Mrs. Evans’s voice wavers, but she’s defiant. “You can’t scare me forever.”
“Oh, but I can.” Mr. Carboni chuckles darkly. “You should know by now that I don’t make empty threats.”
His door slams shut.
I jump into the elevator and press the button over and over, willing it to close quickly. That was undeniably a threat. Mrs. Evans’s brother? She has abrother? What’s he have to do with anything? And if Mrs. Evans is in danger from Mr. Carboni, does that mean I am, too? She clearly thinks so, based on our earlier conversations. Barely thinking straight, I change into my own clothes, then dash out of the hotel. Damien is working another four hours, I believe, with a private event. I can’t wait for him; I will see him tomorrow. Wrapping my jumper around me, I sprint all the way home, the ten-dollar bill scrunched in my hand.
“Granny!” I shout, running up the stairs. After I tell her, I will head to the doctor’s and get whatever medicine she needs. I’m eager to go, now that I can afford it. I burst into the room and drop my voice, seeing that she is asleep, then I crouch at her bedside.
“You won’t believe what happened!” I whisper. “I have money! I can buy you medicine.”
But she does not turn her head on the pillow. She does not chastise me for acquiring money that I shouldn’t have or accuse me of being a divil just for holding it in my hand. She does not open her eyes. Her mouth hangs open loosely, a cracked line of dried blood around it.
“Granny,” I whisper.
I want to touch her, but I cannot. I hold the back of my hand near her nose. No breath tickles my skin.
“No, Granny. Listen, I’ll not allow it.” My voice breaks. “You can’t be gone. You promised you’d be here when I got back.” Then I choke on a river of tears, because she’d kept her promise after all. Here she is, right in front of me, right where I left her.
I wonder if Father William ever came. Was he here when she passed? Or did she take her last, strangled breaths all alone in this dim corner of the room? Was mine the last face she ever saw?
I will never know.
chapterTWENTY
Granny is gone. This morning, we will bury her.
The Ward pulls together at times like this. I hardly need do a thing when it comes to laying her to rest. Somehow the news found my brothers, and they sat with me through the night, staying awake by the coffin, keeping evil spirits away. She lies in a pine coffin that Mr. Leary made, the same sort he made for his wife not a week ago. The pine has a sweet, soft, but distinct scent, and I know I will always think of Granny when I smell it. Her coffin is closed. We will not have a wake, because no one wants to take a chance and catch what killed her, God rest her soul.
The hour draws near for me to say my final farewell. I have never felt this way before. Foggy. Lost. Like the silence is too loud. I’m sitting on Granny’s rocking chair, feeling like I’m in my own sort of coffin. I can’t get out, and no one can come in. I wish I could still sense her. I rock the chair a bit, wanting to hear the creaking. Seems like all my life, I’ve fallen to sleep with that sound in the background. The creak and Granny’s knitting needles.Click click click.
A couple of Granny’s friends will be at the funeral, or at least I hope they will be. Tuberculosis has hit the neighbourhood hard, so ’tis difficultto say. There might even be another funeral going on in the cemetery at the same time. I want to see the old women again, hear their laughter and their Gaelic. I remember them playing cards with Granny, snapping them on the table.Snap snap snap.
My father will not be at the funeral. He was in Montreal, but I do not know if he is still there. So he has no idea that his mother lies dead. Maybe someday he’ll come back, and when he does, he will cry over Granny. I hope he does. I hope Da is happy. Faith, I do. I hope that he remembers us and feels at least a shred of regret at leaving us behind.
My best friend will not be there, either. I know that Mrs. Evans would have given Bianca some time off so she could attend, but she chose to work. I understand that. She needs the money. We all do. But I cannot help thinking it would be nice if she was here. I’ve a notion to cry on her shoulder.
I want to block out the noises outside. It’s pouring rain, but I still hear the filthy children playing out there, yelling, splashing, screaming. I want to hear Granny, not them.
I don’t want to go outside and face all those people, all of them staring at me with sad eyes and no idea.
“There are no strangers here, only friends you haven’t met yet.” Another one of Granny’s favourite sayings. I know most of the folks in The Ward, so how is it I feel so alone?
Damien arrives, and I sob into his arms. My brothers give him a hard time at first. They have no right, and I show them that.
“Leave him. He’s with me,” I snap, and they slink away like the dogs they are.
When ’tis time to go, the heavens open, and I tell myself the angels are weeping. Damien and the other men hoist the coffin to their shoulders, then they walk wordlessly into the rainstorm. I cannot imagine ’tis heavy; she was so small. The rest of us follow to the cemetery, and everyone’s hair is pasted flat to their heads. I hear someone murmur, “Happy the corpse that the rain falls on,” which is absurd. Mind, if ’tis true, I hope Granny is happy. FatherWilliam recites the rosary over the coffin, then my brothers and I take turns shoveling mud onto it until Granny’s fully buried.
I lift my face to the rain then, and the drops mix with my tears. I want to ask Granny so many things. Did Father William come to her in time? Did she wish I’d disobeyed and stayed with her that day instead of going to work? Can she see me now?
I glower at the priest, wondering how much of a sin it is to despise a man of the cloth. I have known Father William all my life, for Granny said he was at my baptism. Granny went to this very same church, as did my parents and Bianca’s. Other priests have come and gone, but not Father William. We are stuck with him. He’s a right chancer, full of himself, and without a care for anyone else. Ah now, and he drinks like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t help but glare daggers at him whenever I see him.
He cares nothing for his parishioners, or at least he does not care for me. I have gone to him twice recently, asking for guidance about Damien and my sinful feelings about him. I know they are sinful, for only the divil could encourage me to dream of him the way I do. Every time I hold his hand, I want to press my palms against his chest and feel his strength. I want to kiss him but not stop at the quick little kisses we already enjoy. I want to commit the greatest of sins with Damien.
That is why I went to the father to confess, but both times, he paid no attention, as if my questions were a waste of his time. Am I, and the others of his flock, not deserving? He has given me no advice at all, other than to remind me that I’m a sinner for thinking the way I do, and I will become an even greater one if I indulge these feelings. He tells me to say prayers for forgiveness. I have been praying for guidance since I first felt something for Damien months ago.
Like every other soul in this part of The Ward, I was raised to go to Mass every blessed day and the holy days besides. But since I’ve been working, I’ve started missing it more. The notions of sinning and praying have become difficult for me of late, so they have. If my sin was stealing something, even a loaf of bread, that crime would sit on my heart like a stone in a well. Iwould pray for God’s grace, for forgiveness, and for him to guide me to better choices in my life. But when I think of Damien, when I imagine living my life with him, I feel a lightness in my spirit. And pure happiness. And so, while I understand my feelings for Damien are sinful, praying for forgiveness is difficult. All I want to do is thank God for bringing him to me.
