Lunch Under the Willow

Mollie stood outside St Gregory's school looking as forlorn as she could manage in the bright afternoon sun. The sidewalk was full of happily free students running around in their blue jumpers and brown corduroy pants. Sister Evelyn stood talking to Terry Wright's mother. The nun and Terry's mother had been friends since childhood, and they stood there almost every day visiting. It was strange to watch them. Terry's mother said, "Fuck" or "Damn" or "Jesus" after almost every word, and sister Evelyn just stood there in the sunshine across the street from the little church, listening. Boys and girls both wore the same kind of white shirt with square collars and blue and white saddle shoes.. Jimmy was sitting in his huge, ancient car on the street, waiting for Grace to come out with Kathleen so he could drive them the three quarters of a mile home. Mollie hoped Grace or Jimmy would offer her a ride if she stood there looking sad enough. Grace and Kathleen emerged from the door with the statue of the Virgin Mary over it and into the street. As she and her daughter climbed into Jimmy's back seat, Grace said, "Hop in, Girlie," and Maggie gratefully hopped into the front seat. "Home, James," Grace said. Jimmie's right arm was gone from the elbow down, and he wore what Maggie thought looked like a sock over the stump sticking out of his short sleeved shirt. The Dodgers were on the radio, playing the World Series. Jimmie talked about how he lost his arm in the war while he listened to the game. When the Dodgers made a home run, there'd be lots of yelling on the radio, and Jimmie would poke her in the ribs with his stump in excitement. At first, Maggie had been horrifiied at being poked with a stump covered in a sock, but after a few rides, she got used to it. Jimmie was retired and volunteered at the church during the day. In the afternoon, he drove Grace and Kathleen home, and if Maggie was lucky, she got a ride the mile to her house, too. Mollie was in second grade, and Kathleen a grade behind her with Jo. Mollie and Jo walked to school together every morning past Kathleen's house. It was set back from Figueroa by a huge lawn with a weeping willow and a pepper tree shading Kathleen's little table with matching chairs. Grace and Kathleen met them every morning, and they all walked to school together. Kathleen did not have a father. Grace said he had been killed in the war. Grace lived with Kathleen in the house under the the pepper tree with her grandparents and her mother. All four of them were very quiet, unlike Maggie's family. Grace made all of Kathleen's dresses for Mass from pretty material with little flowers and two satin ribbons around the waist. Grace made dresses for herself exactly the same, but bigger.
Once, Grace invited Jo and Maggie to have lunch with Kathleen on Saturday, and for a miracle, Mother let them go. Usually, Mother called the mother of any child who invited Maggie for lunch and very politely refused the invitation. Maggie was always furious and depressed listening to her Mother say how she knew so and so's Mother was too busy to have Maggie for lunch. This time, though, maybe she didn't have the phone number or something, but she dressed Mollie and Jo in their best dresses, and the girls walked the same route to Kathleen's house they walked every morning. This time, though, they walked up the walk that went down the center of the lawn, which was in the front instead of the back like everybody else, to the front door and politely knocked. Kathleen's grandmother answered the door with Kathleen in her pretty dress with pink ribbons around the waist. She led the three girls to Kathleen's little table in the shade. Today, it had a little flowered tablecloth, small plates and cloth napkins. They sat in chairs that matched the table, and Grace served them tuna sandwiches on a pretty plate, cut in half with no crusts. She poured lemonade into small glasses with ice. Mollie was very impressed with the elegance of the lives of Kathleen, her mother, and her grandparents. They clearly lived a much nicer life than Mollie and her six brothers and sisters. There were always neighborhood children for lunch on Saturday after the library or the pool, depending on the time of year. They sat with the Sullivan children in the kitchen nook, lined up on benches with Maggie at the end so she could get up when more milk was necessary or it was time for Popsicles. They ate whatever horror Mother had stirred up with tomato sauce out of leftovers. The neighborhood kids seemed to like these lunches; Maggie hated them, but in Maggie's house, you came to meals and ate what you got if you valued you life. There were certainly no miniature, crustless sandwiches or lemonade in glasses that matched the dishes.

Mollie loved the Gregorian Chant Requiem Mass. She had been learning to sing it since first grade, and when she was in sixth grade, she was allowed to join the choir and sing Mass when someone died in the parish. She stood in the choir box over the people next to the Mrs. Grady, the organist, dirctly in front of Sister Julie St Francis, at least once a month. She looked down at the flowers, the casket, the people in black and sang for God's mercy. She did not have to read the Latin or hear the nun give the tone on her lilttle wheel. She knew the responses by heart, Et cum spiritu tuo. And with your spirit. When she got back to her room in the school, she ate cereal from a box at her desk with the rest of the choir while the boys got to read their books or color. She would look for music like that for the rest of her life, but all the Gregorian chant on records was by monks from this or that monastery in Europe and was not the same. She never knew the people in the caskets or their black clothes trailing after the casket with the priest spreading incense as they left the church. She felt nothing but the glory of the music. The shout of the Kyrie. Have mercy.
Once, when she was in third grade, she had had to leave school for some reason, and Jimmy had taken her home in his ancient Chevy, but he had stopped at his house first for some small errand. Maggie had gone into his house with him, chattering. She sat in the little living room while he went into the back, and she met Vera. Jimmy was old. He had fought in WW l and l lost the lower part of his right arm. Vera was , of course, old too, a thin, fluttery old lady, and she clearly loved Jimmy. She flitted around him, telling him to take a sweater, it was cold. She had eyes only for Jimmy and hardly noticed Mollie.
Then, in eighth grade, Mollie sang Vera's Requiem Mass. It was the first time Mollie had known the person in the casket, and she watched the pall bearers carry the casket with Vera down the center aisle. She watched the priest follow with the censer. She watched Jimmy, quiet for the first time since she had known him. She wondered how Jimmy would do without his Vera skittering around, cooking for him, making sure he had his sweater when he went out in the rain to help in the parish, to drive forlorn little girls home, listning to the Dodgers. Mollie did not see Jimmy again for some months, and she didn't think about him or Vera. Then she sang his Requiem. She stood in the box, next to Mrs. Grady, in front of Sister Julie St Francis and sang the clean, plainsong for Jimmy and thought about love. Jimmy could not live without his Vera. That was what happened when you married for the usual reasons, went to war, lost your arm, came home and worked. You bought a house and lived in it for maybe sixty years. Mollie had never heard whether Jimmy had children, but he had worked until he retired. Mollie did not know at what. He had lived with Vera so long that he could not live without her. He had true love.