Johnny lowered his hand and Dempsey lowered hers. He stood where he was and watched. Neither he nor Dempsey moved. The ferry continued its lumbering way, the gulls still screeching, a sound like mocking laughter. Dempsey became smaller. And Johnny knew that to her, he, too, was beginning to disappear.
15.
Dempsey had forgotten to warn Father Dunphy that the top half of the elevator door had the habit of lowering itself about six inches in rebound after it had been raised. Now it was too late. The priest had shoved the door all the way up, slamming the top part into the frame. It had bounced back and cracked the priest’s skull just above his forehead. Dempsey’s cry was louder than the priest’s and it was Dempsey, not Father Dunphy, who put her hand to her head in reflex against the injury.
“I should have told you!”
By now Father Dunphy was aware enough to realize he’d been hit on the head. He pressed a hand against the rising bump while Dempsey took his other hand and helped him safely into the loft. Carefully she lowered the offending door, wary of further misconduct. “I should have come downstairs myself with the elevator. It’s a strange beast. I’m really sorry.”
“Once, in the seminary, the branch of a tree fell on my head. Maple, and no leaves for a cushion. A real bonk. And pigeons, twice, have mistaken my balding head for a depository. I’m obviously a fair target and I won’t complain. Or sue.”
Dempsey led him to the couch in the living room area.
“Do you want to stretch out?”
“I’m not ready for that, I hope.”
“I’ll get some ice.”
“If it would make you feel better, but I hardly think it’s necessary.”
“It’s necessary for me. And I will feel better.”
Dempsey headed for the kitchen, the priest following. Without turning around, she was aware that he was giving the loft a fairly thorough once-over. She sensed his pause passing the worktable, his interest in the brushes she’d been cleaning, his examination of the backs of the paintings she’d turned to the wall so he wouldn’t see them, then his feet on the carpet near the couch, the halt just before to look to his right and observe the bedroom, the unmade bed, the spattered T-shirt and jeans thrown over a chair with, if she remembered correctly, a pair of sweat socks, white, and some sneakers tossed near the bathroom door.
She opened the refrigerator, the freezer, and took out the ice. Father Dunphy was crossing the carpet. Now he was in the kitchen area, just at the far side of the table. The ice cubes were rattled into a zip-lock bag, the bag secured on the third try, her fingers running along the hard tubing that finally joined to seal the opening.
The priest was watching her, closely. Of that she was sure. Now he was looking out the windows. How she knew all this, she had no idea. She just knew it. Now he was looking at her again. He was staring at her hair. To take his eyes off her, he was now looking back through the loft, contemplating the distance he’d come from the elevator to the kitchen. She heard a chair scrape. He was sitting down at the table. She was relieved to remember that she’d put the snifter of pills on the dresser in the bedroom, out of view.
“You’re very kind to let me interrupt your work like this.”
“I was only cleaning brushes.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“A break won’t hurt. They can use the soak.” She picked the dish towel up off the rack but decided it would be too thin, not enough padding around the plastic bag. The hand towel was better but maybe she should get a clean one—for a priest. Then she remembered: this was a clean one. She’d put it there a few hours before after smudging the other one with stains from the raspberries she’d eaten for her lunch. And, it occurred to her, she no longer needed to worry about infecting people, not that she could with a hand towel.
The towel now was neatly wrapped, the feel of the ice coming cold through the nubby cloth. Dempsey turned and held it out to the priest. Father Dunphy was eating grapes, the ones she’d bought along with the raspberries that morning. He seemed to savor the taste, his lips pushed forward as he moved a grape around in his mouth. Then he swallowed it, seeds and all. “Moscato grapes,” he said. “Not easy to find.”
“On Thompson Street, just above Canal.”
“When I was studying in Rome I developed many tastes—or maybe I developed all my tastes, but Moscato grapes are near the top of the list, changing places from time to time with grappa.”
“Help yourself.”
The priest giggled. It was meant to be a chuckle, but it came out a giggle. “I seem to have anticipated your offer. I couldn’t resist.”
He took the icepack and moved it around on his forehead, then back farther, then to the side, then to the middle again until he found the bump. “Can we sit somewhere away from the grapes? I want to leave at least a few for you.”
“I can get more.”
“No, the seeds probably aren’t good for me. But I always swallow Moscato seeds. I don’t want to stop eating the grapes.” He got up, the pack secure against his wound, and started toward the couch. “When you were a kid, were you given the notion that if you swallowed a seed—like a watermelon seed—a watermelon would grow inside you?”
“Of course. And I think I still believe it.” She, too, managed a small laugh.
“When you think about it,” the priest continued, “it was probably the beginning of our sex education—except we didn’t know it.” He paused at the couch. “May I sit here?”
“Please.”
“I can only stay a few minutes.” He sat down, but didn’t lean back. “I knew I’d be in the neighborhood, more or less, when I phoned you. I’m picking up an absentee ballot at Voter Registration on Varick Street. On my way back. Going on retreat but I don’t want to lose my vote. That young man coming up from Arkansas is obviously a rascal, but better a rascal than a Republican, as my mother would say. Don’t let me stay too long. They close at five.”
“Is that too cold?” Dempsey asked.
“Perfect. Especially on a warm day. If I were a Freudian, I’d suspect myself of having done the injury on purpose, just to get the cooling effect, to say nothing of the attention.”
Dempsey sat down on the ladder-back chair and folded her hands on her lap. Father Dunphy was busy taking another look at the workspace and the canvases turned to the wall. “You’re a painter, Johnny told me.”
“Yes. A painter.”
“And those are your paintings.”
“Yes. My paintings.”
“And you prefer not to have them seen?”
“Maybe you should just thank me for being spared the experience.”
He laughed, then said, “All right. I do thank you.”
Dempsey parted her hands then brought them together again, a gesture she hoped was sufficiently noncommittal.
“Since I’ve so little time,” the priest said, “is it all right if I don’t waste any of it pretending this is just a social call?”
“I hadn’t thought for a moment that it was.”
“Johnny told me about—your cure.”
Dempsey waited a moment, then said, “I wish he hadn’t.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry he did.”
“Oh?”
“I really wanted to come here to—well—to ask you if there’s anything I might do for you.”