Black Bird by Michel Basilieres Page A

should be knocked out of the rear wall to provide direct access to the kitchen through the pantry and eliminate the need to carry trays up and down the long hallway. There was an idea for Father to ponder.
    Mrs. Harrison arrived amidst a cloud of tobacco smoke, frail and bent as driftwood, mumbling her hellos and putting out an arm to steady herself in the hall. She was so small she needed Aline’s help to hang her cloth coat up on the hook. Mrs. Pangloss, who had never been shy of showing her hostility to Grandfather, and who had already had the news of hismisfortune, reacted by storming in as if she were home, quoting the Bible. Just as Aline was bringing in the tea, she bellowed, “An eye for an eye, my dears. The Lord gives us what we deserve,” and nodded her head vigorously in agreement with herself. Aline, who only half understood what had been said, was frightened by the remark because it stung her with the memory of her own words to Grandfather.
    When Mrs. Harrison ventured that her remark “wasn’t very nice,” Mrs. Pangloss replied that the Lord was not obliged to be nice, on account of his mysterious ways. Mrs. Pangloss never hesitated to identify her own will with that of the Lord because there were always plenty of people—Father Pheley, for instance, or any number of doctors, or many of her fellow callers to phone-in radio shows—who readily agreed with her quick grasp of that clearly defined line between right and wrong. Though truth to tell, it’s possible some of them had simply learned the futility of argument. And speaking of doctors, had Mother yet been to see her own regarding her over-long mourning?
    Mother’s eyes rose to meet Mrs. Pangloss’s gaze. Had it been that long? Just how long had it been?
    A cigarette quivering in her outstretched hand, Mrs. Harrison said, “Leave her be,” as best she could while trying to retain her ill-fitting dentures. Clacking them into place, she continued, “Everybody’s different. She needs her time.”
    “Maybe you should talk to Father Pheley,” insisted Mrs. Pangloss, who, although she knew her friend tobe Presbyterian, felt everyone ought to be Catholic and refused to believe those disgraceful rumours about the Church and its servants. “He’ll put you right.”
    As if there were something wrong with me, thought Mother. She remembered the rumours all too well—Angus had been fond of referring to them—and the incident in Marie’s childhood.
    “He’s Catholic,” objected Mrs. Harrison, puffing.
    “You old fool, of course he’s Catholic. He’s a priest.” Mrs. Pangloss’s temper rose with her exasperation. How anyone could tolerate that brainless harridan was beyond her.
    “She should burn sandalwood.” By now, the two were speaking as if Mother were absent.
    Mrs. Pangloss pulled herself erect with a hand on her hip, tilting her head. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
    “It’d make her feel better. The smell. It smells good.”
    “Fer crying out loud.” Pangloss paused. “You think smelling up the house will make anyone feel good? That’s for witches. That’ll give her a headache.”
    “I saw it on TV.”
    “Oh, it must have been a horror show.”
    “No, it was Mass. From Rome. The Pope. The Pope.”
    For once Mrs. Pangloss was silent.
    “He’s
a priest,” said Mrs. Harrison.

    Mrs. Pangloss continued to encourage Mother to see a doctor, because although she still believed that whatever took place was the will of God, she was not a Mormon, and thought that doctors were also the will of God because many of them had told her so. While no one else thought this line of reasoning made any sense, everyone agreed a visit to the doctor—any trip out of the house—would probably do her some good. Mother finally cracked under the pressure and went to her family physician.
    Dr. Hyde hadn’t seen her since he’d delivered her of twins, and so happily went about a battery of tests when Mother couldn’t be more