Northern Light

by Deb Davies

  BILL MARSH FOUND Patsy lying sprawled and dead, face-up in their front garden, where she’d gone to collect the kittens. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Patsy had driven Ann’s car, Bill wouldn’t have recognized the woman at all. She was lying about ten feet from the porch, her face swollen to the size of a large pumpkin, her tongue purplish-blue and protruding from attempts to gasp for air. Her eyes were swollen shut. Her scarlet face and thinning hair were still crawling with honeybees that had killed her. As Bill watched, a bee crawled into one of Patsy’s nostrils, which, from his angle, displayed a few graying hairs.

  He wasn’t repelled. He lived on a farm and saw death often—death, bloat, insects, and a great deal worse. Usually, he and Barbara knew when a horse was going to die, called the vet, and got on with the process, but it wasn’t always possible to predict when a horse would go down. He’d mourned those more than he would mourn for Patsy. He knelt and took her pulse, though he knew better, and covered her face with a pocket handkerchief.

  He looked around and frowned, then saw the cat carrier, which had been knocked across the driveway. He checked on the kittens, who were curled next to each other each other, unharmed and packed into the peaked top of the upside-down carrier. He took them back into the house and loosed them on Colby. He called Crawford County’s emergency dispatch service and stood on the back porch. As he went back to the barn to tell Barbara what had happened, he recalled that they’d been happy the set of hives they rented from a neighbor had thrived this year.

  He thought about calling Ann. Instead, he called Tansy at Best to Be. Tansy would call Ann.

  Ann closed her store.

  There was no autopsy. The death was ruled to be the result of natural causes. Few attended the funeral, which was closed casket at Immaculate Medal of Mary, except for neighbors. Tansy sent perishable food to a community pantry, whose recipients gorged on triple crème cheeses. Frustrated drive-up customers made jokes about Ann’s store closing. Everything in Michigan, they said, is shutting down.

  Barbara Marsh said she would keep any abandoned kittens. When asked about it, she shrugged. “I’ll figure out a way to place them,” she said.

  Three days after Patsy’s death, Tansy called Zoe Weathers, who had retired from practice but agreed to come by.

  “I’m worried about my mother,” she said. “She doesn’t cry, but she doesn’t sleep or eat, either. She wants me to look at pictures of me as a baby, when she and Patsy both took care of me. I could do that with her for a few days, but eventually, I have to get back to work.”

  Zoe visited Ann, who let her in reluctantly. “Don’t tell me to take pills,” Ann told the doctor. “Except for Tansy, who has her own life to lead, Patsy was my only friend that counted. I sat by myself when Monty died,” she added. “I sat by myself in the evenings, for most of a year. When you’re old enough, you know sometimes you have to sit through grief.”

  Something about the phrase “sit through grief” resonated with Zoe.

  “Don’t you sit Shiva?” she asked Sanjay.

  “Not me,” he responded. “I’m half Hindu, which would mean a trip to the Ganges, but neither of my parents were observant.”

  “Dad’s parents were Notre Dame Catholic,” she said. “Isn’t sitting Shiva like a Catholic wake? Ideally, for a wake, you still have the body.”

  “Shiva,” he said, “is seven days, I think.”

  Zoe looked thoughtful. “A wake is one night, or, with a lot of heavy drinking, as many days as the food and liquor hold out. The old people get drunk, and the younger people toke. I think a wake is a good idea, but we should limit it to one afternoon.”

  Come,” Claire pleaded with Ann on the phone. “I’m going to have people over. I think, since Patsy was Catholic, it would matter to her to be remembered, and mourned, and celebrated. I don’t think you should have to do it. You have been through enough.”

  “I won’t come,” Ann said.

  But she came anyway. She came late, bringing hot cinnamon apples in a copper kettle, which she banged down on the stove and stirred. “Go save us a seat, Tansy,” she said, as though the handful of neighbors might conspire to keep her on her feet the whole time she was there. Tansy slunk through the kitchen, aware her mother was irritated with her.

  The priest of Medal of Mary, Father Cleary, arrived while Ann was still stirring. He’d been distant, even aloof at the funeral service.

  “Go on by me, Father,” Ann said in a tone that could grate lemons. “Got to keep syrup from crystallizing.”

  “Annie Campbell,” he said, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Walk me into the next room. I’m that weak on my feet.” He reached past her, turning the burner down to simmer.

  “It’s a drink I’m needing,” he said. “The Lord blessed the Irish with little enough, but he gave us souls and a good ear for stories. Sit down with me, and I’ll tell you a story of Patty you don’t know.”

  Ann let him steer her away from the stove and out to the living room, where they both joined Tansy on Claire’s new couch.

  Father Cleary kept his promise over a tumbler of Jameson, drinking enough to slap his thigh and say that, as a girl, Patty Cluny had twice escaped boarding school by slipping through a restroom window, which the school had then boarded up.

  “You mean Patsy. Patsy Cluny,” Ann said.

  “Right through the rose bushes Patty would go.” He chuckled. “Scratched and scabby as a heathen. She was a good girl at heart. Just wanted to be out in the sun, jump rope, and bicycle through puddles, splashing her mother’s hanging laundry. Her mother would have her kneeling on the kitchen floor all night. She and her mother both were stubborn. Remember, we Catholics weren’t always accepted in those days. We didn’t really mind girls with some spirit and stubbornness.”

  “That was a good thing,” Ann agreed. “Her name was Patsy, not Patty.”

  “Have a drink with me, Annie,” he said. “Give some of your grief to Mary; you know she’s stretching her hands to you. Patty loved you, and she wouldn’t want you grieving. Here’s your daughter, Tansy; she doesn’t want you grieving. You’re a good woman, Annie Campbell. You helped with the roof of our church. You’ve paid for poor, faithful women who couldn’t put a dime in the collection plate, and you helped Best to Be put that chapel in. Though that now welcomes all kinds, it was a good thing to do.”

  Ann’s lower lip quavered. The priest held out his glass to her, and she took a sip.

  “Drink that, Ann,” Sanjay said, handing the priest a second full glass.

  Ann glared at Sanjay.

  “They call it a reflection room now,” she said. “All Faiths Welcome.” Capital letters could be heard in her speech.

  “Not my fault!” protested Sanjay.

  Claire got up to get the priest and Ann plates of food. She and Laurel had kept it simple—escalloped potatoes, relishes, and a spiral sliced ham—so everything could be set out on the table. Zoe had brought Zingerman’s Magic Brownies, which they had placed on the piano.

  “I swear, piggies,” she said under her breath. “From now on, new resolution: I will drink, but eschew pork.” She didn’t get either Ann or the priest the cream of chicken soup the Marshes had contributed. Nor did she try ladling up cinnamon apples. She tried each, but they were bubbling hot. She turned down the burners a bit more.

  In the meantime, Father Cleary was still weaving his spell, recalling the day Patty (he continued to ignore Ann’s corrections) let a dog, covered with soapsuds so it looked rabid, into the chapel. And the day she told Sister Mary Agnes that all nuns have bad breath. Ann, seated between Tansy and Father Cleary, visibly relaxed, possibly because of the Jameson, which she was now drinking slowly but steadily from her own glass. The rest of what Charles called “the potluck club” began to talk about Patsy. How she carried heavy purchases from Ann’s store out to the car. How she’d been a rescue wagon for forlorn kittens. Bill Marsh told a story no one but Ann had heard about how Patsy used to demonstrate swing steps
using six-year-old Tansy as her partner.

  Ann began to look rosy-cheeked and a bit tipsy. When she peeled off her cardigan sweater and dropped it on the floor, Tansy brought her mother a bowl of soup.

  Light faded. Booze bottles emptied. The soup, escalloped potatoes, ham, and the cinnamon apples all vanished. Brownie crumbs littered the floor. Sanjay was singing “Amazing Grace,” harmonizing with Jen, who had joined the company and been promptly seated in the recliner.

  “She was so beautiful.” Ann started sobbing. “None of you remember her as I do. You think of her as a woman with fat around her midriff and stringy hair. I remember Patsy when she was young and blond, and didn’t want to get married. You wouldn’t have either, if you’d known her father. She was that desperate to be out of her parents’ house. Moving in with me and Tansy gave her a second family. Bill Marsh, I bet you were one of those kids who watched her slide Tansy under her legs, spin, and pick her up again, and never miss a beat.”

  She took a long drink of her whiskey, then put down her empty glass.

  “I killed Patsy,” she said, and collapsed sobbing into Tansy’s lap. “I told her,” she said. “I told her. I told her. Her EpiPen was way past date. They cost $700, once that awful man got the patent. I told her I’d buy one for her. She was so goddamn stubborn; she wouldn’t listen. She said, ‘And yet, if people bought at that price, poor folk that couldn’t afford it would be out of luck.’ I should have just bought it for her. Now she’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

  “My dear child!” Father Cleary said. “My dear child. Of course you’re not to blame.” He waved his tumbler at Ann, making the sign of the cross, and then extended both arms to include all seated there. “God is kind. God is merciful. He will protect this house. May you dwell in the house of the Lord.”

  It wasn’t a traditional benediction, but the priest seemed genuinely moved by Ann’s misery.

  Each person there reassured Ann. Zoe, more than anyone, besides Tansy, looked deeply concerned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Medicine changes so fast. It’s things like this—drug prices—that made me retire. Well, that and the fact that I had money without my practice. Patsy made a mistake, but she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

  Sanjay muttered, “The same medications often cost less for animals.”

  Barbara added, sotto voce, “And prices for animals, God knows, are high enough.”

  Laurel was holding an arm around Jen, aware that her medical insurance had eased Jen’s transition from being maimed to being on her feet. Everyone had a story to tell about medical prices, insurance rates, and disabilities. Ann joined in, citing her share of a bill for a hip replacement as a self-employed patient. She didn’t mention the sum, but implied the amount would have gilded Medal of Mary’s roof.

  “Tis a sin, what they charge,” Father Cleary blurted loudly. “If you must blame someone, Annie, blame scoundrels who get rich off the suffering of the poor.”

  Ann seemed at least partially absolved for Patsy’s death. “I’ll drink to all of you here,” she said. “Good health, long life, and may you be in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead!”

  Neither Arnie nor Charles was there to join in the toast. Charles stayed in the basement sorting through the last of the comics. He said he would rather try to solve problems for Claire and let Father Cleary try to console Ann. Arnie had gone back to the sheriff’s department to update his records.

  Bertram didn’t join in the toast because he was on duty. He and Elaine had filled plates with food and tried to be invisible. Elaine was enjoying herself but also observing the company, and Bertram was sitting stolidly near the kitchen door.

  The first inkling that something was wrong came with Bertram’s mad dash for the bushes.

  Father Cleary said, “That boy’s odd. He didn’t join Annie’s toast, either.”

  Then Bill said, “Excuse me. What’s that smell?”

  “Did someone accidentally turn up the heat under an empty pan?” Zoe asked. “Whatever it is, it smells a bit like burned chicken soup.”

  A sudden fizzling noise sounded, as though someone had shaken a mammoth bottle of soda, uncapped it, and turned it upside down on the floor.

  “Oh!” Laurel’s face had gone pale. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be sick. Don’t, Jen, don’t,” she said. “Stay away!”

  Claire, realizing Laurel’s concern, conscripted Zoe. “Don’t let Jen try to help,” she told her. Laurel half rose from the chair she’d been sitting in. An incredibly awful-smelling fart resounded, and a pool of beige froth appeared under her.

  Tansy shoved Ann’s sweater under Laurel and eased her back on top of the sweater.

  “Sit down,” she warned. “You’re white as a communion wafer. You’re going to faint.”

  “Tansy, that’s my good wool sweater,” Ann complained.

  “Get a grip!” Tansy retorted.

  Barbara reached to comfort Laurel, but collapsed on the floor, writhing. Bill knelt by his wife’s side, his face ashen. Jen, still a little drugged out, leaned toward Laurel and tugged, in a futile effort, at Zoe’s restraining arm.

  Charles’s steps could be heard pounding up the stairs from the basement. The small group of friends stared at each other, caught in a scene from The Exorcist.

  “Avaunt!” Father Cleary pronounced. He spilled his recently topped up drink, stepping away from the couch.

  Ann’s face took on a green color that was obvious even in faint light. She began to gasp and vomit in regular expulsions that spewed from her mouth and sounded like whooping cough.

  “Flatulence. Projectile vomiting!” Sanjay exclaimed, sounding like Hercule Poirot, then covered a leg of the grand piano in a torrent of undigested food.

  “This is poisoning,” Zoe said. “Nobody leave this room!” She was virtually the last person standing.

  Elaine ignored her and bolted for Jen’s bathroom.

  Through the window, Allarbee’s bare buttocks could be seen, his head still occupied in the bushes. Claire felt nauseated but stood, wobbling and indecisive. She could hear Charles in the kitchen. He was summoning 911.

  “What the bejesus fuckin’ sort of travesty is this?” Father Cleary roared. “This stench would shame a hoor’s pudendum. Never have I seen such indignity at a wake!” He vomited whiskey.

  “I need the bathroom!” he yelled at Elaine, who ignored him, and then, crouched in terror, he ran into the kitchen, drooling Jameson.

  The miasma filling Claire’s remodeled room made eyes water and everyone think, “God give us skunk spray!” Even those who felt well—Tansy, Bill, Zoe, Jen, and Claire—though she didn’t feel spectacular—didn’t know where to walk. Oscar’s salmon had been infinitely better. The floor and everyone’s shoes were splattered with curds of acid vomit and runny feces.

  “Charles?” Claire said.

  Then his arms were around her.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  “Laurel?” she asked.

  “Just hang on,” he said.

  Bertram Allarbee hid behind his clump of bushes until the ambulance left, partly out of shame and partly out of stubbornness. Ann, Laurel, Barbara, and Father Cleary went to emergency. Father Cleary had protested that he felt quite clearheaded and should get back to his congregation. One of the ambulance attendants was overheard saying, “Father, with respect, these people could die unshriven.” And the priest had straightened his clerical collar and allowed himself to be helped to the ambulance.

  “Unshriven?” another worker asked as the old man was bundled in.

  “Hook up the old guy’s fluids,” the other said.

  Bill Marsh followed the ambulance, crumpled in the driver’s seat. Tears ran down his face as he pictured the day he’d first shown Barbara the farm. He’d wondered then what woman would like such a quiet life, and he still marveled that they were beatifically in love.

  Over her angry protestations, Sanjay staggered off to walk toward Zoe’s house.

 
; “I’m the doctor, you stupid man. I’m your doctor.”

  “I’m a doctor and your lover. And I’m not throwing up in your car.”

  “I’m going home,” Zoe told Charles. “I’m not helping or holding barf basins. Not here, not at the hospital. I’ll look after Sanjay, and I’ll look after myself, but I saw enough vomit when I was getting paid for it. And if Arnie wants to talk to me, he can come to my house.”

  Elaine called Dannie to come get her.

  “Want a ride to the hospital, Tansy?” Dannie asked.

  They had shooed Jen, who was exhausted and limping, back to bed, assuring her and Claire that they would stay with Laurel.

  “I’d better drive,” Tansy said. “I might have to go back to work.”

  “I want to go,” Claire wailed. “Laurel came to help me, and now she’s dying!”

  “No one is going to die,” Charles said.

  “You are not leaving without me,” Arnie said to Claire, his face contorting with frustration. “I have to be here, so you have to be here.”

  Claire sat on the kitchen steps with the door open and her knees hugged to her chest. “Everyone who knows me gets hurt or sick.”

  Charles sat down next to her. “Not everyone who knows you gets hurt or sick,” he reassured her. “And your friends aren’t feeling well, but they will be all right.”

  The muscle tic in Arnie’s jaw stopped pulsing, but he still stood with his head lowered and shoulders bunched, like a bull about to charge.

  Pearl appeared from the basement, tufted ears back and gold eyes wide, then ducked back down the stairs.

  Charles looked at Arnie’s clenched hands. “Arnie, would you open some windows? Downstairs and upstairs too? It’ll help, I promise.”

  “Got it,” Arnie said.

  Charles could hear him moving about the house, opening windows and yelling at Elaine to retrieve Bertram Allarbee.

  The phone rang.

  “Claire,” he said. “Just stay here and breathe while I get this.”

  “I promise,” she said.