The Sky Beneath My Feet

Chapter 19


It Takes a Village





The day of Margaret’s return from the hospital, Rick keeps the boys home from school to help him with a project. No matter how hard I pry, he won’t give me more information than that. Instead, he urges me to get out of the house. “Call your friend Holly,” he says. “Go shopping.”

“I want to be here when Margaret gets home.”

“That won’t be for hours. I checked with Deedee and they’re not even going to release her until after lunch.”

“You talked to Deedee? The two of you are like best buds these days. Ever since you liked her painting. Should I be jealous or what?”

“What you should be,” he says, “is out of the house.”

As I’m sitting in the driveway, waiting for the VW to stop its start-up shimmy so I can put the transmission in gear, something flashes out of the garage, passing on my right. Craning my neck, I catch Eli’s back. He’s standing on his bike pedals, pumping away for maximum speed, disappearing in the direction of school. Not a surprise, really. Eli hasn’t given an inch since Rick moved back into the house.

Rick comes out of the garage, gazes at the horizon, and shakes his head. I crank the window down. “I guess that’s one helper down.”

“We’ll see. He might calm down and head back.”

“Maybe.”

This is as good a time as any, I think.

“Hey, Rick, there’s something I should tell you.”

He walks around to the driver’s window, arms crossed. There’s bound to be a better way of doing this. Sitting in the driveway with the engine running doesn’t seem ideal. But I’ve waited so long already without finding the perfect moment.

“It’s about Eli,” I say. “There’s a problem. He’s been experimenting with marijuana. I don’t know where he’s getting it, or how much he’s smoking, but when I confronted him, he didn’t back down. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. He said he isn’t going to stop.”

As I speak, the same expression comes over Rick that I remember from his examination of the mural. That overwhelmed but processing look. He doesn’t say anything at first. My words hang in the air, sounding much more matter-of-fact than I’d intended: Cool Mom doesn’t freak out about a little weed. Cool Mom takes things in stride, hoping for the best.

“All right,” he says.

“All right?”

He nods. “Leave it with me.”

“And what—you’ll take care of it? Rick, like I said, he’s really digging in his heels on this.”

“You’ve had to carry the load by yourself since I checked out. Time for me to pick up the slack. Leave it with me and I’ll figure something out. Promise me you’re not going to worry about it.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that,” I say. “But, Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“Did I mention that I love you?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so, no.”

“Well, I love you.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I love you too.”

“Don’t think you have to become St. Rick on my account.”

“St. Rick?” he says. “Who’s he?”





As soon as I reveal where the idea came from, Holly’s interest in shopping evaporates.

“He said that? ‘Go shopping’? Of all the misogynistic, pig-like things—”

“Now, now. You do like to shop.”

“Not anymore, sister.” She pauses, then: “Although . . . there is one thing I was just thinking of trying on.”

After lunch, she insists on accompanying me home, following in her car, either to chew out Rick or see Margaret safely home, I’m not sure which. Although she’s never actually met my elderly neighbor, going to the hospital that night instilled a sense of duty. We arrive just as Deedee is walking her mother up the front steps while Roy fetches luggage from the trunk of his Rolls.

“Can we help with anything?” I ask.

Seeing us, Margaret insists on coming back down the walkway. Deedee holds her arms out to corral the old lady, who seems frailer than before and stooped from the weight of the sling that supports her cast. Still, her blue eyes shine impressively, alight with intelligence, undimmed by age.

“Thank you so much,” she says, patting me on the hand. Then she turns to Holly, thanking her as well, already informed that one of my friends had visited the hospital that first night. “It’s good to be home, and I don’t want anybody troubling over me.”

“Well, we’re going to trouble,” Deedee insists.

“It’s no trouble,” I say. “I was thinking it would be nice to drop in on you, just to see how you’re doing.”

“I would enjoy the company.”

“Mother, you’ll have a nurse. I told you already I’m hiring someone.”

“A nurse,” Margaret says to me in a confiding tone. “Like I am some kind of invalid. Me. Tell me this: how many women my age could take a fall like that and not break a hip? Not very many, I can assure you. A nurse—a real nurse”—she raises her voice to make sure Deedee hears—“told me I was as strong as an ox. But really, I doubt many an ox could survive a fall like that unscathed.”

Deedee taps the cast with her fingernail. “This is what you call unscathed?”

It’s hard to believe Margaret had a stroke last week. She speaks as clearly as ever, and the lopsidedness I noted to her face back in the hospital seems to be gone. A complete recovery, so far as I can tell, apart from the cast on her arm.

“I have something for you,” I say, turning to Holly.

Since I don’t haul around a purse, Holly obliged me when the thought occurred on the way home. I chugged into a convenience store, only to strike out. We had to hit two more before finding what I was after. Holly reaches into the bag slung from her shoulder, producing the familiar red-and-yellow package.

“A Zagnut!” Margaret coos. “Thank you, thank you.”

Deedee gives me a hard look. “It’s a candy bar, Mother, not a brick of gold from Fort Knox.”

“You always forget.”

“Maybe you’d prefer to have Elizabeth take you inside?”

“Don’t be silly. If you wipe that frown off your face, I’ll share.”

They go inside, Roy hovering as always. Holly and I stand on the sidewalk and watch them. Margaret waves before Deedee shuts the door. I turn to Holly and smile.

“In another life, that could be us.”

“Ha,” she says. “I’ve got dibs on the mother.”





We head next door, finding the house empty. Last time we did this, panic ensued. Now I shrug off the absence. “They’re probably out back.” Leading the way into the backyard, I run straight into a pile of furniture: the couch and chair from the shed, the rolled rug, the bookshelf, even the rolltop desk.

“What’s up with this?” Holly asks.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s part of this project of Rick’s.”

The shed door is open. We find Rick inside, working a mop up and down the wooden floor. In the early afternoon sunlight, the planks are gleaming. Behind him, Jed is scrubbing too, fretting the grout lines in the fireplace with a newly bought wire brush. I step inside, my lungs filling with the aroma of pine-scented cleaning products.

“Getting a jump on the spring cleaning?” I ask.

Rick looks up and smiles. “What do you think?”

“Looks nice.”

“I’m just starting the floor. It’s going to be beautiful.”

The sound of water sloshing in a pail makes me turn. Across the lawn, Marlene approaches from the direction of the garden hose spigot, leaning sideways with the weight of a brimming bucket. Behind her, I’m surprised to find Eli carrying a second bucket, barefoot, his jeans rolled halfway to his knees.

“You enlisted some help,” I say. “Hi, Marlene. Hello, Eli.”

As he passes, my younger son gives me a bashful smile. Not a knowing smile or an ironic smile, but a bashful smile. Something’s gotten into the boy. I’m just happy to see that he’s back.

“I thought we’d be done before you got back, Beth, but this is taking a lot longer than I expected. There’s a lot of dirt in here.”

“I think it looks great.”

“Eli’s gonna help Marlene with the windows. That’ll make a big difference.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.” Lowering my voice: “Don’t make it too nice, though. I don’t want you to get any ideas. You’re not moving back out here.”

He straightens himself up and leans the mop in the corner. Behind him, Jed stops scrubbing. Marlene and Eli stand over their respective buckets, frozen in place. At my elbow, Holly watches, arms folded.

“Beth,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not moving back here, don’t worry. That’s why I carried all my things out. I’m out of here and never coming back. And this—” He holds his arms wide, striding to the center of the shed. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“The shed. It’s yours.”

“Honey, you don’t have to—”

“I really do,” he says. “It should’ve been yours all along. And now it is.”

“What am I going to do with it?”

“Whatever you want,” he says. “You can knock it down for all I care. Or put up those window boxes you were always talking about.”

“That’s so sweet,” Holly says. “You can’t knock it down, though. It’s too pretty.”

She crosses the threshold for the first time, her heels tapping on the damp wood. The others resume their tasks, relieved the moment has passed. Eli catches my eye, grinning.

“Rick, I don’t know what to say.”

He puts those outstretched arms around me and pulls me close. We sway a little on the shiny floor, occupying the same space, breathing each other’s air. It feels all right. No, it feels good. Or like Rick said about the mural, it’s very good.

Apology accepted. For real, this time.

“Why don’t I pitch in and help?”





Gregory calls later that evening.

“I’m pretty sure this is too soon,” he says. “But it’s what Sam wants. She thinks it’s important if she’s gonna move forward.”

“She thinks what’s important?”

“To apologize,” he says. “And to say thank you.”

“She doesn’t need to thank me—”

“It’s actually Rick she wants to thank.”

Ouch.

“There’s something else,” he says. “She wants us to take her back there. To talk to the nun.”

Bad idea, I’m thinking. Really bad. But then I remember the beach, the sound of the storm clouds rumbling through my body.

This is you, I think. Part of your plan.

And then it dawns on me, I’m not thinking these words. I’m praying them.

“That sounds great,” I tell him. “Tomorrow’s fine, if that works for you.”

“I’ll call you from the road,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. He must have expected me to put up resistance.





“This is it?” Rick asks, doubt in his voice.

Last night, after the call from Gregory, I told him all about Mission Up. It was his decision to come along, which is why the four of us are now sitting across the street from Mother Zacchaeus’s inner-city lair. I’m at the wheel, with Rick beside me and my brother straight behind me. In the rearview mirror, Sam’s eyes stare back at me. Clear eyes, I should add. You wouldn’t think, seeing her now, she was the same girl I first met under the coil of sheets, her face a mess of black makeup.

“Maybe I should go first,” I say. “Let Mother Zacchaeus know we’re coming. She doesn’t handle surprises very well.”

“Are you sure?”

Gregory leans forward, clears his throat. “That might be the best idea.”

They arrived on our doorstep around noon, having driven up from the community college in Virginia. The thought of being the object of Sam’s pilgrimage had kept Rick up for hours last night. He squirmed all through the morning too. But once he saw her, once he saw the transformation just a few weeks off the needle had made, his nerves disappeared.

I was proud of him.

While Sam and Rick spoke in the living room, I led Gregory back to the kitchen and brewed some tea. He filled me in on the girl’s progress over the past couple of weeks, how he had gotten her into a counseling program, which she seemed to be taking seriously.

“There’s a long road ahead, but she’s off to a good start.”

“And what about her mother?” I asked.

He turned shy. “What about her?”

“Hmm . . . based on your reaction, I assume you’re now more than friends?”

“With everything that’s happened, we’ve gotten close. That’s understandable. I really like this woman, Beth. I think she might be . . .”

“What? The one?”

“You’re laughing, but yeah.”

“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I’m just happy for you.”

Through the doorway, I could hear Rick speaking. Although the words were indistinct, I recognized the tone of paternal advice.

“Remember Christmas Eve, back when I was a freshman? The time we went looking for that meetinghouse?”

Gregory thought a moment, then nodded. “When you had that crappy Bug. Not much has changed, has it?”

“You were really good to me, you know. I was thinking about it the other day. With everything you must have been dealing with, I remember you telling me everything was going to be okay. Reassuring me.”

“Hey, I was right, wasn’t I? You never found that place, and everything still worked out. You have a couple of great kids, a mentally ill husband, this house, an even worse Volkswagen than you had then—and with an embarrassing piece of religious art on the bumper, to boot.”

“You’re right. I’m truly blessed.”

I took the steaming tea mug from his hands, then clasped them in mine.

“Seriously,” I said. “Thank you.”

He pulled away, abashed. “It was nothing.”

Down the block from Mission Up, a couple of kids in puffy vests bounce a basketball off the front stoop of a narrow house. I watch them a moment, waiting for cars that pass. The windows of the house are boarded up. They bounce the ball off of them too.

At the pink door, I glance back to the car, then take a deep breath. Reminding myself to keep an eye out for Mother Zacchaeus’s right hook, I knock.

This time there are no locks to turn, no bar to move. The door shudders open and Mother Zacchaeus appears. She wears an apron over her black priest’s shirt, hiding most of the pins on her chest.

“Well, well, well,” she says. “Look who it is. You come to take another one of my girls away?”

“I’ve brought one back.”

She squints at the car. “Well, well, well. Yes, you have.”

“She wants to talk to you. I think she wants to apologize, and to thank you for saving her life.”

“Come again?”

“For saving her life.”

“She don’t need to do nothing like that. You tell her for me.”

“I’ll go get her,” I say, motioning toward the car.

Rick opens the passenger door, then Gregory gets out and circles around, the two of them flanking Sam protectively as she crosses. It’s a sweet gesture, but maybe a little over the top. They glance around suspiciously, like bodyguards on the presidential detail.

Mother Zacchaeus backs into the vestibule and I follow her in. A couple of girls in spangled jeans and hooded sweatshirts are coming down the stairs; some kids in the lounge are running, their laughter nearly drowning out the sound of the television. As always, Mission Up is a hive of activity. As always, every surface looks encrusted and contagious.

“That pink box of yours,” I say. “I talked to a friend of mine about trying to fill it.”

She perks up. “And?”

“He did some kind of background check.”

“Uh-huh. And didn’t like what he found? I see.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No need to be.”

“It was kind of hard explaining to him what this place is all about.”

“This place?” She shakes her head. “You not trying if you find this hard. People gotta need, somebody gotta do something. Simple as that. They don’t gotta be perfect, they just gotta be breathing. Nobody down here expects you to be perfect.”

“Can I ask you something, though? You’re not really a nun, right?”

“Me, a nun? Where you get that idea?”

“The outfit,” I say. “Calling yourself Mother Zacchaeus.”

“This outfit, this my armor. My name, it makes perfect sense. When a person change, they name gotta change as well. Don’t you know the Bible none, you good Christian lady? What happened to that man Saul when the Lord gotta hold of him? New man, new name.”

“But your real name is Rosetta Harvey.”

“Lady, I don’t know what my real name gonna be. But what it is for now is Zacchaeus. It means white, pure, like the heart of Jesus himself. I don’t answer to nothing else.”

“Well, my name’s not Lady,” I say. “It’s Beth.”

She holds out her small, thick hand. “Good to meet you, then, Beth.”

On the threshold, Sam waits anxiously, her hands clasped at her waist. She looks quite delicate with the daylight shining in around her. I could easily imagine this girl in Deedee’s painting, a square halo atop her head. And I could picture Zacchaeus there too, perhaps her more than anyone. “She may not be a nun,” I can hear Deedee’s deep voice saying, “but that doesn’t mean she’s not a saint.” Aren’t we all, though, in Deedee’s world?

Aren’t we all?

Mother Zacchaeus leads Sam through the lounge, where several people recognize her. They coo in amazement at how greatly she’s changed. While they’re occupied, I turn to Gregory. “Why don’t you show Rick around the place?”

The two men disappear up the stairs while I linger at the entrance to the lounge, my back to the entryway and the unused check-in counter, watching Mission Up’s inmates make a big to-do over the prodigal’s return. Eventually, Sam manages to draw Mother Zacchaeus into the next room. I’m sure she has a speech all prepared, and while the nun (I can’t think of her otherwise) won’t enjoy the process, she’ll find the grace inside her at least to endure it.

“You back,” Aziza says, circling around me to get to the couch. She plops down heavily, then reaches into her V-neck shirt to produce a pack of cigarettes.

“Ain’t no smoking in here!” one of the kids shouts.

“Go on with you,” she says, patting his head. But she puts the pack away. “Didn’t think you would be, after last time. Back, I mean. The way Big Z hauled off and slapped you. You got some guts, girl. If you can stand up to that woman, you can stand up to whatever. Still, she told me you wasn’t done with this place.”

“She did?”

Aziza nods. “She say she could see it in you. You was coming back.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Not then.”

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out. “If you brought your kid down here, I guess she figured you was making yourself at home.”

“Speaking of him, I didn’t appreciate the way you were coming on to him.”

“Coming on to him?” She smirks. “Now that I thought you would appreciate. You were trying to scare him, right?”

The problem with this place, I think, is that they see you coming a mile away. And they’ve got your number too. They’ve had it all along.

“Maybe,” I say.

When Mother Zacchaeus and Sam emerge, I see something I never expected. The nun’s arm hangs from the girl’s shoulder, and I am almost positive there’s a damp shine to Mother Zacchaeus’s eyes. They walk through the lounge and out, drawing me along. The men come downstairs, pausing midway when they see the aproned nun in their path, afraid of being caught. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still pondering whatever Sam had to say.

As the others file out, I linger. Mother Zacchaeus leans on the doorpost, her legs crossed, grinning after them. At least, I think it’s a grin. Her lips can’t hold the unfamiliar posture long enough for me to make sure.

“I want you to know something. I’ll be back.”

She nods, not looking at all surprised.

“I don’t know how to help you,” I say. “But I’m going to find a way.”

“That won’t be difficult,” she replies. “The one thing we never run out of here is need. We got a bottomless pot of that, and you welcome to as much of it as you want.”

The urge to say something stupid is strong. I can almost hear myself forming the inane words. Channeling Bogart at the end of Casablanca: This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. But I suppress it as best I can, not wanting to spoil things. She must sense my internal conflict.

“Get on,” she says, patting my shoulder.

I walk down the steps onto the sidewalk. I look around, seeing the neighborhood for the very first time. Apart from the boys bouncing the basketball, the immediate block is empty. In my mind’s eye, I populate it with Deedee’s medieval souls. As far away as this is from Lutherville, you’re never so far that you’ve outpaced them.