Fall on Your Knees (20 page)

James either says or thinks, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.” He slides down the bank, takes the child and goes through the motions of resuscitation. But it’s no use. The boy baby was in the water a good twenty seconds too long. Frances’s teeth start to chatter, and she wonders if her black and white candy is still at the bottom of the creek or if it has been washed out to sea.

Blancmange

Frances spends the next day in bed, shivering. Her teeth are chattering. She can’t get warm. Outside it’s June. Her lips are blue.

Mercedes wraps her in several blankets and feeds her pretend blancmange. “Pretend” because the dish is unavailable to them outside the realm of fiction, and because all Frances can manage to eat for the next couple of days is pretend food.

Where’s Mumma? What with a freezing child in one bedroom and a burning hot infant in another? She’s downstairs cleaning. The house is spotless.

May Jesus have mercy on the Soul of

Kathleen Cecilia Piper
Died June 20, 1919
Age 19

“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 stops shivering in time to attend Kathleen’s funeral but she still hasn’t eaten any real-life food. By now she has already lost her conscious grip on the events of two nights ago, when the babies were born. She has shivered them away. The cave mind has entered into a creative collaboration with the voluntary mind, and soon the two of them will cocoon memory in a spinning wealth of dreams and yarns and fingerpaintings. Fact and truth, fact and truth…. “Where’s my nightgown, the one with the — I spilled something, I have to wash it, remember that fish I caught in the creek that time? — I did, I did, there are
so
fish in there — it had a thin blue stripe but I let it go, it was just a baby fish, too small to eat, I threw it back, it swam away, back to the ocean….”

But the nightgown is long gone — committed to earth by James, who made of it a shroud for an infant boy.

And as for the fish, everyone knows there have never been any fish to be caught in the creek. The only thing anyone’s ever going to catch in that creek is polio.

On the day after Kathleen’s funeral, on the third day following Kathleen’s death, Frances is still fasting when she is overcome by a powerful craving. She goes to the kitchen, where Mumma is getting ready to clean the oven. She opens a long cupboard and takes the lid off the flour bin. She fills her hands with the white dust and carries it carefully across the kitchen and upstairs to her room. Materia sweeps up the thin white trail behind Frances without a word, without looking up, without following it beyond the border of the kitchen linoleum.

Once in her bedroom — the one she shares with Mercedes — Frances releases the flour from her hands into the empty porcelain wash-basin on her dresser. She adds water from the pitcher and mixes it with her hands until she has a soft sticky dough. She takes the dough in both hands, curls up on her bed and begins to suck on it. At first she sucks rapidly, making little sounds, then more slowly as the craving subsides. Her eyelids get heavy and she falls asleep, her mouth filled with the soft moist mass.

Mercedes enters carrying a tray heaped with invisible delicacies. Frances’s lips still suck a little intermittently in her sleep. Mercedes puts down the tray, careful not to upset the flagon of port and send it streaming into the blancmange. She bends over Frances and feels her forehead, then gently pries the glutinous white blob from her mouth. She carries it downstairs, following the trail of white powder back to where it ends at the kitchen linoleum, and stops. Not because the trail stops. But because of what she sees. Mumma. Mercedes stands staring, the raw dough cupped in her hands like an offering. She was going to bake it for Frances. It’s not good to eat raw dough, you might get worms. Mercedes was going to bake it in the oven. But her mother is using the oven. Mercedes stands there for a long time, with her hands full of wet white dust.

See No Evil

On the night when Lily and Ambrose were born, Mercedes was awakened by the same racket that woke Frances. But Mercedes stayed in bed, while Frances crept out to the attic stairs. Mercedes held onto the blankets just under her chin and said the rosary, even though she was too scared to turn and reach for the beads where they lay under her pillow. It was after this night that Mercedes started actually to wear a rosary on her person, because sometimes even under the pillow is too far away when it comes to a rosary. So Mercedes said the rosary with the tufted nubs of the chenille bedspread instead:

Mercedes stares hard at a row of white tufts but she has trouble getting the rosary going, not because it’s just a bedspread, but because of the Devil. Only the Devil would block her mind with a picture of the wooden backscratcher that leans against the mirror on her bureau. You can’t see it now, it’s too dark, but it’s there. A long wooden backscratcher carved with three monkeys doing “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” and at the tip of it are three prongs curved like claws for scratching. It was a joke gift from a friend of Mumma’s at the Empire. Mercedes has just realized that it is an evil thing, and in the morning she will put it in the garbage. No, the furnace. In the morning. When it’s light and the sounds from up in the attic have stopped. Someone just started hammering the wall up there. Maybe they’re hanging a picture.

Mercedes fights the Devil and wins. She manages to make the backscratcher disappear from her mind, she banishes it with the first prayer that’s able to break through — “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.” Quick, before the evil picture comes back, quick, “Hail Mary, Mother of God, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …,” and the rosary is safely started. And once it’s started, you can just keep going around and around for as long as you want or need, following the stepping-stones of the bedspread. Yes, in an emergency you can say the rosary anywhere, provided you have faith.

Finally the house is quiet. Where’s Frances? Mercedes creeps softly into the hallway. She looks up the attic stairs. There’s a little light up there, but silence. Mercedes has no desire to go up there. Perhaps the thing in the back of her mind takes better care of her than the thing in the back of Frances’s mind. Perhaps. Mercedes turns away from the attic door and walks towards her parents’ bedroom. On her way she steps in something sticky. She gives herself a gentle reprimand for not putting her slippers on, and in fact gropes her way back to her room, finds her slippers and her green tartan housecoat and puts them on, tying the flannel belt snugly around her waist and smoothing down her hair before venturing back out into the hallway. She reaches the door of her parents’ room. It’s half open. She stands very still and listens. Nothing. No breathing. Her heart leaps for a moment,
no breathing!
She is young enough to fear that both her parents may simply have died in their sleep. She moves softly towards their bed and reaches out her hands like a sleepwalker, still listening. Will they be there? Will it be their bodies? Will they wake up and be annoyed with her? It’s a sin to doubt so much. If you really have faith in God you won’t go around expecting to find your parents dead in their bed for no reason. Say a little prayer. “I’m sorry, dear God.” Now let your hands descend gently towards the bed and — nothing — empty sheets. What a relief, they’re not lying there dead, they’re just not there at all.
Oh no!
Where are they? It’s the middle of the night, where are my parents? Where is Mumma, where is Daddy? Stop it, you’re going to make God angry, you deserve to find them dead downstairs, murdered by a tramp.

Mercedes’ almost-seven-year-old nerves are still tender but tonight begins a process that will eventually turn them into steel. Her little nerve fibres are being heated up. Tonight is the smelter. When her nerves have been heated up enough, when they are white-hot, they’ll be plunged into cold water, tempered and strong for ever. Strong enough to support a building or a family, strong enough to prevent the house at 191 Water Street from caving in on itself in the years to come. It will stand.
It will stand
. But for now:
go downstairs
….

Mercedes’ search carries on in this way. Listening, listening. Looking, looking. She finds no one downstairs. Apparently she is all alone in the house. Oh, except for Kathleen. Or maybe Kathleen is gone too. Maybe they’ve all gone and left her.
You could go check, Mercedes. Check in the attic
. No. “And besides,” Mercedes answers, “Kathleen doesn’t speak any more, she couldn’t tell me where they’ve gone.”
You haven’t checked the cellar
. “There’s nothing in the cellar but coal and the furnace.”

It would take a less rational sort of person to conduct the type of search that would result in real information — the type of search that turns up the reading glasses in the ice-box and the car keys in the medicine cabinet. But then, it takes a less rational sort of person to misplace things so spectacularly. Or to speculate, “Hmmm, perhaps my mother is locked in the coal cellar, I’ll just have a little look-see.” And it would take the sort of person who can’t resist trouble to actually climb those attic steps after the wailing and rampaging that have issued from that direction. Mercedes can resist. She can hold out against trouble, against curiosity, someone has to.

She returns to her bedroom. She makes the blankets into a cloak around her and sits on her knees on her bed, staring out the window at the moon over the back yard. Our Lady is in the moon. The cool white light is her love. Everything’s going to be all right. And finally Mercedes sees something which is not an absence. It’s Frances, down there in the creek. She’s holding something, cradling it — a bundle. And on the embankment there’s something moving. A small animal. A kitten. That must also be a kitten she’s holding. Frances dunks the bundle, then dives after it. What’s she doing? No! No, Frances loves kittens, she wouldn’t be drowning them. She’s giving them a bath. That’s what she’s doing. She puts the one kitten down and picks up the other one, but Mercedes doesn’t see what happens next because Daddy comes into the yard and up to the creek, blocking her view. Uh oh, Frances is really going to get it now. Well, she shouldn’t be up playing in the creek at this hour anyhow. In fact, no one’s allowed playing in the creek ever. It’s not a beach. Mercedes sees the struggle, the extent of Frances’s disobedience in running back to the creek, leaping in. Why is she so bad? Some people are just made that way.

When Frances comes to bed she is ice-cold. Mercedes pretends to be fast asleep, and in her pretend sleep she snuggles over to Frances and folds her into her tartan housecoat. Frances is bare naked. This too is unusual. But no matter how Mercedes snuggles Frances, Frances goes on shivering.

Mercedes will never again sleep through a night. From now on she will be listening even in her sleep. Someone has to.

In the morning, Mercedes notices the blood in her slipper. She washes it out. The only other thing different about this morning is that, if you look out at the garden, you’ll notice that the scarecrow is gone and in its place there’s a big rock.

The Adoration of The Body

James, knee-deep in water, reached up and placed the dead infant on the ground on the far side of the creek, then climbed out after it. Frances was holding the girl baby close against her stained and soaking nightgown and she made a move to head back to the house.

“Stay right where you are!”

Frances watches as Daddy squishes in his wet shoes over to the scarecrow. He takes hold of its legs and yanks at it as if he were uprooting a small tree. Its head wobbles and falls off and rolls down the slope into the creek with a splash. The creek begins to carry it away. Frances watches the head bobbing along on the water and thinks, “He’s going to find my black and white candy, he’s going to eat it, he’s going to tell someone in a far-off land what I did.” The head is carried off and out of sight towards the sea. But the hat remains. The crunched fedora.

James tears the scarecrow free of the earth. Its body was impaled on a stake and that stake must have been green wood, because now that Daddy has yanked the pointed end from the ground you can see it is alive with pale sprouting roots. Eventually a tree would have grown right up through the scarecrow. Maybe with fruit too. A branch would have grown straight out through his mouth, and on the end of the branch a big red apple. “Imagine,” thinks Frances. “Imagine if you had a tree growing inside you.” Imagine seeing the green leaves everywhere, trapped just under your skin and growing, imagine seeing the thin roots swirling under the surface of the soles of your feet, their white ends looking for a place to poke through. The earth is a magnet for roots.