It Burns a Lovely Light (24 page)

"Go on, my child."

My child.
She shivered. Those words alone kept her coming back week after week. Leaning forward until her lips ever-so-lightly brushed the screen, Mrs. Piotrowski whispered her sins of the past week;
omitting the small detail of her inclination to fantasize about the good Father. To embarrass this virtuous man would be a far greater sin than the fact that she allowed her imagination to run a little riot now and then.

As she prayed her penance of two Hail Mary's and an Act of Contrition, she kept a careful eye on the custodian. He was humming. Eyes closed, his hips pulsated rhythmically toward the broom as if he were dancing. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. She would report him.

While Mrs. Piotrowski glowered at the poor custodian, Eileen slouched down the aisle and into the confessional.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been," she paused, "five months since my last confession."

"Welcome back, my child."

"Thank you, Father. Good to be back."

Deciding to let the girl's overly familiar tone go, he tried
to wait patiently for the girl to begin; a feat made painfully difficult by the two bottles of red he'd drunk last night. His temple throbbed and he had a mad craving for something greasy and salty.

"I took more things that don't belong to me."

"Why?"

"It makes me feel better. Not the
stealing
part, but the
having
part."

"What do you think it is that you're trying to feel
better about? Is something making you unhappy?"

Eileen's eyes welled up, but she didn't respond. Billie - and the fact that she didn't get struck dead by a speeding truck or a bolt of lightning - made her unhappy.

Sin free again, Eileen hopped on her bicycle and tore across the square. She smiled, relishing the unsoiled feeling in her heart. Whoever came up with confession deserves a medal.

Farley thumped down the back stairs and into the kitchen. "Are you busy?"

"I'm supposed to be studying," said Dion, spreading her books out on the table. "So naturally, I made a big
breakfast, emptied the dishwasher, re-arranged my make-up drawer and examined my pores. What's up?"

"I'm late for work. Can you give me a lift?"

"Sorry, Joe took the car. He drove Claire to a library
club meeting."

Farley groaned inwardly.
Claire, what are you up to now?

"She sure does have a lot of library meetings," said Dion. "Hey, maybe she's having an affair."

"Not our Claire. That would be
wrong
."

"What do you think they talk about in those meetings, anyway?"

"Don't know," said Farley. "Who is overdue, I
guess."

"Thanks, hon." Claire shut the car door.

Joe leaned across the seat. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?"

"It's a beautiful day; I'll take the streetcar to the square and walk home."

She waited until Joe's car was out of sight and then walked the four blocks to the loan office. She could have told him - along with
everyone else in Bridge Manor - where she was going, but she didn't want to jinx herself until the deed was done.

The numbers on the panel illuminated as the elevator rose to the fourteenth floor. With each floor a weight seemed to lift off her
shoulders. For the first time in too long, the sense of overwhelming panic - a panic that she had gotten used to - was gone. Her application for a loan had been accepted. This morning she would sign the papers.

The bell rang and the elevator doors slid open. Directly
across the spacious hall were the heavy glass doors of The Pilgrim Group.

The receptionist pushed her intercom button. "Mrs. Sullivan is here, Mr. Johnson." She stood and walked around her desk.
"If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the conference room."

Claire's jaw dropped as she entered the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous view of the U.S. Steel Tower. There must have been thirty chairs around the giant conference table. In the
center of the long table was a polished silver pot of hot coffee, with matching silver sugar bowl and cream pitcher, a tray piled with muffins, bagels, and fruit, and a crystal pitcher of orange juice, which Claire had a feeling was
fresh-squeezed.

The receptionist introduced her to Mr. Johnson and his assistant, Stephanie. Admiring Stephanie's impeccably-fitted black suit, Claire wished she had worn a better outfit.

Mr. Johnson, a large man with tiny bifocals, insisted they all have a bit of food and some hot coffee before getting down to brass tacks. Claire took a few self-conscious bites and exchanged small talk with Stephanie. Mr. Johnson opened his briefcase and removed the thick contract.

The meeting itself went quickly. Mr. Johnson flipped pages, occasionally pointing with his fancy pen, his gold cufflinks clanking on the polished conference table.

"Sign here."

At first Claire questioned each page before she signed, and listened carefully to each lengthy explanation. But after a few responses of 'it merely acknowledges that you are aware of what the contract states,' and
'it is all standard, Mrs. Sullivan, nothing to worry about,' she began to sign without question. She was grateful for Stephanie. Stephanie was kind; she knew how intimidating these contracts could be.

As if reading Claire's mind, Stephanie smiled at her.
"Would you like Mr. Johnson to go through it again?"

Claire raised her chin. "No, that will not be necessary."

Claire decided to tackle the seldom-used dining room as her summer project, and was actually looking forward to jumping in. The hardwood floor was already covered with two giant tarps, as September had been preparing
to paint the room before she left. Claire knelt and ran her palm across the patched area along the base of the wall.
Smooth
. September had done a fine job. She jumped as the back door slammed.

"Claire?"

"Back here!"

She gasped as Paddy stepped into the room. His eyes were glassy, as if he had not slept in days. His skin was an odd shade of grey and his shoulders wore a deep slouch.

"What is it, Paddy?"

"We're closing the mill."

Standing, she wiped the dust off her dungarees and reached for his hand.

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

They took a back table at Mick's.

Claire held up her beer. "To Porter Steel."

"To Porter Steel."

Paddy took a long pull of his beer and set it down with a
heavy sigh.

"The riverfront is littered with the shells of abandoned mills. Even so, I thought we would be the ones to survive." He gave Claire a weary smile. "Hard to believe an entire industry is gone."

Claire put her hand over his. "But it
is
gone, Paddy. We have to face it and move on."

"Move on to what, unemployment?"

"There are jobs out there."

"Jobs in technology and computers and things I know nothing about. Who will hire me? All I've ever known is the mill."

"Paddy's right; these are tough times," Veda Marie
said, struggling to keep up with Claire. "If someone as good as September can steal, things must be bad."

Claire stepped up her pace as they moved along the
waterfront. Over time, their walks had evolved into a daily half-hour pre-breakfast brisk run/walk - an invigorating way to start the day.

"You know as well as I do September didn't take those books," said Claire. "And even if she did - which she didn't - if she
needed money that badly, she's welcome to it."

"You're right," said Veda Marie. "Our September Rose couldn't steal a kiss. Because then she'd have to worry about coming back as an ant, or a flea in her next life."

They walked in silence for a while. Up ahead an elderly couple sat on a bench, holding hands. The man smiled at the woman as a young groom might gaze into the eyes of his new bride.

"I'm not afraid to be old," said Veda Marie, after they passed the couple. "I'm afraid to be old
alone
. I'm afraid I'll envy everyone who has someone else to grow old with. I fear the envy. After envy, it's just a quick hop, skip, and a jump over to hate."

"Stop it. You could never hate."

"Still, I can't remember the last time someone looked at me that way."

Claire snorted. "Then you've got blinders on. Do you
really believe Mr. Winston pulls his chair so close to yours because he likes the smell of secondhand smoke?"

"Listen to this," said Veda Marie, tapping her
newspaper. "They're selling a 'bum jiggle machine' at the Armory yard sale."

Mr. Winston lifted his reading glasses. "I prefer not to know what a bum jiggle machine is."

Claire got up from the table to turn on the radio. Mornings
were much livelier now that Mr. Winston was a regular attendee. At some point over the summer, their morning coffee/newspaper ritual had evolved into a competition to find the most interesting - and absurd- articles.

"I've got a winner," said Mr. Winston. "A woman in Oxford, Mississippi found Jesus in her Frito. She is offering her Jesus-Frito up for sale to the highest bidder."

Veda Marie made a face "That's crazy talk. Everyone
knows Jesus Christ wouldn't be caught dead in processed food."

"And now," purred the velvety voice of the Golden Oldies DJ, "here's a timeless classic by the delightfully demure, forever
pure Doris Day."

"Que Sera, Sera!

Whatever Will Be, Will Be!"

"I always felt sorry for Doris Day," said Mr.
Winston. "No one can live up to the pressure of 'pure.'"

It occurred to Claire that Ryan would beg to differ. To him, Pauline was 'Doris Day pure.'

"Hold everything, folks." Veda Marie rumpled her
newspaper. "Mr. Winston, I'll see your Frito and raise you one."

She read aloud:

"Mrs. Edna Bowman has five children and eleven grandchildren, and she is a convicted criminal. For the past seven years, Mrs.
Bowman has swindled department stores and supermarkets out of hundreds of thousands of dollars, all in the form of insurance settlements. Dropping a tomato, spilling some liquid, or scattering a few grapes, Mrs. Bowman would lay
herself down on the floor and wait to be discovered. Eleven companies have so far been identified as victims of her fraudulent claims, exceeding $550,000 of settlement money for erroneous neck and back injury claims."

She slammed the paper on the table. "Get a load of that! The woman got five hundred and fifty thousand dollars
just for lying down
."

"Shame on her," said Claire.

"What if she really needed the money? I mean, who was
hurt, really? I'm sure this was just a drop in the bucket for the insurance company."

"That may be true," said Mr. Winston. "But right is right, and wrong is wrong."

Outside a squirrel ran across the windowsill, then back the other way, its tiny feet sinking into the mud.

"Those damn squirrels can never make up their minds," said Veda Marie, the newspaper article forgotten.

Claire picked up the paper and read it again.

Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars just for lying down.

Veda Marie changed the sheets on William's bed while Farley ran a dust mop across the hardwood floor. William was supposed to be dusting his furniture, but he had gotten distracted by a Mighty Mouse figurine.

"I can't believe it's almost fall again," said Farley. "The seasons are flying by."

Veda Marie gave her a knowing look. "Time always flies for the happy, lovey."

Farley turned and mopped away from Veda Marie's high-flying
eyebrows. She was happy; happier than she ever thought she'd be again, and it terrified her. One look at Henry - one
thought
about him - and her heart began to do jumping jacks. Never mind when he held her...kissed her...touched
her.

"There's a John Wayne movie on TV tonight," said William.

"John Wayne." Veda Marie sighed, fluffing a pillow. "Now
there
is a man."

"Too bad he has a fake name. His real name is 'Marion.'"

Veda Marie jokingly wagged her finger at him. "That is a vicious lie, and you know..." She stopped. "What is that over your eye?"

"What?" William felt his forehead.

"Come here." She steered him under the light. "Lovey, you've got a bald spot in the middle of your eyebrow."

William ran to the bathroom mirror and stared, horrified.

"Trichotillomania," he whispered. "The repetitive self-removal of hair."

After Veda Marie filled in William's eyebrow with her
Maybelline charcoal black eyebrow pencil Farley tucked him into bed. Alone in the dark, he rubbed his palm with the binding of his blanket and stared at nothing.

"The man of steel takes a mighty leap and soars through
the air," he whispered. "Leaving behind mean old Peter Gaglio, who gets tinier by the second."

It had happened during an ice cream stop on William's way home from Freeman's. Tearing the wrapper off his Fudgesicle - careful not to
touch the ice cream with his hands - the most peculiar sensation had come over him. Someone was watching him. Despite the August heat a chill ran down the back of his neck. He turned his head, just enough. There - across the square,
leaning against a telephone pole in front of the dry cleaners - was Peter Gaglio, lighting a cigarette. Clicking his lighter closed, Peter looked directly at William and grinned his toothless grin.

William sat motionless, ignoring the melting chocolate
running down his arm. Mercifully, it wasn't too long before a bus came along and carried Peter away. William's heart was pounding so hard it hurt. He told himself that it was just bad luck. After all, they lived in the same city -
they were bound to run into each other now and then.

He'd seen Peter two more times since that day. Each time, Peter grinned at William as if he had a horrible secret.

Reaching under his pillow, William pulled out Farley's old -
rejected - bracelet.

"I am brave and daring," he whispered. "I am brave and daring."

He tried to push Peter's leering face from his mind as the
angry voices of Joe and Paddy drifted up to the window. Nothing was good anymore.

"What do you care if I quit?"

"What do I care?" Paddy was livid. "How can you ask me that? Am I supposed to stand by and watch my son throw his future
down the drain?"

The screen door slammed.

"What the hell is going on out here?" demanded Claire.

"Our son is dropping out of college, that's what."

"I'm not dropping out," said Joe, running his fingers through his hair. "I just didn't sign up for fall semester. I want to take a break and focus on my coaching."

"A break! He wants to take a break!" cried Paddy, looking as if he might burst. "You've hardly finished your sophomore year and you've been in college for, how many years now?"

William had to strain to her Claire's voice.

"Keep it down or take this down the hill."

"This is my chance," said Joe. "We made it to the finals last season. The potential is there to do even better next season.
If we take home the trophy next season, I might be able to break into the pro league."

"You
might
," said Paddy. "You might win it big in the lottery, too. The only sure thing is an education."

"How would you know?"

"This won't take long," said Joe as they crossed the square. "I need to talk to Ryan about something."

"I know; I heard the whole thing," mumbled
William.

"I'm sorry about that, pal. Don't worry; everything will be all right."

"Good. My stomach is acting like it needs saltines and
ginger ale."

William waited in Ryan's study, munching on crackers and flipping through a book about the hardship and torture the poor saints went though. He couldn't understand why anybody wanted to be a saint. Sainthood was
pretty much a guarantee of severe pain somewhere down the line.

"It was an awful thing to say," said Joe. "Paddy's been working in the mill since he was thirteen. He took night classes for years to get his high school diploma."

Ryan carried his glass of Bordeaux to his recliner. He raised the footrest, spilling some wine on his pants. When he spoke, his words were slurred, dragged-out.

"
Shhtop
worrying."

"I want to focus on the Frosty Devils. We're good, Ryan. A championship win could bring me the recognition I need to break into the pro's."

"Then I say go for it."

"What about Paddy?"

Screwing up his face, Ryan waved a hand. "
Jussss
ignore him."

Ryan chuckled as he struggled to uncork a second bottle of wine. Typical Paddy, missing a perfect opportunity to be a hero in his son's
eyes.

Be nice, Mutt.

"Easy for you to say," he murmured. "You're dead."

"Bonjour, Monsieur William," said Colette, double-tying her apron around her tiny waist.

"Bonjour," he mumbled.

He slouched into the chair next to Farley's desk.

She pushed her papers aside. "How's my little brother?"

"Not very good." He hesitated. "Probably because of Peter Gaglio."

Farley tried to keep her voice calm. "What about Peter
Gaglio? Did he touch you?"

William shook his head, then leaned down and scratched his ankle to hide the tears that filled his eyes. Farley and Colette exchanged worried glances.

"Is that hairy boy bothering you?" asked Colette.

"He's bothering me in my mind," he said, his voice muffled by his knees. "I keep seeing him everywhere."

"Sit up." Farley pulled him by the arm. "Tell
me what happened. Did he say something to you?"

William squeezed his eyes shut. He was getting that stomach feeling again. "He doesn't say anything. He's just there. I think I need a ginger ale."

Colette brought William a soda while Farley had him take a few deep breaths.

"I don't want you walking home alone anymore," she said. "If that creep comes anywhere near you...."

"...we'll rip every greasy hair out of his big hairy head," interrupted Colette.

William licked a tear from the side of his mouth. "Like superheroes?"

Farley smiled. William hadn't mentioned superheroes since
the night he packed his cloaks away for good; saying they were for babies. She removed his glasses and wiped his face with a tissue.

"Are you are still planning to be an antibody for
Halloween?" she said.

"It's called an immunoglobulin."

"I have a better idea. Why don't you go as a superhero? I mean, you
do
have the most authentic superhero cloaks around."

"It would be such a shame to waste a good costume," said Colette.

William tugged on his eyebrow. A cloak wouldn't be babyish on Halloween.
Everyone
dressed up on Halloween, even grown-ups.

Henry and Farley spent most of their days and nights together. Their lives became so entwined, it was as if they could read each other's thoughts. A glance...a touch...a particular tone of voice was
immediately understood. She could draw a map of his body in the dark. He knew what made her laugh, what made her cry, and what made her scream in agonizing ecstasy to please, please don't ever stop.

It seemed as if happiness had not only settled in, it was putting down roots. But somewhere deep down, Farley knew better. Because when horror once again reared its spineless head, she realized she had been waiting for it all along.

Rather than have costumed children trudging up and down the steep hills on Halloween, the citizens and merchants in and around Grady Square hosted The Big Boo; a Halloween party for trick-or-treaters of all ages. The
annual event kicked off with the Goody Boo at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon. Traffic was blocked off in the square so that costumed children could safely move from merchant to merchant, collecting goody bags and treats. The Grady Boo Strut, a costume parade down to the waterfront and back, followed trick-or-treating.

Farley photographed the colorful celebration: a toothless old woman, grinning as she watched the parade from her window; the diapered
behinds of three tiny ballerinas holding hands; the tender look on Henry's face as he knelt to place goodies in a child's plastic jack-o'-lantern. However, her favorite shot was of William studying his reflection in a store window. Just as she had raised the camera to her eye, a gust of wind sent his cloak soaring
behind him, Superman style.

"Did you get that?" he cried. "It was just like I was flying!"

"I got it," said Farley, laughing.

William turned and studied his reflection again. "It was like I was a real superhero."

"You
are
a superhero." She held up her camera. "We have proof."

William threw his arms around her and squeezed. "This
is the happiest day of my whole life."

Farley held her breath. She was unable to remember the last time her brother allowed - never mind instigated - an embrace.

Parade participants and spectators returned to the square to enjoy a barbeque buffet. Freeman's donated spicy chicken wings, cheeses, and beer. Dion and Colette arranged the trays on long tables decorated Big
Boo-style. Farley and Henry stocked iced coolers with beer.

All but Henry were dressed in costume. Dion went as a college co-ed. She wore a Pitt letter sweater and an illegally-short pleated skirt. Farley was dressed as one of 'those nice boys from Pittsburgh' in an old
football uniform of Joe's and a swipe of reflector makeup under each eye. Colette was the quintessential Cat Woman, sexy in her black leotard and tights, tail, and kitty ears.

Across the square, Billie elbowed Claire as Mr. Winston iced
the keg. "I've been meaning to tell you how impressed I am with your Mr. Winston. Talk about articulate."

"Why shouldn't he be?"

But Billie was already on the move - Shimmy, Shimmy,
Ko-Ko-Bopping her way across the square in her swinging poodle skirt and tight sweater.

"Here comes trouble," said Farley, biting into a chicken wing.

Billie inserted herself between Farley and Henry. She gave
Farley's stomach a poke. Although Farley had long ago outgrown her 'skeletal' look, hard work, walking the hills and healthy eating kept her trim.

"I don't know how you stay so thin, eating like you
do," said Billie. "Don't you love a healthy eater, Henry?"

Henry locked eyes with Farley. "I do."

Billie cocked her head. "Where is your costume, Mr.
Freeman?"

"You're looking at it. I came as an exhausted chef."

"How unimaginative," she pouted. "My heart was set on a more debonair look. Maybe a tuxedo...or a pair of ass-less
chaps."

As the evening wore on, young parents carried their sleepy goblins home to bed, the music was turned up and the makeshift dance floor grew crowded.

"Too loud!" shouted William, his fingers stuck in
his ears. "I think my ears are bleeding!"

Claire bent down so they could hear each other. "Do you want to go to Father Ryan's for a little while?"

William was appalled. "Aunt Claire, he's sick!"

Each Halloween Ryan avoided the conflict of supporting local fun - versus supporting a pagan holiday - by conveniently 'coming down with something.'

"Besides," he said, "here's something wrong
with Father Ryan. He keeps acting weirder and weirder all the time."

Claire frowned. She, too, was concerned with Ryan's increasingly morose behavior.

"I'll be on the bench, counting my Boo-goodies,"
said William, starting across the square.

"Maybe Eileen could join you."

"She's too busy dancing all night long," he
mumbled to himself.

William watched the dancers from the safety of his bench. Mr. Winston and a delighted Eileen made their way across the floor. Eileen wore a black witch's gown and a smile that stretched across her whole face. Resa,
Dion, and Colette and Veda Marie danced in a circle and took turns putting on a show in the center. Claire scolded Paddy as he tried to fake-dip her. William had to laugh as Henry - all lean body and graceful rhythm -guided Farley around
the dance floor. Her knees jutted out at random and her body's rhythm seemed to be in direct conflict with the beat of the music.

Billie narrowly dodged Farley's flying elbow as she weaved through the dancers. Having zeroed in on a shy young accountant, she dragged
him on to the dance floor and clung to him as if they were at a junior high sock hop. Mr. Bieberich, owner of Grady's Dry Cleaners, chuckled as he observed Billie's painful-to-watch overtures.

"My wife calls her 'Billie Kong. Not to her face, of
course."

"Of course not," said Veda Marie, her cheeks bright red from her turn on the dance floor. "That would be rude."

Veda Marie worked her way back through the dance floor. She grabbed a shocked Billie by the hand.