Out front of the O’Dwyer homestead the wind denuded the aging sycamore tree and piled leaves where they would lay undisturbed until spring—on Uncle Al’s front porch. Only the neighbor’s dog had taken notice and made a deposit to secure property rights. Meanwhile, arthritis gnawed on Mama O’Dwyer’s neck in bed— a disingenuous but on-going love affair. She rolled over and reached for Caleb but found his pillow cold like porcelain and missing a lid. The wall heater purred, but Gemma’s stomach growled.
She had stayed up late playing phone tag with a ne’er-do-well parishioner whose mealy-mouthed-voice-mail still rang in her ears: “Will you teach my Sunday School class tomorrow, dearie? I know it’s late, and I know those youngins are heathens, but something has come up. Click.”
Gemma fumed. She wanted to offer the woman a piece of her mind, not peace of mind. Her arthritic fingers had punched the keypad as she marched back and forth across the family room. “Answer me or I’m going to hang up.” At least she had Caleb’s attention. His head swung wearily right then left as if he were watching a grudge-match at Wimbledon.
“Now, now, Gem . . . let it go . . . Just let it go.”
“Well Caleb, Nadine said something has come up. So, should I say, ‘Sorry dearie. But when something comes up I suggest you swallow it again’? Caleb, the woman needs a keeper, not a substitute. If only I could . . .” One by one—like rain before the Great Flood–tears tantalized her cheeks, and she folded on the couch.
“Please just let it go.”
“Caleb, don’t fool with my neck. My stomach’s what’s in a knot.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to . . .”
“I know. I know. So, when Nadine answers–gulp—or, if she answers—gulp—I’ll relay your advice. I’ll say, ‘Caleb told me to let it go, so go and find somebody else.’ Then I’ll hang up.” Her tirade had wearied even the grandfather clock, which needed winding.
Gemma, still wound tight six hours later, jerked the covers over her face and tried to ignore morning until something crawled up her leg. As if catapulted by a sprung spring, she leaped to her feet and pounded the critter through her flannel nightgown. “Gotcha-Gotcha-Gotcha.” The reaction left her wondering if a spider bite might have been less painful to her leg than the beating. Fueled by what remained of an adrenaline rush, she hobbled into the family room, turned on the floor lamp, and dressed it down, concluding with, “. . . so don’t you dare give me grief today.” The lamp flickered. Gemma stomped. The lamp stood tall and for the first time in two weeks lit an overweight bookcase leaning against the wall.
Bending forward, Gemma eyed the sagging book-laden shelves and mouthed, “You look like I feel. We share stiff spines, but some of us . . . well, admit it, some of us are more comfortable lying down Sunday mornings than standing on edge.” It hurt to smile, even a little. She gently patted the lump on her forehead with a cold palm, tongued a chipped tooth, and sighed, “I don’t remember having an accident. Maybe I’m dreaming I’m hurt.” For the moment her sighing trumped her complaining.
Gemma walked her arthritic fingers across some handwritten labels and paused to retrieve a cracked, leather-covered photo album. Then she shuffled across the room, laid it on her antique student desk, and rubbed it shiny. Strangely, the album smelled of Pine Sol.
It still hurt to smile. Mama O’Dwyer’s countenance relaxed as she thumbed from one plastic-covered page to another, pausing to study each face, each scene—some in living color, others in black and white, some with yellowed edges, others date-stamped; some hosted red dots for eyes; others showed resolve. For sixty ticks and no talks, time became seamless. Jinny and Conor—the eldest of six children—smiled from a 4×6 inch ragged-edged school photo. Each child held a crayoned drawing. Jinny’s was a butterfly.
Suddenly, Gemma’s breathing hushed and her eyes saucered. The wings of the tiny butterfly perceptibly undulated up and down, up . . . and down. “I sure hope I’m dreaming.” Lifting off the paper, the colorful creature performed a graceful Tour en l’air and flitted from the photo. Jinny and Conor danced after it. And then—nothing.
“Gong-gong-gong-gong-gong-gong.” Gemma mumbled, “Gone-gone-gone.” She awoke with a start. “Jinny! Conor?” But all she saw was a sink trap—overhead. She pushed her cheek from the cold bathroom floor. It smelled of Pine Sol. She shook her numb left arm and, bordering on incoherent, stammered, “Wake up Gemma. The kids will be home soon . . . NO, today’s Sunday. What’s going on? Oh, my head. I must have coldcocked myself.” She felt about her on the floor for the photo album. Not seeing it, she leaned on the cold porcelain toilet, grunted to her feet, and staggered to the bookcase. The dusty album, labeled, Baby Photos, hadn’t moved.
“Mama. Mama. Where are you? Gemma spread her arms and caught Isabelle on the fly. Lance was right behind her.
“Bloody nose . . . again, Lance?” A strip of toilet paper trailed him all the way from the bathroom, its leading end up his nose.
“Mama, it got on my pillow. You should make Butch Beasley pay for it.”
Gemma sighed, ran a hand through Lance’s tousled hair, and offered a Kleenex for the nosebleed. “We’ll talk about Bully Butch later, but now it’s time for breakfast, and then church.”
“That’s what you always say.” Belligerent as a bulldog, Lance stomped toward the bathroom chanting, “I want tai Kwando lessons. I want tai Kwando lessons.”
Gemma waited for a pause then called out, “Lance, please wake up Conor and ask him to fetch Papa for prayer. I’ll set the table.” Isabelle, will you please wake up Jinny?”
“She’s not in bed, Mama.”
“What?”