It’ll be okay, I tell myself. It will. Angus will not have anything to do with this. James just needs a place to stay for a few days until he figures out what to do next. And then he will go to wherever he needs to go, disappear again as quickly as he appeared.
That’s all.
Chapter 24
Can we go to Friendly’s?” Angus suggests on the way home. “They have the best French fries and they make those ice cream sundaes with the chocolate cookie ears for dessert, and besides, I’m starving.”
“You got it.” I am straining to make my voice cheerful, still forcing myself to act normal; anything to put aside the fact that tomorrow I will be housing a criminal, that less than an hour ago I broke down in front of my four-year-old son like a little girl. Not to mention the monster-mom mask I put on at day care, dealing with Jeremy. Maybe I’ll get a phone call from his mother tonight: “Who do you think you are, screaming at my son like that? What’s your problem?” I wouldn’t blame her, I guess. I’d do the same thing if some woman came in and freaked out on Angus.
Ma’s in the kitchen, frying chicken in a heavy cast iron pan. The little TV next to the stove is on, turned to the five o’clock news. Headline: James and the police search downtown. I turn it off, reach over, and give her a kiss on the cheek. “C’mon. I’m taking us to dinner. Angus wants to go to Friendly’s.”
She looks at me surprised, and then turns off the heat under the pan. “Well, all right. That sounds lovely actually. Let me just put some lipstick on.”
FRIENDLY’S IS CROWDED, even in the back where Angus likes to eat. Ma and I settle in on the red bench by the front doors, watching people come and go as we wait for a table. Angus runs over to the gum machine in the corner, and gets down on his knees. He starts fiddling with the dial, hoping to dislodge a loose piece, even though I’ve told him he can’t have any gum before dinner. A man and woman—both wearing Red Sox baseball hats—brush past us.
“Oh, I’d bet the farm he’s still local,” the man says, standing back to let the woman through the door. “Someone that stupid wouldn’t have enough sense to go anywhere else. Besides, he’s injured. Someone said he got shot in the foot. He’s probably holed up somewhere like a scared little rabbit.”
I bring my hand to my mouth, start biting my nails.
“Don’t,” Ma says, swatting gently at my hand. She tucks a piece of hair over my shoulder. “How was work?”
“It was okay. How about you?”
“Not bad. Violet had me take everything out of her kitchen cupboards today and wipe them all down.”
I turn to look at her, my mouth slightly ajar. “C’mon, Ma. You’re not supposed to be doing stuff like that.”
She shrugs. “Oh, it wasn’t hard. Afterward, we had a cup of tea together. She told me about the day she met her husband at a county fair in Georgia. He won a blue ribbon for having the biggest pig.” She chuckles. “She was the one in charge of pinning all the ribbons on. Isn’t that cute?”
I smile a little, too, although I wish she didn’t have to clean people’s cupboards out, wipe down the grease and dust they accumulate over the years. It’s beneath her, is what it is. It’s beneath anyone. People should clean up after their own damn selves. “You’re not too tired, then?”
She shakes her head, tucks her purse in against her chest. “I’m fine. How was Mr. Herron today? And Jane?”
“They’re okay.” I tell her about Jane’s situation with the baby, how I helped calm her down. Ma looks alarmed when I get to the part about the bath, and when she starts shaking her head, I finally stop. “What?”
“You shouldn’t be doing things like that, Bird.”
“Like what? The baby was hysterical. Jane was in pain or something, because she didn’t have her medicine . . .”
“What medicine?” Ma asks.
“She takes Vicodin for back pain or something. I don’t know. I didn’t really ask too much about it.”
“Vicodin?” Ma repeats. “How can she be taking care of four children if she’s on Vicodin?”
“I don’t know. Normally Genevieve’s there. She takes care of the three older kids. But she called out sick today, so Jane was on her own.”
Ma’s shaking her head. “I don’t know about that woman.”
“What don’t you know, Ma?”
“Well, she shouldn’t even be having all those children if she’s got some sort of back problem, for one. And two, Vicodin is a pretty strong drug. I’m sure it alters her ability to mother decently.” She turns to look at me. “Don’t you think?”
“I have no idea. I try to stay out of it.” I think back to yesterday, when Jane asked me if I liked being a mother. What was really underneath that question? Did she like being a mother? Or was Ma right—that being on a pain medication like Vicodin fuzzed her maternal abilities? Maybe being on Vicodin fuzzed most of her abilities.
Our waitress calls our name then, leading us through the restaurant to one of the round booths in the back. She’s an older woman, about Ma’s age, with bleached blond hair, teeth the color of overripe banana peels. Her orthopedic shoes and support hose look odd under her Friendly’s uniform, but strangely complementary, too. The embroidered name on her shirt reads MARJORIE. Angus and Ma both order the same thing: grilled cheese with bacon and extra French fries, while I get a 7-Up, a double cheeseburger with a fried egg on it, and a side of coleslaw.
“A fried egg?” Angus asks incredulously, getting up on his knees. “On a burger? That’s gross, Mom!”
Marjorie laughs. “Lots of people put eggs on their burgers,” she tells Angus. “It’s actually very good.”
I hand Marjorie our menus, look at her hands as she collects them. Thick, worn around the tips. Scraped pink nail polish. “Thank you,” I say, making sure she sees me smile. What the hell is she doing working the night shift at Friendly’s? She should be home in bed with her feet up, having a cup of tea, goddamn it.
“Sit down correctly, Angus,” Ma says, tapping the table in front of him.
“I am sitting,” he answers.
“On your bottom.” Ma raises her eyebrows.
Angus uncrosses his knees and sits back down. I bite the inside of my cheek, slide the coloring book and small packet of crayons in his direction. God, it will be nice not to have to share the parenting anymore.
“Listen,” I say to Ma, keeping my voice low. “I have to go to Jane’s tonight to help her with the play set. She’s expecting me around seven. And then after that, I thought I would . . . Well, would you mind staying with him for a little while longer tonight? Just for another hour or so?”
“Of course.” Ma folds her hands, raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going after Jane’s?”
“Well . . .” I squint, pick at a piece of loose skin around my thumb. “I thought I’d go sit again for a while. At the church. You know, for that Forty Hour thing.”
Ma’s hands fall open loosely as she sits back against the red seating. “You’re playing with me, Bernadette.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not.”
“You want to go back?” Her lips part the slightest bit. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Not to do anything . . .”
“Just to sit.”
“Yeah.” I shrug away the guilt I am feeling, scratch the top of my forehead. It’s for the greater good. The bigger picture. “Just to sit.”
Ma pats my hand conspiratorially. “All right, then.”
“When does it end anyway? The Forty Hours, I mean?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Ma says. “Father will have a Mass of Deposition and then he’ll close up the tabernacle.”
Perfect. I’ll have time to bring James clean clothes before I go to Jane’s tonight, and then go back up to the choir loft tomorrow, right after I finish up at Mr. Herron’s, so that I can grab him and throw him in the car before the church locks up for the night.
Marjorie brings our drinks over—white milk for Angus in a kiddie-cup with a straw, coff
ee for Ma, a 7-Up with lemon for me. “There you are,” she says, giving Angus a wink. “And your meals will be right out.”
Maybe Ma will end up like Marjorie when Angus and I move out to the lake. There’s no way she’ll be able to keep up with this whole cleaning thing for much longer. It’s too much. The work is getting too strenuous for her body, whether she wants to admit it or not. She’s worn out. Maybe she can get a part-time job here at Friendly’s; she and Marjorie can take their breaks together, slipping into a corner booth in the back, settling their stockinged feet along the fake red leather. They’ll split a piece of the coconut cream pie with their coffee, exchange stories about their grandchildren. It wouldn’t be so terrible, spending her last working days like that, would it? Wouldn’t it be better than working herself into the ground, breaking her back along someone else’s floor?
I look up, startled suddenly as someone says my name. “Bird?”
Mrs. Ross is standing in front of our booth, next to a man with dark hair. “Hi, hon!” she says. “I thought that was you!”
“Oh, hi!” I reach out and shake her hand, hoping she doesn’t notice the sudden flush along the side of my neck. “Um, Ma, this is Mrs. Ross.” I pause. There’s really no other way to say it. “From the probation office? Mrs. Ross, this is my mother. And my son, Angus.”
Mrs. Ross shakes Ma’s hand, smiling widely. She’s dressed up as usual—a gray camisole with delicate lace edging under a pink-and-white cardigan, sharply ironed black pants, heels. Her hair is down, cascading in waves around her shoulders, and she is wearing long earrings punctuated with pink-and-white stones. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Connolly. You must be so proud of Bird. She’s worked so hard.”
Ma glances over at me, smiles a little. “I am. Thank you.”
“And, Angus!” Mrs. Ross turns toward him, shaking his hand as well. “I’ve heard so much about you! But your mother never told me you were so handsome!”
Angus grins and ducks his head.
“This is my husband, Tony,” Mrs. Ross says, putting her arm around him. “Tony, this is Mrs. Connolly, Bird, and Angus.”
Tony grins, shaking hands all around, including with Angus. He’s really good-looking. Tall, dark hair, great teeth. An excellent dresser, too, in a green-and-white checkered shirt, caramel-colored leather jacket, nice pants. I wonder if Mrs. Ross picks out his clothes. Ma used to pick out Dad’s, bringing home stuff from JCPenney and Sears. He couldn’t dress himself if his life depended on it. “Great to meet you all,” Mr. Ross says, and then, looking directly at Angus: “You know, Angus was my grandfather’s name.”
Mrs. Ross draws her head back a little, staring at her husband. “You never told me that!”
Mr. Ross nods. “Great name,” he says. “It’s Celtic. It means ‘one choice.’” He looks directly at me. “But you probably already knew that, didn’t you?”
I nod, laugh lightly. Pleaseleavepleaseleavepleaseleave.
Mrs. Ross tucks an arm into the crook of her husband’s elbow and smiles out at us. “Tony’s a historian over at the college. He loves things like the meaning of names.”
“‘One choice,’” Ma repeats slowly. She’s looking sideways at me, her left eyebrow arched into an A. I wait for her to say something about me not knowing anything at all about the meaning of Angus’s name, let alone that it had anything to do with a choice, but she just sits back again and folds her hands.
“What about Mom’s name?” Angus is up on his knees again, gazing at Mr. Ross with big eyes. “What’s it mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Ross says, shaking his head from side to side. “Bird’s a first for me actually.”
“Oh, Bird’s just a nickname.” Ma is looking up at Mr. Ross intently. “Her real name is Bernadette. As in Saint Bernadette. The one who saw the Blessed Virgin? At Lourdes?”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Ross says. “I think the French interpretation is ‘strong bear.’ Or maybe it’s ‘brave as a bear.’”
Thedoorisrightbehindyoupleaseturnaroundandleavenow.
As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Ross laughs lightly, and runs a hand through her hair. “Well, it certainly was fun running into all of you. Bird, I’ll see you shortly to wrap things up and send you on your way!”
Mr. Ross puts his hand lightly around Mrs. Ross’s back as they turn around, and keeps it there as they walk down the aisle. I wonder briefly where their children are. Maybe the two of them are on a date, the kids home with a babysitter. Mrs. Ross is definitely the kind of woman who would insist on date-night with her husband.
“She’s certainly cheery,” Ma says, dragging a French fry through a puddle of ketchup. “You never mentioned anything about her before.”
“She’s my probation officer, Ma.” I keep my voice low. “What am I supposed to tell you?” I glance over at Angus, who is eating only the middle part out of his grilled cheese. He will discard the crusts, banish them to one side of the plate the way he always does. I let him, more in direct defiance to Ma, who forced me to eat every-single-crumb-children-are-starving-all-over-the-world, than for any other reason. He looks up at me, catches me looking at him. “Can I call you Mama Bear now?” he asks.
I laugh.
So does Ma.
Chapter 25
A few months after Angus and I moved in with Ma, I went up to the attic to get some extra bedding for Angus’s crib. Ma had told me where to look—all the way in the back, just under the eaves—and she was right. What she hadn’t told me, though, was that right next to the bedding were two large boxes, each marked neatly with masking tape. They were labeled BILL—CLOTHES.
I lifted the cover off the box, staring down at the pile of Dad’s neatly folded shirts. There was the camel-colored one he wore to work, usually under a black vest. It was soft and nubby, the collar worn a little at the edges. Under that was the dark blue one with the bleach stain on the pocket that he wore on Saturdays, when he puttered around the house. There were a few of his T-shirts, too—the old ratty ones, with holes in the bottom, and faded yellow stains under the arms. I was confused at first, not that Ma had saved his clothes, but that she had saved such crappy ones. There was the horrible black cardigan he’d liked to wear to church even though Ma begged him not to, the overly pilled V-neck sweater, even a faded bathing suit he’d worn to the beach one summer.
And then I smelled it. Old Spice aftershave, mixed with coffee and the lingering, almost indecipherable trail of pipe smoke. The scent drifted out from in between the materials, faint as air, strong as a fist. It made my knees buckle, the skin along my cheeks prickle with heat. I gripped the pile of T-shirts I was holding so hard that my hands turned white, and sat there for a long time, surrounded by the clothes and the smell of Dad, until Ma called up finally and asked if I was okay.
Now, when we get home from Friendly’s, I put a movie in for Angus, and head up to the attic. I haven’t been back up here since that day. But as I lift the box top, digging deep toward the bottom where Dad’s pants are, the smell hits me again—so hard this time, and with such insistence, that I stand up straight as if someone has just grabbed me around the shoulders. I can’t do this. What the hell am I thinking—taking my dead father’s pants to give to an escaped criminal hiding in a church? Even if it is James? What is wrong with me?
I reach down instead, and take the camel-colored shirt in my hands. I bring it to my face, close my eyes, and breathe in as deeply as I can. “Dad.” My voice breaks inside the shirt, lost among the folds, hidden deep against the buttons. “Oh God, Dad, what should I do?”
I honestly don’t know what happens next: maybe it is the familiarity of the smell again, or maybe I just want to believe that he’s around somehow. But something lifts inside, having said that, and a vague realization, as if he has heard me somehow, wherever he is, settles across my shoulders. A few moments later, it occurs to me that Dad wouldn’t mind if I took his pants right now and gave them to James Rittenhouse, who is sitting in a puddle of his own urine at th
e top of Saint Augustine’s Church.
That maybe, just maybe, he would do the exact same thing.
FATHER DELANEY IS straightening a pile of prayer booklets next to the statue of the Blessed Virgin when I walk in. He turns immediately, his lean face brightening. “Bird!” His voice is hushed as he walks toward me, his right arm outstretched. “How wonderful to see you here again!” He touches me lightly on the elbow and drops his hand again.
“Thanks.” I smile tightly. “I just thought I’d, you know, maybe sit and hang out for a while.” I adjust my backpack casually, hoping he doesn’t mention it. People bring backpacks to church, don’t they?
“Oh, of course, absolutely!” Father Delaney shoves his hands into his pockets, peers in at my face as if he hasn’t just seen me yesterday. “So how are you? How are things going?”
Oh God. Now he wants to chat. Couldn’t he have said something yesterday, when we were all leaving after the service? I step on my foot, clear my throat once, sharply. “Things are good. Thanks for asking.”
“What is it that you’re doing now?”
“Oh, just working.” I shrug. “You know, cleaning houses with Ma.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful. I’m sure it’s a huge help to your mother, having you on board like that.”
“Yes.”
“How about just for you? What’re you doing these days for yourself? For fun?”
Is he serious? What is this, some kind of therapy session? I wonder briefly if Ma has put him up to this, the way she got him involved in the sweater fiasco. “Um, you know. I get out. Meet up with friends and stuff.”
“Good friends?” The priest’s mouth is crooked into the tiniest of smiles; if it didn’t look so genuine, I’d probably ignore the question altogether.
“Good friends,” I concur. “Don’t worry, Father.”
He pats me on the back. “I’m not worried.”
“Well, you can tell Ma not to worry, then.”
He grins, deepening the lines on either side of his face. “I’ll do that. Go on in. I don’t mean to keep you.”
The Odds of You and Me Page 19