11.
Dempsey and Johnny were walking past the old Custom House, now a museum dedicated to the dispossessed indigenous Americans. When Dempsey had phoned Johnny, she told him that she had finally decided to at least try to get started on the final painting of her memorial to Jamey, The Raising of Lazarus. She had asked if he could come sometime soon to pose, which, in turn, might help her find the truth at the heart of the miraculous event which, only she, as an artist, would know.
He’d told her he was busy repairing the roof of his mother’s house. With a laugh, he mentioned that he was, during his off time, going from one task to another to keep his mind off more important things. As a matter of fact, he’d already fixed the fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk.
Now, at her request, he told her that he was on duty that evening but would come immediately and give her what time he could. He wouldn’t even bother to shower and hoped she wouldn’t mind.
Dempsey protested that it wasn’t all that urgent, but Johnny told her he was already on his way. Dempsey said in that case, the least she could do to show her appreciation was to meet him at the ferry.
Although he didn’t mean it, Johnny said, “That won’t be necessary.”
“That’s why I’m doing it.”
It pleased Johnny to say, “Well, if you insist.”
When he came down the ramp from the terminal, Dempsey saw that he’d meant what he’d said. His jeans were stained with tar from the roof, great swatches across the knees and lesser splotches dabbed near the pockets and up and down the right leg. The left leg, for whatever reason, was unspotted. His T-shirt was immaculate, and she suspected he had taken time to shower after all. Her suspicion was disproved when, after a clumsy raising and lowering of elbows and hands, they’d gone into each other’s arms. His body smelled like beef stew. When they’d separated for the obligatory look at each other, they avoided each other’s eyes. Because Dempsey was concentrating on his right cheek, she could tell that he was examining her forehead. They’d smiled, they’d hugged once more, and they’d turned and begun their walk to the loft.
After they got to Bowling Green, Dempsey looked a little bit toward her left. Johnny was staring straight ahead. His mouth was open. Was he going to say something? But he didn’t. He simply closed his mouth, then looked down at the sidewalk.
Was he as confused as she was? He had asked that she be cured and it had swiftly come to pass. Was he frightened by the mystery of what he’d done? Was he bewildered by whatever demands might be implicit in his success? Must he, like she herself, wait for some small bit of enlightenment that would show them the way out of the wilderness? Perhaps he, no less than she, had been set down in the labyrinth—not knowing how he got there or what might be expected of them now. No clues were being given, no guidance offered, no thread spun out to lead them safely back to the known world.
After they had crossed Fulton Street, Johnny, with surprising ease, said, “The word pitch is from tar. When we say pitch black that’s what we’re talking about. Tar. The pitch is in the tar.”
Then it was Dempsey’s turn to speak easily. “I found your maroon sock when I was scrubbing the loft floor.”
As if not understanding what she’d said, he said, “Scrubbing the floor? You?”
“Every single inch. And I also found seventy-six cents.”
“Seventy-six cents?”
“And a dead mouse. Long dead. Behind the stack of paintings near the elevator.”
“Died from the fumes.”
“Probably.”
Johnny turned and looked at her. “What are you going to buy with the seventy-six cents?” His smile lifted the corners of his mouth, making him look like an Irish imp come to distract her mind and disturb her seven senses.
She found herself smiling back. But when Johnny saw the smile, he quickly turned away. Was he frightened at the sight of her? As frightened as she was at the sight of him?
Hesitantly, she reached up and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. After a moment, Johnny placed a hand on her wrist, gently. He waited for not more than a few seconds before slowly taking it away. Dempsey, too, took back her hand. But Johnny wasn’t finished. He tried to take hold of the hand that had touched him. Dempsey drew it away.
“I can’t hold your hand?”
Softly she said, “I don’t know. Not now. Please.” She then added, “We should concentrate on the painting.”
After they’d walked less than half of a block, Johnny asked, “Am I moving back in?”
She shook her head and sadness broke over them like a burst of rain. “I don’t know, Johnny. I don’t think so, Johnny. And if you ask me why I don’t know, why I don’t think so, I can’t explain because I don’t know myself.”
“I see,” he said.
“Maybe if we concentrate on the painting?”
Johnny waited, then said, “Okay. If that’s what you need.” They continued on, saying nothing for the simple reason that there was too much more to be said.
12.
Father Dunphy was scrubbing the bottom of a huge aluminum pot. He stood up straight, submerged the pot into the rinse water, twirled it around, then put it on the drainboard. With a large cooking spoon he scraped the insides of the next pot, ridding it of as much rice as possible. He put it into the soapy water and said to Johnny, who was standing next to him, “Can you hear the organ from the church upstairs?”
Trying not to sound impatient, Johnny said, “Oh yeah, beautiful.”
“I suspect that our organist chooses to practice on Saturday afternoons, her contribution to what we’re doing.”
“Nice.”
“This is usually my time to myself, but for you I’ll make an exception. I come down here, stick my head in the tubs so no one can see me, and don’t surface until we close the place down. Nice warm sudsy water up over the elbows, time all by myself, time to think.” He pointed to a dishtowel on a rack next to the sink. “Dry that and stack it there, next to the stove. Then maybe we’ll see what I can do for you.”
Johnny obediently began drying the huge pot, the outside first, balancing it on the table so he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it. In the firehouse the cooking pots were outsized, but these were close to cauldrons. In the firehouse, of course, the cooking was for eight or nine at the most. Here it was for over five hundred and a simple saucepan would be regarded as an artifact from a distant culture.
The priest’s concentration on his scrubbing was absolute, the quick back-and-forth motion with the scouring pad. It was as if he were trying to scratch through an outer layer and discover the true metal underneath, like a hidden truth. Then the broader scrape to the edges of the pot, away from himself, toward himself, all done with muscles tensed from the neck on down. The hands and the fingers took strength from the shoulders and back and pressed into the stubborn residue with a determination that could only be called defiant.
The pot Johnny was drying had a small scab of rice stuck to the side. He considered giving it back to the priest but decided that its removal should be within his competence. He picked at it, but it seemed to be cooked right into the metal. He scratched at it a bit more aggressively and what hadn’t gone under his fingernail came loose. He cleared his fingernails into the pot, then upended it and let the rice fall to the floor, hoping Father Dunphy hadn’t witnessed his disregard for kitchen protocol. He set the pot on the counter.