Quinn (8 page)

Quinn took the evening train home for Christmas vacation, paying three dollars over the bus fare out of enthusiasm for the festive spirit she knew would prevail, particularly in those cars closest to the bar. Will hoisted her luggage onto the rack, then, after a quick kiss, stepped off the train to stand on the platform. She smiled at him through the window. There was sadness in her face, and he remembered her image captured in the light of the telephone booth, before he had written his sonnet. She had smiled then, too, for the benefit of the voice on the other end of the wire. The train sighed, sending a billow of steam around Will's ankles. Quinn's smile broadened, and she mouthed the words at him,
You
…
look
…
like
…
an angel.
He shook his head. She began flapping her arms, playing charades. “Bird?” he shouted, but the wheels began to move, and soon she disappeared into the train's cloudy breath, grinning and shaking her head.

Always leave 'em laughing, Will thought. He walked down the platform feeling as if Quinn had ridden off with the train station's wattage allotment; the Christmas decorations were suddenly shabby and dim.

As the train neared Springfield, Quinn's thoughts fastened on that same telephone call. John had told her the tests showed that Ann had something called lupus erythematosus. Quinn detected the alarm in his voice, but when she suggested hopping the next bus home, he'd sounded positively dismayed. It wasn't necessary. Ann would be upset about Quinn's missing classes. And there was the money. Everything would be all right, she'd see.

Quinn had spent the next morning in the medical school library. What she found under systemic lupus erythematosus was not reassuring. The definition resounded with obscure medical terminology. Tracking down any detailed clarification of the causes of renal failure proved futile. She knew what remission meant.

During subsequent telephone conversations her parents stubbornly resisted further discussion of Ann's condition. With God's help, Ann would come through fine, John said.

But what if…? Quinn thought. Christmas lights blurred into dazzling streaks against the darkness outside the window. The sight was mesmerizing. The rhythmic click of the wheels against the track said:
what if she, what if she, what if she?

“All right,” Quinn said aloud, startling her seat companion. The young man was burdened with a full-size cello case that he was trying to balance on his lap. He stared at her.

“Talking to myself,” she explained.

“Well, don't let me interrupt,” he said.

Quinn turned her face back to the window and came to terms with the immediate future. She would cross-examine her parents, she would talk to the doctors herself and ask all the questions that needed asking; she would be brave. And now, having plotted her course, she would reward herself and think about William Hamilton Ingraham. A wild adventure it had been, wild enough to fill Quinn's days and nights and crowd out apprehensions about Ann. When Quinn wasn't with Will, she was obsessed with images of him: the fierce look of his face while he studied; the way he pulled his shirt over his head in a graceful gesture that left his hair all tousled; the texture of his skin under her fingers; the smooth long muscles of his back. He had the body of a swimmer or a dancer, nothing bulky about it, just spare and beautiful. She loved to watch him move about the room when he was naked—bending, leaning, stretching to pull down the window shade.

Now the clicking wheels were saying:
want him, I want him, I want him.
She pressed her knees together and glanced nervously at the cellist. The throbbing sensation had taken up permanent residence between her legs. She remembered Will's response to her anxious suggestion that she was oversexed.

“Probably,” he had said with a laugh. “Let's take advantage of it before it goes away.”

Half an hour outside of Boston, Quinn's seatmate uncased his instrument and positioned it in the aisle where he could manipulate his bow without impaling anyone. Softly he began playing Christmas carols. Someone toward the front of the car began to sing along, and soon other voices joined in. They worked their way through
The First Noel, Good King Wenceslas,
and
We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Oh Little Town of Bethlehem
was a failure, drifting off into improvised lyrics and laughter, but
Angels We Have Heard on High
got regular repetition, with the
glorias
eliciting enthusiastic if inaccurate harmonizing. Will would have enjoyed all this, Quinn thought, particularly the cellist, who with his slight body and pale unkempt curls resembled a solemn, none too sanitary angel. As the train pulled into South Station he began to play
Silent Night.
The passengers sang, softly at first. Someone a few seats behind Quinn had a lovely baritone voice. With the swell of the music—
Sleep in heavenly peace
—Quinn felt her eyes sting. As she gazed around the car she saw that there were tears in several pairs of eyes besides her own.

John met her at the platform. He took one of her suitcases and threw his other arm around her shoulders as they walked out of the station. There was a fine filtering of snow coming down.

“Nine-oh-five, right on time,” John said. “How was the trip?”

“Okay,” Quinn answered.

John shoved aside the spare tire and miscellaneous tools to make room for Quinn's luggage in the trunk. Then he tossed her the keys. As a passenger John was only comfortable with Quinn at the wheel. She drove just as he did—-aggressively, skillfully, and fast. She pulled out onto Boylston Street.

“How's Mom?”

“Fine.”

Quinn glanced sideways at him. “You bullshitting me, Jake?”

“You'll see for yourself. You don't need to get all stirred up.”

“Well, I am.”

“Don't be. You'll worry your mother.”

“I'll bet
she's
worried.”

“She doesn't complain.”

“Of course she doesn't. She's a Goddamn saint. I'll feel better about it once I've talked with her doctor.”

“What for?”

“For information.”

“We'll see.” His voice was curt.

Quinn decided to lay off for the moment. Why start the vacation with a full-scale battle? “Where'd you get the tree this year?”

“Finnegan's.”

Quinn smiled. Michael Finnegan sold the shapeliest, healthiest evergreens in Medham, which were removed in the dead of night from the estates and cemeteries of wealthy suburban communities. As a public service, Michael Finnegan explained, to thin out the overgrowth.

When they pulled up in front of the house, Quinn could see holiday lights blinking through the living room window. Four inches of new snow coated the roof. She turned off the engine and sat looking down Gardner Street. At Christmastime, Medham lost its tawdriness and began to sparkle. Snow was necessary for the metamorphosis, but in Quinn's memory there had been only one Christmas when the neighborhood wasn't covered with white.

She turned to tell John she couldn't imagine spending Christmas in Arizona, but he had gotten out to fetch her suitcases. He tapped on the window.

“Lock up and come on in. Your mother's pining to see you.”

On her way up the steps Quinn swallowed hard and tried to prepare herself for how her mother might look. But Ann really did seem all right. She was wearing her bright blue wool dress and her face had a healthy flush. Quinn hugged her with relief.

Then they all sat in the kitchen drinking cocoa and eating Christmas cookies. As always, Quinn chose the star-shaped ones with the green icing first. She studied her mother.

“You've lost a little weight, Mom.”

Ann nodded. “About time, too.” Ann was forever trying out new diets, hoping to trim off ten or fifteen pounds, but it had always been difficult with Quinn and John around. They consumed enormous quantities of food and burned it all away while Ann despaired, nibbling on carrot sticks and holding steady at 142 pounds.

“Chic, but I don't know …” Her mother's trim new figure would take some getting used to. Quinn popped another cookie into her mouth. “How do you feel?”

“All my aches and pains have disappeared just in time for Christmas.”

“Are you in remission?”

Ann and John glanced at one another.

“Listen, you two. I'm not seven years old. You brought me up to be tough. Tell me.”

“Lupus is an inflammatory connective-tissue disorder,” Ann explained, “an autoimmune disease. It usually occurs in younger women.”

“What's an autoimmune disease?”

“It's when your body's immunity system gets its signals crossed and begins to attack itself.”

“Can they give you anything for it?” Quinn asked.

“Cortisone.”

“That's pretty potent stuff. Are there side effects?”

“Not that I've noticed.”

“I'm grilling you, aren't I?”

Ann nodded. For the first time she looked tired.

“I'm sorry. I'll let you be. But I want to see Dr. Marshall this vacation.”

“He sent us to a specialist, a fellow named Gunther at Mass General,” John said.

“Okay, then I'll see Gunther.”

“All right,” Ann said. “You get your questions together, and maybe I'll have a few to add to the list. And now let's talk about something else.”

“Fine,” Quinn said. “The latest bulletin from campus is … tadadaDA … your daughter's got a boyfriend.”

“Irish, I trust,” John said through a mouthful of gingerbread Santa Claus.

“He's very cute.”

“What's his name, dear?” Ann asked.

“Will. William Ingraham.”

“Bloody British.”

“As a matter of fact, his mother's Irish, but I should've just let you suffer, you old bigot. He's from Idaho.”

“Where's that?” John asked, deadpan.

“Exactly what I said.” Quinn grinned at him.

“What's he think of you?”

“All indications … well …” Infuriatingly, she felt herself begin to blush. “He thinks I'm … oh, look, the feeling's mutual. Let me tell you about the train trip.” She was certain that a few more moments of selfconscious fumbling for words and she would confess it all.

They sat talking for nearly an hour before John and Ann said good night and went up to bed. Quinn carried her cocoa into the living room and sat down on the couch. The room was aglow with the particular radiance of Christmas lights. She remembered decorating the tree when her toddler arms could barely reach the lowest branches. The same string of lights, her favorites, glittered tonight, brightly colored glass cylinders in the shape of candles. Always after the tree had been trimmed—Quinn's messy wads of tinsel bestowed and the china creche on its bed of angel's hair at the base—John would switch off the living room lights. Ann would be summoned and they'd all sit waiting together. After a few moments a clear liquid in the bulbs would begin to simmer, hesitantly at first, but soon the boughs were ablaze with bright bubbles, yellow, blue, green, and red. It was a magical event. Tonight, sipping her cocoa and breathing the pungent scent of Scotch pine, she was haunted by the presence of all those other Christmases.

She had assumed that the holidays would always be like this. Obviously that was absurd. She would have her own family soon. Then she and Will would come back to Medham with a brood of their own to trim the tree. Of course, someday her parents would no longer be here. Of course, and yet here was a thought that had not occurred to her until just now. She didn't like it much.

Her impulse was to reach for Will's hand. Instead she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. Will Ingraham was habit-forming. It had snuck up on her, this creeping dependency. She wondered if he was thinking of her out in Godforsaken Idaho.

She took another sip of cocoa, but it had grown cold. She rose stiffly, switched off the decorations, and went upstairs to bed.

The next morning, Christmas Eve day, Quinn and Ann hurried through their holiday chores. Quinn baked cookies while Ann wrapped gifts. The house was lively with the sound of rustling tissue paper and the pungent scents of ginger and cinnamon.

Quinn, finished at last, was on her way out of the kitchen when she caught Ann slipping her coat on by the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh. Are you done already, dear?”

“What's in this?” Quinn picked up her mother's shopping bag and peered inside. “Ice skates? These are kids' ice skates.”

Ann made no comment as she tied a scarf around her neck. Quinn looked closely into her face until Ann began to flush.

“You're going to Aunt Millie's!” Quinn exclaimed. “These are for Sean.”

Ann nodded and took the shopping bag.

“You can't go all the way out there. It'll take you hours.”

“I'll be back by three.”

“Just before Daddy gets home.”

“That's right.” Ann opened the front door.

“He doesn't know about this, does he?” Quinn asked.

“If he asks, I'll tell him.”

Quinn reached into the closet for her jacket. “Let me go instead.”

“No. I don't want you dragged into your father's feuds. You stay home. There's plenty to do.”

Quinn put her hand on her mother's arm. “You're already worn out. Let me at least come along and prop you up.”

Ann gave her a long look, deliberating. “All right,” she said finally. “Your father would skin me alive, but I'll be glad of your company.”

Aunt Millie, John's eldest sister, had left Ireland after having made her reputation as a British sympathizer. John, like Ann, had come to America as a small child, leaving his big sister behind in Dublin. Still, the old country retained its power over John's loyalties, and the contempt and shame for what he regarded as Millie's treason were so great that he never even spoke of her to complain. Until the day that she had come into the house in Medham, Quinn was unaware that such a person as Aunt Millie existed.

She'd shown up one afternoon ten years before, introduced herself to Ann, and explained in a trembling voice that her husband had left her. There was a child, an infant, and she was destitute. Ann listened, then both women waited fearfully for John to arrive home from work. When he came into the living room and saw his sister there, he said only, “Get out of my house.” There was a short silence, then Millie rose and left.

Over the years Ann had tried to intercede. Once she'd gone so far as to enlist the aid of the priest. But John declared, in Father Riley's presence, that he would prefer to burn in hell for eternity rather than set eyes on his turncoat sister again.

So Ann kept up her own sporadic communication with Millie, sending her whatever money she could spare along with castoffs from Quinn's closet. Quinn had always suspected that Ann was in communication with her sister-in-law, but until today had never caught her at it.

The trip to Aunt Millie's required two transfers, and each trolley was jammed with holiday crowds. Quinn held her mother's arm and battled the hordes to win a seat for her. They were silent most of the way, but when they left the train at Somerville, Quinn asked, “How often do you do this?”

“Christmastime. I'm late this year, what with being sick and all.”

“What do you think Daddy would do if he found out?”

“I don't know,” Ann said.

“Remember the time we went to see the rerun of
The Red Shoes?”

Ann smiled. “A couple of sinners.”

When Quinn was in fifth grade, Ann had taken her to the movies on a school day. They had sneaked, giggling, into the theater just after the film had begun, so the darkness would hide them. The next day Ann had written the teacher a note saying that Quinn had been “indisposed.” It wasn't really a lie. She was not disposed to go to school. But they hadn't mentioned the adventure to John.

Aunt Millie lived in a fourth-floor walk-up apartment. Ann had to stop several times on the stairs to catch her breath. Quinn watched her worriedly, but knew it was no use trying to persuade her mother to stay downstairs while she delivered the gifts. They rang the bell and waited a few minutes before the door was opened by a worn-looking woman in a bathrobe. She seemed tearful, but Quinn soon realized that her eyes must always look that way, anxious and watery. Ann hugged her sister-in-law and then introduced Quinn. Aunt Millie stared at her with intense curiosity for a moment, then led them into a living room so dark that it took Quinn a moment to realize that there was a child standing in the far corner near the couch.

Sean, now eleven, was an ideal candidate for the Irish Tourist Board advertisements. He was red-haired, freckled, blue-eyed, and adorable. At this moment his hands were balled into fists, and the glances he shot his mother were full of youthful outrage.

“Hello, Sean,” Ann said. “This is your cousin, Quinn. I won't tell you how much you've grown since last year. I used to hate hearing that from my old aunties.”

Sean bobbed his head, and uncurled one fist to offer a grubby hand to Quinn. She shook it and was surprised at how calloused and rough it felt.

“I'll put this over here,” Ann said, setting the shopping bag down beside a table upon which perched a tiny artificial tree that Ann had brought them several years ago. Sean glanced at the shopping bag, then at the door. Aunt Millie glared at him until he said, finally, “Thank you, Aunt Ann.”

“I'm glad we got a chance to see you, dear, but I'll bet you've got a lot of things to tend to, what with vacation and everything.”

Sean's face brightened. At his mother's nod he snatched his coat off the back of a chair and tried not to run across the living room. He stopped short at the door, turned to give Quinn and Ann a dazzling, heart-melting smile, mumbled, “Nice to see you,” and left. They could hear him clattering down all four flights of stairs.

“He looks wonderful, Millie,” Ann said as the older woman poured tea. “How's he doing now?”

“Oh, I don't know. He doesn't tell me what he's up to, of course. There's been no word from school, good or bad.”

“There's plenty of mischief in those eyes, but no malice.”

Quinn sipped her tea and watched her aunt closely, searching in vain for some hint of political treachery in the faded face that resembled John's only in its prominent cheekbones.

“I see him in Quinn,” Millie said.

“Sean?”

“No, my brother.”

“Yes, they do look alike.”

For the first time Millie's expression lifted in a half-smile. “Are you as stubborn as he is?” she asked Quinn.

“I hope not,” Quinn replied. After the remark had slipped out, she felt a curious sense of betrayal and decided to say nothing more about John to this woman who was, after all, a stranger.

“I worry about your coming out here, Ann,” Millie continued. “He'd never forgive you. I shouldn't let you come, but I can't tell you how happy it makes me.”

“You know, I'm not so sure he doesn't know about these visits of ours. The only times he doesn't question me about where I've been are when I've come here. I think it's his way of staying in touch with you.”

The watery eyes brimmed over. “You look tired today,” Millie said. “Are you well?”

Quinn glanced quickly at her mother, but Ann said, “Oh, I'm fine. The holidays are a little hectic.”

“It doesn't make it easier, your trekking way out here.”

“On the contrary, it's a nice break from the goings-on at home, isn't that right, dear?”

Quinn nodded obediently.

Aunt Millie asked Quinn a few obviously dutiful questions about college, but then began to talk to Ann about her job at the local pharmacy, her health difficulties, and her guilt over having so little time to supervise Sean. She poured it all out as if she never spoke to another soul. Ann asked a few quiet questions, but mostly just listened. Quinn realized that at this moment her mother belonged completely to Aunt Millie. The forward curve of her body, the intense gaze of her eyes, her murmurs of sympathy and understanding, all assured Aunt Millie that Ann was hers and hers alone.

All her life Quinn had taken this quality of her mother's for granted. Ann was always there to listen—to her, to John, to whatever stray showed up at their door in need of compassion. Until now, it had never occurred to Quinn that there might be a cost. She felt like putting her arms around her mother and saying, “Now, Aunt Millie, Mom is going to tell us about all the garbage
she's
been putting up with these past few months, and we're going to hang on her every word.”

But Ann wasn't a talker, and who was Quinn to say that there wasn't gratification for her mother in lightening other people's problems? Still, Quinn worried. She was glad when Ann looked at her watch and announced that it was time to leave.

On the trip home they were lucky enough to find two seats together toward the back of the train, where there were fewer passengers.

“What did you think of your aunt?” Ann asked.

“She doesn't look very wicked to me. I was disappointed.”

“She's a tragic soul, really. She was a brilliant student back in Dublin, but got herself all mixed up in a political mess and was never able to find her way out. It's an awful waste of human intelligence.”

“Sean's a cute little number.”

“He's been picked up for shoplifting. Can you imagine, at eleven? Poor little boy.”

“At least this year he won't have to swipe a pair of skates.”

“I don't think he takes things just because he needs them.”

Quinn studied her mother for a moment, then said, “I love you a lot.”

“You'd better. I'm your mother.”

“That has nothing to do with it. God, it's hot in here.” She shrugged off her jacket.

“There's an open window. Put your coat on,” Ann protested.

“I'm boiling.”

“You'll catch your death.” Ann tugged at the collar, trying to lift it around Quinn's shoulders.

“Hey, you wanna fight?” Quinn asked, mugging at her. “You've got a mean right hook, I can attest to that.”

Ann dropped the coat. “Don't remind me. You know I still feel terrible.”

“Everybody's entitled to child brutality every now and then, especially if I'm the child.”

“No, they're not.”

Ann looked so solemn that Quinn was instantly remorseful. “Hey, Mom, I was only teasing you.” She reached out to squeeze her mother's hand. “I was thirteen years old, and it's the only time you've ever laid a hand on me. I don't think a thirteen-year-old needs to say ‘fuck.' ”

Ann winced and tried not to look at the other passengers. “Nobody should strike a child,” she said, then went on, musingly, “I want you to know the joy of having children.”

“Right now?”

“Soon.” Ann shook her head as if trying to clear it of troublesome thoughts. “Did you like my new cookie cutter?”

“The angel.”

“Yes. Did you notice anything off about her?”

Quinn laughed. “She's not very heavenly.”

“I know it. At first I thought they were her wings, but then I realized … well, she's the most buxom angel I ever saw.”

“Let's put extras in Father Riley's package.”

Ann giggled. They made quick connections downtown, and got home with time to spare.

Every Christmas Eve, in accordance with family custom, Quinn and Ann delivered their holiday offerings around the neighborhood while John downed several pints of Christmas cheer at the Ancient Order of Hibernians. They would all converge at St. Theresa's for midnight mass. As Mallory lore dictated, John would barely squeak in before the procession, leaving Ann to heave sighs and wring her hands out of a conviction that this year he surely wouldn't make it.

It had also become a matter of tradition for Quinn to protest her part in the ritual. It rankled that she was required to tote cookies around the neighborhood and make polite conversation with the adults while her friends were celebrating in a more lively fashion at Reston's in Brookline.

Tonight, as Quinn reached for her jacket without complaint, Ann peered closely at her.

“Where's Margery?” Ann asked.

“I don't know. With the gang, I suppose.”

“At Reston's?”

“I guess.”

“You were with me all day. I think tonight it'd be fine if you spent some time with your friends.”

“They'll be around tomorrow. Are you going to be warm enough? Here.” She helped Ann on with her coat and tied a plaid scarf around her neck. Ann was not in the habit of being fussed over; her arms hung awkwardly at her sides while Quinn tucked the muffler around her neck.

“Thank you, dear,” Ann said.

Quinn nodded and looked away. A lump had suddenly formed in her throat, and she did not trust her voice.

Ann moved to the foot of the stairs. “John Mallory! Don't you be late for mass!” she called.

“And don't show up drunk!” Quinn shouted, in full possession of her vocal chords again.

“God forbid,” Ann murmured.

Christmas Eve passed with the usual warm blur of carols and candlelight, followed by presents on Christmas morning and the inevitable letdown. But the next day Quinn still felt depressed and lonely. Her mother was at the grocery store. John was working. The Christmas tree was dying, and the house seemed as still as a mortuary. She longed for Will, but not with the usual bittersweet nostalgia. Today she had to speak with him the way she had to eat when she was starving. She dug through her wallet and determined that she could pay the busfare back to school and still manage a long-distance call. Her voice trembled as she asked the operator to connect her with Red Falls, Idaho. She heard the ring at his end and tried to imagine the room that held the Ingraham telephone. Blank space, as if he were living in a vacuum.