Object Lessons Part 3

"You get your tools."

When she came back from the supply closet she went for a moment inside the house to go to the bathroom. As always she opened the door of the medicine cabinet and peered inside, at the small cake of black mascara and the disc of rouge left behind by her mother. In the small bedroom, its ceiling sloped with the roof line, there was also her mother's high school yearbook and a closet full of old clothes: a black suit, a red satin dress with a low neck, a checked dirndl, a peasant blouse. It was stifling on the top floor, and Maggie did not stop to look again at the yearbook picture. She knew it by heart: Concetta Anna Mazza, Chorus, 2, 3, 4; Dance Club 4. And beneath that, in italics, the quotation: "She walks in beauty, like the night."

Outside, over the low stone wall just behind the rose garden, was the neighborhood-blocks of clapboard row houses s.h.i.+ning clean and quiet in the sun, like so many others in the North Bronx, the backyards filled with tomato plants and the ornamental urns filled with hydrangeas. No one had ever suggested, however, that there was another cemetery like her grandfather's anywhere else. When Angelo Mazza had taken over the place it had seemed half empty, tombstones only on one side, although a good many of the other plots had been purchased by families moving into the area around it. It had looked a little like a golf course, satisfyingly green and yet a bit austere, with its great metal gates crowned with one enormous cross flanked by two smaller ones. Angelo had gone to work.

On either side of the gates he had planted pink azaleas, and along the fence that separated the cemetery from a back alley and a block of backyards he had put a wisteria, a stick of a thing with three skinny tendrils. Along the fieldstone wall he had planted orange lilies he had found beside a creek one day in Westchester Country, growing wild in mats of green foliage. He put violets around his own front door, which duplicated themselves as fast as field mice, and around back he put the rose garden and a vegetable garden and herb patch. When Concetta was a little girl he had sometimes taken her upstate for picnics on Sundays, when there were few funerals and her mother liked to rest, and he would dig up wildflowers and roll them in damp sheets of newspaper and plant them when they arrived back home. Angelo had been doing this for nearly forty years, and the result was that in Calvary Cemetery in July there were flowers everywhere. People said it was more wonderful than the Botanical Garden, and once, before Maggie was born, the curator there had even come to talk to him. Her grandfather always told Maggie that the man actually knew surprisingly little about the proper care of plants.

When Maggie knelt down next to him he was working coffee grounds into the soil with his hands. Beside him was a bowl with soap, water, and a sponge, to clean the aphids from the rose bushes. The roses he liked best were white with an edging of bright pink along the petals. There were three bushes behind the house and two on either side of Maggie's grandmother's grave, grown so thick in the three years since the headstone had been put in and the bushes had been planted that only MAZZA in capital letters was visible, the "Anna 18901963" and "Angelo 1880" hidden beneath the leaves of the plants. The grave was in the back, near the wall, and today there was a tan canvas tent not far from it. Paul Fogarty and his mongoloid brother, Leonard, had just finished digging and were standing, sweating, leaning on shovels.

"Who's getting buried?" Maggie said.

"Mrs. Romano," her grandfather said. "She died in her sleep."

"Her daughter was a friend of Mommy's."

"Her niece," Angelo Mazza said, running the sponge down one long green stem, the paler green bugs leaping before him. "This one, only boys."

They worked together under the hot sun for half an hour, but Maggie was restless and her hair kept falling into her eyes. She went inside to wash her hands and pull her hair back from her face with a rubber band, but instead of returning to the plants she began to wander around the cemetery grounds. The older graves were in the back, the pale gray headstones blackening where the letters were cut and the roses were sculpted in the granite. Maggie's landmark had always been an angel on a pedestal, blank-eyed as a blind man, a spray of flowers slanting over one arm as if the angel was a beauty queen, to mark the grave of a woman who had died forty years before. Her grandfather had planted azaleas around its base, but they lasted only through the beginning of May; their white flowers turned mocha-colored, then curled and dropped to the ground. The green leaves of the plants looked as though they were perspiring in the July heat. A man squatted by a monument against the back wall.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetheart," said Mr. Gennaro, who carved the inscriptions in the stones. "You're getting big. Bigger than your mama, I bet, by now."

"Two inches," said Maggie. "She says I'm a Scanlan."

"Never mind that c.r.a.p," the old man said, unstrapping his leather tool belt and placing it at the foot of a square pink marble stone with nothing on it but the name JESSUP in capital letters. Maggie remembered that when she was first learning to spell she thought this was the place where Jesus was buried, and she was punished in school for insisting that the Holy Sepulchre was in the Bronx and wasn't half as big as Joe the greengrocer's mausoleum.

"Who's Jessup?" she said.

"Old guy lived a couple blocks up the avenue, over his office. A lawyer. Nice man, no family, did house closings and things during the day, upstairs in three rooms at night. About ten years back the doctor told him he was sick and he came here and picked out a plot. Your grandpop found the guy a nice s.p.a.ce. The stone went up about five years ago. I'm doing name, date of birth."

"He's not dead yet?"

"Nah. You know doctors. He wasn't really that sick."

Mr. Gennaro squatted down and began to measure the stone. He pulled a wax pencil from behind one ear, hairy as a coconut, and made a mark here and there. Maggie jiggled her legs.

"You look more like a Mazza than a Scanlan to me," he said after a while, outlining letters with his pencil. "You look a lot like your mama did when she was your age. She was smaller than you are and she didn't have so much hair. But your faces look alike."

"You've been around here a long time," said Maggie, squinting in a shaft of sun that had suddenly cut through the trees, trying to think about a girl her age, looking like her, hanging around the cemetery, jiggling her legs in the light.

"G.o.d, yeah," Mr. Gennaro said. "I know your grandfather almost my whole life. Your grandmother, too, may she rest in peace. She was a tough cookie. And your mother. I remember the day she was married. There was a funeral coming in and your mama coming out of the house in her dress, some s.h.i.+ny stuff with all kinds of lace, and she almost got in the wrong limo. You think they look at you funny, a kid in the cemetery, you should have seen the people in that limo when they saw your mother all dressed up like that. Ten o'clock in the morning and they thought they were seeing ghosts. Jesus, she looked beautiful, but so little, like some little bird. I told your grandfather, never mind that the boy's not Italian, that he's an American boy, he's a nice boy, he'll be good to her."

"What did Grandpop say?"

"Jesus," said Mr. Gennaro, letting his rear fall back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm. "I don't remember. Nothing, probably. Your father was a nice boy. I remember one day he was out back with the old man, trying to help with the tomatoes, but your grandpop didn't want nothing to do with him. So your father was talking to me. G.o.d, that boy got red in the sun. I thought he was going to have a stroke. And all of a sudden he says to me, 'Mr. Gennaro, I love her with all my heart.' Well, what the h.e.l.l could you say. It was beautiful. So what if he was an American boy? All you see are Italian names here," he added, his eyes searching the cemetery for an exception and finally coming back to JESSUP. "But you have a lot of Italian boys here married to American girls."

"We're all American," said Maggie a little primly.

"Yeah, well, that's one way of looking at it," said Mr. Gennaro, digging into the marble with his chisel. "Anyway, your parents were a match. Look at all you kids. How's your dad, anyway?"

"Fine, I think," Maggie said. "I think we're moving."

"How come?"

"How come I think it or how come we're doing it?"

"Jesus," said Mr. Gennaro with a grin, "you are some philosopher. Answer both and let's see what happens."

"I think it because my grandfather said we were, and we're doing it because he wants us to."

Mr. Gennaro's smile faded. "Your other grandfather." Maggie nodded. "People aren't always right, and people don't always get their way," he said, looking off into the distance.

"He's not people," Maggie said, but Mr. Gennaro didn't reply.

Maggie watched him work for a minute more and then wandered down Consolation Way, her hands behind her back. It had never occurred to her to think of her parents as human beings before, and particularly as human beings with some secret and tenuous connection to one another. When they danced together, as they had last night, or when occasionally they touched, she had always felt that she was watching something artificial and far away, as though they were in a movie, acting the parts of husband and wife. Until now she had always thought of them in much the same way she thought of the house, as something that allowed her to live.

The night before, she and her brothers had wandered through the field after dinner, counting the holes the construction crew had made, looking into them with a flashlight. Tommy and Connie were sitting on lawn chairs on the patio, and looking back in the darkness Maggie could see them, and see deep into the lighted kitchen of the house, could even see the little trivet over the stove from the Pennsylvania Dutch country that said: No matter where I feed my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best. The bulk of the house was a gray-black shadow, the yellow rectangles of windows floating within its vague borders. Maggie could see twin specks of red near the ground, the tips of her parents' cigarettes, and occasionally the soft murmur of their voices would stop and her father would say loudly, "Be careful out there. I don't want to drive to the emergency room tonight."

Damien had the flashlight, although both Terence and Maggie tried to take it from him; crickets leapt up from beneath his sneakers, and his thin legs flashed in the beam, as though disembodied. "Here's another one," he said, as he came to the edge of another hole; as his brother and sister edged nearer, afraid of falling in, he let the light rove around the sides.

"They're not that big," said Maggie. "I thought they'd be a lot bigger than this."

"Grandpop said they're only half bas.e.m.e.nts and the rest is on slab," said Terence.

"They're still not that big," Maggie said.

"There are five of them," Damien said.

"The man in the kitchen said six."

"There was a man in the kitchen?" said Terence.

"Talking to Mom."

"Are you sure?" Terence said. "A man we don't know?"

"I saw him, stupid," said Maggie, running away without thinking of the holes pocking the fields.

From the back of the street at nighttime you could see into all the houses, see the blue light of the television and the heads of the people as they moved about inside. Maggie roamed the perimeter slowly, the reeds stabbing at her legs, not as a Peeping Tom might, but like someone looking at pictures in a museum. Other summers, at this time of day, she would have been cooling off after a game of Kick the Can or Monkey in the Middle on the street, or catching lightning bugs in an old mayonnaise jar, or sleeping over at Debbie's house in Mr. Malone's army issue pup tent pitched in the backyard. All of these things suddenly seemed dull, but she did not know what else to do with herself. She sometimes went to the day camp at the park, weaving key rings out of strips of plastic and making mosaic ashtrays, but after five years of day camp she was sick to death of key rings and ash trays. At night she had taken to wandering in the fields, seeing an argument here, a kiss there. She liked the way the houses looked from the outside staring in. The air was fresher at night, even though the heat did not let up much; it felt as though the day was shaking itself out after the still stuffiness of the afternoon.

Through a side window of her own house she could see that her parents had moved into the living room. They were standing face to face, and as she drew nearer she could hear music playing. She recognized the song and the singer: Frank Sinatra, "Here's that Rainy Day." Tommy Scanlan loved music, and Maggie got a quarter from her father every time she could identify a song after only the opening notes, before anyone sang a word. "Here's that Rainy Day" was her father's second favorite song, after "A Foggy Day in London Town."

Maggie realized her parents were dancing. Their heads turned slowly, and she could see their shoulders swaying in time to the music. Sometimes her father would pull Maggie off the floor to dance with him, but she would stumble and step on his feet and he would become impatient after only a few turns. "You're leading," he would say, and Maggie would say "Who cares?" and leave the room. But Tommy and Connie had met at a dance contest, and they were perfectly partnered. He led effortlessly, and she followed easily. It seemed hard to imagine that the man and woman gliding around the living room were the same two people who often stepped sullenly around each other in the kitchen, bickering over who had forgotten to buy breakfast cereal and whether the screens needed to be washed. Maggie wondered if everyone was really more than one person, like Jekyll and Hyde or the woman in The Three Faces of Eve The Three Faces of Eve, who changed from one personality into another. She thought that perhaps there was more to the Malones than met the eye, and to her aunt Margaret, and certainly to her cousin Monica, whose manners were flawless as long as anyone over the age of thirty was around. The only people she was sure were exactly what they seemed were her aunt Celeste and Helen Malone. She had often suspected that her parents were not entirely what she saw at the dinner table, particularly since she had learned what it had required for them to conceive four children. Two very different people from the ones she knew would have had to be involved in that. She watched carefully as they spun silently to the music. She suspected she was watching those two people now, and the blood rose up into her sweaty face, heat upon heat.

Behind her Damien and Terence were approaching, making much too much noise. "Shut up," she whispered, all consonants, and they did, peering over her shoulder. "I think Mom is prettier than aunt Celeste," said Damien, who still sometimes liked to climb into Connie's lap and wordlessly touch her hair and face. "I do, too," said Maggie, and the boys looked surprised, for Maggie was critical of everyone, particularly those she knew best.

"They're kissing," said Terence softly, his sss sss whistling in a quiet lull in the music. whistling in a quiet lull in the music.

"They're not kissing, they're dancing," Maggie said.

"They're allowed to kiss," said Damien loudly, turning the flashlight on and s.h.i.+ning it in Maggie's face. "They're married."

Maggie knocked the light from his hands and both boys scrambled out into the backyard to grab it. "Maggie," Damien whined, "it's gone." "Shut up," Maggie said. The music stopped and suddenly the buzz of the crickets sounded very loud and harsh, as though they were somehow predatory. Maggie heard her father mumble something, and then Connie replied loudly, "Tell me, please, that I'm not hearing what I think I'm hearing."

"Maggie," Damien whined again, his voice faint, calling from the end of the yard. Maggie leaned closer to the screen. "Over my dead body," Connie said, pulling away, but Maggie saw her father's stringy forearms tighten and hold her fast. Connie beat her little fists against his chest, and he laid his sandy head on her dark one.

Damien and Terence were behind Maggie. "You broke the flashlight," Damien said sadly, pus.h.i.+ng the switch back and forth with his thumb, which was red and chapped from his incessant sucking. "It's time to go in," Maggie said, and as she moved to the screen door and opened it, the boys could see their parents move apart, their mother smooth her hair. Their father walked through to the kitchen. "Tell your brothers to come in," he said to Maggie as he opened the refrigerator. In its white glow his pale skin was mottled pink. He reached for a beer and held the bottle against his forehead. Terence and Damien stood outside the screen door peering in, seeing him through the wire mesh as though he was on television. "Don't just stand there," Tommy said impatiently as he looked over and saw them, Terence's mouth a little open, Damien's fair skin flushed pinker than his own. "Come on in and go to bed."

When Maggie went into the living room it was empty, and she wondered where her mother had gone. She had not wondered what her parents had been talking about; a distance, filled by the charged electricity of married people on the verge of a fight, had been between them in the car all the way home on Sunday. For the first time Maggie realized it was sensible for her mother to stay away from the Scanlans. Her grandfather Scanlan's house was always full of discord. Her grandfather Mazza's was the most peaceful place in the world. But her mother never came here, either. Maggie supposed that, like other people, Connie saw a cemetery only as a place of death.

As Maggie went back and knelt beside her grandfather, a hea.r.s.e, familiar as a station wagon, swung past the house and down Nazareth Way to the back plots. Behind it was the flower car, piled high with gladiolus. Angelo Mazza's eyelids drooped. He hated cut flowers, but his emotions were always just a flicker across his face. From inside the lead limousine someone lifted a hand to him. Maggie made the sign of the cross.

"Not so many cars for the old people," Angelo said, as a dozen cars followed, their headlights s.h.i.+ning faintly in the bright suns.h.i.+ne.

"What about Mrs. Romano's boys?"

"Two killed in the war, one a heart attack at Ma.s.s five years ago. One left, he lives far away."

Across the stretch of lawn Maggie could see people begin to emerge from their cars, the view interrupted only by the DiGenova family's obelisk and the mausoleum with the Good Shepherd stained-gla.s.s window in which the Lisa family were buried. A priest, she could not tell which one, took his place and opened his black leatherbound missal, a purple stole slung round his hunched shoulders. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," he said, and everyone made the sign of the cross in unison.

Two men in dark-gray suits stood apart from the mourners. They turned and looked across at the Mazza house, their hands folded in front of them. " ... Gives me the creeps," Maggie heard one say, and knew they were talking about her again, and about the unseemliness of children in cemeteries.

"Why did the Romanos go to the O'Neal's funeral home to get buried?" she asked.

"No Italian funeral homes," her grandfather said.

One of the men, the older, balder one, walked across to the road and down it toward them. He wore on his face a carefully arranged smile of welcome. "Angelo," he said, in the voice of a professional greeter, oily and loud, pulling a breath mint from his pocket and popping it into his mouth as he towered over Maggie and her grandfather.

"Hi, Mr. O'Neal," Maggie said. "How's Cathy?"

"She's fine, honey, fine," Matthew O'Neal said, lowering his voice so he couldn't be heard by the group under the tent. "Misses the girls at Sacred Heart, that's for sure."

"Does she like her new school? Mrs. Malone told me there's a pool and tennis."

"There is, there is," he said, sucking on the mint.

"Tell her I said hi," said Maggie, although she disliked Cathy O'Neal, who was chubby and wore her hair in sausage curls and who told patently fantastic stories about the goings-on in the preparation room on the third floor of the O'Neal Home for Funerals.

"I will," said Mr. O'Neal. "And my best to your grandfather," he added, meaning her grandfather Scanlan.

Turning to her other grandfather, who was still kneeling in front of the roses, he said, "Mrs. Romano's son was very concerned about the vines behind his mother's grave. He thinks they really may come right over the stone."

"I will prune," Angelo said flatly.

"The plants are bothersome to quite a lot of people," said Mr. O'Neal. "It's the idea of them." Maggie knew what he meant. People hated to think about what went on underground in a cemetery. When people looked at the lush growth and strong colors of Angelo's plants, they could conclude only one thing.

"Good soil," said Maggie's grandfather, echoing her thoughts, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

"Yes." Mr. O'Neal clasped his hands behind him, then in front again. He sighed. He and Angelo had had this discussion before.

The fact was that there were very few of his customers who complained about the luxuriant growth in Calvary Cemetery, just as he had been exaggerating when he had told Angelo years before that people didn't like to see Maggie hanging around, chewing on the ends of her braids, popping up from behind tombstones like an apparition in a gingham blouse and shorts. He was the one bothered by these things. He always thought that the child's odd behavior, her air of watchfulness, was an object lesson in what happened when you mixed blood that wasn't meant to be mixed, although no one could deny that she'd gotten the Scanlan brains, walking away with all the honors in her cla.s.s year after year. But Matthew O'Neal knew his business, even if his daughter couldn't master fractions, and he knew that cemeteries were not supposed to be turned into gardens, nor children permitted there. Once at a Friendly Sons of St. Patrick testimonial he had made some comments to John Scanlan about how pleasant it was to see Maria Goretti around Calvary and what a change of pace it made. But John had only chewed purposefully at the end of a large cigar and looked at him narrowly, as though he knew that the tone did not match the message. When Matthew O'Neal moved off to refill his drink, he heard John Scanlan say in the sudden silence, "G.o.dd.a.m.n ghoul," and then the low murmur of conversation began again.

"Give my best to your grandfather, Maggie," Mr. O'Neal said, as he turned to walk back to the group at the graveside, who were pa.s.sing their rosaries through their fingers. Without answering him, grandfather and granddaughter bent again over the black soil, the rims of their fingernails edged with earth.

6

THE CHILDREN WERE ALL AT THE TABLE, its mottled red Formica dense with cereal bowls and Fred Flintstone cups, when Connie went out into the backyard to watch the construction crew begin their work. She could sense rather than hear Maggie and Terence squabbling, and she heard the clatter at the sink as Tommy went rooting around on the counter for a spoon for his coffee. She was holding her own cup, cradling it in her hands as though to keep herself warm. The sun was still climbing the horizon behind her, and her knees and elbows felt cool in her plaid shorts and white s.h.i.+rt.

Little by little over the years she had begun to dress more like Tommy's sister and sisters-in-law, more like a Catholic private school girl and less like a girl from a tough public school where the Italian boys wore s.h.i.+rts so starched they could stand up by themselves. Only in her evening dresses and her evening makeup, both always black or red, did she look like her old self. A man waved, circling closer on a big tractor: it was Joey, wearing work clothes and a hard hat, protective plastic gla.s.ses on a strip of elastic dangling around his neck. Connie waved back and then turned and went into the house, s.h.i.+vering a little, stumbling on the stones and weeds that gave way to the feeble gra.s.s of their backyard. She was still smiling as she came in.

"That's Joey Martinelli," she said to Tommy, dropping into her seat next to Joseph's chair. "Jimmy Martinelli's older brother. I knew him in school. He's the supervisor on this construction project."

"Mommy says he's a friend of ours," Maggie said.

"Not mine," said Tom.

"He says they expect to have the models by the first week in September," Connie added.

"He's nuts," Tommy said, pouring coffee.

"Just three models," said Connie. "There's one that's a ranch house and another that's a split-level and another that's a Colonial like this."

"Not like this," Tommy said.

"Please, Tom," Connie said, "I don't want to listen again to how terrible new houses are. I just thought you would want to know."

"How did he know we live here?" Tommy said.

"He didn't. He came up to use the phone one day and picked our house out of a clear blue sky. I saw him out back before, and went over to say h.e.l.lo and take him a cup of coffee."

Tommy's own mug was half full. "There wasn't enough G.o.dd.a.m.n coffee for me," he said.

"Tom."

"Don't 'Tom' me," he shouted over the noise from the construction site. "I don't eat any G.o.dd.a.m.n breakfast. I have one cup of coffee in the morning. I want my one cup of coffee."

"I'll make another pot," Connie said.

Tommy walked to the swinging kitchen door. Then he went out to the hall, took his jacket and tie off the banister, and was gone. The half-cup of coffee sat untasted on the table. The children could not even hear the door slam, although Maggie was sure it had. "Grandpop's right," she said. "Those things are really loud."

Connie did not say anything. She was looking out the kitchen window and was.h.i.+ng the coffee pot, but her shoulders rose and fell as though she sighed. She stood there for a long time as the children disappeared one by one, Maggie to the Malones, Terence and Damien to the ballfield, Joseph into the dining room, where he put a ball of crumpled paper into a plastic cup and took it out again.

Connie was tired. She had finally gotten the curtains she liked on the kitchen windows, and now she was afraid she was going to have to pick up and move to some house she had never seen before, a house even farther away from its neighbors than the one she lived in now, even more mired in silence. She would never have enough furniture for a house that size, and she pictured little excursions to furniture stores with Mary Frances, the two of them holding swatches of brocade, her mother-in-law arguing about price.