Stony River (21 page)

Dearie lowered her sore heinie onto the bench in front of her dressing table. Some girlies called it a vanity—a fitting name for something only good for looking at yourself. She rolled down her support hose and rubbed her cramped toes, then burrowed them into the thick pink carpet. She'd been on her dogs too long tonight and the pain got her thinking about turning a few shifts over to Ladonna if the girl didn't take off for NewYork like she kept saying she would.

“Ain't just me that's happy she's still around. The boy's been better since she came. He don't seem stuck on her—can't say I'm surprised—so I don't see no harm in her staying. And she's a lulu, makes me laugh. Didn't realize how little laughing goes on in this house till she came along. Oh, she's got her secrets down in the basement, all right, but so far they ain't spelled trouble.”

Dearie picked up her tortoise-shell brush and ran its soft bristles carefully over her thinning hair. She used a stiffer brush on Ladonna's coiled-up mess. “You'd get a kick out of her, Alfie. ‘I'll hire you as my personal blackhead and tangle remover when I'm a movie star,' she says. I'm thinking movie stars must have a terrible need to be loved.”

Buddy must have seen that, too, with that sensitive side his
teacher spoke of. It had surprised Dearie when that little girly with the brave face and scared eyes showed up. Buddy didn't usually have time for anything but exercising, school and the A&P. Got real upset if he thought he'd done less than his teachers, his boss or Charles Atlas expected. Until Ladonna, Dearie didn't know he'd even had any friends besides her grandnephew, Richard, who didn't count since he was family. She didn't want to discourage Buddy.

She took off her specs, slip and brassiere. Opened the jar of cream with the nice violet stink and smeared her face, the lizard skin on her neck and the rough patches on her elbows. She pulled her pink flannel nightgown over her head and settled into bed. The cool sheets were always a jolt at first. Even after all this time, she still half-expected Alfie's long warm toes to reach for her under the covers. “Abyssinia,” they'd say to each other before drifting off to sleep.

She reached over and turned off the bedside table lamp.

“Abyssinia, you old patootie,” she said into the darkness.

NINE

APRIL 9, 1956
. The mass for the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary is over and the chapel nearly empty. Miranda remains, lost in wonder at being both within and outside herself. She can see her body kneeling in prayer before the altar even while she senses her spirit rising above it.
Don't be afraid,
the Voice tells her. She feels a powerful pulsing of love in her veins as Danú appears in the rafters, wearing a green and silver gown, a snake curled around her waist like a sash.
Blessed are you among women,
she says in a voice like night whispers.
You have been chosen to nurture my child to greatness
. As suddenly as she materialized, the goddess evaporates, leaving a rapturous pain in Miranda's womb. With sudden clarity, she views her body, now bathed in purple light, as the sacred vessel it is.

She sees Father Shandley slip into the pew in which she prays. He touches her arm, lifts her wrist and cries out. Sisters Diane Patrice and Celine are the only other ones in the chapel. Their skirts whoosh as they dash to Father Shandley's side. How dear they are to Miranda at this moment, their own vessels glowing yellow, orange and pink.

“She's cold as night,” Father Shandley says. He pulls off his white chasuble and wraps it around her shoulders, clasps her body to his chest and rocks it roughly. Miranda falls back into her body with a gasp, an acidic taste rising from her throat to her mouth. She opens her eyes and speaks into the embroidered gold cross on the white
linen amice atop Father Shandley's black shirt. “I saw her and felt his life enter my womb.”

Sister Celine gently eases her from Father Shandley's grasp and briskly rubs Miranda's blue hands. “Whose life, dear?”

“Cian's.” Warmth re-enters Miranda's body but she trembles at the realization that she's finally done it: turned off her rational mind as the Voice of James urged, gone back in time and experienced the precise moment the father god Dagda planted his seed.

“Whom did you see?” Father Shandley asks.

“The Mother Goddess.” The goddess of rivers, of birth and beginning.

“The Blessed Virgin,” Sister Diane Patrice says, crossing herself.

“Let's not rush to conclusions,” Sister Celine says. “Sometimes a dream is only a dream.”

“It wasn't a dream, Sister.” Danú's appearance was sharp and unequivocal.

The rumor that Miranda has seen Mary spreads quickly among the nuns that afternoon as Sister Diane Patrice tells one, then another, “The Holy Ghost entered her. I knew right away.”

Mother Alfreda sends for Miranda. Inmates summoned for discipline usually wait on a bench outside her office, but a sister ushers Miranda in directly to a hard-backed chair in front of a wide oak desk. A large brass crucifix commands the white wall behind the desk and a tall oak bookcase the adjoining wall. The desk holds a green blotter, writing pad, pen and inkwell, telephone and two framed pictures: one of St. Bernadette in peasant-like head scarf and shawl and the other of the Blessed Virgin Mary pointing to a glowing, flaming heart on her chest. The office does not seem as small as Doris described; Miranda senses power and authority in it. She stands when the mother superior enters, as she's been taught, and remains standing until the woman sits behind the desk and nods her permission.

Miranda dips her head and drops back into her chair. “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

Mother Alfreda is a tall, big-boned woman with flaring nostrils and fine skin, her face as hard as the four-inch onyx crucifix between her breasts she uses to rap the heads of misbehaving inmates. She calls to mind James's description of the winter goddess Cailleach who could freeze the ground with a glance. James said Cailleach was to be fed with a long-handled spoon.

“I've been following your progress, Daughter,” Mother says. “The sisters tell me you cry for your son. That seeing him once a month is not enough for you.”

“I pray each day for his return, Reverend Mother.”

“Is he not doing well in fosterage? Not treated kindly?”

“Oh, aye, he seems content enough, but a child belongs with his mother.” Miranda recalls James's tale of the god of light holding a festival in his foster mother's honor. Cian shows up each month with new clothes and new words. He seems happy to see her but just as happy when their hour together is over. Miranda has to swallow back her jealousy.

“I ask you to be patient. Trust that Jesus and the angels are watching over you and your boy.” Mother Alfreda shifts in her chair, leans forward. “Now, tell me about your vision.”

The Voice says:
Careful, now
.

Mother Alfreda's smile is inscrutable as Miranda, without uttering Danú's name, describes the woman she saw. She does not speak of reliving the moment Cian entered her womb. The reverend mother would never believe that Miranda and James lay together only once. Or that it was divinely ordained. There would be room for only one savior in her mind.

“The Blessed Mother appears in many guises,” Mother Alfreda says. “Our own patron saint, Bernadette, saw the Virgin eighteen separate times without knowing who it was. You may have the
potential for holiness, Daughter. We will have to watch you closely and see.”

“Cian is the holy one,” Miranda says. He sends her his presence each day as night gives birth to dawn; she feels his soft skin and smells his dough-like sweetness.

“Every child is a divine gift.”

Mother Alfreda lays out orders: lest Miranda show a continued proclivity for losing a pulse, she will move to the infirmary where Sister Nurse can watch over her; she'll be excused from the classroom so that she won't be tainted by other inmates' cynicism and worldliness—Bernadette suffered much from people who didn't believe her; Sister Celine will guide Miranda's academic studies but Mother will personally nurture Miranda's spiritual growth with a future religious vocation in mind.

Miranda's mind is too muddled to ask if a woman with a child can have a religious vocation. She hopes her infirmary bed will be near a window and welcomes the prospect of lessons apart from girls who call her stupid and tell jokes she doesn't understand. She'll not miss the rows of desks with black metal legs or Red Rover Come Over. She has no talent for games.

A WEEK BEFORE
Miranda's vision, Linda had sauntered home from school with her books pressed against her chest and her jacket over her arm, feeling as puffed up as a blowfish but with gladness, not poison. Sunday had been the most inspiring Easter ever, the first since she became eligible to join River Street Methodist. She'd spent three hours in church on Good Friday, staring at the rough wooden cross leaning against the altar. She'd had to work at grieving, to be honest, at pretending it was she who'd been betrayed and humiliated and left to die of thirst. Worship is meant to be hard work, Reverend
Judge had told the new member class. You can't pop in, sing a couple of hymns and think you're done. Much like playing the piano, you have to learn the notes and practice every day. Linda had taken piano lessons for a while before losing interest. She wanted to be more faithful now at, well, being faithful.

On Easter morning, she'd gotten up in the dark and sat in the chilly park with the rest of the youth choir for the sunrise service, praying Jesus would say to Mother, “Take up your bed and follow me.” She prayed that Mother, who'd recently been in and out of the hospital with a suspected ulcer, would be dressed for church when Linda returned home. And she was! Later that morning the youth and adult choirs formed a procession and led the congregation in singing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.” The triumph of that song after Good Friday's sorrow choked her voice and made her cry. Daddy said the Holy Ghost had entered her. More likely it was that her period had arrived. Thank goodness it hadn't ruined her new satiny-finish dress and her first nylons.

She would stop by Rolf's corner store in case Richie was waiting for help with his latest comic. He liked her quirky ideas for speech bubbles. At Rolf's he'd often sit on the ice-cream freezer chest and draw until his behind got cold. Linda didn't remember exactly when she'd started going in with him or the first time he'd let her help.

The bell over Rolf's door went
chadup-bing-bing
. She smiled in anticipation, but no Richie. Only Rolf, restocking the Dixie cups and Popsicles. He looked up, grinned and said, “Cold vork.” He was a crinkly-old blob of beige skin and looked a hundred years old, but Linda supposed he was only half that. He'd been there as long as she could remember, a local celebrity due to the sheet cakes he made for birthdays and anniversaries—elaborate confections with icing roses and lemon filling. The store smelled different every day, depending on what he'd been cooking in his back rooms. Today, it smelled of coffee too long on the stove.