Joseph Caldwell - Lazarus Rising

When Mrs. Donegan finally arrived, however, her precedence was immediately acknowledged. Terry, who had been passed from his father to Patricia to Maureen, squeezed, hugged, and given enough kisses on the top of his head to raise the soft blond hair into an irremediable tangle, was now handed on to his grandmother. Having cast herself as rescuer, Mrs. Donegan turned away from the agitated aunts, holding a long kiss on the child’s cheek. It was as if she had saved the boy from being mauled by the furies and must now reassure him that he was safe in Grandma’s arms.

The boy looked back at his father, who was still standing at the side door, then toward his mother, bent over the irises. The child seemed to be asking why this was happening to him. No answer was forthcoming.

Dempsey was transfixed. Difficult as it was, she couldn’t take her eyes off the boy, but she must. She had to blink, to smile. But please, she needed help. This time it was Andrew to the rescue.

“I’m Andrew. You’re Dempsey.” He held out his hand.

The handshake was quick, once down, once up, and that was it, but the man’s clasp was firm without insisting that it be impressive. He wasn’t, as Dempsey had first thought, fat; he was just big. Robust. But with a baby face, pink, full-cheeked, with thin blond hair much like his son’s. The eyes were blue, though too pale to give them any prominence. It seemed he was trying not to be shy, looking directly at Dempsey, but not sure what he should do next. For a moment she thought he was about to turn and walk away, the protocols having been observed, but Johnny thoughtfully came up and intervened by putting his hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder, forcing him to stay where he was.

“This is Andrew.”

“We’ve met,” Dempsey managed a feeble smile to indicate that it has been pleasant. Andrew nodded.

“Andrew works in Jersey,” Johnny said.

“Oh? Really?” She hoped that this sounded as if she wanted him to expand on the subject. But this time it was Mrs. Donegan who intervened.

“This is Andrew,” she said.

“Yes.” Dempsey smiled again, not quite as weakly as before.

“You’re a painter,” Andrew said. “An artist.”

Dempsey was able to laugh feebly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Andrew said. “Somebody’s got to do it. We need art or what good are we?”

Dempsey wanted to say something meaningful, but nothing presented itself. So Andrew continued, “I wanted to be a painter, an artist. But I was too afraid.”

Dempsey was genuinely puzzled. “Afraid? Of what?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Mrs. Donegan said. “Andrew’s not afraid of anything.”

“I was afraid because I didn’t know where it might take me, being a painter, being an artist. It was like going into the woods at night. I was always afraid of what might be there. I still am.”

Before Dempsey told him she thought this was a legitimate concern, Mrs. Donegan laughed and said, “You are not afraid of something so silly. Now Andrew, come on.”

Dempsey smiled demurely. “Actually, what he says makes sense to me. In fact, I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

Without taking his eyes off Dempsey, Andrew reached out and took hold of her hand. “Ah yes, thank for your understanding. But that’s because you’re an artist,” he said. “And I’m so pleased to meet you.” He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it, held it there a moment, then lowered it. He looked away. As if the moment had never happened, he shouted to his son, his voice clear and joyful, “Terry! Show Daddy how high you can jump!” Terry, catching the cue, came running across the grass, squealing, picking up speed as he came, his arms outstretched. He leapt forward, throwing himself toward his father. Andrew caught him in his huge hands and, with one wide sweeping gesture, lifted the boy high above him—the feet raised higher, the head aimed down toward his father, the two of them screaming in triumph. Andrew tilted the boy’s body from side to side; the boy kicked his feet into the air. Together they screamed once more. “See how high you can jump! See how high!” Again the body was tilted and the feet kicked; again the screams came forth. There was, of course, applause and Dempsey was determined to participate fully in what was going on.

Now everyone was finally allowed to sit on the lawn chairs. There was picnic food. Andrew was at the grill. Arranged on the table at the side of the house there was Italian sausage, potato salad, large unpitted olives, fresh tomatoes, scallions from the garden, deviled eggs, and pickles. There was Pepsi and beer. There would be Patricia’s pound cake with ice cream. There would be strawberries and watermelon.

Dempsey, for this occasion, ate slowly, asking each bite if it intended to give her any trouble. She avoided pickles but was willing to take her chances with the sausage. Italian sausage was an old, long -neglected weakness and she wouldn’t refuse it now. If there was real trouble, she had extra underclothes in her tote bag and she was wearing a shield in her panties.

But now there was talk. Plenty of talk. Family talk. This was what she had come for, and it was a persisting challenge not to keep staring at the boy with her own sorrow that, she knew, she must do all in her power to suppress.

Johnny, his hand holding Dempsey’s hand on the arm of his chair, was telling her about his childhood chore as bottle washer for his father’s wine. “It was the most boring job I ever had. Washing out wine bottles every fall. My dad wasn’t all that good about getting the sediment out of the wine and it’d stick inside even if he rinsed the bottles right away.”

Terry, meanwhile, was wheeling his toy around the grass, the colored balls inside the bubble ricocheting off the plastic like popcorn popping. He was “mowing the lawn,” and was interrupted frequently with praise and encouragement.

At one point, however, Terry came up and put his hand on his uncle’s knee. Johnny let go of Dempsey’s hand and placed it on the boy’s head, touseled his light brown hair, then said,

Terry took a moment to process the information, considering it as seriously as his uncle had presented it. Dempsey kept herself from reaching out and touching the boy’s cheek with a loving hand, afraid of growing tearful.

Fortunately, Terry returned to his toy and Dempsey realized that Maureen was talking to her.

“See that catalpa tree near the back fence, where you can tell that a lower branch has been sawed off?” she was saying. “Johnny, do you want to tell Dempsey or should I?”

Johnny with a sly smile said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Theresa jumped in. “Maureen, you tell her.”

“Well, if you insist.”

“I insist.”

“All right then.” She tapped Dempsey’s arm, then said, “Well, your friend, John Francis Donegan, when he was fourteen—”

“Thirteen,” Johnny said.

“All right then. Thirteen. And after being almost the shortest kid in his class, all of a sudden began to shoot up like a beanstalk. One day he goes to collect some of the catalpa seedpods—we call them Indian cigars—and wham, he bonks his head on a lower branch. And what does he do? Instead of just ducking the next time, he saws off the branch. And does he stop with that? Oh no. Not John Francis. He builds a bonfire to burn the branch and almost sets fire to the back fence.”

Dempsey, to her relief, had finally entered into the spirit of the gathering, which prompted her to say, “Is that why he became a fireman?”

Patricia clapped her hands. “Dempsey! Dempsey! You got it! You got it!”