******
Later that night, after Angie showered, Grace held the blow-dryer while her daughter combed out her thick, wheat-colored hair. “So what did you learn today?”
Angie lifted a tuft of hair in the back. Her mother waved the dryer over the wet strands, causing them to flutter and spread like a golden fan. “Woodworking resembles the Catholic Church with its endless, repetitive rituals.”
“Such as?”
Angie explained how each jewelry box required a set number of pieces all cut to exact specifications. The poem boxes, which were really quite simple, contained eight individual sections, but each had its own unique dimensions. Before any of the intricate joints or decorative elements could be added, the pieces had to be properly sized. “You know that industrial planer we saw up in the loft at the lumber yard?” Angie switched from the hairbrush to a wide-toothed comb and began untangling the bangs. “Carl has a similar tool but smaller.”
“How nice!” Grace was admiring the look of her daughter’s skin, the way the freshly washed hair caressed the bronze neck and fleshy shoulders. “What else did you talk about?”
Angie curled her lips and tossed her mother a questioning look. “Wood,... we talk about making things from wood.” Grace backed off one setting on the dryer and began working the front of her face. “To make an heirloom quality box requires humility—the humility to fail a dozen times and keep plugging away until the artisan’s flawed skills overtake his inner vision.”
“Carl said that?”
“He’s a little bit queer in the head like Mrs. Shapiro. They both talk in riddles.” Her daughter relieved Grace of the blow-dryer and directed the warm air over the side of her scalp, lifting the hair between her fingers to exposed the last few damp strands. “For an older guy he’s really in great shape. Probably good in bed, too.”
“Angie, for God’s sake!” Grace sputtered and fidgeted with her hands.
“Anybody who’s that passionate about woodworking -”
“I think your hair is sufficiently dry.” Her mother kissed her daughter’s cheek and hurried from the bathroom.
Back in her own room Grace couldn’t get the image of Carl Solomon out of her mind - the undisguised look of reverence that seeped from his hazel eyes when he ran a hand over a plank of mottled hickory up in the frigid lumber loft. When was the last time anyone had looked at her with that much honesty?
With Stewart, everything was about possessions, social status and image. When the marriage fell apart, they tried marriage counseling. What a joke! Stewart conveniently never bothered to show up half the time, and the psychologist branded her husband a phallic character disorder. Grace thought it rather crass and unprofessional for the man to share such damning details, but the counselor wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. Stewart only cared about himself. An incorrigible, phallic character disorder, the man driven by enlightened self-interest - what’s in it for numero uno!.
******
Every Saturday and two afternoons a week Grace dropped Angie off at Mrs. Shapiro’s house. If they were still busy in the basement when she returned to retrieve her daughter, Grace would sip a cup of Twinning’s tea and keep her company. By now she was used to her eccentricities, the way her thoughts floated off in a dozen unrelated directions. The perpetual streams of consciousness - it all made sense after a while, because there was always that gossamer thread that held the disparate ideas together.
“Are you religious?” Mrs. Shapiro asked. Grace noticed that the old woman’s hands trembled later in the day as her physical strength ebbed.
“No, not at all.”
“An atheist?”
“More like an agnostic,” Grace hedged her bets.
The old woman became strangely animated and wrenched her crippled body up straighter in the chair, “There’s a theory that Jesus Christ was a member of a secret organization, The Kat Yam Hamelech, the Dead Sea Sect. They broke with traditional orthodoxy, believing that Jewish religion had become too rigid with all its formal laws and ritual. Because elitist rabbis held all the power, there was nothing terribly democratic about religious life for the common Jew.”
“Like the Catholic Church in the Middle Ages.”
“Yes, a hundred times yes!” For the moment, her hands stopped shaking and her face took on a youthful, almost radiant glow. “The Dead Sea Sect believed that the brain was grossly overrated. The nefesh – human soul or whatever you chose to call it - could lead a person closer to God in a heartbeat than all the stultifying rituals in the Talmud or Shulchan Aruch.”
“You love someone and treat them kindly,” Mrs. Shapiro continued, “that is all the wisdom a person needs to live in harmony with the universe.”
“I thought you said you weren’t religious?” Grace challenged.
“And I’m not,” the woman tossed the words out defiantly. “I haven’t set foot in a synagogue in thirty years.”
In the basement the sawing and planning had died down altogether. Carl and Angie were sweeping sawdust and putting hand tools away. “There was a medieval rabbi who couldn’t find it in his heart to believe in a traditional God.” The tremors in her hand had returned and now extended through the forearm causing the delicate China cup to clatter in the saucer she was holding. “He scoffed at the notion of a Jewish deity with a flowing white beard shaking his patriarchal fist in divine wrath. Self-righteous malarkey—that’s what he called it.”
“A Doubting Thomas of the Jewish persuasion,” Grace said.
Mrs. Shapiro collected her thoughts before replying. “Refusing to worship God in the conventional manner, the heretic rabbi proclaimed, ‘the scent of a rose is proof enough for the existence of God!’”
“The scent of a rose,” Grace repeated softly. “How beautiful!” She was thinking beyond the medieval rabbi, remembering how Carl sliced the paper-thin membrane of tulipwood and the bittersweet fragrance wafted like a benediction through the back room in the lumberyard.
******
After her personal life fell apart, Grace turned away from religion altogether. Father Callahan, the priest where they attended as a family, was a staunch advocate of hellfire and brimstone. If he had lived in the fifteen hundreds, Grace was convinced the good father would have burned the books of Erasmus and Thomas Moore while, in his spare time, waging holy wars against the Huguenot infidels.
According to Father Callahan, original sin was endemic, a virulent plague for which there was no cure. Each Sunday the priest demanded parishioners acknowledge their sinfulness. His piercing eyes always sparkled with righteous indignation.
Indignation or hubris, stiff-necked spiritual pride?
If Father Callahan came out of the rectory one morning and found his Jeep Grand Cherokee up on cinder blocks, would he be so magnanimous and forgiving toward a Dwight Goober? And then there was Stewart. Because of his marital indiscretions, Grace was compelled to kneel alone patiently in the pew while the ‘faithful’ received Holy Communion.
One Sunday during a particularly prickly homily, Grace leaned over and whisper in her daughter’s ear, “Phony baloney!” It didn’t seem right to attend church regularly and harbor such vile feelings toward the church, so the following Sunday morning Grace told her daughter, “Get dressed. We’re going to Adam’s Diner for breakfast.”
“What about Mass?”
“Church is for God-fearing Christians and true believers.”
“And what are we?”
Grace thought a moment. “What we are right now is hungry. Let’s get something to eat. Unless, of course, you’d rather check out the Episcopalians.”
Angie’s face dissolved in a toothy grin. “Let’s eat!”
******
The first Tuesday in December, Principal Skinner cornered Grace between classes. “Test scores are in the toilet. I’m soliciting suggestions.” Earlier in the day, Grace had noticed Ed Gray sitting in the principal’s office. Neither man was smiling. An ugly rumor was filtering through the
school; if trends continued on their downward spiral, the state could withhold the district’s education funds or, worse case scenario, put the entire program into receivership.
Many of the English faculty were afraid of Principal Skinner. A large-boned hulking figure, he swilled Maalox as though it was a soft drink and kept a roll of antacids, unashamedly in full view on the top of his executive desk. “What does Ed suggest?” Grace asked.
“He’s pushing for a full revamping of the curriculum to shadow last year’s MCAS.”
“Teach to the test.” The principal nodded politely and waited for her response.
“It won’t work.”
“No?”
“They’re eighth graders and their hormones are out of control.” She spoke impulsively without bothering to edit her remarks. “The children are already overwhelmed by the increased workload.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” Grace shrugged. Principal Skinner rubbed his chin and a disgruntled noise welled up in his throat. “Well, at least you didn’t try to humor me.”
“And you didn’t shoot the proverbial messenger.”
"Sordid business earlier today," he said changing the subject.
“Sordid and unsavory,” she wasn’t quite sure if she should smile or assume a more serious expression, “but I think you handled it well.”
Around ten o’clock shortly after first period, the librarian, Miss Curson, caught Benny Finnegan thumbing through a glossy magazine, Slatternly Sluts and Brazen Bimbos. The boy with the floppy ears and goofy, Alfred E Newman smile was hunkered down at a table near the reference desk ogling the centerfold, when Miss Curson sidled up behind him. The librarian dragged Benny straight to the office where, after reviewing its content, Pam Sullivan slipped the girlie magazine in a manila envelope. "Benny Finnegan is here to see you,” she said delivering the envelope to Principal Skinner.
The secretary went back to where Benny was sitting. “What exactly is a slatternly slut?” Pam asked with a menacing edge to her voice. “Enlighten me.”
“I dunno,” Benny whined. In a daze, he seemed unable to properly collect his thoughts. “It’s just some stupid stuff. I dunno nothin’ at all.”
“Bimbo,” Miss Curson accentuated the first letter of the word with an explosive burst of air. “Can you even spell the word?”
The boy muttered something unintelligible, crooked his head to one side and began biting distractedly at a fingernail. “Speak up!” Miss Curson shouted.
“I only memorize the words on Mrs. Paulson’s vocabulary list. Bimbo ain’t on the list.”
The two woman eyed each other in disbelief. “No, I shouldn’t think so,” Pam said frigidly. Her brow furrowed and she leered at him suspiciously. “Something funny?” The boy shook his head violently. “Then why are you smiling?”
“When I’m scared,” Benny spoke haltingly, “I smile a lot. It’s a nervous habit.”
“Well,” Miss Curson noted, “judging by the look on Principal Skinner’s face when he opened the envelope, your cheek muscles are going to get a real good workout today.” Hearing this, the boy, who was snuffling and wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand, began to wail despondently.
He was still sobbing when Grace was summoned to join Principal Skinner for the formal inquisition. Pacing back and forth in front of Benny, Principal Skinner had the look of a man on the edge. At six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds, even some male staff were intimidated by the hulking bear of a man. "This is how you reward Mrs. Paulson, a woman who dedicated her entire life to educating young minds?"
Benny Finnegan continued to make unintelligible snuffling sounds. "Where did you get this filth?" the principal demanded.
"Under my father's bed."
"Which is where it should have stayed," Grace noted dourly.
"You tell my old man I took his magazine, he'll kill me," Benny moaned and bent double with his fists balled up under his soggy eyes.
Now that the initial shock had worn off, Grace was beginning to collect her thoughts. Benny Finnegan was a C student at best. A goofy, lovable dope. But in his defense, he seldom caused trouble, and his father was as much to blame for leaving the dirty magazine lying about. In all likelihood, Mr. Finnegan would whack his son a half dozen times when he found out what happened. Then he’s take a short drive to Parker Street in the city’s south end where, in a back room off the shabby Convenient Mart, he would purchase the latest, December edition of Slatternly Sluts and Brazen Bimbos.
Principal Skinner continued to pace about the office for another minute or so waving the manila envelope fitfully in the air. He didn't seem particularly angry anymore but the boy was too upset to notice the difference. "Normally I'd call your parents for an indiscretion this reckless, but I'm going to give you a break. Just this once and against my better judgment."
He momentarily left the room. When the man returned he was lugging a small paper shredder, which he set up in the far corner. "You will sit here," he pointed to a chair next to the shredder, "and remove all staples from the inside binding. Then you can feed your father's girly magazine into the shredder, one perverted page at a time."
"What do I tell my dad," Benny Finnegan’s voice was cracking, "when he asks what happened to his favorite magazine?"
"Great question," Principal Skinner patted Benny playfully on the head, "and I'm sure between now and when you get home this afternoon, you'll figure out an equally clever answer."
Grace left the room and went back to class. Twenty minutes later, Benny Finnegan shuffled into the room wearing a haggard, beaten dog expression. The other children eyed him uncertainly but soon lost interest. Ten minutes later when the bell rang, Benny bolted for the door, but Grace pulled him up short. She waited for the other children to empty out of the classroom. "Tough morning, huh?"
Benny kept his eyes lowered waiting for permission to slip away. "You did something pretty dumb today, but that doesn't mean you're stupid." There was no response. His face frozen in a sour knot, the boy was going catatonic on her. "How's your sister?" she asked, changing the subject altogether.
Benny raised his head. "Which one?" There were four Finnegan sisters in all.
"The bow-legged girl." It was, admittedly, a peculiar moniker to hang on someone, but the Finnegan's were a queer lot. The mother, a stout woman who suffered from chronic roseola, dominated her husband, who was a hair taller than a dwarf with a receding chin. When they came to the parent-teacher conference in October, the couple reminded Grace of the culturally challenged hillbillies in the movie Deliverance.
"Nadine. She's okay now, I guess."
Grace remembered a painfully thin girl in hand-me-down clothes. Where Benny was awash in freckles, Nadine's complexion was pale and flawless. She was a stick-thin beauty with jet black hair which she seldom bothered to comb, translucent, pearly skin and buttery almond eyes. The ungainly limbs were ridiculously long for the emaciated body and her pebbly teeth, which looked like they belonged in a toddler’s mouth, were separated by neat little spaces. The legs, like spring saplings, bowed perversely. Nadine Finnegan was damaged goods.
"Tell Nadine Mrs. Paulson was asking for her." Grace removed a small envelope from the desk drawer and handed it to Benny. "I wrote a short note to your parents, explaining what happened today. I told them that you were properly disciplined by Principal Skinner and terribly sorry for the foolishness." She peered at him intently. "You are sorry, aren't you?"
The boy grunted sheepishly and averted his eyes. "I suggested that your father find a more suitable place to store his adult reading material and not punish you anymore. What's done is done."
Benny Finnegan swallowed hard and his Adam's apple did a fleeting little jig bobbing up and down. "Gees, Mrs. Paulson, you're a peach." The boy mumbled something else under his breath but the words were unintelligible.
"Excuse me?"
"Mrs. Sullivan ain't half as nice as you," Benny growled. "She's just a plain old nast
y bitch on a stick."
Grace smiled. Yes, Pam Sullivan, the office manager, is a sadistic, castrating bitch, who would spend the rest of the school year regaling the teaching staff with her personal account of Benny Finnegan's fall from grace.
“Bitch on a stick.” Grace turned the phrase over on her tongue, savoring the colorful imagery.
******
The geeky young man at Home Depot who helped Grace with the light switch was named Reginald Worthington. Grace reached Reginald at the number on his business card. “I want to wallpaper my living room.”
“No problem. Come by the store before closing and I’ll get you situated. How’d you make out with the light switch?”
“After I remembered to shut the electricity off at the junction box, it was a piece of cake.”
Grace spent twenty-nine dollars and thirty-five cents. She bought a wide brush for smoothing out the wet paper, a utility knife with a set of snap-off blades, a seam roller, scoring tool and five-gallon pail of wall primer. Reginald discouraged Grace from purchasing the plastic water tray. “Just roll the sheets inside out and soak them in your bathtub.”
******
“Where’s the repeat?” Grace held the roll of flowered wallpaper up alongside a fresh cut piece. Angie slid the two sheets back and forth until the patterns meshed.
“That looks about right.” Two halves of a leaf fit snugly together. She penciled a mark on the paper and laid an aluminum square across the sheet. Her mother gave her a questioning look.
“I square up lumber with Carl. It’s the same process.” Angie cut the top then measured down six and a half feet and trimmed the bottom away from the roll. “Moment of truth.”
They let the paper soak in the bathtub for half a minute then checked for dry spots. Grace climbed up on the step ladder, easing the damp paper up against the wall along a vertical line they had drawn earlier using a plumb bob. She ran the bristle brush straight down the middle of the first sheet then, in a sweeping motion, flattened the paper against the wall brushing from the center toward either side. Angie crimped the bottom around the baseboard and trimmed the excess away with the utility knife.