Household Saints (23 page)

Theresa got worse.

Two weeks later, she arrived very early on a rainy morning. When Leonard left for school at eight, Theresa had just set up the ironing board in his room and was starting to press a red and white checked shirt.

At four, he came home to find her ironing the same shirt.

“You were ironing that shirt when I left,” he said.

“No,” said Theresa. “It’s not the same one.”

“Theresa, I only have one red and white checked shirt.”

“You did this morning. But now you have thousands.”

As she gazed up at him, Leonard saw that her face was shining—or perhaps merely flushed from all those hours over the ironing board.

“How’s that?” he said.

“Look.” Theresa opened Leonard’s closet and, with a sweeping gesture, indicated his clothes—neatly creased chinos, a dozen white, off-white, and pale blue shirts. “Thousands of red and white checked shirts. Aren’t they lovely?” Theresa turned back to him and sighed.

“Oh, Leonard. This is how it must have looked—the loaves and fishes! The wine for the wedding at Cana!”

Leonard took the iron out of her hand and rested it, point up, on the metal plate.

“Sit down,” he said.

He went into the kitchen and dialed Theresa’s home number. A woman answered.

“Mrs. Santangelo?” For the first time, Leonard wished that he had met Theresa’s family. “This is Leonard Villanova.”

“Leonard,” said the woman, as if she knew him, and suddenly Leonard was afraid that the mother might be as crazy as the daughter.

“I’m a friend of Theresa’s,” was all he could think of to say. And then, for lack of anything else, added, “She’s been up here alone all day. She’s been ironing the same shirt since eight o’clock this morning.”

Somehow he spelled out his address and hung up. When he went in to check on Theresa, she was perched on the bed, staring rapturously at the open closet. She turned toward him, and though there was no extension in the bedroom, Leonard had the distinct impression that she’d overheard every word.

“Leonard,” she said. “You were wrong. I wasn’t alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” she repeated. “Jesus was with me all day.”

“Up here?” Leonard tapped the side of his head.

“Sure, here.” Theresa tapped her own head. “But also h
ere
.” She pointed at the floor. “As real as you’re standing there now.”

“Jesus? In my room?”

“Not three feet from this ironing board. He got here the minute you left.”

“Oh,” said Leonard.

“You know, my whole life, I used to wonder: What would I do if I really had a vision. How would I act if I actually saw God’s face? Would I fall on the floor and start foaming at the mouth like Saint Paul? It could happen anywhere, I used to think. What if you were on the subway and started bleeding from your ankles and wrists? If Jesus came, would you have the sense to look around for a soft place to fall?”

“That’s what you’ve been worrying about. All your life?”

Theresa nodded.

“Once I saw a boy have an epileptic fit in Washington Square Park. Before anybody knew what was happening, his guitar crashed to the pavement, and the boy fell on top of it. And I thought: That’s how it would look if Jesus came to you in Washington Square. You’d sink like a stone, with fifty people watching you sit on your own guitar.

“But this morning, when Jesus walked into the room … I wasn’t thinking about it. Of course I had Him in mind somewhere, just like I always try to keep Him in mind when I’m doing something around the house. But you know how it is. You get to ironing, you’re trying to make a collar lay flat … You’re not expecting to see Jesus.

“I didn’t even see Him walk in. I was turning the shirt around so I could get under the buttons, I glance up … And there He was. I jumped. I’d have jumped to see anyone there. The first thing I noticed was His eyes—big, dark, calm. You wouldn’t believe that anyone would look at you so steady. He was smiling.

“‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ He said.

“I couldn’t look at Him. I looked down at the ironing board. So this is what it’s like, I thought. You don’t faint dead away, leaving Jesus to make sure that the shirt doesn’t burn. You don’t have to worry about stigmata dripping blood on Leonard’s carpet. You just feel shy, a little embarrassed. You try to get on with your ironing, but you can’t.

“I made myself look up. He had long curly brown hair and a beard, like in His pictures. To tell the truth, I would have thought it was some hippie wandered in off the street if it hadn’t been for that halo around Him. Like Christmas lights strung around a house front. Like a make-up mirror. He was wearing a filthy white robe—a rag, really, a rag with armholes and a neck—ripped, greasy, streaked with mud. He wasn’t particularly tall—not nearly so tall as you, Leonard. But He carried Himself like a king.

“‘Go ahead,’ He said. He was still smiling and pointing at your shirt. ‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

“‘Then why did you come?’ I said. I thought: What kind of way is that to talk to Jesus? But somehow I didn’t hesitate to say exactly what was on my mind.

“‘I came to keep you company,’ He said.

“‘Thanks,’ I said. I mean, no one ever offered to keep me company before. Not that … I never needed …”

“Forget it,” said Leonard. “Go on.”

“I started back on the buttons. My hands were shaking so bad, the only thing that saved me was that I’d done it so many times, it was automatic. I could do it with Jesus right there. When I was done, I hung it on a hanger and held it up for Him to see.

“I don’t know what I expected Him to say. Since when do you ask Jesus to admire your ironing? But what He said was, ‘Thank you.’

“‘For what?’ I said.

“‘For grooming one of my lambs.’”

“For grooming one of my lambs?” Leonard suppressed a giggle.

“That’s what He said.” Theresa was absolutely serious. “Then after a while He sighed, and I swear, the light around Him dimmed. I could see a shadow pass over His face, and I knew it was the shadow of the cross.

“‘If only there was someone to do as much for me,’ He said. I couldn’t imagine what He meant. He touched His robe.

“‘I was buried in this.’

“‘I thought they had your shroud at Turin,’ I said.

“‘How could it be?’ He said. ‘I’ve been wearing this without respite for two thousand years. Can you imagine what that’s like?’

“‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’ Then I thought a minute, and it didn’t make sense. ‘What about your crown? Your golden raiments?’

“‘That’s what I wear in the paintings,’ He said. ‘In the artists’ minds. But this is what I wear on God’s right hand.’

“‘But He’s your father. Why would He want you to dress like that?’ I should have realized: If He’d let His son die on the cross, anything was possible. But I wasn’t thinking.

“‘For the angels’ sake,’ Jesus said. ‘Just as men need to see me on the cross, to be reminded of my suffering for their salvation, so the angels need to see me in my shroud. It reminds them of the wear and tear of death, the strain of resurrection. It keeps them from getting sentimental for their lives on earth.’”

“I never thought of that,” said Leonard.

“Me neither,” said Theresa.

“I hung your shirt in the closet. Then with my back still turned to Jesus, I said, “‘Lord, let me do it. There’s plenty of time. I know Leonard wouldn’t mind. I could wash and iron it for you in two seconds flat. I’d take good care of it. And there’d be no problem…. Look, I’ll leave the room. You can put on one of Leonard’s robes.’

“He didn’t answer. I turned around to see if He would take me up on it.

“He was laughing. His face was so bright, it hurt my eyes to look.

“Then I noticed. There was another red and white checked shirt, exactly like the one I’d just finished. It was clean, freshly sprinkled—just waiting to be ironed.

“Leonard, the room was full of checked shirts—everywhere, covering every surface. It looked like a picnic, a circus, a red and white checked wedding tent….

“I’ve been ironing them all day, and Jesus has been here to keep me company.”

“Theresa,” said Leonard. “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“When your folks get here, tell them what you just told me.”

Theresa tried, but no matter how many times she retold her story—stopping to explain, adding details she’d forgotten to give Leonard—Joseph merely stared at her and Catherine said, “Theresa, honey, there’s only one checked shirt.”

“I only have one,” Leonard kept repeating.

“We heard you the first time,” said Joseph.

In the forty-five minutes which had elapsed since Leonard’s phone call, Joseph had taken charge. As soon as Catherine told him that Theresa was in some kind of trouble, he’d closed up the shop and bundled Catherine straight into a cab, which was waiting now, downstairs.

During that time, Leonard had prepared a full explanation, rich with jargon from his psychology texts.

“It appears to me like some sort of psychotic break. Hallucinations, visions, they’re often brought on by …”

“Right,” said Joseph. “The meter’s running. Let’s go.”

“I understand,” said Leonard.

“You don’t.” Theresa spoke up for the first time since finishing her story.

“I’ll get her stuff,” said Leonard.

It was awkward enough, retrieving Theresa’s coat from the bedroom closet. But what bothered Leonard more was that it was a schoolgirl’s coat—her St. Boniface coat, navy blue wool, princess style. Just holding it made Leonard feel like a child molester, and he blamed himself for having been so unobservant. Right from the start, that coat should have told him the whole story.

He held it in front of Theresa, who didn’t move. He stood there like a bullfighter without a bull, then handed it to Catherine, who stuffed Theresa’s arms into the sleeves.

“Christ,” said Joseph. “It’s like dressing a baby.”

“Help her,” said Catherine. Joseph put one hand under Theresa’s collar and steered her out of the room. In the hall, he passed Al and Vince without acknowledgment and didn’t stop moving till Theresa was wedged between him and Catherine in the back seat of the cab.

No one spoke. Even if they’d known where to begin, the cab driver’s presence would have inhibited them. How could they discuss family business in front of a stranger?

They drove past blocks of brownstones. Lights were going on in the windows, and Catherine saw families eating dinner and watching TV. She sought out the mothers in their kitchens, at their tables, relaxing in their favorite chairs. And she wondered: Did their daughters see Jesus and spend eight hours ironing one of their boyfriend’s shirts?

Turning onto Jay Street, they passed the municipal buildings. Most of the offices were dark. As they sped by, a few fluorescent-lit windows seemed to pop like flashbulbs. Catherine thought of all the stories she’d read in movie magazines, harrowing tales of breakdowns, straightjackets, snake pits. They never tell you about the other person, she thought—not the crazy one, but the one who takes care of things, cleans up, makes arrangements, the person who sits in the taxi and watches the lights go by.

They got caught in a traffic jam at the entrance to the bridge. Overhead lights illuminated the interior of the cab, and Joseph looked over at his family. Catherine was gazing out the window. Theresa was staring straight ahead, seeing God knows what in the headlights of the oncoming lane.

Just one car, he caught himself thinking, just one car jumping over the center divider could settle their problems for good. He crossed himself, looked around for some wood to knock on, and thought how little it takes to turn your life around. One minute, you’re sitting on four aces. Your wife’s upstairs cooking, your daughter’s off at college, you’re making good money in the shop. The next minute, you’ve got a handful of deuces and threes, and you’re stuck in a cab coming back from a Brooklyn apartment where your daughter’s been shacking up with her pimply boyfriend and losing her mind.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Theresa smiled.

Joseph swallowed. There was a bad taste in his mouth. His mother, rest in peace, had been right all along: How could his life taste more like that first awful meal?

As soon as the apartment door shut behind them, Catherine said, “Hungry?”

“No thanks.” Theresa went off to her room.

“Will she be okay in there?” asked Joseph. “I wouldn’t want Jesus telling her to fly out the window.”

“Jesus won’t tell her that,” said Catherine. “Want some coffee?”

The coffee, when it came, tasted watery and flat, but out of habit, Joseph said, “Hits the spot.” After a while he said, “How come you didn’t know what was going on? You’re her mother, she’s supposed to talk to you.”

Catherine thought of that page from
The Mother’s Medical Encyclopedia,
but all she said was, “She doesn’t talk to me. She’s a Falconetti that way. I assumed she was going to college. If it hadn’t been for what happened this afternoon, I’d think she was doing her homework right now.”

“Didn’t you ever find anything in her room? I mean, she had a boyfriend all this time. You didn’t know?”

“Oh, that. I knew. Joseph, she used to do his laundry. I’d find his socks and T-shirts in our wash. And I thought it was sweet. Because all those years, I’d prayed to find something like that—a boy’s sweater in her closet, a photo on her night table, some little valentine stuck in her drawer. But it was always like a convent in there. No matter what I did, it looked like your mother’s old room. So when I found those T-shirts, I thought: Thank God. How was I supposed to know that she was taking them back to his place and ironing them?”

“How
could
you know?” Joseph shook his head.

“Listen. She’s got the radio on.”

Joseph listened. A man’s voice—some kind of talk show.

“Did you get a look at that Leonard?” said Joseph. “Did you see that skin on that guy?”

“His skin was the least of it. He could have had two heads and twice as many pimples and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Remember what they said at our wedding, Joseph? ‘You win your husband in a card game.’”

“So?”

“So Theresa won Leonard.”