Paths of the Saints

Marguerite Lavielle and Nolan McCammit, two very different people who must live alongside each other for a time, bearing the crosses of their own faults as well as those each other's company.

The bedroom was dark in the morning before the sun rose. Gentle sighing from the pines outside the house indicated a change in the air before night gave way to gray dawn. The dresser mirror had no reflection of the little boxes arranged in front of it, and the pattern on the quilt remained secret. There was a photograph hanging between two lamps on the papered wall; neither the flowers on the paper, nor the bride’s happy smile could be seen. But Marguerite was awake, her large eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She lay without moving, and her husband’s breathing beside her was as steady as a clock. The day stretched before her, gray and featureless, a hard work until the night fell over them again.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” her head began. Must it forever start this way? “The Lord is with thee.” I need Him with me too. “Blessed art thou among women.” Share this with me: your blessedness. “And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

One bird began to trill in the pines. Marguerite felt her heart sink a little.

“Holy Mary, mother of God.” Be my mother, my own is gone. “Pray for us sinners,” and here she paused. Pray for me, a sinner, she thought at last. “Now.” From now until tonight. Give me strength for today. Every part of today was present to her mind. Several birds were now warbling (how quickly they awake,) and Marguerite filled her chest once with the still bedroom air, and then arose. The worst part of the day was over.

The electric ignition on the kitchen stove was broken, and Marguerite kept a box of long matches in the drawer to the left. She pulled one out of the red cardboard box and struck it. The flame bobbed at the end like a thing happy to be alive. Turning on the gas at the near burner she poked at it with the flame until a flower bloomed. Blowing out the match, she tossed it quickly into the trash under the sink and closed the door. Sounds from upstairs told her they were up and getting ready. Breakfast would be waiting when they came downstairs, and Pierre’s coffee - one and a half scoops for two cups - was brewing now.

Two boys clattered down the stairs, dropped their backpacks by the door, and trotted into the kitchen, one behind the other. Their voices were saucy, and breaking.

“Good morning, Daniel. Good morning, Braden,” Marguerite greeted them, taking in at a studied glance their tucked-in shirts and wetted hair.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lavielle.” “Good morning, Mrs. Lavielle.”

“Please take this to the table, Daniel,” she instructed him.

Daniel took and carried the china tray piled high with vegetable-topped toast, setting it down between the glasses, and whispering something to Braden as he did so. The three of them sat down. Pierre could be heard walking between the bedrooms on the floor above. Braden began fidgeting under the table.

“Where’s Nolan?” Marguerite asked.

The boys exchanged sharp-eyed glances.

“He’s getting ready,” Braden offered.

“Did he brush his hair?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Braden answered carefully, as much as to say how should I know.

“He’s going to get the end seat again,” Daniel chortled at his companion. This was how they referred between themselves to the seat closest to Mrs. Lavielle.

“He always gets the end seat,” Braden replied, grinning. “It’s basically his seat.”

They covered their mouths at the sound of an uneven rhythm on the stairs. The stepping reached the bottom and paused before turning down the hall. Nolan made his appearance in the doorway a moment later, and let his backpack fall with a thud just inside the kitchen door.

“Good morning, Nolan,” Marguerite said quietly and looked at him steadily. He stood shyly in the doorway. His hair had only been brushed in haste, and he would have to return upstairs and fix it. If she didn't send him up now, then Pierre would when he joined them in a minute. It was better, after all, that she do this.

“Please go back upstairs, Nolan, and comb out your hair so that you look like a gentleman.”

Nolan gave a little sigh and turned away again.

He knows how to do this. He knows he will be sent upstairs again until he gets it right, so why won’t he do it correctly the first time?

Pierre and Nolan must have passed each other in the hall, for their voices were heard, and Pierre was still saying “good boy, then” as he entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Marguerite.” He stood and smiled at her like a lord upon the sunrise over his land. She returned his smile. “Did you say ‘good morning,’ boys?” he asked them as he assumed his seat at the far end of the table.

“Yes, sir” they replied, and Marguerite stood to bring him his coffee.

“Shall we, then?” Pierre glanced at the two boys when his wife had returned to her place, and led the grace before meals. Nolan slipped in sometime later, and only one lock stood up on the back of his head, nodding a little as he moved. They ate their breakfast in comparative silence, but for Braden kicking his chair at regular intervals.

“Well, boys,” Pierre said at last, “we have a big day ahead of us. Can you recite your propositions in the car?”

The boys nodded, their mouths full, and after a suitable pause Marguerite encouraged them: “answer Mr. Lavielle, boys.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied when they were able, and Nolan looked at Marguerite’s skirt as if he would rather not go to school at all. Marguerite stood up to pour Pierre’s second cup of coffee.

“Nolan, would you like to sit in the front today?” Daniel asked in an inviting tone. The one to sit in the front was the first to recite his propositions. If it took him long enough, the others didn't have time to recite theirs before they arrived at school. The Lavielle’s own children had played this game as well in their time.

“Technically, it’s your turn,” Braden took up. “It’s probably your turn twenty times in a row,” he laughed with glee. Nolan nodded, and finished his milk.

In a few minutes the boys were thanking Mrs. Lavielle and swinging their packs over their shoulders. Daniel and Braden paid particular mind to their leave taking, as they would be picked up at school at the end of the day to go home with their parents for the weekend. Pierre kissed his wife goodbye and herded the three to the back entrance, and so they left with scuffling and banging of the outer door. Marguerite was left to her house, and to her work.

* * *

There was a black and gold writing desk in the parlor close to a tall window through which the daylight fell softened by pine trees outside and linen curtains within. Marguerite spent her mornings here while the clock ticked on the mantle, attending to the business of their small farm. She had the time to work deliberately and without haste, for which she was grateful: she was a woman who liked to do a thing only once.

Reviews

[Slim FitzGerald]

Very nice, Éilis. I really like the use of implied description concerning the setting: the items in the room shrouded in their particular details, but instantly recognizable as what can be expected for the sorts of things they are.

And I really like how Marguerite is described through the way she prays: already I like her and want to see how her interactions with mankind compliment or contrast her interactions with Our Lady.