by Liz Moore
She pauses.
—We fell in love, she says again. I left the order. We got married. I was forty years old.
—That was brave of you, I say, after a pause.
But Mrs. Mahon shakes her head. Not brave, she says. Cowardly, if anything. But I don’t regret it.
I am afraid to ask what happened to him. To Patrick.
—He died five years ago, says Mrs. Mahon. In case you were wondering. We lived together twenty-five years, there in that house below you. This, she says, gesturing around at the apartment, was his studio. He painted, you know. Painted and sculpted.
—I’m sorry, I say. I’m so sorry for your loss.
She shrugs. So it goes, she says.
—Are those his paintings downstairs? I say.
She nods. She puts a finger on a rook and moves it two ahead. Two back. She looks at me over the top of her glasses.
—They’re very nice, I say. I like them.
—Do you have family, Mickey? she says.
—Sort of, I say.
—What does that mean? says Mrs. Mahon.
* * *
—
So I tell her. There is less at stake, somehow, with Mrs. Mahon. I tell her about Kacey and Simon. I tell her about Gee. About my mother and father. About my cousins upon cousins who live both near and not near. Who do and don’t know me. I tell her everything that I have always been afraid will scare people away. The burdens I carry that are almost too much for anyone to bear.
Mrs. Mahon is motionless as I speak, her eyes focused, her posture alert. I feel more heard than I have ever felt.
I have a memory of making my first confession as a six-year-old, before making my First Holy Communion: the terror of it, Gee telling me to be quiet, to calm down, to just shut up and invent something; and then being shoved inside a little booth, confessing my nonexistent sins to a disembodied voice. The ordeal of it. The shame.
This version of confession, I think, would have been much more appropriate. Every six-year-old should have a Mrs. Mahon to speak to on a comfortable couch.
By the end of my story, I am so at ease, so wonderfully understood, that it’s as if I’ve entered another dimension, almost. It has been many years since I’ve felt so calm.
—Mrs. Mahon, I say. Do you still believe in God?
It’s a silly question, a frivolous one, something I’ve never asked anyone except for Kacey, when I was younger, and Simon.
But Mrs. Mahon nods slowly.
—I do, she says. I devoutly believe in God, and in the work of the Sisters. It was the great tragedy of my life to leave the convent. But it was the great joy of my life to marry Patrick.
She waggles her hand, looking first at the front, and then at the back.
—Two sides of the same story, she says.
I do as she does, inspecting my hand. The back of it is hard, weathered, scaled by the cold of the season. This happens every season, working the streets. The palm is tender and soft.
—You know, says Mrs. Mahon. I’m not a nurse anymore, but I still volunteer at St. Joseph’s. Ever since Patrick died. I go every week, twice a week. I cuddle the babies, she says.
—You what?
—The babies born to addicted mothers, she says. More and more babies in this city are being born to mothers who never stopped using. And then they don’t come around. The mothers and fathers, I mean. They go back to the street the minute the baby is born. Or they aren’t allowed to come around, in some cases. So the babies go into withdrawal, and they need holding, she says. Being held reduces their pain.
I am silent for so long that Mrs. Mahon puts a hand on my shoulder.
—All right? she says.
I nod.
—It might be nice if you came sometime, she says. Would you be interested?
I say nothing.
I am thinking of my own mother. I am thinking of Kacey, as a baby.
—Sometimes helping others gets the mind off its own problems, says Mrs. Mahon. I find, at least.
—I don’t think I can, I say.
Mrs. Mahon looks at me appraisingly.
—All right, she says. Let me know if you ever change your mind.
Every day for a week, I stay home with Thomas. I haven’t been home with him for so long since my maternity leave. I am happy to have this time with him. It has been too long, I realize, since I’ve devoted whole days to him, and he seems to blossom: We read books and play games. I take him to the Camden aquarium and the Franklin Institute. I teach him all the small things I know about the city.
Also, I’ve recently made a decision. Now, when he comes into my room in the night, I don’t turn him away. I let him crawl into bed, pretending not to notice. In the morning, when I wake, I watch him: in a shaft of sunlight, his little-boy face, which is changing each day; and his hair, disheveled from sleep; and his small hands, tucked under his pillow, or folded over his chest, or raised above him in a gesture of surrender.
It’s getting close to Christmas, so I take him to a Christmas tree lot and buy two: a small one for us, and a slightly larger one for Mrs. Mahon, which I leave propped against her door with a note saying we are upstairs if she needs help with it.
As it turns out, she does.
* * *
—
I think every single day of apologizing to Truman. But my shame prevents me from picking up the phone. I am cut off, therefore, from my source of information about the force as well. I hear nothing from him, and nothing from Mike DiPaolo. There is nobody I can ask for an update.
* * *
—
Each morning I expect a phone call from Denise Chambers, calling me in. I’ll be fired, I assume. But every day passes without incident.
Christmas Day is freezing cold and sunny. Ice has made its way, in curling tentacles, across my windshield, and I put Thomas in the backseat before tackling the situation with a scraper. Mrs. Mahon is with her sister for the day.
Now, in the backseat, Thomas says, Where are we going?
—To Gee’s house, I tell him.
—Why?
—We always visit Gee on Christmas, I say.
This isn’t quite true: we always visit Gee around Christmas, because typically I’ve had to work on the day itself, which means I’ve had to leave Thomas with his former babysitter, Carla. I’ve always told myself that he’s too young to notice. Last year, I’m not sure that this was true. Conveniently, no such obligations exist for me this year, during my interminable period of suspension. To Gee’s house we go, then, bearing two small gifts that Thomas and I selected for her from the King of Prussia mall.
It’s not that I miss her. It’s that I miss the idea of family, in general, I suppose. The day that Thomas went missing, the fact that I had no one to call for support troubled me deeply. And I told myself, Michaela, it is your responsibility to create a greater network of friends and family than what you currently have. If not for yourself, then for Thomas.
Yesterday, therefore, I called Gee to let her know we would be coming. She sounded at first reluctant—protesting that her house was a mess, that she had not had a chance to buy anything for Thomas, due to how many shifts she had been picking up around the holidays—and then resigned.
—Gee, I said. You don’t have to worry about that. Thomas has been asking to see you. That’s all.
She paused.
—He has? she said.
In her voice, I heard the faintest smile.
—Well, she said. All right then.
—How’s the afternoon? I said. Four o’clock or so?
—That’ll be fine, said Gee, and then she hung up without saying goodbye, which, for her, is standard.
* * *
—
This morning, Thomas and I spent some quiet time together. I made him waffles: a favorite of his. I
gave him four presents to unwrap: a Transformer figure that comes up to his waist; a ukulele (he has been telling me he wants to learn guitar); a collection of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, the same ones that I loved, too, as a child; and a pair of light-up sneakers with Spiderman on them.
Now he is wearing the last, and from the backseat I hear small thuds that indicate he is tapping his heels together and watching the result. When I glance in the rearview mirror, I see he is looking out the window, his face grayed by the dim light of winter.
* * *
—
I exit at Girard and make my way toward Fishtown. The streets are quiet. On Christmas Day, everyone’s either in the suburbs or bundled up inside their homes.
I turn onto Belgrade, my childhood street, and park easily. I let Thomas out and take his hand as we walk.
I press the bell once, then wait. It gives off the same sound it’s given for thirty years: a ding followed by an electronic wheeze. It’s never been fixed.
When enough time goes by, I take out my own key—several times, over the years, Gee has had the locks changed to prevent Kacey from stealing anything, but she has always made sure I have an up-to-date copy—and put it in the lock.
Just before I turn it, Gee flings the door open, blinking into the sunlight. She’s taken some care with her outfit: her hair, short and dyed brown, is combed neatly, and she’s wearing a red sweater and blue jeans, rather than her usual outfit of a sweatshirt and leggings. She has put earrings in her ears that are meant to look like small spherical Christmas ornaments, red and blue. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gee wearing anything but silver studs, the kind you get at nine years old from piercing stations in the mall.
—Sorry, says Gee, moving aside so we can enter. I was on the john.
* * *
—
It’s chilly inside. Gee still keeps the heat turned down to save on her gas bill, apparently. Thomas starts shivering. I can hear his teeth.
But I can see, too, that Gee has put some effort into the place: there is a Christmas tree in the corner, tiny and scraggly (Got it yesterday down the corner, says Gee, the last one on the lot); and there are three little music boxes on the mantel of the fireplace, which has never worked. The music boxes support a dancing bear and a nutcracker doll and a figure of Santa Claus that jackknifes its legs and arms as it turns on a round base. Kacey and I loved them and made them go around and around every day, often all at once, which made a terrible racket that Gee deplored. Thomas, too, is drawn to them, and he approaches them and takes the bear down and looks it over, inspecting its gears. He is tall enough, I notice, to reach the top of the mantel.
* * *
—
—Do you mind? I say, standing near a light switch.
—Go ahead, says Gee. I was gonna do that anyway.
I flick it, and the strand of lights on the Christmas tree turn on.
I nearly ask her if I can turn the heat up a little, too, but instead I opt to simply leave my coat on. I’ll leave Thomas’s on, too.
I hand Gee a loaf of cranberry bread that I picked up from a bakery in Bensalem yesterday, and she takes it wordlessly and brings it into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door open and then close. For as long as I can remember, Gee has been waging war on the mice that come and go seasonally in her house, and this means never, ever leaving food out on the counter.
She comes back into the living room, and suddenly I notice how small she has gotten over the years. She was always petite—Kacey and I both outsized her profoundly from the time we were about ten—but now she is childlike, very thin, perhaps too thin. She still moves quickly, always jittery, her hands always searching for something I can’t quite identify, moving to her jaw and then her waist and then into her pockets and then out again. She paces to the tree and extracts from it two packages, hastily wrapped, one for Thomas and one for me.
—Here, she says.
—Should we sit down? I say.
—Whatever you want, says Gee.
Thomas and I take seats on the sofa—unchanged since my childhood, fraying at the seams—and I let him open his present first. The box is large and unwieldy, and I have to hold it for him while he tears at the paper.
It’s a Super Soaker, a neon water gun with a pump on it that acts as the trigger. I am certain that Gee bought it on sale, off-season. I would never have gotten such a thing for him. I’ve never allowed him to have any gun-shaped toys. I keep my face neutral.
Thomas inspects it silently.
—You loved those when you were a kid, Gee says to me, suddenly.
I don’t think this is true. I have no memory of ever even using a water gun.
—Did I? I say.
Gee nods. The neighbors had one, she says. They played with it all day long, every summer. You wanted to get your hands on that thing, boy. Stood by the window and watched them. Couldn’t drag you away.
I know, now, what she’s referencing. But it was the children I was watching, not the gun. I was watching them and making a record of all of their small actions and exchanges, all their mannerisms, so that I might steal them and use them myself.
—What do you say? I say to Thomas.
—Thank you, Gee-Mom, says Thomas.
—Thank you, I say, after a beat.
* * *
—
My gift to Gee is a picture frame with the word Family on it, into which I put the most recent school picture I have of Thomas, taken over a year ago, now. Thomas’s gift to Gee is a pin in the shape of a butterfly. Gee’s gift to me is a sweater, very light blue, which she says she saw at Thriftway and thought would look nice on me.
—Paid good money for it, too, says Gee. Even with my discount. It’s cashmere.
* * *
—
Gee turns the television on, then, to something Thomas will like, and I follow her into the kitchen to help her put out food.
It is then that I notice that a panel of glass in the window on the back door has been knocked out. A sheet of Saran wrap has been inexpertly taped over it, but a draft is coming through nonetheless.
I walk over and inspect it. No glass on the floor. No indication that it was a recent event. Still, the fact that the glass pane is the one closest to the doorknob gives me pause.
—Gee, I say. What happened?
She glances at me, and at the door.
—Nothing, she says. Hit it with a broom handle on accident.
I pause. I put a finger to the Saran wrap. Trace its edges.
—Are you sure? Because, I say, but Gee cuts me off.
—I’m sure, she says. Here, come help me with this.
* * *
—
Gee’s lying. I know she’s lying. Her insistence, her abruptness, her eagerness to change the subject tell me this. I don’t know why she’s lying. But I also know enough not to press her. Not yet.
Instead, I help her set out cheese and crackers, and I help her roll pepperoni and cheese into Pillsbury crescent rolls, and then I excuse myself, saying I forgot something in the car.
—I’ll be right back, I say to Thomas as I pass him.
On the television, the stop-motion version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing, very soft.
* * *
—
Outside, I stand in front of the house, inspecting it. Between Gee’s house and her neighbor’s is a shared alley through which they take the garbage. It leads to their small concrete back patios. And off these patios are the back doors to both houses.
A blue-painted alley door, usually bolted from the back, prevents any intruders from entering the alley. But the door is old and rickety, and the wood is splitting. I put my hand on the door and push.
It gives easily. I walk around to the other side. The bolt lock, never well secured to begin with, has been torn off of its screws. As if so
meone kicked the door open.
A tingling sense that I’m on the verge of knowing something important is beginning at the base of my neck. My nose fizzes with adrenaline.
I go back inside. Back into the kitchen.
—Gee, I say. I noticed something.
She turns to me. On her face is an expression of defiance and guilt.
—What, she says.
—The alley door, I say.
—Yeah, she says. Tried to get someone out here yesterday to fix that when you called. No one would. Christmas Eve.
—Who kicked it in, I say slowly.
Gee sighs. All right, she says, resigned. All right. All right.
We had a fight, says Gee. Me and Kacey. We got into it. She came around here asking for money and I told her, once and for all, that I was done. She got very mad.
—When was this, I say.
Gee looks at the ceiling. Two months ago, she says. Maybe longer. I don’t know.
—Why did you lie to me? I say. When I asked you if you’d seen her lately.
She points at me.
—You, she says, have enough to worry about. I know how you meddle. You’re softer on your sister than I am. Wouldn’t be able to say no to her the way I can.
I’m shaking my head.
—Gee, I say. Do you know how worried I’ve been? You’ve heard about those murders. You must have known I was worried about Kacey.
Gee shrugs.
—I guess a little worry now, she says, is better than a lot of worry later.
I turn my head away from her.
—Anyway, she says. Next day, I come home, someone’s broken into my house. I don’t think it was a coincidence. Do you?