"Everywhere That Mary Went" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scottoline Lisa)

22

It was so long ago.

I never told anyone, not even Mike. I intended to tell him, but changed my mind when we found out he couldn’t have kids. It would have made it worse. I know it did for me.

“This it?” says the cabbie, pulling up in front of the red-brick fortress on the corner of Ninth and Wolf. He ducks down to see it better. “It don’t look like a church. What’d you say it was? Our Lady of Perpetual-”

“Motion.” I get out of the cab and throw him a ten-dollar bill, with no tip. “Here. This is from a fruit I know.”

“Crazy broad,” he mutters. The cab lurches off.

I glance around to see if I’ve been followed, but the street is quiet. I turn and confront my church. From the outside, there is no way to tell what type of building it is. The windows are bricked in and the heavy oak doors are squared off at the top. But for the black sign that says the times of the masses in tiny white numbers, you would think that OLPH is a Mafia front. Except that the Mafia front is across the street.

In contrast to the bleakness of the church is the grassy lot beside it, a sheltered grotto for the statue of the Virgin Mary, Our Lady of Perpetual Help herself. I remember thinking that the grotto was a miraculous place, a baby’s blanket of perfect green grass tucked away from the city sidewalks. Gazing benignly over the grass, high above the electric trolley cars, was the slim, robed figure of the Virgin, tall as a spire in white marble, with her hands out-stretched in welcome. I felt peaceful there as a child.

I have the same feeling today. The statue looks the same, and so does the grass. It’s verdant and thick; it looks newly mown and raked. Tulips dip their heavy heads at the statue’s pedestal. No one’s around, so I sit on the bench in front of it, completing my Catholic impersonation. I’m eye level with the pedestal’s inscription, but don’t have to look at the Roman-carved letters to know what they say. I remember:

VIRGIN MARY

MARIAN YEAR1954

GIFT OF MR. AND MRS. RAFAELLO D. SABATINI

Mr. and Mrs. Rafaello D. Sabatini owned the Mafia front across the street, but who cared? They were good Catholics, they supported the church and the school. That was all that mattered.

At the statue’s feet are plastic bouquets of red roses, Mary’s flower, and along her hem are the lipsticked kisses of the insanely faithful. Rosaries dangle from her inanimate fingers, and she wears a crown made of glitter pasted onto cardboard, as if by a child. A little girl, no doubt, for little girls love the Virgin. Was I a little girl like that once? I feel a stab of pain. What does Mary think of Mary now, since her abortion?

I squint up at Mary’s eyes, there at the top of the tall statue. She doesn’t answer me but gazes straight ahead. She’s innocent, the Eternal Virgin. Her conception, unlike mine, was Immaculate. She knows nothing of couplings that happen to Catholic girls who are on the third date of their life, with Bobby Mancuso from Latin Club. Who, despite his braces, is terribly cute and plays varsity basketball. Who takes her to McDonald’s and then, in his Corvair, kisses her hotly, ignoring her protestations. Who doesn’t rape her exactly, but who complains that he’s in intense pain from something called blue balls, which means either that his balls are turning blue because the blood to them is cut off, or there’s too much blood getting to them. She’s confused about the physiology of the blue balls but understands clearly that his pain is all because of her.

His agony is all her fault.

Which makes her sorry, so sorry.

He says if she would just let him touch between her legs, just let him do what he wanted, his pain would be relieved and his balls wouldn’t be blue anymore. And before she knows it, her new plaid kilt is up and he is inside her. It’s over so fast, and the whole thing is so painful and strange, so impossiblystrange, that she’s really not sure she’s not a virgin Mary anymore. Until she gets home and finds the spots on her flowered Carter’s. Red splotches, shaped like infernal stars, among the delicate pink blossoms. Then she’s pregnant and decides to have an abortion.

No one knew. Not even Angie, and especially not Angie. I was terrified. I was ashamed. I had committed a mortal sin and would burn in eternal fire unless I repented. But the only way to repent was to confess my sin to God and to my parents, who would die from the shock. I felt trapped between commandments:THOU SHALT NOT KILL andHONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER.

Not only that, but both Angie and I had been awarded scholarships to Penn, which was my only hope of going to college. Would the university extend mine until my baby-and Bobby’s, who ignored me from that day forward-was born? Of course not. Even if they did, how would I support a child? My mother couldn’t; her piecework sewing barely bought my uniform and books. My father couldn’t; he was already on disability.

I had no choice.

I found Planned Parenthood in the Yellow Pages and took the bus to center city one Saturday morning, with an Etienne Aigner wallet full of confirmation money. The abortion would cost the $150 earmarked for a white ten-speed, but I was putting away childish things. Of necessity.

When I got to the clinic, I filled out some forms, on which I lied about my age and changed my name. I told them I was Jane Hathaway, after Nancy Kulp inThe Beverly Hillbillies, because she seemed like such a classy lady. Then I was taken to see a counselor, a black woman named Adelaide Huckaby, who wore an African dashiki. Her nappy hair was close-cropped, revealing a marvelously round head, and her eyes were a dark brown, like her skin. We talked for a long time, and she gave me a warm hug when I cried. “You want to think about it some more?” she asked. “You can change your mind, even now.”

I said no.

Adelaide came with me into what they called the Procedure Room, and we waited for the doctor together. I was lying flat on a skinny and unforgiving table in a hospital gown, with my knees supported from underneath. On the ceiling was a circle of fluorescent light. I tried not to think of it as an all-seeing eye, looking down on me from above, witnessing everything in mute horror.

“I see you get those blotches on your chest,” Adelaide said softly. “My sister gets ’em too. Only you can’t see ’em so well on her.”

I smiled.

“It’s all right, baby. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Then the doctor came in. He wore granny glasses and gave me a brief hello before he disappeared behind the white tent covering my knees. Adelaide took my hand and held it. She seemed to know I needed a hand to hold on to, and hers was strong and generous. While the doctor worked away, Adelaide described the procedure for me, her voice quietly resonant.

“Now he’s inserting the speculum, so you’ll feel some coldness. You know what a speculum is, baby?”

I shook my head, no.

“That’s what your doctor uses during a pelvic exam, the same instrument, to hold the walls of the vagina apart.”

I had never had a pelvic exam. This was, in effect, my first trip to the gynecologist. I didn’t tell Adelaide that. I was supposed to be nineteen and was already feeling bad about lying.

“Now he’s going to give you two shots, into your cervix, to relax the muscle.”

“Needles?”

“Don’t worry. In about two minutes you’ll feel two tiny little pinches, not too bad.”

Adelaide was as good as her word. One. Two. Like little pinpricks.

“Now we’re comin’ up on the part of the procedure where the doctor’s going to dilate you. He’s gonna use two rods, one small and one large, to open up your cervix. This is gonna be a little uncomfortable for you, honey, and I want you to hold my hand good and tight. It’s gonna feel like cramps, just like the kind you get on your period.”

“I don’t get cramps.”

“Not even the first day?”

I shook my head, no, feeling embarrassed. At that age, I felt inferior because I didn’t get menstrual cramps, which kept Angie and my classmates popping blue Midols in French class. Real women got cramps.

“Well,” she said, “you’re a lucky girl.”

I had never thought of it that way. Suddenly, I felt a violent squeeze around my lower abdomen, then another. I bit my lip, closing my eyes to the luminous cyclops in the ceiling. The pain came again and again, bringing tears to my eyes. I held on to Adelaide, and she to me, saying, “Just a couple more minutes. Hold on to my hand, honey.”

Then it stopped. No more pain, no more cramping. Adelaide explained about the curette while the doctor scraped the baby off the insides of my uterus. I felt nothing.

It was over when the scraping was done. The doctor left the room, saying a quick good-bye. Adelaide stood over me, smoothing my hair back from my face like my own mother would have. She looked so happy and relieved I felt like I had graduated from something.

“Adelaide, I have to tell you something. My name-”

“Hush, baby,” she said, smiling down at me. “You think I don’t watch television?”

She helped me to a recovery room. I had to leave her and was led to a chair near eight other patients. Some of them were having cookies and juice, others were resting in their seats. I stayed there awhile, leaning my head back into the cushions, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. In time, another counselor came by and roused me. She had an intense medical-student look about her, and she told me in a technical fashion about the pads and the bleeding and the follow-up and the product of the pregnancy.

When I got home, I mumbled something about the flu and crawled into bed with my stuffed Snoopy. I felt raw inside, achy. I stayed in bed through dinner, fake-sleeping when Angie came in at night. I just lay there, bleeding secretly into a pad attached to a strappy sanitary belt. Thinking about how I went in full and came out empty.

The product of the pregnancy.

I knew it was a baby; I didn’t kid myself about that. But for me, that wasn’t the end of the question. We killed in war; we killed in self-defense. Sometimes killing was murder and sometimes it wasn’t. I was confused. I felt that what I did was right, even though I felt just as certainly that it was wrong. My church, being a lot smarter than I, exhibited no such ambivalence. It had all the answers from the get-go, so I knew my family’s prayers for me were lost for good. They would disappear on the way to heaven like the smoky trail of an altar candle.

I look up at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, searching in vain for her eyes. If anyone could understand, Mary could. She had also sacrificed her child. She had no choice either.

“Are you all right, miss?” asks a voice.

I look up, with a shock. An old man is peering into my face, not ten inches from my nose. He looks worried, and I realize, to my surprise, that I’ve been crying. I wipe my cheek with a hand.

“Here you go,” he says. He tucks a broom under his arm and offers me a folded red bandanna from the pocket of his baggy pants. “Take it.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Here.” Before I can stop him, he puts the bandanna up to my nose. It smells like fabric softener. “Give ’er a blow. A good hard blow.”

“Are you serious?”

“Go for it.”

So for a minute I forget that I’m over ten years old, a lawyer and a sinner to boot, and let the church janitor blow my nose.

“Good for you!” He folds up the bandanna and tucks it back into his pocket. He’s cute, with a wizened face and sparse tufts of white Bozo hair at each temple. His nose is small and blunted at its tip, as if by a common spade. A safety pin holds his bifocals together, but his blue eyes are sharp behind the glasses. “You got troubles?”

“I’m okay.”

He eases himself onto the bench, leaning on the wiggly broom for support. “That why you’re cryin’? ’Cause you’re okay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know why I came here.”

“For help. That’s why people come, for help.”

“You think the church can help?”

“Sure. It’s helped me all my life-God has. He’s guided me.” The old man leans back and smiles. His teeth are too perfect. Dentures, like my father.

“You believe.”

“Of course.” He looks at the statue, his back making a tiny hunch. “When was your last confession?” It sounds odd, coming from him.

“Are you a janitor?”

“Are you?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I’m a priest! Ha!” He cackles happily, banging his broom on the ground. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

I laugh. “That’s not fair, Father.”

“No, it isn’t, is it? I’m undercover, like inMiami Vice.” His eyes smile with delight.

I turn away from his bright eyes, confounded by his ruse and his warmth. I don’t remember priests being like this when I was little. They were distant, and disapproving.

“I’m Father Cassiotti. I’m too old to do the masses, Father Napole does that. I assist him. I help however I can. I hear confessions. I tend the Virgin.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what to say. I look at my navy blue pumps planted in the grass.

“See my Darwin tulips? They’re doing just fine. The hyacinths should be up any day now. They’re always slow in coming. They need some coaxing, but I don’t push it. They come up when they’re ready. I just wait.”

I stare at my shoes.

“I’m good at waiting.”

I can almost hear the smile in his voice. My heart wells up. He’s a good man, a kind man.

He’s the best of the church, of what’s right about the church. I take a deep breath. “Where were you when I was a teenager?”

Into my ear, he whispers, “Waukegan.”

I burst into laughter.

“Exiled,” he says, without rancor. “And where were you when you were a teenager?”

“Here.”

“You went to school atOLPH? So, a long time ago, you were a good Catholic. Tell me, are we gonna get you back?”

“I don’t think you want me back, Father.”

“Of course we do! God loves us all. He forgives us all.”

“Not me. Not this.” I look up at the Virgin, but she won’t look at me.

He slaps his knee. “Let’s make a reconciliation! Right now.”

“Confession? Here?”

“Why not?”

“There’s no confessional. I can see you.”

“Silly! Why do we have to sit in a telephone booth! In Waukegan, I performed many confessions face-to-face, although I’ll admit I’ve never done one outdoors.” He chuckles. “You don’t need a booth for a confession, my dear. All you need is to examine your conscience. If you resolve not to sin in the future, confess, and accept your penance, you’ve reconciled yourself with God.”

I search the eyes behind the bifocals. He makes it sound so easy, but I know it isn’t. There are bodies on my back, big ones and little ones, and despite the kindness in his eyes, I understand that they’re mine to bear. I can’t confess, not to his blue eyes, not in the yellow sunshine, not before the white Virgin on the green grass. The colors are too dense here, like a child’s box of crayons, and too painfully pretty. “God won’t forgive me, Father.”

“I’m sure that God already has, my dear. But I don’t think you have forgiven yourself.”

Suddenly, we’re interrupted by a flock of apoplecticmammarellas in flowered housedresses. “Father Cassiotti! Father Cassiotti! Thank God we found you! The church door is locked, and the mass is in fifteen minutes! We can’t get in!”

Their agitation rattles him. His hands shake as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a jingling ring of keys. “My goodness, I’m sorry, ladies.” He looks at me worriedly. “I have to go open the church. Will you excuse me?”

“I should be going anyway.” I rise to my feet, uncertainly.

“No, please. Stay here. Please.”

“Father, your flowers look so good!” chirps one of the women, grabbing Father Cassiotti by the elbow. “Look at them, Conchetta. So pretty!”

“It’s a sin!” adds a second, taking his other arm.

They surge forward like a rugby team, pound for pound outweighing the little priest, and engulf him in their enthusiasm. They sweep him to the church like a winning coach, and all I can see of him is his bony hand in the air, bearing its janitor’s key ring. I shout good-bye, and the key ring jingles back.

I decide to walk back to the office. It’ll clear my head, and it would be impossible to find a cab down here anyway. I realize that Father Cassiotti is right: I have to forgive myself. But I don’t know how, even so many years later. I head north toward the center of the city, leaving behind the blocks that measure my girlhood.

Once out of the neighborhood, I feel nervous again. The sun is white-hot, unseasonably so, and leaves me exposed on the bare sidewalks. My walk picks up to a run, and before I know it I’m hustling through the city blocks. I glance around for the dark sedan but keep moving, jogging past babies in strollers and teenagers hanging out on the corner.

I’m slowed by the busy lunchtime crowd at Pat’s, a popular cheese-steak stand across from a playground. I thread my way through the crowd; a couple of the men in line look at me curiously. My armholes are wet underneath my blazer and blotches itch on my chest. I’m about to cross the street, still going north, when I see the figures.

About fifty feet away, at the edge of the basketball court, two big men are arguing. A crowd of basketball players and truants collects around the pair. Even at this distance, something about the men looks familiar.

I freeze when I recognize them.

It’s Detective Lombardo. And Berkowitz.