Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award
-----------------------------

"Here with the Saints"

by PAULA YOUNGER

CHAPTER 1

Celia

Arrival

June 10th, 1981

My grandparents, uncle, and mother went with God while I stayed here with the saints. But before the unraveling began, Mom and I took our annual summer trip to Missouri, earlier than usual because of Aunt Joan's wedding. The summer of 1981 began like the previous ones did: Mom holed up in the house while Grandma and I tended to her prized roses. But this trip would be the last time I would know my family the way I had always known them.

Grandma held the holy water canister high above her head. "Celia," she asked, "which roses should we start with?"

"The white ones," I answered.

Grandma nodded and sprayed the white rose section. Her hair blended in with the petals and for a moment, she faded away. She believed the secret to her roses was the holy water Father Joseph brought once a week. Father Joseph held the gold canister, said a prayer and blessing then handed it to Grandma. She made the sign of the cross and sprinkled the holy water onto her roses. Only Grandma did this, I wasn't allowed to. Mom believed this sacrilegious, but Grandma said her garden was intended for God so it was okay. If Father Joseph brought the holy water it couldn't be that bad, but it was nothing I'd ever tell my friends at Sacred Heart.

"Why do we start with the white ones?" Grandma asked.

I lifted the straw hat she gave me to protect my fair skin so I could look into her eyes and show her I knew this was important. "Because they stand for purity and purity always comes first." I was twelve and about to begin junior high. Seven years later, when tending to Grandma on her deathbed, she would tell me her secret and the truth about herself, more than I would ever want to know. But of course I didn't know this then.

Grandma raised the holy water container again. "Then what?"

"Yellow, because they stand for friendship." I'd had the answers memorized for years.

Grandma smiled, pleased. As she sprayed the yellow roses, droplets fell onto my arms; goose bumps rose from the cool water and I inhaled Grandma's baby powder and rose scent.

She paused before asking the final, obvious question. "What comes last?"

"The red ones, because they stand for passion." Grandma's climbers were the true last section, but she never mentioned them.

"That's right, dear. You must remember that passion always comes last." She grabbed my shoulders. "Passion gets people in trouble and it impairs their senses. Junior high is a dangerous time. You need the Lord's influence." Grandma leaned over and kissed me. Her gardening shears jabbed my leg.

#

Aunt Joan planned for wedding guests to throw Grandma's debudded roses instead of rice after the ceremony. To practice for the big day, Grandma knelt on her gardening block as though she was on the kneeler at Mass. The red roses against her white hair created a blazing crown. Her left hand clutched the stem of a red rose. I winced even though she couldn't feel the thorns through her gloves. She never gardened without them. She said your hands represent how well you take care of yourself. She inched closer until the thorns almost brushed against her forehead. The gardening shears' blades stretched wide open at the rose's base then she snapped the shears shut. Her left hand no longer clutched the stem, but instead the rose's red blossom, its petals still intact. Grandma cradled it in her palm like it was something small and precious. She looked peaceful in this moment and I wanted her to keep it.

"Perfect! Doesn't it look perfect?" She asked.

The thorns and leaves were still in place on the decapitated stem. I imagined Grandma's garden like that, all the rose blossoms stolen with ugly, needy stems left. "It's beautiful, Grandma." I handed her the paper cone and she placed the blossom into it.

"The secret is to be gentle. You can't crush the petals and if you're too quick the flower falls apart and you've ruined everything." She looked up at me. "Do you see that?"

I nodded and helped her stand up.

Grandma frowned. "It's so hard for me to cut the red ones, but you can't have a marriage without some passion. Now let's see how this works." She jerked the cone in my direction. I stretched my arms out wide and lifted my head back. Rose petals covered my eyes and I wanted to take them into my thoughts and have rose dreams, but then I smelled Grandma's sour breath. I opened my eyes and felt the petals drift off my face.

"That was lovely," Grandma said. She picked the petals up from the ground until I reached down and then she stopped. "We'll have our work cut out for us on Friday."

I squeezed the petals in my palm. "We're not de-budding tomorrow?"

Instead of looking at me, she focused on her garden. Her regular irritated response: treating you as if you weren't there. Finally, she said, "That would ruin the illusion. Petals wilt if debudded too early. We want this to be perfect for Joan's wedding, don't we?"

"Of course." I focused on the climbers. A tall purple one drooped, its blossom hung lower than the others.

Grandma's voice became lighter, "What's wrong with Friday?"

"I'm supposed to go to the museum with Uncle Tommy."

"But he's not arriving until the evening. We have plenty of time to debud."

"No, we're meeting in the morning."

Grandma's lips pursed and her skin looked more wrinkled. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Did he change his flight?"

"I guess."

"When is he arriving?"

"Friday morning."

Her shoulders relaxed. Then she glanced at me. "Is Jeremy coming?"

"Of course. He always comes."

She looked like she was about to say something else then thought better of it. Instead, she offered, "We'll debud the morning before the wedding."

All of Grandma's roses, except for the climbers, were the same height and shape. If one of her roses disobeyed, she pulled it out of the ground and threw it away, but the climbers bloomed in chaotic lavenders, oranges, and pinks. They wound along my grandparents' ten-foot fence with their heads peeking over onto the neighbors' yard, growing however they wanted. Grandma didn't trim them and I didn't ask why, unwilling to disrupt the one thing she allowed to be out of control.

I liked to step among the climbers and disappear between their thickets. I had entered them enough times to know how to keep the thorns from puncturing my skin, but still manage the thrill of the odd scrape. The thorns left bloodless white lines across my arms-a reminder of the damage, but not enough to scar. Sometimes, after Grandma and I finished tending her orderly roses, Mom sat at the base of the climbers with her knees pulled tight to her chest.

Grandma turned around to survey her garden. When I picked up her gardening shears and kneeling block, I noticed her eyes. Sometimes their blueness receded into the darkness of her pupils and she drifted away. She focused on something else, something I couldn't see, but it held her transfixed. Her hands shook and her face became pale. Sweat glistened on her forehead. Her distant eyes gazed above my head at something. I turned to see it too: an oak tree. To help Grandma leave the darkness, I let her know I was near. I hugged her, startling her, then kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, I love you, Grandma. The blue began to edge its way back to her eyes. I said, I love you, Grandma, again. She glanced at me, as if unsure of where she was. Her voice was slow, I love you too.

Grandma and I walked side by side along the stone footpath that etched its way through the back lawn, past the water pump, to the porch supported by thick columns. My grandparents' house on 290 Catalpa Drive sat at the top of a gradual incline, having the distinct advantage of resting higher than its neighbors. Ivy wrapped its way around the exterior of the white two-story, gently squeezing. Oak trees and flowering dogwoods decorated their lawn and led to the front entrance with a brass doorknocker that had Bauer etched in cursive; few people ever used it.

A ten-foot metal fence segregated my grandparents' property from their neighbors. It formed an open rectangle, the back and sides enclosing it, but the front opening to visitors. The upper floor of the garage had once been converted into apartments and had lodgers with wonderful names like Miss Gerlach and Mr. Eiserloh. Behind the garage, the ground rose to a tall hill leaving a steep wall of exposed earth, complete with roots, rocks, and stones. When I was younger, Grandpa convinced me they had discovered fossils there and I would trace imaginary bones with my fingers, creating dinosaur names that had never existed.

#

As Grandma and I walked toward the house, Mom stared at us through the kitchen window. Her hands pressed onto the windowsill. She looked hunched and uncomfortable. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The lines in her face were hidden and her green eyes wide and ready. For the first time, I imagined her as a teenager living in this house.

Grandma and I stepped into the foyer then removed our shoes. She opened the door that closed the foyer off to the rest of the house, shielding it from the cold or heat, depending on the season. Potatoes were lined up on the kitchen counter for peeling and mashing, and sauerkraut waited in a bowl for Grandpa. No one else could stand it. I only ate the pork and sauerkraut meal on New Year's Day, and strictly for luck. That's what we were having tonight. Grandma said Aunt Joan's wedding was like the start of a new year and she and the family would need all the help that they could get.

When Mom and I arrived yesterday on the last flight in, no one greeted us. We walked among the tired security guards to the taxi stand. Mom refused to disturb Grandma and Grandpa that late. I suggested she call one of the aunts to pick us up, but Mom told me she had to acclimate slowly to Missouri; she breathed differently here.

She opened the door to their house with her key. Grandma made sure all her children had a key to her home, whether they lived in state or not. We crept in, like burglars, and Mom held her finger up to her mouth to motion for me to be quiet. We took our luggage upstairs, but I longed to scream, we're here! We entered the bedroom Mom used to share with Aunt Helen. Grandma had made the full-sized bed with a set of candy-striped sheets and placed two matching towels and washcloths at the end. Throughout breakfast this morning, Grandma asked me questions then raised her eyes to the ceiling, where Mom's bedroom was, willing her to wake up and come downstairs.

Mom stood in the kitchen's entryway, her hands pressed against the opposing walls, as if stabilizing herself. She said hello to Grandma for the first time this trip. Grandma pulled her into an embrace and admonished her for arriving so late last night and squirreling away this morning, then she told Mom how beautiful she was, but hinted she was a little fuller than the last time Grandma had seen her. She remarked about Dad not being with us and Mom explained again he was teaching summer classes and couldn't find another professor to substitute. Dad rarely went on these trips with us. He taught day and night classes and didn't take summers off. I didn't miss Dad's absence. Mom filled the space he left.

"Why are you still living in Utah, Rose?" Grandma asked and took her rosary out of her skirt pocket. "You know those Mormons' slick ways. Soon you'll be sharing your husband with other women. They believe in bigamy. Oh my Lord, can you imagine that sinfulness?"

"There's nothing to worry about, Mother. As we learned, no one else will take John."

Grandma mumbled something then said a quick Hail Mary while she stroked her rosary beads.

Mom snatched Grandma's rosary. "The Mormons' charms won't work on me. I'm not the one with a fragile mind." She dropped the rosary in Grandma's skirt pocket then left the kitchen.

I began to wash dishes, knowing Grandma would never serve a meal if they were in the sink. I wished she would buy a dishwasher like we had. Classical music began to play and at first I thought it was the piano, but Mom didn't know how to play. The sound intensified, becoming louder and louder, and I pictured Mom in the living room in front of the record player with her hand on the knob, gauging how loud she could go without Grandma becoming upset.

"Celia," Grandma's voice became stern. I turned toward her, accidentally splashing myself with hot water. "Are you Mormon yet?"

"No, Grandma."

"Now there's a good girl. Don't let them get to you."

I turned around so she wouldn't see me smiling. She liked to make the Mormons sound like drug pushers and harp on us for not living in Missouri. Uncle Tommy and Aunt Clare didn't live in Missouri either, but Grandma didn't lecture them, or at least not when I was around.

The front door slammed shut. The loud, classical music stopped. Grandpa's boots shuffled across the foyer's linoleum. I set two washed glasses next to me on the kitchen counter. Mom was supposed to dry them, but she and Grandpa stood in the middle of the kitchen, squaring off.

"En garde!" Mom cried then whacked her dishtowel across Grandpa's butt. He snatched Grandma's dishtowel then snapped it at Mom's shoulder. They stared at one another, ready to see who would attack next.

Grandma scolded, "This is inappropriate behavior for inside." But Grandpa whipped his dishtowel at Mom, who lunged backwards. It brushed her stomach. Mom lifted her dishtowel to retaliate but Grandma walked between them and grabbed Grandpa's weapon, then Mom's.

Grandma's voice was gruff, "Where have you been, Willard? You're all red. Were you outside without a hat?"

"I told you this morning I was going to visit the Johnsons."

Grandma grimaced. The Johnsons lived next door. Grandpa had been helping them build their porch and Grandma complained that he was willing to help everyone but his own family. Grandpa ignored Grandma's expression and said, "I thought Celia would like to look at my coin collection with me. I've added a few."

I grabbed the dishtowel Grandma had confiscated from Grandpa and dried my hands, then lifted them to my face to make sure they were clean. As I left the kitchen, I heard Grandma saying, "I'll never understand what that girl finds so exciting about coins."

Grandpa nudged me with his elbow; he liked getting away with something. I followed him down the basement's steps. When we reached the bottom, he pulled the cord and light spilled into the dark room. He went over to the shelf, moved his toy trains, German books, and old WWII memorabilia-the stuff Grandma never came near-and pulled down the brown shoebox. I set the folding chair up then sat on the concrete. The coldness of the floor crept up my spine, but I didn't care. Grandpa sat down on the chair and held the box. With its frayed edges and split top, it didn't look like it would last much longer.

We started doing this the day I realized Grandma's lips had disappeared. I was seven and stared at her lips while she slept. All that was left was a thin, compressed line with her dusty rose lipstick spread on the skin above and below, creating the illusion of larger lips. I ran my fingers over my own round lips then pressed my fingers onto hers and felt the flatness of them melding into the rest of her skin. I was shocked. How could Grandma, who I almost always saw smiling and laughing, have lost her lips?

I had leaned over to Mom and whispered my discovery. She laughed until I told her I was afraid of losing my lips too. Mom said I didn't need to worry because mine were different. She explained that Grandma was her stepmother and told me about her natural mother, Lucy, who died when Mom was eight. She wouldn't tell me what her natural mother looked like or how she had died, so I asked Grandpa. When I said her name, Lucy, he pulled back then stared at my face, as if finding something. He created our code phrase, coin collecting, and took me to the basement and pulled out the box.

Grandpa looked at his favorite pictures first: the ones of him and Grandma Lucy holding Mom and Aunt Helen when they were babies, dressed alike in pink dresses with vast fields behind them. He told me he would take me to his family farm in the old German community one day, but traveling there would upset Grandma too much and sneaking out for a two-hour drive was impossible. Instead, I settled for the pictures. Grandpa looked the same in them, except for more hair and fewer wrinkles. Grandma Lucy was short, like me, 5'3". Her cheekbones were high and round, and her eyes looked like they were dancing. Grandpa said her skin was like a porcelain doll's, like Mom's skin and mine. When I looked at Grandma Lucy, I no longer wished I could tan like my cousin Holly. In every picture, Grandma Lucy held a child or Grandpa. Her arms wrapped around someone, except for Uncle Tommy. That box didn't contain one picture of him.

Grandpa told me Grandma Lucy's family lived one farm over from his, a mile away. He turned to me, "Houses out there aren't so close together like out here," and shook his head as if close houses were a bad thing. Grandma Lucy was six years younger than Grandpa and as he liked to say, he had never noticed her, because she was a scrawny little girl. After he turned eighteen, he moved to St. Louis. During the day he worked at the Emerson Electric plant and at night studied for his business degree. He drove home on the weekends and helped his family with the farm. On one trip home, Grandma Lucy and her family delivered a cow his parents had bought. He saw Lucy standing in the truck bed, a piece of hay stuck in her brown hair and dirt smudged on her cheek. She laughed as her brother ran from a cranky rooster. Grandpa stared at the basement's wall then and said, "I like to remember her that way, how happy she looked." He wouldn't talk about how she had died or how he married Grandma. Whenever I asked, he pretended he couldn't hear me.

"Lucy was starting college in the city and needed a ride. Her parents asked if I would drive her, since it was on my way, and of course I obliged. I didn't tell anyone how pretty I thought she was. You see," Grandpa rested his hands in his lap, "she was dating my best friend Werner and I needed his consent before I did anything. It wouldn't be gentlemanly otherwise." Grandpa always told me this story; a point of pride that he was able to steal his best friend's girl.

His voice was steady, as if it was a record playing the same song over and over. "One morning when Werner helped me milk the cows, I asked if he would mind if I took Lucy on a date. Werner stopped milking and wiped his hands on his pants. He said he had no claims and I was free to ask. Of course, I had to ask," Grandpa said, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Lucy and I went to a movie and that was that." Grandpa clapped his hands. I imagined a distraught Werner cursing Grandpa and Grandma Lucy and finding some type of solace in her untimely demise. My friends and I had found Mom's romance novels. We read from Men at Work to Miss Wendell's Love to I Burn for You. I liked the stories about the powerful love that destroyed lives, and I liked to believe that Grandpa and Grandma Lucy's love had been so potent that it left everyone who witnessed it in awe and jealousy.

Pictures of Grandma Lucy and Grandpa were scattered across the floor. I stared at the images, envisioning this other world where Grandma and I didn't exist, then noticed Grandpa's trembling hands. I took the pictures from him then pushed the box to the side. He lifted my chin and peered into my face. I knew what was coming.

"Celia, be proud of your emerald eyes. No one can lie looking into that eternal green. During long travels people used to bind an emerald to their left arm with string for protection. Lucy used to say, 'Everyone says the women in my family have the same eyes and I tell them that's because we see the same things.' The women in this family are blessed. No one can lie to you if they're looking into those eyes. The truth will always find you."

I knelt before him.

His voice was sad, "You look so much like her. So much like her, dearest Lucy."

He rocked back and forth as he hummed a lilting waltz. I began to pick the pictures up and place them in the box when I found one of Grandma Lucy where she was alone-a close-up picture, just the tops of her shoulders and face. She smiled at something beyond the camera, as if someone she loved was taking the picture. For the first time I saw what Grandpa meant: her eyes were the same size as mine, her cheekbones were as round and high as mine, and her big smile, not so wide that her gums showed, just her even white teeth, was like mine. If it wasn't for her glamorous old film star hairstyle, she could be me.

My back was toward Grandpa and instead of placing the picture in the box I dropped it down my polo shirt. He was still humming.

Charged voices rose above us in the kitchen. The ceiling muffled the sound, but I knew Mom and Grandma were arguing. I stood up and whispered in Grandpa's ear, "It's time."

He opened his eyes. Grasping my hand, he pulled himself up and then kissed my cheek.

I handed him the tattered box. He returned it to his spot on the shelf and I put the chair away. Grandma couldn't suspect anything. Grandpa walked up the stairs and I followed to make sure he didn't fall. When we entered the brightness of the foyer, I squinted, unable to fully open my eyes. Grandpa went to the family room to sit in his chair and watch Mass on TV. I lingered in the kitchen's entryway, where they wouldn't notice me.

Mom raised her hands in the air, looking like the picture of Jesus in my Bible in the Agony in the Garden, the night before he would be crucified, asking God why he had to die. "Mother, how do you think the Catholics have their following? Look at what Clare is doing in Africa. She's working as a missionary. She's trying to convert people to Catholicism."

Grandma opened the refrigerator. "That's different. Clare is doing the Lord's work. She's doing it for the Catholic faith. And she's so busy doing the Lord's work that she can't come home for her own sister's wedding. I haven't seen her in two years, thank you so much for reminding me!" Grandma reached inside the refrigerator and took out the orange juice. She drank two glasses a day, constantly worried about becoming sick.

Mom raised the knife she was using to cut carrots and made stabbing motions behind Grandma's back. Grandma kept talking about Clare and the good work she was doing. I stared at Mom, trying to catch her eye. When she saw me, her hand froze mid-air. She relaxed her grip, lowered the knife, and waved it around, pretending she hadn't meant to do that.

I decided to speak. "Mom's right, Grandma. Look at the goddesses. The Catholic missionaries turned the goddesses from the matriarchal time into saints."

Grandma dropped the orange juice container. It rolled across the floor, but with the lid on tight, just a few drops escaped. "Where did you hear that? Don't you go to Catholic school?"

"Of course. Aunt Helen told me." I was in trouble. I turned to Mom.

Grandma looked at Mom. "Celia is only twelve and shouldn't be hearing goddess nonsense. Just what is Helen studying in that school? I thought you were supposed to be educated in college!"

Mom's voice was sharp, "She is being educated. She's majoring in women's studies."

"That's nonsense. Why does she need to study about women? She is one! Going back to school at her age is ridiculous." Aunt Helen taught history at the local junior high but decided to earn another degree at the University of Missouri, instead of Saint Louis University, a Catholic school that Grandma approved of.

Grandma walked to the dining room, finished with this conversation. She was going to set the places. The good-luck dinner couldn't be at the kitchen table on ordinary plates, it had to be served at the mahogany dining table, on her mother's floral pink china with gold accents. The entire family was supposed to eat the good luck dinner, but Uncle Tommy wouldn't arrive until Friday and Aunt Clare was in Africa. Grandma said at least Joan and Michael would be there, since they were the honorees, and what a blessing it was Helen lived in town so she and her family could be there. Aunt Helen was my favorite aunt, but mostly because of her daughter Holly who was my age.

Mom picked up the orange juice container Grandma had dropped then placed it back in the refrigerator. She grabbed a sponge and mopped up the spilled juice. Mom looked like she was about to say something, but leaned against the refrigerator and closed her eyes.

The phone rang and Grandma answered. Her lower lip quivered. She said, "Of course. I understand. Do what you need to do." She set the receiver onto the cradle. "Helen and the kids aren't coming. Greg is sick and she won't leave him home alone."

The phone rang again and I answered, thinking Aunt Helen called back and I could talk to Holly. But Aunt Joan was calling to cancel, even though she was the one we were having the good luck dinner for. She was too busy with last-minute wedding plans and Michael's parents had taken him to dinner, one last chance to be alone before the big day. I stared at the phone's rotary dial, how the number 9 was beginning to wear off.

Grandma carried the pork to the dining room. Mom followed with the mashed potatoes. I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to be nonchalant. "It looks like it's just us. Michael's parents took him to dinner and Aunt Joan is frantic, getting ready for the wedding and all. She's really sorry, Grandma."

We ate dinner silently that night, each of us with a large helping of sauerkraut on our plate. Grandma's hands shook so much I was afraid she'd stab her mouth with her fork. She and Grandpa sat at the heads of the dining table and Mom and I were in the middle, surrounded by empty place settings.

#

I entered the living room to watch TV with Grandpa, but Mom grabbed my elbow. "Let's make this an early night."

I glanced at the grandfather clock and then studied Mom's face. "Are you kidding?"

"Tomorrow's going to be a long day with Holly's track meet and the rehearsal."

"But it's eight! Grandma and Grandpa are still up." If old people were awake, why shouldn't I be? I pointed to Grandpa, hoping he'd interrupt this conversation and tell Mom to let me stay up, but he kept focusing on the glowing TV.

"We're jet-lagged. We need to recuperate." Mom tugged my arm.

"We're an hour behind." I hoped she'd forgotten this detail.

She hissed, "Your grandmother is sad. We should leave her alone with your grandpa so he can cheer her up."

Grandpa dozed off, despite the blaring TV. His mouth hung open, making it clear he wouldn't speak up. Some animals freeze when they sense danger or hostility, my grandfather falls asleep. The Magnum P.I. theme song began-the rapid pulsing na na na beat escalated to the energizing, jump for joy part then the guitar entered with its longing wail. This was a rerun of the season's last show: Magnum competed for the Iron Man and ran on the beach without a shirt on. I had to watch it. I lowered my voice, "I can cheer her up." Mom sighed, so I added, "Or I can be really quiet and just watch TV."

"Celia Marie Cooper, I'm not going to ask you again. We're going to bed." If I pushed it, she'd erupt, whether or not Grandma was in the kitchen.

"Let me tell Grandma good night. I'll meet you upstairs." I smiled to show I was being cooperative. Mom walked upstairs, but paused to look at me one last time as a warning.

---



Copyright 2007 Paula Younger. All Rights Reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.