I got eyes. I can see.
It wasn’t her
fault. Charlie had needed to go outside even though it was raining. And then there was
traffic on Gessner and traffic at the loop. That mini-van off
to the side; flashing. Smoke steaming from the raised-up hood. Slowing everything down. And that red-faced
woman standing off with her phone to her ear and the rain just falling; gesturing
to the car and the smoke like she was afraid we'd miss it. We got eyes, lady. Still all the traffic
slowing to make sure they didn’t.
Not her fault,
either.
But there she was anyway,
coming in the heavy wooden doors closing her umbrella and shaking it out onto
the carpet, cursing at herself and seeing already through the inner glass doors
Father Leo standing already up by the altar reading out of the red book.
Already closing it, even. And she was still
shaking her umbrella onto the carpet, seeing already everyone settling back
down into their seats.
Ed would say, she
did it. It was hers. Own up.
But she’d
tried. Only not hard enough, she knew that voice. One
day, you give us. She could hear it. One day. His birthday, and you can’t get here on time.
Can’t even plan ahead when you see it raining.
Why even bother? Nothing stopping you now. Already late. Just turn
around. Walk out. Get in your car and go
home. Have some breakfast. Who would
know? Who would even notice? Not like anyone would care.
Except me.
She leaned her
umbrella in a corner and took hold of the glass door separating the vestibule
from the church proper. It was almost empty.
She had planned to sit in their pew. The one they always sat in, up to
the front and over. But Margaret was already heading up to do the readings; the
glow of her bottled red halo wobbling up the steps to the lectern. That was more than she could bear. Even for
him. Her son. That sanctimonious gaze looking down on her from on high –the
fissure of smile cracking her caked-on powder and rouge and those watery eyes
suddenly so bright to see that yes, Dorothy was here. Just like Christmas,
comes once a year. Yes, well—so nice that you could make it, dear. But if you
cared enough, perhaps you’d come on time.
And more
often.
But she
didn’t. After Ed died, she’d
stopped. Not right away, but after a
while. Ed had been a daily mass goer, all his life. Even after everything. You’d think sometimes
that a man might get tired of God, but he never did. Not even after the whole diaconate thing. But
after he died, there was a morning when she got up out of habit and got dressed
and had her Sanka and was getting the keys and Charlie was watching her,
waiting to say goodbye so he could settle back under the table and get some
sleep and that was when she knew it wasn’t something she had to do and so she
didn’t. Not all at once, but through attrition and avoidance. Missing it even at
first, some, but then after a while she found some mornings she didn’t even
think of it. And then she realized, no one noticed. Not even her. And she was
done. Except this one day. Every
year. For him. She made that clear to herself, like it was
part of the bargain. You can stop going every day; you can stop going even any
day –no obligations, save this one—this one day you will not stop. That is a
line you will not cross. And you will
sit in the same pew you always sat in and you will take communion and you will
pray as if you believed in it, as if it mattered. Not to you, but to him. And
to the other. Both of them. Because this is what they would for you –if it was
they who had survived to keep your memory and not this other way.
So here she was,
only she was late and there was Margaret.
And that fissure of a grin was more than she could bear even for them.
Dorothy slid into
a pew near the back. Not the very back,
where the homeless man had made himself comfortable with all his bags of
newspapers and belongings. And not too near
the jogger in his shorts and headband. He
looked up and nodded to her. Smiling. Certainly
beyond that.
She sat behind two
men. A man and his son. It seemed fitting. A fair alternative, at least. And they didn’t bother to turn and nod. No
acknowledgment. She liked that. It felt comfortable.
Margaret
announced, “A reading from the Book of Genesis…” as if to say: Now that we are all settled. And then
began: “The Lord said to Abram go forth from your land, your relatives, and
from your father’s house…”
Unclasping her
purse, Dorothy took out an embroidered coin purse and opened it. Inside was her rosary. And two holy cards,
one from her son’s funeral, and one from husband’s. She looked at them. The one for Ed had a picture of Saint Joseph
one side and the Lord’s Prayer on the other just beneath his name and dates; Edwin Eugene Williams 1921-1998. She put
it back and looked at the other. One side was a picture of an angel leading two
children over a bridge. And the other had the Saint Francis prayer, Make me an instrument of your peace… her lips moved as she read the prayer and then
the name: Jeffrey Eugene Williams; November
5, 1959-June 17, 1977. June 17, she
nodded to herself. And so here I am. Again. Nodding to the card as if to someone. She
raised it closer to her lips and nodded again.
Margaret was still
reading –something about Abram and a foreign land. But Dorothy was thinking
still of the day and of the words –make
me an instrument… Yes. God. Go ahead. You do that… Anytime now.
I have lived my
life longer now in his absence than I did in the hope of expecting. The one day out of the year she still went to
church. And she always sat in their pew.
To honor him. It was a promise she had made to Ed. Like lighting the candles by his picture. The
altar Ed had created for him. That picture and the candles. That shrine kept
sacred. Sometimes it seemed to be all he had.
Kept him going, sometimes. I
guess. And when it came time, he
would not let go until she promised she would not let go. She would keep it for him, for them. But this
morning…
It wasn’t her
fault. The rain. The traffic. Charlie.
She glanced
up. Margaret was beginning the
psalm.
“Blessed are the
people the Lord has chosen to be His own…”
Something about
the two men in front of her caught her attention. She liked to solve puzzles.
Crosswords and the Jumble in the paper. Not jigsaw puzzles, but ones where you
had to think and puzzle it out. It gave her a good feeling –looking for clues,
discovering relations. It was something
she was good at. The positions of the
two men, in the pew was a clue to something. They were sitting awkwardly close,
but not together. There was a
relationship, but not a closeness, she thought.
And the way they were sitting. She felt like Poirot or inspector Morse
now. One of them, the older one, was stooped –head dropping forward—as if
exhausted, and the other –the younger one—the son—sat upright, tall –shoulders
square and back –and looking away, like he was distracted by something or just
not that interested.
There is definitely
a strain in that relation. A tension. Maybe the younger one, the boy, is only
coming to please the old man. His hair
was dark and thick and long with hints of gray, so he must be close to 40, she
thought. But still a boy. The unfocused air of immaturity hung about him.
What was he
looking at? Stain glass windows? The lady with the veil over at the far edge of
the church? Nothing at all, maybe? Clearly, he wasn’t here out of any intention
to participate in the festivities. There
was something proud and dismissive in the younger one, his unwillingness to be
part of the thing his father loved. Like
this was a stipulation. You want to live
in my house, you’ll come to church… She
could see the weight of carrying out that stipulation was crushing the old man.
The boy seemed to
be a good head taller than his father. The
old man was wearing a tweed jacket and she could see the pattern of a plaid
shirt collar just rising over the half turned up collar. He’d probably been in
a rush getting dressed. The boy making him late, maybe. From behind, all Dorothy could see of the
younger one’s clothes was the shoulders and collar of a jacket, a windbreaker
–maybe for the rain—but there was something odd about it. Dated. It was a faded
green, almost gray, with what looked like orange and white racing stripes coming
down the back and on the shoulders those button down strap things; as if to hold
something in place. It reminded her of a drill-team jacket or something that
might be worn by a comic-strip aviator like Buz Sawyer or Tailspin Tommy or something
a kid would wear who wanted to look like one. She immediately thought of a thrift store. Someone must have been pretty eager to hand
that down.
Dressed like that.
Coming to church. The father sitting there—looking
like maybe it was the son who was his exhaustion. Just getting him this
far—dressed like that. It was all he could do. All he could bear. Putting the
clues together she realized: the boy’s come home. He’s been lost. Out of work.
Struggling. Probably drugs. Maybe drink. Homeless at some point. Like Joshua. She thought of her brother, another man
missing from her life. Prodigal sons, all
of them –she thought. Every single one. Run off first chance they get.
And here he is come home, tail between his
legs, looking for help and his Daddy
is making him go to church.
But, at least he’s here, she thought –That’s something. Counts for something.
“Blessed are the
people the Lord has chosen to be His own…”
She heard the
words intoned and was startled by the sound of voices around her responding and
realizing that she had not. The words hung in her head and she thought of the
homeless man and the jogger with his headband and Tailspin Tommy sitting there embarrassing
his dad, and of course there was Margaret with her bottle of red hair and Fr.
Leo looking like he was about to fall asleep in his big chair.
Yes. Blessed… If you say so. Blessed are the people the Lord has chosen.
Margaret finished,
and the fissure sealed. She closed the book and slid it onto the lower shelf
and bowed her head. Very pious. Waiting
for something. Maybe God. Waiting for Him to make His real choice known. Then
she turned and slowly stepped away, and down the three steps and watching her Dorothy
thought, Good Lord how she has aged. Bent forward and walking with her hand
reaching toward the pews as if unsure where each step might land.
Her face so pale
with powder and cheeks so bruised with rouge, she looked like she was wearing
some kind of mask.
She’s all yours, Lord, Dorothy sniffed.
The old man looked
up. Reached for the pew back, the black beads of a plastic rosary dangling from
his hand. The beads clattered against
the wood as he pulled himself up standing.
The son rose as well, with what seemed to be a little resentment. As he did he reached for something in the pew
and standing now, right there in front of her, Dorothy could see he was holding
a large purse and she thought, Good Lord,
what on earth… but then she realized it was worse than that. He was wearing
a skirt –a plaid skirt.
Fr. Leo waddled
past the altar, turning to bow with a brief nod as if to someone he recognized
and continued to the lectern—his lips moving the whole time as if he was
talking to someone. He reached down and
got the lectionary back out and opened it. Holding the red ribbon in his hand,
he turned the pages a few times as if looking for something. Like Margaret had
lost his place when she closed it.
Everyone
stood. Everyone waited.
Including the man
and his son who wishes he wasn’t. It was strange to see them now; standing, the
man was taller and the boy who wished he wasn’t and who had looked so tall and lean
when seated now seemed stocky, almost thick and boxy; his broad shoulders matched
by a broad waist giving him the look of a poorly dressed linebacker. On top of that, the jacket clashed with his skirt.
Finally, the old
priest announced:
“A reading from
the Gospel according to… “ And yet again paused, looking at the page as if it
had suddenly gone blank. “Oh dear. I
can’t find my place. I… Uhm, oh dear. It’s been one of those mornings. I was.
I got up too early. I guess I
forgot to have my Shredded Wheat. I… I
thought today was. Oh dear. So, I’m
prepared for. Not this reading. Another. I’d like to read that to you. If
that’s okay. I…” He turned a page. Then more. Several. Each
time he paused momentarily, scanning. Puzzled.
As if whatever it was he was looking for, had been there. Before. But somehow vanished. Margaret stood, cautiously stepping out of
the pew, her hand still on the arm of it. She glanced around, lips tight, eyes wide,
cheeks glowing through the cake and rouge. She seemed put out, as if somehow
this was going to be placed on her shoulders, made to be her fault, but
–shaking her head in exasperation—she wanted to make sure everyone knew it
wasn’t.
But Dorothy knew
it was and took some comfort in that.
Clutching her son’s Holy Card to her breast with both hands.
Margaret started
to move again, but before she could take a second step, Father called out:
“Here. This will do.
This will do. Not the one I had
planned, but… Anyway, here goes. About time, right? Here. A
reading from the Holy Gospel according to Matthew.”
“Glory to you, Oh
Lord…”
“What is your
opinion? A man had two sons…”
And one of them came home dressed like a
woman… Dorothy clucked and thought how clever she was and how she would
have to save that to tell to someone. Jeff would have laughed. He would have
liked that. He liked my jokes. She would tell it to Charlie. She thought. He will like that.
After mass,
sitting in her she was laughing at another joke. One played on her, she
thought. It was after she took Communion.
She was coming back toward her pew and thinking how desperately she
didn’t want to speak to anyone. Especially Margaret. She will talk to me, make a point of it. She will say how nice it is to see me and how
glad she is that I came and she will ask how I am doing and then she will comment
about the day, about how this is the day. How she still remembers the day and
how she prays for us. Always prays for us, all of us.
Perhaps she could
just go. Lots of people do it. Just take Communion and keep walking right out
the door. She had her purse. But she knew Ed wouldn’t like that. He would never
have approved. You still to the end. You stay to the final note of the closing
hymn and then you walk out and you greet people. You tell them how glad you are
to see them. You wish them a good day. “Have a blessed day,” he would say. And
if there was coffee you always got a cup.
Walking back to
her pew, wishing she could leave and never come back, but knowing she would
stay to the bitter end, she saw them. The old man and his son who wasn’t, the
son who looked up from his purse clutched in his lap and smiled at her and whispered
even her name:
“Dorothy…”
And sitting now in
the car, holding the key and buckling her belt, Dorothy was still
laughing. At herself. The old man and the prodigal son in a skirt
was actually Horace and Estelle Dominguez. That
was no transvestite, that was my wife.
She laughed again at her own joke.
How long? How long had it been? I
thought they had changed churches. Hell, I thought they got divorced, last I
heard. Of course, that was almost 20
years ago—more even. Yes, you’d make a damn fine detective, Dorothy Williams.
Damn fine. And she laughed again and started the car. The wipers set off
and she stopped them. The rain had stopped.
I should go out. Make a day of it. Or at least a morning. For
Ed. Over to Mytiburger for breakfast. Not too much to ask, in memory of…
She was about to
put the car in reverse when she remembered the little white cup of coffee in
her cupholder. Tasted just like she remembered. Burnt.
Opening her door,
she poured the contents carefully out, watching it rinse over the yellow parking-lot
stripe where it slicked like oil.
Just as she started
to back up, there was a knock at her window.
It was Margaret. She was holding Dorothy’s
umbrella and waving it in her quick curious way –saying something. Asking
something. And looking like she was trying to be cute.
Dorothy gritted
her teeth and sighed. There she is. I knew it. I got eyes. I can see.
