Dreamsleeves (14 page)

T
here's a quiet after the storm, like always.

Dad brings home onion-garlic potato chips and orange soda and three boxes of Friehofer's chocolate chip cookies. But I am way, way past food bribes for forgiveness.

I will never let him hurt me or anyone in my family ever again.

On Sunday morning I decide to test out my Dreamsleeves idea in a very brave way. I take a name label from my father's desk, snip off the
HELLO MY NAME IS
— you'd think a grown man could handle “hello” without a reminder — and I print out a message with a red marker.

Now it's not a name tag; it's a dream tag. When we get to church I will wear it on my sleeve.

My plan is to be the first O'Neill to file into the pew, so there will be Beck, Callie, Dooley, and Mom with Eddie on her lap between me and my father, so that even if Dad does see my dream, he won't be able to do a thing about it.

What's he going to do, yell at me? I don't think so. My father would never raise his voice or cause a scene in church. He has too much respect or maybe fear of God and Father Reilly for that. Sunday is the one day Roe O'Neill is always on his best behavior.

My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty; it's almost time. After the Sign of Peace I take the label from my pocket and follow my mom and dad up the aisle toward the altar. Just before it's my turn to receive Communion, I stick my dream on my sleeve, right up top where Father Reilly cannot miss it:

Please make my dad stop drinking
.

When Father Reilly extends the little round host perched between his thumb and pointer finger and says “The body of Christ,” I look him straight in the face, lock his eyes in mine, and I point to the dream on my sleeve.

The priest's bushy gray eyebrows rise up a bit. He reads the label and nods.

“Amen,” I say, smiling.

He places the tiny white wafer on my tongue.

I make the sign of the cross and start back to my pew, nearly dancing I'm so relieved. Father Reilly will make Dad stop drinking. Mission accomplished. My dad will do anything that priest tells him to do. I don't know why I didn't think of this before! Well, I did, but confession isn't a place where you can talk.

The back-to-your-seat line is moving slowly. Maria Carroll is kneeling, hands folded at the end of a pew. She smiles a big sunshiny smile when she sees me. Then she leans toward me, staring at my sleeve.

Oh my gosh, I forgot. I quickly rip off the label, crumple it in my pocket. But Maria read it. I can see it in her face.

After Mass, when our family files out into the vestibule, Maria Carroll is waiting for me. She squeezes my arm gently, leans in, and whispers, “Come see me, A. I mean it. I want to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, “I will.”

Father Reilly is talking to my parents. “I'd like to stop by for a visit later, if that's all right with you?”

“Yes, of course, Father,” my mom says, delighted. It's not every day a priest comes to visit.

“Would three o'clock be okay?” the priest asks.

“Certainly, Father,” my dad says, beaming with pride.

Alla-lu-ya!

Alla-lu-ya! Lu-ya! Lu-ya!

Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God.

Thank you!
Finally my dream's coming true!

We hurry down the hill home.

“A, please help the little ones change into play clothes,” Mom says to me. “And then give them some cinnamon toast.” She rushes to her room to change into a smock and scurries back into the kitchen before the toast pops up. “No time for a big brunch today,” she says. “I need to bake a cake for Father.”

My mother bustles happily about the kitchen, pulling out flour, sugar, baking pans, eggs and butter and chocolate. She even breaks a smile once or twice, as if a huge burden has been lifted from her shoulders. As if she, too, knows our problem is solved.

“I'm going to a car show in Albany,” Dad says. Figures he'd leave when there's work to be done.

“Don't be too long, Roe,” Mom says. “Father's coming at three.”

I'm so excited I think I will burst. I mop the dining room floor with Murphy's Oil Soap and polish the table and buffet with Pledge. I set out a tablecloth and our holiday china dessert plates and cups and saucers. I fill the sugar bowl and the creamer, put out cloth napkins and forks and spoons.

After she finishes baking, Mom gives each of the little ones a bath and changes them back into their Sunday-best clothes. She's sweating hot from all the exertion.

“Mom, go get yourself ready. I'll take care of Eddie.”

I dress E in a cute blue and white sailor suit and comb his wispy hair.

After the cake is cool enough to frost, my mother surveys the dining room table to make sure everything looks perfect. “We need a centerpiece,” she says. She goes to the china closet and takes out the heavy crystal vase. It was a wedding present. Everything expensive we own was a wedding present. I love looking through Mom and Dad's white-with-gold-trim wedding album. They were so young and happy.

Mom hands me a scissors. “Clip some flowers from Nana's garden.”

Outside, I snip daisies next to the gnomes. White-bearded Red is sitting on a tree stump, a book propped on his lap. The book is open and Red's staring intently at the pages. There is the imprint of a tulip on one page, a daisy on the other. One time I told Nana that Red “wasn't really reading” because there weren't any words on the pages. I was seven or so and proud of how smart I was. “He's studying how to make a good garden,” Nana said. “That's hard work, too, you know.”
I love you, Nana. I miss you.

Bouquet in hand I turn to go in, but not before I admonish the brown-bearded, big-bellied, green-hatted gnome, Green, with the beer mug hoisted high in his hand.

“You really should stop drinking, Green. It isn't good for you.”

A
t three o'clock sharp, the front door buzzer rings. “Go let Father Reilly in, A,” my mom calls. “And where is your dad?”

I walk down the inside carpeted stairwell to the first-floor landing, a staircase that hardly ever gets used and not at all now that Nana is away. I unlock the two locks.

“Hello, Father,” I say, so grateful that he came I nearly hug him. This is it. The day I've prayed for. The day someone will make my dad stop drinking. My whole body is sizzling-shaking with excitement.

“Afternoon, Aislinn,” he says, nodding his head with a smile and a wink. He smells like soap and Listerine. He removes his hat and follows me up the stairs to our living room.

“May I take your coat, Father?” I ask. It hasn't rained in weeks, but better safe than sorry, I guess.

“Welcome to our home, Father,” Mother gushes, first wiping off her hands on the apron she's wearing over her nicest maternity dress, then clasping the priest's hand warmly in hers. “We are so honored.”

It's a really, really big deal when a priest comes to your house. The only other time I ever remember him coming was after we buried my uncle Mark and he stopped by the luncheon downstairs at Nana's.

My father walks in. Thank goodness. Imagine if I went to all that trouble and risked my dad seeing my Dreamsleeve in church and got Father Reilly here for a once-in-a-lifetime chance and my father didn't come home!

“Sorry I'm late,” Dad says, all smiling, reaching out to shake Father Reilly's hand. “It's not every day we have a holy visitor.”

My father is in a very good mood, all bubbly and cracking jokes. Hopefully that's because he had a good time at the car show and not because he stopped at a bar.

I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach.
Oh, no, what if Father Reilly reprimands my father for drinking right in front of all of us instead of in private? What if he threatens to hold back absolution for my father's sins and my father gets scared, or worse, angry, and takes it out on us when Father leaves? What if …

“Let's have some refreshments,” my mom says all cheerfully, like the mother on
The Brady Bunch
, motioning us toward the dining room.

“Here, Father, sit here,” she says to the priest, offering him the chair at the head of the table where my dad usually sits.

“You sit here, Roe,” Mom says, motioning my father to sit at the other head spot, which is where she usually sits.

My body is tingling, pins and needles all over.

B, C, and D are speechless. They just keep staring at the priest like “what the heck is he doing here?”

Mom offers Father Reilly a cup of tea. I offer the creamer and the sugar bowl.

Mom sets the chocolate cake trimmed with pink rosebuds in front of our guest and he nods most appreciatively.

“Well, look at that,” Father Reilly says. He whispers something to Callie and she giggles. “Yes, you can have two pieces,” she says, giggling some more.

Dad smiles at Father Reilly like “isn't she adorable?”

Callie is loving all of this attention. We never have visitors. This is certainly a special day. Mom cuts the cake and I pass out the plates.

The cake looks scrumptious, but I'm too nervous to eat.
How will he do it? Will he ask my father to walk outside with him? Or come by the rectory later?

Mom pours tea for my dad and me and then milk for the little ones.

Callie keeps trying to get Father Reilly's attention again. She leaves the table and when she comes back, she has one of the name labels and a pen with her. She motions for Father to bend down. She whispers something in his ear.

“Say that again,” the priest says.

Callie whispers in his ear and hands him the name tag and pen.

“Well, all right,” the priest says, laughing. “Let's give this a try.” He writes something on the label and sticks it in the pocket of his black suit coat.

“No, you're supposed to wear it,” Callie says, giggling.

“Let's eat,” my mother interrupts. “Will you say grace, Father?”

“Certainly. Let us bow our heads and pray.” Father Reilly thanks God for this “lovely cake” and for “this fine Catholic family seated around this table. Amen.”

I open my eyes. Father Reilly is looking right at me. He winks and smiles like “don't worry, everything will be fine.”

I sigh, relieved, the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. I close my eyes,
thank you, God, for making my dream come true
. I open my eyes.

My dad's almost crying he's so proud of this happy family scene before him.

Mom asks Father Reilly about his summer plans.

He's heading up to Canada. He likes to canoe and fish.

I take a bite of cake and then another. “Mmm, this is delicious, Mom.”

Beck says something funny and Father Reilly laughs and my father locks eyes with the priest as if to say, “I know, don't I have the cutest children?”

After a second cup of tea, Father Reilly stands. “I really must be leaving. I have a hospital visit to make.”

“I'll walk you out, Father,” my dad says.

Good. Now Father Reilly will be able to speak with Dad in private and tell him to stop drinking, or else. Picture that hot place worse than purgatory, buddy.
You know where
.

“Would you take an extra piece home with you, Father?” Mom says, extending a plate wrapped in foil.

“Oh, yes, Maggie. The cake was delicious. I'll enjoy this tonight after dinner.”

“See!” Callie says, giggling, clapping her hands. “I told you it would work!”

“Yes you did, little one,” Father says, patting her head. “Yes, indeed.” He pulls the sticker out of his pocket. I lean in to read it.
A second piece of cake.

I wink and smile at Callie.

“Here, now you try it,” Father Reilly says, handing the dream tag to Callie. She takes it happily and sticks it on the sleeve of her dress.

“Now if I might just have my coat,” Father says.

When I hand the priest his raincoat I try to lock eyes with him, but he is saying good-bye to the little ones. He makes the sign of the cross on their foreheads with his thumb, blessing them. My father watches all of this, face beaming.

I want to whisper “thank you” in Father Reilly's ear, but I don't get the chance. No worries, I'll stop by the rectory tomorrow.

My dad turns the knob, opens the door, “After you, Father,” and then they are off down the never-used staircase.

I go to my phone-bench perch in the dining room and watch them walk across the lawn and down the driveway to the priest's car. It's big and black and fancy.

They talk for a few minutes. My father's head droops down. He puts his palms on the hood of the priest's car and leans over. The priest touches my dad's back. Father Reilly gets in his car. My dad looks up at the window. I pull back quickly. Mission accomplished.

Mom is so pleased with how things went. I help her clear the dining room table. “I think I'll have a second piece of cake now, too,” I say.

Then in a flash, my father rushes into the dining room. He picks up the heavy crystal vase and smashes it on the table, glass cracking, flowers flying, water spewing everywhere.

“What the hell were you thinking of?” he screams at me. “Embarrassing this family. Lying to that priest!”

I'm standing across the table from him, shocked and shaking. He moves toward me. I move away. He runs and lunges. I move faster. He's chasing me around the table. “Come here,” he shouts, “come here!”

“No!” I scream, terrified.

“Stop it, Roe!” my mother shrieks. She's holding the kitchen broom high up in the air as if she might strike him with it. “Stop it this instant or I'll call the police.”

My father freezes. He looks at my mother. “Yeah, right,” he says.

“I will,” my mom screams, her face crumbling with anger and fear and love and loathing. The broom is shaking in her hand. “I swear as God is my judge, Roe O'Neill, I will.”

My body shudders as if I'll explode. B, C, and D are huddled in the corner crying. Baby E is yanking on his crib, screaming for someone to get him.

My father makes a sound like he's spitting. He grabs his blue jacket, the one with the muffler company name on it from when he won that trip to the Bahamas, and he storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

It's so quiet you could hear a flower grow. Something like peace settles over the room. My mother and I lock eyes. There's broken glass and water
drip-drip-drip
ping off the table, but neither of us is rushing for towels or a mop.

My mother opens her arms and I go to her. As she hugs me, I feel Dooley wrap his arms around my legs, hugging me so hard he'll cut off my circulation. “It's okay, A,” he says. “It's okay. It's okay.” Callie runs to hug me, too. Beck helps E out of his crib.

I tell my mother about the dream I wore in church. “I thought Father Reilly could fix things,” I say, sobbing. “But all he did was say grace and eat our cake and get me in trouble with Dad.”

“You're not in trouble, sweetheart,” my mom says, stroking my hair. “No. Your father is the one who's in trouble.”