THEO
ON THE FRONT PORCH was the Tribune. NO SUSPECTS IN SUZY WU CASE. “Her two front teeth were missing and she loved rainbows,” the article stated. I couldn’t read it.
Down the street, Mrs. B, out for her morning walk, was already past Pearl’s. We Rounders set our clocks by the rhythm of her life, the pounding of her lopsided footsteps and her cane hitting the ground mid-stride, clip, clip, hard against our one paved sidewalk. When she walked, it was time for Imogene to turn on the OPEN sign. It was time for coffee, for newspapers, for mail—for the welcome noises of day.
In Korea I’d often close my eyes, terrified. I couldn’t grasp the concept of God watching over me, but I could imagine the sound of Mrs. B’s cane, daydream that bombs dropping so near my life were not bombs, but instead were the pounding of her steadfast, booze-filled walking stick: click, click, click. The sound of life, not death. Even in the jagged mountains or marshy lowlands of Korea, when the grazing fire from machine guns filled the night, I closed my eyes and envisioned all of Manzanita: the tiny stone church where, on Sundays, fifteen or twenty parishioners’ voices raised in song until the tiny chapel vibrated in holy harmony. Hidden in foxholes, the world ablaze around me, I’d nod my head to the beat of their hymns until that cadence took over the sound of helicopters that pulsed through me. Then, I’d move my hand up and down, feeling the meditative strokes of my paintbrush on all my summer jobs when I was seventeen: the fence, motel, laundry, Mamaí’s, now Imogene’s store; and imagined Solomon keeping guard of our universe. Those things I could imagine.
***
Mrs. B disappeared down the beach path. I closed the door.
The last week there’d been a rash around the scar in the palm of my hand and around my neck from the white collar bands, so I put some salve on both, secured the collar very loosely, and walked the two blocks to Saint Mary’s.
Rumpled brown leaves drifted earthbound to the ground, settling in heaps and mounds around the mud puddles at the edge of the gravel-flanked road. The sugar-and-cinnamon smell of pumpkin pie drifted through Manzanita. Trees were nearly bare. I took a deep, energizing breath and walked on, trying to think of how to console the Wu family and recalling the whispers of that prisoner with the twisted hand whom I denied absolution. Why, when I think of Suzy Wu, does he come to mind? I’d pictured him several times since that day; couldn’t shake his voice. And that prisoner who said “pretty sister”? Couldn’t shake him either.
To purge my disenchantment with mankind, I cleaned the rectory shelves while the Church Ladies played their “Bingo” and gossiped.
Ibbie McFall shuffled the cards and, with her spindly fingers and papery-skinned thin arms, skillfully handed out the “Bingo” cards and chips. Mrs. Scovelli picked up her cards with her large hands and smiled. She wore a pink sweater with a plunging neckline and a hanky tucked into her wrinkled cleavage. On days when there were no funerals, she wore red lipstick on her thin lips—lips that, when parted, revealed huge tar-stained teeth.
I preferred them in their funeral black. At least then everything was covered up.
Emma Whittle didn’t smile at her cards; instead, her brow rutted; the skin on her skeletal face dripped like candle wax and settled in soft pink puddles beneath her chin. She folded her cards and laid them on the table. “I’m out,” she said, glancing at the clock.
“That’s the same kind of Bingo we played in college,” I said.
“Is that so,” Permelia said as she set a red chip in the center of the table. “Imagine that.”
“Mm hm.” I went back to repairing the shelves.
Soon their talk turned to bitter gossip about the Wu family: her grandfather had been “Chinese,” Sibbie whispered, as if Chinese were synonymous with syphilis.
Ibbie nodded, “Yes, one of those filthy boats.” Her round, dark eyes bugged out from her gaunt face, and her long neck was roped with sinews. “Those yellow women are immoral.” She lowered her voice and said, “They’re raised as concubines and have s–e–x with anyone they want. And they’re lazy thieves, too.” They all nodded in conspiratorial accord.
“That’s it!” I shouted, jumping down from the ladder. “What is it, the eighteen hundreds? Get out!”
Sibbie’s portly face dropped, “Father Theo—”
“No, you’re done here,” I said, scraping all their “Bingo” crap into a box. “Game’s over.”
“What happened?” Permelia grabbed her purse and stood.
“I’ve had it with your gossip. You talk about anyone whose skin’s not as white as—wait a minute, let’s look at some facts for once. Sibbie, Ibbie.” They clutched onto one another. “Wasn’t your grandad a murderin’, thievin’ Irish gangster? And Emma Whittle, your mother a Russian saloon girl who landed a rich German refugee, Mr. Whitenstein? Whittled that name down. Easy to alter the truth, isn’t it? And you,” I said turning to Mrs. Scovelli, who reeled back. “Where do I start? Scovelli? Italian?” She flinched as I yanked the last “Bingo” card from her hefty hand. “A spik?” I stopped myself before saying Permelia’s grandmother was black.
Their jaws collectively dropped. I crammed their “Bingo” supplies into the cupboard. “So there’s your gossip, ladies,” I said and slammed it shut. “The thing is, nobody gives a damn! And if I ever hear you speak of a child again, dead or alive, with your narrowminded ugliness, I’ll bloody excommunicate you myself!”
Sibbie’s hands drew to her mouth in horror. “Father Riley!”
Ibbie tugged on Sibbie’s arm to leave. They plucked their belongings from the floor, ran from the church as if the building were on fire, and piled into their Packard, locking the doors. I followed them out. Their engine roared. Sibbie slapped her hand on the dashboard Bible. Their faces pinched, puckered, and shriveled like rotting apples, giving me their collective evil eye. The car rolled out of the parking lot in slow motion. They all gawked at me through the windows like I was a derelict just let out of prison. I shouted, “And no more POKER in church!”