Rose and Lucky enter the cabin with Father Mario from Saint George’s. My whole body smells like armpits. The priest holds folded copies of a half a dozen or so newspapers in one hand and a steaming mug of Rose’s coffee in the other. He doesn’t remove his cappello romano in the cabin, which is far better than if he took it off and placed it on the bed. Priests get to wear their hats indoors. I like to imagine priests never ever take off their hats or any vestments. That they are action figures with their cassocks and linens forever molded to their bodies.
Father Mario’s cappello romano means business. It’s like the Catholic version of a squad uniform—designed to intimidate. I bet he just wears jeans and a clerical collar on most outings.
“Was I out for long?” I ask Rose.
She holds up all ten fingers, flashes them twice.
“What? Twenty hours?”
“Yes, and your mother came. I told her you need sleep whenever you can get it and not to disturb you.”
“My ma!?”
“I gave you water. You were thirsty.” Lucky holds up a green plastic water gun. Bless his sweet little head, I’m so grateful I can’t remember him shoving a toy gun in my mouth.
The front page of the Simco Reformer reads, “Angel’s Light Cured my Carotid Artery Disease.” Father Mario gingerly holds the front page up for me, holding the curled corners taut. I wonder if Barbara has read the same headline. They must get the Simco Reformer at the library.
The next paper, the Tonawanda News, has a pullquote as a headline that reads, “I Swear I Saw Hell on Earth. Pure Evil.” Well, no one here reads the Tonawanda paper, I assure myself.
“Do you read the papers?” Father Mario asks me.
“The Fort Erie Times, yes. Otherwise, I don’t care for the tabloids,” I lie.
“A Mr Carl Redding from Simco claims that he witnessed ‘a blinding heavenly light.’ He goes on to recommend that ‘other people should see the angel. She’s a sign that there’s still hope in the world for us.’” Father Mario has read the article several times, I guess, seeing the trail of pencil-mark asterisks he’s made. “Do you believe he’s been cured of carotid artery disease?”
“I’m not a doctor,” I say. In fact, lying sweaty and bloated in this cot, I’ve probably never looked more like a hospital patient in my life, even when I’ve been at the hospital. “And even if I were, I haven’t examined Mr Carl Redding from Simco.”
Rose briskly opens the cabin’s curtains. I’m the only one who shields my eyes from the sudden glaring sunlight. I think I hear a bird. How long has it been since I’ve heard a bird? My mind has been so noisy.
“Do you believe that anyone has been cured?”
“I’m not in the business of curing illnesses, Father. I was raised Roman Catholic, so I believe in both kinds of healing—science and prayer—just like any other Roman Catholic. I chose Ermina as my confirmation name, modelled my faith after Saint Richard Ermino Pampuri of the Hospital Orders. I’m all about medicine. Not practicing it. Using it, I mean. Antibiotics mostly. You don’t want to know how many bladder infections I’ve had.”
What the heck am I saying? I am incredibly lucid and articulate for waking up after two days’ sleep. I wonder where Tamara is. Is she mad at me? “I used to think I was being punished for all that pre-marital sex,” I blurt. Damn. Do I want to embarrass the priest before he embarrasses me? “That’s what church taught me. But no. Science tells me it’s about bacteria. Thank god for science.”
An awkward pause dogs the room. Did I win this conversation? Father Mario traces his thumb along the rim of the coffee mug, testing its temperature. Still too hot, I assume, as he withdraws, his left hand returning to a neatly cradled position.
To end the silence, or to join in the antics, Rose says, “Starla, I’m surprised you chose a male saint.”
“I was raised Catholic. I had to find feminism. Plus, I was only, like, fourteen when I confirmed. Cut me some slack.” Laughing, I try to sit up. Rose and Lucky rush bedside to help me. Lucky tugs my arms. Rose’s hand is firm on my back. I’m not only Etta’s rag doll, I’m limp in everyone’s arms.
“Saint Richard Pampuri is hardly a popular saint with the youth,” says Father Mario. If I’m offending him, his tone and body language don’t show it.
“Yes, but he was beatified in 1981. That’s the year I was confirmed—at your church, actually.”
“Yes, forgive me. I did not expect you to be a Catholic, much less a member of my congregation. I’ve only served at Saint George’s for a year.” He finally takes his first sip of coffee.
“You’ll know my mother then, Barbara Martin. Curvy brunette. Loud singer. She’s been going to Saint George’s forever. Ever since Father James was the priest.” Again, Rose briskly moves around the cabin, this time sweeping a cobweb from under Ricky’s lamp. Father Mario and I both turn toward her as she continues dusting the desk with her bare hand. “Anyway, Barbara always sits at the end of the second pew,” I tell him. “Closest to the Station Six stained-glass window. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.”
Father Mario’s eyebrows rise in recognition. I’ve always been amazed by aging men whose eyebrows remain thick and black while the hair on their heads thins and greys.
“You came today because you think it’s not right that devotion and miracles and whatever are taking place outside the church? I’m surprised it took you so long. Most supernatural phenomenon are debunked by the local priest within a few days.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. I’ve read about Our Lady of Guadalupe, and Fátima too.”
“Ah, wonderful. Then surely you know the reason I have come.” Father Mario places the coffee cup on the desk beside his newspapers and leans in. “You know then that the prelates of Mexico City did not believe Juan Diego’s visions for some time, as you were saying. And in Fátima, the three shepherd children were subject to all sorts of criticism and ridicule. The town’s mayor even went as far as to imprison the children and threaten to boil them in oil if they didn’t renounce their visions. And as we speak, the Marian apparitions in Medjugorje, Yugoslavia, are under a third investigation by the Vatican commission. Those teenage visionaries have faced every kind of torment from skeptics around the world. Their little village has been turned inside out. They are all willing to suffer, even die for what they believed.
“I’m an old man, and an older priest, if that makes any sense to you. I am well aware that sinful thoughts and even the occasional sinful action happen within the physical walls of the church.” Father Mario notices his mug leaks a coffee ring. A small trace of brown liquid bleeds into the newsprint. He retrieves the paper and folds it in half.
“In turn, I’ve humbly witnessed acts of God outside of the church many, many times. When human beings do incredibly loving things for each other, it strikes me as angelic or godly. The holy spirit works through us all, everyday, everywhere. But what I believe is hardly of consequence. It’s what you believe that will be tested.”
“She already is tested,” snaps Rose. “Look at her. You think she looks healthy? You think we don’t know about suffering?”
“The Diocese of Hamilton is already discussing your alleged miracles,” says Father Mario. “I would be very happy to report to the Diocese that there is ‘nothing to see here’ as they say. It would spare you and everyone a lot of trouble.” With that forewarning, he turns to say goodbye to Rose and Lucky. Rose practically rushes to the cabin door to see him off.
“Wait,” I say. “You only asked me about the healings. Aren’t you gonna ask me if I’m pure evil, like it says in that other paper?”
“No. Better not to ask about evil. As I’ve said, I’m an old priest. I am curious, though.” He lingers in the doorway. “Does your angel have a message?”
“Yeah. She says the amusement park is sacred.” Again, the priest’s black eyebrows touch in the centre of his scrunched forehead. “You ever visit our recently defunct amusement park, Father Mario?” I ask.
“Well, there is some debate as to whether it’s appropriate for men of the cloth to patronize amusement parks, discos, race tracks, casinos and the like. But, yes, I did go to the Park a couple times in its last season. I liked the Ferris wheel, and that funny mechanical clown, what was her name?”
“Laughing Sal,” says Rose.
“Yes, Laughing Sal. I hope she was adopted by a museum somewhere. Things that joyful should not be thrown out.”
We watch Father Mario walk across the lawn in his head-to-toe black vestments through the crowd of summer-dressed visitors, and then past the tree line. I bet he walked here in the midday heat. I bet he whistles as he walks. “Rock of Ages” all the way.
After he is gone, Rose shoos Lucky outside too. She passes me her glass. I taste a Limoncello Tom Collins. Too sweet. Undissolved brown sugar muds the bottom of the glass.
“Grazie,” I say, passing the drink back her.
“Alla salute.” Rose raises her drink in the air. She sips, silently appreciates, and sips again. “I had Ricky baptized. That’s the least I could do. And I sent him to Our Lady of Grace because everyone knows it’s a better school than Bertie Public. Then, all his school buddies were altar boys, and kids, they have to do everything their friends do.”
My gaze softens. Rose is going to reveal something to me. Where’s Etta? I wish Rose would pass her glass back to me. I want another boozy sip.
“Anything he wanted, I let him do. I helped him do it. I learned all about the lives of the saints, read the Bible, helped him study to be an altar boy. He’s my only son. Mama’s boy.”
I swear I can feel my blood sugar dropping by the minute. I’m so thirsty. Etta, where are you? I reach for my neck and the pendant is gone. Removed while I was sleeping.
“When I was a younger, I was grateful I had a boy. A thousand unthinkable things can happen to a little girl. What’s there to do with a boy but spoil him? Boys are supposed to just grow up. No fuss, no worry. Until they become men. Then they make their own problems. I’m not saying it’s fair, but it is what I wished for Ricky. For him to grow up, happy and spoiled, until he got old enough to make his own problems.”
Rose empties her drink. She triple-bangs her tumbler down.
“Did something happen to your Ricky, Rose?” I say softly. “When he was a boy?” Rose sits on the wooden stool beside the desk. She reaches for me. Her hand has shrunk since the first time we briefly held hands at my job interview. The gold rings she wears are looser now. Gemstones droop to the left or the right under her wrinkled knuckles. I wonder if I should disclose my own abuse. I wonder if I should cook her something fatty to eat—Alfredo sauce with double cream and butter. I wonder if I’ve done anything but fuck with her sanity.
Etta? Etta! Etta, are you hurting her? Am I? The painting behind me is gone. I flinch when I notice its absence.
“I took it down when Father Mario told me he was coming. I didn’t think Ricky would want a priest to see it. All those naked body bits. See me? I am still thinking about what Ricky wants. That monstrosity outside—that gazebo we built—I said ‘yes’ for Ricky. Still trying to raise a mama’s boy. But look what I got instead. Buonanotte al secchio.”
“Goodnight in a bucket? Che cosa vuol dire?”
“It means the bucket has fallen. The milk has spilled. And there is no way to get it back.”
I wait for her to cry one of her magnificent cries, but she doesn’t. It occurs to me that crying and screaming are really good at filling silences. There’s no silence left in life. Except now.
“He loved your cooking, Rose.” There’s not a hint of affect in my voice. No Etta. I’m only telling her what I know. “Your tortellini in brodo was his favourite. He said you never bought tortellini at the store. You made them by hand so that you could put an extra pinch of nutmeg in the filling.” I start crying, hoping Rose will too. Immediately, I recognize the emotion as uncontrollable, convulsive. I want to press my forehead against the wall, against the spot where Ricky’s painting is supposed to be, but I don’t dare turn away from Rose.
“Did the angel tell you that? I’ve been waiting for her to bring me another message.”
Regret crying is far, far worse than crying over something someone else did to you. Pain can be fine, if there’s someone to blame. Regret is downright sickening. Like fever-ache sickening. Sick coming out of both ends. Maybe worse than Etta’s sick. How many ways are there to be sick? I need to come up with more words to describe illness.
Where should my confession begin? Do I tell her that Ricky’s journals sit inside the nearby trunk? The angel is a phoney? Tamara, Bobby, and Dolores already know this. Ricky was once being haunted by the same ghost that now guides me—is that the right confession? Rose is edging toward me. She touches the top of my head, motherly. I can’t. I can’t let her comfort me. I don’t deserve her kindness.
“Rose. I have something to tell you. You should sit back down.”