Mercy of St Jude (5 page)

“Yes, indeed,” she nods, “lovely man, Father is.”

“Tell Father James I'm doing just fine,” he says noncommittally.

And he is fine. Fine without the church interfering in his life. Fine without some religious know-it-all telling him what's right and what's wrong, who he should love and who he shouldn't.

He hasn't listened to a priest in five years. He's not about to start again now.

3

1999

There is a large round hooked rug on the kitchen floor. The centre, the ocean, is filled with fish and dories, and all around the border are brightly dressed men and women holding hands. Annie was surprised when she'd learned that Mercedes had hooked it. The rug is warm and bright and evokes images of people celebrating, dancing round and round on a summer day.

“It's not always that easy to let bygones be gone,” Joe is saying to Lucinda.

“I know. I'm just not sure what takes more energy, forgiving or not forgiving.” There's a regretful edge to Lucinda's voice and her concentration seems far away.

“What bygones are you talking about there, Mom?” Annie, as usual, wishes she had some clue as to what went on in her mother's head. Her sisters have always been able to talk to Lucinda, about their boyfriends and husbands, their jobs or lack of, their kids. But Annie so often says the wrong thing, a wisecrack, something sarcastic or off-colour, which, although it might get a chuckle from Dermot, seldom amuses her mother. As an adult Annie has tried to be more careful about what she says around Lucinda, but they still seem unable to find a place where they can relax in each other's company.

Lucinda shakes her head as if to clear it. “Now, Annie, you know your Aunt Mercedes didn't always watch what came out of her mouth,” she says evasively.

Annie rolls her eyes. “Fine, don't tell me. You have to wonder though, is that why she never had a boyfriend?”

Joe looks startled. “Oh, but she did. After she left New York and was learning to be a teacher in Nova Scotia. Callum was so excited you'd have thought she was his own daughter getting hitched.”

“Go on! Aunt Merce was going to get married?” Annie is surprised her grandfather never mentioned it. “Who was this fellow?”

“He was from some well-to-do family in St. John's. Apparently he was heading for the priesthood till he met Mercie, so his family wasn't too happy about it.”

“Is that why they broke up?” she asks.

“I don't know. All of a sudden it was over and no one wanted to talk about it anymore. Callum only said she was moving back here to teach.”

“Mom? Did she ever say anything to you about it?”

“She was never one to talk about days gone by, was she now?”

Annie's can't disagree with that. In fact, Mercedes would often simply leave the room if someone seemed intent on dredging up old stories. Still, there's something about her mother's quick tight smile that makes Annie wonder if she knows more than she's letting on. But it's useless to push Lucinda, who can be as tight-lipped as Mercedes when it suits her. “So, Uncle Joe, tell me what was she like when she was little? What did she like to do? Did you all get along?”

Annie realizes that she really does want to know. What made the child, Mercie, happy? What did she talk about when she sat down to drink her morning tea with her father and brothers? Did they love each other dearly and talk as only family can? Who was this matriarch whom Annie has feared and even hated at times, yet whom she feels such an urge to understand despite everything that happened?

“The older boys were all gone by then, fishing or working the mines. Dad was there but he wasn't much good to us. So it was really just me and her and Cal.” He chuckles. “You know how I remembers her best? In our old clothes. We never threw out a darn thing, you couldn't afford to ever do that. Mercie would take our old shirts, roll up the sleeves, sometimes cut the bottom off. She was only five or six, I suppose. Never complained, just got on with it, wandered around the house singing, or sat with Callum at the table practising her letters and stuff.”

Lucinda leans in close and pats Joe's hand. The need in her eyes tugs at Annie, and her heart fills at the sight of these two good people attempting to recall the warmth that long ago existed in Mercedes Hann.

Annie slips into the chair next to hermother. “Shemust have been a sight in those big clothes, hey,” she prompts Joe before he loses his train of thought, “so small next to you two big galoots?” She is rewarded with an appreciative glance from Lucinda.

“Indeed she was, but at least she was warm. You should have seen us. On really cold days when you could never get yourself warm for nothing, me and her and Cal would haul our chairs to the stove and pull down the oven door. Then we'd lay a pillow there and put our feet on it.” He laughs a beautiful young laugh. “Mercie called it our fireplace. We'd warm bricks in there too, wrap them in towels to take to bed with us.”

“Must be why she put in the two fireplaces over there,” says Lucinda. “Her and Dad always had the heat raging.”

“She sure did a fine job fixing the old place up,” says Joe.

Annie is struggling to fix the child in her mind, but all she comes up with is an unsatisfactory composite of her two younger sisters. “What did she look like, Uncle Joe? I have a hard time getting a face in my head.”

“Well, my Annie, that's a good one, because she looked like you. That dark hair, and them lively eyes like you got there,” Joe says, pointing, “even your colour, kind of pale, but healthy all the same. When she was little, I used to worry she was so white, but she was never sick so I let it be. Thing is, it's not only the looks. I'd say you're like her under the skin too.” A frown darkens his face and he looks at Lucinda. “Let's hope she ends up happier, hey Luce?”

Annie pretends not to see her mother's worried nod, the disappointed sigh. “Too bad we don't have a picture from back then.”

“My, but sure we never had no camera. I remembers once, some bigwig from St. John's was out our way taking photographs for a book or something. I don't know what became of them. People didn't have money for stuff like that.”

“Shame.”

“'Tis indeed. Pretty as a picture she was, the very image of an Irish lassie. When she was young, she always put me in mind of something.” He pauses, then continues in a soft, low voice. “She looked to me like a Sheilagh.”

Annie hears Lucinda's quick intake of breath. She glances at her mother, then back at Joe. “What's that, like a female leprechaun or something?”

“No, my Annie, a Sheilagh is a child of God.” His tone is lilting, serene. “A dark-haired Irish angel with fiery eyes and pure white skin, a vision of heaven, she is.”

“Sheilagh was Joe's daughter,” Lucinda says in a hushed tone. She wraps Joe's bony hand in her two plump, warm ones. “I know what a Sheilagh is, Joey. Our Mercie knew too, more than anyone ever imagined. There's been too many Sheilaghs in this family. Boy or girl, doesn't matter. Just ask our Beth.” She inhales a trembling breath, then gives Annie the saddest smile that Annie has ever seen.

For the life of her, Annie cannot look away. Fear grips her. Dear Jesus in heaven, she prays, please let her only be talking about our poor Beth.

1989

The year Annie turned fifteen, Beth, who had been going out with Luke Ennis since Grade Nine, found herself “in trouble”. In a good Catholic family such as theirs this was certainly a sin, but a forgivable one as long as everyone behaved appropriately. Abortion was not to bementioned, especially in Lucinda's house.

The good news was that there would be a wedding, Dermot's favourite reason to celebrate. “A good wedding beats an Irish wake any day,” he told Lucinda when they had recovered from the news of their daughter's premarital activities. “No matter if the bride be six months pregnant or a blushing virgin.”

Poor as Lucinda and Dermot were, they didn't hesitate to pay their share for the reception and the standard meal prepared by the Lady's Guild - a scoop each of Sadie Griffin's potato salad and Ellen McGrath's coleslaw, a slice each of roast beef, turkey and ham, two sweet mustard pickles, two baby beets, a leaf of iceberg lettuce topped with a wedge of tomato, and a white dinner bun with a pat of butter. Individual plates were prepared before the Mass, spaced out along the white paper tablecloths, then covered with a bit of plastic wrap. The fact that no one contracted food poisoning from the mayonnaise in the potato salad was a wonder never discussed. Then again, any subsequent illness would likely have been blamed on the whiskey or the rum.

After struggling with the guest list for weeks, Lucinda and Beth ended up inviting far more people than they could rightly afford to feed. Besides being concerned that they might hurt someone's feelings, they also knew that they would run into everyone they hadn't invited in the weeks ahead, at the post office, at Burke's grocery store, at Sunday Mass. The list grew longer; more potatoes would have to be peeled.

An hour before the ceremony, all were shocked when Callum phoned Lucinda to say that Mercedes was sick. Illness rarely stopped Mercedes Hann. Lucinda insisted on going up to have a look at her. “I told you Dad, it's no bother,” she said into the phone. A puzzled frown settled on her face. “What?” Her voice rose just enough to cause everyone in the kitchen to stop and listen. “Fine. So be it.” Lucinda slammed the receiver onto the hook and turned her attention to Beth, who stood large and flushed in the silent room. “All right, then. Let's get you married.”

Sadie Griffin did not attend the wedding, either. Then again, Sadie hadn't been invited.

Beth and Luke were young but, except for the oversight regarding birth control, they were sensible. Deciding it would be prudent to save towards a house, they moved in with Lucinda and Dermot. Beth had quit Trades School and gotten on at the fish plant - a dirty job, but a scarce one - and Luke had been hired on at Burke's, stacking shelves, moving furniture, and whatever else was required, while training to be a meat-cutter. Still, savings from their minimum wage jobs were slow to accumulate.

Everyone knew that Mercedes Hann had money. Decades earlier, after teaching for several years, Mercedes had hired Mr. Crosbie Cunningham, a well-known financial advisor from St. John's, to guide her investments. Mr. Cunningham's name had caught her attention for several reasons, not least of which was his ability to make money for his clients. In the years that followed, Mercedes became quite a wealthy woman. She had given loans before, to her brother's widow after he was killed in the Springhill mines, to her nephew Frank Jr. when he was starting out as a fisherman, and to other family members as well. She charged negligible interest but the debtor did have to put up with her advice, which she offered freely, as if she'd acquired that right by granting the loan. She gave generously to charity as well, and not just the church. Her favourite cause was Meade House, a private home near St. John's for unmarried girls and their babies. It seemed an odd choice, considering that Mercedes was quite vocal in her opinion of premarital sex. Besides which, the girls who went there were even choosing to keep their fatherless children. To top it off, Meade House was run by Margaret Meade, an ex-nun, a woman who had forsaken the convent, perhaps even Catholicism itself. Despite it all, Mercedes never wavered in her support.

When Beth and Luke approached her, they expected to get a lecture and the loan.

“We only needs a thousand dollars,” Beth explained, her cheeks rosy in Mercedes' overheated kitchen. “But I don't think I should work much longer at the plant. I'm always tired lately, and we don't want to take a chance with the baby, right Luke?”

“Uh-huh,” he said and stuck his thumbnail back in his mouth. Luke, like so many others, had always been intimidated by Mercedes Hann.

“Well, anyway, Aunt Mercedes,” Beth said, “if we don't buy the house we'll be stuck in with Mom and Dad for ages. We'd never see a lick of privacy.”

Mercedes glanced at Beth's belly, which was huge even for seven months, then back to her swollen face. “What example do you think this is setting for your sisters?”

Beth stammered something incoherent.

“They look up to you, Elizabeth,” Mercedes continued. “As the oldest, you had a responsibility. And look what you've gone and done. Eighteen years old, unmarried, getting pregnant. For God's sake, what were the two of you thinking?”

Beth and Luke sat there mute and uncomfortable but still hopeful.

Mercedes stood up. “I certainly do feel for you, really I do. But I cannot allow your sisters to think that I approve of what you've done. I'm afraid I have to say no.”

Mercedes' refusal made Beth even more determined to buy a house. Despite her size and persistent nausea, she decided to keep working at the plant.

A few days before her due date, she sensed a lessening of movement in her belly. Lucinda and Luke took her to the hospital, where she was immediately sent to St. John's in an ambulance.