Good Harbor (14 page)

He apologized for not calling sooner; he had been away on a family emergency — then
asked, “How may I be of assistance?”

Haltingly, using the word
respectfully
at least three times, Joyce explained that she and her family were new to the neighborhood,
Jewish, and wanted to remove the statue of Mary from their yard.

“Are you the folks who bought the Loquasto house?”

This town is amazing, Joyce thought. “That’s us,” she said brightly.

“I know that statue.” He chuckled. “You’re going to have a heck of a time getting
her out of there. Joe poured enough cement to anchor the Washington Monument.”

“Wow,” said Joyce, watching the rain trickle down Mary’s concrete veil and drip prettily
onto the ground.

“Why don’t I drop by and have a look tomorrow?” he offered. “Six o’clock okay with
you?”

As soon as she hung up, Joyce called Frank and told him he had to come up the next
day. “No way I’m talking to this priest by myself.”

The following evening, Frank arrived a few minutes before six, with a good steak,
a bag of salad, and a bottle of red wine. He’d had his hair cut and he was wearing
the blue shirt she had given him.

Joyce felt a rush of attraction for her husband and wished they didn’t have an appointment
with a priest at just that moment. She wished that she felt this way about Frank more
often — and closer to bedtime.

She kissed him on the mouth and he held her close for a moment. “I guess you missed
me,” he said.

“I guess so.”

They sat on the front stoop and exchanged news: Harlan had a meeting with some California
venture-capital guys, who were gung ho last week but now seemed a bit wary. Joyce
complained that her writing was going so slowly that she’d begun reading the help
wanted ads. Frank reminded her, kindly, that she always felt discouraged in June,
but that by summer’s end she was inevitably writing up a storm.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joyce admitted as a rusty yellow Pacer pulled up. Watching Father Sherry
get out of the hatchback was a little like watching clowns pile out of a toy car at
the circus. He was a tall man in a black wet suit; a pair of red suspenders framed
a sizable paunch.

Frank and Joyce walked to the sidewalk to meet him.

He shook hands and said, “Pardon my appearance. I have a couple of free hours and
couldn’t resist. The season is so short, you know.”

Barely taking a breath, the priest led them over to the statue. “So here’s Our Lady,
freshly whitewashed. And you say you’ve found flowers near her, eh? Probably Mrs.
Lupo up the street. Have you met Theresa?”

Father Sherry didn’t give Joyce a chance to answer. “She must really be slowing down
if she hasn’t come over to check you out. She used to be good for a covered dish while
she gave you the once-over.

“The Loquastos put the Madonna here, oh, ten years ago as a kind of thanks offering.”
He crossed his arms over his midsection and shook his head. “One of their kids, Ricky,
I think, got caught in the undertow over at Good Harbor and was nearly swept out to
sea. The lifeguard got to him in time, thank God, and they wanted to express their
gratitude.”

He crouched to poke at the pedestal, and Frank hunched down beside him. “Joe was in
construction. He had some of his guys come over to do the foundation.

“That was just a few months after I came to St. Rita’s. They asked me over to do a
blessing. Hoo, boy, did I ever get the hairy eyeball from the neighborhood ladies.
I had to eat everything they offered, just to be polite. And I never stopped, as you
can see.” The priest laughed, standing and patting his stomach.

“Theresa Lupo was there that day, and she told me a long story about her mother, who
was sick with breast cancer.” Father Sherry’s hand was resting on the statue’s shoulder.
“Theresa was heartsick and just frantic about it. The day after the Loquastos put
up their statue, she swore she saw a tear on the Virgin’s face. Joe said it was raining,
but you couldn’t tell Theresa that. She was sure the Virgin was weeping with her.

“So she started bringing flowers. Mary Loquasto was sweet about it; she’d invite her
in for coffee. The mother held on for another six months, long enough to see Theresa’s
youngest’s first communion, which Theresa took as a gift from the Virgin of Forest
Street. I’ll bet she’s been bringing flowers ever since.

“And that’s the story of your statue.”

Joyce suddenly felt like an anthropologist, or an ugly American, or maybe just a tourist.

Frank whistled softly and shook his head. “What should we do?”

Father Sherry rubbed his chin. “I say we wait until the end of the month, till after
the Saint Peter’s fiesta. It’s a madhouse now getting ready, and then there’s that
whole week. I’ll call Joe Loquasto, and I should visit Theresa anyway. She’ll like
being consulted.”

The priest checked his watch, and Joyce and Frank walked him to his car. “I’ll be
back in touch in July, first thing. I appreciate your sensitivity. And once we get
it taken care of, you’ll have a great story to tell.”

Tossing off their thanks, the priest folded himself back into his car.

Frank went inside to start dinner, but Joyce returned to the statue for a moment.
The mild smile suddenly seemed secretive and wise. “Mary, honey,” she whispered, “can
you do anything for my friend Kathleen?”

“HELLO? THIS IS
a message for Kathleen Levine? I got your name and number from Rabbi Hertz? My name
is Brigid Gallagher-Steinberg, and Rabbi Hertz wanted me to contact you about the
library at the temple?”

Kathleen stared out the window while she listened to the string of questions. Back
from treatment, with the day ahead of her, she noticed that her tomato plants needed
staking.

It was a nice day. But she didn’t feel like walking the beach alone. Joyce was back
in the city now, getting Nina ready for camp. Kathleen sat at the kitchen table and
glanced at the calendar.

It was almost July, which meant it was almost August.

Danny would have been twenty-six. He could have married by now, Kathleen thought.
She folded her arms and put her forehead down. Of her three boys, he had been the
most social. He was fascinated with little babies; he tried to swaddle his teddy bear
like an infant. She would have been a grandmother. She lowered her cheek to the cool-hard
Formica, but there were no tears.

“No!” she thought, sitting upright. She had no idea what Danny would have been like.
He was a three-year-old who sucked his fingers and wanted
Goodnight Moon
five times a night. He thought his big brother walked on water. He never met Jack,
never got to be a big brother himself. He was barely out of diapers on the day that
car knocked him into the tree, headfirst.

The day before the accident, Kathleen had taken Danny to Muchnik’s Shoes downtown
and bought him new sneakers. Red Keds. He wanted the red ones. Twenty-five years ago.
The red sneakers against the white sheet on the stretcher. They could have looked
like bloodstains, but they didn’t. They looked like roses.

Kathleen shuddered and started looking for her car keys. There was no rule against
visiting the cemetery on days other than the anniversary, she thought. She would go
by herself. Right now. Why not?

The phone rang.

“Mrs. Levine? This is Brigid Gallagher-Steinberg again? I couldn’t remember if I left
my phone number or not? So I thought I’d call and leave it on your machine? But there
you are.”

“Here I am,” Kathleen said abruptly.

“I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time,” Brigid said, her cadence flattened by Kathleen’s
tone.

“No, it’s okay. I was going out. But there’s no rush.”

Brigid had been deputized to chair the library subcommittee for children’s books.
“Rabbi Hertz picked me because I asked why there were no books for my little boy at
the temple? You’ve got to be really, really careful what you say around her. My husband
is running a committee to see about adding a handicapped-accessible bathroom because
he told her about a case he’s doing on the Americans with Disabilities Act? He works
for the attorney general’s office?”

“Yes,” said Kathleen, putting the keys into her purse.

“Rabbi Hertz says you’re a professional children’s librarian? So I wonder if I could
bring over the books we already have and also a bunch of catalogs? Oh, and there’s
a really good children’s collection at this temple down in Lexington? They have a
full-time librarian. I talked to her, and she was really nice and said we could go
down there for a visit?”

“I’m not sure I’m up to that.”

“I could drive.”

Annoyed that Brigid hadn’t taken the hint, Kathleen said, “I’m afraid that the radiation
treatments are making me tired.”

“Radiation?” Brigid gasped. “I’m so sorry. Rabbi Hertz didn’t say anything about any,
anything, any treatment. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t understand why she didn’t. Really,
I am so sorry.”

Kathleen flushed, ashamed at the way she’d blindsided this poor woman. “Oh, it was
probably meant as a gift, her not treating me like an invalid. I don’t really want
to be treated like I’m sick.” Except I do, thought Kathleen. “I’m having radiation
for breast cancer. My doctors tell me I’ll be fine.”

“No chemo?”

“No.”

“Oh, that’s good. My friend, Nancy? She had radiation and chemo after her surgery?
The chemo was awful.” There was a long pause.

“I’m not that bad off.” Kathleen made herself add, “I’m lucky.”

Brigid said she’d understand if Kathleen would prefer not to get involved. “You’ve
got plenty on your plate.”

“Actually, I don’t. Besides, you’re right about the rabbi. I’m not sure I didn’t agree
to do it. Why don’t you drop off the catalogs. But I think I’d rather wait and see
about the field trip. I am pretty tired these days.” Kathleen wasn’t sure she wanted
to spend hours in the car with Brigid of the Perpetual Question.

When she got off the phone, Kathleen went out to the deck and tended to the flower
boxes. Slipping off her shoes, she walked barefoot over the warm paving stones to
rescue her two drooping tomato plants, which is where Brigid found her.

“I knocked on the door and rang the bell?” she said as she rearranged the little boy
straddling her hip. “This is Nathan.” She brushed thick red hair off his freckled
forehead. “Can you say hello to Mrs. Levine?”

“Nathan?” asked Kathleen. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” Nathan
buried his head in his mother’s shoulder. “Hello, Nathan. Do you like teeny tiny toads?”

“No!” said Nathan, his voice muffled.

“Oh, too bad. Because there’s one right under this leaf. Are you sure you don’t want
to see him?”

Brigid crouched down and Nathan peeked. “Oooh,” he said, catching sight of the thumbnail-sized
creature as it hopped away.

Kathleen invited Brigid and Nathan in for cookies and milk, but they were on their
way to a play date. Brigid — a slender redhead in denim shorts and a Rockport T-shirt
— carried a shopping bag filled with catalogs to the deck. She put Nathan down while
she fetched a box from her car.

“Are you two years old?” Kathleen asked.

Nathan nodded warily.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I won’t pinch your cheeks or kiss you. But I hope you’ll
come back and find the teeny tiny toad with me. He lives in my garden in a teeny tiny
house with an itsy-bitsy mouse and a squeaky beaky grouse.”

Nathan stuck his thumb in his mouth, but his eyes smiled.

Brigid returned with a cardboard box that held the entire contents of the temple’s
juvenile collection. “There isn’t much here. The rabbi said to recycle anything —
or everything. It’s up to you.”

Brigid lifted her son, kissed him on either cheek, and asked, “Um, Mrs. Levine? I
gotta ask. With a name like Kathleen? Are you Catholic?”

“I converted to Judaism before I married my husband. What about you, Brigid?”

“That would kill my mother. But the kids are going to be Jewish? I mean, we’re raising
them Jewish? Actually,
I’m
raising them Jewish. My husband isn’t all that into it? You know?”