Quinn

by Sally Mandel

“Bloody British.”

  “As a matter of fact, his mother’s Irish, but I should’ve just let you suffer, you old bigot. He’s from Idaho.”

  “Where’s that?” John asked, deadpan.

  “Exactly what I said.” Quinn grinned at him.

  “What’s he think of you?”

  “All indications … well …” Infuriatingly, she felt herself begin to blush. “He thinks I’m … oh, look, the feeling’s mutual. Let me tell you about the train trip.” She was certain that a few more moments of selfconscious fumbling for words and she would confess it all.

  They sat talking for nearly an hour before John and Ann said good night and went up to bed. Quinn carried her cocoa into the living room and sat down on the couch. The room was aglow with the particular radiance of Christmas lights. She remembered decorating the tree when her toddler arms could barely reach the lowest branches. The same string of lights, her favorites, glittered tonight, brightly colored glass cylinders in the shape of candles. Always after the tree had been trimmed—Quinn’s messy wads of tinsel bestowed and the china creche on its bed of angel’s hair at the base—John would switch off the living room lights. Ann would be summoned and they’d all sit waiting together. After a few moments a clear liquid in the bulbs would begin to simmer, hesitantly at first, but soon the boughs were ablaze with bright bubbles, yellow, blue, green, and red. It was a magical event. Tonight, sipping her cocoa and breathing the pungent scent of Scotch pine, she was haunted by the presence of all those other Christmases.

  She had assumed that the holidays would always be like this. Obviously that was absurd. She would have her own family soon. Then she and Will would come back to Medham with a brood of their own to trim the tree. Of course, someday her parents would no longer be here. Of course, and yet here was a thought that had not occurred to her until just now. She didn’t like it much.

  Her impulse was to reach for Will’s hand. Instead she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. Will Ingraham was habit-forming. It had snuck up on her, this creeping dependency. She wondered if he was thinking of her out in Godforsaken Idaho.

  She took another sip of cocoa, but it had grown cold. She rose stiffly, switched off the decorations, and went upstairs to bed.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, Christmas Eve day, Quinn and Ann hurried through their holiday chores. Quinn baked cookies while Ann wrapped gifts. The house was lively with the sound of rustling tissue paper and the pungent scents of ginger and cinnamon.

  Quinn, finished at last, was on her way out of the kitchen when she caught Ann slipping her coat on by the front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh. Are you done already, dear?”

  “What’s in this?” Quinn picked up her mother’s shopping bag and peered inside. “Ice skates? These are kids’ ice skates.”

  Ann made no comment as she tied a scarf around her neck. Quinn looked closely into her face until Ann began to flush.

  “You’re going to Aunt Millie’s!” Quinn exclaimed. “These are for Sean.”

  Ann nodded and took the shopping bag.

  “You can’t go all the way out there. It’ll take you hours.”

  “I’ll be back by three.”

  “Just before Daddy gets home.”

  “That’s right.” Ann opened the front door.

  “He doesn’t know about this, does he?” Quinn asked.

  “If he asks, I’ll tell him.”

  Quinn reached into the closet for her jacket. “Let me go instead.”

  “No. I don’t want you dragged into your father’s feuds. You stay home. There’s plenty to do.”

  Quinn put her hand on her mother’s arm. “You’re already worn out. Let me at least come along and prop you up.”

  Ann gave her a long look, deliberating. “All right,” she said finally. “Your father would skin me alive, but I’ll be glad of your company.”

  Aunt Millie, John’s eldest sister, had left Ireland after having made her reputation as a British sympathizer. John, like Ann, had come to America as a small child, leaving his big sister behind in Dublin. Still, the old country retained its power over John’s loyalties, and the contempt and shame for what he regarded as Millie’s treason were so great that he never even spoke of her to complain. Until the day that she had come into the house in Medham, Quinn was unaware that such a person as Aunt Millie existed.

  She’d shown up one afternoon ten years before, introduced herself to Ann, and explained in a trembling voice that her husband had left her. There was a child, an infant, and she was destitute. Ann listened, then both women waited fearfully for John to arrive home from work. When he came into the living room and saw his sister there, he said only, “Get out of my house.” There was a short silence, then Millie rose and left.

  Over the years Ann had tried to intercede. Once she’d gone so far as to enlist the aid of the priest. But John declared, in Father Riley’s presence, that he would prefer to burn in hell for eternity rather than set eyes on his turncoat sister again.

  So Ann kept up her own sporadic communication with Millie, sending her whatever money she could spare along with castoffs from Quinn’s closet. Quinn had always suspected that Ann was in communication with her sister-in-law, but until today had never caught her at it.

  The trip to Aunt Millie’s required two transfers, and each trolley was jammed with holiday crowds. Quinn held her mother’s arm and battled the hordes to win a seat for her. They were silent most of the way, but when they left the train at Somerville, Quinn asked, “How often do you do this?”

  “Christmastime. I’m late this year, what with being sick and all.”

  “What do you think Daddy would do if he found out?”

  “I don’t know,” Ann said.

  “Remember the time we went to see the rerun of The Red Shoes?”

  Ann smiled. “A couple of sinners.”

  When Quinn was in fifth grade, Ann had taken her to the movies on a school day. They had sneaked, giggling, into the theater just after the film had begun, so the darkness would hide them. The next day Ann had written the teacher a note saying that Quinn had been “indisposed.” It wasn’t really a lie. She was not disposed to go to school. But they hadn’t mentioned the adventure to John.

  Aunt Millie lived in a fourth-floor walk-up apartment. Ann had to stop several times on the stairs to catch her breath. Quinn watched her worriedly, but knew it was no use trying to persuade her mother to stay downstairs while she delivered the gifts. They rang the bell and waited a few minutes before the door was opened by a worn-looking woman in a bathrobe. She seemed tearful, but Quinn soon realized that her eyes must always look that way, anxious and watery. Ann hugged her sister-in-law and then introduced Quinn. Aunt Millie stared at her with intense curiosity for a moment, then led them into a living room so dark that it took Quinn a moment to realize that there was a child standing in the far corner near the couch.

  Sean, now eleven, was an ideal candidate for the Irish Tourist Board advertisements. He was red-haired, freckled, blue-eyed, and adorable. At this moment his hands were balled into fists, and the glances he shot his mother were full of youthful outrage.

  “Hello, Sean,” Ann said. “This is your cousin, Quinn. I won’t tell you how much you’ve grown since last year. I used to hate hearing that from my old aunties.”

  Sean bobbed his head, and uncurled one fist to offer a grubby hand to Quinn. She shook it and was surprised at how calloused and rough it felt.

  “I’ll put this over here,” Ann said, setting the shopping bag down beside a table upon which perched a tiny artificial tree that Ann had brought them several years ago. Sean glanced at the shopping bag, then at the door. Aunt Millie glared at him until he said, finally, “Thank you, Aunt Ann.”

  “I’m glad we got a chance to see you, dear, but I’ll bet you’ve got a lot of things to tend to, what with vacation and everything.”

  Sea
n’s face brightened. At his mother’s nod he snatched his coat off the back of a chair and tried not to run across the living room. He stopped short at the door, turned to give Quinn and Ann a dazzling, heart-melting smile, mumbled, “Nice to see you,” and left. They could hear him clattering down all four flights of stairs.

  “He looks wonderful, Millie,” Ann said as the older woman poured tea. “How’s he doing now?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me what he’s up to, of course. There’s been no word from school, good or bad.”

  “There’s plenty of mischief in those eyes, but no malice.”

  Quinn sipped her tea and watched her aunt closely, searching in vain for some hint of political treachery in the faded face that resembled John’s only in its prominent cheekbones.

  “I see him in Quinn,” Millie said.

  “Sean?”

  “No, my brother.”

  “Yes, they do look alike.”

  For the first time Millie’s expression lifted in a half-smile. “Are you as stubborn as he is?” she asked Quinn.

  “I hope not,” Quinn replied. After the remark had slipped out, she felt a curious sense of betrayal and decided to say nothing more about John to this woman who was, after all, a stranger.

  “I worry about your coming out here, Ann,” Millie continued. “He’d never forgive you. I shouldn’t let you come, but I can’t tell you how happy it makes me.”

  “You know, I’m not so sure he doesn’t know about these visits of ours. The only times he doesn’t question me about where I’ve been are when I’ve come here. I think it’s his way of staying in touch with you.”

  The watery eyes brimmed over. “You look tired today,” Millie said. “Are you well?”

  Quinn glanced quickly at her mother, but Ann said, “Oh, I’m fine. The holidays are a little hectic.”

  “It doesn’t make it easier, your trekking way out here.”

  “On the contrary, it’s a nice break from the goings-on at home, isn’t that right, dear?”

  Quinn nodded obediently.

  Aunt Millie asked Quinn a few obviously dutiful questions about college, but then began to talk to Ann about her job at the local pharmacy, her health difficulties, and her guilt over having so little time to supervise Sean. She poured it all out as if she never spoke to another soul. Ann asked a few quiet questions, but mostly just listened. Quinn realized that at this moment her mother belonged completely to Aunt Millie. The forward curve of her body, the intense gaze of her eyes, her murmurs of sympathy and understanding, all assured Aunt Millie that Ann was hers and hers alone.

  All her life Quinn had taken this quality of her mother’s for granted. Ann was always there to listen—to her, to John, to whatever stray showed up at their door in need of compassion. Until now, it had never occurred to Quinn that there might be a cost. She felt like putting her arms around her mother and saying, “Now, Aunt Millie, Mom is going to tell us about all the garbage she’s been putting up with these past few months, and we’re going to hang on her every word.”

  But Ann wasn’t a talker, and who was Quinn to say that there wasn’t gratification for her mother in lightening other people’s problems? Still, Quinn worried. She was glad when Ann looked at her watch and announced that it was time to leave.

  On the trip home they were lucky enough to find two seats together toward the back of the train, where there were fewer passengers.

  “What did you think of your aunt?” Ann asked.

  “She doesn’t look very wicked to me. I was disappointed.”

  “She’s a tragic soul, really. She was a brilliant student back in Dublin, but got herself all mixed up in a political mess and was never able to find her way out. It’s an awful waste of human intelligence.”

  “Sean’s a cute little number.”

  “He’s been picked up for shoplifting. Can you imagine, at eleven? Poor little boy.”

  “At least this year he won’t have to swipe a pair of skates.”

  “I don’t think he takes things just because he needs them.”

  Quinn studied her mother for a moment, then said, “I love you a lot.”

  “You’d better. I’m your mother.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. God, it’s hot in here.” She shrugged off her jacket.

  “There’s an open window. Put your coat on,” Ann protested.

  “I’m boiling.”

  “You’ll catch your death.” Ann tugged at the collar, trying to lift it around Quinn’s shoulders.

  “Hey, you wanna fight?” Quinn asked, mugging at her. “You’ve got a mean right hook, I can attest to that.”

  Ann dropped the coat. “Don’t remind me. You know I still feel terrible.”

  “Everybody’s entitled to child brutality every now and then, especially if I’m the child.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  Ann looked so solemn that Quinn was instantly remorseful. “Hey, Mom, I was only teasing you.” She reached out to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I was thirteen years old, and it’s the only time you’ve ever laid a hand on me. I don’t think a thirteen-year-old needs to say ‘fuck.’ ”

  Ann winced and tried not to look at the other passengers. “Nobody should strike a child,” she said, then went on, musingly, “I want you to know the joy of having children.”

  “Right now?”

  “Soon.” Ann shook her head as if trying to clear it of troublesome thoughts. “Did you like my new cookie cutter?”

  “The angel.”

  “Yes. Did you notice anything off about her?”

  Quinn laughed. “She’s not very heavenly.”

  “I know it. At first I thought they were her wings, but then I realized … well, she’s the most buxom angel I ever saw.”

  “Let’s put extras in Father Riley’s package.”

  Ann giggled. They made quick connections downtown, and got home with time to spare.

  Every Christmas Eve, in accordance with family custom, Quinn and Ann delivered their holiday offerings around the neighborhood while John downed several pints of Christmas cheer at the Ancient Order of Hibernians. They would all converge at St. Theresa’s for midnight mass. As Mallory lore dictated, John would barely squeak in before the procession, leaving Ann to heave sighs and wring her hands out of a conviction that this year he surely wouldn’t make it.

  It had also become a matter of tradition for Quinn to protest her part in the ritual. It rankled that she was required to tote cookies around the neighborhood and make polite conversation with the adults while her friends were celebrating in a more lively fashion at Reston’s in Brookline.

  Tonight, as Quinn reached for her jacket without complaint, Ann peered closely at her.

  “Where’s Margery?” Ann asked.

  “I don’t know. With the gang, I suppose.”

  “At Reston’s?”

  “I guess.”

  “You were with me all day. I think tonight it’d be fine if you spent some time with your friends.”

  “They’ll be around tomorrow. Are you going to be warm enough? Here.” She helped Ann on with her coat and tied a plaid scarf around her neck. Ann was not in the habit of being fussed over; her arms hung awkwardly at her sides while Quinn tucked the muffler around her neck.

  “Thank you, dear,” Ann said.

  Quinn nodded and looked away. A lump had suddenly formed in her throat, and she did not trust her voice.

  Ann moved to the foot of the stairs. “John Mallory! Don’t you be late for mass!” she called.

  “And don’t show up drunk!” Quinn shouted, in full possession of her vocal chords again.

  “God forbid,” Ann murmured.

  Christmas Eve passed with the usual warm blur of carols and candlelight, followed by presents on Christmas morning and the inevitable letdown. But the next day Quinn still felt depressed and lonely. Her mother was at the grocery store. John was working. The Christmas
tree was dying, and the house seemed as still as a mortuary. She longed for Will, but not with the usual bittersweet nostalgia. Today she had to speak with him the way she had to eat when she was starving. She dug through her wallet and determined that she could pay the busfare back to school and still manage a long-distance call. Her voice trembled as she asked the operator to connect her with Red Falls, Idaho. She heard the ring at his end and tried to imagine the room that held the Ingraham telephone. Blank space, as if he were living in a vacuum.

  “Hello?” The voice was a woman’s, older, probably Will’s mother.

  “Is Will there?” Quinn was disgusted to feel her cheeks reddening.

  “No. He went out.”

  “Oh.” Quinn was crushed.

  “Uh … can I tell him who’s calling?” The voice was reluctant, not wishing to pry. Quinn decided that she liked Mrs. Ingraham.

  “Please tell him Quinn Mallory called from Massachusetts. Just to say hello. It’s not important.”

  “Gwen Mallory,” the voice repeated carefully.

  “Quinn! Quinn!” She was almost shouting. Hadn’t he even mentioned her? She had told her parents about Will before the snow had melted off her shoes that first night home.

  “Quinn Mallory. I’ll tell him.”

  “Sorry to trouble you,” Quinn said.

  “No trouble at all.”

  “Happy New Year.” She might as well get her three minutes’ worth.

  “Yes. Happy New Year.”

  Both of them hung up simultaneously. Quinn felt irritable and low the rest of the afternoon. When John arrived home at four thirty, Quinn mentioned that she had called Idaho.

  “You did what?” John said.

  Quinn felt gooseflesh creep across the tops of her shoulders. “I called Idaho,” she repeated slowly. There were three dollars in the drawer under the telephone, paying for the call plus some, but defiance made her silent.

  “I’ll send you the bill, lass.” John’s jaw muscles were hard at work under the day’s growth of stubble.

  “You do that.” She snatched her jacket from the closet and left the house.

  Quinn sloshed through the wet snow, unable to decide whether to scream with outrage or break into tears. A compromise resulted in an audible Goddamn bastard that came out like a sob. She hated him. All the hard work to make good grades and keep her scholarship, the extra jobs at the cafeteria and the college garage while her classmates played bridge or went to the movies, all of it went unacknowledged. He could take all that for granted and, what’s more, assume that she would cheat him out of one lousy long-distance phone call. She should take back the Goddamn money and buy a bouquet of flowers for Ann.