Shelter Me (41 page)
Authors: Juliette Fay
“What?” she said.
“What’s the deal with Father Jake.”
It took Janie a moment to switch gears from anticipating ravishment to having to answer for herself. “There is no deal,” she said. “I haven’t even talked to him in months.” This was not entirely true, she realized. It was only a few days ago that Jake had said, “Body of Christ,” and she had said, “Thanks.” But did that even count?
“I saw him at the church tonight,” said Tug.
“It’s his church,” she said, sounding defensive even to herself.
Tug crossed his arms. “I saw him come and go all summer.”
“Aunt Jude made him come because I wouldn’t go to that grief group.”
“I was in the yard that morning he skulked out of here barefoot,” he said quietly. “Don’t bullshit me, Janie.”
“Nothing happened!”
The unblinking stare.
So she told him. A version of it anyway, remembering his reaction to the fight she’d had with her mother. She didn’t reveal Jake’s secret, but she admitted there was some terrible trauma in his past. She didn’t tell quite how drawn to Jake she had been, but she did say that she’d felt understood for the first time since Robby’s death. She told about the middle-of-the-night e-mails, and what a lifeline they were. She’d felt safe with Jake, and so she’d called him after the home invasion. And he’d empathized so fully, he’d rushed over without thinking to change his clothes or even put on shoes.
“If it was all so wonderful, why did he stop showing up?”
“My mother thought we were getting too close, so she told him to stop coming.”
Tug ruminated on this for a moment. “Heck of a spoiler, isn’t she.”
“If I’m honest with myself,” Janie said, “she was probably right about Jake. We were getting too…dependent. It could have been a problem. I just hated how she went behind my back.”
“So,” said Tug. “Nothing I need to worry about, then.” This required an answer.
“Not a thing.”
“Except your mother.”
“She’s coming around.” Janie smiled. “I think the family is leaning on her to ease up.”
He gave a sly grin. “Little bit of pudding goes a long way.”
T
UESDAY
, J
ANUARY
1
Everyone’s still sleeping. Tug doesn’t snore, exactly, but his breath makes this funny “fah” sound sometimes, and it was bugging me. I’m drinking my coffee, enjoying the quiet. All year I’ve hated the quiet. Now I like it again.
The wedding was…
(Can’t think of a word other than “magical” which is so annoyingly Disney. I hate it when good words go bad.)
Dylan was great as the ringmaster, and only dropped the pillow once. The rings had been tied on with a little thread, so they didn’t go rolling under the kneelers, which was a huge relief. When he saw that, he yelled down the aisle to Cormac “Don’t worry! I still got ’em!”
Barb looked great, except she cried through the whole service, practically. Cormac just smiled and smiled. He didn’t give a shit. He’s in love. It makes me sigh like an old lady the way he’s in love. My sweet, smart-alecky, gigantic cousin.
Stephanie, my little dressing-room friend, had makeup on and her hair all done up in twists and curls. Beautiful, but I liked it better when her face looked more like who she was, not so grown up, and not so touched-up. More of a candid, less of a formal, portrait. She introduced me to her very pregnant mother, who thanked me for looking after her daughter at such a tricky moment. She commented that as they get older you have to rely more and more on them being able to find pockets of kindness in the world. She pointed to
her stomach, all swollen and heavy, and said, “This is as easy as it gets.”
Alicia clung to Mike the whole time like one of those birds that rides on the back of a hippo. But once, during the reception, I saw her in the bathroom, and I caught her pinching the back of her hand. And I said, “I do that.” And she said, “For goodness’ sake, WHY?” which is about the longest sentence I’ve heard from her. So I told her I don’t know, it just distracts me from feeling like my head’s going to explode or something. She laughed and the sound was just like when she was crying, like a little silver bell in a rich person’s house, only happy.
Tug saw my mother sitting alone at her table, and he asked me if I thought it would be okay if he asked her to dance. I told him, Lay it on, Pudding Man. He gave me his little grin as he got up, and said not to call him that.
Heidi didn’t have any plans for New Year’s, so at the last minute I had invited her to come to the reception after dinner. She wouldn’t even consider it. Then she showed up! Wearing a candy pink satin mini-dress with enough spangles and sparkles to blind you! Apparently she had been forced to wear it as a bridesmaid years ago. It was so awful and so completely unlike her, it was great. I swear, half the guys at the reception (and one or two of the women) couldn’t take their eyes off her. Officer Dougie looked completely smitten.
Uncle Charlie swaggered around, grinning like a madman and thumping people a little too hard on the back with those giant paws of his. Just before midnight, when everyone was loose and giggly, Aunt Brigid brought out a curling old photo, the one she’s been blackmailing him with since they were young. They’d had a deal for forty years that she could give it to Cormac on his wedding day. It showed Uncle Charlie standing in a hospital waiting room, cradling his newborn son in his arms, sobbing. His face was all twisted up and his mouth hung a little open and his cheeks were shiny with tears. Raw emotion. True
love. The smirk Cormac always wears around his father went away, and he said, “I hope that’s me someday, Pop.” Uncle Charlie just nodded. I think he couldn’t speak, for once.
After her dance with Tug, Mum came over and saw me looking at the picture. “Have you seen this?” I asked. “I took it,” she told me. When I said how amazing it was, she got teary and patted my cheek. A parent’s love is the most desperate thing on this earth. She and I both know that.
At midnight everyone kissed and hugged and wished each other every happiness in the new year. Took about half an hour. Aunt Jude got ahold of me and clutched me up against all those necklaces of hers, and said, “I couldn’t love you any more if you belonged to me.” I told her I do belong to her. It’s the truth.
T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY
, J
ANIE
and Aunt Jude and the kids went to church at Our Lady’s. Janie invited Tug to come, too, as he shoveled pancakes to the kids in the syrupy smell of her kitchen. She wondered if he were still uncomfortable about Jake. “You could see for yourself,” she said.
“I don’t need to,” he said. “But I’ll come.”
As Father Jake processed down the aisle that morning, Janie noticed that his hair was shorter. And he had new shoes, the leather kind, not the black sport shoes he’d always worn. It was the Feast of the Epiphany, when the three wise men brought gifts to the Holy Family.
La Befana,
thought Janie, her thoughts flitting to her mother, now happily home in Italy.
Maybe this year the old woman will have the sense to tag along.
“When I am lost and weary, Lord, you make for me a shelter of your love,” sang the cantor, the notes trailing sweetly over the congregation. Janie slid her hand along the pew bench to Tug’s.
So grateful
, she thought, as their fingers laced together.
Everyone rose when Father Jake read from the Gospel of Matthew:
And on entering the house, the Magi saw the child with Mary, his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
When Father Jake closed the book and set it aside, everyone took their seats again and he began his homily. He spoke about the readings and the incalculable impact the birth of this one child had on the course of history. He was somewhat scholarly, but sprinkled in a humorous comment here and there for the purpose of retaining some, though certainly not all, of their attention. He took a breath, and Janie supposed that he would wrap things up and move on to the consecration. But instead he did something his parishioners rarely experienced from him. He began to speak in the first person.
“What I find myself marveling at is that men came from so far away to find a tiny baby. No one else seemed to anticipate this momentous event, except for a mere three people, foreigners from the East. This story would have been shocking to the Jews who were hearing it. The first people to believe in the miracle of Jesus were not Jews! They were not even neighboring Gentiles. They didn’t have the same skin color or customs or worldview. They were the most unlikely sources of grace imaginable. Yet grace Him they did, with their gifts and, more importantly, with their faith in him.
“Why is that? What does it mean? And who are their present-day equivalents? Who are the unexpected people who show up from time to time in our lives, bearing rare and valuable gifts? Who goes far out of their way to reach us? Who are those unlikely souls who seem to understand what a miracle each of us is?”
Father Jake stopped for a moment, presumably to allow the congregation to ponder these questions. But Janie sensed that he wasn’t really aware of what was before him, people clustered on wooden benches, some listening intently, some politely waiting
for Communion, some impatient for the service to be over. He was pondering the questions himself, in the silence of his own solitary world. Then he went on.
“The Magi in my life have always surprised me. They have often been people I initially felt I had nothing in common with. Sometimes I didn’t even like them. But they came bearing gifts. Of wisdom, of acceptance. One or two came to give me a kick in the pants.”
The congregation, many of whom had tuned in at this unexpectedly personal turn in his comments, chuckled appreciatively.
“And some left as suddenly as they had arrived. They returned to their respective homelands or continued on their own journeys. I miss some of them.” He smiled to himself, as if some private memory had interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flicked up, scanned the crowd for a moment, and lit for the briefest possible moment on Janie, then quickly darted away. “But we all have to find our way toward whatever miracles await us. And to perform miracles, when it’s in our power to do so.
“Maybe the most important question is: how do I serve as Magi for others? How generously do I give my gifts—and not just to the obvious recipients in my life? How far out of my way do I go to recognize and pay homage to miracles? Not very far some days. But on good days, just far enough.”
A
FEW DAYS LATER
, an idea came to Janie that was so strange she had to push it away for a while. But it returned to her over and over, at odd times, such that it became familiar, if not any less unorthodox.
“Could you take the day off on Monday, the fourteenth?” she asked Tug one night as they unloaded the dishwasher.
“The anniversary of Robby’s death.”
“Yeah.”
“It’d be understandable if you wanted some space,” he said.
“I don’t want any space. I need your help.”
She told him her idea, and it took him a few minutes to digest. Then he shook his head. “Janie, girl,” he said. “You are something.”
She called Aunt Jude and then Emmett’s sister Fran. When they regained their composure, they agreed.
M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
14
It’s a lot colder here on the Cape than it was back in November. But it was sunny today, and we were prepared with warm clothes and blankets. It’s such a relief not to be in Pelham. Not to be thinking unbearable things like “I was probably sitting in this very chair when it happened.”
I’m glad I thought to bring Aunt Jude. Robby’s death happened to her almost as much as it happened to me, just by virtue of how much she loves me. And she keeps things from getting too quiet. She has a knack for that.
It was good to be by the ocean. Emmett and I sat next to each other in our beach chairs. He looked at his watch a lot, and I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t try to stop him. I’m sure I couldn’t have, anyway. Dylan wore his swim goggles. Everyone has their way.
And then Emmett took my hand, and I knew that was the moment, a year ago, when it happened. I squeezed his worn old hand, and we cried.
A million things went through my head. Malcolm and his sister. Uncle Charlie holding his newborn baby. My mother and her quilting squares. Too many memories of Robby to count.
Fran held Emmett’s other hand. Carly sat with Aunt Jude and played with her jewelry. Dylan climbed into my lap and we rocked. Tug stoked the fire, but then he went still for a while, gazing out at the ocean.
We’re all on loan. The only thing that makes sense is to be together.
T
HREE WOMEN HELPED ME
grow this novel from its seedling days, reading it as I wrote it and handed it to them in chunks that sometimes ended mid-scene. Alison Bullock, a talented author, taught me many things, including that if I am going to break the rules, I should know what the rules are. Her collegial generosity was boundless. Megan Lucier put up with me taking more than my share of airtime to discuss this book during our weekly walks. Her edits often ended with highly motivating remarks such as, “GIVE ME MORE, NOW!” Catherine Toro-McCue, who has known me the longest, was the most surprised at the odd and sometimes bizarre inner workings of my imagination. She also came up with the most interesting questions.
Emi Battaglia, Ruth Sullivan and Liz Welch offered good advice and were generous with their contacts, even without knowing me well. Their willingness to give an unknown novice a leg up was very encouraging. Dan Greenwood, a contractor friend, gave me a tutorial on porch building. All factual details are to his credit; anything that sounds like faulty construction is my mistake. Amanda Demersky was my respiratory therapist reference and gave me excellent words like “tachypneic” to work with.
Jih-ho Donovan put me in touch with her sister, Mih-ho Cha, who gave me some very fortuitous advice in sending me to Theresa Park of the Park Literary Group. I think of Theresa not only
as my Fairy God-Agent, but now also as a friend. No new author could ask for a better guide through the strange wonderland of the publishing industry.
Executive Editor Lucia Macro has been wonderful to work with. Enthusiastic and responsive, she was spectacular at figuring out what was missing. It’s a better story thanks to her.
My father, John Dacey, a prolific nonfiction writer, read the finished product and gave it the thumbs-up, as did my friend Anne Kuppinger. Anne and my brother-in-law Paul Allen became delightfully, almost compulsively, involved in trying to come up with a good title for this story. Paul sang me songs over the cell phone on occasion.
Kristen and Keiji Iwai, my sister and brother-in-law, gave me the benefit of their vast professional knowledge by coaching me on photographic suggestions for the book cover.
I also received invaluable help with publicity, not to mention rock-solid confidence in my eventual success, from my great friend Julia Tanen.
My children, Brianna, Liam, Nicholas and Quinn, received somewhat less than all of my attention and mental energy during the writing of this book. Nevertheless, they were wonderfully enthusiastic about it. Their interest and pride in my line of work is an unexpected bonus, and highly motivating (especially that dreaded question, “What page are you on?”).
Tom Fay, a man of great honor and kindness, has nonetheless harassed me mercilessly to write something—anything—throughout our eighteen years of marriage. It is to him, to his faith in me, and to his willingness to take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese whenever I needed a few extra hours, that this book is lovingly dedicated.
