The Mill River Recluse (26 page)

Between sobs, she told him what happened. All evening, she’d heard their calls of “trick or treat.” She stood in the foyer, trembling, with the basket of cookies in her arms. She had never been able to open the door and face them.

It pained him to hear her describe the strange sounds she heard after several hours of visits by innocent trick-or-treaters. Sounds of pumpkins being smashed, wild laughter, shouts of “Stingy old witch!” Every few minutes, someone thumped violently on her front door. She’d seen ominous shadows moving past the windows and was terrified that someone or something would come crashing through. She even considered calling the police, but she decided against it. The thought of using the telephone was as horrible as doing nothing. It had been all Mary could do to crawl into the hall closet and hide.

“Don’t worry, Mary dear,” he’d told her. “I should have stayed with you. But you tried, you did your best, and that’s what matters.”

After that day, it had been years before he suggested again that she attempt to interact with strangers.

Still, he often had to squelch the part of him that wanted to drag her, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the outside world. Despite her assurances to the contrary, he knew that she was sometimes lonely. He had seen the expressions of longing that crossed her face more and more often as she looked down at Mill River. He knew that she was imagining herself as a real member of the community.
Surely
, he told himself,
persuading her to seek treatment would be better for her in the long run. Surely, with proper counseling and support, she could overcome her anxiety and live her life as a normal person.
Surely
.

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. She had suffered so much pain in her life already, and she insisted that she was happy, even as isolated as she was. Living as she did kept her safe from paralyzing anxiety. He couldn’t, wouldn’t take that security from her.

~~~

“Children grow up so quickly.”

At the kitchen table in the marble mansion, Mary sighed and spread in front of her the most recent Mill River Gazette. The headline on the front page read “
Class of 1968
,” and she had just pulled out the pictures of the graduating students included in a special insert. “Do you remember the youngest Wilson boy, Michael?”

Father O’Brien looked up from scribbling notes for an upcoming sermon. “Do you mean little Simon? Of course. Why do you ask?”

“He’s not little anymore. He’s valedictorian this year and has a full scholarship for college.”

“If he isn’t sent to Vietnam, you mean. Let’s hope he’s not.”

“I can’t stand to think of all the kids who are ending up over there. War is always such a horrible thing.” Mary sighed again. “I’ve watched Simon Wilson spend every Saturday afternoon down in the library, and sometimes more than that during the summers. He’s done so well. In fact, all these kids have done well to graduate. I feel like they’re my own, in a way. I hate to think of any of them growing up and leaving.”

“As do I, Mary dear,” Father O’Brien said softly. He watched quietly as Mary, smiling and remembering, pored over the senior class portraits. Her joy at seeing the students reassured him that she wasn’t being crushed by the weight of her isolation. He brought her news about others in the town, activities at the schools, marriages, and people who had moved in or moved away. She knew the names and ages of most of the townspeople, what they did for a living, whether they were children or had children, when they were ill or doing well. She asked about them, cared about them, and he told her everything he could without violating any of his vows. She remembered it all.

It was only natural, he supposed, that Mary became attached to the people in town, even from a third-party perspective. Her close attention to the graduation issue of the
Gazette
was an annual ritual. But recently, she had begun to do more than observe and listen to his stories of her neighbors.

With his help, she had begun to provide small, anonymous gifts to the people she secretly knew. The gifts weren’t very much at first, at least as compared with Mary’s wealth. A hundred dollars to help the family of a man who’d been killed in the new war. Packages of diapers and baby clothes for new parents. Birthday cards containing ten-dollar bills for the children in town. He made sure that the gifts were delivered late at night, when the recipients were asleep.

Father O’Brien wished so much that Mary could see firsthand the joy she brought to the townspeople. She was creating within the town a sense of security, a feeling of wondrous gratitude toward an unknown benevolence. He did his best to convey it to her, although his own knowledge of the recipients’ reactions to Mary’s gifts was usually limited and never as satisfying as seeing them in person would have been. It made no difference to Mary, though. “In our world, even small gestures of kindness are remembered,” she often reminded him. Just knowing that she had helped made her happy.

The appreciation of her neighbors was only a small part of what Father O’Brien wished that Mary could see. During the summer of 1972, he figured out a way to change everything.

To celebrate thirty years of friendship, he bought for Mary a brand new RCA color television set. True, she had always loved her radio and had never expressed much interest in the newer technology, but the times were changing. Most of the programs were broadcast in color, and the screens of the newer TVs were larger than those of earlier models. A television could bring to Mary a real-life view of the world that her anxiety kept from her.

At once, Mary’s radio faced serious competition. She stared at the news anchors’ faces, fascinated by every muscle movement and nuanced expression. She told him repeatedly how wonderful it was to be spoken to by a strange person, to be able to listen to and enjoy seeing the new person on the television screen without being overcome by fear.

She delighted in watching Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom” and loved the Cookie Monster on “Sesame Street.” “It’s those googly eyes,” she told him as she watched the blue monster gorge himself on cookies after singing about the letter “C.” “I think I could’ve opened the door for
him
that Halloween.”

Mary raved about “The Price is Right,” admitted to him how she dreamed of being able to run up on stage in front of everyone and kiss Bob Barker on the cheek. Together, they laughed until their sides ached at the old black-and-white reruns of “I Love Lucy.” Mary had never been outside New England, but she experienced the old West through episodes of “Bonanza.” She watched cooking shows on PBS, cheered as Secretariat won the Triple Crown in the spring of 1973. She looked forward to watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas” again that December.

It was that Peanuts’ Christmas special that helped her decide to provide new color televisions for every family in Mill River. “No one should have to miss something as precious as that program. And just think, Michael,” she said as they worked out the number of RCAs to order and made sure they would be delivered on time, “what it will mean, especially for the children. They’ll be able to see things and visit places they’ve only imagined.”

“Yes,” he replied, looking at Mary and comparing her to that poor Christmas tree chosen by Charlie Brown. Like the fragile evergreen, he knew that Mary would thrive if only she could experience the support and affection of others.

~~~

Father O’Brien’s spoon collection continued to grow.

The stolen utensils came from the homes of his parishioners, from restaurants, from hospitals and picnics and just about every place he visited. Only a sample of Mary’s flatware was missing. He hated the thought of what he might do,
would
do, if she hadn’t hidden her spoons from him. He didn’t blame Mary for insisting that he bring one of his own spoons to use when he came for lunch or dinner, just in case she had prepared something that required the use of that utensil.

Gradually, the unmatched specimens of his thievery came to number over six hundred. They spilled out of their shoebox, into bigger and bigger boxes, until he was forced to store them in the box that once held his RCA. But the square behemoth was too big to fit under his bed or in his closet. He finally shoved it under his desk so that he would be spared the agony of seeing it out in the open, reminding him of his weakness.

Mary never divulged his secret.

Their quiet trust in each other permeated even their usual greetings. It was always, “Good day, Mary,” or “Good evening, Michael.” A simple smile, the door held open to allow safe passage, a comforting presence. They noticed the gray hair and wrinkles as they appeared, but those physical signs of age changed nothing between them.

It was with delight that Father O’Brien first presented Mary with a pie from the new bakery in town. “It just opened,” he told her upon arriving at the marble mansion for dinner. “Joe Fitzgerald, you know, the new police chief? His wife, Ruth, is in charge of it. She says she’s saving up to run a bed and breakfast after Fitz retires. I don’t know how she does it, but her pie is amazing. This one’s a tart cherry. I thought we’d have some for dessert.” After dinner, he smiled at her reaction--curiosity, then surprise, and finally bliss--as she tasted the first bite.

Pie from the bakery became a weekly treat at the marble mansion.

In time, Father O’Brien, and through him, Mary, came to know Fitz and Ruth. The police chief’s wife, especially, was loved by everyone. She never spoke a judgmental word about anyone, never gossiped, never refused to help a neighbor in need. With Mary’s approval, Father O’Brien asked Ruth to become an assistant for Mary, to see to her shopping and other personal errands. He knew that Ruth would take as much care in selecting Mary’s groceries as she would her own. She would be discreet with what he told her of Mary and, most importantly, would be understanding of Mary’s refusal to meet her in person. He wasn’t surprised when Ruth wouldn’t accept a penny in return for her weekly assistance.

~~~

It was the idea of finally meeting Ruth that prompted Mary to try one more time to try to interact with her neighbors. “I’m older than I was the last time,” she told Father O’Brien, “and hopefully wiser. I know now that I need to do this. To get away from here, somehow. Maybe this time, I will. It’s especially not fair to Ruth…I feel I owe it to her to try. She does so much for me.”

“Well, why don’t we go to the bakery for coffee? It’s usually quiet after the morning rush, and I know Ruth would be thrilled.” Father O’Brien struggled to keep his excitement from his voice—he didn’t want it to scare Mary into reconsidering.

Indeed, Father O’Brien arrived early on the designated morning, for he knew that Mary was likely to change her mind or at least put up stiff resistance to leaving her home. It ended up taking two hours just to get her to come down from her bedroom. Another hour passed before she would go with him out the back door to his truck, and her sobbing and quaking as they left the driveway alarmed him. He pulled over on the main road.

“Mary, dear, it’s all right,” he said to her. She was cringing in the front seat of the pickup, wearing her eye patch and a light jacket. “Take some deep breaths. Yes, that’s it. You’re just fine, now. Mary, dear, look at me. Remember how you told me that you had to do this? Fight the anxiety Mary! It can’t touch you, not this time! Right?”

“Yes, keep driving,” she wailed, and then said more to herself, “I
have
to do this. It can’t touch me.” He cringed in the seat and he stepped on the gas, tearing into town before she reversed her decision.

They pulled up in front of the bakery. Mary was quieter now, but she still trembled in the front seat. He reached over to her. “Mary, we’re here. You’re doing wonderfully. There’s no one around. We can slip right inside. Ruth is waiting for us. I’ll come around for you--all you have to do is hold onto me.”

He went to the other side of the truck to help her down. She clutched at his arm, shivering. Her face was as white as her hair.

They made it to the front door of the bakery, with Father O’Brien talking to Mary all the while. As they were about to go inside, a group of teenage boys came out. The youths were pulling apart warm cinnamon rolls and stuffing their mouths full. It was well after eight o’clock. Father O’Brien knew the boys were late for school, but he didn’t dare say anything to them for fear of upsetting Mary.

One of the boys looked curiously at him, then down at Mary, and sniggered. Father O’Brien recognized him at once. “Hey, you guys,” the young Leroy Underwood said, pointing at Mary, “it’s a real live pirate! Arrrgh, shiver me timbers!”

The whole group stopped and stared. A few boys laughed nervously, looking from Leroy to Mary to Father O’Brien. Others just watched quietly. Only Leroy seemed totally unaware of the gravity of the situation.

Mary’s scream silenced all of them. She pulled away from Father O’Brien. He expected her to run back to the truck, but she stood her ground, glaring at the youth who had addressed her so rudely, and then closing her eyes.

“YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME! YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME!”

“Dude, she’s crazy,” muttered one of the boys as they shrank away. Mary kept talking to herself with her eyes tightly closed as they ran off.

“YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME! NOT THIS TIME!”

“Mary dear, let’s go inside,” Father O’Brien said as he touched her arm, but she opened her eyes and screamed again.

“Can’t touch me! Michael, I can’t, I can’t!”

Through the glass front door of the bakery, he saw Ruth Fitzgerald approaching. He frowned at her, shaking his head, and she stopped and watched from inside.

Trembling, Mary turned to face the door of the bakery and saw Ruth looking on. She took a step forward. Father O’Brien stared as Mary saw Ruth’s expression of kindness and pity.

“Oh, Ruth,” Mary said, and placed a hand over her heart. Just for an instant, a certain acknowledgment registered on Mary’s face, a shard of recognition and gratitude, a wisp of friendship. Then she bolted away from him back toward the pickup.