The Queen of Sleepy Eye (30 page)

But you did.

When I unbuttoned his shirt?

No, long before that.

Oh God, you're right. I practically ran past him into the orchard.

Before that.

I sat up, wiped my eyes. “I loved his flattery. I lied to my mother. I couldn't even look at the moon.”

You stopped talking to me.

“All I wanted was to fulfill Leoti's dream.”

The night went silent. The toads surrendered to their loneliness. The crickets abandoned their throbbing calls. And all the songs of heaven ceased. I drew up my legs. I wanted to be as invisible as a thought, as forgotten as a dream, as small as a grain of sand.

* * *

MORE THAN ANYTHING, I wanted to be clean. I ran toward the river. The moon lit the way. I stepped out of my clothes and into the river until the water hit my thighs, and I fell under the current. The cold water bit at my scalp and my shoulders and cramped the hot muscles of my legs. My lungs burned for air, and for a moment, I imagined myself floating face down in the water, lifeless and still.

Maybe in a heated pool.

I pushed off the rocky bottom and gulped at the air.

Back on the grassy shore, I started to dress but stepped out of my underwear and threw them into the river before pulling on my shorts and blouse. The relief I craved eluded me, but I possessed no more tears to cry. It wasn't until I returned to the basement that my hands seemed empty. I'd left my guitar at New Morning, and at New Morning it could stay.

I showered before Mom woke and worked my wet hair into a bun. I threw the peasant blouse and the Mexican blouses into the alley trashcans before I laid out a bowl, cup, and utensils for Mom's breakfast. Thus began the reconstruction of Amy the good.

Mom shuffled into the kitchen. “Did you make coffee?”

“Instant. There's a memorial service today, so I can't cook anything. Would you like Cheerios or Frosted Flakes?” Avoiding her gaze, I busied myself washing breakfast dishes I hadn't used.

“
Fofa,
you seem much better this morning.”

“I've had time to think, put things in perspective. Cordial isn't so bad. In some ways, it reminds me of Gilbertsville. I can stay here for a while.” Actually, I planned on staying inside the funeral home until Falcon hit the road to California. Feather could tell me when he left.

Mom sipped at her coffee. Her face blushed pink as the morning ripened over the mesas. “Are you visiting your Mrs. Masterson today?”

“There's a memorial service. I'm singing. I'll have to go tomorrow.”

“You're singing? That's wonderful. We could use the money for groceries.”

I'd planned on stashing the money in my get-out-of-town fund. “What about your paycheck?”

“I have some bills to pay.”

“What bills?” I asked, careful to keep my annoyance in check.

“Those pills I buy you every month are expensive. The pharmacist lets me make payments. And there are some other incidental things that I'm working to whittle down. You don't need to bother your head about them. I'll take care of it.”

“What about the car?”

“That's one of the things I'm whittling down.”

“Good for you,” I said and left the room to dust the chapel.

* * *

BEFORE THE SERVICE, Mrs. Clancy read a portion of a letter the dearly departed, Mrs. Dumont, had only written the week before. “‘There will be many a lost soul at the memorial service. My prayer is that a good number of my relatives will hear about the saving grace of Jesus. However, most will attend the service believing my legacy will pad their pockets. It most certainly will not. Please note: More than one of my relatives has spent time in the hoosegow. Propriety demands me to warn you of their contempt for the law and all things civil.'”

Mrs. Clancy glanced around the chapel. “Maybe you should collect the porcelain figurines. I don't want to pad their pockets either.”

Mrs. Dumont had vastly overestimated the drawing power of her wealth. Two women, generously padded already, sat in the back row of
the chapel, fiddling with their handbag latches and looking furtively toward the door. These were Mrs. Dumont's only mourners. Part of me wanted to offer them popcorn for the show.

A chaplain I hadn't met—a man who moved like a chipmunk—spoke on and on about the many contributions Mrs. Dumont had made to his church. “She contributed much more than her considerable wealth. She exhorted and loved the body of Christ with her time and talents.” And then he listed the years and the ages of the Sunday school classes she'd taught, beginning in 1915. Who kept track of such things? Mrs. Dumont herself, no doubt.

I started to thank God that Pearl was there to play the organ, so I didn't have to explain, at least yet, how I'd lost my guitar, but the prayer dissipated long before the amen. My eyes burned with tears the moment Pearl lunged on the first chord of “Softly and Tenderly, Jesus Is Calling.” By the time I sang the last verse, tears streamed down my cheeks and my voice faltered with emotion, drawing fresh interest from the two ladies in the back. I closed my eyes.

Mrs. Clancy blew her nose like an old fisherman. The chaplain sniffed, and the women each dabbed their eyes with embroidered hankies. I retreated to my room where fresh tears lamented how cheaply I had treated God's mercy.

Dawn drew a cool finger along my arm. Because Logan Mountain stalled the coming day, a gossamer curtain of gray dulled the valley. Sparrows—the perpetual optimists of the bird world—raucously celebrated the new day.
Stupid birds.
I stared at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that resembled Popeye's bloated cheeks, and rehearsed the letter I would write Lauren. Maybe I wouldn't write a letter at all but list every Scripture about God's love and forgiveness from Genesis to Revelation.

“Lord? Are you listening?” But the prayer dissolved in my mouth.

Will you be deaf and mute forever?

I turned to the wall and pulled the blankets over my head.

Gravel scrunched in the driveway. It was too early for Mrs. Clancy, unless someone had called her directly about a dearly departed's passing. How fitting that the relentless march of death continued. I welcomed the distraction. I slid out of bed to trade my nightgown for my cleaning clothes. Brushing my hair
into a ponytail, my hands stilled at my reflection. A mixture of acceptance and annoyance over my tasks molded my face, a far cry from the terror of my early days at the funeral home.

Is this a good thing?

The doorbell hummed. A kitchen chair scraped the floor, and the door opened. Mom spoke as if spewing soured milk. “What do you want?”

Bruce?

Falcon's voice answered evenly. “This is Amy's guitar.”

I laid the brush on the dresser.

“I know that,” Mom said. “Did you steal it?”

“Amy left it at the farm.”

“What farm? What is this all about?”

“Can I talk to her? I'm leaving town.”

“Tell me how you know my daughter, and I'll consider letting you see her.”

During the long silence that followed, I tiptoed back to the bed. I pictured Falcon easing back from the kitchen door to avoid being bludgeoned by Mom. Poe's pendulum swung relentlessly over my bed.

Falcon finally answered. “I don't know her well at all, but she helped a family I worked for, and I'd like to thank her.”

“You're leaving Cordial today? For good? Give me the guitar.”

At the sound of Mom's nearing footsteps, I pulled the blankets over my head. Mom tugged at the blankets. I held tight. “Amy, wake up. There's a stinking hippie out here who wants to thank you for something.”

My heart throbbed in my chest. I lowered the blankets just past my eyes and whispered, “I don't want to see him. Tell him … tell him I'm sick. I have a fever and the chills. Tell him that I haven't been
out of bed for a week. Better yet, tell him it's giardia and I can't leave the bathroom.”

Mom sat on the bed.

“Mom, please. I don't want to see him.”

“What is this about?”

I covered my face again. “Don't make me go out there. I'd rather die.”

“No man, especially not a stinky one, is worth dying for. Believe me. I know this is true.” She rose and walked to the kitchen door, her steps drumming the floorboards like a charge. “Amy doesn't want to see you.” The door slammed hard, the lock clicked, and the shade rattled closed. Mom called the Gartleys to tell them she would be late.

She closed the bedroom door behind her. “I think we have some talking to do,” she said and kicked off her shoes to sit cross-legged at my feet. “Sit up and tell me everything.”

I started back on the first day I'd met Falcon. Perhaps easing up to the grand finale would soften its sting. I explained how I'd been attracted to him from the moment I saw him, even though I fought tooth and nail not to like him.

“Men like him are the worst kind,” she said. “Did he flatter you with all kinds of questions and hang on your every word?”

“How did you know? He made me feel like I belonged.”

“And then he turned on you?”

“Not exactly.”

I told her about the craft fair and working with him to make the windows for Leoti. I left out the part about Sasha; the story was condemning enough without her.

“He took advantage of your good heart. Did he take off with your share of the money from making the windows?”

“I volunteered my time.”

“You did?”

“Like I said, I wanted to be near him.”

Mom tapped her chin with a red fingernail. “I suppose with a haircut and a bath he would be quite good looking.”

I told her about swimming at the river and the kiss.

“He kissed you? Did you have your clothes on?”

My face warmed. “Mom,” I complained.

“Did you?”

“Of course I had my clothes on.”

“How old is he? You're a child. He's a man. It's a good thing he's leaving town.”

“There's more.”

“Tell me.”

So I did. I told her how I'd sneaked out of the house to attend the jam session at the farm. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Mom swallowed hard. “What is this farm?”

“They grow organic vegetables and live simply. They don't want to be caught up in the rat race of urban living.” I dared not tell her about the acid trips or their experimental relationships.

“Is this the place where they drop acid?”

“I was never there when they did that.”

“Is there more?”

“They have a jam session every month. They build a bonfire and sing folk songs.”

“I understood that.” Mom wiped her hands on her pants. “You better tell me where this is leading.”

“Would you mind if I covered my head with the sheet?”

She said my full name through her teeth.

I buried my face in my hands, and through my sobs I told her what had happened in the apple orchard.

“We better get you to confession then.” She pulled back the covers. “Put on a dress.”

“Confession? Mom, I'm not Catholic.”

“Today, for me, you're Catholic. Trust me, you'll feel much better once the priest gives you absolution for your sin.”

“Mom, I don't need—”

“Wash your face and wear stockings.”

In truth, absolution sounded wonderful. I hoped the confessional turned out to be one big washing machine that would spill away guilt and memories after the rinse cycle.

* * *

I SAT IN the confessional, waiting for Mom to wrangle a priest. No more than a wooden closet with a bench seat, the confessional smelled of wood polish and sweat. A small door with a lattice window opened between the priest and me. Garlic wafted into the tiny cubicle.

“My child, your mother says you've come with a contrite heart. How long has it been since your last confession?”

I'd been telling God how sorry I was for six days.

“Well?” he pressed.

“I … uh …”

Mom whispered through the curtain that separated the confessional from the sanctuary. “Say bless me, father, for I have sinned.”

“Is this your first confession, my daughter?” the priest asked.

“I'm not even Catholic.”

Mom gasped.

“But I'm a Christian,” I said.

“We Catholics consider ourselves Christians as well.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but we have as difficult a time living up to the calling as anyone else, so we have that in common.” He cleared his throat. “Well, now, lucky for you it is a slow day for sinning Catholics, so I have plenty of time to hear from Protestants.” His voice smiled. “Have you sinned?” Before I could answer, he said, “Oh dear, now I've done it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Please excuse me, daughter. The cook took a roast out of the oven moments before your mother found me, and she made me the most wonderful sandwich. Now I have mustard down the front of my rabat.”

“Should I come back another time?”

“You could, but I promise confession only gets more difficult with the passing of time.” There is a crunch of lettuce from the priest's side of the confessional. He speaks around a bite of sandwich. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Honestly?”

“That's the best way.”

“No.”

“Are you familiar with the verse from the Epistle of James, ‘Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed'?”

“I'm not sick. I'm—”

“But you are. Your sin has wounded your soul. Are you sleeping well?”

“I read until I'm exhausted, but still I lay awake forever.”

“Are you eating?”

Mom spoke through the curtain. “She hardly touches her plate.”

The priest slid his curtain aside. “Perhaps, good mother, it would be better for you to wait outside.”

I peeked through the curtain. Mom stood looking at her shoes.

“I'll take good care of your daughter. You've done your work. Now it is up to God.” Even Mom knew where she stood with God. The priest remained silent until the heavy door opened and shut. He pulled back the curtain of the confessional. “Let's sit where we can look each other in the eye, shall we?”

Father Raymond shuffled toward the pews and offered me a seat. His voice had made him sound old but not ancient. In truth, I believed Father Raymond had outlived sea turtles, and he moved with the same dogged grace. His rounded shoulders jutted his head forward like a hood ornament. Skin hung from his jaw in cushiony folds, but not one liver spot darkened his complexion. I envied the smoothness of his skin. I guess he didn't get out much. His watery eyes were kind and sincere. I was about to melt.

He wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth. “As the verse says, we should confess our sins to one another. I'll go first.” He cleared his throat. “While eating my lunch in the park yesterday, I watched a young father pushing the swing for his tiny daughter, and I coveted the joy that lit his face each time she giggled.” He nodded. “Will you pray for me?”

“My sin is much, much worse.”

“My soul is wounded. Won't you intercede for me?”

I bowed my head, wondering if I shouldn't warn Father Raymond that my prayers had fallen on deaf ears since my night in the orchard. He would know soon enough. “Jesus, forgive Father Raymond for coveting another man's joy. Give him your joy and heal him of his sorrow. In Jesus' name, amen.”

“Now, it's your turn.”

“He heard me. God actually heard my prayer.”

Father Raymond's eyes smiled, but he asked me again, “Are you ready to confess?”

“Like I said, my sin is much, much worse than—”

“They nailed Jesus to a cross for my covetousness. Did he suffer anymore for your sin?”

He had me there. Just when I thought I'd run out of tears, my eyes filled and my face contorted. This wasn't going to be anything like
The Song of Bernadette.

Father Raymond leaned closer to whisper. “If it's any comfort to you at all, I have listened to confessions for sixty-two years. You can't surprise me, and you certainly can't surprise God.”

I picked at a scab from a mosquito bite.

He finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a mustard-stained napkin.

“I'm taking up too much of your time,” I said, scooting to the edge of the pew.

“Time is all I have.”

“Are you sure?”

“If this is going to take a long time, I could fetch two fat pieces of Mrs. Kubek's chocolate cake.” Father Raymond sighed. “No one in Clearwater County or beyond makes a better chocolate cake.” He patted his stomach. “She brings a cake by every week, not always the chocolate cake, but all of her—”

“I fornicated.”

True to his word, surprise never registered on his face. “Is this a habit of yours?”

“No!”

“Are you pregnant?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you sorry for your sin?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Will you go and sin no more?”

“Yes. I mean, no, I won't do it ever again.”

“I wonder if your tears are more than sorrow for your sin. Maybe you are grieving the loss of who you thought you were—a nice Christian girl who harshly judged others? Is this possible?”

I blubbered again. “When will the pain go away?”

“I would not disdain the pain, my daughter, as long as it draws you to Christ.” Father Raymond laid his soft hand upon my arm. “I have good news for you. The Father sees you now and forever through the righteousness of the Son. You are his bride, pure and undefiled. Believing this in the face of our sin is what we Christians call faith.”

Father Raymond prayed for me, but I didn't hear a word. I cried too hard. Although I'd mocked the Catholics for keeping Christ on the cross in their churches, seeing Jesus' wounds reminded me what my sin had cost him. Finally, I cried from sorrow. Father Raymond shuffled out of the sanctuary and returned with a box of tissues and two pieces of chocolate cake in plastic wrap.

“One for you and one for your mother.” When he spoke again, chocolate stained his teeth. “Old men still believe they are eighteen years old.”

I stifled a laugh.

“Go ahead and laugh. I laugh whenever I catch my reflection in a mirror.
Who is that old guy wearing my whippersnapper soul?
I ask. So you see, I may understand what it means to struggle against fleshly desires, and I have seen many, many young girls like you come and confess the very same sin. The ones who listened to this piece of advice I'm about to offer only came to my confessional with venial sins. Do you know what this means?”

“I think so.”

“I suggest, daughter, that you take a hiatus from men to devote yourself to Christ.”

I'd already decided never to touch another man my whole life, but I humored the priest. “For how long?”

“At least a year, maybe two. Be the Lord's bride. Let him satisfy you with his love.” Father Raymond used his pinkie to loosen a piece of meat from his teeth. “Anyone worth his salt will wait twice that long for you, and besides, your grades will be better.”