Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

They descended another level and shed their intermediary Little Women personae. They entered the world of “The Children’s Treasury of Saints and Martyrs”. They went through the canon. They’d always start with Saint Lawrence, who got roasted alive on a grill and halfway through said, “You can turn me over, I’m done on this side,” and became the patron saint of people who roast meat for a living. At which they’d laugh uncontrollably, even Mercedes. They all three felt hot and wicked, but as they played on the game grew grave and reverent and they reached heights of pious fervour.

They each had favourites. Sometimes Frances was Saint Barbara, whose father was a pagan and when she wanted to be a Christian he took her up a mountain and cut off her head while she was praying for him. Or else Saint Winnifred, who once knew a man who wanted to do wrong with her but she said no so he cut off her head but her kind uncle put it back on her leaving only a thin white scar. Or sometimes she was Saint Dymphna, who had a father who wanted to do wrong with her but she wouldn’t so she escaped with the court jester, but her father found her in Belgium and cut her head off but she didn’t have a kind uncle so she died and got to be the patron saint of crazy people.

Mercedes’ favourite was Bernadette.

“That’s no fair, Mercedes,” said Frances, “Bernadette’s not even a saint yet.” True, Bernadette had only recently been beatified, but because Mercedes was the eldest they played the game of Bernadette being such a good daughter and having asthma and seeing Our Lady in the grotto at Lourdes where Our Lady told her three secrets.

Lily only ever wanted to be Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus, which got tedious after the nth time and Frances and Mercedes would try to persuade her to be someone else.

“Why don’t you be the little boy saint who gets his hands and feet cut off but then he gets nice new silver ones?”

“Why don’t you be Saint Giles, who was the patron saint of cripples, Lily?”

“Lily, do you want to be Saint Gemma, who had tuberculosis of the spine but Our Lady cured her?”

“No,” said Lily, “I want to be Veronica.”

All right, all right — if you don’t let her, she’ll scream and Daddy’ll come running and that’ll be it.

They always exited their passion plays of ecstatic faith and glorious martyrdom with the same story, in which they all starred simultaneously: that of Saint Brigid. She was the most beautiful girl in Ireland but she wanted to be a nun, but there were too many young men who wanted to marry her so she prayed to God, “Please, dear God, make me ugly.”

And He did.

One by one, Frances, Mercedes and Lily would crumple and wither till they were wicked-witch ugly. Then, bent over and shrivelled, they’d join the convent with cackling voices — “Hello, sister, how are you today, ya-ha-haa!” — where they’d kneel down at the altar rail and the miracle would happen: Saint Brigid turns beautiful again. “Why sister, you are beautiful!” “So are you, sister!” “Oh, sisters, look at my beautiful golden hair!” “And look at my lovely lips!” “Oh, look at my ballgown!” “Look at mine!”

Many a long Saturday and Sunday afternoon, while Daddy slept off his night’s work in the wingback chair downstairs….

It was short days ago, but it seems like for ever since Mercedes got her period and fell in love and lost her mind. Oh well. At least Frances and Lily still know how to have fun.

Frances and Lily share a room. James would have preferred that Lily share with Mercedes, but Lily insisted — to Mercedes’ silent relief. Frances has set up their bedroom so that there’s two of everything and Lily knows exactly which side of everything is hers and which is Frances’s. You might think Frances would be a slob, but she isn’t, she’s very neat and organized. She has accommodated Lily with a framed magazine photograph of Mary Pickford in a stupid gingham apron. It hangs next to Lily’s colour print of Jesus with the lambs. Jesus looks sad, of course, “because he’s thinking about how much he likes lamb chops,” says Frances, but Lily is not fooled by that. The rest of the walls are covered in Frances’s collection. She writes away for publicity photos. There is one of Lillian Gish trapped on an icefloe. There is Houdini naked and furious in a milk-can. There is an actual poster that an usher at the Empire gave her of Theda Bara in Sin , holding her unbelievably long tresses at arm’s length above her head like a madwoman. Frances calls her Head of Haira. Mercedes thinks the picture is immoral.

One evening, Frances is seated at her side of the desk, pen in hand, doing her “homework”:

Dear Miss Lillian Gish,

I am writing to you to respectfully request an autographed photograph of you in any picture. I have seen them all. It would mean so much to me because I am a crippled girl and have spent all my life in a wheelchair. I rode the wildest horse in the stable. I was dragged, but I did not die, thanks to my Guardian Angel. I wish I could run and play like the other children, but at least I am glad that Daddy dear can wheel me to the picture house so I can see you. Thank you.

Yours truly….

Frances muses for a moment and then it comes to her … who the letter is from, that is. She signs it, tucks it into the envelope and addresses it to Miss Gish’s fan club in Hollywood, California. Then she looks up at Lily, who has been waiting obediently for playtime to begin, and says, “All right, Lily, come with me.”

Lily follows Frances up to the attic.

“I was going to show you something but now I think maybe you’re not old enough.”

“I am, Frances. I’m old.”

They are seated on the floor, cross-legged before the hope chest. “This was Kathleen’s room, eh, Frances” always must be said, and the response, “That’s right, Lily, this is where she died,” before they can get on with whatever game Frances has in mind. This liturgy serves to honour the story that no longer needs repeating. The story that Frances told Lily so long ago and so often:

“Our beautiful older sister, Kathleen. She had red hair like an angel on fire. And she had the voice of an angel. God loved her so much, He took her. She was only nineteen when she died of the flu. I was there when she died and I closed her eyes.”

There is always a pause here while they both picture it faithfully. Then Frances continues, “Her last words were … ‘Dear Frances, you are my favourite sister. And you are also the most beautiful next to me. Please. Look after Lily.’” Frances’s eyes start to glint green, but it is a serious glint. Scary. Lily’s eyes grow round and wet. The bump appears in her forehead.

“Why did she say look after me?”

Frances doesn’t take her eyes off Lily, she just says evenly, “Because she loved you, Lily.”

“… I love her too.” Tears.

Frances puts out a hand and barely strokes Lily’s long hair that’s never been cut. Then … “Okay, quit blubbering, let’s play.”

It is understood that Kathleen is not to be mentioned around Daddy, “because, Lily, it would hurt him terribly if you even said her name.”

On this particular evening, Frances has decided that the time has come to talk of other things. She reaches into her pocket and produces the key to the hope chest. Lily gasps.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Lily.”

“What’s melon dramatic?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Oh.”

Frances repockets the key. “I made a mistake, you’re too young.”

“I am not!”

“Keep your voice down.”

Whispering passionately, “I am not, Frances, I won’t tell.”