For the umpteenth time that week James has to improvise a criminal mind, for he doesn’t naturally have one. He turns off the gas, hauls his late wife upstairs and onto their bed, scrunches her rosary into her hands, then calls the doctor and the priest. This allows Materia to be buried next to Kathleen in the churchyard instead of in an unsanctified field somewhere — in the type of place where soldiers and suicides and unbaptized babies sit out eternity, some unholy No Man’s Land.
The Mass Card
May Jesus have mercy on the Soul of
Mrs James (Materia) Piper (née Mahmoud)
Died June 23, 1919
Age 33
“We have loved her in life. Let us not abandon her, until we have conducted her by our prayers into the house of the Lord.” ST. AMBROSE
Solace Art. Co. - 202 E. 44th St. N.Y.
Frances is going on six now. She has a number of questions regarding the mass card, but this is clearly not the time or place to raise them. Mercedes kneels next to her, crying and crying into her little white gloves, her hanky already drenched. Daddy’s face is frozen. If the wind changes it will stay that way for ever. Mrs Luvovitz, in a pew across the aisle, is crying behind her black veil. This is the first time Mrs Luvovitz has ever been inside a church. Mrs MacIsaac is there too, with dusty grapes on her hat. Frances decides the wind must have changed for her long ago. Filling in for Materia at the organ is Sister Saint Cecilia. Or at least it must be she within the flowing black robe beneath the Gothic skyline of starched white wimple. Frances thinks it logical that nuns wear cathedrals on their heads.
At the back of the church there is a phalanx of strangers. People with black curly hair, full features and smooth olive faces. These are some of Frances’s unknown relatives. Frances’s unknown Grandfather Mahmoud is not present. For him this funeral is redundant. Right now he’s locked in the back of his store, hunched on a plain wooden chair, apparently poring over a ledger.
Mr Benny-the-Butcher Luvovitz, Daddy and Mr MacIsaac are the pall-bearers. It’s all very much like Kathleen’s funeral a few days ago except for three things: Mumma was sitting at the church organ that day instead of lying in the box. And the scary old man who peered into Kathleen’s casket and muttered bad words in Mumma’s language, he’s not here. But most important, Frances has noticed at the very back, standing next to the dark little round woman with the grey bun, one tall lean figure: the dark lady who came with an envelope for Daddy and a candy for Frances a whole year and a bit ago. Teresa is here for some reason. Teresa the maid. Queen Teresa. Frances doesn’t listen when told to keep her eyes front, and has to be yanked around by Daddy, who will reserve proper punishment for home later on. If she hurries, perhaps Frances will be able to make it out of the church in time to run after the lady and hop into the taxi with her, never to return. They will drive off together into the land of black and white licorice peppermint rock candy.
“Eyes front!”
Frances is really going to get it after the funeral. She dares not sneak another look behind her at the woman of her dreams. So she concentrates on the mass card instead: ST AMBROSE. The name detaches itself from the card, leaving its holy prefix behind like a tail, and floats up into her mind, where it wafts about gently until it settles via some mysterious associative route upon the infant boy who died a few nights ago in her arms. Ambrose. Yes. That will be his name. Ambrose.
There have been three deaths in the space of one week at 191 Water Street. And two funerals. And three baptisms. And three burials. And two mass cards, identical, fill in the blanks. What a week. Enough to make you feel as though you’ve breathed laughing gas. And right now Frances wants very badly to laugh, she can’t tell why, except that it’s the single worst thing a person could do right about now. Oh no. Now that she has thought of laughing she can’t unthink it. She covers her face with her hands and grins. She tries to grin out the laughter. To exhale it silently, smoothly. But she starts to convulse and shake. She clamps her hands tighter against her face and gives in. She can no longer resist. It’s like the tide of pee when you’re outside playing and refuse to go inside and use the toilet — your water breaks and it’s both a blessed relief and the ultimate mortification.
Frances is spared the pee. But what could be worse than this outrageous hilarity at her mother’s funeral which comes two days after her sister’s funeral which came two days after all the baptisms and the death of — oh no, tears of laughter are darkening her white cotton gloves. Frances expects her father’s hand to grip the back of her neck, expects to be dragged in disgrace from the church. But what happens instead is a gentle pat upon her head — her father’s sympathetic hand, her sister’s offer of a sodden hanky. Frances is amazed. They think I’m crying.
Frances learns something in this moment that will allow her to survive and function for the rest of her life. She finds out that one thing can look like another. That the facts of a situation don’t necessarily indicate anything about the truth of a situation. In this moment, fact and truth become separated and commence to wander like twins in a fairy-tale, waiting to be reunited by that special someone who possesses the secret of telling them apart.
Some would simply say that Frances learned how to lie.
Of all her secrets, Ambrose was Frances’s biggest. He was also her greatest gift to Lily.
Cave Paintings
When the attic door finally gave way, James saw this silent portrait: Death and the Young Mother. It’s an overdone, tasteless, melodramatic painting. A folk painting from a hot culture. Naive. Grotesque. Authentic.
This is not a gauzy Victorian death scene. No fetishized feminine pallor, no agnostic slant of celestial light, no decorously distraught husband. This portrait is in livid colour. A crucified Christ hangs over a metal-frame single bed. On either side of the crucifix are two small pictures: one is of the Virgin Mary exposing her sacred heart aflame, the other is of her son Jesus, his heart likewise exposed and pierced to precious blood by a chain of thorns. They look utterly complaisant, Mother and Son. They have achieved a mutual plateau of exquisite suffering.
On the bed lies the Young Mother. Her eyes are closed. Her blonde-red hair is damp and ratty on the pillow. The sheets are black with blood. The centre of her body is ravaged. A plump dark woman who looks much older than thirty-three stands over her. This is the Grandmother. She holds two dripping infants trussed by the ankles, one in each hand, like a canny shopper guesstimating the weight of a brace of chickens. The Grandmother’s face looks straight out from the picture at the viewer.
If this were really a painting, there would also be a demon peering out from under the lid of the hope chest at the foot of the bed, looking to steal the Young Mother’s Soul. But he’d be pre-empted by her Guardian Angel waiting in the wings to guide her already departing Soul up to God. The Soul, half in, half out of the tomb of her body, is in very good condition, the hair freshly combed, the nightgown spotless, the face expressionless — the first divine divestiture has taken place, she has sloughed off her personality like an old skin. She won’t need it where she’s going. Above the crucifix, the wall has dematerialized. Clouds hover. Somewhere within is God, waiting.
But since this is not really a painting but a moment freeze-framed by James’s eye, the supernatural elements are, if present, invisible. There is the dead Young Mother, the Grandmother, the Infants, the Icons, the hope chest. What can you do with such a picture? You never want to see it again yet you can’t bring yourself to burn it or slash it to dust. You have to keep it.
Put it in the hope chest, James. Yes. That’s a good place for it. No one ever rummages in there. This is crazy, of course. You can’t stuff a memory of a moment into a real-life hope chest as if it were a family heirloom. But for a second James feels as though that’s what he’s looking at — an old portrait that he hid in the hope chest many years ago and just stumbled upon again. This temporary confusion is a premonition; it tells him that he will never get over this sight. That it will be as fresh fou
rteen years from now, the colours not quite dry, just as it is today.
James goes out of the room, but not far. His legs give way and he collapses outside the fallen door, unconscious. He doesn’t hear the first cries of the babies inside. The involuntary part of his mind does, though. It is just not conveying the message. It is keeping it on a crumpled piece of paper on the floor of its cave. It is taking a break, admiring its cave painting by the light of the dark.
A few moments later, James’s hand shoots out and fastens on Materia’s ankle, almost toppling her down the narrow staircase as she leaves the room. James’s mouth opens a split second before his eyes. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I’m gonna get the priest.”
“No you’re not.” He’s awake now.
“They gonna be baptized.”
“No they’re not.”
“They gotta be baptized.”
“No!” James roars.
“You gonna kill them, you gonna kill their souls, you’re the devil —”
She’s hitting him. Closed fists in his face. If the scissors were handy she wouldn’t bother to shut his eyes first — “Ebn sharmoota, kes emmak! Ya khereb bEytak, ya Hara’ deenak!” If the bayonet were near she would not hesitate. And God would understand. Why didn’t she think of this before? Materia too is awake now, after a nineteen-year slumber. She will kill him if she can.
James gets her wrists in a vise grip. His other hand clamps across her mouth. Her eyes roll back. James tells her, “Who’s the killer eh?! Who’s the killer?! God damn you, God damn you, damn you —” He begins to punctuate the curses by slowly slamming her head into the wall. Her eyes are trying to reason with him, but without the help of words her eyes become a horse’s eyes, as mute, as panicked. His tears are flowing now. His lips tripping on salt and snot, his nose bleeding, he’s retching out the most agonizing man-sobs, the wall is starting to conform to her skull. This time, however, he hears the tiny cries from inside. Like kittens. He picks up Materia and carries her three flights down to the coal cellar and locks her in. Then he goes for a walk. And many fast drinks, of course. Some of us are just not equipped for suicide. When we’re at the bottom, suicide is too creative an act to initiate.
Which leaves little Frances. At the bottom of the attic stairs. Based on her upbringing, and from what she has heard and seen tonight, one thing is clear: the babies up there must be baptized. But she has to be careful. She has to hurry. She mustn’t get caught. She stands at the bottom looking up.
The attic room has been a place of absolute peace and quiet for the past many months. Until tonight. Her oldest sister has lain up there not saying anything. Frances and Mercedes have been allowed in to read to her and to bring her trays of food. They have read Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Bleak House, Jane Eyre, What Katy Did, Little Women and every story in The Children’s Treasury of Saints and Martyrs. The two of them decided to look up the hard words next time around, rather than break up the reading aloud. They also got their mother to search out recipes for the invalid food found in What Katy Did and Little Women. “Blancmange” seems to be the favourite of languishing girls. They never do find out what it is. “White eat.” What would that taste like?
Frances knew Kathleen must be very ill because of the huge lump in her stomach. Mercedes told her it was a tumour. “We must pray for her.” Together Frances and Mercedes have prayed for Kathleen. They have made a little shrine and given up sweets for as long as it takes her to get well.
So here’s Frances at the bottom of the narrow attic staircase. She is almost six. She is not afraid of the dark. Besides, there’s a little light coming from that room. And she’s not alone. Her big sister, Kathleen, is up there. And so are the babies. The babies, which sound exactly like kittens. Frances is very fond of kittens. She’s in her bare feet. She’s got her white nightgown on and her hair is in two long french braids. She gets to the landing. She’s too small to be on eye level with the new depression in the wall; just as well. But what does it matter, she saw how it got there, and now the child is entering the room and she’s going to see everything. She’s stepping over the splintered caved-in door with her bare feet.
The difference between Frances and James is that, although she sees a version of the same horrible picture, Frances is young enough still to be under the greater influence of the cave mind. It will never forget. But it steals the picture from her voluntary mind — grand theft art — and stows it, canvas side to the cave wall. It has decided, “If we are to continue functioning, we can’t have this picture lying around.” So Frances sees her sister and, unlike her father, will forget almost immediately, but, like her father, will not get over it.
What Frances sees: the gore. The pictures over the bed. The scissors. And the babies, squirming slightly and mewing between Kathleen’s legs, where they have been wedged for safe-keeping until the priest can be dug up. So … the secret contents of Kathleen’s tumour, revealed; this gets filed under “Normal” in Frances’s mind.
Frances devises a way of carrying both babies: she spreads the front of her white nightie on the bed and places the slippery babies on it. She folds them into the fabric, making a cosy bundle. She cradles her bundle of babies and walks carefully all the way down two flights of stairs with her underpants showing, through the kitchen, out the back door, across the pitch-dark coal clinkers in the back yard, until she comes to the bank of the creek. There is one scary thing: the scarecrow in the centre of the garden on the other side of the creek. If toys come alive at midnight, what happens to scarecrows? Frances avoids looking at it. “It’s just a thing.” But she doesn’t want to offend it. She lovingly empties the tiny children onto the grass. It’s a nice warm evening.
Frances regrets that she didn’t think to rifle the hope chest for the white lace gown and bonnet — the outfit that she, Mercedes and Kathleen were all baptized in. Too late now, there’s no time, I have to get this done before Daddy comes home.
Frances loves her little niece and nephew already. There is nothing she would not do to make sure their souls are safe. She knows that otherwise they die with Original Sin on them and go to that non-place, Limbo, and become no one for all eternity. Frances has never been up close at a baptism, but she’s heard the priest mumble, barely moving his lips, she’s seen him dip the baby’s head into the water. The priest is praying, that’s for certain, so Frances must pray too. Hurry Frances. Frances makes the sign of the cross, In nomine padre…. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. She looks at the wee babies in the skimpy moonlight; “Ladies first.” She picks up the girl baby, and shimmies on her bum down the embankment to the creek. She wades to the centre. The water is waist-deep. On wee Frances, that is. Her nightgown puffs and floats on the surface before taking on water and silting down around her legs. She makes the sign of the cross with her thumb on the baby’s forehead.
Now’s the part where you pray. Frances takes a stab at it: “Dear God, please baptize this baby.” And then her favourite prayer from bedtime, “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule and guide. Amen.” Now’s the part where you dip the head in the water. Frances tips the baby carefully towards the water. The little thing is still slick and slips through her hands and sinks. Oh no. Quick! Hen, rooster, chicken, duck! Frances plunges down, grabs the baby before it hits the bottom, then breaks the surface clutching it to her body. It’s okay. Frances’s little heart is beating like a bird in the jaws of a cat, she catches her breath, the baby lets out a tiny holler and the sweetest little sputtering coughs. It’s okay, it just swallowed a bit of water, it’s okay. It’s okay. Frances rocks it gently and sings to it a small song composed then and there, “Baby, baby … baby, baby … baby baby.” There. At least it’s nice and clean now.
Frances crawls up the bank again, lays the girl baby down on the grass, kisses her little hands and head and picks up the boy. She knows that you have to be extra care
ful with new babies because their heads aren’t closed yet. Like a ditch or something along the top of their skulls. It’s called a “soft spot” even though it’s in the shape of a line. You can see it stretching along beneath the layer of bluish skin that’s draped across it. Frances didn’t see it on the girl baby’s head because the girl baby has a weirdly dense thatch of black hair. But there it is on the boy baby’s feathery pate: a shallow trench dividing his head in half. Frances enters once more the waters of the creek and lightly traces the pale blue fault line in the infant’s skull. What if someone just came along and poked their fingers in there, what would happen? He would die. Frances squirms at the thought that just anyone could come along and do that. What if her fingers just went ahead and did that? Oh no, hurry, you have to get him baptized before it’s too late. Before Daddy comes home, or before anyone’s fingers can press in his head.
Frances drops the second baby. Oh no. Quick! Hen, rooster, chicken —
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
Frances’s head jerks up, arresting her plunge. It’s Daddy. There’s the great upside-down V of his legs towering at the top of the creek embankment. He’s got the girl baby in one arm.
“Get the hell out of there!”
He’s drunk, otherwise he would never curse in the presence of a child. He reaches down and gets Frances by one arm, easily swinging her up out of the water, her soaked nightgown hanging down past her toes, she could be the Little Mermaid invited at long last onto the good ship Homo Sapiens, ready to try out her new feet. Except for the bloodstains.
The water is dark. James doesn’t see the child on the creek bed. “No!” Frances screams as he sets her down on the grass. She can’t find the words. She can’t tell him, telling is not an option, this is like a dream, she’s forgotten how to say in waking English, “The other baby is in there, he’s going to drown, we have to get him out!” James tosses her ahead, herding her in jerks back towards the house. Frances breaks and runs back. He lurches after her. She reaches the edge of the creek and leaps. Over the top. Splash and plunge. She scrabbles about on the bottom for the baby, her lungs are stinging, in this water she’s as blind as the newborn she can’t find, she finds him. She breaks the surface for the second time as James arrives back, swaying a little, at the creek’s edge. She bundles the baby to her chest; it stirs once and is silent. She stares up at her father and the girl baby. She starts to shiver.