The Sky Beneath My Feet

Chapter 9


The Feast of St. Rick





Everything is under control. Sure, my husband has gone feral out in the shed. Sure, there’s a nineteen-year-old junkie sleeping upstairs in my bed. Sure, Gregory has taken over the plans for Eli’s birthday—such as it is—promising to collect both the ice-cream cake and the birthday boy. “You just relax,” he says, “and take it easy. Everything is under control.” If Sam wakes up I should call him, but otherwise don’t worry about a thing.

I’m pretty sure this is all going to go wrong.

I am equally sure there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

The world has gone crazy, and I’m along for the ride.

More evidence: Going outside for some air, giving the shed a wide berth, I find Roy Meakin snoozing in an Adirondack chair in the Smythes’ English garden, over by the stone wall. He looks serene, hands folded over his paunch, a wisp of gray hair on his forehead shimmering in the breeze. I’ve never seen the chair here before, let alone caught Roy in the middle of an alfresco afternoon nap. I’m uncertain of the etiquette in such situations.

He must sense me gazing down at him. His eyes open. Casts disoriented glances left and right.

“Where’d she go?” he asks.

“Who—Deedee? I haven’t seen her.”

“She was right here. Painting. I shut my eyes for just a moment and . . .” He gets to his feet, shaking off a couple of flame-red leaves that fell on him while he was sleeping. He catches the last in his hand, holding it up for inspection, then tosses it to the ground. “This is embarrassing.”

“Don’t mind me.”

“She was so excited,” he says. “She’s experienced something of a breakthrough. I was going to run her straight over to the church as soon as she’d packed her things here.”

“I guess she went ahead without you. Maybe you looked too peaceful to disturb.”

He laughs. “More likely she forgot I was here. That husband of yours is the only man she has time for anymore. She’s become quite obsessed.”

“With Rick?” I ask, remembering the offering of flowers.

“Oh yes. But don’t get too worried. It’s more of a religious fascination. The Catholic schoolgirl obsessing over Saint Whatshisname. If your husband’s not careful, he might end up in Deedee’s mural.”

“That’s just what I need.”

Roy pats his pockets absently, making sure he has everything, pretending he didn’t pick up on the acid in my tone. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, feeling guilty. “It’s not a big to-do or anything, but today’s Eli’s birthday and after school we’re having some cake. If you and Deedee are back around, say, three, why don’t you come over?”

“That sounds nice. I’ll let her know.”

Roy passes through the garden and around the side of the Smythes’ house, heading for his car parked on the curb. I follow him as far as the back steps that lead to the wraparound gallery, an exquisite Victorian gingerbread affair, though the detailed woodwork is missing a few dentals and could use a new coat of paint. I rap lightly on the back door. Loud enough for Margaret to hear if she’s downstairs, and light enough not to disturb her if she is still in bed, which she often is these days.

“Why, look who’s here,” she says.

“Just wanted to check on you, Mrs. Smythe.”

“Come in, come in.”

Instead of swinging the door open, Margaret clutches the edge and walks a circle, carrying the door along with her. Then she takes a step toward the back of a couch, resting her hand on the wooden rib that protrudes from the cushions. She edges around to the front of the couch by resting her fingertips lightly on the shade of a side table lamp. Everywhere she goes, she’s always reaching and resting and touching her way forward, which makes watching her progress slightly terrifying. I keep expecting her to take a fall.

She settles herself in an armchair with crocheted doilies draped over its back and sides.

“Won’t you have a seat?”

“I can’t stay long,” I say, choosing the sofa across from her. “I wanted to invite you over for Eli’s birthday party. He’s turning sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” she says, her blue eyes widening. “I remember when I turned sixteen.”

Margaret is a white-haired little pixie, cute as can be, with hunched, narrow shoulders and slender hips. She wears these knee-length dresses that zip up the back, covering her all the way to her neck, which is trimmed in pearls no matter the time of day or the occasion. The fabric of these dresses reminds me of old curtains. Although she’s practically housebound, rarely leaving these days, even to attend mass, I have never seen her less than immaculate, her hair all done. She’s a little bit Miss Marple, a little bit Queen of England. I just love her.

“You know, at sixteen I was already married.”

“Really?”

She nods. “We had to fudge a little about our ages. It was like that, during the war. Life moved pretty slowly before the war, and pretty fast once the fighting started. I remember it all like it was yesterday. In fact, I remember it much better than I remember yesterday—which I don’t remember at all!”

“If you think it would be too much,” I say, “walking over to the house . . .”

She raises her hand, which shakes visibly. “Oh, I don’t get out much anymore. I used to be quite a traveler, but I think I’ve traveled about as much as I care to.”

It’s charming, her idea that a walk next door would constitute travel.

“Maybe I’ll have Eli come over and visit you.”

“Don’t take any trouble on my account. I’m sure a sixteen-year-old boy has better things to do with his time than come calling on little old ladies.”

“Not at all. And besides, the boys love you. We all do, you know that.”

“Do you?” she asks, leaning forward. “That’s nice. That’s very nice.” Her eyes glisten in the lamplight. “That husband of yours, I’ve been hearing things, you know.”

“From Deedee?”

She shrugs, as if to say, Who else?

“Well, I admit, it’s a little strange.”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “Not really. I remember when I was a girl, we had another man who lived out there, a handyman, I think he was. Worked for my daddy doing odd jobs, minding things. Name of . . . Bruce, I think. Adoniram Bruce, something ridiculous like that. Matter of fact . . . now, don’t tell your husband this, but if I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure ol’ Mr. Bruce passed away out there. From the flu, I believe. That must have been in thirty-nine.”

She gazes around the room, perhaps imagining how it all looked when she was a girl. Not too different from how it looks now, I would imagine. Visiting the Smythes is a bit like walking into a museum, only the furniture isn’t roped off and there’s no charge for admission. There is, however, live entertainment. Especially if Deedee is home.

“Well, Mrs. Smythe, I’d better get going.”

She starts to rise, but I motion her back down.

“Don’t worry about me. I can see myself out.”

“What a sweet girl,” she says. “I do enjoy your visits.”

Outside, the wind stirs the trees into releasing more leaves. They glide down into my path as I recross the yard. It’s so tranquil here. I would be heartbroken to leave. After touring Mission Up and seeing how many people were packed in there, living in sun-burnt and joyless blight, I’m sure Gregory must look at a place like this and think how unjust it is. Maybe he’d be right. But I love it all the same. There’s enough ugliness in the world without having to feel guilty about the beauty.

Again I give the shed a wide berth. A feeling of presence emanates from the little building. The afternoon sun turns the windowpane into a mirror, so there’s no seeing within, but the shed gives off the vibe of occupation. I sense Rick there. If I venture too close, I’ll have to knock on the door and say something. How could I not?

Why wait?

Good question. He’s in there now doing Lord knows what. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I don’t want to see him, but I want him to know I know he’s there. I want to remind him he still has responsibilities.

“It’s your son’s birthday today.” I announce this to the backyard in general. “In your head, you might be on some kind of journey, but as far as Eli’s concerned, you’re just sitting in the shed, pretending none of us are here. I just hope it’s worth it, that’s all.”

I wait to see whether he’ll respond.

Nothing.

“Well, I’m not going to waste my breath anymore.”

Pause. Still no answer.

I go back in the house, slamming the door loud enough to wake the dead. Uh-oh. Frozen in place at the foot of the stairs, I listen for movement in the bedroom. Nothing up there either. Loud enough to wake the dead, but not the deadbeat, apparently.

This house is full of crazy.

All I need is a few more inmates and I can give Mother Zacchaeus a run for her money.





The cake arrives first.

“You have to keep it refrigerated,” Gregory says, as if this might not have occurred to me.

I slip it into the freezer. I’ve already cleared out the space.

“How’s Sam doing?”

“Not a peep,” I say. “Let’s get one thing crystal clear: you can stay and have some cake, but then you’re taking her home.”

“I was thinking we’d drive back in the morning. It would be awkward bringing her over to Dad’s for the night, don’t you think?”

“She can’t stay here.”

“We don’t have to decide anything right this second. I’ve got to get over to the school and collect Eli. I told him this morning I’d do the honors.”

Then he’s out the door.

Nice. He had a plan all along and didn’t fill me in. That’s obvious at this point.

At a quarter to three, Holly arrives, a present under her arm, here to lend me her moral support. Let me just say, the girl knows how to wrap. You can always tell who’s never had kids by the effort they put into other people’s children. She’s used some kind of masculine-looking brown craft paper, with raw leather bootlaces in place of ribbon. Eli will take one look and think it’s cool. The red-and-blue balloon paper I wound around the Nikes won’t elicit the same response. I make a few admiring remarks about her wrapping prowess, then lower my voice to fill her in on the events of the day so far.

The more I talk, the wider Holly’s eyes get. By the time I’m finished, they’re about to pop out.

“You mean she’s up there now?” she whispers, hand to her chest.

I nod.

Then a troublemaking smile crosses Holly’s lips. “Beth,” she says. “I want to sneak a look.”

“Holly Ringwald, no you don’t!”

But she’s already tiptoeing up the stairs. I follow behind, just in case there’s trouble. I’ve been dreading the moment Sam comes to her senses ever since we tucked her in.

Holly opens the door a crack to peer in.

“Don’t wake her up.”

She pulls the door shut. “It breaks my heart.”

“You should see the place,” I say. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. But at least that nun is trying to do something.”

“I’m happy you made it out in one piece. Do you think it’s safe, keeping her here?”

“She’s safer, no doubt about that. I’m not sure about the rest of us.”

As we descend the stairs, I hear the front door opening. Eli tosses his backpack on the front sofa, Gregory bringing up the rear.

“I told Damon he could come over.”

“It’s your party,” I say. “You can invite anybody you want.”

“It’s not a party. We’re just having cake.”

“Suit yourself. And say hi to Ms. Holly.”

For a non-party party, this one goes surprisingly smooth. Damon arrives, one of those teens who’s inarticulate in the presence of adults but with his peers dominates the conversation. Not my favorite, but in our corner of Lutherville, age-appropriate companions are thin on the ground. It’s older money in these parts, in every sense of the word. The boys go upstairs to Eli’s room. I tell them to be quiet without explaining why. In the meantime, Holly and I lay the cake and plates out, light some candles, and discuss under our breath how to broach the topic of drug use with a sixteen-year-old.

Is it Damon he gets the weed from? If so, I’d like to wring the boy’s neck.

Gregory floats on the outskirts, coming in and out of the kitchen as we set up, strangely tongue-tied. It’s Holly’s fault. Tall, attractive, and spoken for—that’s my brother’s type.

“So that’s your brother,” she says. “Now I see who Jed takes after.”

Deedee and Roy appear at the screen door. He carries one of Deedee’s paintings, a smaller canvas about two feet by two, keeping the image hidden next to his chest until he gets the signal to reveal.

“What have we here?” I ask.

“If you hate it, you just have to say so. Only I thought since it’s the boy’s birthday . . .” Deedee draws a circle in the air with her finger, the cue for Roy to flip the canvas.

“It’s a study,” she says.

“That’s . . . nice.”

“You do hate it, Elizabeth. I thought you might.”

“No, no,” I say. “It’s just unexpected. I think Eli will love it.”

Roy finds a suitable niche on the counter and props the painting with a jar of flour.

“Oh, I get it,” Holly says, slapping her thigh like she’s just understood the punch line of a joke. “The beard threw me off at first. That’s wild.”

Wild is right. Staring back at me from the counter is a sort of Byzantine icon depicting my husband, Rick, with a bushy, forked beard and an outsized halo. He’s looking at me like I’m a great disappointment. Whatever sympathy I might have had for desert fathers dries up in the heat of that painted glare.

“If the boys miss him,” I say, “they can feast their eyes on that.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Roy wincing. Holly touches my back as if to steady me. But Deedee, whom you might expect to take offense at this jibe, seems delighted. She comes around the island and gives me a hug. “You’ve got spirit, you know that?”

The thing is, silly as it is, knowing the kind of prices Deedee’s artwork is supposed to fetch, I’ve always had this daydream of her presenting me with something. I have never collected art, but I do appreciate it. I don’t go to museums because there’s never enough time to do them justice, not because I’m a philistine. Moral of the story: be careful what you wish for.

Roy wasn’t kidding about Rick ending up in the mural, I guess.

“This is really generous of you, Deedee. Thank you. I mean it.”

“It’s only a study, like I said, and I’m not sure I’m happy with the expression yet. But I’m getting there, Elizabeth. I have the germ.”

Meaning, she has the idea, not some kind of virus.

Jed arrives. Eli and Damon come down. Instead of acting the part of graceless teen, Eli brightens when he sees the size of the audience, deciding to turn on the charm. He recognizes the subject of the painting immediately and thanks Deedee profusely. You’d think he had spent the last few days in agony, wishing he had a portrait of his father in the get-up of some medieval saint to hang over the mantel. The messenger bag from Holly is just what he needed too. He goes straight into the living room with it, emptying the contents of his backpack right into the new case.

Even I get the special treatment. He shucks off his old shoes and puts on the black Nikes right in the kitchen. “They feel like they were made for my feet.”

“I’m the one who picked them,” Jed says. “Mom wanted to get you Reeboks.”

“You said he wanted Crocs!”

We all laugh, and I realize the non-party hasn’t gone off the rails. Even the cake is tasty, good enough that I finish a whole slice.

The crazy has been contained and everyone seems happy. Holly winks, reading my mind. Sometimes the volcano smokes and doesn’t erupt.

“Am I interrupting?”

Rick’s voice. I turn toward the sound. He stands in the threshold, holding a plastic bag in two hands, several days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. He nods to everyone, edging into the kitchen, holding the bag out to Eli. Our son reaches inside, removing an open-faced cardboard display box with something shiny and brown inside. Eli’s eyes light up with astonishment, a real reaction that gives the lie to his earlier act. He has to use scissors to cut the ties holding whatever Rick’s given him into the box.

As he wrestles with the package, I study my husband, a familiar-looking stranger. He returns my look, then notices something on the counter. His eyes dart to the painting, then back to me. He does a double take.

“Dad,” Eli says, “this is amazing.”

“I’m . . .” Rick can’t take his eyes off that painting. “I’m glad you like it.”

And Eli does like it. He wrenches the final tie free and holds his present up for everyone to see. He might as well be clutching a trophy.

“That’s nice,” Deedee says. Then, turning to Roy: “What is it?”

“A Brooks saddle,” Eli says. “It’s the one with the copper rivets.” He turns it over in his hand. “And copper rails!”

“It’s a seat for his bike,” Jed explains to a still-baffled Deedee.

Rick tears his eyes away from the painting. Dazed. He moves closer to me, close enough that we could touch if either one of us were so inclined.

“You see that, right?” he says.

“What, the painting? Deedee did it.”

He exhales in relief. “I thought I was going nuts,” he says, then shuffles away to Eli’s side.

The party breaks up when Eli goes outside with Damon to replace the old seat on his bike with this gleaming new one. Jed is telling the rest of us more than we’d ever want to know about bicycle saddles. Suffice it to say, this is the best of the best. Rick must have gotten it when he took Eli’s tire in to be repaired. I had assumed he would ignore his son’s birthday entirely, while all along he’d planned on making this surprise appearance.

Deedee and Roy say their good-byes, taking a slice of cake home for Margaret. As they leave, Holly tries several times to rope Rick into conversation, but he shuts her down with one monosyllabic reply after another. Gregory leans in to inspect the painting closely, and I lose track of where Jed has gone. As for myself, I can’t take my eyes off Rick. I feel like I should say something, only I don’t know what.

Stay here. Don’t go back.

“You have to admit it’s pretty strange,” Holly is saying. “I’ve never heard of anyone living in a shed for a whole month.”

“Hmm,” Rick replies.

“I wonder what this thing is worth,” Gregory says. “You say she’s a famous painter? How much do her pieces go for?”

Holly again: “At least have some cake. You haven’t given up chocolate, have you?”

“Hmm, no.”

Tidying up, I glance through the sink window. The shed door is ajar, and Roy is standing guard out front, holding Margaret’s slice of cake. They didn’t leave after all. Deedee is taking this chance to inspect the hermit’s lair. Roy sees me and shrugs. As I watch, Deedee appears and the two of them creep home, leaving the shed door half open.

“Mom.”

Jed’s at my elbow, whispering in my ear.

“What is it?”

“There’s a girl upstairs. I was going up to my room and ran into her in the hallway. She locked herself in your bedroom.”

“That’s Sam,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

I leave Holly to interrogate Rick while my Marxist brother speculates on the value of art. Jed follows me up, breathing hard with excitement. First I go into his room, taking a pencil and paper from the desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Watch and learn.”

I slide the paper under my bedroom door and use the pencil to push the old key out of the other side of the lock. It thumps to the ground. When I retrieve the paper, there’s the key.

“Cool,” Jed says.

“It’s all right, Sam. I’m coming in.”

I throw the door open, bracing for conflict. The bedsheets are rumpled, but there’s no one there.

“Sam?”

I peer into the closet, then get on my hands and knees to check under the bed.

“Mom, the window.”

Sure enough, the sash window stands open. I get there and lean outside just in time to see Sam shimmy to the ground and disappear behind the corner of the house.

“She’s going round back. Come on!”

“Mom,” he says. “Who’s this Sam?”

No time for explanations. I call down to Gregory, then run into him at the foot of the stairs. Holly and Rick look on in astonishment.

“She’s getting away,” I exclaim, feeling ridiculous.

We pour out into the backyard, looking for signs of the escaping girl.

From the far side of the stone wall, Deedee calls out, “She went in there.”

I follow her pointing finger to the now-closed door of Rick’s shed. Of course. I head for the door, but Rick grabs my arm.

“Let me.”

The first time he’s touched me since the night the Shaws came.

I stop in my tracks, letting him go ahead. He puts his hand on the doorknob, pauses to collect himself, then pushes through. The door closes behind him.

The rest of us gather in a crowd, watching and waiting. Deedee and Roy come and rejoin us.

“What do you think’s going on in there?” Gregory asks.

Jed leans toward me. “Who’s the girl, anyway?”

“It’s a junkie your mom brought home,” Holly says, which earns her a caustic look from Gregory.

“Home to live?” Jed asks.

Deedee laughs out loud. “This place is getting more and more interesting!”

A minute passes. The others lapse into conversation. I try to tune out the nervous chatter. I can’t even hear myself think. After five minutes, they fall silent again.

“It’s been a long time,” Roy says.

“You think he’s all right in there?”

Gregory sniffs. “You think he is?”

The door opens. We wait to see who will appear.

Sam emerges into the light. She blinks at the sky, her arms tightly coiled around her body like she’s cold. She takes a step toward us, recognizing Gregory.

“I want to go home,” she says.

“Are you all right?”

“I want to go home.”

“First thing in the morning,” he begins.

“Not in the morning. Now. I want to go now.”

“But—”

“You heard her,” I tell him.

Sam walks through our little crowd, which parts to let her pass. Gregory follows her. “I guess we’re leaving?”

“Call me when you get there, no matter how late.”

When he’s gone, I turn back toward the shed. The door is closed.

“I guess that’s that,” Holly says.

“The good thing is, she’s going home. When I tried to convince her before, she didn’t want to go.”

Jed shakes his head, still trying to process everything. “I wonder what Dad said to her.”

“I guess we won’t get a chance to ask.”

“So,” Deedee says. “Let me get this straight. You couldn’t get her to go home. She wanted to stay in some crack house downtown? And she talks to Rick for five minutes and he turns her completely around?”

“It’s not a crack house—”

But she isn’t listening. “His first miracle,” she says to Roy. “And this is only the first week. Wait and see, I tell you. Wait and see.”

They head back to the big house.

“Now, she’s a hoot,” Holly says. “‘His first miracle.’ And can you believe that painting? Are you going to hang it up over your bed?”

I see her lips moving, but I don’t hear what she says. There’s a high-pitched noise in my ear, a wiry tremolo. And like Rick looking around the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t the only one who could see the painting, I glance at Jed and Holly, amazed that they can’t hear the sound.

It’s like Kathie Shaw’s tinnitus, canceling out every other sound. A throbbing whine you were never meant to hear but cannot ignore.