She rose from her spare wooden chair and got her father into the dark house.
“Daddy!” Lily swung wildly down the stairs, barefoot in her nightgown, and wrapped herself around him, “Daddy, my daddy.”
Such a baby still — Mercedes tried to think it fondly.
James patted Lily’s head more awkwardly than usual.
“You hurt your hands,” Lily cried, holding them in hers and feeling: his left one curled defenceless with its serrated knuckles, his right one strong but scabbed over at the palm.
“I’ll make some tea,” said Mercedes, gaining an inch in height en route from the front hall to the kitchen stove, shivering slightly at the unaccustomed breeze passing through the new spaces in her spine.
James swayed a little with just Lily to hold him, it was time for him to fall again but she didn’t let him.
“Watch out now!” Afraid he’d injure her.
“It’s all right, Daddy, put your hand on my shoulder.”
He resisted, preferring to teeter towards the wall, but she caught him round the middle and held him fast, guiding him to the living-room, trusting her strong right leg.
He found himself laid out for the second time in two days. Lily lifted his legs onto the couch and turned on the reading lamp. She saw at once the blow to him and her tears welled. She sat by his side and placed her cool hand on his injured face. He closed his eyes, too exhausted not to allow himself the relief of tears. They formed between his long blond lashes and rolled through the new hollows of his face.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Mercedes arrived in the archway of the front room with the tea tray and stopped in the pool of light cast by the reading lamp. She fell through a crack in time without spilling a drop. When she returned, the tea was still piping hot and Lily was exhaling the same warm breath across James’s chest where her head lay sleeping. James was stretched out on his back, asleep or comatose, and Lily had laid herself like a cool leaf alongside him, her right hand closed beneath his chin like a night-time flower.
James slept for most of the following week. When awake, he would eat a little of whatever Lily brought him, then listen while she read aloud. Fairy-tales and Freud, until he was well enough to realize that he had lost interest in his old favourites and preferred to have her read the Halifax Chronicle cover to cover. Things were getting interesting in Europe again.
By the time Frances got home from hospital, James was sitting up and whittling himself a cane.
Lily and Mercedes had their hands full with two convalescents but they thrived on it. And the patients themselves were angels — uncomplaining, appreciative, recovering. Mercedes could not remember a happier time, for even when Mumma was alive there had been a cloud, a constant threat of turbulence. But now all is calm. All is bright.
The only distressing thing about these halcyon days was James’s tendency to talk about Materia. It’s normal to speak affectionately of the dead. But because it had been delayed for fourteen years, Mercedes experienced it as something of a painful intrusion. She was grateful that he hadn’t yet mentioned Kathleen.
James carved the top of his cane into a dog’s head and went for a slow walk with Lily. He started a new project out in his work-shed. He picked up his shoemaker’s tools again for the first time in many years. The work goes slowly, he’s having to retrain himself around his bad left hand. And he won’t say what he’s making. The shed is off limits to everyone but Trixie. It’s to be a surprise.
All this and heaven too — until the day that Frances rises in the tub and Mercedes can no longer deny that her sister is still pregnant.
Sisters of Mercy
“The sisters will be ready when the time comes, Mercedes.”
“Thank you, Sister Saint Monica.”
Mercedes has conferred with Sister Saint Monica in the geography classroom at Holy Angels, beneath the colour print that still has pride of place over the blackboard. Saint Monica: patron of mothers. Scourge of African concubines.
“Have you discussed it with Frances?”
“Not yet, sister. I’m concerned she may refuse to part with the child.”
“In that case, it’s probably best not to discuss it with her.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“There are other ways.”
“Kinder ways.”
“Quite right.”
Wheels have been set in motion. Five months from now, Frances will lie in at the convent infirmary at Mabou. Then the infant will be relayed to an appropriate orphanage.
“That’s a lovely print, sister.”
“Thank you, Mercedes.”
It’s time Mercedes had a talk with Lily. Lily is thirteen. Mercedes had been going to delay the talk until the onset of menstruation but it looks as though Lily is going to be late starting — perhaps it’s another sign. Perhaps she’ll never bleed at all. That certainly would be an indication of God’s favour. In any case, what with Frances’s condition soon to be all too apparent, it’s high time.
“Lily. Do you know where babies come from?”
“They come from God.”
They’re in the kitchen making tea biscuits, arms powdered white to the elbows like ladies’ opera gloves.
Mercedes reddens. “That’s right. But God works through our flesh to create new life.” That’s rather good. Mercedes relaxes. This may not be so bad after all.
“I know that, Mercedes,” says Lily, looking decently down at the dough beneath her fists.
“How do you know?” snaps Mercedes.
“Frances told me.”
This is going to be difficult after all.
“What did she tell you, Lily?”
Lily blushes a little, very prettily too, and continues to knead the dough.
“Well?” Mercedes is waiting.
“It’s a private thing, isn’t it?” says Lily, and she glances sideways, biting her lip.
“Yes. It’s very private. It’s between two people and God.”
Lily says nothing.
“Lily, I’m not — I don’t — I’m not trying to make you feel ashamed or embarrassed, I just want to prepare you for certain … wonderful — things that will occur as you mature.” Lily’s hands have kept working but Mercedes has stopped and gone to the pump to hide her embarrassment.
Lily answers with natural delicacy, “It’s all right, Mercedes. I got my period for the first time last March and Frances told me what to do.”
So. What else is it not given me to know around here, wonders Mercedes, pumping vigorously. Lily steals a look at her older sister. Suddenly she is aware of having hurt Mercedes’ feelings. It hadn’t occurred to her that Mercedes might feel left out of such a thing. It had only occurred to her that Mercedes might prefer to be left out. Lily would apologize but feels that would only intensify her sister’s humiliation.
“Mercedes, is Frances really going to have a baby?”
“So she’s told you.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t certain it was true.”
“It’s true.” Mercedes rinses away all traces of flour and dough, then reaches for a cake of lye and asks, “Did Frances tell you how she came to be with child?”
“Yes.”
Lily is quite flushed by now, not with guilty knowledge but with the delicate mortification of one whom it pains to trespass on the privacy of another.
Mercedes scrapes a bristle brush over the moistened lye and scrubs her way from fingernails to elbows.
“Well? What did she tell you, Lily?”
Lily works the dough reverently, shaping it with care.
“She told me that she became pregnant after the night she passed with Mr Taylor in the mine —”
Mercedes’ hands are sterile.
Lily continues with dignity, “But that she miscarried as a result of the shooting.”
Mercedes turns off the pump with her wrist and holds her hands up, allowing them to drip-dry towards the elbows. She asks, “Then how does Frances explain her pres
ent condition?”
Lily answers, “The bullet.” And goes on moulding the dough.
Mercedes contaminates her hands with a clean tea towel, drying, drying, drying them. “She told you that in order to avoid telling you the truth, Lily.”
“No. She believes it.”
Mercedes pauses. Folds the towel. “Well that’s not how women get pregnant.”
“I know, Mercedes.”
Mercedes has lost patience. “Well will you tell me then what in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ on the Cross it is you altogether do know of the factual acts of life!”
Facts, Lily thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, she removes her apron and leaves the kitchen saying, “Excuse me.”
Mercedes is flummoxed. That girl is a cipher. Saint or no saint, why can’t anyone in this house ever just have a straightforward conversation?
Then she sees the sculpture:
Modest penis and vagina in coital embrace, already beginning to sag owing to the dough being overworked.
“Frances, why did you tell Lily that story about the bullet?”
“Because it’s true.”
This is the last thing Mercedes expected to hear. She was ready for an obscene joke or another lie, not this. What Frances is this? The same strange one who rose from the tub the other day.
“Do you really believe that, Frances?”
Frances is bundled supine on a camp cot on the front porch watching the afternoon street go by. Trixie is chasing moths in the yard. Frances does another un-Frances thing. She reaches out and takes Mercedes’ hand. Frances’s hand is warm. She smiles.
“I’m happy, Mercedes. I’m happy.”
Frances’s smile is true. It contains the memory of all her other smiles, the false grins of a lifetime, nothing has been banished from her face — but something immeasurable has been added.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Mercedes.”
Mercedes squeezes Frances’s hand and tucks the blanket up around her.
“Don’t worry, Mercedes, I’m not crazy.”
“I’m not worried.” Frances will always need me.
“Don’t be sad, Mercedes.”
“I’m happy, dear.” And Mercedes smiles through tears as she smooths back the curls from her sister’s brow.
“Mercedes.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Don’t be upset about Lily. She was too shy to say the words so she made a sculpture.”
“You’re right,” says Mercedes, serene, rising to leave, “Lily’s a complete innocent.”
“Either that or she’s possessed by the Devil.”
Mercedes turns sharply.
“Just kidding, Mercedes.”
And the white stripe appears across Frances’s nose, momentarily ruffling Mercedes’ best-laid plans.
“When can you start, Mercedes?”
“I can start today, Sister Saint Eustace.”
Mercedes savours the wood-polish smell of the principal’s office at Mount Carmel High School. The well-worn books ranged upon the shelves, Jesus on His varnished cross, broad oak desk with immaculate inkwell and pen, crisp memos scrolled into pigeon-holes. This is the type of office Mercedes would like some day. Someday I will cut off all my hair and enter the convent. I will teach. Or perhaps I will join a contemplative order.
Mercedes nips this fantasy in the bud, for it strikes her that her whole family would have to be dead or married before she herself could become the bride of Christ. And since marriage is extremely unlikely for any of them, her dream is tantamount to wishing them all dead. Or no. Frances could come with me as an invalid. Couldn’t she?
“How is Frances?”
“Oh she’s grand, Sister Saint Eustace, hale and —”
“Is she going to keep the child?”
Mercedes is flustered at the frankness of the question, even though she does not delude herself that the whole of Cape Breton Island is not fully apprised of the latest Piper scandal.
“Well I think — I should say quite possibly Frances may decide to put it up for adoption.”
“Really.”
Mercedes feels suddenly hot beneath the glare of Sister Saint Eustace’s spectacles. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Sister continues, “God works in mysterious ways. Frances might finally come into her own. Raising a child.”
“Oh quite possibly, sister, without a doubt.”
Mercedes smiles and knows she is lying but is uncertain how to frame it as a confession of sin this Sunday, for is it one? Yes. And no. My head hurts.
“Shall I proceed to the grade ones, sister?”
“Yes.”
Mercedes rises. “Thank you, Sister Saint Eustace.”
But Sister Saint Eustace has returned to her paperwork.
James is enjoying his retirement. The wingback chair is surrounded by a growing turret of books. This is his other project, along with the secret one in the shed. He has opened the last of the crates and emptied the shelves of all the books he never had time to read. First he counted them all: a hundred and three. Then he began stacking them in the order in which he intends to read them, the last ones forming the foundation. It is a slow ruminative process. He knows what he intends to read first, however, and has set it aside accordingly for the pinnacle of his wall: Dante’s Paradiso. Having gone through Inferno years ago, he has decided to cheat and skip over Purgatorio, eager for the beatific vision and the reunion with Beatrice.
He rests now from his labours, in his chair behind his partially constructed parapet of words, and allows his mind to drift in place. His capable eldest daughter making things go. His wild middle daughter settling down to raise her coloured child — oh yes, he hasn’t forgotten that. He has simply forgotten how such a thing was ever able to call murder into his heart; the birth of an innocent child. And Lily. My consolation.
He is startled from his reverie by the distant boom of a cannon. Lily is standing beside his chair combing his hair, “It’s okay Daddy —”
“Wha —?”
“It’s eleven o’clock.” But James is still bewildered. “In the morning.” Lily gathers up a lock of his hair and begins to braid it, explaining gently, “It’s Remembrance Day.”
“Oh.”
They observe two minutes’ silence together, then James calls in his voice that has faded to straw, “Frances.”
Frances and Trixie enter slowly. “Yes Daddy?”
“Play something, my dear.”
“What would you like me to play?”
“Any old thing.”
She starts, “‘Swing low, sweet chariot, comin for to carry me home —’”
“That’s lovely.”
“‘Swi-ing low, sweet cha-ario-ot, com-in for to carry me home…. ’”
At four-thirty, Mercedes arrives home from her first day as a schoolteacher to witness the latest phenomenon: Frances playing “The Maple Leaf Rag” while Daddy dozes in his chair, his head sprouting a mass of tiny braids. Frances breaks off from playing and leaves; “I’ll get supper, Mercedes.”
Mercedes has no objection. Frances has recently revealed a natural talent in the kitchen. She cooks and cooks. Roasts and curries, stews and casseroles. It’s mystifying. Frances is like one of those strange persons who awake one morning and play the complete works of Bach with never a lesson.
“Daddy,” says Mercedes. He uncrinkles his eyes and blinks in several directions before focusing on her. She’s standing over him with a brown paper package. “This came for you.” She deposits it in his lap and leaves.
James looks at the postmark. New York City. The address is written in a spidery hand — old-ladyish. He notes with relief that it is not the same hand that formed the infamous letter of years ago. Who could it be, then? It takes him a while to undo the strings.
Inside is a lavender note folded on top of a bundle wrapped in white tissue-paper.
Supper.
Mercedes takes her seat at the head of the table. Lily places a platter
of kibbeh nayeh in the centre, followed by a bowl of tabooleh, a brimming casserole of stuffed koosa and a pot of bezella and roz. Mercedes unfolds her napkin and wonders where Frances learned to cook — or not cook, as the case may be — their mother’s food. The kibbeh looks just like Mumma’s except that in the centre there is the impression not of a cross, but of a jack-o’-lantern grin —
“Frances.”
“Yes, Mercedes?”
“Oh, never mind.”
James’s slow foot is heard in the hall together with the syncopated clunk of his cane. He makes his way into the kitchen and over to his chair at the end of the table opposite Mercedes. Mercedes catches Frances’s eye but Frances doesn’t register anything unusual, oh for Pete’s sake — “Daddy,” says Mercedes.
“What’s that?”
“… Nothing.”
Fine. Let him eat with his hair in braids. Whom does it injure? Better than provoking a scene at table. As in the bad old days.
They say grace. James does not express surprise at the Lebanese feast spread out before him. He presses his portion of kibbeh flat with his fork, drizzles it with olive oil, tears off a bite-size piece of flat bread, wraps a bite of kibbeh in it and eats. Modestly, the way he always has, even when he worked in the pit, aware of how intimate an act eating is.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Frances,” he says. “It’s every bit as good as your mother’s.”
Mercedes knows she ought to be glad but this strange new peace between Daddy and Frances unnerves her.
“Thank you, Daddy,” Frances replies, pulling up her chair, “I learnt by watching.”
“Then you’ve got a photographic memory. That’s a sign of genius.”
Mercedes’ eyebrows approach the ceiling — let’s just say it’s been a day full of surprises. She picks up her fork and gingerly tastes the kibbeh. It is more than delicious. It’s as though Mumma were here. Mercedes closes her eyes for a moment in reminiscence of a precious time she knows could not have been: when Mumma was alive and we were all so happy. When was that time, where was that country? Rain begins to drizzle against the kitchen window, Frances lifts the lid from the steaming pot of bezzella and roz and Mercedes remembers: it was during the War. In the kitchen with Mumma and the Old Country. So happy. Mercedes opens her eyes again.