Mrs. Dellaverna had been a doll, popping over with unexpected necessities: paper towels when I ran out, a box of matches, a phone book, and plenty of southern Italian dishes. I cranked up the old gas stove and kept it going, telling myself it would be that much easier to clean—and it was. The warm gunk peeled away easily. I spent hours and hours on that stove until it shone, and one day, while folding a big pile of giveaway from the dryer, I realized I was pretty much done with the inside of the house. Ceremoniously, I tied up the last bag and staggered to the porch with it, then looked around with satisfaction. The uncut grass blew in the breeze like an undulating river. Now all at once the rest of the trees seemed to have sprung open at once and my views of the neighboring houses and Twillyweed were obliterated.
I heard someone climbing up the path from the beach and bent over the railing. Why, it was Jenny Rose! And she had the little boy, Wendell, with her. Excitedly, I ran back in and put the teakettle on.
“Hello! Anybody home?” her clear voice called.
“Come in! Come in.” I ushered them in.
“Bless all who enter here,” said Jenny Rose as they crossed the threshold. “Look who I’ve brought! Hey! What’s happened here? This is fucking great! Oops. Sorry, Wendell. I’m not to curse in front of you, am I?”
“I’ve been busy,” I agreed. “And I did a couple of big shops. How do you like it?”
“Hey, you could take a picture. Looks like a granny house back in olden times!” She’d brought scones and laid them out on the table, light and fragrant in a checkered cloth.
I couldn’t resist. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “Where did you buy these? They’re delicious!”
“I made them. Simple.”
“Mrs. Mooney lets you use her kitchen, then?” I set the table while they looked around.
“I helped myself this morning while she was deep in the arms of Morpheus. Take a deep breath, Wendell! Good salt air.”
Obediently, the boy took a deep breath in and held it.
“There’s a good lad. All right, don’t turn blue. You can let it out.” She twirled around. “I swear, you and I have certainly landed on our feet. We’ve got the two best views of the sea on Long Island.”
“I thought you said you were stuck in the cellar.”
“I talked Patsy Mooney into trading with me. Turns out she hated it up there. Just wait till you see my turret! A circle of windows! Got my easel set up already. I see you’ve a hearth, you lucky duck! Do you use it?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d better have the flue checked first. The chimney sweep will be here this afternoon. And then I’ll need a cord of wood.”
“Oh, the chimney sweep will bring luck to the house, but already it’s that cozy!”
“Thank you,” I said as I placed a vase of tulips on the table. There was some pound cake left over from yesterday’s lunch and I laid the orange marmalade out with it. At the back of a cupboard I’d found honey—Noola’s honey. Horrible how life goes on without you once you’re gone.
Jenny Rose arranged Wendell with a big cardboard box and a plate full of buttons so he could play store. There was a basket of brightly colored embroidery threads and I let him have those as well. She flung herself onto a chair. “I’m beat.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve made a good strong tea. This will cheer us both up.” I sat down across from her and lifted an eyebrow. She really did look tired. “You’ve been seeing too much of that Glinty, haven’t you? You know, I think he dyes his hair.”
Jenny Rose pulled her knees up to her chest. “It’s blue-black like that all over.”
The way she said it. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for him!”
“Well, why not? He’s a bit like me, if you must know. He comes from shit. Oh, I don’t mean Deirdre and Brigid are shit. They raised me as best they could. But, you see, they’re both sort of bats, aren’t they? It’s not like you, coming from a house with a mom and dad and kids at the table all eating together. A substantial home. I know it’s hard for you to understand. But see, it just wasn’t like that for me. I was fed in the pantry before they could shuffle me off to bed at eight o’clock so they could get on with it. To this day I stay up later than everyone just to stay up. It wasn’t like I was in the way, but I was always aware that I’d been left behind. That I was someone else’s, see? I know they loved me”—her eyes swam and she wiped her nose with her sleeve—“but I was always waiting for my ma to come and claim me.”
“Oh, don’t!” I cried and tried to reach for her.
“No!” She pushed me off. Wendell, sensing trouble, looked up. Jenny Rose lowered her voice. “It’s not that I want you to feel sorry for me. I just want you to understand.”
“I know how you must be feeling. But just think for a minute. We don’t know anything at all about him except he’s from a broken home! That’s no reason to feel—”
“Aunt Claire, it’s too late. Look. If you must know, it’s that Glinty and me, when we’re together, him and me, it’s like we make one, see? Like he’s got no arms and I’ve got no legs but together we’re a complete person.”
“But, Jenny Rose, it’s all too quick! You’re a wonderful, complete person just as you are. You don’t need a boy to make you feel—”
“I do.” She cut me short and eyed me fiercely. “He’s the moon and stars for me, okay?”
My heart sank. I could say nothing.
She bit her lip. “And there’s somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“And this is between you and me, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jenny Rose, with something fidgety in her hazel eyes, took a small green satin sack from her pocket. She checked to see that Wendell was distracted then tipped out two silver-rimmed buttons that seemed to move with undulating color. Baffled, I looked down at them on the plate and I remember thinking, Hang on, those aren’t buttons.
And then she told me all about it.
On Sunday I went to early Mass. It was a fine, windy day. I parked in St. Greta’s lot and was practically blown into the church, then found my way through the regular parishioners to the back. Newcomers have to be careful they don’t take someone’s pew; the devout are so often territorial. It was especially crowded and I soon saw why: It was the day of the May crowning, when the children who’ve recently received their first Holy Communion march in wearing their white outfits and veils and the last girl goes up to the statue of Our Lady and places a wreath of flowers on her head. It’s lovely, especially the songs, which take you back to childhood. I settled into a dark spot. If ever my faith is tried, I just have to go on a Sunday and watch the family men who manage to get there every week, kids in tow, the backs of their necks bent in reverence at each appropriate moment—there is something so beautiful and true about them, like soldiers relieved from combat. If it’s not too much trouble, Lord, I prayed silently, lead me in the right direction in the Jenny Rose department. I don’t seem to have the hang of it on my own. Help me know what to tell her, all right? Then I posed the puzzle of the gems to the Almighty. You never know what might spark His interest—and at that point I didn’t look at it as that much of a problem. After Communion, I sat back in the pew and watched the children, unable to be still any longer, acting up. Suddenly I blinked twice, for there was Morgan Donovan over on St. Joseph’s side with his head in his hands. Hurriedly, I left by the side door so he wouldn’t notice me. He was at least entitled to his private grieving time. Rain had come and gone, but now the wind tore at me. I opened my umbrella but gave up before it blew inside out. “Claire!” I heard Morgan call my name over the bells ringing and the wind. He caught up to me and loomed, moving back and forth above me.
“Hi,” I said, hoping my eyes didn’t reveal how absurdly significant his nearness was.
“Hi, yourself.” He fell into step beside me. “I noticed your front headlight is out.”
“Thanks. I didn’t see it,” I said. “I’ll take it in this week.”
“No, you’ll need to be weeding through the stuff in the cottage.” He raised his voice to be heard. “I’ll take it to the marina for you and have Mr. Piet put one in.”
“I’ve been finding out that Mr. Piet can do just about anything. But, by the way, I’ve got quite a few boxes of valuable stuff for you to come pick up.”
“Help yourself to anything. It’s so depressing in there the way it is.”
“Really? I was hoping you’d let me. You won’t be sorry,” I promised, adding, “I didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”
“So you’re a good little girl,” he teased.
Was he flirting with me? “Not that good,” I grumbled, not sure where to look.
He laughed cheerfully. “There’s enough wickedness in Sea Cliff. You’ll soon find that out.”
Whirling bits of trash were moving past us down the steep hill, little toy boats in the gutter.
I ventured, “I saw that fellow Daniel. He was walking on the beach, crooning to a doll.”
He laughed. “Oh, he’s harmless.”
“Is he?” I thought of his demented leer. “How can you be so sure?”
Morgan cleared his throat and squinted toward the sea. “Ah, that’s a story. I wouldn’t worry about him, though. He’s afraid of his own shadow, Daniel is. He’s even terrified of me! But there’s something else I wanted to tell you … what was it?” He looked into my eyes, and for a moment the two of us just stood there and I went on that cloud height journey I always went on around him. He seemed to go there, too. It’s always reassuring to me when someone else forgets what they’re talking about. “Oh, yeah,” he said, returning to himself, “I saw Jenny Rose and Wendell bicycling and I thought, There’s a bike in the wee shed beside the cottage. It’s not very fashionable and it only has foot brakes, but the tires are fine.”
“I love foot brakes!”
“Good, then. I thought you might. Enjoy it. And what has Jenny Rose to say?” He pushed my hair off my face so he could see me.
“I think she loves the little boy,” I said, annoyed that I should be so moved by his simple, tender touch. “So that’s great. She’s coming with me today to Queens, to visit my parents.”
“Ach. She’ll like that. What about Wendell?”
“We’re bringing him with us.”
“Oh? Tell you what.” He pointed to his old black Saab. “You take my car and I’ll run yours down to the marina this morning. You wouldn’t want to be getting a ticket.”
“Are you sure?” I was doubtful.
“Ach, everyone uses it,” he said. “Key’s under the front seat. Full tank of petrol.”
“In that case, it’s a deal.” I handed him my keys.
“Cheerio.” He waved over his head and strode off down the road to my dear little green PT Cruiser, who would have him all to herself. I stopped to lose a pebble from my shoe and leaned against a lamppost. Now why, I asked myself crossly, can’t I find me a man just like that? Why? I found the keys under the front seat just as he’d said I would—obviously the man had no common sense—then went to pick up Jenny Rose and Wendell.
“Nice wheels,” Jenny Rose, who seemed to know about things like cars, said admiringly. “A classic.” She petted the butterscotch seats.
“Have you any grand shops out in Queens?” Wendell wanted to know as I shackled him into his seat belt. By God, he was taking on Jenny Rose’s Irish brogue. I laughed to myself. He looked so cute in his little red plaid shirt. I told him all about the stores I knew and we drove, top down, to Richmond Hill.
Jenny Rose had the stones with her. We’d decided we would tell my mother the story and she would know what we should do. “Take them,” Jenny Rose said as she slipped them into my pocket. “They scare the shit outta me.” She fiddled with the radio, Morgan’s stations all too corny for her. Because I’d spoken so highly of the nickelodeon at the original Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor, Wendell had to see it, so we made a stop there. We sat on stools at the counter under Tiffany lamps and drank from authentic Coca-Cola glasses. I had a bad moment when I looked at the table where Enoch and I used to sit. But children have a way of making you move on. And already the day was a success as far as Wendell was concerned. We ran out and stood underneath the elevated trains every time one clamored by. Wendell screamed with delight. Whenever you want to entertain a Long Island kid, just drag him with you to Queens.
At my mother’s house, the TV blared as usual. In fact, the living room was lined with consecutive rows of chairs like in a theater, my father’s hearing and my mother’s eyesight not being what they were but to varying degrees. Wendell went right up to my dad in the first row and climbed over Lefty onto the La-Z-Boy with him. My dad must be the last living pipe smoker who smokes in the house in America. With Lefty at their feet, they watched one World War II battle after the next on the History Channel. You might think that sort of stuff harms children but my father believes it arms them for the world. Or, he points out, is Hansel and Gretel a warm and cuddly story? And what about the Little Match Girl or the Tin Soldier?
My mother made a great fuss about Jenny Rose. They stood together and marveled at her picture in the paper. She told her how she’d sent copies home, but as soon as she’d hugged her and kissed her enough she put us right to work. “Just peel these taters for me, darlin’,” she said, handing me a pot and a paring knife, and she gave Jenny Rose the apples to peel for the pie. We sat there at that table at the back kitchen window almost all that Sunday afternoon, drinking tea and eating cheese-filled sheet crumb cake from Oxford’s on Liberty, my mother telling stories of when she was a girl in Ireland and Jenny Rose asking her questions and Mom drilling Jenny Rose about whether the Gorta Thrifty Shoppe was still there over the bridge from Bridge Street in Skibbereen and what about Paddy’s on the cemetery lane and all and Mom running back and forth finding pictures of Carmela at twelve, Carmela at the prom, Carmela with the perilous mumps.
I watched and listened to all this with interest, but on my eleventh potato, I saw through my peels to a picture in last week’s wrinkled newspaper. Distractedly, I pushed the peels aside to read the article. There was that story of the priest who’d been bludgeoned for the valuable statue, and a picture of him standing before the statue in happier times. But as I gazed at the picture, I noticed something else. The eyes of the statue—and here the hairs on my neck stood up—looked just like the two set in silver, blue moonstones that were that minute in my pocket! Oh, my God.
“Mom,” I swallowed, “it’s the picture of that statue.”
“Oh, see, now, I kept those papers for you because you said you wanted them for the real estate.” Then to Jenny Rose she complained fervently, “Claire thinks she’ll be better off without Enoch. Doesn’t know which side her bread is buttered, and him the finest man you’ll ever meet!”
Jenny Rose and I looked at each other.
“Any red Jell-O left in there, Mary?” my father called through.
“No,” she called back.
“Mary?”
“No!” she shouted, clicked her tongue and shook her head, and muttered, “His hearing’s worse and worse.”
I gave Jenny Rose the warning look, but she snapped at me, “Auntie Claire, don’t go giving me no warning looks, now. Who will you be protecting? Enoch? Your mother?”
“What’s she mean?” my mother said suspiciously, looking back and forth at both of us.
“The truth is, Grandmother, that that fellow Enoch was prepared to marry your daughter while he’s just as gay as a three-penny opera.”
My mother raised up. “What did she say?”
“Mom,” I said as I hung my head, embarrassed for him, “it’s like she says. Enoch is gay.”
“What do you mean, gay? Homosexual?”
“Yes.”
>
“He can’t be. You slept with him.”
“I did,” I agreed.
“Well, didn’t you know?”
“Mom, he seemed fine. If anything, he was particularly solicitous.”
“That should have been your clue right there,” Jenny Rose snipped.
From the other room there was a noise and we all strained to listen. My mother leaned in and heard my father demonstrating the times tables for Wendell. She cupped her mouth and sat back down. “He’ll have given you the AIDS!”
“Jesus, I hope not!” I cried.
“Well, did he wear a jacket or not?”
“Not with me, he didn’t. I mean, not lately.”
Wendell stood in the doorway.
“What is it, lad?” Jenny Rose said.
“I’ve got to go for a little attention.”
“You mean you’ve got to go pee?”
“Yes.”
My mother said, “Well, it’s right down the stairs.”
“He’ll not know his way,” Jenny Rose pointed out.
“Or up. Go up,” my mother called. “Stan, take him upstairs, will you?”
My father rumbled from his chair.
“Hold his hand so he won’t fall,” my mother instructed. They held hands up the steep stairs. My mother went over and stood at the bottom with her wrists on her hips to watch them.
“Jenny Rose!” I grabbed her arm and whispered a shriek. “Look at this!”
“What?”
“The eyes!” The two of us stared at the picture and gulped.
“Fuck,” she said.
“What did you say, young lady!” my mother reprimanded.
“It’s an Our Lady statue!” Jenny Rose exclaimed.
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