Butterfly Soup. Nancy Pinard

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СКАЧАТЬ commit with someone you love? “I did it, okay? But it wasn’t just that,” she hurries on, afraid he’ll get angry if she doesn’t spit it out fast. “One thing led to another.” Through the screen she smells the wine on his breath. There’s a greater sin involved. “Oh, God.” Her throat tightens. She can barely speak. “I’ve received Communion anyway. Every week.”

      She hears him shift in the booth and begins to babble. “I had to or my mother would have known. No one caught me and nothing happened, so I just, you know, forgot it was wrong, I guess.” It sounds lame, but it just about sums up how she’s been married so long—seventeen years almost—without telling Everett. If no one found out, she had reasoned, and nothing happened, telling the truth did nothing but hurt people. Even now she is only hurting herself with all this confessing. If she had any sense, she’d walk out this minute. She pulls the scarf down over her face, afraid the priest can see through walls, even in darkness.

      The bench on the priest’s side creaks. “Let’s adjourn to the room next door. An open discussion, face-to-face, might help you more.”

      Rose’s fingers press the backs of her clasped hands. Face-to-face indeed. Father Andrew is supposed to pronounce her penance and administer absolution, not insist she confess the new way. To risk an open discussion, she’d have to leave town. She hasn’t even mentioned deceiving Everett. She can’t imagine saying it in broad daylight.

      “And if that’s not possible?”

      “Then your priorities are wrong. Nothing is more important than your immortal soul.”

      Rose struggles up from flattened knees, steadying herself on the walls of the confessional. She pulls the scarf closer. “Thank you, Father,” she says, but she is anything but thankful. She is on to his game. He wants to see her face so he can deny her Communion. On her way out she wonders why she thought to tell this man anything. If she tells anyone, it should be Everett.

      Rose drives back through town to the Safeway market, accelerating through the yellow light at the new plaza. Confession is needless. If she had been born Protestant, she wouldn’t have to confess to anyone but God. Everett’s probably right about the Pope. God didn’t make him infallible, her mother did.

      The plaza parking lot is full of people. Summer Saturdays are like this. Little Leaguers, Girl Scouts, Rotarians—all out raising funds. Rose checks the supply of quarters in her ashtray and tucks them in her pocket. She’s searching for a parking place and scanning the lot for Rob, when a toddler appears out of nowhere, in front of her car. Her brakes squeal. The car shimmies, skids. A woman shrieks. The tires grab. The car settles back into itself. The boy stands inches from her bumper, a wisp of blond hair visible over her hood. His mother stands in a puddle of groceries and torn bags, her face frozen in the scream. A broken bottle of apple juice is soaking the paper bag.

      Rose slumps over her steering wheel. His mother steps from the rubble of groceries and snatches the child up. The child wails. Blessed, blessed sound. Rose exhales her anxiety. “Thank you, Jude, glorious apostle, faithful servant and friend of Jesus.” She pockets her hands in the opposite underarm to stop the prickling sensation. The mother is sobbing now. Rose watches her rock the boy, holding that precious head in her palm and kissing his hair, as Rose herself might have held Valley this morning if her daughter were younger.

      The woman carries her son to a station wagon nearby. Rose parks. She fetches a coffee can that’s rolled under a fender and sets it near the jumble of groceries. She picks the boxes of macaroni and cheese from the puddle of apple juice and stacks them in a pile next to the instant oatmeal, the English muffins and the Peter Pan. She has to do something to make up for scaring them. If she had hit the child— But Rose refuses that thought. She’s told Valley never, ever to speed in a school zone. If Rose ever hit a child, she would never recover.

      But why wasn’t the child up in the cart seat, where drivers could see him?

      Rose heads for the store, breasts cradled in her arms as if she were cold. Inside she finds the cereal aisle and wanders up and down, her heart drubbing hard as she is alternately the driver and the mother of the crying child. She can’t find the Shredded Wheat. It’s always a maze, this aisle—the store brand’s look-alike boxes mixed in with the real thing—but today it’s impossible. The priest’s voice mingles with the woman’s shriek: Your priorities are wrong. Nothing is more important than your immortal soul. Rose takes down one box, puts it back and takes another, finally settling for Cheerios. On her way to the cashier she adds a package of pink, yellow and brown sugar wafers—the ones Valley reached for when she was a toddler in the cart seat—and a palm-size red-yellow-and-blue rubber ball for the toddling boy. She breezes through the express lane, forgetting that she needs coffee cream, and takes off with her bagged stash.

      Rose is searching the parking lot for the mother’s station wagon when she’s caught by a singsong refrain rising and falling over the rattle of carts on the blacktop. She traces the chant to the end of the plaza where the band parents usually hold their bake sales and raffles. It’s some kind of auction. The auctioneer is gobbling away, badgering his crowd to bid higher. She hears him calling names. Sister Mary Theresa. That has to be a nun. Rose feels as though he has hollered her name. In a way, he has. Once upon a time, Theresa of the Little Flower was her favorite saint.

      At the outer edge of the group she peers between heads. Steel bed frames stand in the back of a truck, bound into units—two metal end pieces with legs and a metal spring in each package—each labeled with the name of a nun. The auctioneer’s assistant steps through the crowd to hand Rose a flyer.

      Buy a bed slept in by a Sister of Charity

       to benefit Dayton’s own St. Agnes Women’s Shelter

      The Sisters of Charity, the flyer says in small print, have donated their old beds to raise funds. The St. Agnes Shelter will provide home delivery to anyone donating over twenty dollars per bed.

      Only five frames remain in the back of the pickup. The auctioneer begins the bidding on Sister Mary Theresa’s bed at twenty dollars. A woman in shorts and red canvas Keds raises her hand.

      “Twenty, I hear twenty. Who’ll give me twenty-five?”

      A woman in jeans and a Notre Dame T-shirt raises her hand.

      There’s a hush and Rose feels the mounting excitement. Perhaps it’s a sign, she thinks, the direction she’d wanted from the priest, delivered by an alternate means. How else can she explain it? It’s not every day you find a nun’s bed at the grocery. Everett would call it coincidence, but then Everett believes the earth came about after an explosion, which makes as much sense to Rose as throwing calico squares up in the air and expecting them to land in a quilting pattern.

      Rose rummages in her purse. She finds the plastic grain of her checkbook. Thanks to Rob’s appearance this morning, she knows just how much she has.

      “Thirty,” says the woman in red Keds.

      The auctioneer looks left. “Will you go thirty-five?”

      Rose raises her hand high before the Notre Dame woman can answer, recalling the details of a bedtime story her mother read to her often—a story about St. Clare protecting herself and her convent by holding the blessed host before a band of marauding soldiers.

      The auctioneer asks for forty. Notre Dame raises her hand.

      Rose looks at the woman to get some idea how high she might go. Her jeans are clean but frayed. Her hair is flat against her head. She is not the beauty-parlor kind.

      “Fifty,” СКАЧАТЬ