Father Mike explained that two miracles were needed in order for Lucy to be considered for sainthood. Things like miraculous healings or rosaries that changed from silver to gold, or strange lights or whirling discs in the sky—and a waiting period during which the Pope must declare her Blessed.
“Piece of cake,” said Lucy when she heard the news. That afternoon, as the neighborhood gathered to watch the appearance of one of their own potential saints, the silver fillings in their mouths turned to gold.
“Rosaries, the priest said rosaries,” Milda muttered under her breath, “not dental fillings.”
“Don’t be boring, Milda. You worry too much about the rules. Relax, you’re too intense.”
Milda thought she was relaxed. But one day in religion class, as Father Mike droned on about the Annunciation, one of his favorite subjects, explaining how Mary got pregnant the night the angel whispered in her ear while she was sleeping, Milda thought of blowguns with sperm in them. Was there a way for sperm to get from the ear to down there, she wondered?
“God doesn’t care about the Virgin Birth.” She hadn’t meant to stand up and say this, but there she was blaspheming in front of the whole class.
“Where did you hear such a thing?” asked Father Mike.
“Lucy told me,” she said in a nervous squeak.
Father Mike looked around. “Lucy who?”
“Not here,” she gestured out the window. “Lucy in the sky, you know, my Aunt Lucy.”
The priest frowned.
Several days later, Father Mike was in front of the Gediminas house performing an exorcism, sprinkling holy water and commanding Aunt Lucy to be gone with all of her minions from Hell.
“Fat chance,” said Aunt Lucy. “I ain’t leaving until I get my declaration of love, and if it doesn’t come soon, I’ll make life hell for one Valentinas Gediminas.”
Valentinas came out the next day with placards declaring his love, but it wasn’t enough for Lucy. The next day, he had larger signs printed and posted on every telephone pole, but it still was inadequate. Aunt Lucy wanted more; she wanted bigger. A love letter went up on the corner billboard, above the Sinclair station, but Lucy wasn’t satisfied. Valentinas, frantic to show his love, was running out of ideas.
That night, Milda’s dreams were tortured by groups of ancestors watching her every move. She felt cowed by the intensity of their interest. Long strands of DNA, like the tree of life, filled her dreams with her dead family attached in a twisting chain. There was nowhere to hide, no one to confess to. This was beginning to feel more oppressive than the church with its dogma. Milda went to Lucy for help.
“Silly girl,” said Lucy. “Your ancestors are also there to help you, not just to judge you. Ask them for help when you need it. Honor them when your life goes well.”
“How do I honor them?”
“Get some photos, light a candle, and say a prayer. It’s elementary. Life is hard and short, but it’s also sweet and simple. Relax, Milda, and have some fun.”
At the corner store, Milda bought some candles, and she took out photos and started praying, mostly that her father wouldn’t come back the way her aunt had. Her mother thought she was becoming odd. She even sometimes saw Sister Petronella and Father Mike watching her with suspicion. But in her grandmother’s eyes, Milda was the family hero.
One night, after lighting her candles, she prayed for Aunt Lucy to finally get her declaration of love. That night she dreamt of her dead father, flying a plane and writing in the sky. It looked just like Valentinas’ spidery handwriting.
When Milda awoke, she decided her dream was promising and ran to tell Valentinas about it. He was overjoyed, kissing her on both cheeks and then running out the door. She later heard that he had rented a skywriting plane, making a huge heart in the sky with “I Love Lucy” in big white puffy letters.
No one in the neighborhood paid any attention. Everyone thought it was an advertisement for the TV show of the same name. But Aunt Lucy was ecstatic. “There, he finally did it so the whole neighborhood could see he really loved me.” She glowed warmly and faded away slowly like the letters in the sky. The last Milda saw of her, she was smiling beatifically and blowing kisses to Valentinas. He cried copious tears at her fading, finding he loved her far more in death than he ever had in life.
Valentinas still spent time in the Amber Tavern with the other confirmed bachelors, only now, whenever he had too much to drink, he cried over his lost love, Lucy. He spent the rest of his days in lovesick mourning while Milda spent her nights trying hard to relax under the gaze of a new cosmology. Lucy was never declared Blessed, even though Milda’s grandmother’s arthritis mysteriously vanished the day Aunt Lucy left. They both lit candles and prayed especially long and hard for the soul of their own dear Lucy.
Miner’s Lake
Irene Matas, 1960
Day by day my mother grew weaker until she could no longer work. When the doctors said she needed an operation, I panicked, remembering how Vida’s mother had died when we were in first grade. Last year, when Milda’s father and her Aunt Lucy had died, I got frightened again. I didn’t want my mother to die. But what was death anyway? It seemed to me that people just disappeared from life. Where did they all go? The nuns said souls went to heaven and hell, but all I sensed was their endless absence.
My father tried to reassure me that my mother would be fine, but I could see the fear in his eyes. I repeatedly went to her door, not wanting to disturb her, but listening for any noise that might signal distress. Even though I was only fourteen, I was beginning to realize that there was something dark in the world that could claim mothers, fathers, and aunts, something underneath ordinary daily life that tugged at it, that wouldn’t let people simply live their lives without worry and grief.
Our neighbor Mrs. Vitkus came over with Magda, bringing soup for my mother and potato kugelis for the rest of us. She moved the medicine bottles to the side and put down a bowl. “Borscht,” she declared, “is good for the blood.” As my mother ate, Mrs. Vitkus told her about a Lithuanian camp in Michigan, a farm that the Lithuanians had recently purchased from the Amish near Miner’s Lake. Her son Al was going, as were Milda, Ona, and Vida, and many of the other kids from Lithuanian Saturday School.
Just as I was perking up and wanting to hear more, Mrs. Vitkus scooted us out of the room. “Irena, take Magda to your room to play while I talk to your mother.” As I was leaving, I heard her say, “Why don’t you let your kids go camping, too? It’ll give you a chance to rest, and it’ll be good for them to get out of the city. They say the camp has rolling meadows and an oak forest just like Samogitia.”
Magda sat down on my bed and said nothing for a while. When she picked up the stuffed dog on my bed and hugged it, I plopped down on the bed next to her as she looked around the room. “Where’s your Lovey doll?” she asked me. I had forgotten about that doll. When we first came to America, my parents had given me my first doll, a Negro boy, whom I named after my first American friend. Magda used to love that doll. But that was so long ago. Magda and I no longer played together, and I felt bad because I had outgrown her.
“I don’t have the doll anymore, Magda.” I couldn’t remember what happened to it. Had I lost it? Had I left it in that old storefront where we first lived? And I wondered what had happened to my old friend Lovey. Was he still living in that apartment building on the South Side of Chicago that was now a Negro neighborhood? Were the Spanish Gypsies still living there? On the South Side, the dividing line between the Negro and white neighborhoods was Halsted Street, but the line crept west every year. Maybe one day I’d see him again in Marquette Park.
Magda, Al, and I used to play in the streets of our old neighborhood, but now I felt shy whenever I saw Al. He was starting to look cute in his jeans and white t-shirts.
That evening, after Mrs. Vitkus left, my father told my brother and me that we would be g
oing to a camp in Michigan in two weeks. Tomorrow we would buy cots and camp clothes. It felt odd because I had never gone shopping with my father before, nor had I ever been away to camp. The thought scared and thrilled me, but under all the fear and excitement was the nagging worry about my mother.
The day we were to leave for camp, I went to kiss her good-bye. She was sleeping on her side, her hands tucked under her chin. I didn’t want to wake her, but I just couldn’t leave without saying good-bye. I tiptoed to her bed and tapped her on the shoulder. She groggily opened her eyes and stretched, sleepily wiping her mouth. I bent over to hug her and suddenly started to cry. “Don’t die,” I whispered.
My mother hugged me to her. “Ah, don’t worry, I’ll be just fine. You have fun with your friends, and I’ll be fine. You’ll see.” She kissed me on the nose.
“Just get better, OK?” My voice cracked.
That afternoon, all the kids I had grown up with were gathered at church with our suitcases and our cots, waiting to board the bus that was to take us to Michigan. I sat next to Vida and saved the seat across the way for Milda and Ona. Al Vitkus got on the bus and sat with Pete, Paul, and Jonas. “Just think,” Al yelled as the bus pulled away, “two weeks with no parents, no nuns or priests.” He let out a hoot. “One more year and we’ll be done with that stupid grammar school. Yahoo!” The other boys whooped and hollered.
I wanted to yell along like we used to in the old days, but something was happening to me. Tall and skinny with fat blond braids, I felt self-conscious about everything. My breasts were beginning to show, and I was embarrassed, slouching to hide them. In fact, everything mortified me—my braids, my clothes, my face, my voice, and most of all my period. I hated it.
By the time we drove through Illinois, Indiana, and half of Michigan, I was wilted and sweaty. After Ludington, I began to see the Amish farmers who lived in this part of central Michigan. A bonneted girl in a long skirt tended neat rows of green onions and tomatoes, while a boy wearing suspenders over a white shirt was loading milk cans onto the back of a wagon. The sun glinted off the silver can and blinded me for a moment. When I looked up again, I saw the bearded father in his field. I thought this was how my grandparents must have lived in Lithuania. It felt as if the past and future were divided by a bus window. The past was outside with its buggies and old-fashioned clothes, and we were the future whizzing by in a silver bus.
When we reached camp, I could see Miner’s Lake shimmering in the distance, down a sloping hill, beyond farm fences and the crowded maple trees. I wanted to jump into that cool, sparkling lake, but we had to get our luggage first and find our tents.
Dragging what I swear was the same DP suitcase we’d had in the refugee camps in Germany, the one we had lugged to America, I looked around, embarrassed as usual, hoping Al didn’t see me with this relic from the war. Finally, I found the canvas-and-wood cot with my name on it, awkwardly balancing it on my hip and lugging the suitcase along while trying to follow my group. Ahead, I saw Al, his suitcase on his shoulder and his cot under one arm. He made it all look effortless.
“Hey, Irene,” he said. “You need some help with that?”
I turned red and stuttered, “No thanks, I can do it.” I made a monumental effort to lift my heavy suitcase and ended up dropping it and tripping over my cot. What was it about Al that made me so clumsy? Every time he came near I turned into a total oaf. It was so humiliating that I vowed to stay away from him, but it was no use, I couldn’t keep it up for long. Pretty soon I’d be slyly looking for him again. It was torture. Thank God the boys’ and girls’ camps were separate, getting together only for bonfires and swimming.
“Irene Matas,” called a big girl with too many freckles. Her name was Daina, a high-school senior who would be our tent leader. She had legs like thick sausages and no waist. Daina helped me drag my suitcase into our tent, set up my cot, and shove my brown suitcase under it.
Our first night, the boys joined us for the bonfire as the counselors explained the history of the Amish people who had come to America in the 1700s and had never changed with the times. The counselors also told us the many legends about Miner’s Lake. It was a place where miners used to pan for gold, and it was said that the unlucky miners still haunted the weathered barn near the lake. Indian legends about the lake warned that the Indians refused to swim there. They said that Miner’s Lake wouldn’t freeze over in the winter unless someone drowned in it that year. The lake spirit required a sacrifice and for many years, it seemed a sacrificial victim always arrived before the ice did.
That night I couldn’t fall asleep, listening to the mysterious whoosh of the wind through the oak trees, the chirping of the crickets, and the whine of a mosquito somewhere near my ear. What were my parents doing at home? Homesick and tired, I worried about my mother. Would she die while I was at camp? My eyes filled with tears. How did Vida bear it when her mom died?
Getting my flashlight, I wrote my mother a letter, telling her about the Amish and how pretty it was in the woods. I told her to rest and get better soon, and felt better thinking I could mail it in the morning.
The next day, the girls’ camp marched along the dusty road in twos, towels draped over arms, suntan lotion ready for an afternoon at the lake. The day was hot and muggy, and the bees buzzed lazily in the Queen Anne’s lace on the side of the road. As we passed an old crab-apple tree, I picked a small sour apple, took a bite, and spat it out. It was so sour that my mouth puckered, sending a shudder through me.
Soon the boys came marching in cadence from their camp, chanting some silly ditty until they reached the crab-apple tree, which they stripped like locusts. An apple came zinging by my ear and hit Ona on the back.
“Hey, you stupids!” Ona bellowed, turning to look at the culprits. Another apple whizzed by and skidded down the road. I turned around to see Al Vitkus lobbing an apple in my direction. I took two steps back to get out of the way and bumped into Vida, who grabbed me to keep me from falling.
At the front of the group, Daina turned around. “Who threw that? Was it Al?”
Three guys named Al shook their heads. Al Vitkus looked around and saw Algimantas, Alfonsas, and Alfredas. They had all shortened their names to Al. In Marquette Park, if you stood on a corner and yelled “Al,” a dozen guys would turn around.
Daina threatened them all with a raised fist: “One more apple and the whole group will march back to the kitchen to scrub pots instead of swimming.”
The apples dropped, and the boys got back into formation. Al Vitkus threw his store of apples into the cow meadow. The boys’ counselor looked sheepish, unable to discipline his group.
When we got to Miner’s Lake, we climbed over the rail fence because the gate was padlocked. Then we half-slid down a sloping path to the lake, where a roped-off section had been created for swimming. The sun was strong, and I was feeling sweaty and dusty.
Daina drilled us on the safety rules and how to team up with a buddy whenever she blew the whistle, how we couldn’t swim past the ropes, and how there was no roughhousing allowed. When she blew the whistle, the boys ran into the water first, splashing and yelling, diving and hooting. I didn’t want to go in with all those boys, but Vida was too hot to care. She dragged me into the water before I had a chance to protest. When I tried to hold back, she splashed me until I was dripping wet. I noticed that my hands were covered with flecks of gold. “Look,” I said, showing Vida. The water was filled with tiny flecks of gold that sparkled in the sun. In the places where the water wasn’t disturbed, the gold sat on the bottom, shining like in a fairy tale.
“It’s fool’s gold,” said Vida. “Mica. That’s why they call it Miner’s Lake.” She cupped her hands, trying to capture the gold flakes.
Nearby, the boys had organized swim races at one end of the swimming area. Al was the best swimmer, effortlessly gliding through the water like a dolphin.
Soon, the girls organized
their own race. Al came to watch, smiling at Vida with her Gypsy good looks, so dark, pretty, and petite, always so quiet and mysterious. She wasn’t swimming because of her period. The boys all seemed to love her long wavy hair. Even when I let my braids out, my hair was frizzy instead of wavy.
It was hopeless, but I felt a bit better when I looked over at Ona, who used to be fat and was still a bit pudgy. Al came over to give the signal to start the race, and we jumped in. Milda was the fastest, but Ona and I kept trying to reach the ropes, swimming just a little faster each time, determined to beat Milda. When we heard Daina blow her whistle, we buddied up and held hands. When Daina blew the whistle again, we all rushed back into the water, stirring the mica flakes again, making the water sparkle with gold. Ona was getting faster in our underwater race to the ropes.
Al came over to watch us, and I could see by the look on Ona’s face that she was determined to win. “This time I’m gonna beat you,” she said. She was showing off for Al, but I wasn’t going to let her embarrass me. Not with Al watching. He yelled, “Ready, set, go” and we all dove in. I swam until I thought my lungs were going to burst, but I wasn’t going to give in easily. I swam and swam until I felt lake grass brush against my face, and realized I had gone past the ropes, beyond the sandy area. I surfaced the same time Ona did, both of us gasping for air. When Ona couldn’t reach the bottom, she panicked and grabbed me, and we both went under into the sudden silence of the water. Underwater I could see her frightened face, her braids floating around like twining snakes. In a panic, she grabbed my shoulders, pulling me down into the lake weeds and muck. We struggled, and I could feel Ona pushing me down farther as she climbed on my shoulders. The lake grass was twirling around my arms and legs. We had churned up the mud on the bottom, and now clouds of it were rising. I struggled to free myself from Ona’s legs, but they were wrapped around me like a vise. Scratching and pulling at her legs, I strained to shove her off but I couldn’t. In her panic, Ona kept pushing me under so that she could stay above the water. I thrashed and struggled in my own panic, desperate for air. My lungs were bursting. I was swallowing muddy water. Above me the sunny surface of the water shimmered as I reached for it, my hair floating past my arm, the lake grasses drifting with it. My arm seemed pale and iridescent. The bright flakes of fool’s gold sparkled around me like a heavenly vision, the sun glinting in streaks through the green water.
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