The Mermaid Chair (8 page)

He felt a rush of dismay at the thought of the abbot’s reading this. He wanted to get up and find him, to explain. But what would he say?

The wind rose outside, sweeping in from the bay, flapping over the roof. He imagined it tearing the surface of the water.

The monastery bell clanged, calling the monks to sleep, telling t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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them the Great Silence was beginning, and he wondered if the abbot had forgotten about him.

The church had filled up with shadows, the long slits of pale glass in the windows completely dark. He thought of the chapel behind the chancel, where the mermaid chair sat on a carpeted dais. He liked to go and sit in the chair sometimes, when no tourists were around. He always wondered why Senara, their famous little saint, had been carved on the chair in her mermaid form, a
half-nude
mermaid at that. He didn’t object to the por-trayal; he rather appreciated it. It was just so unlike the Benedictines to highlight her breasts.

From the moment he’d seen the mermaid chair, he’d loved Senara, not just for her mythic life in the sea but for how supposedly she’d heard the prayers of Egret Islanders and saved them, not only from hurricanes but from golf courses.

In the beginning he’d sat in the mermaid chair and thought of his wife, of making love to her. Now he could go weeks and not think of her. Sometimes when he thought of making love, it was simply with a woman, a generic woman, not Linda at all.

Back when he’d arrived as a postulant, it had not been hard to give up sex. He did not see then how he could make love to anyone but Linda. Her hair spread across the pillow, the smell of her—that was gone. Sex was gone. He’d let it go.

He felt a tightening at his groin. How ridiculous to think sex would stay away. Things would hide out in an underground place for a while, they would sink like the little weights the monks tied on their cast nets, but they wouldn’t stay down there forever.

Everything that goes down comes up. And then he almost laughed at the pun he’d made without intending to.

The past few months, he’d thought of sex too much. Doing
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without had become an actual sacrifice, but it didn’t make him feel holy, only denied, more of a normal monk chafing at celibacy.

In June he would take his last vows. And that would be that.

When the footsteps came at last, he closed his eyes, then opened them again when the sound stopped. He saw the toes of a pair of shoes, Reeboks, and the hem of a robe brushing against them.

The abbot spoke in his Irish brogue, not one bit of it flaked away after all these years. “I hope it was productive time.”

“Yes, Reverend Father.”

“Not too harsh, then?”

“No, Reverend Father.”

Thomas didn’t know how old Dom Anthony was, but he looked ancient gazing down, the skin of his face drooping from his chin and cheeks almost like ruffles. Sometimes the things he said sprang from such a timeless old world. Once, during a Sunday-morning chapter meeting, sitting on his thronelike chair holding his crosier, he’d said, “The same time St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland, he changed all the old pagan women into mermaids.” Thomas had thought that quaint—and a little bizarre. Could the abbot really believe that?

“Go to bed now,” Dom Anthony said.

Thomas lifted himself from the floor and walked out of the church into a night that was heaving about in the wind. He flipped his cowl over his head and crossed the central cloister, headed toward the duplex cottages scattered under the whorled oaks near the marsh.

He followed the path toward the cottage he shared with Father Dominic. Dominic was the abbey librarian and also the monastery prankster (“Every court has its jester,” Dominic liked t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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to say). He had aspirations of being a writer and kept Thomas up nights with his typing. Thomas had no idea what Dominic was working on, on the other side of the cottage, but he had a feeling it might be a murder mystery—an Irish abbot who turns up dead in the refectory, strangled with his own rosary. Something like that.

The path was lined with cement plaques announcing the stations of the cross, and Thomas moved past them through spiky bits of fog that had blown in from the ocean, thinking now of Dominic, who’d once drawn smiley faces on several of them. Of course Dom Anthony had made him scrub the plaques and then the choir stalls, while the rest of them got to watch
The Sound of
Music
on television. Why couldn’t
he
get into trouble the way Dominic did, for something droll and comic? Why did it have to be for the existential bullshit he wrote in his notebook?

He’d thought for a while he might get into trouble over the baseball card that he used to mark pages in his prayer book, but apparently no one, including the abbot, seemed to care. It surprised Thomas how much he missed simple things like baseball.

Once in a while he got to watch a game on television, but it wasn’t the same. Dale Murphy had hit forty-four home runs last year, and he’d seen only one of them.

Linda had given him the baseball card their last Christmas together. Eddie Matthews, 1953—there was no telling what she’d paid for it.

He envied Dominic, who had to be eighty at least and went about in a tattered straw hat everywhere except choir. He’d been the one who’d convinced the abbot to put a television in the music-listening room. Once Dominic had tapped on Thomas’s door after the Great Silence and tried to convince him to sneak
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over and watch a special program about shooting the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. Thomas had not gone. He regretted it to this day.

He was nearly at his cottage when he stopped abruptly, thinking he heard a voice, a woman’s voice calling in the distance. He looked east toward the rookery, his robe beating around his legs.

A whip-poor-will sang out. The Gullah woman on the island, Hepzibah Postell, the one who kept up the slave cemetery, had told him once that whip-poor-wills were the departed spirits of loved ones. Of course he didn’t believe this, and he was pretty sure she didn’t either, but he liked to think it was Linda out there singing. That it was her voice calling in the distance.

Thomas pictured his wife—or was it merely the generic woman?—posing in a swimsuit. He imagined the place inside her thigh, just above her knees, the softness there. He thought about kissing that place.

He stood beneath a bent tree in the Great Silence, and he thought about falling into life and then about flying far above it.

Then he heard it again—a woman’s voice calling out. Not a bird singing or the wind moaning but a woman.

C H A P T E R

Seven

pq

The smell of gumbo hung inside the house in thick green ropes, like something you could swing on to get across the kitchen. I set my suitcase on the beige rug and walked down the hallway to Mother’s bedroom. I called out,

“Mother? It’s me, Jessie,” and my voice sounded grainy and tired.

She was not in her bed. The blanket was thrown back, and the white sheets were wadded up in a mess, as if children had gone berserk jumping up and down on them.

The bathroom door was shut, and fluorescent light leaked out from the bottom edge. As I waited for her to come out, I stretched my achy shoulders and neck. A pair of worn-out terry-cloth slippers had been tossed upside down on the rug, which was beige like its sibling in the living room. Mother did not believe in unbeige rugs. Or in walls or curtains in any color other than white, cream, and ivory. She
did
believe in green paint outside, but inside, things had to be more or less the color of tap water. The color of a life bled completely out.

I regarded the old-fashioned dressing table with the gathered skirt—was it beige or was it white with a case of old age? In the center of the dresser, Mother’s ceramic Madonna had a chubby Jesus hoisted onto her hip and a look of postpartum depression
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about her. Beside it was a photograph of my father on his boat.

The water was navy blue and traveled behind him forever.

I was not thinking about how noiseless Mother was behind the bathroom door; I was preoccupied with the sense of wading back into her life, into this room, swimming in the contradictions she always stirred in me, the tangle of love and loathing. I scanned the bedside table: her old red-beaded rosary, two prescription bottles, a roll of gauze, tape, scissors, a digital clock. I realized I was looking for the mayonnaise jar. It was nowhere in the room.

“Mother?”

I tapped on the bathroom door. Silence loomed back, and then a thin, sticky anxiety seeped from behind the door. I turned the knob and stepped inside. There was nothing but the minus-cule bathroom. Empty.

I walked into the kitchen—a room so changeless it seemed magically frozen in place; entering it was like strolling back into the 1950s. The same can opener attached to the wall, the canis-ters with the rooster motif, copper teakettle, tin bread box, dingy teaspoons mounted on a wooden rack. The wall clock beside the refrigerator was a black cat with a swinging tail pendulum. The immortal Felix. I expected to see Mother sitting at the Formica table eating gumbo, but this room, too, was empty.

I hurried through the dining room, checked the two extra bedrooms—Mike’s and my old rooms. She had to have been here while Hepzibah was in the house—what, ten minutes ago? I returned to the kitchen and looked up Hepzibah’s number, but as I reached for the phone, I noticed the back door ajar.

Grabbing a flashlight, I stepped onto the back stairs, swinging the beam across the yard. The sash to Mother’s blue bathrobe t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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lay in a coil on the bottom step. I went down and retrieved it.

The wind had picked up. It took the sash right out of my hand.

I watched it jerk and flail into the darkness.

Where would she go?

I remembered the time Dee, five years old, had slipped away from me in Northlake Mall, the seizure of panic I’d felt, followed by an almost preternatural calm, by some voice inside telling me the only way to find Dee was to think like her. I’d sat on a bench and thought like Dee, then walked straight to the children’s shoe store, where I’d found her among the Sesame Street tennis shoes, trying to lace Bert and Ernie onto her small feet. I knew only one thing Mother loved the way Dee had loved Bert and Ernie.

I found the path that led to the monastery at the back of the yard. It wasn’t a long path, but it twisted through overarching wax myrtle and sweet bay and snags of dewberry vines. The monks had cut a crude opening for Mother in the monastery wall so she wouldn’t have to go all the way around to the entrance when she came to cook for them. They called it “Nelle’s Gate.” Mother, of course, ate that up. She’d told me about it at least fifty times.

As I stepped through it, I shouted her name. I heard an animal of some sort rustle in the brush, then a whip-poor-will, and when the wind died momentarily, the distant pitch and tumble of the ocean, that endless percussion it makes.

Mother had worn a foot trail to the main path that ran between the cloister and the monks’ cottages. I followed it, pausing once or twice to call out to her, but the wind seemed to bat my voice right back at me. The moon had risen. It hung low out over the marsh, a startling orb of glassy light.

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When I saw the back of the cloister enclave, I cut off the flashlight and began to run. Everything flowed past me—the little markers with the stations of the cross, the plumes of mist, the sea wind, and the knotty ground. I swept past the stucco house where the monks made their nets, the sign over its door reading fortuna, maria, retia nostra—Bless, Mary, Our Nets.

The statue of St. Senara was in an enclosed garden beside the church. I stepped through the gate into a dense haven of rosebushes, their limbs bare and reaching, forming candelabra shadows against the far wall. The monks had designed the garden with St. Senara’s statue in the center and six evenly spaced paths leading in to her. She looked like the hub of a magnificent floral wheel.

I’d played here as a child. While Mother slaved in the monastery kitchen, I would come out here and pull dozens of rose heads off their stems, filling a sweetgrass basket with petals—a whole mishmash of colors—which I disposed of in secret ceremonies, tossing them into the marsh behind the church, around the trunks of certain venerable bearded oaks, and onto the seat of the mermaid chair, for some reason that being the most honored spot. It was my funeral game, a solemn play I’d indulged in after my father died. The petals were his ashes, and I’d thought what I was doing was saying good-bye, but it may have been just the opposite—that I was trying to hold on to him, tuck him in private places only I knew. I would find the petals weeks later, lumps of brown, dried rose chips.

The night seemed paler now, as if the wind had blown some of the darkness out of it. I stood still, letting my eyes roam across the tops of the rosebushes, along the paths plowed with moonlight. There was no sign of my mother.

I wished then I’d called Hepzibah and Kat instead of dashing t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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over here, wasting all this time. I’d just been so sure she would be here, much surer than I’d been about Dee and the shoe store.

Mother had made herself the Keeper of the Statue about the same time she’d started to work in the kitchen. She often trudged out here with a bucket of soapy water to wash the bird shit off it, and four times a year she waxed it with a paste that smelled like orange peel and limes. She came here to pour out the various and sundry torments of her life instead of going into the church and telling them to God. Senara was practically a nobody in the hierarchical world of saints, but Mother believed in her.

She loved to recount the story of my birth as proof of Senara’s potency, how I was turned backward in her womb and became stuck during the delivery. She’d prayed to Senara, who’d promptly flipped me upside down, and I’d wriggled headfirst into the world.