Alcott Street was quiet, except for the sputtering of a lawn mower several lots away, and Hannah had the sidewalk to herself. The houses were intimidating, set on lawns that seemed to extend forever. In her old neighborhood, there would have been ten houses on the lot that was occupied here by one. But what contributed most to the sense of timelessness were the trees: oaks, maples and firs that had seen generations come and go. With their ancient branches, they hovered over the stately homes like gnarled family retainers, fiercely protective of the lives within.
As she reached the corner, she noticed a sign identifying the red-brick Catholic church as Our Lady of Perpetual Light. In the front yard, there was a large white statue of the Blessed Mother, her arms extended in welcome. Rose bushes had been planted around the pedestal.
She stopped to watch, while a group of well-dressed people filed out of the church and gathered under the portico. They were talking animatedly and Hannah expected to see a bride and groom burst out next and unleash a shower of rice. Instead, a priest appeared, his vestments edged with gold. He was followed by a radiant couple, the woman cradling a baby in a white gown, the man guiding his wife gently with his hand. At the sight of them, everybody oohed and aahed and someone took several flash photographs.
Hannah realized she had come upon a christening.
Feeling conspicuous, she wanted to move on, but for a second her feet seemed stuck to the sidewalk. The priest was glancing over at her now and she had the impression that he flashed her a smile, before redirecting his attention back to the parents. He seemed awfully young to be a priest, barely in his twenties, with close-cropped black hair brushed forward, a style that made him look even more youthful. Her discomfort increasing, she willed herself to turn away from the happy scene and continue into town.
The shops were expensive for her tastes, so she limited herself to window-shopping. Just as Fall River exuded a sense of paralysis and failed ambitions, East Acton gave off an air of confidence and prosperity. Every corner was tidy and spruce. At regular intervals along the sidewalk, there were wooden benches for tired pedestrians and planters with pansies, which echoed those in front of the train station.
She lingered for a while before a shop called Bundle from Heaven, trying to make up her mind whether to go inside. In the back of her mind, a voice told her she shouldn’t. Several child-sized mannequins in the window cavorted in pastel play clothes for the summer. There were no visible price tags, which meant only one thing: the merchandise was beyond her means. Still, it couldn’t hurt to look, could it?
On the counter a tiny pair of sneakers caught her eye. They were barely three inches long, if that, with racing stripes down each side and bright red laces. She reached to pick them up, when a crisp voice said, “For the future athlete! Cute, aren’t they?”
Hannah quickly pulled back her hand. “Yes.”
“Looking for anything special?” continued the saleslady. “We just got some adorable sun bonnets in.”
“I was browsing, that’s all.”
“For one of yours? Or somebody else’s?”
“Not mine, no.”
“Well, if you have any questions,” said the saleslady, “don’t hesitate to ask.” But Hannah was already out the door.
On her way home, she noticed that all signs of activity were gone from Our Lady of Perpetual Light. She took her time strolling up Alcott Street, trying to put the image of a tiny pair of sneakers out of her head. When she came into the yard, Jolene was unloading boxes from the back of the mini-van.
“Hey, I saw you in town window-gazing,” she cried out. “Perfect day for it. I was going to join you, but you seemed off in your own dream world. So did our town meet with your approval?”
“It’s quite nice.”
“What little there is of it, right? Nobody gets lost in East Acton.” With a grunt, she lifted a cardboard box, filled with turpentine and paint thinner.
“Can I give you a hand?” Hannah volunteered.
“Don’t bother. It’s just a few supplies I picked up. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“Come on, I’m not helpless. Not yet, anyway.”
“All right, if you insist. Take the small carton. It doesn’t weigh much.” She kicked open the studio door, then shouted over her shoulder. “Careful now.”
The carton weighed next to nothing. What was inside? Goose feathers? Curious, Hannah lifted the flap and took a look.
The contents appeared to be mostly medical - packages of sterile gauze, roles of surgical tape, swab sticks, self-adhering bandages and prep pads. There were several yards of a brownish, coarse-woven muslin fabric and what were identified on the box as “Ear Loop Procedure Masks.”
Either Jolene was incredibly accident-prone or she liked to be prepared for any emergency, Hannah thought. Then it dawned on her. These were materials that went into the woman’s artwork.
She smiled at her own naïveté and wondered what Jolene had in mind for the “traction kit and head halter.”
1:16
By the onset of July, Jolene had become the mother substitute that Ruth Ritter had failed to be for seven years. She sometimes fussed too much, but she was a good companion. She and Hannah shopped together, prepared meals together and even did some of the cleaning together, although Jolene made a clear distinction between heavy housework and light housework, and reserved the former for herself.
Hannah had a family again.
Marshall caught the 8:05 train to Boston every morning and they had dinner on the table for him, when he arrived home on the 6:42. They would linger over dessert and discuss the big events in the world or the small happenings in the garden. Hannah’s views were held on a par with everyone else’s. It was such a far cry from the Ritters, where contentiousness or sullen silence were the two modes of communication, that Hannah grew increasingly free about speaking her mind.
Jolene and Marshall were both readers, so she found herself turning to books, as she had when she was a child. Her trips to town expanded to include the East Acton Lending Library, established by the wives of the town fathers in 1832 and, barring a few wars and major sleet storms, open continuously ever since. Her imagination fired up, she entertained thoughts of her life “afterwards,” which is how she referred to the indeterminate future that lay beyond the birth of her…of the Whitfields’ baby.
The biggest change of all was her body. Twenty pounds, twenty weeks - she was right on schedule - and her belly was starting to swell. She had “popped” (Dr. Johanson’s term). Her face was rounder, her complexion rosier, her blonde hair shinier. As someone who had been flat-chested all her life, the fullness of her breasts so embarrassed her at first that she wore extra-large T-shirts to hide them.
“Oh, that’s the best part, hon,” Teri said, when Hannah admitted her embarrassment over the phone. “You got ‘em, flaunt ‘em, cause you won’t have ‘em forever. Both times I was pregnant, Nick nicknamed me Pamela. You know, after that ‘Baywatch’ slut. Couldn’t keep his hands off me. Almost reason enough to have another kid right there.”
Teri phoned regularly and kept her up on the latest news from the diner, but Hannah realized with the passing months that stories of long hours and low tips no longer meant much to her. It was good to hear Teri’s voice, though.
“I got real blotchy with Brian. Big tits and blotches! Some combination! Didn’t discourage Nick, though. I bet you’re pretty as a picture. I’d sure love to see you some day.”
“Love to see you too, Teri.”
“So you’ll drive down. Or I’ll drive up.”
Checking in with Ruth and Herb was less satisfying - their monosyllabic answers to her questions confirming a continuing lack of interest in her life. It seemed inconceivable that she had spent seven years in the same house with them. As soon as she hung up the phone, Fall River vanished like vapor, its streets wintry and gray in her memory, not green and sun-drenched as they were in East Acton. The world was so different here, full of hope and growth and po
ssibility. She loved her daily walks and Dr. Johanson’s hearty approval only increased her enjoyment.
This particular Wednesday morning, the library books by her bedside supplied a convenient pretext. She slipped on one of Marshall’s old cast off white shirts that Jolene had given her. A glance in the mirror satisfied her that it sufficiently concealed her condition, and she hastened downstairs. Jolene was in the studio, “traumatizing” a piece of tin with metal shears.
Hannah stopped to observe. The tin appeared to be a baking sheet and Jolene was cutting a v-shaped wedge out of it. The metal was resisting the shears and she was grunting with effort. Hannah started to make an encouraging comment, but checked the impulse. She didn’t want to interrupt Jolene’s concentration. Her art was obviously an intensely personal undertaking.
Finally, the metal gave way and the v-shaped piece fell to the floor. Jolene’s shoulders relaxed and she rubbed her fingers gently along the jagged cut, murmuring to herself as she did. Then raising the ravaged piece of metal to her lips, she closed her eyes and kissed it.
Startled by the intimacy of the moment, Hannah withdrew as quickly as possible. Like a child who catches his parents fornicating in bed, she felt as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have.
She stopped in front of Our Lady of Perpetual Light and gazed at it for a while. The ground at the base of the statue of the Blessed Mother was dotted with red and white petals that had fallen from the rose bushes. She passed the church almost every day now.
She wasn’t sure what drew her inside today. Maybe it was just the clement weather, which made the whole town seem more hospitable than usual. Or maybe it was the new life that she felt stirring within her and that seemed to be reconnecting her to the human race. Relieved to find the church empty, she slipped into the last pew and put the library books beside her.
The sun, striking the stained glass windows, fragmented into sprays of color that dappled the floor, much as the rose petals dappled the soil. Banks of votive candles next to the confessional gave off a flickering red glow, like fireflies at sundown. Our Lady of Perpetual Light, she thought, was aptly named. She only intended to stay for a moment, but the quiet and the soft colors reawakened a dormant sense of wonder in her. Church had once been a place of mysterious comfort.
The inside of Our Lady of Perpetual looked nothing like the interior of St. Anthony’s in Duxbury, but in her mind that’s where she was. A child again, walking home from the library with her mother, hand-in-hand, until they reached the stone church. They never failed to pay a quick visit, if only to light a candle or say a prayer for those less fortunate than they. Sometimes her mother would talk to the priest or disappear into the confessional. Before long, they’d be back outside, secure that in the belief that God watched over and protected them.
“God works in mysterious ways,” her mother said, whenever something sad or joyful or just unexpected happened to them. Hannah believed it, too, until that Christmas Eve, when the 18-wheeler had barreled over the median strip and changed their lives forever. That mystery was too overwhelming, too senseless, for anyone to explain. At the funeral service at St. Anthony’s, she sat with the Ritters in a small parlor adjoining the nave and listened to the priest’s droning words coming over a loudspeaker. Hannah never wanted to return to church after that and the Ritters never insisted.
If she closed her eyes now, it all came back to her: the pungent blend of dust and incense that piqued her nose as a child; the lofty musical strains that floated to the back of the church, then returned as echoes, hushed and velvety.
The tears started imperceptibly and soon Hannah was weeping openly without knowing why. Was she crying for the solace she had never received as a child or the solace she had willfully refused as an adult? For her mother or herself? Or for the miraculous opportunity she’d been given to start the cycle afresh, repair the hurt and make things right this time? She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.
The young priest in the vestry heard the sobs and wondered if he should go get the monsignor. Two years out of the seminary, this was his first parish assignment. So far, his duties had been limited largely to leading the youth group and conducting early masses, because the monsignor liked to sleep late. He hadn’t counseled anyone seriously yet and wasn’t certain he knew how. Until now, the wealthy congregation had proved itself to be either surprisingly well-adjusted or naturally reticent about revealing its afflictions to a novice.
The woman crying in the back pew was an exception. He’d seen her once or twice from afar and she’d appeared relatively carefree. But she was genuinely distraught now and was having trouble getting control of herself.
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said, approaching hesitantly. “Can I help in any way?”
Hannah looked up with a start. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving.”
“Please don’t go,” the priest said, a little too forcefully. “I’ll leave you alone, if you prefer. I thought you might want to talk or something.”
As Hannah wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she examined his features. His jet-black hair contrasted with a complexion of pure, unblemished white that matched the marble statuary in the nooks along the walls. It was an Irish face, not uncommon in the Boston area, with lively dark eyes. His hands were long and he kneaded them nervously.
“I’ve seen you before. My name is Father Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?”
He let out an apologetic laugh. “James, actually. But everyone calls me Father Jimmy. Or just Jimmy is fine. I haven’t got used to the Father part yet.”
“I like Father Jimmy. It sounds friendly.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes again.
“So do you live around here?” he asked brightly. “What I mean is, I’ve seen you out walking, so I figured you had to live in the neighborhood. Practically nobody walks in the suburbs.”
“Right here on Alcott Street. I’ve been wanting to come by. I like this church. It’s so light and airy. Not gloomy like the one I went to as a kid.”
“Where was that?”
“Duxbury, on the South Shore.”
There was interest in his eyes. “Did you move here with your parents?”
“No, I live with … with friends.”
He hesitated, before asking, “A boy friend?”
“No, just friends. My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. The last time I went to church was for their funeral.”
“I’m sorry…that you’ve been away so long.”
“I guess I thought that since God had punished me by taking them away from me, I would punish Him by never returning to church.” She looked away, embarrassed by the admission. “Childish, isn’t it? I doubt He ever noticed.”
The answer came quick and eager. “Oh, I’m sure He did.”
“My mother used to say that God was always watching over us, but He obviously wasn’t paying any attention the night of the accident. As a kid, I didn’t understand why. I wanted someone to explain it to me. Maybe you never know why.”
“Have you prayed about it? Asked God to help you understand?”
“No. I was always too mad at Him.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, was that what you were thinking about when I came in?”
Her head dropped, as if she were reluctant to reveal any more. “Partly…I was feeling sorry for myself, sorry I’d stayed away all this time. I don’t know. All kinds of thoughts.”
“Hannah?” The voice rang out in the silence of the church. Jolene was standing in the entrance, flushed and breathing heavily. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Did you forget your appointment with Dr. Johanson?”
“I’m sorry. I must have lost track of the time.” She picked up her library books and edged past the priest. “Oh, Father Jimmy, this is my friend Jolene Whitfield.”
“Pleased to meet you, Father. Excuse me for barging in like this, but we have an appointment in Boston in an hour and you know what traffic can be like.”
&
nbsp; “I do, indeed,” he replied amiably. “Stop by any time, Hannah.” He watched the two woman walk toward the door. The bright sunlight made them into silhouettes. It was only when Hannah paused in the doorway and turned back to give him a small wave that he noticed the bulge in her figure.
“I thought you were going to the library. What made you stop at the church?”
“I don’t know. I walk by all the time. I was curious to see the inside.”
Jolene piloted the mini-van expertly around the circle, over the bridge and onto Storrow Drive, thankful that traffic was less congested than she had feared. To the left, the Charles River shone like aluminum foil.
“You’ve never been inside before?”
“I peeked in one Sunday morning during mass, but I didn’t stay.”
“It’s rather pretty, isn’t it? Not cluttered like so many of them… He seems awfully young to be a priest…Attractive, though.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“I’m sure you did! So what did you two talk about?”
“Not much. My parents. Going to church when I was little. I told him I haven’t been back in a long, long time.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”
“If he didn’t, he didn’t say so.”
Jolene’s manner grew serious. “They don’t like it if you’re too independent. That’s why there are so many rules. Rules, rules, rules! Building bigger and bigger churches is mostly what they’re interested in…Did you tell him…about….you know…”
“No. We didn’t talk that long.”
“You’re starting to show, that’s all, and people are bound to ask questions.”
“Who?”
“People. At the library, the grocery store. Perfect strangers will come up and congratulate you. Ask you when the baby is due. That sort of thing.”
“Strangers? Do they really?”
Up ahead, the road was being resurfaced and a workman with a red flag was slowing down the automobiles. Jolene flicked on her turn signal and looked in the rear view mirror for an opportunity to merge into the left-hand lane. A van let her in and she waved a thank-you.
The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one Page 8