Anne Korkeakivi - Shining Sea

Oh, Michael!

At three on the dot, the doorbell rings. Father O’Malley with his shadow, Mrs. Dawson, the woman who runs catechism for the parish.

“My dear child,” Father O’Malley says, taking her hand into his soft one. “We can only be glad our Michael has gone to a better place.”

Something inside her rises up. A better place? Than here with her and their children? She has to refrain from kicking him.

“Thank you, Father,” she says, leading him into the living room. She has to pull herself together. In the end, this awful day isn’t about her. It’s about Michael. Michael, who struggled so hard to survive and ended up like this. “Patty Ann will get you tea. This is Michael’s sister, Jeanne. She has come out from New York.”

“New York City?” Mrs. Dawson says, frowning.

“Poughkeepsie,” Jeanne says. “It’s about an hour and a half north by train.”

Father installs himself on the brown leather recliner, where Michael liked to sit and read the paper after dinner. Mrs. Dawson roosts on the sofa next to Father and sets in on Jeanne. Mrs. Dawson is the congregation’s most insufferable gossip, never far from Father O’Malley’s ear — so devoted, but with a heart like a hollow chocolate. It’s hard to know whom Mrs. Dawson tormented more, Patty Ann or Luke, during the two years of First Communion preparation. Or Francis, for that matter, although Francis never said a word about it — apparently, he never said a word during the classes, either. Does he ever talk? Mrs. Dawson stopped them after church to ask once. Of course he talks, Michael said. When there’s someone who is actually listening.

How is Francis going to manage without his father to defend him? To show him how to be a man? Of the three boys, Francis will need Michael the most.

The doorbell again.

The living room begins to fill. Everyone seems to have heard and come out, even on an Easter afternoon, to pay his or her respects. Everyone who ever meets Michael remembers and likes him.

Met.

Liked.

Patty Ann and Mike Jr.’s homeroom teachers arrive together. Patty Ann’s teacher says, “Such a smart, popular girl. I am sure she will be all right.”

Mike Jr.’s teacher nods. “Such a solid, responsible boy. Mike will be fine.”

“Thank you so much,” she says. “They’re good kids.”

Luke’s teacher isn’t with them — probably too embarrassed to show up after giving Luke a D in comportment. Michael thought they should consider switching Luke to a private school next year, where there would be fewer students and more time for teachers to talk with them.

But private schools are expensive. How is she going to do that now?

Eugene’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kozma, hesitate just outside the front door. Molly and Eugene stand behind them, whispering something, maybe encouraging them to step in. It can’t be easy for the Kozmas to come today, knowing that so many people in the neighborhood who look down on them will be here. The kids at school probably pick on Eugene also.

But that’s right. Francis’s teacher hasn’t shown up, either. Maybe Francis is so quiet at school his teacher has forgotten he’s in her class.

“Please come in,” she says, making her way around a group of guests to shake the Kozmas’ hands. “Where’s Francis?” she asks Eugene.

Eugene pushes up on his glasses. “He’s not here?”

“We were playing marbles,” Molly says. “He suddenly walked away.”

“We figured he’d come home, Mrs. Gannon.” Eugene lifts the cloth bag. “I brought his marbles for him.”

Is she losing control so swiftly? She could have sworn Francis hasn’t come in. “How long ago?”

Molly and Eugene look at each other.

“Maybe three hours?” Eugene says.

Molly nods. At eight, Molly is the image of her mother, already taller than Eugene, although he’s a year older. Not taller than Francis, though — those Gannon genes. Such a nice girl, too. Even under this visit’s terrible circumstance, she and Francis fell right back in together. And Francis doesn’t usually fall right in with anyone, other than Eugene. He gets invited onto the teams and to all the other kids’ birthday parties, but it doesn’t seem to mean much to him. Michael says it’s just the way Francis is. Some people like to be part of a crowd. Francis doesn’t.

Said.

“Your dad popped his head out back to let you know they were home from Easter mass,” Molly says. “And it was just after that.”

“We don’t take Eugene to mass, anymore. You know, ma’am, the incense,” Mr. Kozma says.

Mrs. Kozma nods, the homemade net on her hat bobbing. “It’s not good for his asthma.”

On Sundays, her mother also wore a hat like Mrs. Kozma’s, with a homemade net that sprung up and down during reception of the sacrament. But for her, with a baby in her arms or at least a toddler, little hands reaching up to play with anything available, hat wearing always was too impractical. Soon, very soon, there will be another baby. Michael will never get to know whether it’s another boy or the second girl. She touches her stomach, feels that hard roundness, the life in there.

“Yes, of course,” she says. Last Sunday, after Palm Sunday mass, Michael had gotten out the camera. Oh, for heaven’s sake. I look like a cow, she protested. You look beautiful, Michael said and gave the camera to Eugene, who’d been waiting on the front step for them to return from church. Can you take a photo of us all, son? I’ll show you how. You just press here. Thank God, now, Michael had Eugene take that picture. When she gets the film developed, she’ll have copies made for all the children. She’ll have the original framed and set it in the living room. “Please help yourself to refreshments. Thank you for coming.”

She beckons to Patty Ann. “Is Francis in the boys’ bedroom?”

Patty Ann has tried to hide the puffiness of her eyes with the heavy use of a compact, presumably hers. Patty Ann has been forbidden to own makeup before turning sixteen. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Can you please go take a look? And Patty Ann, I think not the powder.”

Patty Ann returns a few minutes later, powder still present, a sullen look added. “He’s not there, Mom.”

Francis knew what time the wake was starting. There’s no excuse for him staying out to play. There’s no excuse for him playing at all today. And yet she can’t find the vim inside herself to get angry. “All right,” she tells Patty Ann. “Go find Mike Jr., then, and tell him to check the school playground. You go look in the toolshed.”

“But Mom—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Patty Ann,” she says, seeing Mrs. Dawson heading toward them, turning away from her daughter. “Not now .”

“Well, at least,” Mrs. Dawson says, reaching for her hand, “a person who leaves us on Good Friday goes straight to heaven.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she says, pulling her hand back, something snapping deep inside. “Michael would go straight to heaven no matter what day he died.”

Mrs. Dawson pretends not to have heard, busying herself with extracting gloves from her boxy purse and then carefully fitting each finger in its place. “I’m so sorry to have to leave already, dear. My parents. Easter. But I’ll be back to fetch Father.”

She put her own white gloves aside, laying them in the top drawer of her dresser next to the children’s baptismal candles sometime between her first and fourth baby, with the blessing of Michael, who liked to feel the smooth skin of her hand in his.

Michael’s hand in hers. His grip, warm and promising.

“Please don’t trouble yourself about Father,” she says, collecting herself. She can do better than this. “We will make sure someone brings him back to the rectory.”