When We Were the Kennedys (27 page)

Our mother died in the new apartment, on a December evening in her freshly made bed, while we girls chatted quietly in the kitchen, making supper. She died having been cared for by the children she'd taught, through her own example, how to bear up, be brave, look for blessings in disguise. The first person at our door the next morning was Mrs. Vaillancourt, holding a tray of biscuits. At the wake we saw our longtime neighbors, the Fleurys and the Gallants and the Gagnons and the O'Neills; we saw men from the mill; we saw priests and monsignors of Father Bob's acquaintance, six of whom would concelebrate the funeral; we saw the whole of our town, it seemed—the town that could not be separated from our mother or father or us, not now or ever.

And finally, at the bitter end of that wintry evening, we saw—inching down the carpeted aisle toward Mum's glossy casket—the Norkuses. It had been three years. They were older than I'd ever realized, nearly to their nineties, leaning on each other in a way that rekindled my image of the young immigrants arriving with rags on their feet.

“Respect to Missus,” they said. “Too much sad.”

Too much sad. Father Bob succumbed a decade after that, also of cancer. After his diagnosis he retired from duty and spent the happiest year of his life, back in the town where he was born, in the company of Anne and Betty, living the humdrum domestic life he'd always wanted in a house filled with the sound of women.

It's not our past I wish to conjure today, however; it's our future. I've driven here, from my house in Portland, to help Anne plan her wedding. Her first wedding, to her first true love. She is sixty-eight years old but still resembles the sweet young teacher who inhabits this book. Anne's groom—her equal in vivacity and compassion—is the director of Hope Association, a sheltered workshop for adults like Betty, who's been a day client there for thirty-five years, making rolling pins, toy blocks, and lifelong friends.

Cathy, too, is on her way to town, driving up from Massachusetts, where she's a vice president of a Catholic college, work she loves. She's still the take-charge girl: We have flowers to pick out, menus to plan, a program to nail down, and these things cannot be done without her.

Anne always loved Jane Austen, who liked to end her books with a wedding. Imagine my delight, to end my book with this one. After a lifetime of caring for us, for Betty, for her students, for everybody else, our Anne has fallen for a man who wants to care for her.

Cathy's husband will walk Betty to her seat of honor. My husband—my Rumford boy—will play the processional on guitar. Barry, retired from the mill but still gigging, will escort the bride. Cathy and I will sing an old song in a harmony learned long ago from Sister Louise. Denise, who made her career in Our Nation's Capital as a public-health expert at the World Bank, will be sitting with her mother, near the front. After the ceremony, guests from the two towns will celebrate big, for Anne's reach here—the high schools merged years ago—is rich and long.

And after that? Happily ever after, what else? This is what we all believe, because if my family has learned anything from our intermittent sorrows, it is this.

As I drive over the Mexico-Rumford bridge on the way to a house Anne has bought with her groom, the valley opens like a coat I can't wait to put on. The cleaned-up river makes its old ribboning trail. The mill—now, as then—hunkers on the riverbank, outsize witness to my childhood. The Oxford, with its bruising power to give and take, was my first metaphor. I pull over to give it a good look.

I was there,
it tells me, still pushing smoke signals into the sky. Beneath those clouds, I experienced the shock of loss, the solace of family, the consolation of friendship, the power of words, the comfort of place. Beneath those clouds, I learned that there is, as my birthday Bible instructed me at age ten, a time for every season. Beneath those clouds, my parents died before their time. But they lived here, too, thankful for their chance.

The sign across the river says NewPage, after the investment company that bought out Mead-Westvaco, which bought out Mead, which bought out Boise-Cascade, which bought out Ethyl, which bought out the Oxford. They've just shut down the Number Ten—temporarily; again—another two hundred jobs gone. The mill looks like an animal that has outlived its ecosystem. Huge, beached, but still breathing. When did it cease to sound like God and instead like an old man wheezing?
Puff .
.
 . puff .
.
 . oooom,
it says, sighing over what might be its last generation of children, most of whom, like me, will make a break for it when they come of age and spend the rest of their lives looking back.

Of course they will. There is such joy here. The day is chilly, the sky so high, the steam clouds shaking with memory.

Thank you,
I tell the dying beast.
I forgive you.

Gail Hochman, my brilliant and tireless agent, read multiple drafts of this book and made it so much better every time. Bless you, Gail, for this and everything.

Many thanks to the good people of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, who embraced me as a new author. Deanne Urmy, my compassionate editor, thank you for your fierce devotion to this book. I'm so glad we've met at last. Much appreciation to copyeditor Barbara Wood, whose excellent work saved me from public disgrace, and to Martha Kennedy
and Brian Moore for their thoughtful design. Thanks also to production editor Beth Burleigh Fuller, for making it all work.

Dan Abbott lived this book with me; thank you, sweetheart.

I thank also my angelic sisters—Anne, Catherine, and Elizabeth—for allowing me to write about them so deeply. And my big brother, Barry, for adding to the final polish, not to mention for all the music over the years.

It takes a village to write a book about a village. I'm indebted to so many people for sharing their knowledge and memories. The librarians at the Rumford Public Library, especially Sharon Madore, had to set me up anew on a balky microfiche every time I came in. The ladies at the Rumford Historical Society—Dru Breton and Myrtle McKenna—offered ongoing good cheer and allowed me to look at original copies of the
Rumford Falls Times
from the 1960s, which helped me immeasurably. The Mexico Historical Society offered me my first chance to speak publicly about my book, which led me to people who once worked with my father. Tiny historical societies like these exist all over America, usually run by volunteers who have taken on the thankless task of preserving the story of us. If your town has one, for God's sake, give them some money.

Many thanks to Mike Madore, for so patiently talking me through the papermaking process; to Harry Carver, for sharing his memories of my father and his work; and to Lucienne (Gagnon) Buckingham, for granting me a poignant afternoon in her kitchen to reminisce about sewing shoes. Norma (Hickey) Berry answered my questions by return e-mail, sent me photographs of the Wood girls as children, and added details to my recollection of our colorful landlords. I owe more to Theresa Vaillancourt than I can ever express, but I thank her here specifically for saving my first completed book,
Omer and Brownie,
all these years. And to Denise Vaillancourt, who cried her way through early drafts, just as I predicted: Denise, your friendship is my treasure.

Wes McNair first urged me to write about my hometown for the anthology
A Place Called Maine,
published by Down East Books. I'm so grateful. My pal Amy MacDonald accompanied me, at a nearby table in the University of New England library, throughout the writing of this book. Hannah Holmes offered tea and sympathy (wine and sympathy, to be precise) at critical junctures. Susan Nevins came up with the title and offered me her camp at Moosehead for the writing of Chapters 4 and 5. And I owe an unrepayable debt to Polly Bennell, who picked me up at a low, low point and coached me through the beginning, the middle, and the end. Polly, you have no idea.

Last, another nod to my sister Catherine, whose memories can hardly be separated from mine. She made me start all over again, from a first draft that read like an appliance manual.
Ecana egala
forever, Cath.