That’s her. That’s the Mother of God. See — it’s not so frightening.
His father took his hand and they walked into one of the transepts, and the horses passed close by on the other side of the wall. They were alone there. He kept his hands tight to his side.
This is a smaller chapel. Special services are held here. Private funerals, the like.
He let Martin take it in. The boy walked up to the black iron gate at the front of the small room. There was a book on a table open to a yellowed page. It looked like there were signatures in the book, faded signatures. The room felt like no one ever came into it and the table with the book on it was like the front table they had in their hall, the one that always had keys and circulars on it. His father was standing behind him in the doorway, watching him. He said quietly, Do you know what sin is?
Martin started from the book. It means doing something bad.
It’s something you do that’s bad, yes, even if you don’t know it’s bad.
How can you not know if you’ve been bad?
Because you’re human, his father said. You can only know you’ve been bad if God punished you.
His father came closer now and made as if he wanted to look at the book. He leaned over the railing and studied it for a moment, then looked at his hands and rubbed some dust off one palm with his thumb. It’s human to sin, he said. Everyone does it. But only God can decide to forgive us.
How do you know if He has?
We do our penance regularly and we cleanse ourselves. We atone even before we have sinned. Do you know what it is to be damned, Martin?
William told me.
Then you understand how important it is to be cleansed.
We should try to be good, Martin said, wanting to be helpful.
We can’t just try to be good, his father said. How do we know what’s good?
Martin shrugged slowly. Didn’t he know when he was being good? He knew when he wasn’t.
Only God knows what’s good, and when we’re being good. We have to say we’re sorry for not knowing. That’s what churches are for. To thank God for trying to show us the right way to live and to say we’re sorry for not knowing it, and beg Him to spare us.
An older couple came into the room. She ran a gloved finger over a wall sconce and he stood near the door, leaning in, but not wanting to enter. Martin’s father stopped speaking while they were there and it made Martin’s fear turn white. Why couldn’t these people hear about sin?
It’s not a very good one, is it, said the woman.
Let’s go, then.
I mean, it’s not even as impressive as St. Michan’s.
Well, let’s go then, said the man.
They left. Martin couldn’t think of anything to say. He wanted to leave. His father’s face looked wet. He began whispering, as if the people were still in the room.
Martin — we could die at any time. We could walk outside and get struck by a car, or a bomb could go off in the street. You got very sick, you know. You could have died.
But I didn’t.
But you could have. And you would have died in sin.
Martin stepped into his father’s shadow and put his face against him. But I didn’t, he said and he clasped his father to silence him. What could it matter what might have happened? He didn’t die. Many other things had happened that were bad, but he hadn’t died and that was a good thing. His father slowly put his arms around him and Martin could smell him: a sharp leather smell, and another scent, a kind of blossom.
Do you know the story of Jesus in the wilderness? his father said. Martin shook his head. God sent Jesus into the wilderness so Satan could tempt him. Forty days and nights Satan tested Jesus, to make him turn, but Jesus was steadfast in his devotion to God. Martin quaked against his father. Never had he heard him speak of these things, or in this tone of voice, which sounded like it was imparting serious and unhappy secrets. The way we live, as modern people, is like that wilderness, Martin. We are tested every day, and if we fail that test, we belong to that darkness. I want more for the ones I love, do you understand?
Martin nodded.
You’re entitled to God’s protection, no matter what your mother says, and refusing the gift of His love is as bad as succumbing to temptation. I want you to remember that for always. That’s something that’s between you and me and God, you understand, for always.
Now he was silent, and Martin held himself still, waiting for it all to be over, but then his father pushed him back abruptly and with a damp, hot hand on his shoulder steered him out of the transept. Martin could suddenly smell perfume, and there was the sound of music-stands being moved about: the choir arriving for its practice in the crossing between the pews. There was too much movement, too much happening, and Martin felt he had to sit down, and he even dropped his back as if he would, but his father’s powerful hand on his shoulder was sweeping him back through the nave. A woman dropped her purse as they passed her and his father lunged down to pick it up and hand it back. There were three sounds: the rough hiss of the purse’s brocade scraping against the floor, the heavy sound of the coins in the purse being clasped, and the faint slap of the purse being pushed into the woman’s hand. Martin heard all three sounds like they were being made separately, and it felt like everything inside the church was being divided into separate sounds and visions. There were two people walking slowly down the narthex, the sound of a book being closed, and the main door to the church being opened, admitting people and light. The door, the light. The door.
But instead of turning left and leaving the church, his father turned right, and Martin saw a man dressed in black robes standing at the back, near some blocked doors. He came forward and greeted his father:
Peace be with you, Colin.
And his father replied, his tongue dry against his teeth, And peace be with you.
I’m Father Stirling, said the man. I’m the priest here. I’m like a rabbi, you see?
I don’t think he’s seen a rabbi. Have you?
A picture.
Your father asked me to come and say hello and welcome you to St. Alban’s. Do you like our church?
Martin said it was large and dark.
Dark to allow people to be with their thoughts, and large so God can get in. The sun was so low now that some of the slits of light were coming sideways through the air. He watched Father Stirling’s face move through one of the white bands, and the dust was like starlight in a morning sky.
His father and the priest shook hands, and Father Stirling walked toward another transept behind him. Martin’s father took his hand and they followed. This transept had a stone birdbath in it and Father Stirling swirled his finger in it and gestured for Martin to come to his side. He told Martin again that he was welcome to St. Alban’s. He touched a wet finger to Martin’s forehead and to his chest.
You’re a good boy, I can tell, said the priest, and he and his father shook hands again, although now the priest was not smiling. Father Stirling crouched down in front of Martin.
I know you’re leaving for Galway in a matter of days, son. But there are churches there should you ever want to talk to anyone about anything. Your dad will know which ones you should go to, if you like.
I’m both, though, Martin said. I’m Jewish too.
God will recognize you.
They walked together out of the church and Father Stirling wasn’t standing there when Martin cast his eyes back into the dark space. People continued to swirl in and out, many of them were old ladies with soft faces and black eyes. Outside the air was much fresher and the streets were bustling, although it had begun to get dark. The sun between the buildings was airy and seemed filled with a green light, like the afternoon light on a lawn. His father let go of him and wiped his hands on the sides of his pantlegs. He said they would have to get home quickly now. A man who knew them called out hello, and when his father lifted his hat, Martin saw that his hair was stuck down to his head, gleaming and damp. Then he put his
hat back on and turned to Martin, the blacks of his eyes wide as pennies —
I left it on the whole time! I left my hat on the whole time we were inside the church. He laughed to himself, like it was the strangest thing a person could do, and he blinked a drop of sweat off his lashes. Then he drew his fingertips across his brow and rubbed them against his thumb. Martin touched his own forehead — it was dry. The water had already been absorbed by his skin.
On May twelfth, the day of the London coronation, they woke for their last day in the house on Iona Road. For the last time, they ate breakfast at the table (the one someone had purchased and would pick up by lunch), and for the last time Theresa went to school, glaring at Martin by the door. Tomorrow at this time, they would already be in the car, eating scones their mother would pack before they left. The scones were baking right now, and the sweet, sweaty fragrance came up the stairs to where Martin was sitting.
He had already been taken out of school. He’d missed so much with his illness that he had been removed from his classes. He would begin third form again in Galway. Through the fanlight above the door he watched Theresa cross the road toward her school on Connaught Street. She joined a pack of girls there and they enveloped her. It began to rain, just a little.
His parents were moving slowly around the house, not speaking much, although sometimes passing him on their way to a half-filled box, one of them would smile or touch him. Every time his mother or his father offered him a weak smile, he wanted to leap to his death from the top of the stairs. The morning seemed to last hours and hours, and although he was supposed to be helping (or at least packing the remains of his own things), he did very little but sit on the landing between the main and second floors, watching his parents go up and down. Around noon, his mother called him downstairs where his father was sitting beside the radio, and they listened to the broadcast from Buckingham Palace.
And now we hear the voice of His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury as he enters into a solemn dialogue with the new king. They are standing twenty deep along Whitehall listening through the loudspeakers. There are the trumpets! The next voice you hear will be the Archbishop of —
Will You solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of Great Britain, Ireland —
Right! shouted his father.
Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the Union of South Africa, of Your possessions and the other territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, and of Your Empire of India, according to their respective laws and customs?
I solemnly promise to do so, the prince replied.
Do I have a bollocking choice? said Martin’s father.
The archbishop continued, his voice tinny and small in the radio, Will You to Your power cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all Your judgments?
I will, said the prince.
Then he was crowned and they could hear the static of the roaring crowds. His mother’s eyes filled up with tears but his father got up and unplugged the radio, then put it into a box.
There. You’ve got a new king.
Don’t tell me you didn’t find it interesting, even just a little, his mother said.
I find it interesting that the English royalty advertises its inbreeding even down to the fact that they have only two or three names for their kings. You get to be George or Edward. Or James.
Henry, she said.
Not for a very long time. William, maybe. He kissed her, conciliatory, but he was grinning. Well, congratulations to us all. We have a new king. When he left with the box in his arms, he was chuckling a little.
Martin’s mother turned to him. I hope you’ll not show that kind of disrespect when you get older. Martin knew he wouldn’t. The fact was, he loved the idea of kings and queens. He couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t.
For king and country! his father shouted gleefully from upstairs. May the sun never go down on the Empire! Whoopeee!
Jesus H. Christ! she shouted back, covering Martin’s ears. Blasphemy was the only possible revenge.
Eventually, he went to his room and stood at his window, looking out onto the sight of Dublin, the grey church stone in the distance and the tops of the houses leading down to the city centre. The steeples that rose up here and there seemed a little sinister to him now, as if the ivory-coloured clocks in the towers were eyes that could see him from anywhere. He was now not certain what gods had claimed him (which ones would even want him?) or how many more gods would vie for his soul from this time forward. The steeples spread over the sky like sticklebacks on the tail of a lizard, winding along the streets and quays. Above, the sky did look dim and dusty to him now — the move was so inevitable that he had begun to see things as they were. It was not a nice place to live, if you were a boy who had trouble breathing. But it was still home, and that was what was hurting.
He gazed down onto the grey-red cobble in the street, the cracked stones he knew like they were the creases on his own palm. He knew how that road looked darkened by rain or made pale by a rare whole day of sun. He could tell what the weather was by listening in the dark to the sound of a car driving by under his window. The hiss of tires in rain, the smooth black rubber sounding over a hot road, the soft tread of a car driving carefully on the occasional snow. Panic rose again in him, as it had for two weeks now, and he clenched his eyes to calculate the hours left — only sixteen. The trucks would come at seven in the morning. He turned to his room as if the time remaining was something material that he could feel draining down a hole in the floor. He looked around the little space. He had spent all his life here! The hollow feeling of terror sank into his stomach. It wasn’t possible that they were leaving. Not to come back? Never to come back here? How was it possible?
He threw himself on the bed. Three more minutes had passed in despair. He would not squander the rest of the afternoon. He thought if there was a south-facing bedroom in the new house, that he would be allowed to have it — but he would have to ask his mother first. A brief euphoria ran through him like a charge.
Most of his books and clothing were stacked in crates around his room and in the carpeted hallway outside. A grey trunk with the word britannia painted in white held both his and Theresa’s shoes and coats. It had been his grandfather’s trunk when he made the passage from Portsmouth (via Dublin) to Montreal to start a watchmaking firm. His mother’s life was to have started over there — Martin had heard the story so many times — but she met the man she was to marry on that ship. Your father’s nose is the reason you’re here today, the story would always end. Your Zaida Mosher thought Daddy was Jewish and invited him to dinner in our cabin.
Martin thought about the trunk that had travelled over the Atlantic twice, and his troubles seemed as vast as that distance. Dublin to Galway!
And how terrible that his mother had said goodbye to everything all for nothing (well, except for marriage and children). She had left her home in England at the age of twenty-one and travelled all the way across the ocean to live in a place where the people spoke French, only to meet her future husband on the ship and turn around. Except that she was coming to Dublin, not going home. Talk about floating off course. (Maybe, thought Martin, it would happen somehow that they would have to come back right away too.)
He remained rooted to the bed, unable to decide in what order to put the few remaining things away. He hadn’t much time — William, Devon, and Ian Shoemaker, whom he didn’t really like, were coming to dinner. Theresa’s friends, who were somewhat more numerous, were also coming. There was the red-haired Mary, a Jenny, and little Celeste Shipley, whose mother always nervously speculated on her daughter’s much-hoped-for growth spurt. Then there was Theresa’s best friend, a nasty girl called Kelly. Kelly had once cornered Martin and asked him to remove his pants, which he felt compelled to do, since Kelly was much bigger than he. She had approached him with a small twig and stirred the front of his underpants with it. When nothing happened, she’d said, with great disappointment, It’s all a lie, and stalk
ed off.
He was not looking forward to the dinner, which was to end with the presentation of gifts that had surely been chosen by the parents. He did not want to sit and eat with people he was never going to see again. He’d already said goodbye to Devon: they’d gone to the flats behind the cigar factory and burnt an entire book of matches one by one to mark all the great times they’d had. Then they’d awkwardly hugged, the way they’d seen their fathers hug other men, even clapping each other on the back. William hadn’t spoken to Martin since three days earlier, when they’d gone to the canal and tossed daisies into the water. He wanted to say goodbye, but not in front of everyone. And yet, maybe he and William had already said their farewells.
He wasn’t sure that any of Theresa’s friends had much use for a final gathering either. Maybe it was important for all the parents to see them together, and take photographs and give gifts. Maybe that’s how adults say goodbye to other adults, he thought — by watching their children say goodbye.
There were three hours to dinner. In the last two days, his mother had finally succumbed to Martin’s stubbornness and packed his entire room herself. But on the desk beside his window he had placed the dozen or so keepsakes and objects that he didn’t want her to touch, and, exasperated, she had told him anything that was left unpacked come dinnertime was going to be thrown away. He had by now cleaned out what was unnecessary from his cigar box (a few piles of coins and a cumbersome cloth monkey), and into it now he placed a few crucial things that he felt he might want easy access to: touchstones of his life. There was a small folding landscape of trees that his father had made. The black cardboard accordioned out into a line of carefully carved willows, oaks, and pines, and when he’d been much smaller, his father had put it in his window so at night the lights of the street would throw a forest against his wall.
Martin Sloane Page 17