Mercy of St Jude (11 page)

What's she up to? Why's she that determined to look after my Gerard? She got lots of nieces and nephews to fetch and carry for her. Why pay Gerard all these years? Ah, fuck it. Don't matter why. Gerard'll be taking every red cent he can get.

“Debra and the boys be needing help too.”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose they will.” Mercedes' tone was noncommittal.

“A word down the road, especially from one of their teachers…” Sadie paused.

Mercedes nodded but said nothing.

Ah, what odds. I can't be worrying about that lot, they don't got Gerard's brains.

“I'll talk to him, don't you worry.”

“Thank you, Sadie.”

“You're welcome, Mercedes.”

Mercedes turned and started back towards the gym doors.

Now isn't that just ducky? Mercedes Hann thanking me for taking her money. Darn right I'll take it. Anything for my Gerard.

1999

A crust of congealed milk has collected at the triangular opening of the can of Carnation. Behind it in the fridge is his mother's cocoa-caramel cake, an elaborate treat that takes hours to prepare - further evidence of the time she has invested in welcoming him home. Gerry remembers the chocolates in his suitcase down the hall.

“Back in a minute,” he says. Halfway to the bedroom he stops and turns back. If he doesn't say something his mother will pile his plate so high he'll never reach the bottom. As he approaches the kitchen, he sees her sneak a small bottle from the pocket of her apron. She quickly unscrews the top and tips it into one of two cups of tea on the table. He retreats again to get the chocolates.

Back in the kitchen, he holds out the box.

“Maple chocolates, my favourite! Some thoughtful, you are. And tall and handsome. Them women up there must be all over you.”

Gerry pretends not to have heard. He has no intention of talking to his mother about his love life. “A cold beer sure would go good with that feast.”

“You don't want beer this time of night. Have a cup of tea instead.”

She has never liked to see him drink, even though he rarely does around her. He doesn't drink much at other times either, perhaps in reaction to his mother, who has been preaching abstinence and sneaking booze as long as he can remember. He reaches out to take a cup; at the last second, he doesn't know why, he goes for the one she spiked.

“No,” she says instantly. “I already put sugar in that one. Take that other cup. It's stronger and hotter. The Lord knows you probably needs it.”

“No, no. I like a bit of sugar.” He has his finger around the handle.

“Yes, but I already drank from that cup and I got a cold sore coming. See?” She screws up her lip in his direction. “I can feel it, right below the surface it is. Don't want you catching that.” Her hand is closing around the cup.

“Darn cold sores. Milk?” he asks, although he already knows the answer. It's either milk and sugar or a tip of the bottle, never both.

“Think I'll have it black for a change.” She takes a big noisy slurp.

Gerry winces. “It's still scalding hot, Ma.”

“I got one of them asbestos mouths sure. Now drink up and we'll have a yarn while there's no one else here. How's your company?”

His job, “his company,” as she calls it, is one of her favourite subjects. He started with an investment firm right out of business school, anxious to help his mother and start paying back Mercedes. The salary is more than decent, and as far as he can tell, he's good at his job. He must be – they keep giving him promotions and raises. He likes it well enough, but the truth is, he gets tired when he thinks about doing it for the rest of his life. His field of study, and his job, have been pragmatic decisions.

“They treat me fine. I can't complain.” That's something he never does around his mother. She wouldn't understand that there could be anything to complain about, that he'd rather be in a classroom. On the other hand, he doesn't tell her the good news anymore either. The one time he mentioned a promotion – his first, a small one, nothing to rave about – half the town congratulated him the next time he came home, people coming up to him at church and on the sidewalk, talking about what a good job he had, how the company was lucky to have him, and how proud St. Jude was to have him for a son. For all they knew he'd been made president of the company. He was too embarrassed to say anything. After that, he told only Mercedes about future promotions.

“Well, you deserves it, Gerard. You always did work hard, running around for Mercedes all the time like you did. Don't know why you did it half the time.”

Gerry hides his grin. She knows exactly why he did it. They needed the money. She knows the other reason too. He enjoyed Mercedes' company.

“…in school too,” Sadie is saying. “Had to work harder than the rest of that lot just to get noticed, so them snooty teachers would even see you in the room.”

“Now, Ma, the teachers were fair enough.”

“My arse. Goddamn Violet Green and her ilk. Never knew you had a brain, just another stupid Griffin. Lot they knows. We showed them though, especially them Fowlers, always looking down on us. You beat that Francis fair and square.” Her voice goes low and bitter. “Wish you'd have beat that frigging Annie Byrne.”

Gerry is surprised. She rarely mentions Annie. It's as if by not saying the name out loud, Annie isn't real, and what happened, didn't. He wonders how many nips she's had from her apron pocket. Her eyes have a brightness that wasn't there earlier. “Now, Ma, school wasn't that bad.”

“It was too that bad, Gerard.” She takes another swig of tea. “They never thought a son of mine could do it, but you did. Had to sit up and take notice then, them frigging Greens and Fowlers, especially them goddamn Hanns. Sick of the lot of them. They knew half the secrets I knows what goes on in this town, they'd fall down with fright.”

Gerry groans silently. Now she's going on about secrets. He doesn't doubt that she knows more than a few. He just doesn't want to hear them.

Mercedes had secrets, too, secrets that shaped how she lived her life. “A person must make up for the sins of the past by doing good in the present,” she told him once. He'd been surprised; Mercedes rarely spoke of the past except in reference to a history book. Yet Gerry had long sensed that she carried a heavy burden of guilt, even though he could never imagine what she could have done that was so wrong. She was a teacher, a community leader, a staunch Catholic. Why the need for penance? In her living room next to a statue of the Virgin Mary was a small plaque, which read, “Atonement is necessary for the soul to survive.” It occurred to him once to wonder if he somehow figured into that atonement. In the end, it was irrelevant. The friendship that developed between them could not have been based on guilt.

The food on his plate is growing far beyond his capacity. “That's enough, okay?”

Sadie places a large bowl of beans next to his fork. “I kept the beans separate so it don't run into the rest. I knows you don't like that. Dig in before they gets cold.”

His stomach grumbles, but not with hunger. “Thanks, Ma.” He picks up his knife and fork. “It looks delicious.”

She smiles at him over the rim of her cup, then drains it and licks her lips.

He could really use a cold beer.

6

1999

Lucinda's hand lifts abruptly from Annie's shoulder. Annie misses the warmth, the contact, but she has only herself to blame. How could she have been that crude, that vulgar, in front of her mother, and about Mercedes on this of all days? Lucinda doesn't ask much of her, a little respect, a little decorum.

Annie looks up, expecting to see her mother's hurt face looking back at her, but it isn't.

“What did Gerry ever do to you, Aiden?” Lucinda's tone is exasperated.

“He did enough. Besides, he's a Griffin, what does it matter?”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Wasn't fair what Sadie did to Dad either.”

“Frank's not still harping on about that, is he? That's years ago.”

“There's some in this town still looks at him funny even though he never took one red cent from that collection plate. Sadie knows it too. Right, Pat?”

“Give over, Aiden.” Pat turns to Annie. “You okay?”

She nods then meets her mother's eyes. “Sorry, Mom.”

Lucinda smiles. “Come and help me make sandwiches.”

Relieved, Annie pushes back from the table.

Pat stands as well. “I can do that egg and olive spread you likes, Aunt Luce,” he offers.

“That'd be lovely, Pat. Best do it in the morning, though. What else, now? I got tuna somewhere. Let's go see what's in the cold room, Annie.”

Happy to get away from Aiden, Annie follows Lucinda down the stairs. As she enters the utility room, the close damp familiarity catches at her – the oversized washer bought second-hand some twenty years before, the mismatched dryer that's used only on the worst of winter days. Two fully stocked freezers are crammed into the corner, and the shelves on the wall overflow with cans and jars and boxes. Something is always cooking on the stove upstairs, and there's usually a cake or bread or pan of cookies just in or out of the oven, all in anticipation of some unexpected but welcome company to eat it all up. The fridge bulges with yesterday's leavings, ready for a hearty lunch or waiting to be preserved in the freezer. Annie's father likes to joke that he's afraid he'll end up there himself if he sits still too long.

Unlike Lucinda, Annie keeps a streamlined supply of food in her tiny Calgary apartment. Tins of soup and salmon, sliced meat and cheese for sandwiches, frozen meals ready for the microwave. And eggs, she always has eggs, a perfectly proportioned food for single people such as herself, because, although there have been other men who have eased the loneliness for a few weeks or a month, Annie has been on her own. It's too much work to prepare a big meal just for one. Her friends are as busy as she is and the leftovers stare at her until she throws them out, which makes her feel guilty. She is her mother's daughter, after all.

She feels a tingle behind her eyelids and blinks repeatedly in an attempt to clear what must be fatigue. Her mother's hand grasps her elbow. Alarmed, Annie quickly wipes her eyes and turns around. “What is it, Mom? You okay?”

“I'm fine. But are you, Annie? That Aiden had to open his big mouth about Gerry and I could see it took the good out of you. Did you want to talk about it?”

There's a part of Annie that longs to open up to her mother but she's afraid she'll fall to pieces if she starts talking now. “Don't you worry. It'll take more than a Griffin to get this Byrne down,” she says with a gusto she doesn't feel.

“Well if you need to talk, I'm here.” Lucinda sounds frustrated, defensive even.

“Sure, but you're right, let bygones be bygones.” Annie's face is mercifully buried as she rummages for supplies. “If Mercedes wanted to give money to the Griffins, who are we to say she shouldn't have?” She lifts a box from the back of a shelf. “Look, a whole case of tuna.”

“For heaven's sake, who cares about the money? Hardly worth all this fuss when you think about all the other stuff.”

“True,” Annie agrees cautiously, holding out the tuna.

“Like I say, Annie, I'm here if you need me. Always have been.” Lucinda snatches the box from Annie's hands. Her back is stiff as she walks away.

As Annie listens to Lucinda's footsteps tromping up the stairs, she knows that somehow she has let her mother down, but she's not sure how. Without warning, the pace of the last two days slams into Annie so hard her knees tremble. She sits down on an overturned crate and reviews their conversation. Something about it troubles her. “…all the other stuff…” What did her mother mean by that? What else does she know?

Her eyes race to the doorway half expecting to see Lucinda. There's no one there.

Annie is suddenly overcome with sadness, for the death of her own innocence, for the loss of all the joy she started out with. Avoiding this moment has been a constant struggle for five years, but every ounce of fight has finally failed her.

She drops her head in her arms and, finally, lets herself cry.

1991

Annie Byrne escaped St. Jude for MUN, arms flung wide to capture all that university had to offer. She was barely a hundred miles from home. It could have been a million.

This state of contentment lasted through her first year and into the second. Her marks were great and she'd met lots of new friends. She'd even gotten the job as the Resident Assistant for her floor, which, along with her student loan and occasional typing jobs, put an end to her constant money worries. Then, as Joe would have put it, life did that sneaky thing where it slips under the skin of your neck, slithers down your spine and bites you on the arse.