Mercy of St Jude

by Wilhelmina Fitzpatrick

  Then she walks away.

  In need of solitude before facing her family, Annie goes to the church. Choosing a pew near the back, she kneels and bows her head. Her hands find each other, the fingers interlacing. Marble statues and stained glass surround her, familiar, peaceful. In recent years, except for Christmas and the occasional wedding or baptism, she has left the church, and God, to others. She breathes in the aromatic echoes of incense and lemon oil and realizes she has missed it, despite a childhood spent whining about Lent and Easter and having to go to Mass “every frigging day for forty days.” Smiling at the memory, she touches her right hand to her forehead, then down to her chest, to her left shoulder then her right. She’s ready to go home.

  When she arrives at her parents’ house, the party is in full progress. The first few drinks have been downed and the crowd has moved on to sombre toasts and overblown memories. The Murphy brothers lead a sing-along of dirges in the kitchen, and her Uncle Frank, well in his cups, is in the middle of a long-winded recital about some other poor soul who had the bad luck to die.

  All in honour of Mercedes. With the earth still settling around her coffin, Annie thinks she must be doing somersaults in her grave.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Pat is there of course, surprisingly sober, his enunciation clear as a bell as he asks how she’s feeling about it all.

  “A little shell-shocked, actually.” She glances around. “Quite the send off, eh? Wonder what she’d think.”

  He laughs. “If she was here, she’d be gone by now.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? Where’s Aiden?”

  “Him and your father are out back smoking cigars.” He takes a small sip of beer.

  “Cigars? Tying one on, are they?”

  “Three sheets to the wind, the pair of them.”

  Annie sizes him up. “What’s slowing you down?”

  He studies his beer bottle. “I got to make a change, Annie.”

  “Ever think about moving away? Lots of jobs out west.”

  “Possible, I suppose. But I was thinking more of doing something else, something altogether different.” He lowers his voice. “Maybe going back to school.”

  “Wow, talk about different.”

  He grins. “Not like I ever excelled at the books.”

  “Not like you ever tried.”

  “Probably time I did, eh? I’m twenty-six years old and going nowhere.” He plunks the bottle of beer on the table. “I don’t want to be doing this in ten years.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to sell me. I think it’s a great idea.”

  “You do? I mean, there’s lots would think I couldn’t do it.”

  “Like Aunt Mercedes, you mean?” The name feels different on Annie’s tongue, not quite right, but better than before.

  Pat’s shrug looks like a gesture of surrender. “I think she had a point. About me wasting my life.”

  “You agreeing with Mercedes Hann? This is a day of surprises.”

  “Maybe so. But maybe that’s why I couldn’t stand her. I knew she was right when she called me a no-good Irish Paddy.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with an Irish Paddy, Pat. It was all in her mind. So,” she says quickly to change the subject, “what kind of school you talking about?”

  He hesitates, then says sheepishly, “Cooking school.”

  “Sure that’s a great idea. But what brought this on suddenly?” “I hate fishing. I throws up my guts most days, and with Aiden gone, it’s no fun at all anymore.” He eyes her shyly.

  “What do you think? Is it too late?”

  “Go on, it’s never too late, but you better get on it. Like you said, you’re not getting any younger.”

  He grins and picks up his beer. “I’ll run it by Aiden, see what he got to say.”

  “Good luck with that,” she says to his back as he walks away.

  She goes in search of Lucinda and Callum. They’re in the living room putting everything back in its rightful place. With the coffin gone, the room feels empty.

  “Need some help?” Annie asks from the doorway.

  Her mother looks up. “Where did you get to?”

  “Nowhere.” She stops. Lucinda stands there looking resigned, as if she knows Annie will only tell her what suits her.

  “I ran into Gerry,” Annie admits.

  Her mother puts down the candle she’s holding. “Are you okay?”

  Annie shrugs. The truth is, her heart is still broken.

  “Is there anything we can do?” asks Lucinda.

  Annie offers up Mercedes’ letter. “I’d like you to read this.

  Both of you.”

  Annie walks to the window. She waits patiently. She needs her mother, now more than ever. She needs Lucinda to forgive her so that she can forgive herself.

  Lucinda comes up beside her. She tucks her arm into Annie’s and squeezes it. Annie squeezes back. They stand quietly together.

  “Thank you, Annie,” Lucinda says finally.

  “What for, Mom?” This was not the reaction she’d expected.

  “For trusting me.”

  Annie leans her head against her mother’s. “It took me long enough.”

  Callum joins them at the window. “Some things in life are better taken to the grave. Other things are best shared with people who love you.” He touches Annie’s cheek. “I’m just so sorry you had to go through all that, and all alone.”

  Annie lets out a long sigh. She feels an immense relief. For the first time in what seems like forever, she is free of the weight of anger and betrayal she has dragged around for so long.

  The evening is still and clear with a cloudless sky. It is almost too calm, too perfect. Her eye is drawn to the tires in the front yard. Something is growing in the middle tire but Annie can’t tell from this distance if it’s a weed or a flower. All she can see is a tiny green shoot struggling to poke through the hard Newfoundland clay.

  Epilogue

  Sadie plants her bum on the stuffed chair that looks directly out the window. She sits patiently, seemingly watching every movement, yet, on this particular occasion, oblivious to all but the far end of the street. There is a throbbing in her temple.

  Must be all that tea Gerard poured into me last night. Too much milk in it, gave me nightmares. Up to the bathroom half the night. Ah, no odds. Don’t matter now.

  Anticipation thrills through her. She smiles and tugs down her skirt to cover her knees and the run in her stocking.

  A new dress. Yes, and new stockings too. I deserves it, no doubt about that. Gerard too. Wish he’d get here, find out what she left him. Better be some of that money Bessie was going on about. Least she could do after all he done for her. Not just him, me too, putting up with them stuck-up ways. Make you sick sometimes. Old bitch filling him with high-falutin’ notions of what a smartie he was. Hah! Well, he got me to thank, not that old bag.

  Sadie reaches into her apron pocket and brings out her flask. She undoes the cap and sniffs at the opening. Smiling, she takes a small sip. She licks her lips, then sips again, savouring the rich taste of the brandy – a special treat for a special day.

  Fine-looking man, my Gerard. Them big brown eyes. And so tall, and right smart. Not like what followed on his heels, thick, green-eyed Griffins all. Not the brightest lot, even if they are half mine. Then again, other half’s Angus, so what can you expect. Angus! That fucker! Yes, we are so still married, even if he’s dead. Just because he took up with that French waiter in Montreal, don’t mean nothing. I got the marriage license. Ah, who cares? Got what I wanted in the end. Best thing is, no one got a frigging clue.

  Balanced perfectly upright on the chair, Sadie laces her fingers together and rotates her thumbs around and around each other in a continuous circle.

  Oh yes, I can keep a secret. No one knows better than me how to hold the truth so far down it’ll never see the light of day again. I got to laugh at that. Who’d question me? Goes without saying I’m a God-fearing woman, free and cle
ar of bodily sins. Hah! Stunned as my arse, the lot of them.

  Sadie lets her eyes almost close, and her mind sails back to another time, to the young priest she kept house for all those years ago. She moistens her mouth as she pictures him, so tall and handsome, much like young Father James, but better, with those nut-brown eyes that would smile shyly at her when she came in each morning to clean. His bedroom, she always started there, so she could catch the warm, musk smell of him before he’d been gone from the room for too long.

  Some good, that.

  Then there was the morning she arrived earlier than usual, using the key he gave her for when he had to go out of town.

  She knew he’d returned early from his trip. Tiptoeing in she found him sleeping in his virgin bed. Damask-curtained windows shut out the morning and the rest of the world. She approached the bed. Her sure hands stole beneath the heavy bedclothes. Before long he rose up, almost as if in protest. The body does not lie, however, and his lay well with hers, melding so they became one under the thick cover of the darkened bedroom. Locked into her favourite memory, a moan escapes her lips, a tiny guttural sigh. She looks around to make sure she’s still alone, then snuggles back into the past and her young priest once more, the frowzy scent of him reborn in her mind. She sees again his room where not a ray of light gained entry into their secret world. After that first time he’d wait every week, eyes shut tight, barely breathing in anticipation beneath the quilted bedclothes. Famished for it, he was always ready.

  Seconds after she’d find him, his long sensuous fingers and fine strong hands would pull her onto him, onto his firm, muscled, young flesh.

  Sadie sighs deeply, satisfied.

  The whole town had missed the nice young priest when he’d up and transferred after only a year in the parish. Rumour had it he left the priesthood soon after.

  Fool! Went off to Africa somewhere to join a mission or some such nonsense. Right after I give birth to Gerard, it was. Men! So stupid, every last one of them. Dumb as a sack of hammers. Of course, most women are too. Clueless. Dumb and stupid and clueless. Amazing. After all these years, still my little secret. Hah!

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novel has been a long time in the making, and a number of people have given me good advice and constructive criticism over the years, all of which has been greatly appreciated. I specifically want to thank the following: Cecelia Frey, Dixie Baum, Sue Hirst, Joan Beswick, Margo Embury.

  A special thank-you to my editor, Ed Kavanagh.

  And finally, to Donna Francis, I owe a special debt of gratitude, for her patience, perseverance and good humour, and for always being open to another draft.