“You’re lying,” he hissed, shaking his head. “It’s not true.”
But he
saw in her eyes that it was true.
“Oh, Christ,” he whispered, waiting for his secondhand heart to stop beating. The grief was a great, crunching pain on his chest, filling his throat, stinging his eyes. “God damn it, who doesn’t wear a seat belt in the nineties?” He latched on to anger instead of the grief that grew with each indrawn breath. “And what the hell was he doing in Portland, anyway? He’s a priest, not a traveling salesman. He never could drive for shit. I remember when we were kids—”
No, he thought desperately, don’t think about that now. Oh, Jesus, don’t think about anything. But he couldn’t help himself. He remembered it all in sudden clarity, the day Francis had taught him to drive. How they’d driven around and around the school parking lot, that old Impala of their mom’s jerking and spitting and dying every time one of them tried to switch gears … how they’d laughed and cursed and then laughed again….
“Not Franco,” he whispered, looking to Mad. “It should have been me instead.”
The sadness in her eyes made his own tears fall. “I wish I could change it, Angel.”
“Did … did he suffer?” He hated the question the minute he asked it—it was so ordinary and useless—but he needed an answer.
Her gaze skittered away from his. “The doctors on the scene said he was killed instantly. There was nothing they could do.”
They sat there, crying side by side for what felt like hours. Angel cried for so many things—all the times he hadn’t called Francis, all the Christmas cards he’d never sent. What had he thought, that they would all live forever?
“Jesus, Mad,” he said brokenly, “I didn’t say …” His words trailed off. There was so much he didn’t say. So many mistakes and lost chances and selfishness. Christ, so much selfishness.
“He knew you loved him, Angel. He always knew that.”
The knowledge sank through him, weighing him down. He wanted it to help—wished it helped—but it didn’t. It only made it hurt more, knowing that Francis had always loved him. “He died on the way to Portland.” He tried to make sense of it. “That must have been hours after I saw him. Jesus, how could I not have known that he was gone all this time?”
Madelaine looked away again, stared at the clock on the wall, then slowly met his gaze. “On the way to Portland,” she said slowly. “Yes. Yes.”
“Why did you wait all this time to tell me?”
“Your heart was too fragile.”
He wanted to say something mean and bitter to that, something about the dead man’s heart in his chest, but he couldn’t. “God, he’s been dead over a week and I didn’t know. Did you have a funeral without telling me, too?”
“His parishioners wanted a big Catholic funeral. I didn’t tell you because you couldn’t get out of isolation, and they couldn’t wait any longer. We can do a quiet family memorial service when you feel better.”
He closed his eyes, imagining some church filled with flowers, and a long wooden aisle that led up to the glossy coffin on the altar. Just like Pop’s funeral, only this time it wouldn’t be an old man’s body lying on all that puffy white satin. It would be Francis—Francis lying dead in a wooden box….
Draped in flowers—they always draped the coffins in flowers, as if the prettiness on the outside could change what lay within. The place would reek with the sickly sweet scent of the lilies, and they’d play that god-awful music, designed to make you cry.
“No,” he said, feeling the tears creep back into his throat. “I don’t want to remember Francis that way. I’ll say good-bye to him in my own way when I get out of this place.”
They fell silent again, staring at each other. Angel tried not to think about Francis, but he couldn’t stop. “It’s funny, Mad….” He surprised himself by speaking aloud; he hadn’t meant to. But she was the only person in the world whom he could talk to, the only person who knew Angel and Francis and the old days. “Even all those years I was gone, I always knew Francis was out there. Every time I got my picture on the cover of a magazine or a movie poster, I thought of Francis. I knew he’d pick it up and smile and shake his head. I knew he was waiting for my call, and I kept picking up the phone, but somehow I never dialed. And when he came to see me the other day, there were so many things I meant to say, but we fell into that old routine of Saint Francis and Angel the Screw-up, and the words never got said.” He looked at her, wishing she could grant him absolution for his sins. But it was his brother he should have asked for that, and now it was too late. “I guess I thought we were both immortal.”
The smile that reached her eyes was sad. “I know what you mean. I … hurt Francis’s feelings just before he left. I did it so easily, so thoughtlessly, and when I realized what I’d done, I thought I could make up for it with the same ease….”
He saw her pain and it gave him an unexpected strength. “He loved you, Mad. From the first moment he saw you in the hospital room, he loved you.”
“You remember that day?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. She had every reason to believe he’d forgotten. Once, he thought he had, but now he knew the memories of her were still inside him, protected and cared for through all these years. He gazed at her so long, he felt his tears return. He wanted to open his arms to her, to draw her close so they could take from and give to each other, so that neither of them felt alone.
But he was afraid that if he touched her right now, if he curled his arms around her and felt her tears spill on his throat, he’d be lost.
“What are we going to do, Mad?” he whispered.
She crossed her arms and stared at him, her cheeks glossy with tears. “We’re going to try to live without him.”
Madelaine stood in front of the rectory, carrying a huge, empty box. To the left the big brick church sparkled with reflected light, but the small, nut-brown house was dark and deserted-looking. Bright orange and gold Thanksgiving decorations—made by the Sunday school class, no doubt—dotted the windows. Pilgrims and cornucopias and turkeys.