Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald
“Daddy died in peace because he made his confession.” Frances reaches a hand to the floor for a white blue-eyed kitten. “He confessed to me. And I forgave him.”
“You are not invested with the power to dispense the Sacrament of Penance —”
“Yes I am.”
“Frances, I don’t know about you but I’m just going to have a wee dram —”
“I want to make sure you know who Lily’s parents were.”
Mercedes covers her ears. Frances uses her last sprint of energy to pry the hands away, and to speak the words.
A hacking agony of basins and blood and mucus — little songs, the two bright spots on Frances’s cheeks, a trip upstairs to get the dolls. A story about two tiny girls with tartan housecoats and cinnamon toast, “I love you Frances.” A flagon of port or would you prefer blancmange? — a kiss on the cheek, ring around the rosy, “Forgive me.”
“Don’t cry, Mercedes.”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
“Frances, remember the time you dressed Trixie up in the baptismal gown?”
“Don’t make me laugh!”
A cool cloth, Frances your eyes are so pretty — always so pretty — feel better in the morning, Habibti…. “Te’berini.”
“Mercedes, remember that song?”
Forgive me, Frances.
“Sing it, Mercedes?”
“‘Oh playmate, come out and play with me, And bring your dollies three, climb up my apple tree. Shout down my rain barrel, Slide down my cellar door, And we’ll be jolly friends, for ever more…. ’”
In and out of sleep — that’s right, you rest now.
“It’s all right, Mercedes.”
Forgive me, Frances.
Frances is so thin it’s no problem for Mercedes to stretch out next to her on the couch, so light in her arms like a child, so hot like coals. The terrible wheezing starts and goes on for a long time, how can such a small body make such sounds — don’t be afraid. All things are passing, love never changes. Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here, ever this day be at my side…. The last of Frances leaks out her mouth warm and thick. Mercedes has never been sick a day in her life, is unafraid of disease as her father was of bullets, holds Frances all through the dawn though her chest has stopped heaving. Stroking her damp forehead, cool now like the grass; kissing her temple no longer throbbing. A child asleep, my sister.
Mercedes puts the picture of Anthony on the piano, closes the piano bench over the record album, kneels down and folds her hands upon the lid. She asks the Blessed Virgin Mary what she must do.
May Jesus have mercy on the Soul of
Frances Euphrasia Piper
Died April 25, 1953
Age 40
“We have loved her in life. Let us not abandon her, until we have conducted her by our prayers into the house of the Lord.” ST. AMBROSE
Solace Art. Co. - 202 E. 44th St. N.Y.
Sister Saint Eustace attends. Mr MacIsaac attends. Mrs Luvovitz attends, she is a widow now. Ralph and an altar boy carry the coffin. Teresa meant to keep a low profile but it’s difficult amid so few people. Mercedes pointedly ignores her — don’t come to me asking for forgiveness. Among Frances’s absent former cohorts there is surprise — not that she up and died, but that “I thought she died years ago.”
At the cemetery, Mrs Luvovitz bends and places fresh flowers on Materia’s grave, as is her habit. Benny is buried at the far end in a little patch blessed by a rabbi from away. Mrs Luvovitz comes and chats to Benny every day when she’s not in Montreal.
Ralph helps his mother back to her feet. Mercedes finds the sight of him indescribably sad. He is almost bald. He has a paunch and a foolish smile. Ralph is happy. He is an obstetrician. He loves his family and he survived the war. The second one. When it broke out, he joined up as a medical officer. He promised his mother he would not fight and he didn’t — although by 1936 it was clear to Mrs Luvovitz that, although she had always considered herself a German, Germany no longer considered her so. Nonetheless, she armed Ralph with a slew of addresses of relatives in Germany and Poland. Ralph spent the aftermath of the war treating people in DP camps and it was there that he came to realize that the addresses his mother had given him were of no use.
Now Mrs Luvovitz squeezes her son’s arm and remembers birthing the woman who is being buried today. Born with the caul. Mrs Luvovitz looks at the sea and thinks, when did this become my home? When I buried Benny here? When the second war came? She cannot discern the moment. She just knows that every time she returns to Cape Breton, she feels in her bones, this is my home. That is why she has declined to move permanently to Montreal. She spends half the year there. She loves her daughter-in-law, would you believe? And her five grandchildren who are only each perfect. They speak French at home, English at school and Yiddish with every second shopkeeper. Real Canadians.
Mrs Luvovitz watches the casket being lowered into the ground and says a prayer for the wild girl. She was smart. Maybe the smartest. What happened? I should have done something. Gone over there. He didn’t deserve to have daughters, there was something wrong there…. Mrs Luvovitz looks east at the horizon and reminds herself of what she has learned: that nothing in life is not mixed. That it is something to know where your dead are buried. That they are buried. Little Frances. Aleiha Ha’ Shalom.
Dirt hits the casket. Mercedes listens. She watches the ocean. She will go on teaching, of course. Pray for the souls of her loved ones, for their speedy release from purgatory into heaven. But who will be left to pray for her? To speed her reunion with her sister? No one, thinks Mercedes. Hopeless.
Hope is a gift. You can’t choose to have it. To believe and yet to have no hope is to thirst beside a fountain. Mercedes watches the ocean. Chill green today, and rough. Purple farther out. She wonders when it was that she began to despair. All these years she mistook it for pious resignation. Now she sees the difference. Such a fine line between a state of grace and a state of mortal sin. What is the good of believing fervently in God if you wind up hating Him? How long have I hated God, Mercedes wonders. When did I first believe it was all up to me?
Which are the sins against hope?
The sins against hope are presumption and despair.
What is despair?
Despair is the loss of hope in God’s mercy.
Mercedes says to herself, “I am damned.”
Her face has eroded to shale, her brown eyes are dry with sorrow. The ocean sorely tempts her like a lover — she longs to shave her body and walk stinging into salt, naked and anonymous, battered and embraced by rage, nothing personal. Drown. The word is melodious. Beckoning.
Standing back from the grave-site, Teresa looks at Mercedes looking at the ocean and starts to pray for her. For the sake of the girl in the ground. Teresa stays and prays until everyone but she and Mercedes have left the grave and night has begun to fall. Finally Mercedes hesitates … then turns away, and walks home instead of into the ocean.
That night, the Virgin Mary tells her what to do.
Sudden Light
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
“SUDDEN LIGHT”
BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
Rose is sixty-five. Ancient for a jazzman. Rock ’n’ roll reigns and there are fewer gigs now. She has attained that thankless high status, to wit: Doc Rose is the jazz pianist most often cited by famous jazz pianists as their favourite jazz pianist. Knowledge of Doc Rose is a litmus test of connoisseurship. The records are hard to come by now and cherished by those in the know. The rarefied fan club knows everything about Doc Rose except that he and his manager live hand to mouth on 135th Street.
Lily cleans churches, including the one on the second floor. Rose plays chess and
It’s just after eight on Sunday night. They’re watching “The Ed Sullivan Show” on television when the knock comes at the door. Lily opens it and Anthony smiles, embarrassed.
“Hello. Miss Piper?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me, although we actually have the same name, I knew your sister, Miss Mercedes Piper. My name is Anthony Piper.”
Lily looks at the young man. Rose doesn’t take her eyes off Topo Gigio while growling out the side of her mouth, “Someone cack and leave us money?”
“I, no, I don’t think so, heh.”
“Then go away.”
Eddie, kees me goodnight.
Lily says to him, “Aloysius.”
Anthony says, “I beg your pardon?” convinced now of his mistake, wrong apartment, a senile old couple, ancient smell of cabbage….
Lily says, “Come in.”
He says, “You are Lily Piper?”
“That’s right.”
“In or out, make a decision,” Rose is beginning to enjoy herself.
He steps in. What a day. His first time in New York City. Subway to the black metropolis so strange and familiar, he belongs everywhere and nowhere. Anthony has experienced the feeling before — no matter where he is, there is something about people’s struggles to keep their memories that bruises his heart, because it’s too soft too break. The world is his orphanage. Why he should feel so sorry for the other people on the planet is a mystery to him. He’s actually a very happy person. It’s just that he doesn’t know there’s a difference between love and empathy, nor does he question why he should be overcome so frequently with nostalgia for times and places not his own. He can’t see differences. Only variety. He travels well.
The soft heart feeds a wire frame that is never still. He plays spoons, fiddle, mouth harp, and is learning the bones from a man called Wild Archie — odd, Archie came out of an orphanage too — whom he met at the Cape Breton Club in Halifax. Anthony is wearing desert boots, white jeans, a black turtleneck and an Afro. Slim and eager, a bright penny. Green lights in his hazel eyes.
“You grew up to be happy,” says Lily.
He looks at her more closely, not trusting his sense that he’s met her before, which happens to him so often. As does the reverse. So familiar.
“I guess you must know,” he says carefully, “Miss Piper passed away. Quite recently.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
Lily mourned Frances long ago, on the night she left, but she never imagined Mercedes dying, although she has prayed for her soul every night.
“I’m sorry,” he hands Lily his handkerchief.
“That’s all right … she was my sister….”
“I don’t know what you’re blubbering for,” snarks Rose, “she tried to have you extradited.”
“Exorcized.”
Where am I, thinks Anthony, and who are these people?
Lily blows her nose, “Aloysius, did you know Frances? Did Frances ever get to see you?”
“Actually, my name is Anthony. Um — Frances who?”
“What do you do for a living, Tony?” Rose probing for a percentage.
“I’m a musician —”
“Shit,” shifting back to the TV.
“— and I teach ethnomusicology.”
Rose turns up the volume. Another damn rock ’n’ roll band from England.
Anthony is not giving up. “I should explain that Miss Piper more or less adopted me from afar, if you know what I mean, and when she died she left me her house, and she asked me to —”
“Any money?” Rose’s last attempt.
“No. I think she spent all her money on me. I don’t know why. She was a nice lady.”
“Our Lady of Lourdes,” says Lily.
Our Lady of Loonies, thinks Anthony, instantly contrite, can’t help the things that pop into his head, his love of humanity notwithstanding.
“The cocoa tin,” says Lily.
Cuckoo, thinks Anthony. Then he remembers his errand. He opens his knapsack and takes out a sealed cardboard tube. “When Miss Piper died, she left me a note with your name and address, and instructions for me to give you this personally.”
He hands the tube to Lily. She breaks the seal at one end and withdraws a paper scroll. She spreads it out on the table.
Anthony asks, “What is it?”
“It’s the family tree,” Lily says. “Look. We’re all in it.”
Rose flicks off the TV, scuffs over on her dilapidated slippers, fishes for her glasses.
“See?” Lily tells Anthony. “You have quite a few brothers and sisters. Your father’s still alive, although, oh that’s too bad, your stepmother Adelaide is gone.”
“‘Leo (Ginger) Taylor,’” he reads aloud.
“That’s your father, dear. And your Aunt Teresa too, she’s still living according to this — and look, you have a cousin too. ‘Adele Claire’.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There you are, there.”
Lily points to the issue of Frances Euphrasia and Leo (Ginger). Sprouting from the union of their branches is his name in green ink, “Anthony (Aloysius)”.
Ambrose is there too, twinned with Lily, and under his name the words “died at birth”. Brother and sister hang by a twig from a branch that joins James to Kathleen. Rose looks at Lily. But Lily just folds her hands.
Next to Kathleen, an “equals” sign joins her name to Rose’s. Rose takes off her glasses.
It could be the stale air, the reeling sense of the familiar awash with the foreign, the ocean finally giving up her dead — Anthony is suddenly seasick.
“Sit down,” says Lily.
He drops to his haunches and puts his head between his knees. Lily gets a cool wet cloth from the kitchen and places it on the back of his neck.
“Breathe,” she says.
He does.
That’s better.
“What the hell is ethnomusicology?” Rose wanders off to the piano.
Anthony stands up carefully. “Sorry —”
“Here, dear,” says Lily, “sit down and have a cuppa tea till I tell you about your mother.”
THE END
Permissions
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders; in the event of an inadvertent omission or error, please notify the publisher.
Ambrose, Sister Mary, O.P., “For A Happy Death,” from My Gift To Jesus, copyright © 1929 by Adrian Dominican Sisters. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
Baum, Bernie, and Stephan Weiss, “Music! Music! Music!” copyright © 1949 (renewed) 1950 (renewed) by Cromwell Music, Inc., New York and Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Los Angeles, California. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the Richmond Org. (TRO).
Florence, Nellie, “Jacksonville Blues,” copyright © by Enterprise Music Corp. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
Grainger, P., and E. Robbins, “T’ain’t Nobody’s Business (If I Do),” copyright © 1922, 1949, 1960 by MCA Music Publishing, a division of MCA, Inc. All Rights reserved. Used by Permission. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured.
Lashley, Clarence, “Sly Mongoose,” from Cape Breton’s Magazine, no. 18, copyright © 1977 by Ronald Caplan. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Ledbetter, Huddie, and John A. Lomax, “Goodnight, Irene,” copyright © 1936 (renewed) 1950 (renewed) by Ludlow Music, Inc., New York, NY. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the Richmond Org. (TRO).
Mercer, Johnny, and Harry Warren, “Jeepers Creepers,” copyright © 1938 (renewed) by Warner Bros., Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S., Inc.<
Montrose, Percy, “Oh, My Darling Clementine,” copyright © 1884.
Paton, John Glenn, VACCAI: Practical Method of Italian Singing (for Mezzo-Soprano [Alto] or Baritone, vol. 1910, copyright © 1975 by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by permission of Music Sales Corp.
Rexford, Eben, and Hart P. Danks, “Silver Threads Among The Gold,” copyright © 1873.
Verdi, Giuseppe, “Rigoletto,” copyright © 1955, 1986 by EMI Records Ltd. Translated by Dale McAdoo, copyright © 1956 by EMI (US) Ltd. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
Whitson, Beth Slater, and Leo Friedman, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” copyright © 1910 (renewed) by Shawnee Press, Inc. (ASCAP) and Shapiro Bernstein & Co., Inc. New York. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Music Sales Corp. and Hal Leonard Corp.
Westendorf, Thomas P., “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” copyright © 1876.
Yellen, Jack, and Milton Ager, “Ain’t She Sweet?” copyright © 1927 (renewed) by Warner Bros., Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S., Inc.
FIRST VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 1997
Copyright © 1996 by Ann-Marie MacDonald
All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada, in 1997. First published in hardcover in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto in 1996. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
MacDonald, Ann-Marie
Fall on your knees
eISBN: 978-0-307-36632-0
1. Title
PS8575.D38F3 1997 C813′.54 C95-932904-8
PR9199.3.M33F3 1997
Illustrations: Gina Wilkinson
v3.0
Ann-Marie MacDonald, Fall on Your Knees
(Series: # )