This Magnificent Desolation by Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley Page A
Authors: Cara Shores, Thomas O'Malley
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years. Of course you know something of this from our discussions. There has not been a day or night that I have not thought about my son, and dreamed that he was home with me.
With the blessing of God, I will see you both soon.
Sincerely,
Maggie Bright
Through Father Toibinâs office window is everything Duncan knows: harrow-ribbed green pastures, still as a painting, and, at a great distance, ashen smoke plumes along the Iron Range, and men walking on the steeper hillsides beating the furze where blazing stars, goldenrod, and asters bloom, and beyond them the striated ridges ofhardwood: red maple and pin cherry.
Everything I know
. And now, his mother coming to get him. Just like in his dream.
Father Toibin is still talking. Heâs worried about how such a visit might affect him. Would he like to see her? Is he nervous? Excited? Scared? How does he feel about leaving the Home? Has he been sleeping? How are his friendships with the other children? Brother Canice has had nothing but praise for him, but Father Malachy has mentioned his withdrawal, his recent lack of participation in events, and he is worried becauseâ
But Father, my mother, Duncan says. My mother. I thought she was, I mean, isnât she ⦠dead?
Chapter 18
Julie fiddles with the brilliantly lacquered black wig she has pulled down over her hair, and smiles. This, she says, was from the childrenâs production of
Whose Baby Are You Now?
that the Home put on when she was eight, but of course Duncan wouldnât remember that. She takes Duncanâs hand as they walk among the gardens. The smells of late summer come and go with the winds that always seem at twisting motion upon the plains. At a bench they sit down and Julie lays her head against his chest and he stares at the fake tea-colored center part in the hair.
On the far side of the garden, toward the soccer pitch: the sound of children at play. The hoarse coughing of the prefix. They laugh as he shouts, and Duncan imagines his ineffectual attempts to control the children or whatever game they are playing. They listen for the names they know, the usual culprits and offenders.
I have to leave, he says. Julie pulls at a knot in her wig. She sighs.
My mother is coming to get me. Youâll get to meet her.
A Brother begins to shout at a boy, and Duncan laughs, expecting Julie to do so also, but she merely stares toward the sound.
Iâm the only one who knew you were sleeping, she says. Iâm the one that knew youâd woken up from a divine sleep. Iâm the one that found you.
I know.
Your mother, she says, is she pretty? Is she a great actress?
I donât know. I donât think so. But Duncan does; in his mind he pictures the woman from his dream standing before the Festival of Lights Holiday Train as it glitters in fractured and failing illumination through the swirling snow, and he sees his motherâs bright, damp cheeks, and the fierce blue of her large, almond shaped eyes, and everythingâthe land, the storm, the trainâis lost in her and subsumed by her: In his dream she is the center of the world.
Julie thinks about this for a moment and nods. She says: If your mother is going to leave you, she should be beautiful and rich and fantastic. Those things are important, more important than any child, donât you think?
On the walkway a group of six girls are playing jump rope. On each end a girl swings two ropes, the rope on the left turning clockwise and the one on the right turning in a counterclockwise loop. They pass the two ropes from hand to hand and their arcs are parabolic, shifting orbits crossing and merging, crossing and merging in a hypnotic blur; and as the girls turn the ropes, and as the other girls skip, they sing.
Julie kicks her legs in time to the skipping song. Faintly: the slap and scrape of the jump rope upon the stone, the girlsâ voices in song, unchanging despite the failing light.
Julie stops her legs and
With the blessing of God, I will see you both soon.
Sincerely,
Maggie Bright
Through Father Toibinâs office window is everything Duncan knows: harrow-ribbed green pastures, still as a painting, and, at a great distance, ashen smoke plumes along the Iron Range, and men walking on the steeper hillsides beating the furze where blazing stars, goldenrod, and asters bloom, and beyond them the striated ridges ofhardwood: red maple and pin cherry.
Everything I know
. And now, his mother coming to get him. Just like in his dream.
Father Toibin is still talking. Heâs worried about how such a visit might affect him. Would he like to see her? Is he nervous? Excited? Scared? How does he feel about leaving the Home? Has he been sleeping? How are his friendships with the other children? Brother Canice has had nothing but praise for him, but Father Malachy has mentioned his withdrawal, his recent lack of participation in events, and he is worried becauseâ
But Father, my mother, Duncan says. My mother. I thought she was, I mean, isnât she ⦠dead?
Chapter 18
Julie fiddles with the brilliantly lacquered black wig she has pulled down over her hair, and smiles. This, she says, was from the childrenâs production of
Whose Baby Are You Now?
that the Home put on when she was eight, but of course Duncan wouldnât remember that. She takes Duncanâs hand as they walk among the gardens. The smells of late summer come and go with the winds that always seem at twisting motion upon the plains. At a bench they sit down and Julie lays her head against his chest and he stares at the fake tea-colored center part in the hair.
On the far side of the garden, toward the soccer pitch: the sound of children at play. The hoarse coughing of the prefix. They laugh as he shouts, and Duncan imagines his ineffectual attempts to control the children or whatever game they are playing. They listen for the names they know, the usual culprits and offenders.
I have to leave, he says. Julie pulls at a knot in her wig. She sighs.
My mother is coming to get me. Youâll get to meet her.
A Brother begins to shout at a boy, and Duncan laughs, expecting Julie to do so also, but she merely stares toward the sound.
Iâm the only one who knew you were sleeping, she says. Iâm the one that knew youâd woken up from a divine sleep. Iâm the one that found you.
I know.
Your mother, she says, is she pretty? Is she a great actress?
I donât know. I donât think so. But Duncan does; in his mind he pictures the woman from his dream standing before the Festival of Lights Holiday Train as it glitters in fractured and failing illumination through the swirling snow, and he sees his motherâs bright, damp cheeks, and the fierce blue of her large, almond shaped eyes, and everythingâthe land, the storm, the trainâis lost in her and subsumed by her: In his dream she is the center of the world.
Julie thinks about this for a moment and nods. She says: If your mother is going to leave you, she should be beautiful and rich and fantastic. Those things are important, more important than any child, donât you think?
On the walkway a group of six girls are playing jump rope. On each end a girl swings two ropes, the rope on the left turning clockwise and the one on the right turning in a counterclockwise loop. They pass the two ropes from hand to hand and their arcs are parabolic, shifting orbits crossing and merging, crossing and merging in a hypnotic blur; and as the girls turn the ropes, and as the other girls skip, they sing.
Julie kicks her legs in time to the skipping song. Faintly: the slap and scrape of the jump rope upon the stone, the girlsâ voices in song, unchanging despite the failing light.
Julie stops her legs and
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