Garden of Lies (17 page)

Now he was getting up, pulling a pair of jeans out of the closet, groping in the pocket. For

what? Then she saw. A rubber. Well, of course. A virgin wasn’t supposed to come prepared.

She watched him kneel, red-faced, tearing impatiently at the foil packet. The irony of it struck

her, and the giggles forced their way up her throat.

It’s all over now,
she told herself, stomach hurting, tears running down her cheeks,
you’ve

blown it again.

But Mason didn’t seem to be getting angry like Gil. My God, he was laughing too. There
was

something funny about all this. And she wasn’t the only one who saw it.

“Never could get one of these damn things on without looking like an idiot,” he said.

“Never mind,” she told him, “just come here.”

And then it was happening, actually
happening.
A pain, not terrible, and he was inside. Moving

gently. And she didn’t mind it. It wasn’t so bad. In fact it was almost ... nice.

Mason was moaning, pumping his hips.

She began to feel warm down there, like warm water lapping between her thighs. But there was

supposed to be more, wasn’t there? She felt as if she were swimming toward something, and

though she was straining hard, she couldn’t quite reach it.

Mason gave one long gagging moan, and shuddered to a halt.

Then Mason’s mouth, damp and hot against her ear, whispering something.

“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

No, not hurt. She felt stiff, awkward, a block of wood in Mason’s arms. It stung a little down

there, but she knew she wouldn’t die from it.

What counted was what she
didn’t
feel.

She’d felt none of the dizzying things she’d read about in novels, or heard her friends whisper.

No music. No rockets exploding. No soaring ecstasy.

What Rachel felt was ... cold. As if she had been pulled out of a warm pool, and plopped wet

and shivering on this rug.

It’s true then. You’re frigid. If this doesn’t prove it to you nothing ever will.

[92] “I’m okay,” she whispered, “just a little shaky. Am I bleeding much?”

He looked down. “A little. Not bad. Don’t worry, it’s the same color as the carpet.”

“Mason, I ...” She wanted to tell him she was sorry for dragging him into this. It had been a

dumb idea after all. But there was a tightness in her throat, choking off the words.

Then Mason was holding her tight, rocking her back and forth on the stubbly carpet. “I know,”

he murmured, “you don’t have to say it. It was great for me too. The best. You’re really

something, you know that, Rachel?”

Something,
her mind echoed.
Yes, I am something.

The question is
what?

Caught between tears and helpless laughter, Rachel began to hiccup.

Chapter 3

BROOKLYN, 1968

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

The old priest’s words echoed in the empty church. Rose watched Father Donahue, like an

aged leprechaun in his green and white vestments, extend a trembling hand to dip a silver ladle in

the marble baptismal font, then trickle the holy water over the crown of fuzz poking from the

blanket in his arms.

A lusty, outraged cry broke the hushed stillness.

Rose, standing a few feet away near the wrought-iron gates that enclosed the small baptismal

vestibule, felt a tug in her chest, wanting to hold her baby nephew.

He’s right to cry. Who wouldn’t, if someone woke you up by pouring cold water over your

head?

Original Sin. How unfair! Every newborn tainted through no fault of its own, because

thousands of years ago Adam had taken a bite from Eve’s apple. Marked down like a factory

second on a sale table.

The way she had been branded by the sin of her mother. And punished, not just once but her

whole life. Worse now since Nonnie had gotten sick. These last months a living hell.

God, I don’t know how much more I can take.

Quickly, Rose pushed the thought away, feeling guilty. How dare she stand here feeling sorry

for herself? It was Marie who deserved her sympathy. Poor Marie, she could barely manage her

two little ones at home, and now this one.

She looked at Marie, hollow-eyed, puffy ankles showing beneath the uneven hem of a hideous

black maternity dress.
As if this were a funeral, not a christening.

Beside her Pete, scrawny and pathetic in a plaid jacket that was [94] too small, looking vaguely

bewildered, as if some fast-talking salesman had conned him into a bad deal before he knew what

was happening.

Pete’s family had moved to Detroit, so there was no one else. Just she and Clare, Sister

Benedicta now. Rose glanced at Clare, standing next to her, her round face serene under its

bracket of starched white. Clare reminded her of a gray pigeon in her habit and wimple, a handful

of fluff over slender hollow bones. Rose felt a coal of resentment glowing in her chest.

What good is it, all that religion of yours, if your hands are too busy praying to do any real

work?
she silently accused her sister.
Where are you when I’m breaking my back to lift Nonnie

into her wheelchair? When I’m feeding her and cleaning her?

Sudden, crashing silence jerked Rose from her thoughts. The baby had stopped wailing.

Marie was holding him now, quieting him, not with a cuddle, but an ugly brown pacifier.

Sallow light from the peaked amber windows—this side vestibule still had the old leaded ones—

caught her sister’s face and turned it the color of old piano keys. She looked more than just tired,

she looked old. An old woman at twenty-nine. Rose noticed with a tiny shock that Marie now

bore a startling resemblance to their grandmother.

Rose stepped forward, her snow boots squeaking over the mosaic of cracked floor tiles.

“May I hold him?” she whispered to Marie.

Marie shrugged, handing her a cloud of blankets, which for a heart-stopping instant seemed to

contain nothing but air. Then Rose felt the solid, reassuring pressure of a tiny bottom no bigger

than her palm, and a round face was gazing up at her, cheeks fat as muffins. Suddenly,

miraculously, the pacifier slid from his toothless gums with a tiny wet pop, and he smiled.

“Look!” Rose cried, delighted.

Marie peered into the blanket. “It’s only gas. Bobby didn’t smile until he was three months.”

She gave a rueful bark of a laugh. “I’m not surprised. He didn’t pick it up watchin’ me, that’s for

sure. Not a whole lot to smile about, two babies and Pete out of work back then, not to mention

the landlady yelling for the rent money every other minute. And now I had to go and get knocked

up again.”

[95] Rose realized, her heart sinking, that today would not be a good time to talk to her sister,

as she’d planned, about Nonnie.

I’m not asking a lot,
she wanted to say.
Just visit her once in a while, that’s all. Sit with her

one evening so I can get out, catch my breath. So little, yet it would help me so much.

The memory of her grandmother’s most recent stroke cut through Rose like the cold December

wind outside. In May, eight months ago, but it had seemed more like winter then than now. The

only blessing was that now Nonnie was silent, except for the garbled sounds she made. She sat in

front of the television all day, her mouth frozen in that odd twisted smirk, as if she were laughing

inside at some secret joke.

Regaining her speech would take some time, the doctor said, because the words were

scrambled in her brain. Like she’d say “door” if the phone was ringing, or “pillow” when she

needed to use the toilet. Though now at least she could hobble to the bathroom with a cane.

Still, I’m the one who has to handle it all. Dress and feed her before I can leave her with Mrs.

Slatsky, then off to work without a moment to myself, an hour crammed on the subway. All day

juggling the phones, taking dictation, typing for Mr. Griffin. Then back at night, exhausted,

wanting only to relax and close my eyes. But first Nonnie, feed her, clean her if she’s had an

accident, help her with her medicine. And is she the least bit grateful? Half a dozen times in the

night, she pounds her cane on the wall, waking me up. Just for the pleasure, I swear, of making

me get up, come to her, see what she wants.

Rose hated feeling resentful, but she couldn’t help it. What would it would be like, she

wondered with a pang of longing, if she could walk away, leave her grandmother and that dark,

hot little box of an apartment which was slowly suffocating her to death?

If she could move away. And marry Brian.

She pictured it then, so clearly, the house they would live in. Airy rooms painted in pastels,

windows wide open to let the sun in. And a garden, even just a strip of grass, a few tulips, a tree

or two.

There would be just the two of them, Brian and her. Each morning, the miracle of waking up to

find him beside her in bed, then the joy of a whole day together, not just minutes snatched here

and there when she could steal away from Nonnie.

Then her sunny rooms faded into gray reality. Her heart sank.

[96] Who would take care of Nonnie? There was scarcely enough to pay Mrs. Slatsky for what

little grudging help she gave, much less a full-time nurse or a convalescent home. And forget

about Marie. Clare too. She remembered the time she’d called Clare, pleading, begging her to

come and help.

And Clare’s soft, placating voice had crooned over the long-distance connection, “You mustn’t

feel you’re alone in this, Rose.
God
is with you.”

And believe it or not, a few days later, a box came in the mail containing a leather-bound book

of Psalms and a scapular medal that had been blessed (her note said) by the late Pope John

himself.

Rose had slammed them both into the trash can. Then wept, ashamed at herself for the

sacrilege she’d committed.

“Thanks, Father, I appreciate it.” Pete’s voice broke into her thoughts.

And Rose knew, just looking at him, that Pete was apologizing to Father for what was inside

the crumpled envelope he’d just slipped him. The Church expected a minimal donation, but on

Pete’s salary as a clerk at Do-Rite Hardware on Ocean Avenue, it was probably only a fraction of

the minimum.

Rose thought guiltily:
Here I am, wallowing in self-pity, as if I’m the only one with a problem.

Marie and Pete, my God, how on earth do they manage?

She followed them outside, while Clare lingered in the vestibule, talking shop with Father

Donahue. Sunlight glittered off the hoods of parked cars, off the dirty snow chunked along the

curb. Rose shivered, wishing she had something better than this worn camelhair coat to keep

herself warm.

The baby began to fuss, squirming against Rose. She rocked him, pretending it was her own

baby she was holding, hers and Brian’s.
Someday we’ll be married, but it won’t be like this.

Brian, at Columbia, would be finishing his dissertation this year. So he’d be through with his

assistantships, and he could land a full-time appointment at Brooklyn or even Kingsborough.

Maybe then she could afford to give up her job, go to college herself. Put Nonnie in a nursing

home or, dammit, just send her railway express up to Clare in Syracuse.

No matter what, as long as she had Brian, everything would turn out all right.

[97] “Here, give him to me,” Marie was saying, her breath puffing out in a frosty white plume.

“It’s time for his bottle. And don’t he let you know it. A pair of lungs on this kid you wouldn’t

believe.”

Rose eased him into her sister’s arms. “He’s beautiful, Marie. You’re lucky. Three perfect

kids.”

And free, too, of Nonnie.

For a moment the grimness left Marie’s face, and her eyes lit up, moist with pride and

yearning. “Yeah, they’re okay.”

While Marie fidgeted with the baby, Rose reached into her purse. A twenty, that’s all she had.

For groceries, and she’d intended to buy a baby gift with what was left. Well, little Gabriel

wouldn’t miss a rattle or a pair of booties, and Marie could use the money.

She folded the bill in half, and when Pete wasn’t looking, slipped it into Marie’s hand.

Marie flashed her a startled look, then quickly lowered her eyes, two bright spots of color

appearing on the bleakness of her once-pretty face. She jerked her head in a sheepish nod of

thanks, and Rose caught the hard glint of tears in her eyes.

The awkward moment passed, and Marie, baby balanced against one arm like a sack of

groceries, was moving ahead, brisk with purpose.

“Hey listen, kiddo, I hate to run out on you and the Virgin Mary back in there, but we’ve gotta

go. Pete had to practically beg his boss for the time off, and if he’s late ... well, you know. It took

him six months just to find this job, shitty boss, weekend shift and all. Anyway, I left Bobby and

Missy with my neighbor Kathleen, and she’s got two of her own. She’ll be climbin’ the walls if I

don’t get back soon.”

“It’s okay,” Rose said. “How about stopping by next Sunday, after church? Nonnie’s usually in