Saint Gremmy

That first pearl falls from an iron sky glowing orange, the lights of L.A. unable to break through the thick bulwark, and this perfect teardrop dives from the clouds to remind an old woman of her single, lonesome secret.

Gremmy loves to drive in the rain.

She lowers the volume of her radio sermon to better hear the pit-a-pat of those swelling sprinkles and their pleasing arrhythmia, a more unblunted homily from God straight above.

Gremmy has little use for secrets, let alone room for them. Secrets demand space, secrets entail interiority, and in their quiet way, secrets turn a human into a person. But as busy as Gremmy is, was, and will be, secrets are simply impossible. Daughter, then bride, then mother, then grandmother. When one is needed like Gremmy is needed, it’s very easy to be all those things but extremely difficult to be yourself. So whenever the Lord deems fit, she celebrates this one treasure of herself.

Gremmy loves to drive in the rain.

She also loves her grandson Ricky, and that is no secret, not at all.

Gremmy goes east toward the boy’s high school while the trickle fattens into a torrent. She cracks her window an inch or two and allows the water to stipple the sleeve of her cardigan. To anoint her gnarled knuckles twisted by time and cracked with care.

The saint of our family, Ricky often says.

He had asked Gremmy to attend his play tonight, alone, and she giggled because naturally that was a given. Dates were few and far between for Gremmy. But Ricky didn’t meet her glee when he said he had something he wanted to tell her. Needed to tell her. Gremmy had ever been Ricky’s confidante, from his first confession in kindergarten about eating crayons to just last week when Ricky cheated on an exam, and Gremmy would not fail him now.

So on she drives in the rain.

The strengthening shower in her Toyota’s headlights reminds Gremmy of awful Armenia, fireflies winking in nighttime’s gloom while she pinned sheets in a chill wind. Gremmy would prefer laundry to dry in this manner still, but her schedule won’t allow it. Her own home, her son’s, her bootless husband, her overactive grandchildren. By now she knows all of their secrets, legible in diet and dirty underwear alike.

Gremmy changes lanes as she nears the campus, back for her second time that day. Well, who else picks up Ricky? Oh, but these commutes she so cherishes, minutes alone with her chosen dearest. She grins unaware while merging, but her tires slip and scuttle across the skin of water. Gremmy restores the sedan without issue and checks her mirrors to make sure—

A hearse.

Gremmy gasps, crow’s feet diminished by virtue of her electrified eyes locked on the rearview wherefrom swings a Christ crucified.

A hearse indeed trails behind, closer, seemingly overtaken by Gremmy. Her stare darts back and forth from the road to the hearse, from the road to the hearse, from the road to the hearse. Woodleigh Lane, there trailing, Gould Avenue, shadowing yet, the hard rain now a curtain pulled apart by her wrenching wipers to briefly reveal the black-and-grey car.

Gremmy blows past Georgia Road beneath a green light.

The grill of the hearse appears to her as a smile, but one such reserved for the wicked, those abrim with sin.

Crown Avenue flies by under a cautionary yellow.

Its upraised roof is a monstrous hunch, some tumorous burden pressing down on an eager ogre. Gremmy wonders if the hearse is occupied when a volley of honks clutches her waning attention.

She blinks into the immediate present of Daleridge Road only to see a red traffic light drift over her Toyota and hear the screeching of vehicles sliding on either side. That hostile red light burns a brand upon her retinas, usurps Gremmy’s whole horizon when all she wants to see is Ricky, and—and then she’s on the other side.

“Thank God, oh, park kez Ter Astvats,” she says.

Gremmy rips her foot off the gas and coasts, willing the clean rain to purify her humors, at once polluted by a churn of adrenaline and fear. She breathes and breathes again, and the hammer inside her chest relaxes while the flow of travel behind her commences.

Gremmy chances another look in the rearview and witnesses the hearse going right at the intersection she narrowly escaped.

She enters the parking lot of Saint Francis High School and pulls her Toyota into a vacancy ensconced by the halo of a foggy lamppost. The spots are almost entirely full, families filing in for a night of drama. The muffled laughter of the young penetrates the quiet of the parking lot, the synchronous scuffing of sneakers like hysterical violins. This is the last performance of the season, Ricky’s final time on stage before graduation, his first starring role. Gremmy can’t recall the name of the production just then, but it’s that movie with Jack something-or-other when he screams in a courtroom about handling the truth. Ricky is playing the young lawyer, the man from all those spy movies and the Hollywood religion.

Gremmy’s life hasn’t been hers for half a century plus, but she thanks God for bringing her here in the rain, and for bringing Ricky to her. It was just last Thanksgiving when the boy stood and read a speech about their relationship. You’re my best friend, Gremmy, Ricky said.

No one had called her that before.

Gremmy nudges open the door with a wobbly knee and hoists herself upward while wielding an umbrella, because even though she loves to drive in the rain, she hates to walk in it. Puddles rise to meet her tread as Gremmy goes to the quad of Saint Francis. Crossing the drop-off area, her feet stutter as the hearse bobs across a speed bump and blinds Gremmy with its shining glare. But as the offending high beams retreat, so too does her instant panic. Nothing more than an ordinary Lincoln Town Car, the selfsame hunk of junk her husband drove back in his more ambulatory days.

The rain has wasted to mist, so Gremmy sheathes her umbrella. Her glasses are water-dotted, but she can still see the statue of Saint Francis tending his animals, sees him well. Gremmy bends her neck in his direction before entering a lavish plaza done in the Mediterranean mode.

Peace blankets her here within this vicarious experience of community and camaraderie. Olive trees and succulents and riotous flowers color the courtyard, white stanchions of a football field like sentries in the far distance. Ricky’s older brother broke his clavicle under those posts not three years ago, that fool, the white of his jutted bone ablaze in their gleam. Gremmy strolls tutting as final raindrops touch her face, an isolate being for the moment unobliged, for the moment unnoticed.

Tables providing coffee and cookies and candy are propped end to end under a vine-gripped arcade, parents pitching in their share. Gremmy recognizes so many of them. She winds her way through the mingling mothers and fraternizing fathers, eager for some caffeine to settle her jangled nerves and maybe even an indulgence of sweets.

Like her faith, Gremmy’s English is perfect, tiny accent aside.

“Hello,” says she. “May I please have a cup of black coffee? And an oatmeal co—”

The woman sitting opposite Gremmy looks up, and her mask of greeting ruptures into naked horror. This woman shrieks before clapping mute her stretched mouth.

“Are you all right, miss?” seeks Gremmy, leaning closer, but the woman shoots out her hand and locks Gremmy’s wrist like a cuff to arrest her advance, and born of their unforeseen union Gremmy knows, simply knows, that this person kicks the family cat when no one else is home, that she steps on its nape and releases, steps and releases, like she’s tapping along to the beat of her favorite song.

Gremmy knows her secret.

But before she can parse this bizarrity, the woman recoils, blond and prim, with chemical lips, her spine pushing her chair and making it whine through the air.

“Miss, w—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m sorry,” interrupts the woman. “It’s your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

The woman physically turns away before responding with a nod of her trembling head.

“My eyes?” Gremmy asks again. She’d checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror prior to departing but not before exiting the Toyota. She isn’t vain, she’s aware of her looks. Besides, Ricky has told Gremmy for as long as he could talk that she resembles Robin Williams.

Gremmy blinks with searching intent but nothing feels off, no ocular pain or skewed sight. The crowd leers at her askance, and their flanking whispers sand Gremmy’s blushed ears. Whatever vapor dewed the lines of her cheeks a minute ago evaporates at this mortification. Gremmy grinds her dentures, a creak like ragged leather loud in her skull.

“Someone just give her the coffee already,” spits the woman, still avoiding any sort of directness. “And the cat,” she continues with even more pronounced reticence. “He’s fine.”

Irrespective of the strange circumstance, Gremmy knows a lie when she hears a lie. Her eyes might be compromised, but her ears are expert.

Gremmy snatches her goods and stalks to the center of the courtyard, where a fountain warbles to itself, just as Gremmy does. She senses the edgy undertones of the crowd behind her, Gremmy so scarred by backflung barbs yet pricked by them still. She plants herself on a large rock, another sculpture of Saint Francis looming over his animals. His shadow capes her stooped shoulders, and all the mountains beyond the football field are shapes without detail, shapes without detail.

Gremmy sips her acrid coffee and then pours the remains into the water. She scoots around and peers into the pool, where in the placid surface Gremmy understands the mass agitation, though it affords her no comfort.

Her eyes, the right and the left, are changed.

“Jesus have mercy,” says her reflection.

Where once there was white there is now only red, a great spill of blood flooding the sclera.

“Jesus have mercy,” says Gremmy, and springs up so fast that her neck locks in place as if each tendon is trapped between sharp vertebrae. Gremmy always wakes at 4:00 a.m. to pray, thanking God for a new day with her first thought before she thinks of any other. Maybe this is her body’s unsubtle intervention, hemorrhages and spasms, its way of telling her to relax, to slow down, to stop being everything for everyone.

Maybe it is God’s divine intercession.

Three sonorous chimes echo across the expanse of the courtyard as lamps begin to dim. The figure of Saint Francis remains lit, however, illumination from the small pond dancing like upset mercury on his carved features. Gremmy stands and notices a fox at the feet of the saint. Turquoise from snout to tail, with streaks of rust scoring the body. She waits for an invasion of scarlet, for her eyes to burst and bleed, but everything remains earthly, her vision unhampered by a crimson hell.

“Good night,” she says to Saint Francis and his fox as the crowd shuffles toward the theatre. Gremmy too joins the throng, her head down and her pace sedate. Ricky got her a seat in the front row, better for her to see but also convenient should she need to leave. If Papik or Dad or Noah need you, Ricky said.

No, Ricky, tonight you are my one and only.

She said that to him with the certainty of a sunrise.

Gremmy finds her seat and eases into the plush backing. The stage is impeccable, professional, a foreboding bench abutted by two witness stands, and Gremmy marvels at the school’s expense. The house fills in minutes, the chairs on either side of her in seconds. The man to her left stops in a squat, and Gremmy is certain why so she spares him by averting her stained eyes. When he finally does sit, the arm of his suede jacket touches Gremmy’s pinky finger, and she knows that his jacket is stolen.

The man’s nostrils flare as he bothers his wedding ring.

“I have two sons here and a daughter at Sacred Heart…”

Gremmy listens.

“Every penny is for them, and that’s fine. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I just, all the parents drive luxury cars and wear designer clothes…”

Gremmy nods.

“I don’t want my children left out. And I don’t want them to hate me, so.” He smooths the lapel of his jacket. “You understand.”

“Yes.”

The man knuckles back tears.

“Thank you.”

Perhaps the hemorrhage is worse than Gremmy thinks if she’s conjuring kicked cats and stolen clothes. Some insidious stroke. Maybe she should call her son, but no, he’s probably out drinking someplace. How about Noah? Gallivanting on his motorcycle without a helmet, that idiot. And what of her husband? Doubtless asleep in his bed, Gremmy’s own bed waiting made and warm. How sleepy she is, sleepier still as the lights go down and the actors assume their places.

Gremmy blinks to stay awake, but her eyelids grow heavier with successive flutters. It’s only when she hears Ricky’s voice, the voice she’s heard descend from squeaky to strong, that she rouses.

He strides on stage, a smirk crowning his chin and pointing to the keen corners of his jaw. The crisp white shirt strains against his water polo chest, tanned hands lazy in his pockets. Her handsome boy!

Ricky delivers his lines and sits at a table and while his scene partner speaks, Ricky’s gaze lands on Gremmy. His face sags, lips parting of their own volition. Her eyes to him must look like a pair of Christmas ornaments glinting in the dark, familiar but frightful. Ever so slightly, Ricky cocks his head upward, an inquiry of reassurance learned at Gremmy’s lap. She sends him the same gesture, her answer, and Ricky picks up where he left off without missing his cue.

Lethargy comes and goes in waves as the play progresses, at times coddling Gremmy while at others thrashing her, and before long, the lights fade up and someone somewhere announces intermission. She stays put while the audience exits, thinking about whether she should linger or leave. The last thing she wants is to get into another near miss while driving. So Gremmy hauls herself up.

“Gremmy!”

Ricky’s head floats from behind a side door.

“You came!”

“Of course I did. Nothing could stop me from seeing you.”

“You’re a saint. Hey, how do you say ‘saint’ in Armenian again?”

She huffs through her nose.

“Soorp.”

“Right, soorp. You’re a soorp, Gremmy.”

She laughs, and he clears his throat.

“Is it good? The play, I mean.”

“Very good, balas. You are wonderful.”

He regards her sanguine eyes again, squints.

“And are you sure you’re okay?”

Gremmy nods. Ricky’s head looks backstage, listening.

“Gotta go, Gremmy.”

“Ricky, wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Umm…”

One of Gremmy’s kneecaps slides out of true while she stands by.

“Can it wait?” he asks her.

“Can it?” she asks him.

Ricky rubs the nape of his neck.

“I really have to go, Gremmy.”

Gremmy’s kneecap pops back in place, as does unexpected relief.

“Okay, hokees, go.”

Ricky smiles at Gremmy and she sees the toddler he was, the man he will someday be. Whatever happened to her eyes, this panoramic perception is crystal clear, and for that she again thanks God. Suddenly, Ricky toes the dropdown door holder and jogs to Gremmy, his rangy legs conveying him in five nonchalant strides. He envelops her in a hug, and between the heat of his biceps, Gremmy now knows his secret.

Does it disappoint her? She’d be lying if she said no.

Does she love Ricky any less? She’d be lying if she said yes.

His abrupt inhalation shivers her very soul.

“Gremmy, I—”

“Shh. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

She holds him out at arm’s length, her thumbs kneading his wide shoulders.

“You used to fit right in my elbow, Ricky.”

“Now you can probably fit in mine.”

They chuckle, but the sound is new.

“I love you, okay? I promise I love you.”

And his lips are a dam, but his head rocks up and down. Gremmy feels his anguish and wants to take it from him.

“Have a great play, Ricky.”

“Wha—Are you leaving?”

“Maybe I go check on Papik, huh? You know how he is.”

“Gremmy, don’t go just because—”

“You’re beautiful up there. I know you will do great.”

From the wings a voice calls out for Ricky to hurry up already.

“Thanks, Gremmy.”

“For what, jana?”

The boy blows her a kiss and lopes back to his life.

Gremmy walks up the aisle and through the foyer, awash in confusion. Her willingness to give Ricky the space he needs far outweighs her selfish desire to stay and unwillingly smother it.

Outside, the clouds have cleared to reveal the few scant stars permitted to dress the skies of Los Angeles. A thick crowd clutters the entrance of the theatre, in the direction of the parking lot. Not wishing to experience anyone else’s inner world, Gremmy circumvents the loitering horde and straightaway understands their thralldom.

There in the center of the roundabout sits a fox on its haunches. The critter spies Gremmy and yaps, its fuzzy head pointed right at her. Gremmy remains motionless as the throng observes. The fox yaps again, shriller, urgent, and impatiently hops to, sashaying its fiery fur. Gremmy glances at the crowd, these people she’s circled for years, and they flinch as one.

Grace visits Gremmy again this night as it did hours ago with the rain, sudden and swift. Cloistered together, she and they, a lifting of the veil occurs, the drawing of some giant drapery with Gremmy spotlit, a confidence shared among themselves. They glimpse this enigma of all and everything, the impregnable mystery up close, and know.

The fox yaps a third time, angling its smallish head at Gremmy. She turns on her heel and follows the beast as three chimes from behind indicate resumption for everyone else.

Upstairs they climb, the fox’s claws clicking atop the pavement and echoing around the concrete pylons. Swishing back and forth as would a metronome, its vulpine tail a lure leading Gremmy to her level, where she turns the corner and freezes.

Within the halo of the lamppost where her Toyota should be parked idles the hearse, doused in a color of honey. The fox carries on apace toward the vehicle as Gremmy remains fixed, and the open air surrounding her suddenly slams tight like the lid of a jar. Awful Armenia steals Gremmy’s memory once more, their breathless cellar packed with preserves, and the driver’s door of the hearse mewls open. Gremmy wishes she had stayed to watch the rest of Ricky’s play. One bare foot followed by the other steps out of the hearse and lights upon the still wet cement. The bottom half of a brown tunic skirts the ground as Saint Francis unfurls from the hearse and stands to his full height. The fox settles down beside him and pants with a contented tongue, and it’s so similar to the courtyard statue that Gremmy considers jumping off the roof.

Saint Francis extends his emaciated hand to her, his flesh a prime example of poverty’s vow. Gremmy contemplates how Ricky will get home, how her husband will have breakfast tomorrow, if her son and Noah will someday murder each other. Even now, in this hour, she prays for them.

The hearse’s engine purrs to life.

As Saint Francis glides to Gremmy, she tries to pinpoint precisely when she died and decides it must have been at the red light.

Nearer now he sails, and from his robes she whiffs the assaultive stench of barns, hay, fur, feed, and good Lord of course it’s Saint Francis who shall escort Gremmy deep into the blue hereafter, this steward of animals, of course it is. Butterflies billow free from his sleeves as Saint Francis rests the tips of his withered fingers just so on Gremmy’s forehead and rain falls from a singing sky to bless her journey. He opens the door and helps her in, but of course he does.

“After all,” Gremmy says to him, “we’re just animals, aren’t we?”

Animals with secrets.

And the hearse moves in no discernible direction with Francis at the wheel and his fox curled at Gremmy’s feet. Above the din of heaven’s rain, she can hear applause clamorous like thunder. For Ricky? No.

For her.

For Saint Gremmy.

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