Then Came Heaven (13 page)

Now she was in church, sitting behind the three empty rows of pews reserved for the family, and even with her back to the door, she knew they were here at last. Distant light flooded in from the rear, meaning the double doors had been propped open as they always were for funerals.

She waited with a sorrowful yearning that surprised her, for the first glimpse of them. Sister Samuel played the organ very softly in a minor key. The whisper of Father’s cassock and the squeak of his shoes reached her even before he did. The funeral procession finally passed by her pew: an altar boy leading the way carrying a crucifix on a long wooden pole; Father Kuzdek wearing black vestments and flanked by two altar boys; behind them the pallbearers, three of Krystyna’s brothers, the rest all Olczaks, all thick, strapping fellows who looked out of place stuffed into suits and ties. And finally there was Mr. Olczak, holding a hand of each of his children, moving slowly, slowly. When Lucy came abreast of her teacher and classmates, she covertly signaled 
hi
 as she was shepherded along. Sister Regina’s heart swelled with so much pity and love it caused a physical ache in her breast, and she felt persecuted at being unable to show it. Then the children moved past and she caught a glimpse of Mr. Olczak’s lorn face as he directed them into a front pew.

The Mass began.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord...

The children sang in hesitant Latin, the prayers for the dead were lengthy and Sister Regina’s children grew fidgety, too young to understand the import of this Mass and its full impact on two of their classmates. She had to reach over the pew in front of her and nudge two of the boys who were beginning to leg and shoulder each other and instigate some sort of silent combat over territorial pew rights. The older schoolchildren received Communion while hers remained in their seats, too young yet to participate. When Mr. Olczak left his children to go up to the Communion rail, Lucy again turned around to make eye contact with those behind her. Sister could tell the little girl had been crying. When Mass ended, Father Kuzdek donned his black cope and prayed at the foot of the coffin, then circled it, sprinkling holy water and swinging the gold censer until the smell of the incense became so overpowering it burned Sister Regina’s throat.

Then the service was over and the exit from church began, once again in procession, accompanied by the intermittent tolling of the single mournful bell which would continue until the hearse pulled away from the curb and headed for the cemetery. In the vestibule the coffin was opened so that those who knew and loved Krystyna could glimpse her one last time.

Sister Regina had no chance for a last glimpse. She and the other nuns took their pupils out a side door and back to school, where it was time for noon lunch and recess. But she could not eat, nor could she face the idea of romping on the playground while Krystyna Olczak was being buried. She wanted to be at the graveside, to say final prayers and 
feel
 the final goodbye. She needed the mingling just as Krystyna’s friends and family did. But Holy Rule would not allow it, nor could her students be abandoned.

She found Mother Superior on her way to the refectory and asked permission to be excused from noon dinner and recess.

Mother Agnes said, “It’s best to remain with the community as much as possible, even at times when you’re troubled.”

“Yes, Mother,” she replied meekly.

After a moment’s thought, Mother Agnes said, “Nevertheless, I give my permission. Please see that you’re back in your classroom at one o’clock.”

“Yes, Mother. Thank you. Praise be to Jesus.”

“Amen.”

Sister Regina went upstairs to the chapel. Her stomach growled and her knees hurt as she knelt on the hard priedieu, but she offered up her discomforts for the repose of the soul of Krystyna Olczak, and for herself that she might recapture the zeal she had once had for her vocation. She prayed that she might become more obedient, and open her heart to God more and to the plight of the Olczak family less. That she might embrace poverty and not wish for a clock in every classroom, and that she would stop airing her dissatisfactions with certain members of her religious community—especially discussing them with Sister Dora—and would accept each and every one of her sisters lovingly, no matter what their faults. But most fervently she prayed that she would stop thinking of Mr. Olczak so much, especially in the dark after lights out.

She prayed the long Miserere, and six Our Fathers and Hail Marys and Glory Be’s, offering up these, too, for all the suffering of the world. And all the while she prayed, that single bell kept tolling once every thirty seconds, and each time it did it brought Mr. Olczak’s face sharp and clear into her mind, until at last there was silence and she knew that everyone had left the church and the doors of the hearse had closed and borne Krystyna away to the cemetery.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When the funeral was over they all said, “Oh, Eddie, come on out to the farm for a few days, come to our place, don’t stay at the house alone”—his folks, her folks, his brothers and sisters. But Eddie had no desire to leave his house. Besides, what good would it do? It would only delay the inevitable loneliness. Nor had he any desire to put off going back to work. Idleness only made the time pass slower.

He asked his girls, “Anne, Lucy, do you want to stay home from school tomorrow? ’Cause you can if you want to. You can go out to Grandma Pribil’s or out to Grandma Olczak’s for a few days.”

“Will you come, too?” Anne asked.

“No, sunshine. It’s time for me to go back to work. I’ve been off for four days and that’s long enough.”

“Then I want to go home with you.”

“Me, too,” Lucy seconded.

Irene overheard and approached Eddie hesitantly. “What are you going to do with them in the morning when you have to ring the bells and be at church before they leave the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“I could come, Eddie... I could come any day, every day actually, and feed them breakfast and get them ready for school.”

“Aw, no, Irene, that’s asking too much.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I know how Krystyna took care of them and I can do the same. I know where their things are in the house, and how she set their hair and combed it, and what color hair ribbon goes with which dress—she set a lot of store by those things, Eddie, and I could do all of that. I’d be happy to.”

“But you’d have to drive in from the farm every day.”

“Four miles, what’s that? And I can take Dad’s old truck. He doesn’t mind.”

Anne peered up at her daddy and tugged on his hand. “Can she, Daddy?”

Irene added, “I even know what they like for breakfast—Coco-Wheats, real thin, cooked with milk instead of water. Who else knows their routine the way I do?”

Lucy repeated, “Can she, Daddy, pleeease?”

Eddie ignored the warning that sheered through his mind and disappeared with his sister-in-law’s words. He was so tired. The funeral had been depleting, and he hadn’t slept well for four nights, with the girls sleeping with him till he carried them to their own bed. Furthermore, he’d been wondering what to do about the kids being alone in the mornings. Physically and emotionally spent as he was, Eddie found it easy to accept Irene’s solution.

“Well, all right, Irene. I won’t be able to pay you much, but I’d—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be silly, Eddie. I wouldn’t take one red cent if you begged me. These are my nieces and I love them. I loved Krystyna, too.” She didn’t say, 
and I love you, too,
 but she thought it, thought it with a catch in her heart as she examined his exhausted face and the eyes that had lost their sparkle.

He squeezed her arm, half on her sleeve, half on her bare skin, and said, “Thanks, Irene,” sending shivers clear through her.

________

That night he filled the bathtub for the girls, laid out their clean nightclothes and let them bathe themselves. Lucy got into Krystyna’s Forever Spring talcum powder and, with the help of a fluffy white puff, managed to dust not only herself, but the entire bathroom. He had to wipe it down with a wet cloth, and the scent, when dampened, intensified as if Krystyna had walked into the room. The reminder of her was almost more than he could take.

When he finished cleaning up the bathroom, he found the girls in his bed. Anne was reading to Lucy from 
Old Mother Westwind:
 “Why Jimmy Skunk Wears Stripes.” It was one of their favorite books, one Krystyna had read to them nearly every night. His heart took a turn as he looked at Anne and thought, 
Oh, sweet little girl, you don’t have to try to fill in for your mother.

Relegating them to their own room, especially tonight, after their mother’s funeral, seemed a heartless thing to do, yet he feared their becoming too dependent and attached to him. Furthermore, he was so exhausted he needed to have his bed to himself. If he felt like crying he wanted privacy to do so. If he felt like getting up in the middle of the night and prowling around in the moonlight, he didn’t want kids waking up.

“Listen, girls, tonight I think it’s time you go back into your own room.”

“Nooo!” Lucy wailed. “I like it in here!”

“We want to stay with you. I don’t like it in there without Mommy.”

“But Mommy didn’t stay in there with you.”

“But she always tucked us in.”

“I’ll come and tuck you in.” Often in the past he had done this as well, but there were certain times of the day when they missed Krystyna more, and bedtime was the worst.

Anne’s lower lip began trembling and two plump tears sprouted on her lower eyelids. “I want Mommy back,” she said.

Lucy, forever parroting Anne, stuck out her lower lip and said, “I want Mommy back, too.”

In the end he let them have their way because it was easier than watching them cry for Krystyna. They insisted on having him in the middle, and by the time they fell asleep their warm little bodies were crowding his, sticking as if slathered with wallpaper paste. He waited nearly half an hour to make sure they were slumbering soundly before carrying them to their own room.

Back in his bed, alone, he lay wide-eyed, exhausted but unable to sleep, considering the monumental change his life had undergone. Loneliness—that was constant. And indescribable. More consuming than first love had been with her. He rolled to his side and pressed his wrist into Krystyna’s cool pillow, cursing himself for how smug he’d been in his satisfaction with life as it was before, humbled by the suddenness with which that smugness was snatched away. There were worries, too—a stack of dirty clothes in the bathroom hamper and nobody to wash and iron them; tomorrow night’s supper and nobody to cook it; the girls coming home from school at four o’clock in the afternoon and nobody here to watch them till he got home, to have warm cookies waiting, and an admonition to change their clothes before going out to play. Could he leave them unattended every day for an hour and a half? They were only eight and nine years old—he didn’t think so. He might be able to cook supper himself every night, but he couldn’t accomplish much between five-thirty and six when he had to run back to church to ring the Angelus; so supposing he started cooking after that, it would be eight o’clock or later before the supper dishes were done. And after dishes he still had to see to their baths, and get them ready for bed, and read to them.

There were other worries, too. Anne would make her First Communion in the spring. That meant memorizing her catechism, which Krystyna had been helping her with, and special white dresses and veils, and long white stockings and white shoes. How would he do it? How could he do it all?

The truth was, he couldn’t. Not without Irene.

________

Irene showed up at seven o’clock the next morning. He was only half-dressed and ran downstairs to answer the door with his shirttails flying. Irene was wearing makeup and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

He left her downstairs building a fire in the kitchen range, and closed his bedroom door when he heard her coming up to awaken the girls.

By the time he finished getting dressed, made up his bed and went downstairs, she had cooked hot Coco-Wheats for the girls and oatmeal, coffee and toast for him. The table was set with a crisply ironed floral luncheon cloth, and his favorite oversized cup, cream and sugar were all set out, waiting. The girls were in their places, still in their pajamas, but their school shoes were lined up on the cabinet, freshly wiped off, and on top of each pair, a freshly laundered handkerchief. Beside each of their cereal bowls she had put one of their daily vitamin pills.

He came up short in the kitchen doorway, surveying the perfect duplication of Krystyna’s morning routine, and suddenly it struck him what she was doing. He wanted to shout, 
Get out! I’ll do it myself! You’re not Krystyna, so don’t try to pretend to be!
 But he needed her. And what if he was wrong? What if she was merely trying to cheer herself up by putting on makeup after five days of too much crying? What if she was only trying to get the girls through these first few days without their mother by presenting the illusion that things would go on as before? What if it was a great imposition for her to volunteer to come here every morning, and he jumped on her for something about which he was totally wrong? It would embarrass them both to the point where they’d probably never be able to look each other in the eye again.

When he stopped in the kitchen doorway, she looked over at him and flushed. “I uh... I think you like oatmeal... um, right?” she stammered, as if unsure of her footing.

“Uh... yes. Yes! Oatmeal’s fine.” He stepped into the room and pulled out his chair. “Thanks, Irene.”

When he sat, she didn’t, but stood near the kitchen sink, rubbing her hands together and watching him doctor up his coffee. He grew uneasy being watched, set down his cup and gave her a baffled look. “Aren’t you eating anything?” Her forearms flew up as if someone had pushed her from behind. “Oh, I ate at home.”