Farthest House (5 page)

Willow headed for me and Luessy followed. I looked at myself, surprised to see I wore the pale blue dress I’d been married in. Rows of beads decorated the waist and cuffs, caught light, and sparkled. To my further surprise, a drawing lay in my lap. The picture was of Sabine. My poor Sabine. She hadn’t been cursed with my back, and were it not for my shoulder and our age difference, we might have looked like twins. Perhaps I only wished it true, needing us to have that sisters’ bond. When I fled to America with Thomas, she’d still been full of a child’s playfulness, romping with the dogs and sheep, sticking her nose into everything from the baking in the kitchen to the milking and grape pressing, her hair always flying free of its ribbons and pins. Then, the letter came from France and Mme. Francoise, the ancient apothecary who lived on a stool in the corner of The Beast’s kitchen. The letter explained Sabine was a new mother with a daughter she named Luessy. The letter went on telling how Sabine cut her hair off and cleaved two fingers to the first knuckle.

In the drawing, a picture I painted long ago and lost when Little Nest burned, Sabine’s beautiful hair was short and ragged-edged. I’d imagined her cutting it in a wild frenzy of self-hatred, sorrow, and panic. I painted her hands twisting in her lap, two fingertips on the right hand severed. Bright red blood and thick darker clots ran from the wounds. Now, that blood was alive, rolling off the paper, bleeding onto and soiling my blue dress.

Willow reached me. Her stomach told her not to look in my lap, but she did. She let out a small cry, cringing and pulling Doll to her face, only peeking over the top of the toy’s bald head.

Luessy put a hand on her shoulder and wanted to say, “Nothing is there,” but she knew better. “Let’s go inside now. I have someone else I want you to meet.”

The dress, the picture, the blood? Seeing my Luessy so much older, Tory with the taste of ashes in her mouth, Jonah in his decrepitude, returning to Farthest House and Thomas’s grave, I’d been sucked back in. It wasn’t that I needed Willow to help me find Tory, Luessy, and Jonah, but because of her I could no longer escape doing so.

They left the yard, Willow reluctantly, while I remained mired, the slick ether of time sucking me back to my childhood. I felt myself back in my child’s body, struggling, fighting for life. I was wedged into the tightness of the long cave tunnel. My breathing was ragged with the effort of staying alive, my toes pushing, my fingertips blistered from clawing stone. I counted: “…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…” my age. The counting helped keep panic at bay and measured my progress. At the count of thirty, I’d find the cave and be able to fill my lungs with air. And for as long as
I chose
to remain—I’d be safe.

The numbers also distracted me, however briefly, from my self-loathing. I bore the weight of a hundred mortal sins when a single one meant eternal damnation.

Backing out of the tight passage was impossible. I had no choice but to keep struggling, keep inching ahead on my raw knees. Alone in the rock, my whimpering burbled out along the uneven walls, rolling out ahead of me into the pitch darkness and sounding like a trapped animal. I prayed no rock had dropped into the passage since the last time, since even something small would turn the shaft into my grave. I prayed, too, that I hadn’t gained an ounce of weight in the days since my last visit and the cave itself hadn’t imploded or filled with water in my absence. I prayed hardest that the spirits, who first called me, still haunted the stone.

Crawling, the body-tight rock scraping and bruising, the sharp juts of stone cutting my shoulders, I welcomed the yarn-thin rivulets of blood trailing down my arms and the tears dripping from my chin. Le Bête, The Beast, might have preached, “Washing you in the blood of the Lamb.” But I believed I could never be cleansed on either side of death.

Inside the stone, only my labored breathing accompanied me, not his voice booming down the ornate villa hallways, replete with religious paintings in gilded frames, my name spilling over his fat, wet lips. “Amelie-Anais!”

And my mother pushing, “Go. Go. Your bishop uncle has interest in your salvation.” Seeing what happened in the bishop’s wing, using the eyes of her heart, would have caused her untold grief and possibly that especially bitter sin against the church, doubt. He was the village priest, prệtre, though he called himself an Auxiliary Bishop, and told us all he’d soon be appointed Titular Bishop and then ordained a full bishop. It was far easier for my mother to stay blinded by the bright fury of her household duties, managing the melee of servants who saw to his meals and laundry, the totting of her accounts and meager allowance, and the tending to her religious duties: morning Mass, rosaries, visits to grottos, and her ornate book of prayers.

8

A year passed with Willow and I spending weekends at Farthest House. Julian came on Sunday evenings to get her for the week and gradually overcame his aversion to stepping inside. Often, he sat at the table over a plate of Mable’s cookies, conversing with his sister and mother. An outsider might have watched them and believed everything was good.

That spring, Willow stood on the school playground of Our Lady of Supplication, Sister Dominic Agnes at her side. She watched her classmates form a circle, one child skipping around the outside of the others, deciding at whose heels to drop a scarf. For the fourth day, the nun hadn’t let her join in, and for the fourth day, the nun was angry.

Sister Dominic Agnes’s immaculate white habit hissed, and the beads of her long rosary, hanging from her waist to nearly the ground, trembled, “Because I said, ‘No.’”

Willow’s good hand clenched a fistful of her blue-plaid skirt; her right hand hid in her sweater sleeve, invisible, but trembling.

When a boy dropped the scarf at the heels of Mary Wolfe, both he and Mary started running, but it was only Mary that Willow watched. Mary had the holiest girl’s name you could have and skin as pink as the painted statues in church. She had blue eyes, too, also like the statues and long hair as yellow as an angel’s. Every day, her hair was brushed back into a smooth and shiny ponytail and tied with a freshly ironed ribbon. Mary had a mother.

Willow blinked back tears. Through kindergarten and most of first grade, Mary had been her best friend. They skipped together at recess and sat side by side at lunch—Willow’s left ankle wrapped around Mary’s right, their legs swinging as though between them they had only three.

Then in early December, Sister Dominic Agnes rustled and puffed into the classroom to announce that Mary had been badly hurt. In order for Mary to live, they needed to pray hard. If they said enough rosaries, and if they were
good
rosaries, if the children prayed sincerely, no one’s mind wandering off the Sorrowful Mysteries, and no eyes getting sleepy, the Blessed Mother would count up all the numbers and tell Jesus, who would think about it, and
maybe
He’d trade the prayers and let Mary Wolfe get well.

With that burden on their shoulders, Willow’s class lifted the tops of their desks and pulled out strings of beads and offered up “Hail Marys” like dropping pennies in a jar for Jesus. Three rosaries every school day: the first thing in the morning, after they’d eaten their peanut butter sandwiches at lunch, and before leaving in the afternoon—struggling to pay off whatever ransom Jesus wanted. Each time they said a rosary, Sister Dominic Agnes cut and pasted another link to her black construction paper chain. Jesus needed to know they were very sad. Willow imagined Jesus visiting the dark and empty classroom with his mother at night (because He let only very special people see Him), walking in His sandals alongside the chain, counting the links, three new black circles each night. The number was always three, always matching.

Now, five months later, Mary had returned. On Monday of that week, with the chain draping across the top of the blackboard and down the sides and up to snake over the tops of all the classroom windows, Mary walked into the room.

Jesus had let her get well. All that day, the other grades, K through twelve, filed into the first-grade room with their nuns or lay teachers and admired the funereal rope, their heads swinging back and forth as they looked from one end to the other and then at the beaming Sister Dominic Agnes and then at Mary sitting shyly in a chair placed at the front of the room. Even Father Steinhouse, the parish priest, came into the classroom and nodded approvingly at Sister Dominic Agnes and laid a hand on Mary’s head. Tuesday, a few parishioners visited. Wednesday and Thursday, no one came. No footsteps in the hallway resulted in believers entering, though each time someone passed the door, Sister Dominic Agnes stopped her instructions and waited. Now, on Friday, she’d hung a sign beneath the chain:
Sister Dominic Agnes’s Miracle.

All of which Willow knew, meant Mary was a saint. Jesus let her get really hurt, and then the rosaries changed His mind, and He fixed her. Something He’d not done for Willow.

On the playground, Sister Dominic Agnes’s habit rustled again, and she buried her right hand into her left sleeve and her left hand into her right sleeve. “I’ve looked through my book of Catholic Saints,” she said. “There’s no saint named
Willow.
I think I must remove you from the May procession.”

Willow’s breath caught. She and her class had been practicing and planning for the procession, and she told both Mémé and Papa how the girls would march up the center aisle of the church in two lines, and then “fold open like wings,” and one line would go down each of the side aisles and into their pews. She’d practiced walking back and forth in front of Papa, taking slow, careful steps while keeping her eyes straight ahead. The procession was also special because Mary’s parents bought each girl a small, white basket to be filled with flower petals.

“I’ve taught school at Our Lady of Supplication for thirty-seven years,” Sister Dominic Agnes said. “The children have always had at least one Catholic name to put on their scapulars.” She looked down her nose at Willow. “Missionaries got around these problems by assigning Christian names, but our problem is more serious.”

Willow’s finger found a small hole in the seam of her skirt. She pushed at it. How could she walk down the aisle, her blue-felt scapular the size of a valentine hanging around her neck, but with a different name on it? “How come Willow isn’t a saint’s name?”

“It isn’t. There’s nothing holy about it.”

Willow pushed harder, heard one thread pop and then a second, her whole fingertip breaking through the seam. Standing still was too hard, and she rocked. “Papa named me for a tree.” It didn’t seem enough. “Mémé writes stories, so you can’t change my name.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” She waited, letting her scolding hang in the air. “We all know your grandmother writes mysteries. That’s likely part of your problem. I’m told they are sacrilegious, full of pagan ideas.”

Willow kept rocking. “When I grow up, I’m going to read all her books.”

The nun’s hands came out of her sleeves and swung behind her back making a slapping sound. “You ought to read from the wealth of good
Catholic
literature.”

Willow’s stomach squeezed. The week had been the worst ever. Mary turned away whenever Willow came close, and during every recess, Willow was made to stand beside Sister Dominic Agnes. At lunch, Mary sat at a different cafeteria table and made it the best table. For five lunches, Willow had crossed her ankles and swung her own feet and tried to pretend one foot was Mary’s.

“I don’t see you and your father in church on Sundays.” The rosary, hanging from the thick belt around Sister Dominic Agnes’s waist, trembled. “Are you practicing Catholics?”

Willow hadn’t known being a Catholic took practice. She couldn’t remember practicing, but she wasn’t going to admit to anything that would make things worse. Her Sunday mornings were usually spent in Mémé’s attic drawing pictures while Mémé typed. She studied the nun with a boy’s name and a girl’s name, the long white gown hanging round as a snowman, and the white wimple squeezing her teacher’s pale face. Even the nun’s lips looked gone, so pale they might have been erased. The only color on her face was the darkness in her eyes. “Do you practice?” she asked.

The nun’s hand shot out, grabbed and pinched Willow’s ear so fast all Willow saw before she felt the sting was the jump of the two lowest mysteries on the long rosary. “You should be punished,” Sister Dominic Agnes scolded, “for asking such a thing.” She pinched harder, and Willow cried out. The first grade class forgot their game and turned to stare.

Sister Dominic Agnes didn’t mind upsetting the class. All children needed to be reminded to respect authority, but poor little Mary looked shocked. It wouldn’t do to have her father back at the school, throwing about more accusations. She eased her thumbnail out of the flesh of Willow’s ear but kept hold. “I’ve had half a mind to punish you for a long time.”

Slumped and rubbing her ear with her cuffed hand, Willow felt dazed. Sister Dominic Agnes had wanted to punish her for a long time, and
Willow
was not a holy name.

“Stand up straight, and pull your hand out of your sleeve. You can’t hide God’s markings, and you can tell your father to start bringing you to Mass on Sundays. Maybe that will help you learn your place. Is he able to do that? Or does he spend his Sundays sleeping off his Saturdays? We don’t want him stumbling into church. I know about Frenchmen and their wine.”

Willow didn’t know about Frenchmen, but they sounded bad. She wished for Doll or Papa and wondered why her teacher would think Papa stumbled. His back was straight. “Papa never falls down.”

“Don’t correct me.”

All through recess, stones had been dropping into Willow’s stomach, and their weight threatened to make her throw up. She wouldn’t, wouldn’t, do that in front of all her classmates. She had to make Sister Dominic Agnes like her. “Sometimes…Papa does fall down.” The first words were slow, but the next ones came in a rush. “He crashes down on his head, and the table falls over.”

The nun nodded knowingly, her lips relaxing, and for a moment things seemed better. But Willow had told a lie about Papa, and she knew he would never tell a lie about her. Worse yet, what if he found out what she’d said?

“What does your father say about the pictures you draw?”

Stung by the lie she told, Willow felt mute. Using her index finger, she pushed, widening the hole in her skirt.

The after-recess bell rang and the other first graders began forming a line behind Sister Dominic Agnes. Willow let them push her back, as one at a time, they stepped in front of her. Finally, with Mary Wolfe at the head, the long tails of her pink hair bow swinging and her hand in Sister Dominic Agnes’s, they started in. Willow took baby steps. What if Papa looked at her and saw the lie she told about him? Or what if he didn’t see the lie, but her mouth told him anyway?

At her desk, her throat made little popping, sucking sounds she couldn’t stop. She could think of only one thing to keep herself from crying—drawing pictures. Since Mary’s return on Monday, Willow had drawn several pictures, and each made her feel better. She reached for her thick pencil and a piece of ruled school paper. Drawing made the world around her quiet, and she didn’t need to think about Sister Dominic Agnes or Papa.

Minutes passed as she concentrated first on drawing the monster’s head, giving it one great big eye, one little tiny eye, a witch’s nose, and jagged teeth. When she finally looked up, she sat alone in an empty row. Sister Dominic Agnes had brought her chair from behind her desk, put it in the story-time place, and the rest of the first graders sat on the floor clustered around her ankles. Not even Mary saved Willow a place. Had Sister Dominic Agnes called Willow up front with the others, or did she want her to stay and keep drawing? Willow knew the nun loved her drawings, so much so that all week she’d let Willow draw and draw whenever she wanted and then collected the drawings for herself.

The creature needed a body. Willow considered some of her favorite things to draw: birds, bugs, and zoo animals. Maybe she would draw clothes like Sister Dominic Agnes’s, which were almost like Doll’s. She went back to work and didn’t look up until the nun closed the last story book and started down the aisle, the folds of her long habit sweeping the sides of desks. Willow smiled, the finished drawing was one of her best, and looking at it made the lie she told about Papa feel far away. If the
I Dream of Jeannie,
Jeannie, were to come into the room and cross her arms and nod and make the monster alive, everyone would scream and run away.

“Is this supposed to be me?”

Willow looked again at the drawing and the monster’s habit, complete even to the rosary. The room began creeping slowly around her.

“This time, you’ve gone too far.”

It wasn’t hard for me to see the nun’s heartbreak. Here, she believed, was more of the mockery of everything she thought sacred. This time it wasn’t coming from the young nuns rejecting their habits for street clothes, convent life for apartments where they entertained, served unblessed wine, and lived without curfews, supervised morning prayers, and mandatory silences. Their very life-styles thumbed their noses at her life of service and tried to discredit every sacrifice she’d made for the order. As if all her renunciations, past and future, were without value, the disciplines sent down from Rome worthless, needless dark-age trappings practiced by the foolish, the thousands and thousands of women’s lives given over to convents, all for nothing! Now, there was a
modern
pope who would discard even Latin Mass, discard so many foundations of ritual, history, and the established institution. If all that could be so easily discarded, then couldn’t she also be?