Black Chokeberry, page 19
Standing at the foot of her bed, good-looking Father Hannaford opened a slim black-velvet-lined carryall that looked a lot like her old flute case. What a responsibility it must be carrying the body and blood of Jesus around under his arm.
“Would you like to take communion, Ruby?” he asked.
She said certainly, she’d love to receive the sacrament. As he opened the case, her heart beat faster. This would be a banner day. She’d never before had the chance to get an up-close look at the delicate crystal cruets for the water and red wine, the traveling silver chalice, the freshly starched linen chalice cloth used to wipe off any saliva she might deposit, and the small round silver box of tasty hosts.
With the late morning sun creating a halo effect around his head, Father Hannaford moved alongside Ruby, his eyes closed, leaning in just a little to hear her short confession. Stranded in this bed, she didn’t have much to tell. The usual unkind thoughts and not loving God with her whole heart, soul, mind, and strength came predictably out of her brief self-examination. He absolved her sins and gave her three Our Fathers and six Hail Marys to say in penance.
“Unkind thoughts lead to unkind actions, Ruby,” he said quietly. “Ask God to help you find the good in others. Pray for His help every day. God will guide you. He will show you the way, if you ask in the name of His son, Jesus Christ.” He stood up, his mini sermon about to end, his hands ready to wave the sign of the Cross over her. Looking wearily into Ruby’ eyes, he spoke the lesson he had delivered thousands of times. “Most of all, remember that God loves you. Be obedient to His will for you. In that obedience you will find peace in Him. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
She loved that Father Hannaford. He was such a nice man, his very presence an encouragement. She had often wondered what kind of penance he would give to a confessed murderer, or a serial killer. Sadly, it never seemed like the right time to ask, and today was no exception. She was sad to see him go, his special portable case gripped tightly in his hands, more shut-ins to absolve of venial sins, more stories of bad health to endure. She had enjoyed his visit.
Untying the too-frilly satin ribbon of her bed jacket, wanting to take it off now that Father was gone, she was interested to see Beulah McDonald hurrying down West Fifth, fighting the wind, her coat collar pulled up tight around her ears, her hands pushed down into her pockets, nice long brown boots covering her legs up to her knees.
Beulah is a sensible woman, honest and unaffected, just like me. That’s not prideful to say. I’m just following Father Hannaford’s advice, finding the good in others. I think Beulah and I share the same qualities of levelheadedness and humility. I’ll have to remember to call her when I get home and invite her in for a short visit around the Thanksgiving holiday. She doesn’t have much family left in Oswego. She’ll enjoy a little White Zinfandel and my onion dip.
Settling back down, Ruby was warmed by her love for the Catholic church. She couldn’t imagine life without it. She took pleasure in the idea of Jesus dying, then sitting up there at the right hand of the Father, with Mary solidly alongside, hand on His shoulder, seeing everything and deftly nudging her son, giving Him good advice about women and their lives, urging Him to be thoughtful, to see things from their perspective, to help them out.
Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.
The Holy Spirit was harder to understand. Ruby thought of it as a kind of powerful masculine wind that blew through people’s hearts, forcing them to be stronger in their faith. She was glad people talked about the spirit these days instead of the Holy Ghost. Ghosts come out of thin air at night or, worse than that, as a deathly cold spot right in the middle of your staircase. Who wants to invite something like that into your heart? She didn’t really pray to the Holy Spirit. She mentioned it from time to time, just in case it was critical to God, but she never felt comfortable bringing that eerie testosterone presence into things.
Probably the most difficult concept for her was when the priest turned the communion wine into the literal blood of Jesus, and the wafers into the literal body of Jesus. “It’s a miracle,” the nuns had said. “You cannot question it.” But she did. It seemed too voodooish, not to mention gross. The very thought of the wine as blood made it hard to swallow at the communion rail. She didn’t do well with eating the real flesh of Jesus, either. She smiled now, thinking about the catechism classes she took in preparation for her first communion when she was eight years old. Sister Camilla had instructed them in the nuances of how to receive the host.
“Get your saliva going good before the priest gives you the host,” Sister said. She demonstrated best practice by moving her cheeks in and out, rolling up a juicy wad of spit. She waited for them to follow suit. When she was satisfied that their mouths were full, she said, “Open, receive the sacrament, and chew! Now swallow! See how easy it is? That’s how you do it so the host will melt quickly and not stay in your dirty mouth too long.”
Sister Camilla’s host-eating program never worked for Ruby. Most of the time the thin wafer got stuck to the dry roof of her mouth and she had to tongue it down. It always wound up in a pasty ball; hard chewing was the only way to get it moving fast. She didn’t think Jesus would like her munching away at His body, but what could she do? In the end she let it go, the whole doctrine of transubstantiation making no sense to her. She could never believe that Jesus wanted to be treated that way.
“Try to hold on to the things you can know and accept the things you will never understand,” Sister Ignatius had said when Ruby shared her concerns. “These great ideas are way beyond your ability to figure them out, Ruby. Let your faith dispel all of your doubts. Hold on to God’s hand, in faith.”
Over the years she happily held on to the church rituals and tried to keep the days of her life holy without any further theological inquiries. She decided to trust the Pope and let the rest go. It had worked just fine, except for the troubling times of Vatican II. She had been jolted in the 1960s when the Holy Father and his College of Cardinals decided to update the church. After an entire childhood of eating fish on Fridays, going to confession before Holy Communion on Saturdays, and twenty-four-hour fasting before taking that communion on Sunday, the new encyclicals erased those strict disciplines. She was deeply unnerved to think that what she had been carefully taught was suddenly untrue.
Explaining her confusion to Lizzie when they both were home from college, Ruby referenced a painful experience she’d had when she was ten, an episode that had permanently marked her. Even now she could feel the hollow despair of that Easter morning decades ago. It had started when Mother came walking into the kitchen just before Mass. She looked beautiful in her charcoal-gray suit, a cream-colored silk blouse under the long jacket, and her new daisy hat that nested on her head like a well-fitting wig. Mother stopped and stared at Ruby, asking her, “What are you chewing?” Ruby was just swallowing a walnut from the coffee cake they’d have after Mass.
“You’ve broken your fast,” Mother had said. “That means your body is now impure. You may not receive the sacrament today. Your thoughtlessness has ruined your Easter Sunday.” Ruby instantly vacillated between feeling guilty about sinning and knowing she had not made a conscious decision to sin. “I didn’t even think about it, Mother,” she cried. “I just saw that little walnut and took a bite! It’s not a meal or anything and I didn’t think of it as eating. Doesn’t it make a difference if you don’t mean to sin?”
Mother said it made no difference. “A sin is a sin whether you intend it or not,” she said.
The most humiliating part was having to stay in the church pew while her family crawled over her to get out into the aisle. They didn’t look at her as they joined the line of devout parishioners on their holy march to the communion rail. Miserable in her gay Easter outfit, her white gloves and light wool coat with the mother-of-pearl buttons covering her, but not protecting her, Ruby had wondered what people thought when they saw her sitting alone in the pew like the last colored egg in the basket, not allowed to join the Eucharistic family on this day of all days. She knew they’d ask themselves, “What has Ruby done?” Then they’d reason, “Surely a child of ten couldn’t commit a mortal sin! Why, she could go right to confession and clear things up, even if she had. Had she missed confession? Stayed too long outside playing so that she missed Father Stangel’s confessional times? How could she have been so careless? On Easter week, of all times!”
Years later Ruby was still upset by her mistake. With the reforms of Vatican II, she told Lizzie, now they could gorge themselves on a full buffet before communion and still be pure enough to take the body and blood. How could it have been so wrong once, and now be perfectly all right? Lizzie said the church had become more modern, that’s all.
“Life will be easier for us now,” she said. “Just think about the new rules like you were buying a new car: You still have an engine, four tires and a steering wheel. But the outside is sleeker, newer, more in keeping with the times. Not to mention nicer upholstery—have you seen the white leather in Nancy Walker’s new Buick? It’s gorgeous! Just enjoy the changes and stop fretting about what happened ten years ago, little sister.”
Ruby took Lizzie’s advice—eventually—and once again embraced her church. She still looked forward to the musty fragrance of incense on high holy days even though it filled up her sinuses faster than an alter boy pulling off his cassock after Mass. She knew it was sheer luck, an accident of birth that she was part of the one true religion, and she was grateful. When she questioned why everyone didn’t have the same chance for heaven, the nuns said, everyone does.
“God has given all people the gift of free will, Ruby. That means everyone can choose to study and learn about God. When the priest says they’re ready, that they understand the rules of being in the one true church, then they can join us,” Sister Elizabeth Mary said. “Won’t that be wonderful when we get to heaven together? Then we can spend all of eternity praising God just as the Bible says, sitting at His throne, singing His praises all through the day and night!”
Ruby sat up in bed again, wishing she had a nice full glass of sherry in her hand. She didn’t even want to think about just sitting around all day and praising God. Honestly, she felt the nuns got that part wrong. God wouldn’t want all of that hoopla, and besides, He would know it was boring as manna for people to sing His praises all day and night long. Not to mention the fact that most of the faithful couldn’t sing well, or even on key. No, she didn’t believe any of that eternity-of-praise business for a second.
She turned toward the door, certain she heard Frances moving around in the library. She listened carefully in case she fell and needed help or something. Ruby was very relieved Frances had become a Catholic. She didn’t want to be in heaven without her. Who knows where she would have wound up if she had stayed a Baptist? Ruby wasn’t sure about Ellen and her religious side. She never went to a church and didn’t talk about God or Jesus, or saying her prayers, or praying for others like Frances and Ruby did. How could she get through life without religion? Who did she lean on when things got tough? How did she manage to be OK thinking that this life was it—that there was no heaven? How did she cope without a Father in heaven to talk to? How could chocolate bars be enough? She certainly couldn’t imagine that kind of life. Count me out.
Ruby flicked the breakfast crumbs from her comforter just as a gusty wind swirled down West Fifth, nudging cars along, their drivers gripping the wheels tightly. She saw the Kaslowskis’ dog earnestly cantering along home, his short legs keeping him close to the sidewalk, a grounding stroke of luck in the pushy wind.
Well, what she knew for sure—as Oprah would say—is that she would obey the rules of the Catholic church to the best of her ability so that when she died, she’d fly straight up to heaven to be with Mother and Father again. She’d wave to Ellen on her way up, and pray that one day she’d be able to join them.
She could hear Henry making his way down the front hallway, his black nails clicking along the hardwood floors. Wherever Ellen was, Henry was never far behind; she guessed Ellen was on her way to Frances. Henry was a great dog. Nothing to be scared of, that’s for sure. He was just a good-natured baby, really. She pretended to be aghast when he’d jump up on the side of her bed to say hello. She’d let him stay a minute if Ellen was busy with Frances. She loved to feel the silky fur on the top of his head and smell his warm Alpo breath. Before nudging him back down, she always looked right into his dark eyes, sure that he was loving her back.
Ellen wasn’t such a bad egg either, she supposed. She’d like to know what went on with her before she came back to Oswego. She bet that was a pretty good story right there. Ellen was as quiet as Apple Annie about her past life. Ruby didn’t know if she’d ever get the full story.
Apple Annie. What a great movie. I need to watch that movie again when I get home. I love watching Bette Davis being transformed into the wealthy dowager. The original makeover. With Glenn Ford at his sweet and funny best, her Svengali. He seemed more like Santa Claus than a gangster in that movie. I need to make a note or I’ll forget. Where’s my pen?
Pulling open the nightstand drawer, she spotted her Swiss Army knife along the back. Grabbing it quickly, she rolled it around in the palm of her hand, kissed the red enamel inlay, then put it back.
Ruby did think Ellen seemed marginally happier these days. She was always glad to see Ellen’s attempts at self-control, her urge to cry over every little thing held at bay; she was getting better at keeping herself in check. In fact, the last couple of weeks she seemed much brighter, more interested in living than sleeping. Maybe she was getting over that divorce after all. Ruby had enjoyed seeing her lighthearted side yesterday, when Ellen went out to get the morning paper from the front porch and saw Derek Simonson riding down West Fifth with the top down on his ‘56 Mustang.
“Look, Ruby! His hair is standing straight up, nearly frozen in place from this wind. What is he thinking? It’s thirty-one degrees this morning!”
Ruby grinned back at Ellen. She told her Derek was famous for riding in his Mustang in all kinds of weather. “It’s his claim to fame. For the last twenty-eight years Derek has made it his business to put the top down on that old car at least once a week and drive it around town. He’s his own Guinness World Record attempt. Far as I know he’s never missed a week.”
Ruby talked loudly so Frances could hear. She wanted her to notice, too, that Ellen was perking up. “The Pall Times does a story about him in February or March when the snow’s piled high and there’s nothing to see but Derek’s foolish head sticking up in that bright blue car as he rides up and down Bridge Street in a blizzard. We all have to read about his antics once a year, right along with news about those crazy polar bear swimmers, don’t we, Frances?”
“Yes we do, Ruby. You’ll probably think me silly, but I look forward to Derek’s story. I think he’s a mighty interestin’ man.”
Ellen said she admired his determination. Ruby began to hand-press her hair, trying to straighten the curls around her forehead with the natural oil in her palms.
“Fools are always determined, Ellen,” she said. “Being an idiot doesn’t come naturally to most people.”
“Oh, Ruby, dear, surely you don’t mean that!” Frances called out. “Daddy always said idiots aren’t fools. ‘They’re just us in our birthday suits,’ he’d say. Daddy was so naughty sometimes.”
“I stand corrected,” Ruby replied. “He was right. I wish I’d known your daddy!”
“He was very good-hearted,” Frances said. “always tryin’ to understand people. You both would have liked him.”
Ellen walked away, smiling as she passed Frances’s door. “I know I would have,” she said.
Ruby hoped Frances and Ellen were in Daddy’s good-hearted, understandin’ mood when they discovered she had snuck out of this Recoup Hotel. She hoped they realized Ruby was neither an idiot nor a fool for getting away. She could hardly wait for nightfall. Her escape plan was ready. So was she.
Frances wondered if she’d ever be able to stand up comfortably for more than ten minutes at a time, or use her right arm fully. Fortunately her speech was nearly restored and her facial expressions were normal again. Dr. Ireland said she had an ischemic stroke as opposed to a hemorrhaging one. He showed her a chart of eleven indicators used to predict the outcomes or severity of the stroke she experienced. Her condition and progress to date gave her a rating of nine.
“All things being equal, that means you have an excellent chance for a nearly full recovery within twelve months,” he told her. “You improved very quickly the first few days, Mrs. O’Reilly. That was a good indicator of what you could expect in terms of your continued progress. These past weeks we’ve seen steady improvement. I believe we are on track for a complete recovery.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ireland. Now if I could just trust my right hand to hold a cup of tea I’d feel much better.”
She gently laid aside the duvet cover and pulled one leg at a time over the edge of her bed. She wanted to open the drapes so she could see the rain falling. She could hear it, of course, but seeing it would be even better. Rainy days were welcomed, even if they were deeply dreary in November in Oswego. Between the damp cold and the icy raindrops, a long rainy day could be quite depressing. She wouldn’t give into it. Instead, she embraced the idea of the trees and bushes taking a good long drink in preparation for the arduous winter days ahead.
Pulling on her robe and slippers, she edged slowly to the window, pushing herself hard to get the tall, soft, green silk drapes open. With just that little effort she felt limp as an unstarched collar, ready to flop down again. She moved to the chair by the window, the one Ellen liked to sit in when reading Garrison Keillor’s book to her. It was one of the sweet highlights of her day. Ellen had such a lovely way with the words, her tone with just enough inflection to make it interesting, but not theatrical. One could get theatrical reading Keillor and that wouldn’t be good. Frances was loving Pontoon.
