Now Smile

The daily news changes only with rising numbers of pandemic deaths and lost jobs for months now. A thousand-piece puzzle of a grotesque clown sits on the corner table ready to be broken up and stuck back in the box. Books I’ve finished are stacked like a tower of Babel, but I cannot remember any of them. My wish is to go somewhere, anywhere that the virus has never been.  

Boredom leads me to the antique pine cabinet where today’s project is cleaning and reorganizing the shelves. In the back is a box made of cardboard gone soft from years in the dark and damp. My tight muscles strain as I reach in and drag it out over the musty wood.

The lid comes off easily. Inside are artifacts from my life; things like grandma’s glass rosary beads, an empty velvet pouch, pearl buttons, a high school graduation picture, a Mickey Mouse watch whose band has split and the second hand has come loose. Under all of these is my childhood prayerbook with its tawny cover that used to be pure white. It feels just as smooth as ever. It’s small in my adult-sized hands and when I open it, there is a faint whiff of vanilla, a scent that carries me across a wrinkle of time. 

I’m standing in the sun squinting, trying to open my eyes for the picture. In my hand is a small bouquet of pure white flowers, lily of the valley, shaped like tiny cups with frilly edges, surrounded by thick deep green leaves. Mom has wrapped a rubber band around them and so I hold my fingers carefully to cover it. It’s the day of my first Holy Communion. Mom says with a lilt, “Okay, now smile.” Snap goes the camera.

Everything I’m wearing is scratchy. My white dress is stiff with waist seams that scrape my bare skin. The elastic puff sleeves and underarm stitches jab at me. I’m beginning to sweat in the sun, but Mom wants more pictures. No, she tells me, you can’t stand in the shade because the picture won’t turn out. My veil attaches to a headband that squeezes behind my ears. Now she wants me to hold my prayer book. The small white book has a padded cover, the pages of which are edged with gold. I open it and sense a vanilla aroma like Mom’s sponge cake.

I lay the flowers on the brown metal patio chair; its paint is chipped along the bottom where it’s been dragged over the pavement. The chair is in the shade and for a moment I feel the cool relief from the hot sun. Mom is huffing now and tells me to hurry up because it’s too hot outside. I’m back in the sun, holding my vanilla gold white prayer book. Wait, she tells me. Get your rosary beads. I’ll have you hold your prayer book with the beads laid in the middle and the crucifix dangling in front. She has forgotten about the heat but I haven’t.

Buzzing near, louder and closer it comes. Stand still she says. I yell, it’s a bee, there’s a bee. I’m swatting, she’s yelling, the bee is gone. Never mind, she says. Go inside.

Inside is cool and blindingly dark. I hold my arms out trying to make my way through the kitchen. The angel food cake sits on the counter ready for company, my aunt and uncle who will arrive any minute. I feel a blast of cool and hear ice cubes plinking against glass, then a tinkle as they knock against each other under the lemonade. Mom passes the glass to me and oh, the tangy coolness shudders right up my face into my forehead.

My uncle’s bray and sounds of hands slapping together come through the dining room and out the open windows.

Oh, no, they’re here.

This means a herd of relatives mooing into the house. Aunt Millie with her powdery face and hyacinth perfume pulls me to her soft body. Cousin Jane stands behind Auntie and sucks on her fingers. My second cousin Gordy who is three years older comes in behind Jane.

A squat barrel-shaped man with three chins and watery eyes totters in. It’s Father Latty, the priest from our church who Mom said she had to invite. His red slobbery lips turn my stomach. 

My prickly clothes scrub against my skin. I beg Mom to let me change but before I finish my plea, she points to the table where a small collection of wrapped gifts awaits. Look what people brought for you, she titters.

Gordy is there standing against the wall, staring right at me like I have a hole in my head. I curl my upper lip under and give him the stink eye.   

Little glass dishes hold pastel-colored buttercream mint patties. Mom says I can have one, just one. The candy’s delicate mint flavor gives under my teeth with soft creamy taste smooth on my tongue. Mom turns away and I slide two more from the plate. Too late, I see Father Latty is watching. 

I take off for the kitchen and out the back door but Mom makes me come back and speak to Father.

I don’t want to look at the priest and I flap hello with my hand. He bends over and takes hold of my shoulder, gets really close, and says, congratulations on your First Communion. And I say, “Thank you Father Fatty.” 

Mom’s face turns red as a tomato, she grabs my arm and gives me a shake, apologize young lady, she tells me. The priest tells her not to worry, that I can confess at my next Friday visit. I’m stuttering, trying to explain, I didn’t mean to say his nickname. The grown-ups are laughing and talking loud as if nothing happened.

My ten cousins have arrived and are being yelled at already. Go outside, get out of the house, go play croquet.

I pull the prayerbook to my face again and inhale the memories that already have started to fade.