Margaret clenched her jaw and looked down. Then she continued in a confidential tone. “There’s a family story about that. Have you ever heard it?”
I held out my arms. “Who would have told me?”
Margaret shrugged. “Dad, maybe. In an indiscreet moment.”
“No. I haven’t heard it. What happened?”
Margaret pulled over a chair and sat. “This is Mom’s version. She calls it ‘the short version.’ It seems that Nana used to tell a long story about meeting an angel, but Grandfather made her stop because he thought it sounded crazy.”
I looked up at the photo of Martin Mehan. “And we can’t have that.”
“Oh no. That might jeopardize his status as a prominent Catholic layman.”
“So what did Nana say?”
Margaret stole a glance at the doorway to ensure that we were alone. “This happened the night Mom was born. Nana was rushed to the emergency room, fearful of losing the baby.”
“The baby? Meaning Mom? Meaning we wouldn’t be here now?”
“Correct. Nana’s heart actually stopped beating during the delivery. The doctors managed to save the baby—Mom—but they concluded that they couldn’t save Nana. After doing the crash cart thing and the chest-pounding, she was officially pronounced dead. They covered her with a white sheet and everything.”
I felt a sudden chill that made my head and shoulders shake.
Margaret went on, “Nana said that she remembered, clearly, floating up and away into an ether.”
“A what?”
“Like a white cloud. Then she found herself in the presence of an angel.” Margaret paused for effect. “According to Nana, she had the nerve to speak to the angel, although no sound came from her lips. She said, ‘Wait a minute. I was promised by the church that if I went to mass and communion on the first Friday of the month for nine consecutive months that a priest would be there to give me the last rites at my death, guaranteed. Well, I made my nine First Fridays, but I saw no priest before my death.’ The angel made no sound, either, but obviously agreed with her. She immediately found herself floating through the ether again, and then she came back to life on that table. She threw off the white sheet, causing one doctor to shout out an expletive and another to fall on his knees in prayer.”
I sat with my mouth open. I finally managed to say, “But she only asked me about the nine First Fridays. Why wouldn’t she tell me the rest of the story?”
Margaret shrugged. “Maybe Grandfather Mehan still has a hold on her. Who knows?”
“Or,” I suggested, “maybe she was going to, and Aunt Elizabeth cut her off.”
“Aunt Elizabeth?”
“Yeah. She got on the line and started yelling at Nana about calling people in the middle of the night.”
“That’s not bad advice, I suppose.” Margaret looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late.” She reached over, touched my hand once, and pulled it away. “I meant what I said about talking to someone. Someone other than Nana.”
I nodded noncommittally.
“Mom asked me to ask you to read a book.”
“Okay.”
“And to go to the store.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”
I stayed in the computer room, thinking about Nana’s frail voice and Margaret’s death story. At about nine, I heard a ding on my instant message board. It was Pinak. He was on with Manetti, so I joined them:
JMARTINC: What’s up?
PINAKC: Please help us to discuss something other than girls.
MANETTITHEMAN: What do you have against girls?
PINAKC: I have nothing against girls. I like girls. I don’t want to discuss girls and nothing but girls, that is all.
MANETTITHEMAN: Homo.
PINAKC: Stop that. Help me, Martin.
JMARTINC: The girls at All Souls are all like my sister. They’re not interested in anything but grades. That’s why they’re there.
MANETTITHEMAN: Your sister is hot.
JMARTINC: What?
MANETTITHEMAN: Is she dating anyone?
PINAKC: Can you not control your libido for one minute?
MANETTITHEMAN: What’s that?
PINAKC: Your raging and lustful hormones.
MANETTITHEMAN: Sure. You got it. One minute.
PINAKC: Thank you. Martin, have you emerged from your basement recently?
JMARTINC: No. But I have to go to the supermarket today. The sunlight is painful to my eyes. I’ve gotten to be like a mole down here.
PINAKC: Why don’t you move to a sunnier part of the house?
JMARTINC: I belong down here. This is the place of shame. Historically. It was built for my uncle Bob as a place of shame.
PINAKC: You sound depressed.
JMARTINC: Is everybody my psychiatrist today?
PINAKC: My father is a psychiatrist.
JMARTINC: I know. But you’re not.
MANETTITHEMAN: Okay, I’m back. Why did your uncle have to live in the basement?
JMARTINC: We couldn’t trust him to live upstairs anymore. He was a manic-depressive.
PINAKC: I am not sure you’re qualified to make that assessment.
MANETTITHEMAN: Shut up, Pinak.
PINAKC: You shut up.
JMARTINC: Do you guys want to hear this or not?
MANETTITHEMAN: Yeah. Shut up, Pinak.
JMARTINC: Uncle Bob is my dad’s brother. He lives in Newark now, and he works at the airport.
MANETTITHEMAN: Is he a pilot?
JMARTINC: No. He’s a baggage handler.
PINAKC: Shut up, Manetti.
MANETTITHEMAN: You shut up.
JMARTINC: But about seven years ago, he lived with us. He was really depressed—on medications, under a psychiatrist’s care, the whole thing. My dad was trying to help him get back on his feet. He moved into my bedroom, and I had to double up with Margaret. I don’t remember too much else about him until this one day, around Halloween. We were all out front raking leaves. My uncle took a bunch of pills, jumped out of his bedroom window, and landed headfirst on the ground.
MANETTITHEMAN: Wow. Was he dead?
JMARTINC: No. Not even close. Just a broken collarbone. The doctor said he was so heavily medicated that his body became totally relaxed, too relaxed for anything else to break.
MANETTITHEMAN: Awesome.
PINAKC: That is terrible. Was he hospitalized?
JMARTINC: No. But he was basement-ized. My parents had walls put up in the basement to make a bedroom for him. Uncle Bob stayed until his collarbone healed, but then he left. He’s up in Newark now. My dad’s up there with him. Before that, my dad lived in the basement, too. Until he passed out one night and nearly set it on fire.
I didn’t usually write personal family stuff like that, and I regretted it immediately. A long pause followed. Even Manetti drew the line at making fun of my dad. I finally typed in “Gotta go,” and the session mercifully ended.
Later, I did my duty and walked up to the Acme supermarket. It was about three blocks from our house. The sun really did hurt my eyes. The traffic sounds hurt my ears. The smells in the store hurt my nose. Everything seemed gross and exaggerated to me. Maybe Margaret was right; maybe I was depressed. It was a good thing I lived down in the basement.
The day ended much the way that it began. I went to sleep right after sundown. The phone rang and I answered it, half-awake, half-asleep. It was from the same phone number as before, but a different voice came through the line. “Martin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Aunt Elizabeth, Martin. Is your mother there?”
“Yeah. I think so.” I waited a moment; then heard the sound of the phone being picked up.
“Hello.”
“Mary? It’s Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth? Oh no. Is there something wrong?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to say there is. Mother is gone.”
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“She die
d in her sleep sometime this afternoon. I got a call at the hospital. The home health worker checked on her at four and found her dead. She said she looked very peaceful.”
“Oh my God.”
“It was for the best, though, Mary. She had slipped a lot this month. She had gotten so frail.”
“I know. I know she had. It’s just . . . so hard to believe.”
“It is. But believe me, she is gone.” Aunt Elizabeth then added, assuming I would have no idea what she meant, “This time, she is really gone.”
A TRAIN INTO THE PAST
Nana’s death touched me deeply, though I wouldn’t let anyone know it. I had always felt a mystical connection with her, and I had always sensed that Mom and Aunt Elizabeth disapproved of that connection. The long-term effects of Nana’s death would remain hidden from me for a time, but the short-term effect was clear and immediate. I would have to leave my basement hideout to travel to her funeral with Mom, Margaret, and Dad.
But first we drove out to the eight a.m. Sunday mass at the All Souls Chapel. Mom fussed at Margaret and me all the way there about what clothes to pack for our trip to Brookline. She was concerned that if we looked shabby in front of Aunt Elizabeth, she’d think that Mom was a secretary, which she was, and that we lived in poverty, which we did.
I was still half-awake, and half expecting to find out that Nana’s death was part of a dream. I didn’t come fully to my senses until we sat down in a pew in the Chapel and I saw, to my shock, that Hank Lowery and his family were directly in front of us. I doubt he saw me. The few glances I stole in his direction found him always in the same position—slouching to the left, sound asleep, with his mouth open.
When the mass was over, I led Mom and Margaret out to the parking lot as fast as possible. Once we got inside the car, Margaret did point out, “That Lowery kid’s disgusting. A real slug. Can’t his parents make him close his mouth, at least?”
Mom shook her head disapprovingly.
I said, “It’s Lowery’s school. He can do whatever he wants.”
This roused Mom. “He cannot do whatever he wants, Martin. He has to follow the school rules like everybody else.”
“No. Actually, he can do whatever he wants.”
Margaret half turned toward the backseat. “What’s this about?”
“Mom hasn’t told you?”
“Apparently not.”
Mom explained, “There was an incident on the last day of school. It involved Martin and some other boys. They damaged the Heroes’ Walk in front of the library.”
“Really? Martin did that?”
Mom pulled out of the parking lot. “Father Thomas isn’t sure exactly what happened. He is still investigating.”
Margaret looked at me and raised one eyebrow. “Well, let me investigate, then. Martin, what happened?”
I looked out the window just as we passed the scene of the crime. A string of yellow “Caution” tape still blocked off the area. The entrance to the Lowery Library appeared to be finished, though. All the debris had been cleared away; the marble pedestals were set in place; I couldn’t see any chips missing from any of their corners. I finally answered, “I’m not sure. I’d better not say anything until Father Thomas is done checking with the Lowery family to find out what they say happened.”
Mom interjected, “Father Thomas has collected statements from everyone who was involved.”
“Right. I’m sure he’s reading mine very carefully.”
Mom slammed to a halt at the entrance and stared at me in the mirror. “We’re not going to do this now, Martin. We have had a death in the family, and we have a long trip ahead of us today.”
Mom then pulled out with as much acceleration as our little Civic could muster, indicating that the conversation was over. But Margaret looked at me knowingly. She had done her time at All Souls Prep, three years. She knew how things worked there.
Our house was so close to the Princeton Junction train station that we could have walked there, even with suitcases. Mom, however, would have found that far too embarrassing. Instead, we drove our car there and paid ten dollars a day to park in the lot.
My dad had never had a problem with walking. That’s how he got to work. He was a relief manager for a restaurant chain called National Steakhouses. Most National Steakhouses were located in airports, so it was a perfect setup for him. He would walk to the train station, ride north for thirty minutes to Newark, and then fly to any airport that had a National Steakhouse and a hotel. As a result, he had more frequent-flyer miles than he could use in a lifetime. He would arrive at some city and manage the National Steakhouse while the real manager went on vacation, then reverse the travel process and come home. No cars; no driving—which was a good thing because his license had been suspended and he had never renewed it.
Following our less-than-one-minute drive to the station, Mom cruised the parking lot for ten minutes trying to find a space. After we fed thirty dollars into the parking meter, we walked for another two minutes to the office and purchased our tickets. Then Mom and Margaret sat on the long wooden benches in the station while I stepped outside, leaned over the tracks, and looked south, hoping to see the train before anybody else.
I had always liked this part. In fact, I liked everything that was to follow. I had been making this trip for as long as I could remember. Mom and Dad, even when Dad had a driver’s license, always took us by train to see Nana and Grandfather Mehan. We got on the train here and rode up to Back Bay Station, Boston. Then we walked to the MBTA and took the Green Line trolley out to Brookline.
I felt a low rumble and spied the dim outline of a train approaching, so I hurried back to alert Mom and Margaret. The three of us rolled our suitcases down the platform and climbed aboard a car near the center of the long train. I lifted all three suitcases onto the overhead racks, and we settled into the red leather seats. Mom and Margaret sat in one row, while I flopped into the row in front of them.
I always sat on the right side and looked through the window. I never read or listened to music. Instead, I studied people during the few seconds that it took for the train to pass them by. In that time, I would learn all that I could about them. I would observe their lives briefly; then I would never see them again.
An elderly conductor dressed in dark blue with a brimmed cap entered the car. He collected our tickets, then smiled and touched his finger to his cap. He was what my nana would have called “a colored gentleman.” She’d have said that to his face, too, thinking it was a compliment to him. She was very old-fashioned that way. She lived in the past a lot, even when she appeared to be in the present.
After a few stops, I noticed that the taped station announcements were running late. A prerecorded voice would announce that we were about to pull into the station that we had just left. It didn’t bother me, but it caused Mom to make an angry comment every time it happened. She wasn’t really angry at the recording, though. She was really angry at Dad, and she grew angrier as we got closer to his station.
As planned, Dad was standing on the platform at the Newark Airport station. Mom pointed at the door and told me, “Lean out and wave to him, Martin. He’ll never see us.”
I did as I was told, actually stepping out of the car to let a stream of passengers in. I spotted Dad standing there in a black funeral suit, staring casually through the windows of the car behind us. I waited until his stare worked its way up to me. Then I waved.
Dad was a thin man with black, wavy hair and sad blue eyes. He smiled his unhappy smile at me. Then he picked up his suitcase and walked forward. “How are you, Martin?”
“Okay.”
“Are your mother and Margaret inside?”
“Yes.”
He indicated that I should go in first. He followed me into the center of the car, where he made the same polite greetings to Mom and Margaret. No hugs and kisses. No personal greetings. Not in this family.
An elderly woman had taken my seat, so I squeezed in next to Margaret and Mom.
Dad stood in the aisle for a moment with his suitcase, looking around. Then he walked to the front of our car and kept on walking, through the sliding doors and out of sight.
Mom spoke through clenched teeth. “He’s going to the lounge car. Great. He’ll be in great shape when we get to Boston.”
Neither Margaret nor I said a thing. We sat there with the assurance, shared by all children of alcoholics, that there was absolutely nothing to say. It had all been said before.
Margaret claims that she can remember many times when Dad was not drinking. I can only remember one. Four years before, we had taken part in a Mehan family reunion in Ireland. As it turned out, it was only a few months before my grandfather Mehan died.
Nana, Grandfather Mehan, and Aunt Elizabeth flew to Ireland out of Boston; Mom, Dad, Margaret, and I flew out of Newark two days later. Mom told her family that we had to wait for Dad to finish a vacation assignment, but the truth was that we couldn’t afford to go on their flight. We had to find a deal where we could use Dad’s frequent-flyer miles.
Eventually we met up with the others in a two-story thatched cottage in County Wexford. Mom and Dad had made an agreement: He would not take a drink for the five days of the family reunion, but when we returned, he would drink his fill.
As I remember it, we had a stiff but pleasant time. Nana seemed especially tuned in to the Irish mystical stuff—fairies and spirits and the like. She talked to me about those things during the trip, probably because no one else would listen. I remember Grandfather Mehan making comments to her in his thin, sarcastic voice, comments about “seeing little leprechauns.”
The grand plan was that we would do one major thing each day. We went to some old churches. We visited Mehans, who didn’t really know us but treated us as family. Everywhere we went, though, those Irish people offered my dad drinks. And every time they did, he refused.
However, after we flew back to the United States, and after we got off the train at Princeton Junction, he fulfilled the other side of his agreement with Mom. He never even went home with us. He walked straight to Pete’s Tavern, a bar between the train station and our house. He drank so much that he was not able to walk home. He slipped down, dead drunk, and he lay there with his legs on the curb and his head in the roadway. The next car driving past would have crushed his head.