It Burns a Lovely Light (6 page)

In the center of the photograph stood Pauline, her hair in a ponytail, an oversized smile on her face. Dressed in tight clam-diggers and an old work shirt of Jack's with the shirttail tied under her chest, she held a
similar sideways pose.

Claire faced the camera head-on, eyes shining, mouth partially open. She wore a pair of cuffed dungarees and one of Joe's hockey practice jerseys. Her frizzy salt- and- pepper hair was plastered to one side.

"We hung a bunch of Farley's pictures last night," said Veda Marie. "I'm trying to get the lower level spruced up before my sister Mary comes to visit. Wait till you see the drawing room; we covered up
four or five holes in the wall with Farley's masterpieces."

Pauline squinted at the photo. "I'm constantly amazed at how she can take an everyday scene and make it extraordinary."

"I know it."

'I know it' was Veda Marie's favorite expression. She used it often and enunciated each word with without-a-doubt confidence. "Our girl is as good as any big-shot professional."

"Don't encourage her," said Pauline, only
partially kidding. "Lately she's become obsessed with this dream of traveling the world alone, taking pictures of pygmies and igloos and creatures from the blue lagoon. I get the becoming-a-photographer part. I mean, look at
her work. But
alone
? What's with that? Being alone is my worst nightmare."

"Dreams change on a dime when you're young." Veda Marie opened the refrigerator door. "I seem to recall you wanting to be a
nun, back in the day."

Claire looked up from her bills. "I forgot about your Sister Pauline phase. You spent half our junior year on your knees repenting for your evil, domineering ways. Happiest year of my life."

Pauline made a face at her sister. "Ha, ha. Funny."

"At least Farley wants to do something she's good at," said Veda Marie. "Even Ryan commented on her talent, and you
know how tight the man can be with the compliments."

"Where is Mutt, anyway? I thought he was going to help us clear out the carriage house."

"He waltzed in the door this morning, ready to work.
Then Claire mentioned you wouldn't be here until the afternoon. Suddenly he remembered a pressing engagement and high-tailed it out the door, all sad-eyes and mopey face."

"Now you're exaggerating," said Pauline, laughing.

"I am not."

By the time newly-wed Pauline and Jack boarded the train for their honeymoon, thirteen-year-old Ryan had run away from home. He tried to join the Army, lying about his age and padding his shoes with newspapers to
make himself appear taller. One look at his baby face had the recruiters in stitches. They told him to beat it. Go home to mama. He returned to Bridge Manor filthy and dejected - and suddenly intolerant of Claire, for the simple
fact that she wasn't Pauline.

"So tell me about Farley's friend," said Veda Marie. "About time she brought someone up to Bridge Manor."

"She's probably afraid we'll put them to work,"
said Pauline, unwrapping the sandwiches and slicing them into quarters. "The girl's name is Dionna Piotrowski, but she goes by 'Dion.'"

Claire closed her checkbook and capped her pen. "I know
a Mrs. Piotrowski from St. Xavier's. Despicable woman. Always on moral patrol."

"Let's hope she's not Dion's mother," said Veda Marie. She tucked an escaped strand of red hair back into her kerchief as she
headed for the refrigerator. "Is Dion in Farley's class at school?"

"Yes, but they didn't really become close until Mother Superior caught them arguing in detention. She decided they should spend more
time together, and sentenced them to a week of mopping and waxing the gymnasium floor. By the time their sentence was up the girls were inseparable."

"Why were they in detention in the first place?" asked Claire.

Pauline tore off a piece of meatball sub. "Dion flashed her bum during recess."

"A girl with spark." said Veda Marie. "She'll fit right in around here. What was Farley in for?"

"For arguing with Sister Fides."

"Whoa," said Claire. "Never argue with a nun."

"Each student was assigned a poem to memorize and recite. Farley's was
First Fig
, by Edna St. Vincent Millay."

"One of my favorites," said Veda Marie, closing her eyes as she recited the poem.

"My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night.

But ah, my foes and oh, my friends, it gives a lovely light!"

"Apparently, Farley replaced '
gives'
a lovely light with
'burns'
a lovely light," continued Pauline,
"explaining that the candle was clearly doomed from the start."

Claire chuckled. "Doomed from the start?"

"The child is brilliant," said Veda Marie.

Pauline sighed. "Well, the child received a failing
mark for her brilliance. I have to say; she did put up a good argument. She said all forms of art should be open to interpretation, and this was hers."

The mudroom door slammed behind William as he stumbled into
the kitchen. He juggled his hands in excitement. "You're not going to believe this! Dion saves her scabs in a jar!"

The girls came in behind William, their faces moist with sweat.

"Veda Marie and Claire, this is Dion," said Farley, pointing to the two women.

"Why are you saving scabs?" asked Claire, her mouth full.

"I'm going to be a nurse when I grow up."

Veda Marie handed both girls a glass of iced tea. "Welcome to Bridge Manor, Dion. I'm Veda Marie Tendersheets."

"That's a really cool name."

Veda Marie patted her hair. "I know it."

Pauline polished off the last of her potato chips as she examined the to-do wall. The to-do wall was actually an enormous black chalkboard the three women had found at a flea market. They all agreed; only
the high ceilings of the kitchen could handle such a large board without taking over the room. Suspended with heavy wire and framed by the red brick wall, the effect was both sensible and striking.

Veda Marie had insisted on writing the list - saying no offense, but Claire's handwriting was practically illegible and Pauline's was too fancy to be taken seriously:

Immediate Repairs

Leaks in roof

Un-stick stuck windows

Tape broken windows on east side of house

Repair steps on second floor main
stairway

Throw away all mouse-infested or mildewed anything's

Remove rotten wall-to-wall carpeting in the old drawing room

Replace disgusting/broken toilets

Large hole in bedroom wall next to kitchen

Patch drip under kitchen sink

Replace washer

Purchase heavy duty dryer

Seal around doors and windows

Increase insulation in attic

Close off fireplaces in bedrooms

Improvements That Will Have to Wait

Paint, inside and out

Wallpaper stripping

Strip, sand, and refinish hardwoods

Have fireplaces cleaned

Repair Carrara tile in bathrooms

Untangle weeds from front and back

Renew old path through woods

Pie in the Sky

New roof

Finish Cellar

Lose weight

"I swear," said Veda Marie, talking around her cigarette as it bobbed up and down between her lips, "that list doubles while we are sleeping in our beds."

Pauline ran her finger down the list. "I'll start with
taping the broken windows."

She spent as much time as possible at Bridge Manor, insisting that hard work was just the thing to keep her sanity in check. And it seemed to be working, for the most part. She shuddered as she thought about the
ring game.

It started by accident shortly after they moved back to Pittsburgh. She had placed her wedding ring on the side of the sink while she washed her hands. As she dried her hands, the edge of the towel flipped the
ring into the sink and twirled closer and closer to the drain. She screamed and clawed at the sink, trapping the ring against the side with the palm of her hand. Clutching the ring, she sobbed, euphorically relieved.

Then she began to press fate, giving her ring the occasional, horrific twirl in the sink. Oh, but the rush. The pounding of her heart as she watched the symbol of their love move closer to the gaping drain. The unspeakable thrill each time she saved her precious ring.

On the last day of school before summer break, the girls were still in their scratchy wool uniforms. Saint Bridget's had seasonal
uniforms for the boys; heavy blue trousers and a jacket for cold weather, cool cotton trousers and a lightweight sport coat for the warmer months. The girls had to wear the same plaid skirt all year, along with thick stockings and long
sleeved button-down in the winter, and white knee socks and a peter pan blouse in the fall and spring.

"Come on, you guys." Exasperated, Farley lowered her camera. "Walk like
real
zombies."

Dion slapped her pimply thighs. "That does is it. I quit."

"Me too," said Joe. "It's hotter than the gates of hell out here."

"No shit, Sherlock." Dion fanned her skirt,
underpants be damned. "At least you're not in a wool skirt."

As a change of pace from her everyday photos, Farley had proposed setting up some zombie shots. The atmosphere was perfect; still steamy
and sticky from a recent rain, yet horribly bright.

"I promise we'll stop after this shot," said Farley. "Remember to keep your arms down. You're a zombie, not a sleepwalker." She tilted her head and let her mouth droop. "See how
my eyes are sort of dead-looking, and my jaw hangs off to one side?"

Lumbering across the lawn, Hockey Player Zombie Joe asked, "How's this?"

"I would be better if you weren't in the shade,"
said Farley, frustrated. "Everyone knows the scariest scenes take place in broad daylight."

A wood-paneled station wagon pulled down the driveway and honked two quick honks. A frazzled looking woman and a tall, skinny teenage boy
emerged.

They heard Veda Marie's excited screams from inside the house. "Claire! Pauline! My people are here!"

"...and this is my nephew, Henry," said Veda Marie,
one arm around his shoulders.

Henry blushed. "Hi."

William frowned at Veda Marie's sister, Mary. Her brown hair was cut short, pixie-style. She wore a sundress, flip-flops, and clear lip
gloss.

"You're not as fancy as Veda Marie," he said.

"I know it." Mary leaned down to be eye-level with him. "I never could hold a candle to Veda Marie when it came to getting up
to something and looking pretty doing it." She winked. "So I settled for being the smart sister."

"Why did she call you 'my people'?"

"In the south, 'my people' means family."

William turned to Veda Marie. "Am I your people, too?"

"Of course you are, lovey."

Mary was whisked into the house with promises of Cold Duck,
Velveeta cheese squares, and a grand tour of a new-and-on-its-way-to-being-improved Bridge Manor. Henry stayed outside with the zombies but declined the invitation to become one of the un-dead. He sat on the picnic table, watching, pretending
not to notice that Farley - of the wild, dark chocolate hair, scuffed-up knees and sweaty Catholic school plaid - was examining him through her camera lens.

He's going to be a tall one, thought Farley. It was nice to
look a boy in the eye for a change. At twelve, she was taller than almost everyone in her school. Sixteen-year-old Henry wasn't finished growing, either. Farley had seen enough growth spurts in her day to recognize a late one in the
making. His feet and hands were meant for a giant, and his grown-up ears and nose seemed to overwhelm the rest of his little-boy face, complete with dimples that really showed up when he smiled. And when Henry Freeman smiled, everything in the whole world seemed a little bit better.

"Farley's an interesting name," he said, looking directly into her lens as she fired away.

"Beats Henry by a mile." She moved closer. Click. "Are you really going to New York to look at
cooking
schools?"

"Culinary schools," he corrected. "I'm going to have my own restaurant someday."

"How do you know?" She zoomed in on his dark brown
eyes. She liked the way Henry spread his words out; smooth and relaxed, like he had all day. Like Paul Newman in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
.

"Well, that's what I want, anyway. Which is funny, because I can't stand the sight of food being chewed. Makes me weak in the
knees."

Farley peeked around from behind her camera. "There's a cool scene in
True Grit
, where everybody is eating around a big table. No dialogue, just a bunch of people masticating like crazy. Most disgusting
scene in the history of movies."

"Thanks for the warning."

"No problem." Click. "I can't believe you're going to be a senior this year. Are you old enough?"

Self-consciously, Henry touched his hairless chin. "I'm sixteen. I skipped a few years. So, are you going to be a photographer when you grow up?"

"I
am
a photographer." Click. "I'm going
to wander through every continent, photographing things most people would never otherwise see."

"Then you should know you can't take pictures from that angle," said Henry, poking her lens with his index finger.

"Why not?"

"Because the sun is directly behind me." He paused. "I'm pretty sure it's a rule."

"A rule?" She lowered her camera. "Where is
your sense of adventure, Henry?"

"I happen to have a wonderful- albeit prudent-sense of adventure."

Farley tried not to smile.

"What?" he said.

"In my whole life I'll probably never use the words 'albeit' or 'prudent.'"