Unfinished Desires

by Gail Godwin

  All the more, then, did Mother Malloy appreciate Elaine Frew’s attempts, during this third evening meal of the new semester, to take Jigg sie Judd under her wing. It was done, of course, in Elaine’s typical condescending manner, and with her visible fastidious recoil, but after a few “What?”s and “Huh!”s and “Oh, yeah?”s, Jiggsie was actually heard saying, “Uh, okay” and then, wonder of wonders, “Oh, thank you, Elaine.” It was enough to make Mother Malloy feel sad about the D Elaine didn’t yet know she was getting.

  While Mother Malloy was still laboring over a quivery slab of bread pudding clotted with raisins, Mother Arbuckle excused herself—two sick boarders with intestinal flu were awaiting their cup of bouillon from her hot plate back at the infirmary. In passing, she laid a small brown package on Mother Malloy’s lap.

  “I picked that up for you. See the note inside.”

  “Why, thank you, Mother.”

  Back in her office, Mother Malloy unwrapped the package. It was a bottle of something called Geritol. The note read:

  Take a nice good swig before bedtime and another before breakfast. Supposed to give you more pep and appetite. Lots of key vitamins and iron. It’s fairly new, but they’re advertising it all over the place. Let’s see if it helps!

  Clara Arbuckle, R.N., O.S.S.

  So her wan appetite had been professionally observed. She realized she must take even smaller portions if she were to continue eating everything on her plate, as the girls were expected to do.

  A few ninth graders had asked permission before the holidays to change or modify the topic of their paper. This was to be expected and was generally a good sign. Chloe Starnes, whose first proposal was to examine the influence of mothers in David Copperfield, had changed her focus to the influence of Agnes Wickfield upon David. “I want to explore how a person’s strength of character can guide someone to maturity, even when that person stays in the background. What gave me the idea was my mother’s name also being Agnes, and even though she isn’t with me anymore, I feel influenced by her. I feel her watching over me and guiding me in my choices.”

  The initial plan of Josie Galvin, the doctor’s daughter, had been to compare and contrast Little Emily’s fall (her elopement with her seducer, Steerforth) with that of her friend Martha the prostitute. But before Christmas she made an impassioned plea to concentrate on Martha alone. “There’s so much there, Mother; Martha can take up my whole five pages all by herself. My father says that prostitution was Victorian England’s biggest can of worms. They spent millions of pounds a year on their prostitutes, but the average prostitute, even if she was young, was dead in four years. I’d like to call my paper ‘Martha’s Redemption.’”

  “So you think she is redeemed?”

  “Oh, yes, Mother. I mean, she had no mother or father, so it was easy for her to fall into bad ways.”

  Mother Malloy considered taking a few of the papers to her room. Though sleep threatened to ambush her at untimely moments during the school day, it eluded her when she lay down on her bed at night. Why not get more of the papers done? But in a recent rereading of the Order’s rule, she saw, in chapter 42, “Silence After Compline,” that the foundress, who must have fought against night reading herself, warned against letting it become a “form of conversation that interferes with God’s most private communing with us just before sleep.”

  And so, after Compline, she went empty-handed to her room, removed her veil, folded it according to custom with the two straight pins arranged in the form of a cross, exchanged the habit for the flannel gown, washed her face and brushed her teeth at the little sink, took her first exploratory swig of Mother Arbuckle’s tonic (it was both “bitter and sweet,” like the angel’s little book in Revelations), and dropped to her knees on the prie-dieu to perform her Examen of Conscience. Twice, during her review of the day, she felt an auspicious drowsiness, but as soon as she lay flat on her pillow, she was wide awake again and vaguely apprehensive. Sometimes she managed to diminish the unease by sitting up and saying the confiteor and striking her chest three times (“through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault”). But other times, like now, it exacerbated her nervousness, and she resorted to her alternate remedy: making a second pillow out of the extra blanket from the closet, then lying at the new elevation with her eyes closed and reciting Hail Marys without counting them until something floated up, then something else, and on and on until she fell asleep.

  What floated up first tonight was the pang she continued to feel as an adult when someone spoke slightingly of people without parents. Josie Galvin, heaped round with the fruits of family life, took it for granted that it was easy for Martha to “fall into bad ways” because she had no mother or father. And this in turn evoked in Mother Malloy the spring of her ninth year, when a strep throat followed by a setback of bronchitis had kept her in bed for weeks, and she had watched the sun rise earlier each day and heard the other children leaving for school and, at the end of the day, heard them playing outside in the lengthening twilight. She was infinitely sad and unable to comfort herself or explain why. Everyone was attentive to her; she was a favorite with the foster parents and with the other children. Mrs. O’Neill fussed and worried over her. Mr. O’Neill, a carpenter, made her a pencil box carved with her initials, K.M. The doctor told her she was a very good patient; her fourth-grade teacher visited from school and assured her that she would catch up easily because she was disciplined and smart.

  The parish priest came to see her and encouraged her to start thinking about her confirmation name. He taught her a prayer to St. Joseph, which made her want to weep, though she could not have explained why.

  O blessed Joseph, happy man, to whom it was given not only to see and to hear that God Whom many kings longed to see, and saw not, to hear, and heard not; but also to carry Him in thy arms to embrace Him, to clothe Him, and to guard and defend Him.

  She had chosen Joseph for her confirmation name, and the parish priest had backed up her choice when others, including the loving O’Neills, had suggested that Josephine might be more suitable.

  CHAPTER 21

  Realignments

  Saturday evening, January 19, 1952

  The Stratton household

  Mountain City, North Carolina

  THE STRATTON FAMILY at dinner, minus Cornelia, who had at last found time in her busy schedule to succumb to the flu, had finished Flavia’s vegetable soup and was anticipating the next course: her meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and the big yellow butter beans put away from last summer.

  Tildy, whose every gesture had become more theatrical since she had been appointed director of The Red Nun, dabbed at the sides of her mouth with her napkin, replaced it primly in her lap, and took a thoughtful quaff from her water goblet. “I was wondering, Daddy, do you and John have any urgent plans for Monday?”

  “This coming Monday? What’s up, honey?”

  “Maud’s grandmother’s funeral’s at eleven, at First Methodist Church, and I feel I ought to be there. So I was thinking that if Madeline would drop me at school that morning, then you would have John until ten-fifteen or so, and then he could come and take me and any of the other girls who want to go to the funeral and the cemetery and then drive us back to school afterward. I really think I owe Maud that.”

  “Poor little Maudie. Finding old Mrs. Roberts like that. It was the first shock of my young life when my granny passed on, though she had been bedridden for a long time.”

  “I’ll be glad to take Tildy to school,” said Madeline. “I would offer myself and my little roadster for the funeral, but you can fit more girls into the Packard, and Tildy would obviously prefer it.”

  “John driving the Packard is more seemly for the occasion,” said Tildy. “If Daddy can spare him.”

  “Oh, I can always borrow your mother’s car while she’s laid up,” Tildy’s father said. “If I can remember how to drive an automatic shift.” He winked at his girls and included Flavia, entering with the platter
s.

  After supper, Flavia prepared Cornelia’s teapot while Madeline simmered a perfect poached egg in a small skillet and slid her handiwork onto lightly buttered toast points. She tucked some slices of peeled orange at the edge of the plate, rolled the silverware into a linen napkin, and arranged it all on a bed tray. “There, Flavia, how does that look?”

  “She going to want her salt,” suggested Flavia, nodding toward the omitted shaker. “I can take that up to her, Miss Madeline.”

  “I know you can, Flavia, but it’s not every day I get Mama trapped in bed.”

  Sunk deep into her bedcovers, Cornelia Stratton had the canny look of an invalid anticipating her treat but not wanting to appear eager.

  “Now, Mama, I poached this egg for you myself and Flavia hovered like a hawk and reminded me you liked your salt. Are you feeling up to having a bite?”

  Cornelia hoisted herself up and inspected the tray. “What’s going on in the world, Maddy? If you can spare a moment.”

  “Well,” said Madeline happily, pulling up a chair, “you already know about poor Mrs. Roberts.”

  “Yes, Daddy told me she popped off during one of her radio programs. Maud was in the room with her, but didn’t know until the lights came on. Daddy said Tildy was the first one Maud told about it at school.”

  “Tildy’s behaving very loyally. She asked Daddy for John and the Packard on Monday to take classmates to the funeral.”

  “Frankly, I’m glad Maud and Tildy aren’t in each other’s pockets anymore. A gesture of loyalty for a nice dead friendship is one thing, but I can remember when Tildy was always after us to adopt Maud. I wouldn’t want that to start up again.”

  “Here, let me pour your tea. Why should it start up again?”

  “Ouch! Too hot. Whip into the bathroom, sweetie, and splash in some cold water from the faucet.”

  Madeline obliged. “Try it now.”

  The invalid warily tested. “Exactly right. You’re too good to me, Maddy. You remind me more of Antonia every day. Wouldn’t it be odd if you turned out to have a vocation.”

  “I don’t think so, Mama. Even if I could look as beautiful as Mother Malloy.”

  “You’d look more beautiful; she’s pale as chalk. But if it meant you’d have to knuckle under to that archfiend Ravenel, I think I’d take a leaf from Medea and slay you first.”

  Madeline suppressed a shudder as her mother deftly disemboweled the poached egg. She spread it over the toast points, then salted everything heavily, including the orange slices.

  “What I meant was, now that Mrs. Roberts is out of the way, Lily Norton, if that was ever her name, will undoubtedly take up openly with that fancy-foods salesman.”

  “Do you think they’ll try to run the Pine Cone Lodge, Mama?”

  “What’s to run? Nobody stays in boardinghouses anymore. Except salesmen with something else on their minds. No, I wouldn’t put it past Lily Norton to have the house on the market the day after the funeral.”

  “But where would they live?”

  “My guess is that they’ll move somewhere else so they can start fresh and put on airs. They might even get married. Lily will have herself a dowry. Your father says she could get as much as ten thousand for that old pile. Enough to give them an uppity start in a new place. Daddy says that street is in zoning limbo and it’s in walking distance from town, which will attract the entrepreneurs.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Madeline. “Then what happens to poor Maudie?”

  Cornelia snorted. “Beginning to get the picture, eh? Either she goes with them, they drag her out of Mount St. Gabriel’s, or they allow her to stay on as a boarder—Lily would have to fork over some of the dowry for that. Whereas if Maud still had Tildy wrapped around her little finger, we would be badgered by Tildy to take her in. What’s one more at the table? And even if she did board at Mount St. Gabriel’s, where does she go in summer? The whole thing would start up again. Swimming every day at the club. Maud sleeping in Tildy’s room, and those simpering, nervous manners at our table. Thank the Lord Tildy has little Chloe now. An altogether more manageable person. Though Chloe’s got her problems, too. She told Tildy that her stepfather, who’s unfortunately her legal father, is threatening to haul poor Henry into court for custody. What a mess. Be glad you have your original father and mother, at least till death do us part. And by then, with any luck, you girls will be old enough so if you get dragged anywhere it will be by a loving husband.”

  “But what about Maud’s father and his new wife? Maybe they’ll want her.”

  “Oh, I don’t care if she goes or stays. I’m just saying Tildy is much better off without that friendship. Look how much she’s improved on her own steam. A B plus on her Uriah Heep paper! Of course, we both got behind her on that. You read with her every night, and I made a few suggestions to make Uriah more odious. But she wrote the whole thing herself. I only went through at the end and corrected some spelling.”

  “Mother Malloy’s tutoring sessions helped her a lot. And you know, Mama, even Mother Ravenel deserves some credit, for putting Tildy in charge of the Red Nun production. It’s done a world of good for Tildy’s self-esteem, and she’s thrown herself into it.”

  “My child has never lacked for self-esteem. And don’t be fooled: everything that woman does has an ulterior motive. I just wish I knew what she has up her black sleeve to inflict on our family now.”

  “I have a feeling the play’s going to be a huge success. Tildy’s got all these ideas for putting new life into it. She’s even asked Daddy to record John’s voice for God’s lines.”

  Cornelia giggled. “Not such a far-fetched idea. John’s voice has a spooky kind of authority. It always puts me in mind of ‘The Shadow knows.’”

  “Why don’t I bring you another pot of tea, Mama?”

  “No, thank you, dear. All this gossip has made me a little tired. That’s the thing with the flu. Even after the worst is over, you’ve still got to recover your strength. I suppose there’s a horrid pile of unanswered messages for me down at the studio.”

  “No, Mama, we’re completely caught up. Your new secretary is very organized, and I double-check with her every afternoon that all the calls have been answered.”

  “You do so much for me, Maddy. I don’t know when you have time for your young life.”

  “Oh, my young life. Mama, when you were my age, did you ever go through a phase where you wished for some bigger assignment? I don’t mean the school kind, but something that would make a larger demand on you?”

  Cornelia pushed her tray away. “Lord, child, don’t you have enough demands on you?”

  “But they’re just family and school stuff. Sometimes I wish I could have been, oh, I don’t know, an ambulance driver in World War One.”

  “That would make you about fifty now. I would be years younger than you. I sometimes feel that I am years younger. Right now I feel like a pampered little girl with the flu who’s had a nice poached egg on toast and is ready for sleepy time.”

  Trying to hide her disappointment, Madeline removed the tray. “You didn’t eat your orange slices, Mama.”

  “You eat them for me,” murmured Cornelia, burrowing deep into the bedclothes, eyes already shut.

  Monday, January 21, 1952

  First Methodist Church

  Mountain City, North Carolina

  Tildy seldom set foot in Protestant churches, but each time she was obliged to do so she thanked her lucky stars she was Catholic. Everything was so dour and colorless and kept down in Protestant churches. There were no statues or candles, no sanctuary lamp, no vestments, no Latin, no incense, no rituals—in other words, no mystery; no theater. But she owed this to Maud, who sat, looking stricken and inconsequential, in the front pew, between Lily Norton and the traveling salesman. There were few people here, and most of them were old and dreary. Tildy was proud of her Mount St. Gabriel’s contingent; they were young and looked nice and the five of them took up a whole pew. The Packard could seat fou
r in the back, with Tildy riding in front with John. Chloe, of course, was a given, and then since it was the class president’s grandmother’s funeral, Tildy had thought it would be appropriate to invite the other ninth-grade officers: Rebecca Meyer, vice president; Kay Lee Jones, secretary; and Josie Galvin, treasurer. And here they all were, in their smart hats and coats and gloves, giving the occasion a cachet it would have otherwise lacked.

  The minister, in his plain black gown, met the coffin at the door, and four old men and two representatives from the funeral home wheeled it up the aisle on its trolley while the congregation sang, “Love’s redeeming work is done, fought the fight, the battle won …” Then the minister said some prayers in English, facing the people, and an old man crept up the stairs to the lectern and read from the Bible. The minister and congregation then recited “The Lord is my shepherd,” after which the old man read from the Bible again and almost fell coming down the stairs. Then the minister, who was called Dr. Clark, went up into the pulpit and talked about the importance of hospitality in a community. He said that was what Cleona Roberts had practiced for thirty years, opening her house to strangers passing through, and he read some parts from the Bible about different people who opened their homes to strangers and by doing so found themselves entertaining angels unaware. Abraham and Sarah had some angels to dinner, and because of their hospitality Sarah was rewarded by bearing a son in her ninetieth year.

  Tildy was glad her mother was not here, because Cornelia’s lips would have twitched with cruel mirth and Tildy might have lost control. Mama would have been thinking loudly one of her uncharitable thoughts about possible “rewards” to be visited on Lily Norton by that gourmet “angel,” Mr. Foley. However, Tildy couldn’t wait to get home and make Mama smile: “When Dr. Clark was talking about people entertaining angels, I read your mind, Mama, though you weren’t even there.”

  A lady with a trembly chin sang a trembly solo, “O for the wings, for the wings of a dove,” and then Dr. Clark stood over the coffin and said a long prayer, with lots of “thy servant Cleona”s sprinkled throughout, and everybody stood and sang a closing hymn, “Love divine, all loves excelling,” which sounded too perky for a funeral, during which the coffin was wheeled out again.