The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  He turned. “Yeah. We’re gonna get together. Why?”

  “Tell her to give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  “Take care.”

  “Yeah.”

  18

  Jennifer ran ahead of her father, through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Look what Grandma got me!” she said, holding up a blue and yellow Beanie doll. “I named her Molly.”

  Heidi was at the kitchen sink. She had just finished peeling and dicing a cucumber and was stirring it into a white mixing bowl of lettuce, spinach greens, tomato wedges, and olive oil. Mike and Jody had left thirty minutes earlier, and she had spent the time since then making the salad and putting leftover casserole in the oven. The kitchen table had been set for dinner, and she had put out green olives, cottage cheese, and a plate of garlic bread to go with the meal.

  “Molly! What a great name!” she exclaimed, bending down and giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Is she going to have dinner with us?”

  “She already ate at Grandma’s. I’m going to put her to bed right now.”

  “Okay. And when you come back, we’ll have dinner. Be sure to wash your hands.”

  “Okay.”

  Her daughter left the room. Heidi turned to her husband. “Pretty good timing, huh?”

  Ed took several bottles of Guinness Extra Stout out of a brown paper bag, set one on the table, and put the others in the refrigerator. Closing the refrigerator door, he looked at his wife. “Did you and your friends get it all worked out? Did you come up with a new escapade? What are you going to blow up this time? How about a cement plant? Don’t they release a lot of carbon dioxide? Or maybe you could sneak up to Seattle and knock off the Space Needle—that’s gotta be worth a lotta publicity.”

  Heidi stirred the salad one or two more times, then set the bowl on the table. “What’s wrong, Ed? Bad day at the office? There has to be some reason why you came home early.”

  Ed sat down at the table and opened the bottle of Stout he had kept apart from the others. He poured it into a glass and sipped off the foam.

  “Are you wishing I hadn’t come home early? Was I not supposed to see you here with your…accomplices? Did I show up at the wrong time, when you were in the middle of plotting something? If I did, I apologize. Next time, if I decide to come home early, I’ll call first. That should give your friends time to scatter, so as to avoid feeling awkward.”

  “Are you quite finished, Ed? Or is there something more you would like to say on the subject? Because if there is, say it now, before our daughter comes back.”

  “Speaking of our daughter,” he said, breaking off a piece of garlic bread and biting into it, “if you get your tit in a ringer with all this ego-driven revolutionary nonsense that has such a grip on your priorities, you’ll be lucky to get to see her once a month, on visiting day. Have you ever thought of that?”

  “Tell me something, Ed. ‘Tit in a ringer’—is that particular expression a holdover from your days as a juvenile delinquent?”

  Ed washed down the garlic bread with a swallow of Stout. He set the glass on the table and, for a long moment, regarded her in silence. Then: “As a matter of fact, it is. It’s part of the colorful street lexicon I acquired when I thought writing graffiti in public restrooms and tipping over garbage cans was a hot ticket to building a reputation among my peers. But in addition to amassing a vocabulary of common usage, I also learned something else—that the law doesn’t give a damn who you are…break it often enough, and sooner or later you’ll get nailed. You might think about that the next time you tuck your daughter into bed and kiss her good night.”

  Wiping her hands with a paper towel, Heidi said, “You knew I was an activist when you married me, Ed. You didn’t have any say in the matter then, and you don’t now.”

  “I’m just the breadwinner, is that it? I just bring home paychecks and pay all the bills, right? But my opinion doesn’t get counted, does it?”

  Heidi dropped the paper towel in the wastebasket and brushed off her apron. Looking at her husband, she said, “You might remember that this house came with me, built and paid for by my great-grandfather. And it’s one reason we manage to live as well as we do.”

  Ed selected an olive and popped it into his mouth.

  “Sometimes I’d just as soon have a mortgage,” he said. “I’d at least feel like I have some rights.”

  Using a pot holder, Heidi opened the oven door and removed a steaming noodle casserole. She set it in the middle of the table and began stirring it with a wooden spoon.

  “You might remember, Ed, that this is an equal opportunity marriage. It always has been, from the very beginning. And you have rights, just not the right to interfere with that part of my life. I made that clear at the outset, and I’m making it clear now.”

  Leaving the spoon in the casserole, she turned and looked at him.

  He started to reply, but just then Jennifer came into the room. “Well, look who’s back,” he broke off. “And did she remember to wash her hands?”

  Jennifer smiled up at both of them. “I put Molly to bed,” she said, “and I made her say her prayers. And, yes, I did remember to wash my hands.”

  Heidi gave her another kiss on the cheek. “That’s a good girl. And now let’s eat. Do you want to say grace for us, or do you want one of us to?”

  “I want to.”

  “Okay.”

  § § § § § §

  Lisa’s family home sat high on a hillside overlooking Portland. Built during the fifties, it cantilevered out from a wooded slope and commanded a panoramic view of the city proper, a view that on a clear day extended all the way to snow-capped Mount Hood in the east and snow-rimmed Mt. Saint Helens to the north. At night, the city below sparkled with a cheery, multifarious array of “carnival” lights that stretched off in all directions. Until quite recently, and for a numbers of years, the house had occupied its aeried site unmolested by the presence of nearby homes. It sat in a space all by itself, high up on the hillside, seemingly in solitary majesty, like a castellated structure looking down on the surrounding countryside. Only lately had its proprietary position been compromised by the addition of newer and, for the most part, less spectacular domiciles.

  Lisa sat at the well-laid mahogany dining room table with her father and mother, her father at one end and her mother at the other. Consuela, their Mexican cook, had just served the evening meal, which consisted of grilled lamb cutlets, creamed asparagus, and tender young potatoes brushed with butter and crushed garlic sauce. The water glasses had been filled with imported spring water and the wine goblets contained a five-year-old Bordeaux.

  “How are your little Mexican friends doing?” Natalie Coleman asked. “You haven’t talked much about them lately.”

  Natalie Coleman, Lisa’s mother, was in her early fifties, though she appeared ten years younger. Her platinum hair was cut stylishly so as to frame a lightly tanned, beauteous face that exhibited the benign placidity often seen in upper-class women who sit contently behind folding tables at charity functions and smile pleasantly at those who, donation in hand, approach. She had Colgate-white teeth, wore no makeup except for a candy-red lipstick, and had a diamond-point earring in each ear, with a matching necklace. Her fingernail polish was the same color as her lipstick and had been done as impeccably as everything else about her.

  “They’re still out there, working as hard as always,” Lisa replied. Before becoming involved with Heidi’s group, her activist inclinations had been directed toward the sizable Hispanic community out in the Hillsboro farming country. Her efforts had entailed food and clothing drives and solicitation of medical and dental services. Her involvement, though sincere, had been sporadic and inconsistent, and lately it had stopped almost altogether, though she hadn’t yet told her parents.

  “Yes, they do work hard, don’t they, the poor dears. Charles, would you pass the condiment dish to this end of the table, please. I don’t know why it is, but you always seem
to keep it at your end.”

  Charles Coleman, a former halfback for a semi-pro football team, was in his mid-sixties. His white hair swept back flamboyantly from a high, broad forehead and a Gulf-stream tanned face. His Mediterranean blue eyes gazed out at the world with a mild, at times somnolent detachment, as though from an imperturbable consciousness of class superiority. Wordlessly, his mouth full of grilled lamb cutlet, he handed the condiment plate to Lisa, who passed it to her mother.

  “Thank you, Charles,” Lisa’s mother said. “But tell me, Lisa, what new projects have you started? The last time we talked, I believe you were involved in a clothing drive. How did that go?”

  “Very well. Better than expected. Believe it or not, we managed to fill ten bags with a variety of items, and we got it distributed just in time for the fall weather. It’s surprising what organization and a little prodding will do. Right now, we’re trying to get some free dental care for a Mrs. Mendoza’s five children.”

  “Oh, really,” Mrs. Coleman said thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t expect that should be too hard, should it? Charles, what about that new dentist who flirts with me? Don’t you think we could induce him to donate some of his time? Why don’t you have a talk with him? I’m sure he’d been willing to cooperate.”

  With his mouth still full, Charles Coleman answered with more of a grunting sound than an intelligible communication.

  “Was that a yes, a no, or a maybe, Charles? Or were you simply declining to give an answer?”

  Putting his fork down, Charles Coleman looked up from his plate. Helping himself to a swallow of water, he said, “My dear, I can’t really give a satisfactory answer to that question, as I’m still working on defining my gutturals, and I sometimes get them confused. It’s like inventing a new language, if you will. I’m still fine-tuning the distinct emphasis of each sound so as to give it a precise meaning. Once I’ve done that, communication between us should be vastly improved.”

  Mrs. Coleman sighed.

  “Charles, for your daughter’s sake, will you just answer the question?”

  “Ah, yes—Lisa. There she sits, as lovely as ever and even, I daresay, as beautiful as her mother was in the springtime of her youth. Though her mother has changed but little, how long ago that was. But what was the question, my dear?”

  Lisa and her mother exchanged a look of exasperation.

  “Dental care, Daddy. Can we get Mommy’s dentist to donate some dental care for Mrs. Mendoza’s children?”

  “Cavities are an awful thing to have, especially for children, who so like their candy. But that, my beauty, would be more the realm of your mother’s specialty, which is—seduction!”

  Mrs. Coleman, after a moment of silence, said, “Charles, can we have this conversation later?”

  “We always do, my dear. Why should it be any different now?”

  “Please stay focused, Daddy. We’re wondering if you can’t help us with dental care.”

  Apportioning another bite of the lamb cutlet with his knife and fork, and while chewing it, Mr. Coleman thought the question over.

  “Does he play golf?”

  “They all play golf, Charles.”

  “But, seriously, my dear, why don’t you ask him? Make an appointment to have your teeth cleaned.”

  “I had them cleaned a week ago. Besides, it would look too obvious…and it would only encourage him.”

  “You prefer the less direct method, is that it?”

  “We’re talking about dental care, Charles.”

  “Yes—well, in that case, perhaps I could have my own teeth cleaned. During the course of which I could mention, in passing of course, my latest hole-in-one, thereby setting up a challenge to any supposed skill he might have. The young buccaneer might fancy going head-to-head with an old duffer, just as a test to see whether his manhood is up to snuff. You know how important that sort of thing is when you’re still floundering around in an attempt to define yourself as a man. Yes, indeed, I will make an appointment.”

  “You needn’t exaggerate it so, Charles. It won’t be a battle of the giants or anything like that. Just ask him if he has much chance to go out on the links, and then extend an invitation. All that manhood rubbish aside, he’ll probably jump at the chance to do some networking. They’re all imbued with that concept nowadays, anyway…it’s all a part of their how-to-make-your-business-successful curriculum.”

  “Indeed, it was mine, too, though from another era. But why don’t you call and make an appointment tomorrow? And remind me later, of course…you know how I hate going to the dentist and am apt to deliberately forget it.”

  Lisa raised her wineglass.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “As always, you’re wonderful.”

  Mr. Coleman chuckled. “The opportunity to be crafty always brings out the best in me,” he said.

  “It does in all of us, Daddy.”

  “I’m ready for dessert,” Mrs. Coleman said. “Are you almost finished, Charles?”

  “I suppose.”

  Mrs. Coleman rang a small bell.

  Swallowing a mouthful of food and wiping her hands on her apron, Consuela appeared in the dining room doorway.

  “Consuela, sirva el pastel y helado, por favor.”

  “Si, señora. Esta por todo?”

  “Daddy doesn’t get any dessert tonight, Consuela,” Lisa said. “He was bad earlier.”

  Mr. Coleman guffawed. Looking away, Mrs. Coleman grinned. Consuela looked confused.

  “Por todo, Consuela,” Lisa said.

  “Si, señorita.”

  § § § § § §

  The interior of Christy’s Brew and Spirits consisted of hanging potted greenery, mellow wood paneling, oaken chairs and tables, a long-mirrored mahogany bar, a black and yellow tile floor, a lacquered built-in bookcase on a far wall, and two tables inlaid with chessboards. The patrons were mostly professional types: academics from Portland State University, doctors and nurses from local hospitals, writers, artists, students, and a few neighborhood people who just appreciated the quiet, laid-back atmosphere of a civilized eating and drinking emporium.

  Jody was at one of the tables, along with three others. Two of her companions were Catholic nuns and the third a middle-aged priest assigned to the cathedral a few blocks away. The nuns were both dressed in skirts and long-sleeve blouses, with a black head garment that left most of the hair uncovered. Each had a silver chain and cross around her neck that rested lightly against her bosom, and neither wore any makeup.

  The priest, Father Mallory, had curly black hair, a youthful boyish face with a rubicund complexion, mildly lugubrious eyes, and an incipient double chin. His owlish, black-rimmed glasses gave the impression of a judgmental, yet tolerant disposition. In exchange for an evening of relaxation and camaraderie, he had traded the usual priestly garb for an open-collar plaid shirt and a tan corduroy jacket.

  “Jody, the Church’s position is really quite consistent with one of its most basic tenets,” he was saying as he sipped beer from a heavy glass mug. “It cannot hold that life begins at the moment the seed from a man and a woman are joined and yet simultaneously take a position that nullifies the original proposition. And that’s exactly what abortion would do. To condone it would be illogical.”

  “And murder,” Sister John added punctiliously.

  Jody, nurturing a mug of beer along with the rest of them, scoffed: “Can you honestly say that this ‘protoplasmic event’ has an existence equal to mine and yours? Being a gob of protoplasm, it has no awareness of itself, so to destroy it is not to destroy something that knows it is alive in the same way that you and I know that we are alive.”

  Father Mallory drained the bottom of his beer mug. “I can! And I will!” he said with passion. “And may the good Lord back me. I know the good sisters here will.”

  Sister John of the Cross, the younger of the two, nodded. “Life is precious, Jody. It was given to us by the good God in heaven, and only He can take it. No one else can.”
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  Such simple-minded sentiments, in light of the complexities and realities of life that Jody had experienced since graduating from St. Mary’s Academy for Girls, churned the embers of an exasperation that had yet to find a meaningful and proper expression. Describing it as an inner rage was not quite accurate, but recognizing the need for an outlet was.

  “Perhaps, and with all due respect, Sister. But while we sit here arguing over abortion and how precious life is, we manage to destroy one another in myriad other ways, not the least of which is the reckless befouling of the air we breathe and the water we drink. And we’ve overpopulated the planet to the point where life is an ongoing miserable proposition for millions of its inhabitants. We seem to care more about life in the abstract than we do in actuality.”

  The two beers Father Mallory had had so far left him unruffled. With a mellowness imparted not only by the beverage itself, but as well by an ambiance of soft-toned woods and low-keyed interior lighting, he responded with nothing more than a mild reproach.

  “Jody, my dear girl, you’ve become a rebel, and an angry one at that. But don’t you think you’ve carried it to a morbid extreme? Really, what you need to do is go to mass more often. The Lord’s sacrifice is intended not only to bring you closer to Him, but, as well, to provide us with the spiritual strength to realize the world in all its imperfections and to love it nonetheless.”

  The two sisters murmured in agreement. The one, Sister Jude of Divine Intercession, even allowed as how the young woman might acquire a serenity of heart and mind by spending a weekend or two at a local retreat house for women.

  “I see your kind all the time,” she averred. “Poor, distraught souls who are angry and bitter and disillusioned and oftentimes only need the chance to be alone in a peaceful and quiet environment. So caught up in the world and its troubles have they become that they’ve lost touch with their spiritual side, and their general well-being has suffered because of it.”

  Jody finished the last of her own mug of beer and set it back on the table.