This Magnificent Desolation by Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley
Authors: Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley
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softly, like an echo of Julieâs voice, and then grasps the hem of his robe and races down the tile toward the campanile.
On a cushion placed upon the high sideboard next to Father Toibinâs desk, the cat with the green eyes shudders as if it is dreaming and then stretches languidly. Bits of its hair swirl in the thin feathery light cast by two table lamps.
We are all worried, Father Toibin says, and he opens his hands toward Duncan, a gesture to include, Duncan assumes, all the children in his care.
We are all worried when we feel we might not be as attentive as well as we might. Sometimes we become distracted ourselves and are not always mindful of what it is to be a child and the pressures and forces that they feel. If there is anything bothering you, Duncan? You can tell me.
On the mantel, a clock of black polished ash ticks slowly as if it needs to be wound.
Your mother, I know, loves you and misses you very much, but often parents can be misguided by their own wishes, selfishness which is only brought about by love, really, and they fail to see what is best for their children.
Duncan struggles with Father Toibinâs words, and then he struggles to retrieve them. My mother? he thinks, did he say my mother?
We all want what is best for you. Do you understand that?
Father Toibin, my mother?
Father Toibinâs voice falters, but even without the words, he attempts to soothe; Duncan is a small boy reflected in shadowy miniature upon his dark pupil: This is your home for as long as you want and for as long as your mother and we think being here is in your best interest. Do you understand that? Do you?
Father, excuse me, but you said my mother?
Yes, yes. Of course, your mother. Father Toibin frowns, pushes a letter across the desk at Duncan, and, momentarily distracted, waves at the window where a red clay road curls into the northâthe same road upon which he and Billy returned from Stockholdt.
Sheâs coming to get you.
Duncan holds the letter in his hands as he would the Psalter at Mass, with a sense of the mysterious power of the words on the page before him. He stares at the now-familiar handprint and imagines the letter open upon a table for days before it is sent, and he sees the writer, his mother smelling of guiacol and lily of the valley with her head bowed and her long hair brushing the tabletop, a cigarette smoldering in a glass ashtray, a thin tendril of gray smoke twining toward the ceiling, considering the words over and over again, and wondering if she should send the letterâforever damning herself to himâor tear it up so that no evidence of it or him remains; he imagines that she hesitates, falters, and, finally, succumbing to forces that he may never understand, gives in.
Maggie Bright
34 Divisadero Street
San Francisco, CA 94114
     August 3, 1981
Dear Father Toibin,
I have always wanted to do what was best for Duncan and until recently, it seemed in his best interestâand both yourself and Dr. Mathias agreedâthat he remain at the monastery in your care. However, given your most recent update, I feel he is ready to come home. I have been separated from my child for too long, and I believe he can and will thrive in the home I provide for him. I am now gainfully employed, have savings in the bank, and close family and friends who are eager to embrace Duncan with love and affection. He will not want for love.
I shall be driving from San Francisco the day after tomorrow, and, after spending some time with friends in Nevada, plan to be at the monastery midday of August the 29th. I would like Duncan to be made aware that I am coming, and that he be prepared to come home with me. I know that, at first, it will not be easy, and that there will be a period of adjustment for both of us, but I am his mother, and however difficult this adjustment might be, it can be nothing compared to what it has been like not to have him here with me all these
On a cushion placed upon the high sideboard next to Father Toibinâs desk, the cat with the green eyes shudders as if it is dreaming and then stretches languidly. Bits of its hair swirl in the thin feathery light cast by two table lamps.
We are all worried, Father Toibin says, and he opens his hands toward Duncan, a gesture to include, Duncan assumes, all the children in his care.
We are all worried when we feel we might not be as attentive as well as we might. Sometimes we become distracted ourselves and are not always mindful of what it is to be a child and the pressures and forces that they feel. If there is anything bothering you, Duncan? You can tell me.
On the mantel, a clock of black polished ash ticks slowly as if it needs to be wound.
Your mother, I know, loves you and misses you very much, but often parents can be misguided by their own wishes, selfishness which is only brought about by love, really, and they fail to see what is best for their children.
Duncan struggles with Father Toibinâs words, and then he struggles to retrieve them. My mother? he thinks, did he say my mother?
We all want what is best for you. Do you understand that?
Father Toibin, my mother?
Father Toibinâs voice falters, but even without the words, he attempts to soothe; Duncan is a small boy reflected in shadowy miniature upon his dark pupil: This is your home for as long as you want and for as long as your mother and we think being here is in your best interest. Do you understand that? Do you?
Father, excuse me, but you said my mother?
Yes, yes. Of course, your mother. Father Toibin frowns, pushes a letter across the desk at Duncan, and, momentarily distracted, waves at the window where a red clay road curls into the northâthe same road upon which he and Billy returned from Stockholdt.
Sheâs coming to get you.
Duncan holds the letter in his hands as he would the Psalter at Mass, with a sense of the mysterious power of the words on the page before him. He stares at the now-familiar handprint and imagines the letter open upon a table for days before it is sent, and he sees the writer, his mother smelling of guiacol and lily of the valley with her head bowed and her long hair brushing the tabletop, a cigarette smoldering in a glass ashtray, a thin tendril of gray smoke twining toward the ceiling, considering the words over and over again, and wondering if she should send the letterâforever damning herself to himâor tear it up so that no evidence of it or him remains; he imagines that she hesitates, falters, and, finally, succumbing to forces that he may never understand, gives in.
Maggie Bright
34 Divisadero Street
San Francisco, CA 94114
     August 3, 1981
Dear Father Toibin,
I have always wanted to do what was best for Duncan and until recently, it seemed in his best interestâand both yourself and Dr. Mathias agreedâthat he remain at the monastery in your care. However, given your most recent update, I feel he is ready to come home. I have been separated from my child for too long, and I believe he can and will thrive in the home I provide for him. I am now gainfully employed, have savings in the bank, and close family and friends who are eager to embrace Duncan with love and affection. He will not want for love.
I shall be driving from San Francisco the day after tomorrow, and, after spending some time with friends in Nevada, plan to be at the monastery midday of August the 29th. I would like Duncan to be made aware that I am coming, and that he be prepared to come home with me. I know that, at first, it will not be easy, and that there will be a period of adjustment for both of us, but I am his mother, and however difficult this adjustment might be, it can be nothing compared to what it has been like not to have him here with me all these
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