Sacred Time (27 page)

It amazed me that Jonathan's mouth made those sounds, considering how he barely moved his lips while eating or kissing. He definitely was a better singer than kisser. But his voice was rich, generous; and he was also generous with surprises: socks with musical notes; stationery with a velvet accordion in one corner; panties with a violin embroidered on the crotch….

“Did you see any birds while you were on the church roof?” I asked Franklin.

“What does that have to do with—”

“Think. Any birds at all?”

“A pigeon.”

I yanked cellophane from a head of iceberg. Dropped it on our orange-and-yellow counter. “Would you hand me Ruthie's bowls, please?”

Without stretching, Franklin reached for the top shelf and got two large bowls, an Easter present from Ruthie. Easter presents were popular with ex-nuns. Most didn't do much for birthdays, but Easter stimulated extravagance. Same with ex-priests…hell-bent on celebrating Easter, especially Marv, who lived with a policeman, Chris. Last Easter, they'd given us eggs they'd stenciled, and Marv had read from the Easter liturgy.

“I guess I saw a few pigeons on the roof,” Franklin admitted.

“That proves it. In pictures the Holy Ghost looks like a pigeon. He even has the name of a bird—parakeet.”

“Paraclete.”

“Whatever you want to call it—it's scheming to get you back. And it's using my wise-ass father as some divine instrument.”

“Somehow…I find it challenging to envision your father in the role of a divine instrument.” Franklin lifted me off the landlady's linoleum. The landlady liked yellow and orange, not just on the floor, but also on the walls that were papered in frothy sun-bursts that had no resemblance to the low-slanting sun of this late afternoon. “I like working for your father,” Franklin said, though he knew of Papa's struggles with the law—not conscience—while Papa stalked the lucky-money, the forever-money; sniffed out deals too special to be legal; borrowed from friends and relatives without paying back; coaxed others to do his work for him.

“Church roofs are not safe.” I tore the iceberg lettuce apart.

Franklin picked up the crispy core and bit into it, chewed, eyelids half shut, his body's habit of showing bliss. “I'm discovering how much I love working outdoors.”

“All part of the manipulation.” I dribbled blue-cheese dressing on the lettuce, sliced the portion of stuffed veal breast Uncle Victor had dropped off. It smelled every bit as good as when he'd made it for our wedding—of rosemary and bacon and hot sausage and garlic—and whenever he had any left over from a catering job, he saved it for us. We all ate off his Festa Liguria, even Mama, though she had a responsible husband now. At least twice a month, Uncle Victor got to everyone in the family. I was wary of sacrifices, but I could tell he enjoyed feeding us, and I enjoyed his generosity, enjoyed what was freely given: food and laughter, an hour together.

I set down Ruthie's Easter bowls. “You know what I like about Marv and Chris? That they sin against the pope in at least one additional way than you and I.”

“How did Marv and Chris get into this?” Franklin picked up a piece of sausage and veal. “I love this stuff.”

“Ruthie's bowls…lead to Easter presents…lead to ex-nuns…to ex-priests….”

“It all follows.” He licked his fingers. “Your courage to engage in skirmishes with the pope—however imaginary they may be—awes me.” That was how Franklin talked at times. Distinguished. Lofty. That was why I still thought he'd make an inspiring teacher.

I reached for the top button of Franklin's denim shirt. Opened it. “The pope has won too many skirmishes already. All through my childhood. Throughout centuries.”

“I had no idea he was that old.”

“It doesn't matter what pope.” I covered his lips with my left index finger, ran one index finger down from his beautiful throat, keeping it evenly between his nipples on its journey toward the next button. “It's the pope's office. The power. All those beliefs you're forbidden to question.”

“A lot of beliefs are culturally and historically driven. And really inconsequential. Like the virgin birth.” He kissed me.

I worked my hands to his next button. “All that training in guilt…Why, then, do I still get seduced by the hymns, the smells?”

“Maybe for you the rituals persist although the faith has waned. For me it's the opposite, really. My faith is solid as ever, but I choose my own rituals.”

“Like confession?”

“Yes, but not as a sacrament.”

“No, but the listening.” Leaves showed their bellies to the sky, predicting rain, seeking rain. “I think Great-Aunt Camilla sees you as a father confessor without the direct line to heaven but with more compassion. That's why my grandpa confides in you, too. You don't judge. And you appreciate the mystery of faith.”

“It's what drew me to priesthood. To marriage. The mystery.”

“I promise to remain mysterious.” I leaned into him. “My nipples—touch them.”

But the phone rang, and Franklin answered just as I said, “Don't.”

“No, not at all…” he said. “I'm always glad to hear your voice.”

“Nipples,” I whispered.

“What a great idea…But I'll let you talk about that with your daughter.” He handed me the receiver.

“Not nipples.”

“Would you and Franklin like to go apple picking with us at that orchard in Southampton in a couple of weeks? We'll take the train, and I'll bring a picnic and—”

“I hate apple picking.”

“No, you don't.”

“I know.” I used to like taking the train and returning in the evening with bags full of apples, and—if the ocean was still warm enough—dried salt water on my shins.

“But I don't know if we have time. Can I discuss it with Franklin?” I asked.

“Sure…Julian and I'll be here all evening.” Mama's voice was husky with sorrow that I was not elated to hear from her.

Sorrow like that could control you as much as the excessive teaching of religion. I'd learned that from Aunt Leonora, who'd come to us from the outside; who still felt like outside, even though she'd been family since long before I was born. But I came from within the family. As did Anthony. I think Aunt Leonora never quite belonged because, in addition to being from outside, she was not a believer—at least not in the Catholic God of my family—and she liked to flaunt her disbelief, as well as her suspicion of politicians who said they were doing God's will. Family could mean many things. Warmth and love and food and church. Church and punishment. Church and threats. Family togetherness was the best of what I knew and the worst. Worst, I think, for my Aunt Leonora, who contributed ten dollars each year to Madalyn Murray O'Hair, who'd managed to get the Supreme Court to ban prayers in public school. Aunt Leonora was as allergic to organized religion as she was to the smell of camphor, while to Mama and Riptide camphor signified that you were taking care of what belonged to you.

I got off the phone by promising to call back, and for an instant, I missed Jonathan, who could deliver excuses with such sincerity: sprained ankle; rehearsal; flat tire. But with Franklin, any excuse became an embarrassment, because he got too flustered to recall details. Still, I tried to coach him. “Let's tell Mama out-of-state friends of your parents are visiting the day she wants to pick apples.”

“What am I supposed to tell her if she asks their names?”

“She won't.”

“But what if—”

“Pick any names.”

“Or if she asks what kind of jobs they have? Or how many children?”

I set both palms on his shoulders, shook him lightly. “Your choice.”

“But what if I say three children—”

“Franklin!”

“—and you say four children, and then—”

“—then I'll tell her I don't know them well enough, because they're your parents' friends. Then you can say whatever you think of.”

He looked so terrified, that I knew we'd go because his reluctance to lie was greater than my reluctance to spend a full day with Mama. To end his agony, I called her back. Told her we'd both go with her.

“I'm glad,” she said.

Still, after she hung up, I could feel the questions she hadn't asked aloud:
Why don't you visit more? Why don't you call more?
Franklin's parents had different questions, questions that were all in their eyes. Whenever we visited them, they scrutinized my belly for their much-wanted grandchild. Franklin's family was tiny: no siblings; no aunts and uncles; no grandparents. His parents' fixation on my belly could easily get crazy-making, but they were relatives now, and from relatives you put up with more than from regular people. With relatives you appreciated. And I was on my way toward appreciating their clumsy kindness, their efforts to be flexible.

Franklin reached past me, swept aside the phone and salad, curved his hands around the back of my thighs, and raised me onto the counter. “Doing work you love,” he said, “has nothing to do with manipulation.”

“I need that phone. It's not a coincidence Papa has sent you on a church job.”

“Are you worried about me wanting to return to the church?”

“No. Just suspicious of the church snagging you back. And that's where Papa comes in.”

“Are we back to the divine instrument?”

“You bet.” As I dialed 464-4664, I almost heard Papa coaching me:
Easy to remember, Belinda, my new number—only fours and sixes. You have four once. And then six once. After once comes twice, right? So you have four twice. And six twice. And then you're back to four.

An answering machine came on—a minute of his new wife's dippy harp music. Rude. None of the other relatives had answering machines. Last February, Papa had married a woman half Mama's weight and half Mama's age, as if to win double in this game of re-marriage. Dippy Diane. Whose voice floated through the receiver: “Please, do let us know who you are…”

I rolled my eyes at Franklin.

More harp music. “…and we do appreciate that you are thinking of us….” Harps. “…and we do intend to talk with you very soon….”

“Listen, Papa,” I said quickly when I made it past Diane and her harp to the beep. “I want to know what the hell you think you're doing with Franklin. Pick up if you're there. If not, call me. Okay?”

Then I called Anthony, who made more business decisions than Papa anyhow, and when I reached him at the bookstore where he moonlighted most evenings, cooking Italian food in the bookstore café, I told him, “I'm taking you out to lunch Saturday.”

“But I—”

Before he could say anything else, I added, “HoJo's at noon. And I won't accept ‘too busy,' or ‘I need a root canal.'” Not much of a challenge, really, because I was a faster talker than my cousin. I hung up. “And you—” I said to my husband, “you promise me to stay away from that parakeet.”

“Paraclete.”

“I got a parakeet from the five and dime after our rabbit went to live in New Jersey. It had a green breast.”