The bigger she gets, the harder she prays, for James has once again ceased to come near her, and Kathleen grows lovelier and more careless every day. Materia watches their heads mutually inclined over a sum on a slate; sees Kathleen prance before him in her newest frock. Watches his face when the girl sings just for him.
Swamped in flesh, Materia can’t seem to get a clear deep breath. By June she’s sleeping on the kitchen cot, no more stairs. This baby is sapping the life out of her — no more spot-checks on her husband and daughter, not at this rate.
She hasn’t a thing to fit her any more so she takes three old dresses and cuts them into one: rosebud print in front, green taffeta sides and plaid back. She spends a comfortable day but when James comes home it’s “What in the name of God have you got on?”
She asks him for money. She buys a remaindered bolt of crazy floral calico and, with the help of Mrs Luvovitz, fashions three roomy dresses. Mrs Luvovitz offers her several yards of pale blue muslin instead but Materia declines. She likes the flowers. James shakes his head but doesn’t comment.
Materia’s always murmuring these days, her lips constantly moving whether she’s mending a sock or changing a nappy. Worst, while making her glacial way through town to church.
“Don’t be traipsing up Plummer Avenue nattering to yourself, woman.”
“I not talking to myself.”
“Then who’re you talking to?”
“Mary.”
Jesus Murphy.
Materia sees the demon grinning at her again from the mouth of its furnace. Night and day she secretes and spins a gauzy shroud of prayer in which she swaddles Kathleen. She sees the body of her daughter cocooned, suspended, green eyes open. But no one can spin for ever, and cocoons must yield, whether to release a butterfly or a meal. What has she left to sacrifice? She offered up her music long ago. She would mortify her flesh, but that might harm her unborn child. She has no vanity left to mortify, so she offers up her fat, her shabby shifts, her curly hair gone thin. But the demon isn’t satisfied.
In the cool dark of Mount Carmel Church, Materia looks into the narrow green face of the serpent and makes the sign of the cross. Beside her kneels tiny Mercedes, little white-gloved hands folded around her very own rosary beads. Behind them baby Frances crawls beneath the pews, trailing her dress in the dust, finding shiny things. Materia fixes on the serpent’s red eyes and bargains: if the demon will limit itself to one daughter, Materia will allow it to have Kathleen when the time comes. The demon grins. Agrees.
Then Materia looks up into the serene alabaster face of Our Lady and asks her to slow the demon down. Materia recites the Memorare: “Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to you I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful; O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Amen.”
Our Lady will think of something. Merciful are her ways.
The Third Secret of Fatima
“I wonder,” observed Emma, “whether well educated Romanists really believe in all the strange miracles which are said to have been worked by their saints.”
CLAUDIA, BY A.L.O.E
July is sweltering. They’ve vegetables enough to feed an army. The scarecrow simmers in James’s old pit boots and Materia’s motley dress of rosebuds, taffeta and plaid, the fedora angled on its blank head as always. If you’ve ever stuck your hand inside a haystack and pulled it out again as though from a hot oven, then you know what straw can do. Pete heats up quietly. James waters the garden from the creek. Materia fills jar upon jar with preserves, labelling them “Summer 1914”.
James doesn’t go to the baseball game on August 3, so he misses all the excitement of New Waterford’s victory over Sydney, but he’ll read about it on the front page of the Post next day. James has enough to keep himself busy, what with his job, the garden and his daughter. That’s why he doesn’t go to ball games, or sit down to politics in front of MacIsaac’s store or a deck of cards in back. In this way, he foils the efforts of most of New Waterford never to let him forget that once a scab, always a scab.
James strolls up Plummer Avenue on his way to buy the paper. He no longer takes the cart, for why shouldn’t he walk through this town? He lived here before there even was a town, before there was a coal company or a single miner.
From a block away you might think James was walking on water, but it’s just the shimmer of the cinders. Nothing is stirring this afternoon, certainly not a breeze. Those who have not taken refuge at the shore sit motionless on their front stoops, feet in buckets of ice-water. For once it’s a good day to be underground.
James is dressed, as usual, like a gentleman. Only a beast or an imperfectly civilized man reacts blindly to the vicissitudes of nature. Let the semi-literate masses strip to their undershirts, and behold the crux of their problem right there. So he strolls coolly into town. Cucumber in a woollen suit.
He buys the Post at MacIsaac’s, where a couple of old-timers sit blinking occasionally. MacIsaac is sound asleep behind the cash. James drops his coins on the counter and, glancing at the headline as he leaves the store, can’t suppress a pang of civic pride at his town’s big baseball win. The old fellers watch him go, then break their wilted silence to speculate as to what qualifications might render a man insensible to scorching heat.
At the corner of Seventh Street an old West Indian woman rings a bell, selling oranges from a handcart. Atop her pyramid of fruit is set a sample of her wares split open. Blood-red juices. James buys one.
The sun has begun to set, the cool balm of evening coming on. Lilacs relax and the air is full of blue perfume. A dog barks, resurrected from the heat, and someone has struck up a strathspey on the fiddle, it being still too warm for a reel. James turns onto Water Street in time to see Leo Taylor pull up in front of the house in his buggy. Kathleen is home from her rehearsal. She waits while Taylor hops out and lets down the step for her. She descends from the buggy with the ease of a born aristocrat. Taylor says not a word and neither does Kathleen, nor does she look at him. It’s moments like this that James savours. The sun basking in the west, blessing this island with rare rose and amber hues — it’s all of life in a moment like this. God in His Heaven, and I in mine.
Kathleen sees James and runs to him as though she were suddenly seven years old again, breaking one spell to cast another. She’s so excited, so nervous, “I could puke!”
“Some of the best singers puke before every show,” James tells her.
She laughs, delighted and disgusted, frisking him for the treat she knows he’ll have. Got it! — an orange hidden in the newspaper.
She’s been practising for weeks. Tonight she will sing publicly before a paying audience for the first time. Just at the Lyceum in Sydney. Just with amateurs and an audience of locals. But all the same. A performance is a performance.
“Always sing like you’re at the Metropolitan Opera,” says James. “Sing like you’re at La Scala and never forget your public.”