Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald
All this helps to keep James well and truly hated. Why? Because I’m not disappearing down the same drain they are. Because I have the guts and the sense to support my family.
Not only does James’s work keep meat on the table when most people are lucky to get porridge, and good clothes on his children’s backs when many go about in made-over flour sacks — the hours allow him to devote himself to what matters: Lily.
James has stopped counting his books; there are too many. Mercedes and Frances have dipped into all the crates and he encourages them. But for his own part, he barely has time to glance at the newspaper before supper, and daytime is reserved for teaching Lily.
They do a different letter of the Encyclopaedia Britannica each day for two hours. James assigns passages for Lily to memorize and he quizzes her as to comprehension. She writes miniature essays on butterflys, boxcars, Bulgaria and Big Berthas. Lily loves to learn, but most of all she loves Daddy. After book-learning, James takes Lily for drives in the automobile. Sometimes they stay away all night; like the time they went to St Ann’s and saw the home of Angus McAskill, the Cape Breton Giant. Lily saw a picture of the big man holding Tom Thumb on the palm of his hand. She was awed by the tender bond between giant and midget — glad they had each other.
James has got permission to keep Lily out of school. She is crippled. It makes sense that she would be delicate. Everyone assumes she is — everyone but Frances. James doesn’t entirely approve of the closeness that has developed between Lily and Frances, but he can’t deny Lily anything. He just tries to keep track of them. Always at the back of his mind is the episode in the creek the night Lily was born and he caught Frances trying to drown her. Only James knows whom Lily has to thank for her withered leg, because surely Frances was too young to remember. Just as she was too young to remember the second infant….
Now and then at dawn, on his way home from a night’s work, James stops at the cemetery and visits Kathleen. He doesn’t leave flowers. What’s the point? He may pull a weed if it obscures her name. Her headstone is dignified and free of second-rate sentiment. It says simply, “Beloved Daughter”. James does not tend Materia’s grave because someone else does that. “Call’d from the cares of this world.” Someone also leaves flowers, he doesn’t know who. James stands as still as the stones, looks out at the water and feels how small the world has become. Europe is in front of him. Home is behind him. And at his feet….
At this hour there is always a mist about a mile out. James is a Catholic but he cannot believe in life hereafter. Not for himself, anyway. Sometimes, though, when he looks out at the fog on the water, he feels comforted.
Little Women
Mercedes is in love. He is tall — at least she thinks so — dark, that’s for sure, and handsome, no question. His eyes burn into her very soul and seem to say, I need so much, so badly, for a good woman to love me and tame me. He wears a turban. He is most often to be found in his lavish striped tent, or galloping across the sands on a white Arabian charger. He is Rudolph Valentino. Mercedes does not know whether to hate Pola Negri with all her heart, or to pray for her since she has been entrusted with Mercedes’ one true love. She prays for Valentino every night. She has never heard his voice, but somehow she has married his silent image to the rich baritone of Tita Ruffo, whose every recording she possesses.
“Rudy probably has a horrible plugged-nose voice and a lisp,” says Frances, mercilessly. “He’s probably a midget in real life.” How did Frances guess her secret, anyway? Mercedes has been so careful not to betray her heart, but Frances is uncanny; tying a tea towel around her face as a veil, batting her eyelashes and swooning in an all-purpose exotic accent: “‘Someday you weel beat me with those str-r-rong hands. I should like to know what it fee-eels like.’”
Mercedes has told only Helen Frye, who is in love too, with Douglas Fairbanks. Mercedes indulges Helen’s schoolgirl crush but can’t sympathize; Fairbanks is somehow smug and self-sufficient. Valentino is haplessly fierce and hopelessly needy. Helen once said he was coarse — there almost went the friendship. But they made up the next day and took turns describing their future married life with their respective paramours.
Whenever Mercedes has had a particularly lovely time with Helen, she feels a bit guilty. It pains her that Frances doesn’t seem to have any friends. Unless you can call those dirty sniggering boys at school “friends”. Frances skulks off with them behind the boonies at recess sometimes. Mercedes knows they probably smoke and spit and swear. It’s dreadful. And then, who knows what Frances does when she disappears from school altogether? Mercedes does her best, but it’s difficult keeping Frances out of trouble. For example, Frances always seems to have the latest issue of that lurid rag Weird Tales, by H.P. Lovecraft. Daddy does not permit trash in the house and Mercedes is constantly hiding Frances’s contraband under her pillow, or simply doing her the favour of tossing it into the furnace.
When Mercedes feels the prick of sisterly conscience, she invites Frances to tag along with her and Helen. Helen always purses her lips at the sight of Frances and Mercedes can’t blame her. The last time they made a threesome, it was to see Douglas Fairbanks again, in The Thief of Baghdad, at the Bijou. Frances was terribly provoking, speaking aloud all the lines in the script the second before they came on the screen, but worst of all, she scandalized Helen with “Okay watch, here comes the part where he gets flogged ’n he escapes from the palace and you can see his pecker right through his pants.”
Frances is a moving-picture fan too but she has different idols. Lillian Gish. Lillian Gish. Lillian Gish. Her hair is perfect, her eyes are perfect, her little mouth is perfect. She is so small and so brave. She can be bent, but never broken. Men are brutes, and if they are not, they are big galoots or else chivalrous princes who arrive too late. When Frances plays hookey, she can be found down at the shore, maybe chatting with the lobstermen — or, if she has the price of admission, slouched with her legs dangling over the seat in front of her in the ecstatic darkness of the Empire or the Bijou, taking in the matinée.
Having no funds of her own, Frances frequently manages to talk Mercedes out of a dime from the housekeeping money, then pilfers half as much again when Mercedes isn’t looking. If Frances takes Lily along of a Saturday, then Lily pays out of her allowance. Otherwise Frances just helps herself from Lily’s stash that she leaves right out in the open on top of the dresser they share. Frances only takes what she needs — “a mere bagatelle” — and she knows Lillian Gish would do the same. They have so much in common: forced to live in poverty; to stoop to shameful stratagems and desperate measures just in order to survive. And they both know what it’s like to live “way down east”.
For her part, Lily has been slain by Mary Pickford. She cries through Pollyanna every time. Frances tries to broaden Lily’s horizons: “Look Lily, don’t you see that once she turned into a cripple she got boring and sucky?”
“No.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a suck.”
“I am not!”
They’ll be walking home down Plummer Avenue sharing a fizzy Havelock Iron Brew that Lily has kindly sprung for.
“Just like in What Katy Did, she’s a holy terror till she breaks her back, then she’s a sooky baby just like you.”
“I am not a sooky baby, Frances.”
“Oh yeah? Prove it.”
Then Lily may take a poke at Frances, who laughs, holds Lily’s head just beyond arm’s length and watches her swing. And when Lily is exhausted, “Lily. Say bastard.”
Lily hesitates. Frances taunts, “See, I told you — baby.”
“Bastard!”
Frances looks around, “Jeez, Lily, not so loud.”
And Lily whispers, “Bastard.”
“Say horse’s arse.”
“Horse’s arse.”
“Say Lily Piper is a horse’s arse.”
“Frances Piper is a stupid bum-ass.”
“Lily.” Frances stops in her tracks. “You have rea
Lily’s eyes fill up. “I’m sorry, Frances.”
Then Frances smirks and says, “Suck.”
While Frances can tolerate Lily’s idiotic crush on America’s Sweetheart, she has no patience with The Sheik because ever since Mercedes fell in love with Valentino she’s been no fun. She won’t play any more, just patrols the house and makes the meals and acts like she’s lost a cucumber sideways up a woman’s most precious possession. Or works on her other obsession: the family tree. A dry diagram covered mostly with names of dead Scottish people. Frances knows that Mercedes has started her period. Maybe that explains it. Mrs Luvovitz came over one afternoon in January and locked herself in the bathroom with Mercedes for over an hour. Then Mercedes emerged with a kindly yet superior smile on her face, because Mrs Luvovitz had told her the wonderful news that she was a woman now. “And soon, Frances,” Mercedes simpered, “the same miraculous thing will happen to you.”
In the good old days, however, all three sisters used to play together. Lily was their doll, they could do anything with her. Until she started to scream. Then they’d let her be an active participant. She was great to play with because she would get so caught up.
“Let’s play ‘Little Women’, okay?”
“Okay, Mercedes.”
“Lily, you be Beth, okay? And we all tell you how much we love you and you forgive us for ever teasing you and then you die, okay?”
“Okay, Frances.”
Mercedes would be motherly Meg, and Frances would be tomboy Jo who cuts off her hair but gets married in the end, and Lily would be delicate Beth who was so nice and then she died.
Even though the Little Women in the book were Protestant, “Let’s say they’re really Catholic, okay?” and Frances and Mercedes would do extreme unction on Beth in her death-bed and apply a holy relic to her burning forehead, let’s say it’s a piece of the Shroud of Turin, okay? No, let’s say it’s Saint Anthony’s tongue.
“Goodbye, dear sisters, I’ll pray for you. Thank you for always being such dear sisters and for making cinnamon toast, and Jo for letting me play with your Spanish doll, and Meg for always being such a good cook. Good … bye.” Lily’s eyelids would flutter convincingly, then she would lie perfectly still not breathing. It was great. Mercedes would cry every time. In the early days so would Frances, but later on she would wreck it all by saying, “Now let’s go and steal her pennies and divide up her clothes.”
A year or so before Mercedes stopped playing, the game deepened. It darkened, time distended and they entered another world. They played “Little Women Doing the Stations of the Cross”. Lily got to be Beth being Veronica wiping the face of Jesus with a cloth and the picture of his face goes perfectly onto her cloth as a gift for her kindness. Mercedes got to be Meg being Simon of Cyrene who helps Jesus carry the Cross, and Frances wanted to be Jo being Jesus but Mercedes said that would be blasphemous so Frances got to be the Good Thief hanging next to Jesus. That is, she got to be Jo being the Good Thief.
They descended another level and shed their intermediary Little Women personae. They entered the world of “The Children’s Treasury of Saints and Martyrs”. They went through the canon. They’d always start with Saint Lawrence, who got roasted alive on a grill and halfway through said, “You can turn me over, I’m done on this side,” and became the patron saint of people who roast meat for a living. At which they’d laugh uncontrollably, even Mercedes. They all three felt hot and wicked, but as they played on the game grew grave and reverent and they reached heights of pious fervour.
They each had favourites. Sometimes Frances was Saint Barbara, whose father was a pagan and when she wanted to be a Christian he took her up a mountain and cut off her head while she was praying for him. Or else Saint Winnifred, who once knew a man who wanted to do wrong with her but she said no so he cut off her head but her kind uncle put it back on her leaving only a thin white scar. Or sometimes she was Saint Dymphna, who had a father who wanted to do wrong with her but she wouldn’t so she escaped with the court jester, but her father found her in Belgium and cut her head off but she didn’t have a kind uncle so she died and got to be the patron saint of crazy people.
Mercedes’ favourite was Bernadette.
“That’s no fair, Mercedes,” said Frances, “Bernadette’s not even a saint yet.” True, Bernadette had only recently been beatified, but because Mercedes was the eldest they played the game of Bernadette being such a good daughter and having asthma and seeing Our Lady in the grotto at Lourdes where Our Lady told her three secrets.
Lily only ever wanted to be Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus, which got tedious after the nth time and Frances and Mercedes would try to persuade her to be someone else.
“Why don’t you be the little boy saint who gets his hands and feet cut off but then he gets nice new silver ones?”
“Why don’t you be Saint Giles, who was the patron saint of cripples, Lily?”
“Lily, do you want to be Saint Gemma, who had tuberculosis of the spine but Our Lady cured her?”
“No,” said Lily, “I want to be Veronica.”
All right, all right — if you don’t let her, she’ll scream and Daddy’ll come running and that’ll be it.
They always exited their passion plays of ecstatic faith and glorious martyrdom with the same story, in which they all starred simultaneously: that of Saint Brigid. She was the most beautiful girl in Ireland but she wanted to be a nun, but there were too many young men who wanted to marry her so she prayed to God, “Please, dear God, make me ugly.”
And He did.
One by one, Frances, Mercedes and Lily would crumple and wither till they were wicked-witch ugly. Then, bent over and shrivelled, they’d join the convent with cackling voices — “Hello, sister, how are you today, ya-ha-haa!” — where they’d kneel down at the altar rail and the miracle would happen: Saint Brigid turns beautiful again. “Why sister, you are beautiful!” “So are you, sister!” “Oh, sisters, look at my beautiful golden hair!” “And look at my lovely lips!” “Oh, look at my ballgown!” “Look at mine!”
Many a long Saturday and Sunday afternoon, while Daddy slept off his night’s work in the wingback chair downstairs….
It was short days ago, but it seems like for ever since Mercedes got her period and fell in love and lost her mind. Oh well. At least Frances and Lily still know how to have fun.
Cat’s Cradle
Frances and Lily share a room. James would have preferred that Lily share with Mercedes, but Lily insisted — to Mercedes’ silent relief. Frances has set up their bedroom so that there’s two of everything and Lily knows exactly which side of everything is hers and which is Frances’s. You might think Frances would be a slob, but she isn’t, she’s very neat and organized. She has accommodated Lily with a framed magazine photograph of Mary Pickford in a stupid gingham apron. It hangs next to Lily’s colour print of Jesus with the lambs. Jesus looks sad, of course, “because he’s thinking about how much he likes lamb chops,” says Frances, but Lily is not fooled by that. The rest of the walls are covered in Frances’s collection. She writes away for publicity photos. There is one of Lillian Gish trapped on an icefloe. There is Houdini naked and furious in a milk-can. There is an actual poster that an usher at the Empire gave her of Theda Bara in Sin, holding her unbelievably long tresses at arm’s length above her head like a madwoman. Frances calls her Head of Haira. Mercedes thinks the picture is immoral.
One evening, Frances is seated at her side of the desk, pen in hand, doing her “homework”:
Dear Miss Lillian Gish,
I am writing to you to respectfully request an autographed photograph of you in any picture. I have seen them all. It would mean so much to me because I am a crippled girl and have spent all my life in a wheelchair. I rode the wildest horse in the stable. I was dragged, but I did not die, thanks to my Guardian Angel. I wish I could run and play like the other children, but at least I am glad that Daddy dear can wheel
Yours truly….
Frances muses for a moment and then it comes to her … who the letter is from, that is. She signs it, tucks it into the envelope and addresses it to Miss Gish’s fan club in Hollywood, California. Then she looks up at Lily, who has been waiting obediently for playtime to begin, and says, “All right, Lily, come with me.”
Lily follows Frances up to the attic.
“I was going to show you something but now I think maybe you’re not old enough.”
“I am, Frances. I’m old.”
They are seated on the floor, cross-legged before the hope chest. “This was Kathleen’s room, eh, Frances” always must be said, and the response, “That’s right, Lily, this is where she died,” before they can get on with whatever game Frances has in mind. This liturgy serves to honour the story that no longer needs repeating. The story that Frances told Lily so long ago and so often:
“Our beautiful older sister, Kathleen. She had red hair like an angel on fire. And she had the voice of an angel. God loved her so much, He took her. She was only nineteen when she died of the flu. I was there when she died and I closed her eyes.”
There is always a pause here while they both picture it faithfully. Then Frances continues, “Her last words were … ‘Dear Frances, you are my favourite sister. And you are also the most beautiful next to me. Please. Look after Lily.’” Frances’s eyes start to glint green, but it is a serious glint. Scary. Lily’s eyes grow round and wet. The bump appears in her forehead.