out, his body vibrating with news. He rushed to the house, past the stone cap of the well, over the flattened front steps and into his mother’s kitchen. The fragrance of molasses filled the drafty room. I’ve been called , he told his stunned mother, who was months from dying, her vine of cancer almost fully bloomed, the bad luck of this family a whisper down the long, long lane. But he did not yet know this. His sister, Elizabeth, who did know, wiped her reddened hands on a dish towel. Tell us.
Light carpeted through the dusty windows. His mother had been spooning cookie batter onto tin sheets, and now her hand stilled, the spoon suspended and full. The stove glowed. For the moment, the family’s impending grief waited politely outside the door. Tears pearled on his mother’s cheeks, for she knew, as everyone did, that the mother of a priest goes directly to heaven. He often imagines her there, basking in the grace of her son’s vocation.
Look what our smart girls have done , Vivienne says, casting a bemused eye over the pretend merchandise: the black Keds he wears in the garden, the shiny wingtips he saves for high holidays, the flip-flops he takes to the beach. She raises one winged eyebrow, sliding him a look, parent to parent. This thrills him.
But he wonders: Should Lizzy always play the customer? Shouldn’t he be teaching her to be less accommodating? Children need rules, Father , is Mrs. Hanson’s stock answer to questions he’s given up posing. My Rosie always had rules. He longs to ask Vivienne, whose every maternal motion he examines like a map of heaven. Sometimes she is brusque with the children, all business. At other times her face loosens, her hair swinging like a girl’s as she turns to answer one of their endless questions.
Her ladies’ magazines gather on his desk. Clipping recipes and columns, he commits to memory the tips on child-rearing, window-dressing, fruit-arranging, bathroom-disinfecting. With Mrs. Hanson on board he finds little room to implement his ideas, unable to get past a certain awkwardness with this housekeeper who used to put supper in front of him only after Father Devlin had been pointedly, deferentially, served. With Father Devlin now gone, she guards her history, an impulse he understands. Her former tenure in this house lives on: those humdrum, codified years. No longer live-in, having been relieved of supper duty (sent home now at three), Mrs. Hanson nonetheless keeps the laundry a secret, the cooking a mystery. The disposal of trash resembles a multistage exercise worthy of a world war. She keeps the pantry in stern order, a barracks of soup cans and cereal boxes. Phone messages are recorded on coded index cards placed —this way, Father, not that way —into a converted recipe box. Her absence on Tuesdays and Saturdays turns him giddy and slightly panicked, as if he were a soldier absent without leave.
Buy some shoes, Maman! Mariette calls, installed officiously behind the coffee table. Lizzy grins, picking up his black Keds and thrusting them into Vivienne’s arms. She plays the salesman convincingly, he notes with relief.
That’s enough , he chides gently, embarrassed by his shoes. Not one of them resembles the glossy, clean-smelling moccasins that materialize from Vivienne’s hands every week. Maman is here on a spiritual matter.
Vivienne frowns. Surely I have time to buy one shoe. Sheproduces two quarters—from where? his smelly shoes? how does she manage always to produce exactly what they need?—and drops them into the girls’ pink palms. Vivienne puts the shoes back, pretending to eye the remaining merchandise, then examines things that are not for sale: his sister’s glass bookcase, the uncomfortable rocking chair, the plain white curtains, the three cats. Not for sale! Not for sale! the girls holler, pushy and self-important, which makes him laugh.
I was looking to buy a badger , he says, joining in. Do you sell badgers?
No, Father Mike! We sell
Light carpeted through the dusty windows. His mother had been spooning cookie batter onto tin sheets, and now her hand stilled, the spoon suspended and full. The stove glowed. For the moment, the family’s impending grief waited politely outside the door. Tears pearled on his mother’s cheeks, for she knew, as everyone did, that the mother of a priest goes directly to heaven. He often imagines her there, basking in the grace of her son’s vocation.
Look what our smart girls have done , Vivienne says, casting a bemused eye over the pretend merchandise: the black Keds he wears in the garden, the shiny wingtips he saves for high holidays, the flip-flops he takes to the beach. She raises one winged eyebrow, sliding him a look, parent to parent. This thrills him.
But he wonders: Should Lizzy always play the customer? Shouldn’t he be teaching her to be less accommodating? Children need rules, Father , is Mrs. Hanson’s stock answer to questions he’s given up posing. My Rosie always had rules. He longs to ask Vivienne, whose every maternal motion he examines like a map of heaven. Sometimes she is brusque with the children, all business. At other times her face loosens, her hair swinging like a girl’s as she turns to answer one of their endless questions.
Her ladies’ magazines gather on his desk. Clipping recipes and columns, he commits to memory the tips on child-rearing, window-dressing, fruit-arranging, bathroom-disinfecting. With Mrs. Hanson on board he finds little room to implement his ideas, unable to get past a certain awkwardness with this housekeeper who used to put supper in front of him only after Father Devlin had been pointedly, deferentially, served. With Father Devlin now gone, she guards her history, an impulse he understands. Her former tenure in this house lives on: those humdrum, codified years. No longer live-in, having been relieved of supper duty (sent home now at three), Mrs. Hanson nonetheless keeps the laundry a secret, the cooking a mystery. The disposal of trash resembles a multistage exercise worthy of a world war. She keeps the pantry in stern order, a barracks of soup cans and cereal boxes. Phone messages are recorded on coded index cards placed —this way, Father, not that way —into a converted recipe box. Her absence on Tuesdays and Saturdays turns him giddy and slightly panicked, as if he were a soldier absent without leave.
Buy some shoes, Maman! Mariette calls, installed officiously behind the coffee table. Lizzy grins, picking up his black Keds and thrusting them into Vivienne’s arms. She plays the salesman convincingly, he notes with relief.
That’s enough , he chides gently, embarrassed by his shoes. Not one of them resembles the glossy, clean-smelling moccasins that materialize from Vivienne’s hands every week. Maman is here on a spiritual matter.
Vivienne frowns. Surely I have time to buy one shoe. Sheproduces two quarters—from where? his smelly shoes? how does she manage always to produce exactly what they need?—and drops them into the girls’ pink palms. Vivienne puts the shoes back, pretending to eye the remaining merchandise, then examines things that are not for sale: his sister’s glass bookcase, the uncomfortable rocking chair, the plain white curtains, the three cats. Not for sale! Not for sale! the girls holler, pushy and self-important, which makes him laugh.
I was looking to buy a badger , he says, joining in. Do you sell badgers?
No, Father Mike! We sell
Similar Books
