Free Joy School by Elizabeth Berg Page B

anything.
    “Forget it,” she says. “Nothing.”
    We stop talking. It looks like this walk will cheer up only one of us: Bridgette is happy as could be. Stones are a whole show to her. She sniffs each one like it’s breaking her heart to leave it; like later, when no one is interfering, she’ll come back and visit it the right way.

B efore I go to sleep, I think about making the pies and how it would have been different if my mother were here. Well, for one thing they would have turned out. And sometimes someone would have smiled. She would have had some music on, probably her Perry Como album. I like him, too. He seems like such a nice man and I understand he used to only be a barber.
    I close my eyes and think of my mother in an outfit where I get to touch everything. I like to do this. I make up outfits of my choice. Last time it was a dance dress I made up, a filmy white thing with rhinestones on the bodice, and thin, thin straps that are called spaghetti. Tonight I make her wearing a blue fancy suit. A square, button jacket and a straight skirt. It’s a mohair suit. There is a scarf with it, tucked in rich at the neck. And a pin on her shoulder, a peacock pin with many jewels in the tail. “That’s a diamond,” she says, when I touch it. “That’s a ruby. That’s a sapphire.” When I ask are they real, she laughs and says yes of course, and that she is saving that pin for me when we meet up again.She is wearing a little round hat. Nylons and blue matching high heels. She is happy.
    So tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In everyone’s oven will be one dead turkey. I used to like taking walks on Thanksgiving afternoon, thinking you could walk up any sidewalk to any door and knock on it and when it opened, turkey smell. Even if the people don’t speak English. But now I have to say I am not much looking forward to Thanksgiving. Our table will be small and quiet. I don’t think a single person but me will want the wishbone.
    Friday afternoon, I am sitting in Father Compton’s church when I hear him coming up behind me. I can tell it’s him from the wheeze in his nose. I turn around and smile. I would like to have a word with him.
    He is a good kind of priest because he sees that, without my saying anything. He sits in the pew opposite me, nods. “How are you, Katie?” I’ve got all the time in the world, he is saying.
    “Okay.” Good, because I need to talk to you, I am saying.
    “Paying us a visit today?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He sits still, waits.
    I clear my throat, smile again. “Could I ask you something?”
    He nods, serious.
    “Okay. So … okay, I’ll just say it. Did you ever have a time in your life when you lied a lot?” Well, now there is a jump of fear in me because what if I am wrong about his character?
    But he just thinks for awhile, staring off over my shoulder. Then, looking back at me, “Yes.”
    I wait.
    He raises an eyebrow.
    I clench one fist, keep my mouth shut.
    “But you’re not here to talk about me, are you?” he finally says.
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, then.” He looks at his watch. “Would you like to come into my office and talk there for a little bit? It’s more private. And I have a box of chocolate-covered cherries someone gave me that I’ll never finish by myself.”
    I shiver a little like a breeze has gone down my neck. It’s from the pure relief of him. I say yes, I would like to go to his office. While I’m following him there, it comes to me that nobody gave him those chocolates. He bought them for himself, but he’s going to share with me. What they ought to do is make him pope. I sigh loudly, happy. He turns toward me, checks my face, then turns away again, continues his slow, bent-over walk toward his office. Yes, his back is saying. Right this way. The language of the body can be such a gentle thing.
    Riding my bike to Cynthia’s house, I think about what I told Father Compton. I don’t know if it was such a good idea. Although he was very nice all the