When We Were Saints (17 page)

Archie did think about it. Maybe, he thought, he was becoming like Clare. Maybe the boy could see the saintliness in his eyes. He looked down at the boy in the can They were still almost side by side. Archie signaled to him that the sandwich was good, and the boy put his hand up against the car window, his middle two fingers turned down and his thumb, index, and pinky extended. Archie recognized the sign for "I love you" and was startled. He lifted his own hand and signaled back "I love you," and tears filled his eyes.
He knows who I am,
Archie thought, struck by the boy's gesture and feeling something strange come over him. The car pulled ahead and the little boy waved, his hand still signing "I love you."

Archie smiled and waved back the same way. Traffic started moving again, and the blue car pulled farther ahead.
Archie took another bite of his sandwich and waited for the cars in his lane to pick up speed. While he waited he sat back and wondered if the only reason there had been a traffic jam was so that the little boy could give him his sandwich. Was it God's way of showing him that he wasn't alone after all? Even though he had felt abandoned by God and, worse, had felt something evil and dark inside himself, was God showing him that he was still on the path? Was he beginning to look like Clare? Did he have that light in his eyes, the way she did? Did his face seem to glow with love and devotion for God?

Maybe all the hours and weeks of praying had borne fruit after all. Maybe that was the way God worked. The boy had seen love in him. The boy had seen God in him; he was sure of it. He looked over at Clare. She seemed so content, so at peace with the world and with herself. That's what he was after he decided. He wanted to look just the way she did, so that people would know he was a saint, a holy man of God, and they would love him for it.
That boy saw it. He loved me. He told me he loved me.
Archie drew in a satisfied breath and let it out.
Yes, this is what it's all about.

The traffic slowed to a halt again, and Archie looked for the boy in the blue car. He wanted to practice his loving gaze on the boy, but the blue car was too far ahead. He turned his head and smiled at Clare. It was easy to look lovingly at her. He set his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. "You know, I think this pilgrimage is already working," he said.

A
RCHIE AND
C
LARE DIDN'T
arrive in New York until after six in the evening, and Archie was tired, hungry, and cranky. The city traffic scared him. Tall office and apartment buildings loomed above them on either side of the street, making him feel claustrophobic. They were a poor substitute, he felt, for the mountains back home. Cars were everywhere, packed close together and moving too fast. Yellow cabs darted in and out in front of him, and Archie kept slamming on the brakes to keep from running into them, earning him honks from the cars behind.

When Clare tried to help him relax, Archie barked at her "Of course you're calm; you haven't been driving for sixteen hours on no sleep and very little food. I've had hardly anything to eat, so what do you expect?" he said, knowing full well that Clare had eaten only one bite of a sandwich all day and had had as little sleep as he.

"I 'expect' you're tired and hungry," Clare replied. "We're almost there. I'll find you something to eat; don't worry."

Archie honked the horn at a man who was honking at him. "Yeah, and how are you going to do that? This was a bad idea. This whole thing was a bad idea."

"You're tired, Francis. It will all be okay; you'll see."

Archie glared at Clare. "Stop telling me how tired I am and don't call me Francis. My name is Archie. Archibald Lee Caswell, okay?"

Clare didn't reply. She pointed to a sign. "Quick, take that exit; that's us."

Archie swerved right and got onto the ramp, and the driver behind him honked his horn. "Yeah, yeah," Archie said, feeling so ill-tempered he wanted to punch something. They rode along the Hudson River for a while, and then Clare tapped Archie's arm and told him to take the next right. Archie did as Clare asked and was surprised to find that they were in a quiet city neighborhood, with tall apartment buildings in red or yellow brick in rows along the street.

"Where are we?" Archie asked. "Where's the Cloisters?"

Clare didn't answer him. She was looking ahead for something. Then she pointed and said, "There. Pull into that parking space there."

It took a few moves, and Clare's guidance, for Archie to parallel-park the truck into the space. Shifting back and forth and rolling up onto the curb and almost hitting the car behind them did nothing to improve Archie's mood.

Clare hopped out of the truck and ran toward a grubby-looking park, and Archie called after her, "Hey, where are we going?" He looked around for something that might possibly be the Cloisters, but all he saw were apartment buildings and the park, with a set of swings, benches, and a basketball half-court. There was no grass in the park, only cement. A group of young boys were playing basketball on the court, shooting into a hoop with no net. The only other person there was an elderly man sitting slumped over on a park bench. Clare ran for the swings.

"Come on, Francis, let's swing," she said, hopping onto a swing and pumping her legs.

"What?" Archie asked, believing Clare had gone insane. What were they doing in a stupid park? Where was the Cloisters? What about food, and a place to sleep? He could feel more irritation rising in him. He felt so upset, he wanted to throw himself on the ground and kick and scream and have a full-blown tantrum.

He strode over to the swings. By then Clare had pumped pretty high, and he had to stand to one side to keep from getting knocked down by her,

"What are we doing here?" he shouted up at her.

The man on the bench raised his head and looked at them.

"Francis, it's so wonderful. Come on, swing! It's just like flying. It's the closest thing to flying." Clare tossed her head back and laughed. The swing swooped forward. Her laugh was musical, her delight contagious. Archie saw the joy in her eyes when she looked at him, and he couldn't help but smile in spite of his irritation. Neither could the man on the bench. Clare pumped higher She sang a song. It sounded made-up to Archie.

The man on the bench stood up and shuffled over to them. He was a frail-looking man, not too tall, with wisps of white hair on his head. His eyes were a dark brown but rimmed in red. Archie thought maybe he was a homeless drunk.

"That's Robert Louis Stevenson," the man said to Clare.

Archie took a step forward, wondering if they were going to have trouble. Was he calling Clare, Robert Louis Stevenson? Was he a crazy man?

Clare called out to him. "You know the poem!"

"'The Swing,' I believe it's called," said the man. "My wife used to read it to my daughter when she was a little girl."

"And my aunt read it to me. Come join me," she said.

The man smiled and shook his head, backing away. "Oh no, no, no. I haven't been on a swing in a hundred years."

Clare slowed down. "Then you must swing. It's been way too long."

The man looked at Clare. He grabbed the chain of the swing closest to him with a shaky blue hand, and Archie wondered if he was really going to swing. He wasn't sure the man could hold on. He looked weak, and Archie noticed he smelled sour. It looked as if he had worn the same old suit and tie for months. There were food spills on his shirt and tie that Archie was sure had been there a while.

Clare dragged her feet in the dirt below her and came to a stop. She stood up. "You have to use
this
swing; it's magical," she said to the man.

"Oh it is, is it?" He smiled and took a step toward her. "And why is that?"

"This is the swing my aunt always pushed me on when I was a little girl. We used to come here sometimes for lunch. I haven't been back here in years. I've been living in the South. My aunt died a few years ago. I still miss her. Have you lived here always?" Clare took the man's hand and drew him toward the swing. "Come on; sit down here."

"I've lived here forever and a day," the man said, shuffling toward her offered swing.

"Well, you don't look a day older than forever."

The man chuckled and glanced up at Clare's shining face. "Pretty girl," he said.

Archie saw that the man was caught. Just as he had been caught, just as everyone who met Clare got caught. He didn't know how she drew people to her the way she did. He watched her help the man into the swing, and then she climbed on with him, standing behind him with one foot on either side of the man's legs. She held on to the chains. She bent, then straightened her legs, pumping the swing forward and back. She talked to the man while she pumped, telling him stories about her aunt, who was like a mother to her and how she missed her so much. She didn't let the swing get too high. She kept the ride smooth and gentle. The man told Clare that his wife had recently died. He told her that he felt lost without her He couldn't stand going back to his apartment because everything there reminded him of Sarah, his wife.

Archie leaned against one of the swing-set poles and listened to them talk. It was as if they were alone in the world, sharing their lives, oblivious to anything but each other, Archie felt left out. He knew he could have joined in and told the man about losing his grandfather but talking about Silas would remind him of the way he had died and his worries about his grandmother and anyway, it was getting dark and he was hungry. More talk meant food and sleep got farther away from him.

Archie spoke to Clare. "Maybe we ought to get going," he said. "I'm hungry."

The man, who had introduced himself to Clare as Irving, asked, "Have you had your dinner yet?"

When Clare and Archie both said no, Irving offered to take them out to dinner. "I don't know if you want to spend an evening with an old codger like me, but if you would, then..." The old man hung his head as if he was expecting them to make up some excuse and ditch him.

By then Clare had slowed the swing down enough to get off. She did so with a backward hop, and then she leaned forward and caught the man in her arms from behind and hugged him. "There is no one we'd rather spend our evening with," she said.

Archie saw tears forming in the old man's eyes, and Archie looked away.

Irving cleared his throat and patted Clare's arm. Then he stood up. "Thanks for the ride," he said. "It
is
a magic swing."

"I told you so," Clare said, taking Irving's hand and then reaching out for Archie to take her other hand.

The three of them left the park and headed on foot toward Irving's favorite Italian restaurant. Clare asked him to tell them more about his wife, and for the duration of their slow walk, Irving told them about Sarah; as Archie listened he wondered if Clare could have planned the whole encounter ahead of time. Maybe it had been the reason for their stopping at the ugly little park in the first place. But how could she have known that a lonely old man would be sitting on that bench? How could she have been sure he would respond to her and want to take them out to dinner? Had she known he would know that swing poem? Had she known somehow that Irving was grieving over the death of his wife? Is that why she'd spoken up about her aunt, to get him to talk about his wife? Was it all that crying Virgin at work?

Archie didn't know the answer to any of his questions, and once they were seated in the cozy restaurant and he was eating manicotti and Italian bread, he no longer cared—at least for a while.

During dinner Clare and Archie told Irving about their pilgrimage, leaving out some of the details, such as the fact that no one knew where they were or that Archie had driven them, without a license, in his grandfather's truck. Archie knew if he and Clare had met up with his grandmother and had told her their story, she would have hundreds of questions for them and would be suspicious if they didn't answer them. He knew, too, that she would get after Clare for eating only a small salad of lettuce and tomatoes without dressing, but Irving didn't seem to notice or to be suspicious of anything; he just listened and told them tales about his visits to the Cloisters. He also told them about a church not too far away called the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, which he claimed was the largest cathedral in the world, except for Saint Peter's in Rome.

"You'd be interested in this, Francis," he said to Archie. "Every year in October they celebrate the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi with the blessing of the animals. It's a real zoo—hundreds and hundreds of people with their pets. It's loud but festive and just what your dear Saint Francis would have wanted, don't you think?"

When dinner was over the old man invited Clare and Archie to stay the night with him. They walked back toward the park to one of the yellow-brick apartment buildings, with steep steps leading up to a bright green front door. Archie was surprised by the inside of the apartment. He had expected it to feel cramped and to have only one room; instead it reminded him of his own home, with its high ceilings and cheerful rooms and the lingering smell of sweet perfume. Archie wondered if Irving noticed the smell. He was certain Irving wasn't wearing perfume.

Irving took them from room to room: living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a study with a sofa that pulled out into a bed. He showed them his wife's collection of fountain pens—Montblancs, Pelikans, and Watermans, each one laid out neatly in a velvet-lined wooden box—and her collection of hats of all shapes and from every era dating back to the beginning of the 1900s. He had a story to tell about each pen and hat—where it came from, how Sarah had happened to find it or buy it, and where she had used or worn each one.

Archie leaned against an oak sewing table, overcome with fatigue and dying to be shown to his bed so that he could get some sleep. He didn't know how Clare could stand it. She listened to Irving drone on and on, as if he were giving her the answer to all of life's mysteries. Her eyes were bright and looked
eager,
and as she listened to his endless stories, she smiled and asked questions that kept Irving talking even more. Archie sagged against the table. He didn't think he could hold himself up much longer yet still they talked.