“Father have mercy on us,” Sadie recited, trotting as fast as her legs would carry her from the church to Burke’s. She stopped only to catch her wind before going inside. “Lucinda, my dear, what a lovely surprise!” she exclaimed, hand on her throat. “But what are you doing out and about so soon after having another one?”
Christ, she’s the size of a house still.
“Afternoon, Sadie,” said Lucinda, choosing a loaf of bread. She did not look up.
“I sees you’re driving today. Can’t say I blames you, barely a week out of the hospital.”
Looks like it too. Crying shame, Derm rolling over to that in the morning.
Lucinda put the bread next to a box of cereal and some instant coffee on the counter. She passed Phyllis Burke a ten-dollar bill.
“See you been to church already, too,” said Sadie. “I don’t think God would mind if you took a break, you know.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, but I feel fine.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
Some gut on her. Never know she already had it.
Lucinda took her change and turned to leave. Bessie Foley, who had been standing nearby squeezing an orange, dropped it back into the bin and raised an eyebrow at Sadie, who nodded purposefully.
“By the by,” Sadie called out, “where was our Mercedes rushing off to the other day with such a heavy foot?”
Almost run me over in the road. Driving like a maniac with that goddamn dog, barking and frothing at the mouth. Got the rabies, that thing.
Lucinda seemed not to have heard. With a wave of her hand over her shoulder, she kept on walking out the door.
Phyllis waited until she was sure the door had closed. “Car was gone three days. Where’d she get to?”
“I said as much when I saw Mercedes at the post office yesterday.” Bessie’s lips scrunched in frustration. “Not a word, my dear, not one blessed word. Just one of them nods she gives, you know, with that haughty face of hers.”
“I don’t know why she’s so closed-mouthed. I mean, we all only wants to help sure, to be good neighbours.” Phyllis glanced at Sadie. “Your Gerry’s pretty tight with her. What do he say?”
“Now Phyllis, you knows I’m not one to gossip, especially about family.”
Lot of good Gerard is. Time he spends at that house, all he talks about is odes and sonnets. Stupid poetry. History is what I wants. There’s dirt back there somewhere, I knows it.
“That Lucinda now. She’s not looking like herself, is she, though?” said Phyllis.
Bessie grunted. “What can you expect, having a youngster at her age?”
“True. Least she did the right thing though,” said Phyllis.
“Not like some,” Bessie tutted, “getting rid of it and all.”
Sadie raised her eyes heavenward, hands together. Phyllis and Bessie blessed themselves. All three muttered prayers under their breath.
“You seen the new one, Sadie?” said Phyllis.
“Not yet.” Sadie had dropped by Lucinda and Dermot’s each of the last two afternoons. Both times, Lucinda and the baby had been in bed. “I should stop in, I suppose, being family and all.”
Phyllis eyed Sadie through the thick bottom of her eyeglasses. “Surprised you haven’t already.”
Sadie placed a loaf of bread on the counter. “You know me, I don’t like to intrude.”
“Some sight, they say,” said Phyllis. “Bruises and gouges all over the place.”
“Sure it’s just the forceps,” said Bessie. “They’ll work their-self out in no time.”
Sadie’s hand went to her heart. “Pray it do for the poor thing.”
Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. I seen where it stayed that way forever. Serve them right.
“Imagine Lucinda and Derm going at it at their age.” Phyllis shook her head.
Sadie rubbed her nose and scratched her ear. She rummaged in her purse for her wallet and a tissue. She blew her nose hard. She did not want that picture in her mind.
“They don’t stop, they’ll end up with a bunch of retards,” Phyllis added.
Bessie nodded. “Look at poor Mavis MacDonald, sure, with three of them thick as bricks.”
Sadie leaned in and whispered, “Mavis should have looked beyond the MacDonalds.”
“And Doris and Donny Whittle.” Bessie lowered her voice. “Doris claims her maiden name was White, but I got it on good authority that she was born a Whittle up in Green Harbour. It’s not right, I tell you.”
“God’ll be having none of that,” said Phyllis. “Never mind them gene things.”
Sadie sighed. “Some youngsters better off not born at all.”
“And who’d know better than you, what, having to bury two of your own?” said Phyllis with an exaggerated note of pain in her voice.
Sadie glanced at her friend, but Phyllis was looking down her nose at the jar of jam Sadie had placed next to the bread and her five dollars.
Phyllis punched a few keys on the register. “What’s Derm want with a baby? He’s too old for that.”
“Derm’s still a fine figure of a man.” Sadie’s voice had risen.
Phyllis laughed. “Always with an eye for the fellows, eh Sadie?”
Bessie poked Sadie. “Especially him, what?”
“Don’t be silly, Bessie. Sure he’s a married man, Derm is.”
Wife’s a Yankee cow, mind you.
Phyllis squinted at the five-dollar bill. “Don’t stop a person looking, especially handsome as him.” A sly look passed between Bessie and Phyllis, who added, “Pity Lucinda caught him first, eh, Sadie?”
“Pity about that poor youngster is more like it.”
And a pity I got to listen to you two old biddies.
Phyllis passed Sadie her change. Bessie coughed a little too loudly and covered her mouth with her hand.
Sadie picked up her groceries and left.
1999
Gerry lifts the lid off the pot of beans. The sweet, smoky aroma of molasses and bacon fills the room. “My God, that smells good. But you’ve got enough for an army, Ma.”
“Well now, I knows you don’t be eating right up there in that Toronto. Sin City, that place. Got to get some good grub in you whiles you’re here.”
“I’ll have to buy an extra seat on the plane. Better get Gus and Kevin on it.” He glances around. “Where are they, anyway? And where’s Debra?”
“At the bar. Dance there tonight. Won’t be back till all hours.”
He puts the lid back on the beans. “Who’s taking care of Mark?”
“He’s sleeping over at Connie’s. They does that, Debra and her, saves paying for babysitting.”
“And leaves Debra more money for partying. How is our Mark, anyway?”
“Talking about you ever since you were home last, Uncle Gerry this and Uncle Gerry that. Be different he had a father, I suppose.”
“Let’s not go there, Ma.”
Any discussion of Mark’s parentage inevitably leads to a tirade against the Hann clan. When rumour spread that Aiden Hann was to blame, Aiden not only denied it, he went so far as to say it could be any number of boys, or men. Sadie had nagged at Debra for ages to make the father, whoever he was, “pay for his sins.” Debra remained defiant. Sadie insisted that Gerry, as her older brother, have a talk with her, but when Debra told him it had nothing to do with him and he should just mind his own business, he found himself agreeing. Knowing that Aiden might have been responsible and, if so, was shirking that responsibility, did not make Gerry like him any better, but he suspected that Aiden wasn’t far off regarding Debra’s reputation, leaving Gerry to wonder if she wouldn’t point a finger because she didn’t know where to point. For that, and other reasons, he was more than willing to leave the subject alone.
Sadie flips a fish cake in the frying pan. “I’m just saying—”
“I know. Just let it be.” Gerry changes the subject. “Did Mark get that speech thing looked after yet?”
“I don’t
know. Hard to get much out of that Debra. She gets right contrary soon’s you mentions anything. Get on her about it, would you?”
“Not like she’ll listen to me, but I’ll talk to her. It’ll get worse if it’s not seen to. I’d hate to have the other kidsmaking fun of him.”
Sadie tutts. “Debra has a hard enough time looking after herself, let alone a young one.”
“Yeah, well maybe some people shouldn’t have children in the first place.”
“Come off it, Gerard, she does her best.”
“I’d hate to see her worst.” He takes two teabags from the canister.
“Debra never had your brains. Always was a bit slow, unless she’s getting her drawers off.”
“Ma!” Gerry laughs nonetheless. His mother still shocks him sometimes.
“I’m only saying she’s lucky she only got the one youngster.”
“Debra’s problem is she thinks the world owes her a living.”
Sadie nods. “That’s the Griffins for you. And Debra’s a Griffin all right.”
“I’m a Griffin too. Don’t see me waiting for the world to bring me breakfast.”
Sadie smiles and nudges a cod tongue to see if it’s done. “You’re more like my side of the family. The Duffies were always smarter than the Griffins.”
“Anyway, I don’t want to argue about Debra. I only got two days here—”
“Two days?” Sadie whirls around, slightly off-balance. “How come that’s all?”
“Because I’ve got all my vacation time spoken for.” He keeps his voice calm.
“Why? You were only home the one week.”
“I know, but I’m going to Europe next month.”
“What the frig’s in Europe? French frogs slugging back the wine.”
“Now Ma, I’m always coming home.” He watches her fuss and fidget at the counter, moving food around for no apparent reason. “Besides, I’m going on business anyway so it makes sense to make a holiday of it.”
She grunts and marches into the back pantry. A few minutes later she returns, empty-handed but calmer. “So how did you get time off now if you got none left?”
“I told them my aunt died. They’re pretty understanding when it’s family.”
The words simmer around them, “my aunt” and “family” echoing in the stillness. He wishes he could sweep the air and make them disappear.
Sadie’s cheeks are red blotches. “Your what? Aunt? Aunt, my arse.”
Gerry rubs his face vigorously with both hands. Despite himself, he feels a ridiculous grin on his face. If his mother sees that, she’ll have a fit. Bad enough he called Mercedes his aunt, but if Sadie catches him smiling about it, even if he has no clue as to why he’s smiling except that he’s exhausted and obviously beginning to lose his mind a little, she’ll disown him altogether. “Now Ma, it’s just a word. Boy, but I’m starving,” he lies.
“Not just a word, Gerard, you—”
“Stop!” He says it louder than he intends, but the guilty truth of it is that he has long thought of Mercedes as family. Sitting at her table on cold winter evenings, reading aloud from Keats or Wordsworth, or perhaps from one of Mercedes’ favourites, like Dickinson or Bishop, Gerry had sometimes found himself imagining that this was his home, that his mother wasn’t the town gossip whose tongue everyone feared, that his father hadn’t run off with another man. Later, at home, he would try extra hard to be good to his mother. “I’m sorry,” he says now, “but I’ve been on the go all day. I had a presentation this morning then I was running to catch planes. I never had a decent bite. Let’s just eat. Please?” He puts on his most innocent face, one he knows she can’t resist. “Speaking of work, why were you at it so late? You should slow down.”
“Had to help with the Lady’s Guild earlier, set up for bingo tomorrow.” She puts one of the teabags back into the canister. “Besides, work gives me a chance to visit.”
Gerry knows that his mother doesn’t get many invitations out. Her work is her social life. “Do any of them even ask how you are, Ma? Do they even care?”
“Hah, some of that lot don’t know you’re alive once you’re done with the scrub brush. I swear to Lucifer, door shuts on you and you’re good as dead till you’re due back with the mop.” She smiles coyly. “Then again, they’re not all bad. Like that young Father James. He was just asking after you this evening. Wanted to know did you go to church up in Toronto, and make the sacraments and all.”
Gerry rolls his eyes inwardly at the priest’s supposed concern. He does not go to church in Toronto. He goes only when he’s home. It’s easier to spend the hour at Mass than to argue with his mother about not going. He takes communion with her as well, but he draws the line at the Stations of the Cross. All that genuflecting and mumbling and crossing himself, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, over and over again all around the church, it’s more than even he can fake.
Sadie’s head is cocked to one side. She has an odd smile on her face, sort of sly, secretive even. Gerry watches her a moment, curious as always about what goes on behind his mother’s eyes, what thoughts bring that certain lift to her chin. But as much as he has learned how to deal with her over the years, and as necessary to his mental health as that has been, he still can’t figure her out. For such a simple woman, she really can be quite complex.
“Yes, indeed,” she nods, “lovely man, Father is.”
“Tell Father James I’m doing just fine,” he says noncommittally.
And he is fine. Fine without the church interfering in his life. Fine without some religious know-it-all telling him what’s right and what’s wrong, who he should love and who he shouldn’t.
He hasn’t listened to a priest in five years. He’s not about to start again now.
3
1999
There is a large round hooked rug on the kitchen floor. The centre, the ocean, is filled with fish and dories, and all around the border are brightly dressed men and women holding hands. Annie was surprised when she’d learned that Mercedes had hooked it. The rug is warm and bright and evokes images of people celebrating, dancing round and round on a summer day.
“It’s not always that easy to let bygones be gone,” Joe is saying to Lucinda.
“I know. I’m just not sure what takes more energy, forgiving or not forgiving.” There’s a regretful edge to Lucinda’s voice and her concentration seems far away.
“What bygones are you talking about there, Mom?” Annie, as usual, wishes she had some clue as to what went on in her mother’s head. Her sisters have always been able to talk to Lucinda, about their boyfriends and husbands, their jobs or lack of, their kids. But Annie so often says the wrong thing, a wisecrack, something sarcastic or off-colour, which, although it might get a chuckle from Dermot, seldom amuses her mother. As an adult Annie has tried to be more careful about what she says around Lucinda, but they still seem unable to find a place where they can relax in each other’s company.
Lucinda shakes her head as if to clear it. “Now, Annie, you know your Aunt Mercedes didn’t always watch what came out of her mouth,” she says evasively.
Annie rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me. You have to wonder though, is that why she never had a boyfriend?”
Joe looks startled. “Oh, but she did. After she left New York and was learning to be a teacher in Nova Scotia. Callum was so excited you’d have thought she was his own daughter getting hitched.”
“Go on! Aunt Merce was going to get married?” Annie is surprised her grandfather never mentioned it. “Who was this fellow?”
“He was from some well-to-do family in St. John’s. Apparently he was heading for the priesthood till he met Mercie, so his family wasn’t too happy about it.”
“Is that why they broke up?” she asks.
“I don’t know. All of a sudden it was over and no one wanted to talk about it anymore. Callum only said she was moving back here to teach.”
“Mom? Did she ever say anything to you about it?”
&nbs
p; “She was never one to talk about days gone by, was she now?”
Annie’s can’t disagree with that. In fact, Mercedes would often simply leave the room if someone seemed intent on dredging up old stories. Still, there’s something about her mother’s quick tight smile that makes Annie wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. But it’s useless to push Lucinda, who can be as tight-lipped as Mercedes when it suits her. “So, Uncle Joe, tell me what was she like when she was little? What did she like to do? Did you all get along?”
Annie realizes that she really does want to know. What made the child, Mercie, happy? What did she talk about when she sat down to drink her morning tea with her father and brothers? Did they love each other dearly and talk as only family can? Who was this matriarch whom Annie has feared and even hated at times, yet whom she feels such an urge to understand despite everything that happened?
“The older boys were all gone by then, fishing or working the mines. Dad was there but he wasn’t much good to us. So it was really just me and her and Cal.” He chuckles. “You know how I remembers her best? In our old clothes. We never threw out a darn thing, you couldn’t afford to ever do that. Mercie would take our old shirts, roll up the sleeves, sometimes cut the bottom off. She was only five or six, I suppose. Never complained, just got on with it, wandered around the house singing, or sat with Callum at the table practising her letters and stuff.”
Lucinda leans in close and pats Joe’s hand. The need in her eyes tugs at Annie, and her heart fills at the sight of these two good people attempting to recall the warmth that long ago existed in Mercedes Hann.
Annie slips into the chair next to hermother. “Shemust have been a sight in those big clothes, hey,” she prompts Joe before he loses his train of thought, “so small next to you two big galoots?” She is rewarded with an appreciative glance from Lucinda.
“Indeed she was, but at least she was warm. You should have seen us. On really cold days when you could never get yourself warm for nothing, me and her and Cal would haul our chairs to the stove and pull down the oven door. Then we’d lay a pillow there and put our feet on it.” He laughs a beautiful young laugh. “Mercie called it our fireplace. We’d warm bricks in there too, wrap them in towels to take to bed with us.”
Mercy of St Jude Page 3