Free Watching Jimmy by Nancy Hartry Page A

her chin and onto her bosom.
    “I wonder if he’ll let us stay until Christmas.”
    “Where will you go?” I whisper. I can’t imagine what the answer to this question will be.
    Nor can Aunt Jean. “Help me up, dear.”
    I brace her under the elbow and lever her to a standing position. I think that my shoulder will crumple with the weight of her body leaning on mine.
    Aunt Jean is distracted at breakfast. She manages onebite of toast and a sip of tea that I lift to her lips. I look at my mother for help. She shrugs her shoulders as if to say “What can I do? What can anybody do?”
    Aunt Jean smacks the table top with her two palms. “I want to go to church.”
    I know she’s in no condition to go to St. James. I beg her to come with me to St. Olave’s instead. “It’s not far. You can hear me singing. I’m in the choir and I have to get going pretty soon.”
    “Jean, be realistic,” Mom says. “You aren’t well enough to travel downtown on the streetcar. Let me call Ted and he can drive you.”
    “Over my dead body!” There are no pauses in Aunt Jean’s words now. They come out in a rush.
    Aunt Jean agrees to a compromise. She’ll rest all day and she and I will take a cab to the streetcar loop in time to catch evensong at St. James. That way, she can save her energy and her pennies. While we’re gone, Mom will stay home with Jimmy and they can catch a nap.
    At three o’clock, Aunt Jean’s dressed and waiting for me. She’s applied some powder and lipstick to her face, which only makes the paleness of her skin more pronounced. She’s dressed in black from top to bottom andsmells faintly of mothballs. The netting from her old hat is askew. There’s nothing fashionable about what Aunt Jean is wearing today. She’s no competition for the Rosedale ladies.
    The taxi man is kind. He speaks with an Italian accent, but he turns the meter off and waits quietly until the King car arrives so Aunt Jean won’t get chilled. He helps her up the stairs. She gives him a coin from her purse and I can tell he’s surprised. He doesn’t expect a tip from a sick lady who is clearly so poor.
    Outside the cathedral, the bells are rocking, rocking so exuberantly that I imagine them whipping horizontally back and forth, calling Aunt Jean and me to pray.
    Come in. Come on.
    Come in. Come on.
    Surely, the bells can be heard all the way to Swansea.
    People stream into the church and I’m surprised at the number of parishioners. The sunlight flickers weakly through the stained glass. The church is drafty. The candles wavery and smoky. When the bells finally stop and the organ takes over with a funereal dirge, I want to weep,but as I said, I’m not the weeping kind. Instead, I roll, I twist my lace gloves in my hands until they resemble one of Jimmy’s bedsheets, “warshed” clean of urine and squeezed dry of soap and water, ready for the clothes line.
    “Let us pray.”
    It’s a luxury to sit in my seat beside Aunt Jean listening to the Men and Boys Choir. Evensong is all about music and I don’t have to be interrupted once to check up on Jimmy. I’m glad we’ve left Jimmy home. I feel a prickle of guilt thinking that, and then it’s gone with one phrase of celestial notes.
    The boys — just the boys, mind — chant all on one note. I find myself putting words to the tones. Not the Latin words of the magnificat, but ordinary words with weight and melody. “Lin — ol — e-um-mm-mmm-mmmn. Win — der — me — re-re-re-re. Thun — der — bir-d-d-d-d-d.” These three-and four-syllable words don’t sound like nonsense when chanted. They make about as much sense as the words in Latin coming from the boys’ mouths. Do they know what they’re singing? Some of them are so young, they can’t know how to read music. How do they sing at all?
    “Di-ap-per-s-s-s. Un-der-wear-r-r-r-r. Tor-on-to-o-o-o-o.” Words with natural interval changes. Words toplay with. Words for rhythm, for nonsense. “El-bow. El-bow to