Good Harbor

“That is quite a pair of pants he’s wearing.”

“You noticed?”

“They took out a piece of breast. My eyes are fine. For your next cover, they could take a picture of my radiology doctor.”

“Do tell.”

Kathleen tried to do justice to the surpassing beauty of Dr. Singh during the short drive to the Tabachniks’ house. As they pulled up, Joyce pointed to the statue and said, “Let me introduce you.”

They stood on either side of Mary in silence for a moment. Kathleen bent down to pick up the crown of plastic flowers, which had fallen to the ground.

“My sister disliked this sort of thing: the crowns, the May processionals, all that. She said it made Mary into a kind of beauty queen. Pat thought of her as one tough cookie, a fierce soul. But I think Pat was the fierce one. She projected herself onto the Blessed Mother.”

Joyce didn’t know what to say. “Jews know so little about Mary. Or Jesus for that matter. How do we get away with that, living in this culture?”

“I don’t know,” said Kathleen. “Fear? Defensiveness?”

Joyce tried to look at the statue defenselessly. The half smile on the Virgin’s face was pensive. Back erect, head inclined to the right, she seemed to be listening. She held her hands at an intentional angle, like a dancer, her fingers reaching, inviting you to approach. It was a gesture of welcome that seemed both formal and genuine. Nice body language. Gentle and still. Attentive. The mother we all wish for.

“She’s always young, isn’t she?” said Joyce.

“What?” Kathleen had been thinking about the way Pat had prayed over Danny’s body after the doctor had removed the ventilator.

“Mary is always young in these statues, isn’t she? Firm chin, no wrinkles, no regrets.”

“No regrets,” repeated Kathleen. “I never thought of that. Maybe that’s why I’m not a Catholic anymore.” Joyce had no idea what Kathleen meant, but she didn’t ask her to explain. It seemed too personal a question — like asking to see the tattoos on her breast.

They parted with promises to walk again.

From the rearview mirror, Kathleen watched Joyce wave goodbye. She looks sad, Kathleen thought. I’ll call her tomorrow.

KATHLEEN SAT ON the deck and counted seven pots of sweet william. I guess that’s one good thing about getting older, she thought. Everyone knows your favorite flowering annual.

Buddy had brought home two big plants from the supermarket, Hal had shipped one, Madge Feeney had collected money and sent one from the staff, the principal had sent over another on his own. Louisa from next door left hers on the porch with an envelope containing three marijuana cigarettes and a note that read, “Proven appetite booster.” Jeanette wired her flowers from Florida with a printed card that said only, “Get Well Soon.”

Kathleen decided she’d plant the whole bunch in one big clump near the lone granite boulder in the front yard. They would make a great shout of magenta in one of the few spots she hadn’t filled with daylilies. But not just this minute.

She leaned back in the chaise, put her feet up, and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warmth on her forehead, her nose, her forearms. Kathleen had never been much of a sunbather, but she knew that once she started radiation, she’d avoid the sun, even though no one at the clinic had said she had to take extraordinary precautions.

“I’m thinking about gardening by the light of the moon and grocery shopping at midnight,” she said to Hal and Jack, both of whom had taken to calling every night.

She lingered for a few minutes on this golden morning and savored the smell of new mulch.

The book slipped off her lap and landed with a thud. Kathleen was nervous about starting Magnolia’s Heart and regretted having told Joyce she knew the identity of Cleo Lehigh. What if it was really bad? Could she lie convincingly if she had to? Could she be a friend to the writer of a bad book? And if not, what kind of person did that make her?

As she reached for the paperback, the phone rang. Saved, she thought, jumping up.

A familiar voice introduced herself as Michelle Hertz and Kathleen tried to summon a face. “I found out that we live in practically the same neighborhood and I wondered if you’d like some company.”

Kathleen suddenly remembered the young rabbi.

“Or if this isn’t a convenient time . . . ,” the rabbi said.

“No, of course. Please,” Kathleen insisted. “Come join me for iced tea.”

Rabbi Hertz said she’d be there in a few minutes. “And don’t make a fuss. I won’t stay long, and I promise not to pray or anything.”