look what she did!” Norm said to his sister and brother, who had just come outside. “She turned me into the pigman. Grondine Carson!”

  Now they were all laughing. Even Alice with her hollow eyes. She had lost weight and her hair was dull and stringy. She and Marie still hadn’t really talked about what had happened. Alice spent most of her time in her room, which spared Marie the guilt of having to face her own failure.

  “I know!” Benjy said. “You can just have it towed out of here, junk and all.”

  “What do you mean, towed? Look, I’m in the middle of fixing it! I got everything all laid out.”

  “Admit it, Norm. You have no idea what any of these parts do,” Alice said, her gaunt smile catalyst enough for them to move around the front of the car, holding up parts for Norm to identify.

  “That’s a…I forget the name….”

  “Oh great, Norm!” Benjy said.

  “But it has something to do with the—”

  “Motor!” Marie laughed. “Very good, Norm!”

  “No, no, no, it’s part of the carburetor,” he said.

  “And where’s that?” Alice asked.

  Norm dropped to his knees. “Let’s see. It’s around here somewhere,” he said, feeling through the tall grass and peering under the car while they laughed. Marie’s eyes met Alice’s. They would talk later, after the soap had come and she could think straight.

  By the time Omar arrived they had almost emptied the garage. They had dragged the washing machine box behind Norm’s car and they were filling it with old screens and the bug-infested firewood from the back wall of the garage. Omar was in the house making phone calls to set up deliveries. Marie had been shocked at the long list of numbers. They were all local calls, he assured her.

  “You mean Atkinson? You mean all those people are going to be selling Presto here in Atkinson?” she asked.

  “Just one or two are deliveries,” he said. “The rest are potential customers for you. I thought I’d drop off samples.”

  Norm and Benjy were still carrying out firewood. Alice was attempting to make shelves with a few warped boards and old bricks. It wobbled, so she took it apart and restacked the bricks. Her determination pleased Marie. Work had always been her own best therapy. Tomorrow she’d tell her that there’d be no more hiding up there in her room. The hell with what anyone thought. She had to get back to work and earn as much as she could in these last two weeks before school.

  She went into the house for rags so she could wash the garage windows. Omar covered the telephone mouthpiece. “Customer,” he whispered, winking. She patted his cheek, and as he bent toward her, she thought she heard the dial tone.

  “Well, you’ll certainly get an invitation to one of the soap parties, then, Mr. Clyde,” he said, and she knew she’d been mistaken. “I don’t know of another cleansing agent like it,” he was saying as she came outside.

  “Mom!” Norm warned as she headed toward the garage.

  She stopped at the doorway when she realized someone was in there with Alice.

  “Please, Alice, please. I need to see you. We have to talk. Please just come in the car with me,” Father Gannon pleaded. He hadn’t shaved and his eyes were sunken in dark circles.

  Alice stood before him, eyes closed, head down, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “No,” she said in a small voice.

  “Please! I can’t stand this anymore!” he begged.

  “And neither can she!” Marie said. “So leave her alone.”

  “Mrs. Fermoyle,” he said, spinning around. “You don’t understand.” He held out his hand as if for hers.

  “I understand! I understand plenty. You should be ashamed of yourself. A priest…”

  “I am!” he cried. “I am ashamed! But not because I love Alice. I just can’t stand it that she’s been hurt like this.”

  “Then leave her alone! Walk out of here! Go! She doesn’t want to see you!” She gestured to Alice, who was crying, her face buried in her hands.

  “Alice?” He reached to touch her arm. “Let me help you.”

  “No,” Alice whispered, shrinking away.

  “Haven’t you done enough harm?” Marie said.

  “Alice! Look at me! I’m falling apart! I don’t know what to do,” he panted, pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair. “Tell me what to do! Please, please, please tell me!”

  Alice wouldn’t look at him. Marie held her breath, afraid his inferno would consume the hesitant flicker of Alice’s resolve. She looked back as Omar came through the doorway.

  “I just want to be with you, is that so wrong? Tell me, is that so bad? I’ll do anything. Whatever you say. What? What is it you want?” he cried, ripping off the stiff white collar and flinging it to the ground. He brought his foot down, stomping as if on some verminous creature he needed to obliterate. “There! There! Is that what you want?”

  She stood between him and Alice.

  “Father!” Omar said, placing his hand on the priest’s heaving shoulder. “You are out of control! You are harassing this child. You are tormenting her, and I will not allow it for one more moment. You hear me now?”

  “I love her.”

  “Then leave her alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he kept saying as Omar walked him to the car.

  Marie went into the house, sick to her stomach and angry for what he had done to Alice, who was curled up in her bed again with the shades drawn and the sheet over her head. She picked up the phone and called the rectory. When she said her name, the Monsignor said, “Yes. What is it, Mrs. Fermoyle?”

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” she growled into the phone so Alice couldn’t hear, so that Alice could hear, wishing both to protect her and yet to emphasize the vile one-sidedness of sex with the humiliation and suffering it caused a woman. “It’s not only a sin, what’s happened here, Monsignor, but a crime. My daughter is only seventeen and your priest…your priest is an adult. I’m warning you, if he comes back here, I’ll call the police.”

  “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” Alice moaned in her room.

  Norm went in to her, then Benjy, and now Marie. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to hold her, but Alice stiffened away. It just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Especially now when she was so close to finally being able to give them a better life, after so many years of scrimping by and being scared. She touched Alice’s sweaty head. Alice curled forward until her hand fell away. Is that it? she wondered, her ears ringing with the old rage.

  “You don’t want things to change, do you? It’s easier to hide, isn’t it, and never
face up to anything. Well, goddamn it, no matter how bad things got, I could never hide. No one ever took care of me while I whimpered in my bed! No sir! No one ever did!” She panted, trying to pull her up.

  Alice’s chest heaved up and down. She was gasping. Her eyes were bulging.

  “What? Say it! What is it?” Marie demanded. “Tell me!”

  She was conscious now of Omar behind her. “Let her be,” he said softly.

  “Say it!” she cried.

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? Oh God, what’s wrong with me?” Alice was moaning.

  “Self-pity!” she hissed over the bed. “That’s what’s wrong. That’s all that’s wrong!”

  “Oh God, God, God.” Alice pummeled her own chest with blows that were sickeningly loud.

  Omar grabbed Alice’s wrists, and she froze so rigidly her back appeared to arch. Marie closed her eyes.

  “No,” said Omar, his voice soothing but emphatic. “There is no wrong here, child. I know. I know how it goes. I know how it went. There’s only goodness in you, and love, and came a moment in your faith and trust when you were asked for more, more than you should have been, and you did not turn away. Because you are an innocent. You gave, and in the giving you were taken advantage of. Why, in the very asking you were taken advantage of! Nothing’s going to change what happened. But that happened to a different person. You’re someone else now, Alice Fermoyle. Don’t you see, you’re a brand-new person now.”

  In the hallway Marie covered her mouth so they wouldn’t hear her cry. Thank God for Omar, she thought. She just couldn’t do it alone anymore.

  That night Alice dreamed that she was on television. Sitting at a table in front of thousands of people there were three of her. There was a glass of red wine in front of each contestant.

  “Will the real Alice Fermoyle please stand up,” the host called into the microphone.

  The audience clapped. She looked down at the other two Alices. They looked at each other, then back at her.

  “Will the real Alice Fermoyle please stand up,” the host urged with an impatient gesture.

  They each started to get up, then hesitated at seeing each other rising, then quickly sat back down again.

  “I repeat, will the real Alice Fermoyle pu-leeese stand up!”

  They rose in unison, standing while the audience hissed and booed.

  The announcer snatched up their papers, wineglasses, and microphones. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to the angry audience. “There’s been a terrible, terrible mistake.”

  The weekend was dragging by. Every time Norm looked out the window he saw his car filled with junk, all that crap piled to the roof for Duvall’s sake. He was everywhere. The kitchen table was covered with Presto order forms and pamphlets. His razor was on the back of the sink, his black hairs clogging the drain.

  On Saturday night Norm walked all the way to the Millers’. Weeb’s sister, Janice, left the room when he came in. It was the first time he’d seen her since that night at the lake. “Barf time,” Weeb grunted, making it to the couch on his crutches. Norm asked if she was sick, and Weeb grumbled something about her always being sick.

  “What do you mean, always sick?” Norm asked, and Weeb said it was nothing, never mind. “No,” he insisted. “Tell me, tell me what you meant.”

  “I didn’t mean anything!” Weeb said, looking at him.

  “Yes, you did. You said she’s sick all the time.”

  “What? What do you care? You getting weird or something, Norm?” Weeb said, his voice cracking. They watched television for a little while, and then Norm headed back home. Not having a car was humiliating. It was embarrassing to be seen walking all over town. He felt like Howard Menka. On his way home he passed by the industrial park. Curious, he went in and roamed around until he came to the Brace Paper Division building. He considered knocking on the door and saying hello to his father. If he was here, he’d be sober. He hadn’t seen him since graduation night. Standing under the bright streetlight, he thought of the men he worked with and how proud they were of their kids. Kenny Doyle, who was the toughest man he’d ever known, stopped on his way home every Friday night to buy ice cream and root beer for his five kids. But Kenny was a good guy and his father was an asshole, so why waste time on a lost cause. Relieved that he’d talked himself out of it, he went home.

  On Monday he got to work twenty minutes early. The town barn stank of grease and fertilizer. The men said that on one of these hot days the place was going to explode. The barn was actually an airplane hangar—government surplus the town had purchased right after the war to garage its Street Department trucks and heavy equipment.

  Jarden Greene was in his office, berating Leo, a shy soft-spoken man who’d been the department’s head gardener for twenty years.

  “Don’t tell me the fuck about elms!” Greene’s voice rose, and the men looked up from their coffee.

  “Yah, don’t tell him the fuck about nothing,” Kenny Doyle said in a low voice. “’Cause that’s what he knows best.”

  Their heads bobbed with swallowed laughter, and once again Norm felt proud that Kenny had chosen him for his crew. Kenny believed in fair play. He watched out for the little guy. He was tough and wise as hell and every man here respected him.

  The office door opened, and Leo scurried out with his head down. Greene followed, clapping his hands for everyone to get up. “Let’s get a move on, now. Come on, come on!” he ordered, going out to the trucks.

  “Pompous little asshole,” Kenny muttered as he walked to the back of the truck with his hand on Norm’s shoulder.

  That evening Kenny let Norm stay on for the weekly poker game in the foremen’s cramped office. His job was to fetch beers and keep an eye out for surprise visitors, namely Greenie. He stood by the window behind Kenny, his heart sinking with every lousy hand. Talk about bad luck. At one point Kenny had lost fifty dollars. Now Norm was lighting one cigarette off the other as he peered down through the wafting blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke. Sixty-five dollars. The pile of bills grew in front of Lonzo Thayer, who had stripped down to his undershirt. Lonzo Thayer didn’t work here, but it was obvious he often played cards with the men. Norm didn’t know how much Kenny made, but he was sure sixty-five dollars had to be a week’s pay. On this hand Kenny lost eight more dollars. “Last hand,” Lonzo announced.

  Norm passed each man another beer, but he deliberately skipped Kenny.

  “Hey, Norm, am I that much of a loser?” Kenny called, gesturing impatiently until Norm gave him a beer.

  “Tonight you are.” Lonzo laughed.

  “Tough luck,” Ed Jessing said.

  “Hey,” Kenny said, wiping his mouth after a long guzzle. “Cum see, cum saw, you know.”

  It’s not right, Norm thought as Lonzo shuffled the cards. Wetting his fingers he began to deal, snapping each card onto the table. Kenny finished his beer. His hand was pathetic. His face was red, and he kept blowing out of his mouth as if he were trying to cool off. “Gimme a Bud, Norm.” He held his hand back for the cold wet bottle. It was his tenth beer. Jesus Christ, the man was destroying himself. How many times had men handed his father another beer, another shot, another slug. Of course the difference was his father would be wiped out by the third round and all Kenny had was a red face. And no money. He’d just lost again.

  Norm watched Lonzo’s manicured nails tuck the bills into his thick black wallet, which he set on the table. This was nothing to him. He probably did this every night of the week. Norm thought of Kenny’s five little kids and his pretty pregnant wife. Jesus Christ, didn’t Lonzo or any of them care? They were talking about the pennant race. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Lonzo was worried about the Yankees and Bobby Shantz’s arm, and Kenny’s kids were probably going to be hungry all week. Lonzo stood up, and as he reached for his shirt on the back of the chair, Norm was shocked to see the butt of a gun in his pocket. That explained everything. Thayer was a crook, a gangster. From outs
ide now came a loud banging sound, then headlights filled the window.

  “Jesus Christ! Shit! Turn out the light!”

  The room went dark as the men crowded around the window. “It’s a green Buick,” someone hissed.

  “Lemme see,” Lonzo said, pushing to get near.

  Norm’s hands groped on the table for Lonzo’s Thayer’s wallet. No time for counting. He slipped a thickness of bills into his pocket, then refolded the wallet and stepped among the gaping men.

  “Just parkers,” said Charlie Puleo with a sigh of relief as the car pulled off the road and the headlights went out.

  “Jesus Christ.” Lonzo kept groaning even when the lights came back on. “When I heard green Buick I almost shit.”

  “Why, what’s a green Buick, undercover?” asked Charlie Puleo, his eyes gleaming with admiration for slick Lonzo.

  “No, worse. My wife,” Lonzo said, and the men all laughed. He slipped the wallet into his back pocket, then buttoned the loop.

  Norm felt dizzy. He could barely breathe, he was so nervous. He staggered a little when he stepped into the pure night air.

  “You been drinking, kid?” Kenny eyed him suspiciously over the wheel as he started the car.

  “No!”

  “That’s good.”

  They drove in silence. They were halfway across town when Kenny sighed and kept tapping the wheel with his fist. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “I really took a beating tonight, didn’t I?” He tried to laugh, instead had to keep clearing his wheezy throat. He pulled into Norm’s driveway. “See you tomorrow, kid!” He gave him a jab in the shoulder.

  “Here,” Norm said, tossing the bills at him before he closed the door.

  “Norm!” Kenny called him back. “Where the hell’d you get this?” He kept looking at the money and then at Norm.

  “From that fucking Lonzo,” Norm said, his heart finally beating.

  “Norm, you shouldn’t’ve done that. Jesus Christ! That was stupid! I can’t believe you did that!”