“Today, I found a bunch of lilacs lying next to her. Now I’m wondering if we’ve got a local shrine on our hands.”
Joyce felt shy about asking her neighbors what to do with the statue. She couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask the two guys who lived next door, even though they always smiled and said hi when they walked their golden retriever.
“So how do I deep-six the Mother of God without pissing off the whole block or starting a pogrom?”
Kathleen laughed. The sound pleased Joyce immensely.
“I think you might want to call in a priest,” said Kathleen.
“I don’t need an exorcism, do I?” Joyce said in mock horror. “Her head isn’t spinning around or anything like that.”
“Oh, no. I just think you might need help in getting the BVM out of there respectfully.”
“The BMW?”
“Blessed Virgin Mary,” Kathleen said. “Try the priest over at St. Rita’s.”
“I’ve always wondered about Saint Rita. Is she the patron saint of waitresses or meter maids or what?”
Kathleen laughed again. “There’s a million saints I’ve never heard of, but I’m pretty sure Saint Rita is the patron of matrimonial trouble.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I really think so. Whoever she was, St. Rita’s is near your house, so that’s the parish priest to contact.”
“Okay then. I’ll call him.”
Kathleen stopped and faced out to sea. Her right hand shaded her eyes and then she pointed to the horizon. “He’s out late.”
“He?”
“The sailboat.”
Joyce hunted for the boat. The thumbnail-sized sail seemed stuck against the sky, like a scrap of white paper on a pale blue bulletin board.
“What a day,” said Kathleen, studying the distance.
In the silence, Joyce wondered if Kathleen was thinking about her cancer. She wanted so much to be a worthy friend, a confidante.
“Father Sherry!” Kathleen said suddenly.
“What?”
“That’s the name of the priest at St. Rita’s. I met him last year at some school event. I remember thinking what a funny name he had. Father Sherry. It reminded me of that old priest in Going My Way who was always taking a medicinal nip. Not that this man is anything like Barry Fitzgerald.
“Father Sherry is in his late forties, a big man. And he belongs to a diving club. I saw him once over at Folly Cove wearing a wet suit. I thought it was so funny — a diving priest.”
“With or without the clerical collar?” asked Joyce.
“You call Father Sherry. He’ll know what to do.”
They had reached the far end of the beach, where the sandbar out to Salt Island was fully exposed.
“You know, in all the years of coming here, I’ve never been up there,” said Joyce, pointing to the top of the island.
“There’s nothing there but the view. And a sense of accomplishment,” said Kathleen. “I used to take the boys. They hated that I made them bring shoes and socks and long pants. But they never once got poison ivy when I was with them. I’ll take you sometime.”
“That would be great.”
“Do you want to walk out now?”
“I should get home,” Joyce sighed. “Frank is cooking.”
They turned to start back. “It’s always amazing to me how big this beach is,” Joyce said. “The walk from the bridge never feels that far, but when I get all the way down here, it looks twice the distance. It’s like two totally different places.”
“Rachel Carson has a wonderful line about how the shore has a dual nature,” said Kathleen.
“Silent Spring?”
“No. It was in a book about the ocean. She said the seashore was, let me see if I can remember it, a place of unrest, of dual natures. It’s wet and dry. Old as the earth, but never exactly the same from one tide to the next.”
“Like people,” said Joyce.
“You don’t think people are the same from one day to the next?”
“Well, biologically they’re not. We’re not. I mean, we’re made of water, and that’s always in flux. Don’t you think that’s what she meant?”
“I suppose so,” Kathleen said. “Do you think people have a dual nature?”
“Do you mean good and evil? I’m not that much of a philosopher,” Joyce said, pausing. “But we’re all living and dying at the same time. Cells dividing, making more cells, shedding the old ones.” She stopped, worried that she’d said something wrong.
They lapsed into silence and picked up the pace a little. A jogger approached and breezed past with a wave.
“I think we’re eating fish tonight,” Kathleen said. “Buddy finally caught something big enough to eat.”
“Who cleans them?”
“He does. And he cooks them.”
“Frank likes to cook, too.”
“Tell me about Frank,” said Kathleen. “And what kind of name is Frank for a nice Jewish boy?”
“His birth certificate says Franklin, after FDR. The Democratic Party was his family’s real religion.”
“And how did you two meet?”
“At a party. I liked the way he danced. And then I liked the way we danced together.”
“Sounds very romantic,” Kathleen said. “I met Buddy at a dance, too. But he didn’t dance, and neither did I. We found each other in the wallflower seats.”
“That’s pretty romantic, too. And since you brought it up, what about your name, Kathleen Levine?”
“That’s Kathleen Mary Elizabeth McCormack Levine. I converted before I married Buddy.”
“Was your family okay with that?”
“Yes,” said Kathleen, remembering Pat’s roses. “It was okay, even for my sister the Sister. Did I tell you that my sister was a nun?”
“No. Are you close?”
“Pat died of breast cancer.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I have a different kind, as all my doctors like to remind me.” Kathleen briefly described her diagnosis and treatment.
“It sounds like you’re going to be okay.”
“It’s not a death sentence. I won’t even lose my hair.”
“You have beautiful hair,” Joyce said.
“Thanks. I’m still pretty vain about it. And I wanted to thank you for what you said the other day.”
“What did I say?”
“About not letting anyone tell me this wasn’t an ordeal.”
“Oh. You mean, that it sucks.”
“You have such a way with words. I guess that’s why you’re the professional writer,” said Kathleen. “The radiology doctor told me to go for walks by the ocean during these treatments. It was the only decent part of that whole awful day.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” said Joyce.
“Count your blessings that you can’t.”
On the bridge, they stopped to lean over the railing, elbows almost touching, looking down to the riverbed, the wet sand waiting for the return of the tide. “Sometimes I think I can hear the difference,” said Joyce. “When the tide’s going out, the pebbles get dragged. So the sound is a little lighter coming in.”
Kathleen cocked her head to listen and nodded.
Joyce asked Kathleen for a ride home, and as she slid into the car, Kathleen said, “Next time, you have to tell me about how you did the research for Magnolia’s Heart.”
“Oh, my God. How did you find out?”
“Never underestimate the powers of a librarian in the age of the Internet.”
“You looked me up?”
“I bought a copy yesterday.”
Joyce covered her face with her hands. “Please, just rip the cover off, okay?”
“That is quite a pair of pants he’s wearing.”
“You noticed?”
“They took out a piece of breast. My eyes are fine. For your next cover, they could take a picture of my radiology doctor.”
“Do tell.”
br /> Kathleen tried to do justice to the surpassing beauty of Dr. Singh during the short drive to the Tabachniks’ house. As they pulled up, Joyce pointed to the statue and said, “Let me introduce you.”
They stood on either side of Mary in silence for a moment. Kathleen bent down to pick up the crown of plastic flowers, which had fallen to the ground.
“My sister disliked this sort of thing: the crowns, the May processionals, all that. She said it made Mary into a kind of beauty queen. Pat thought of her as one tough cookie, a fierce soul. But I think Pat was the fierce one. She projected herself onto the Blessed Mother.”
Joyce didn’t know what to say. “Jews know so little about Mary. Or Jesus for that matter. How do we get away with that, living in this culture?”
“I don’t know,” said Kathleen. “Fear? Defensiveness?”
Joyce tried to look at the statue defenselessly. The half smile on the Virgin’s face was pensive. Back erect, head inclined to the right, she seemed to be listening. She held her hands at an intentional angle, like a dancer, her fingers reaching, inviting you to approach. It was a gesture of welcome that seemed both formal and genuine. Nice body language. Gentle and still. Attentive. The mother we all wish for.
“She’s always young, isn’t she?” said Joyce.
“What?” Kathleen had been thinking about the way Pat had prayed over Danny’s body after the doctor had removed the ventilator.
“Mary is always young in these statues, isn’t she? Firm chin, no wrinkles, no regrets.”
“No regrets,” repeated Kathleen. “I never thought of that. Maybe that’s why I’m not a Catholic anymore.” Joyce had no idea what Kathleen meant, but she didn’t ask her to explain. It seemed too personal a question — like asking to see the tattoos on her breast.
They parted with promises to walk again.
From the rearview mirror, Kathleen watched Joyce wave goodbye. She looks sad, Kathleen thought. I’ll call her tomorrow.
KATHLEEN SAT ON the deck and counted seven pots of sweet william. I guess that’s one good thing about getting older, she thought. Everyone knows your favorite flowering annual.
Buddy had brought home two big plants from the supermarket, Hal had shipped one, Madge Feeney had collected money and sent one from the staff, the principal had sent over another on his own. Louisa from next door left hers on the porch with an envelope containing three marijuana cigarettes and a note that read, “Proven appetite booster.” Jeanette wired her flowers from Florida with a printed card that said only, “Get Well Soon.”
Kathleen decided she’d plant the whole bunch in one big clump near the lone granite boulder in the front yard. They would make a great shout of magenta in one of the few spots she hadn’t filled with daylilies. But not just this minute.
She leaned back in the chaise, put her feet up, and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warmth on her forehead, her nose, her forearms. Kathleen had never been much of a sunbather, but she knew that once she started radiation, she’d avoid the sun, even though no one at the clinic had said she had to take extraordinary precautions.
“I’m thinking about gardening by the light of the moon and grocery shopping at midnight,” she said to Hal and Jack, both of whom had taken to calling every night.
She lingered for a few minutes on this golden morning and savored the smell of new mulch.
The book slipped off her lap and landed with a thud. Kathleen was nervous about starting Magnolia’s Heart and regretted having told Joyce she knew the identity of Cleo Lehigh. What if it was really bad? Could she lie convincingly if she had to? Could she be a friend to the writer of a bad book? And if not, what kind of person did that make her?
As she reached for the paperback, the phone rang. Saved, she thought, jumping up.
A familiar voice introduced herself as Michelle Hertz and Kathleen tried to summon a face. “I found out that we live in practically the same neighborhood and I wondered if you’d like some company.”
Kathleen suddenly remembered the young rabbi.
“Or if this isn’t a convenient time . . . ,” the rabbi said.
“No, of course. Please,” Kathleen insisted. “Come join me for iced tea.”
Rabbi Hertz said she’d be there in a few minutes. “And don’t make a fuss. I won’t stay long, and I promise not to pray or anything.”
Kathleen washed the breakfast dishes. She wiped down the counters, pulled out a couple of tall tumblers, sliced an orange, and picked two sprigs of mint from a pot on the windowsill. Was this a pastoral visit? The only other time a rabbi had been in her home was after Danny died.
Glancing out to check the tidiness of the deck, she noticed Magnolia’s Heart on the chair. Forgive me, Joyce, she thought as she hid it under a stack of magazines. I suppose I’m hopelessly conventional, but I really don’t want the rabbi to think of me as a randy old lady.
The doorbell rang a moment later.
“See? I really am right in the neighborhood,” Michelle said, taking both of Kathleen’s hands in hers. She wore a long khaki shift and stylish black sandals that showed off crimson toenails. “I didn’t realize that you were the one with the incredible rock garden.”
Kathleen led her through the house — a thirty-year-old split-level, furnished with big, comfortable chairs and local antiques. The rabbi slowed down to look at the family photographs that covered the hallway walls, but Kathleen moved ahead, eager to show off the beautiful part of her home. The kitchen sliders led onto a relatively new redwood deck that overlooked the steep yard. Flowers bloomed around the granite boulders, jutting up at odd angles on the hill.
“This is spectacular,” Michelle said. “And the rocks are like sculptures, aren’t they? What’s that deep blue flower over there?”
“Lobelia.”
“And the yellow?”
“Alyssum. But you have to come see it once the rest of the lilies are blooming. The whole place comes to life.”
“No vegetables?”
“A few tomato plants, a little basil and parsley.” Kathleen led the rabbi back toward the table, set with iced tea and cookies.
“I didn’t mean for you to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble.” Kathleen felt her cancer take one of the empty chairs. She hated the way her mind worked these days.
“Ah,” said the rabbi after taking a long drink. “That’s perfect. What did you put in here? Mint?”
Kathleen nodded. “I grow my own. Though actually, mint grows itself.”
“Nice.” After another sip, Michelle put down her glass, took a breath, and leaned forward. “But I have to confess to an ulterior motive in visiting.”
“What is that, Rabbi?” said Kathleen, smiling at how lightly the title sat upon this young-enough-to-be-her-daughter woman.
“It’s the library in the temple.”
Kathleen frowned. “But there is no library in the temple.”
“Exactly. It’s a shame, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes. We tried to get one going but, oh, that was a long time ago.”
“I know. I was reading through old board minutes; you were on that subcommittee.”
“You’re reading minutes from the early seventies? That must be pretty dull.”
“You’d be amazed how much history you can pick up from them, and from the old temple bulletins. I’m the new kid in town. I have lots to learn.”
Kathleen wondered if this was the rabbi’s way of telling her that she knew about Danny. It was so strange to meet people, to know them for years even, without their having a clue about the death of her second child. She never spoke of him. Not even to Buddy — especially not to Buddy, who couldn’t bear to hear Danny’s name.
She thought about Danny every day. In the garden. On the beach. At school, when one of the kindergartners giggled in the same key. Did Buddy think of him like that, or was it just a mother thing?
Michelle Hertz let the silence last for a moment, gazing at the potted flowers on the deck. “By the w
ay, I did say that prayer for you.
“I only used your Hebrew name; that’s also in the records. Rabbi Flacks saved everything. With your permission, I’ll keep saying it through the summer.”
Kathleen looked at her glass.
“I know I’m young,” said Michelle gently, “but I am no stranger to illness. Let me know if I can help or if there’s something the congregation can do. And I mean anything from dropping off food to driving you to appointments, to just coming over to say hi. Okay?”
“It’s nice of you. But from what I hear, the radiation isn’t too debilitating. That’s all I have to endure right now.”
“Well, whatever you need, we’re here for you.” Michelle took a cookie, broke it in half, put it down again. “And if you feel up to it, I want to ask you to help me make a library for the temple.”
Kathleen was startled. She shook her head, starting to make her excuses, but the rabbi spoke first. “I just received a donation of five thousand dollars specifically for the library. That’s a lot of money for a collection that, as of today, includes about one hundred mostly outdated books with broken spines and torn pages. I’d like to make a big announcement about it, call the newspaper, the whole schmear. But I don’t want to do that until I have a committee in place. Since you’re the only professional librarian in the congregation, you’re the natural choice.”
Kathleen pressed her lips together and tried not to look annoyed.
“You would be the official chair, but there would be no meetings, I promise, and no heavy lifting, of course. I have a bunch of young moms who volunteered to do shelving and carding and stuff like that. There are a couple of contractors in the temple who’ve agreed to build new bookcases. I need help on the children’s section. I can suggest plenty of titles for the adult collection, but I know almost nothing about children’s books. Someday I hope to” — Michelle shrugged — “but not yet.
“I know there are loads of new Jewish books for kids, and I’d like to make sure we’d be getting the best. The donor actually stipulated one-quarter of the gift for the children’s section. So what do you say?”
Kathleen was put out. Here she thought she was getting a nice pastoral visit from the rabbi, when she was actually being recruited for a fairly big job. She knew nothing about Jewish books for children, though, of course, she could learn, and she did know quality.