Margot Whitemore was a sacristan, one of the ladies who set up for Mass, extinguished candles, folded vestments, and discarded leftover communion wine. Unlike the Sunday sacristan, Margot had spark and poured Thursday’s leftovers not into the designated sacred plumbing, but down her own throat.
She had attended college, never married, and was called “Mango” by those who loved her best. Margot was an odd specimen to me, this woman with no children or man to fuss over, with her own house, her own car, coming and going and generally doing whatever she pleased.
Margot and my mother soon became fast friends.
A talker by nature, my mother would engage anyone, anywhere. In Margot, she found a quick mind and an all too rare willingness to discuss topics other than men and children. They talked about birds and gardening and old coins. Margot had studied archaeology, and my mother, who had always been interested in things buried within the earth, could not get enough information. She craved Margot’s knowledge on everything from arrowheads to bodies found in European bogs.
Margot and my mother began having breakfast at the Tip Top Restaurant after Sunday Mass, and going to see movies on a regular basis. Long after their return to the street, they’d sit talking in Margot’s car. Steph and I huddled together and watched them from the upstairs window, wondering what they could have to talk about for so long.
“They’ve been out there for over an hour,” we’d say with disdain, never stopping to consider that we’d been watching for the same amount of time.
“Maybe they’re lesbians,” we’d say, then exhale delicious peals of laughter. We served as our own best evidence that our mother liked men, but despite our laughter, a certain amount of fear lingered. We didn’t need one other thing to remind us that we were nothing like other families.
Margot was generous, but too no-nonsense to make a fuss of her kindness. She’d leave anonymous donations of grape pies and sugar cookies on our front porch. Presents for each child’s birthday. And sometimes, just before our electricity or phone was going to be cut off for nonpayment, we’d find that the bill had been paid or that a bit of money had been left in our mailbox, and we knew Margot had thought of us.
I was glad for my mother and her friendship with Margot. Their outings, the church, and its community seemed to lighten her a bit. At least temporarily. Certainly things were brighter on the days she attended Mass. Still, there were times when I wished she’d never come back to church at all. Like the time she hauled us in for family counseling with Father Shea, and we sat, lumps of various size and shape in his office, while my mother listed off complaints in an inappropriately chirpy voice.
We didn’t listen, she said.
We mouthed back.
We could help more around the house.
As she talked on about how we could be better children, I found myself hating her. For the sound and force of her voice. For whining to an outsider. For taking over my space. I hated Father Shea, too, for his disloyalty (after all, I’d met him first!). When he seemed to take my mother’s side by suggesting regular family meetings, and started asking each of us what made us angry, the betrayal became too much to bear.
I refused to participate. My mouth hung open, I pushed my eyes to the ceiling and glared so hard, I imagined burnt spots remaining on the ceiling tiles long after our departure.