Joseph Caldwell - Lazarus Rising

Was he as confused as she was? He had asked that she be cured and it had swiftly come to pass. Was he frightened by the mystery of what he’d done? Was he bewildered by whatever demands might be implicit in his success? Must he, like she herself, wait for some small bit of enlightenment that would show them the way out of the wilderness? Perhaps he, no less than she, had been set down in the labyrinth—not knowing how he got there or what might be expected of them now. No clues were being given, no guidance offered, no thread spun out to lead them safely back to the known world.

After they had crossed Fulton Street, Johnny, with surprising ease, said, “The word pitch is from tar. When we say pitch black that’s what we’re talking about. Tar. The pitch is in the tar.”

Then it was Dempsey’s turn to speak easily. “I found your maroon sock when I was scrubbing the loft floor.”

As if not understanding what she’d said, he said, “Scrubbing the floor? You?”

“Every single inch. And I also found seventy-six cents.”

“Seventy-six cents?”

“And a dead mouse. Long dead. Behind the stack of paintings near the elevator.”

“Died from the fumes.”

“Probably.”

Johnny turned and looked at her. “What are you going to buy with the seventy-six cents?” His smile lifted the corners of his mouth, making him look like an Irish imp come to distract her mind and disturb her seven senses.

She found herself smiling back. But when Johnny saw the smile, he quickly turned away. Was he frightened at the sight of her? As frightened as she was at the sight of him?

Hesitantly, she reached up and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. After a moment, Johnny placed a hand on her wrist, gently. He waited for not more than a few seconds before slowly taking it away. Dempsey, too, took back her hand. But Johnny wasn’t finished. He tried to take hold of the hand that had touched him. Dempsey drew it away.

“I can’t hold your hand?”

Softly she said, “I don’t know. Not now. Please.” She then added, “We should concentrate on the painting.”

After they’d walked less than half of a block, Johnny asked, “Am I moving back in?”

She shook her head and sadness broke over them like a burst of rain. “I don’t know, Johnny. I don’t think so, Johnny. And if you ask me why I don’t know, why I don’t think so, I can’t explain because I don’t know myself.”

“I see,” he said.

“Maybe if we concentrate on the painting?”

Johnny waited, then said, “Okay. If that’s what you need.” They continued on, saying nothing for the simple reason that there was too much more to be said.

Father Dunphy was scrubbing the bottom of a huge aluminum pot. He stood up straight, submerged the pot into the rinse water, twirled it around, then put it on the drainboard. With a large cooking spoon he scraped the insides of the next pot, ridding it of as much rice as possible. He put it into the soapy water and said to Johnny, who was standing next to him, “Can you hear the organ from the church upstairs?”

Trying not to sound impatient, Johnny said, “Oh yeah, beautiful.”

“I suspect that our organist chooses to practice on Saturday afternoons, her contribution to what we’re doing.”

“Nice.”

“This is usually my time to myself, but for you I’ll make an exception. I come down here, stick my head in the tubs so no one can see me, and don’t surface until we close the place down. Nice warm sudsy water up over the elbows, time all by myself, time to think.” He pointed to a dishtowel on a rack next to the sink. “Dry that and stack it there, next to the stove. Then maybe we’ll see what I can do for you.”

Johnny obediently began drying the huge pot, the outside first, balancing it on the table so he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it. In the firehouse the cooking pots were outsized, but these were close to cauldrons. In the firehouse, of course, the cooking was for eight or nine at the most. Here it was for over five hundred and a simple saucepan would be regarded as an artifact from a distant culture.

The priest’s concentration on his scrubbing was absolute, the quick back-and-forth motion with the scouring pad. It was as if he were trying to scratch through an outer layer and discover the true metal underneath, like a hidden truth. Then the broader scrape to the edges of the pot, away from himself, toward himself, all done with muscles tensed from the neck on down. The hands and the fingers took strength from the shoulders and back and pressed into the stubborn residue with a determination that could only be called defiant.

The pot Johnny was drying had a small scab of rice stuck to the side. He considered giving it back to the priest but decided that its removal should be within his competence. He picked at it, but it seemed to be cooked right into the metal. He scratched at it a bit more aggressively and what hadn’t gone under his fingernail came loose. He cleared his fingernails into the pot, then upended it and let the rice fall to the floor, hoping Father Dunphy hadn’t witnessed his disregard for kitchen protocol. He set the pot on the counter.

Father Dunphy moved away from the sink, took the dishtowel from Johnny, and used it to dry his hands. He draped the towel over the pot Johnny had just dried and said, “We’ll eat now. And we can talk.”

“I already ate.”

“Eat again. Tuna Terrific. Lots of tuna. Lots of Terrific.”

Johnny shook his head. “Thanks, Father, but it might cause a mild disturbance. When I came in and headed straight toward you, just about everybody waiting to eat kept saying ‘End of the line . . . end of the line.’ And I kept saying ‘Not eating, not eating.’ I can hardly go back on my word.”

“Of course you can’t. But I think I have a way of handling it.” He drew himself up and, in a purposely pompous manner, said, “As Chief Pot Scubber, I grant you a dispensation and hereby declare null and void any and all statements by one Johnny Donegan when he said, ‘Not eating, Not, eating.’” He relaxed his pose and said, “There. Satisfied?”

Johnny let out a quick laugh. “I’m honored.”

“Good. Then maybe you’ll honor me with your company while we both indulge in some spectacular tuna.”

“Happy to oblige.”

The woman serving them piled each tray with a bowl of tuna casserole, a generous helping of coleslaw, some sliced peaches, buttered bread, and a cup of coffee, black, with no sugar for the simple reason that it was not being offered by Dempsey Coates.

Places were found in an isolated, almost empty corner. The refectory table was occupied at the far end by, as heaven would have it, a man Johnny had encountered when he’d first come in, an encounter that made him feel that he might not be a welcome presence for a very particular reason.

The man had looked at him, up and down, and having observed the firemen’s insignia on his shirt, had said with undisguised contempt, “You a fireman, huh?” He had then spit on the floor not far from Johnny’s shoes.

Johnny considered mentioning this to Father Dunphy but then decided not to trouble him with the peculiarities of a man probably not in complete control of his faculties.

Father Dunphy and Johnny sat down across from each other. The man who’d spit, as if in disgust, picked up his tray and moved to a table nearer the center of the room, leaving Johnny and the priest pretty much alone in their corner. Father Dunphy took no notice of the man’s departure and Johnny figured he’d do the same. The priest was busy salting his Tuna Terrific. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. Or the lady had said no.” He offered the salt to Johnny.