Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

He is six years old. Mercedes can see there is no devil in him. He has his mother’s eyes.

James got a letter from “An Anonymous Well-Wisher”. He left that night. Three and a half days later, at 6:05 a.m. on November 11, 1918, he walked out of Grand Central Station. He walked all the way to where she was staying in Greenwich Village because he couldn’t get a cab. There were crowds.

He knocks but no one answers. The apartment door is unlocked, in fact slightly ajar when he arrives. He pushes it open and calls, but no one answers. He enters the little vestibule and listens. “Hello? … Anybody home?” He looks into the old-lady parlour, “Giles? … Kathleen?” Quiet as the grave. He sets down his small black case. Cocks his head to a sound. Giggling. Removes his hat and hangs it on the halltree. A shriek and muffled laughter from … across the parlour, down the hall — the smell of lavender — past the WC, treading softly. A closed door. He hovers. He places his ear to the panel of opaque glass.

It’s Kathleen making those sounds. Impossible to see through the wavy glass. Shadows. He closes a hand over the china knob — pink rosebuds in milk. Turns silently. Opens the width of a human eye. Sees.

Spray of red-gold hair upon the pillow. His daughter’s hands travelling over a black back, disappearing beneath the waistband of a pair of striped trousers moving between his daughter’s bare thighs, his daughter’s voice and not her voice, “Oh, oh-h, ohhh….”

A roar of blood behind his eyes and he’s in the room, yanks the bastard off her with one arm to belt him across the face with the other and fling him into the wall, his daughter leaps naked at his back because he is going to kill her lover with the flat of his foot but no, James would never kill a woman. Arms up to cover herself, bleeding mouth, sliding down the wall, Jesus. James tears the spread from the bed, descends upon the dazed girl, enveloping her as though she were in flames, slings her from the room, down the hall, out into the corridor where he flings her, a mummy-sack of bones. Then he locks the door and slides the safety chain into place.

In the bedroom his daughter is crying, pawing the floor for her clothes.

“Why, Kathleen?” He is not feeling angry.

She looks up, a blind choking mess. He puts a hand down to her, she takes it, legs shaking badly, onto her feet, clutching the floor-mat for cover.

“Why?” — the back of his hand — “Why?” — his speeding palm — “Why?” — closed fist.

Her head comes to rest facing forward, already puffing up. He looks at what he has done. He takes her in his arms. She is racked with shame, just wants some clothes, please —

“Shshsh,” he says, kissing her hair, her injured face. It’s his own fault — I should have never let her go far from home — an ecstasy beneath his hands, “It’s all right, my darling —”

“Don’t,” she says.

He can’t speak just now, he loves her too much — closer — oh so soft —

“Daddy —”

He will tell her after how much he loves her

— her palms against his shoulders, fighting to stay on her feet — Ohh my darling

— falling, fists against his back, enmeshed between his weight, the mushy bed, struggling only shakes the web, the sheet and all its threads conspire, she can no longer find her feet —

The iron taste of her mouth where he’s made it bleed, dreadful sorry, I’ll take you home again — “Be still,” he pleads.

“Stop it.”

I’ll never let anyone hurt you again

“No!”

never let anyone touch you

“NO!”

No one No one No. One . Will e ver e ver

She has stopped screaming.

Hurt you Ever

she is lying perfectly still now

Again!

He shudders. “Shshshsh. It’s all right now. Hush, my darling. It’s all right.”

James unhooks the safety chain and lets Giles in. “Hello, Giles.”

“Who …? Excuse me —”

“I’m sorry, it’s James.”

“James!”

He takes her net bag of groceries and helps her off with her coat.

“James, why I haven’t seen you since —” A little flustered. “Was I —? Am I forgetting?”

“No, no, I’m here unannounced — thought I’d look in, see how the world-famous singer’s making out.” He smiles and blinks twice in quick succession.

“Does Kathleen know you’re here?” Suddenly alarmed lest —

“Yes, oh yes, we’ve already had a visit,” says James.

Giles starts down the hall, “Kathleen, dear —”

James stops her. “She’s having a bit of a nap — not feeling too spry.”

“Oh.” Giles hesitates. “Oh dear. Was — did you meet Rose?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

Giles strip-searches his face. Then says, “I’ll just look in on the girl.”

“She’s sleeping, really, look, I’ve made myself useful.” There’s a pot of tea and two cups set out in the tiny dining-room.

“Oh. Well. That’s lovely, James, thank you….”

On their way to the table, Giles chats politely, “You know I just popped out to the corner to get some — where did I put my —?”

James holds up the net bag, “Right here.”

“Oh good, thank you, James, yes I just popped out for a jiffy but I was delayed, you know, caught up in the celebration, swept quite out of my way.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. Haven’t you heard?”

James gives her a sociably blank look, pours tea, his hand shaking only slightly. Giles breaks into a big papery smile. “Oh James, the war is over. This morning at eleven o’clock. Oh wait till I tell Kathleen it’s over. It’s all over.”

Rose fought her way through the victory crowds and holed up in Central Park till dark, ticker tape in her hair, confetti drying on her bloody face.

Around nine, she walks into the apartment on 135th, past Jeanne, who’s reading on the couch, something in French. Jeanne actually sits up.

“What happened to you?”

“I got beat up.”

Rising, “Who did this thing?” Summoning her upper-crust command, “Answer me, Rose.”

Rose splashes water on her face at the kitchen sink. “Kathleen’s father.”

Jeanne swallows the smallest of canaries. Then slides back into her sweet drawl, “Don’t worry, honey. Momma will make it all better.”

Rose watches as Jeanne heats water on the stove. She sits still while Jeanne dabs at her fat crusty lip. “Poor baby.”

“Don’t you want to know why, Mother?”

“Oh honey, you don’t have to talk right now.”

Jeanne doesn’t comment on the bloodstained bedspread or the trousers peaking out below its fringe. She picks up the phone and cancels tonight’s visitor. She lights candles and lays the table for “a prodigal feast”. She postpones her injection — “The pain is a little better tonight.”

Jeanne sits across from Rose. And eats. She talks with well-bred animation of Rose’s brilliant future. It is as though she had never left Long Island — she can almost feel the phantom servant at her right elbow poised with his crystal decanter.

“You’ll be more celebrated than Portia Washington Pittman, darling.”

Rose does not reply but Jeanne seems not to notice as she enumerates the triumphs that lie ahead: Rose will perform for royalty as did Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, the Black Swan. She will perform for the president as did Sissieretta Jones, the Black Patti who came so close to singing at the Met. She will play with the greatest orchestras of Europe, and Carnegie Hall will be on its knees, begging. “After all, Rosie, someone’s got to be first and it may as well be you.” Jeanne gives two pats to her lips with her linen serviette. “And Mother will be so proud of you.” She reaches out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “Not that I’m not proud already, I am, Rosie, you’re my life, you’re all I have left and I love you.” Jeanne gives Rose her most wistful look across the candles. “Really I do, dear.”