Mercy of St Jude

by Wilhelmina Fitzpatrick

  Goddamn Hanns. Frigging Lucinda. Fed up with the lot of them.

  Sadie’s hand catches at the thin scarf around her neck. The wind has loosened it so that one end has come free and is whipping about high in the air. She pulls it down, tucks it into her coat and forges onward.

  Door practically hit me on the arse she shut it so hard. Pity poor Derm, stuck with that one forever. And them two brothers, not a decent brain between the pair of them. To think they used to make fun of my Gerard. Well, look at them all now. Gerard showed them, he did. And that Annie. I knows all about her, I do. Too chicken to lift her head up in the parlour there. Couldn’t even look me in the eye. Thank God I got Gerard away from that little tramp. Imagine messing around with one of them Hanns. Hah! One Hann less now Mercedes bit the biscuit.

  Sadie looks up only when she passes the priest’s house.

  Lights off. Good, I didn’t forget. Wonder what Father will have to say tomorrow. Father James, now there’s a good one. Wouldn’t mind cleaning his house. Fine looking man. Fine arse on him, too. Nothing better than a priest.

  Sadie looks at her watch. She picks up speed, elbows bent, fists into the wind.

  Gerard be here soon. Home to his mother. Ah, Gerard. My Gerard.

  Gerry Griffin eases up on the accelerator. He turns off the highway and onto the road leading into St. Jude. He rolls down the window and listens, trying to distinguish the ocean from the noise of the engine and the wind flying past the car. Before he hears it, he sees it, the white tips dancing on a sea of black. It’s one of the few things he misses.

  He takes the first right up a street of middle-class houses, some well kept, others not, all in better shape than the one he grew up in. Two doors down from her house, he pulls over. He draws a long, deep breath. The instant he opens the car door he sees her. He pulls the door shut. She stands in the window, her face more clear to him than is possible at this distance, the fair skin framed by almost-black hair, shorter now but still thick, the distinct line of her nose that comes to a small sharp point above her lips, her mouth, soft and full. And her eyes. He has pictured her face every day for five years; always he stops at her eyes, one moment green and warm as late-summer grass, the next, so vulnerable, so wounded. Always he is left with that memory.

  She moves away from the window. He is about to open the door again when he realizes that his face is wet with tears. This is not how he wants her to see him.

  He drives on, down Main Street, past the Trade School, the town hall, the gas station. Near the centre of town is Burke’s store, where old Mona Burke started selling groceries to make ends meet after her husband failed to return from a fishing trip. Over the years, extensions, including a motel wing, were added haphazardly; little of the charm of the original red barn remains. Burke’s sells everything now, from groceries and fishing tackle to furniture and appliances. His mother shops there every day.

  He parks in front of a small clapboard house at the other end of town. The lampshade by the door is still missing, leaving a bare bulb to illuminate the broken top step. The paint is still peeling. He wonders if his brothers drank away the money he left for repairs. This time he’ll hire someone to do the job.

  He’s not long in the house before Sadie rushes in.

  “Gerard, you’re here!”

  She looks windblown but otherwise much the same as when he was home six months earlier. Her dark eyes are only slightly faded and, except for the two deeply pitted frown lines on her forehead, her face is oddly smooth for a woman near sixty. On top of her head are waves of grey, her old-woman-do, he calls it. She can afford to have it coloured and styled but, even though it makes her look older, she refuses to change it. His monthly supplements would allow her to quit working if she wanted, to stop cleaning house for others and put her own feet up for a change. But she says no, she’ll just grow old and die if she sits idle. She says nothing about the tidbits of gossip she picks up along the way, but Gerry knows that gossip keeps her young.

  He holds out his arms. No matter what anyone else thinks about his mother, and despite the grief she has caused him, he loves her, and he knows that she loves him, more than she loves anybody, including her other three children. This is not something he is particularly comfortable with; it’s a simple truth he’s come to accept after twenty-five years, as have his sister and brothers.

  With two strides he stands in front of her. He lifts her slight body off the floor as he hugs her, and feels her fierce strength as her short arms squeeze him tight. There is a smell of fresh peppermint and, behind that, something musty. She’s been drinking.

  “What you doing here so soon?” she asks when he sets her down. “Weren’t expecting you till after midnight.”

  “I got an early flight, then rented a car and hit the highway.”

  “I’d known that, I’d come straight home. Wish you’d called.”

  Gerry takes her coat and hangs it on a nail. “Didn’t get a chance.” In truth, he needed time once he got here, time to see Annie. He couldn’t tell his mother that.

  “Well, I’m happy you’re here is all I knows.” She looks him over. He knows what’s coming next. “You’re after losing weight. Too skinny by far. Not eating right up in that Toronto, are you? You needs a good boil-up.”

  “A cup of tea would be great.”

  “I got fish cakes and cod tongues, a turkey, fresh buns, beans in the oven.” She studies his face. “Why your eyes so puffy? And stop that frowning. You’ll end up with holes in your head like me.”

  Her hand comes up to smooth the two vertical furrows above his nose. Smiling, he does the same to her. It occurs to him how odd it would look to anyone passing by the window, both of them standing there, rubbing a spot of skin between each other’s eyes. “Crazy Griffins,” they’d probably say. It would not be the worst thing they’d ever said about his family.

  “So, how are you, Ma? Keeping out of trouble?”

  “Don’t look for trouble, it won’t look for you. You’re sniffling. You got a cold?”

  “Just the plane. I’ll be fine tomorrow. You said something about fish cakes?”

  The mention of food launches his mother into action, like a holy woman on a mission from God. She slices a few rashers of fatback pork and throws them into the frying pan. Bustling to the fridge, she hauls out potato salad, mustard pickles and beets. All the while she chatters on about people he knows: Millie O’Shea’s new hip, Barber Manning’s failing eyesight, the ongoing fight between the Smiths and the Powers over the berry patch dividing their two properties.

  Surprisingly, she hasn’t yet mentioned the Hanns. Gerry is thankful for that. He does not want to discuss Mercedes. He knows how his mother feels about her, even when she pretends otherwise. And that’s fine; she has her reasons for disliking Mercedes, just as Gerry has his for feeling the opposite. Their relationship was something he could never explain to his mother, ever since that September morning in Grade One when Mercedes asked him to read from the catechism. When he’d finished, she smiled directly at him. “Here is a gentleman who can read already,” she said to the entire class. From that moment on, Mercedes had treated him as a person distinct unto himself, no preconceived notions or forgone conclusions. No last name.

  Out of the blue, a profound sadness washes over him. Mercedes is gone. He will never again sit with her over tea and discuss politics or work or, as in later years, family. They will never again share the pleasure of a new old book, the careful opening of the front cover, the search for written notes or autographs. The first time he was in her house he’d been mesmerized by the wall of shelves overflowing with books - some new, some old, some, even to his young and untrained eye, precious. He hadn’t touched them. He’d been content to study the spines and breathe in the odour of old leather and dusty paper. He hadn’t known a person could own so many books.

  “There, now that’s a scoff in the making.” Sadie wipes her hands on her apron. “Bet you haven’t had a good feed since you were home last, what
?”

  Looking at the satisfied smile on his mother’s face, Gerry wishes he were hungry. All he really wants is a cup of good strong tea and a moment’s peace. But there’s little chance of getting that now, not if he wants to keep his mother happy. And that’s a job he’s spent a lifetime doing.

  2

  1999

  With Sadie safely out the door, Annie heads to the kitchen for a cup of tea. A tray of Lucinda’s sweet buns waits on the counter, ready for the oven come breakfast time. The cinnamon scent reminds Annie of watching cartoons with her older sisters on snowy Saturday mornings, the kitchen warm from the heat of the wood stove, the windows etched with ice. After licking every last bit of icing from their plates and fingers, she and Beth and Sara would swap pyjamas for snowsuits then head to the graveyard with their sled. Cemetery road had the steepest incline in St. Jude. Fortunately, it was also the least travelled by car. With all three of them piled on one sled, they would gain speed quickly. On a good day, they’d have to jump off before they reached bottom or risk crossing the road and ending up under the wheels of a car, or worse, over the cliff and into the ocean. Beth would swear Annie to secrecy, warning her that if Lucinda found out, she’d take away the sled for good. Beth and Sara are married now and live nearby. Annie sees them when she’s home, but they’re busy with their own families. She doesn’t want to interfere. Her two younger sisters, Mary and Karen, are only ten and seven and have been sent to bed. Annie would like to feel closer to them but, having lived away for five years, she hasn’t been around them enough tomake a meaningful connection.

  Annie is surprised to see her uncle, who’s just home from New York for his sister’s funeral, sitting at the kitchen table. “Uncle Joe, what are you doing here?”

  He takes a small glass of brandy from Lucinda. “There’s my little Annie.”

  “I thought you were tying one on with Jack Griffin tonight?”

  “I was that, but Jack went and got right maudlin on me, carrying on about Dad and Paddy like he always does, talking to Paddy like his ghost was there in the room. Old fool finally passed out.” Joe empties the glass and laughs. “Talked to myself for a bit but I was no better company than Jack. So I come here to say goodbye to my baby sister.” His face turns pensive. “She was a grand girl when she was little, sweet one minute, saucy the next.”

  “I can’t imagine her ever being a child,” says Annie. And never having met the child, she finds it hard to grieve for the woman she became.

  “What makes a person go hard like that, do you know?” Joe asks.

  “Maybe she couldn’t help it,” Annie says, glancing at her mother.

  “Life can make you hard.” Lucinda’s voice is heavy and her eyes are full.

  Annie realizes how tough this day has been for Lucinda. She feels an urge to comfort her, but as she reaches out, Lucinda picks up Joe’s glass and moves to the sink. Annie pulls back, unsure why she made the gesture. Displays of affection between her and her mother are generally restricted to home-comings and leavings.

  “Best let bygones be bygones,” Lucinda says over her shoulder. Annie would love to do that, to let go of the hurt and move past it, but even with her aunt dead in the coffin, the pain lives on. She simply does not have her mother’s ability to forgive and forget, especially when it comes to Mercedes.

  1991

  Mercedes had been furious when she found out that Lucinda was pregnant again at forty-two. As usual, she didn’t hesitate to make her opinion known.

  “Look at all the miscarriages, and the four babies who died. Good God, Dermot, don’t you know any better? She’s too old to be at this anymore.” She gestured to Annie’s grandfather, who sat quietly at the table. “You’re her father, Callum. You know what can happen. Tell her. Tell them.”

  Before Callum had a chance to say anything, Dermot put his hand on her arm. “Now Mercedes—”

  She shook him off. “Don’t ‘now Mercedes’ me, you stupid man.”

  “Don’t you dare call him stupid!” Although Lucinda had always tolerated Mercedes’ interference - even when she quietly ignored it - she drew the line at any criticism of Dermot. “It’s time you mind your own darn business.”

  “I would if either one of you had any sense,” Mercedes retorted.

  The two women stood there, each growing angrier by the second. Callum, always the peacemaker where Mercedes and Lucinda were concerned, hurried Mercedes from the house before harsher words were spoken.

  Lucinda and Dermot had not set out to have another child. Like the rest of St. Jude, the Byrnes were Catholic. They used the rhythm method - the Pope said that was acceptable. Annie and Beth and Sara used to joke that their parents had too much rhythm. Wrapped in the innocent insensitivity of youth, they didn’t stop to consider the significance of their small family, or the silent toll it took on their mother.

  When Karen arrived, it was a huge relief to Lucinda and Dermot that she was normal and healthy, even if temporarily battered from a forceps delivery. On Lucinda’s first day home from the hospital, Mercedes came by early to have a look, dressed as usual in her signature style. Except for the salt-and-pepper hair in its perfectly coiffed bun and the faint whiff of lavender, Mercedes lived in shades of brown, from her camel coats, taupe skirts, and beige pants and blouses, to her solid wood floors and furniture and her neutral wallpaper and parchment-coloured curtains. She presented an inconspicuous backdrop, a subtle blend of light and dark merging one into another. Her tan loafers made no sound as she crossed the floor to stand behind Annie who was studying at the kitchen table. She laid her hand on Annie’s shoulder, then placed an old geology text next to her books. “I found this at the second-hand store.”

  Annie looked up. “Thanks, Aunt Mercedes.” Her aunt often bought her books. She used to buy them for Annie’s sisters, and for Pat and Aiden, until she realized that Annie was the only one who read them.

  “A taste of university, perhaps?” Mercedes smiled then moved on to Lucinda.

  The sun, an infrequent visitor to St. Jude, shone through the spring frost glazing the window. Basking in its warmth, Lucinda seemed prepared to forget the hostility that had simmered between her and Mercedes during her pregnancy. She told Dermot to take Mercedes in to see the baby.

  Always the proud father, Dermot led the way into the living room where Karen slept in a well-worn bassinet. He slid back the cover that shaded his new daughter’s lightly bruised face and disfigured head.

  Mercedes let out a small chuckle. “Well, Dermot, let’s hope she has brains.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath behind them. “How dare you find fault with that child!” Everyone froze as Lucinda’s words, undoubtedly fuelled by postnatal hormones, ricocheted off the flowered wallpaper. “Just because you never had one of your own, just because no man would have anything to do with you, you have to spread unhappiness everywhere you go. Well, may God forgive you and your meanness.”

  Scooping the baby up in her arms, Lucinda stormed out. Mercedes stood rigid in the middle of the room. Then, without another word, she left the house.

  Mercedes, presumably, had meant the comment as a joke. The problem was that her sense of humour was so rarely encountered that it went unrecognized, at least by Lucinda. As Dermot remarked to Callum, “A perpetually sour person should not go trying to be funny without giving us all a bit of warning.”

  Callum and Dermot tried to convince Lucinda that no harm had been intended but she refused to back down. As for Mercedes, that afternoon she set out for her summer cabin in Bay D’Esprits with only Rufus, her huge black Lab pup, for company. Two days passed with no sign of Mercedes and no hint of compromise from Lucinda. On the third morning, Callum came by and insisted on taking Lucinda and the baby for a drive to Mercedes’ cabin. When they arrived home that evening, Lucinda was in a sombre mood and spent the night secluded in her bedroom.

  The next day Callum returned, a nervous-looking Mercedes behind him. He sent Annie and Sara off to the store with a hastily
written list of groceries and told them not to come back for an hour.

  Sara made repeated attempts to find out what had happened. Lucinda would say nothing, even when Sara enlisted Beth in the effort. As for Callum, it was one of the few times he told Annie that she should not ask questions, that some things were better left in God’s hands. And even though Annie stopped asking, she never stopped wondering, because after that day, Lucinda and Mercedes’ relationship changed. Where once Mercedes’ presence on their doorstep might be met with a silent groan, she was suddenly invited to stay longer. Where once her advice was unsolicited, it came to be accepted, even encouraged. And where once she and Lucinda were merely of the same family, from that day forward they began to develop a deep and lasting connection.

  The Most Merciful Virgin Church was the only church in St. Jude. Non-Catholic visitors, for only visitors were non-Catholic, worshipped elsewhere. With its oversized stained glass windows and four-storey-high crucifix, the Most Merciful Virgin was the most impressive and most beautiful building in town. A stone’s throw from Burke’s store, the church sat at the junction of the two main roads, one of which originated at the far end of St. Jude where the Hanns and the Byrnes lived. The other led to Sadie Griffin’s house. Like most good Catholics, Sadie would not pass a church without blessing herself.

  Good Christ, she’s finally out of bed.

  Sadie hurried on towards the church, her fingers already swishing up and down and across her face, her eyes intent on the old blue truck parked in front of Burke’s. She watched as Lucinda descended from the driver’s side to plant her feet gingerly onto the gravel.

  Some frigging lazy. Driving to the store instead of walking. Slackarse.