Lionel must have rationalized that God forgave his sins, at least until his next Confession. One Saturday Lionel drove her to a church in Middletown. Drowning in depression and self-loathing, the last thing Addy wanted to do was to stir up even darker thoughts as she searched her mind for sins. Her gloominess came about last night when she and Lionel attended the wedding of their neighbor’s son. Addy observed just how tenderly some men danced with their wives. Why was she stuck with a beast?
Addy knelt in the dark confessional and waited to hear that familiar yet frightening sound of the priest slowly opening the panel on his side of the confessional. At that moment, Addy’s heart beat so rapidly she was sure she would faint. The screen that blocked her view of the priest consisted of a strange material Addy had never seen anywhere else. It was a corrugated, perforated partition covered with a thick, yellowish waxy substance. Only a Catholic who has knelt in a confessional would recognize the distinctive odor of this veil-like window through which you could see the shadowy outline of the priest.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” Addy began mechanically. “It has been two weeks since my last Confession. These are my sins.” Then, almost as if someone else were speaking, Addy blurted, “I want to divorce my husband.”
The priest was silent for a moment then replied, “The Catholic Church does not approve of divorce under any circumstances.”
Choking back her tears, Addy whispered, “But he beats me.”
Cold and matter-of-fact, the priest answered, “Make an appointment to see a Catholic marriage counselor. It is sinful to even think thoughts of divorce.”
Addy left the confessional in disbelief and walked zombie-like to the altar. Her deep hatred for the Catholic Church rose inside like a raging fire. She wanted to run through the sanctuary screaming, “DEMONS. YOU ARE ALL DEMONS.”
Instead, she glanced over at Lionel with his fat head bowed in holiness.
“You fucking son-of-a-bitch,” ranted Addy in her head. “If this is your religion, you can stick it up your ass, just like your fucking filthy dick you love to stick up my ass.”
Addy no longer felt guilty about the foul rebellion that played out in her head. It was what kept her sane. She knew that her marriage was very wrong and unhealthy, but she had no way to escape. If she killed herself, the children would have to stay with Lionel, and God knows what he would do. As difficult as it was to go on, Addy had to be an anchor for her beloved Peter, James, and Mary.
Chapter III
Memories of
Sound View Beach, Connecticut
During the ride home from Middletown, Lionel suddenly announced that he was planning to rent his co-worker’s summer cottage in Maine.
Oh, hell, thought Addy. How will I be able to tolerate him all day every day for a week?
“Charlie says he has two weeks available,” he continued.
TWO WEEKS, Addy thought with alarm. What a perfect penance.
“Of course, I can’t take two weeks off from work, but you and the kids can go.”
Addy straightened up and replied, “Of course. What weeks will we be going?”
“August 14th through the 27th. I’ll be in Denver, but I think you can manage the kids all right without me. After all, it’s about time you started to show some responsibility.”
She was dumbfounded. Had she heard him correctly? Did he say he would be in Denver? Does that mean he will be letting us go without him? Maybe there is a God after all. As soon as they got home, Addy would start crossing off the days until vacation on the calendar.
The last time Addy had stayed in a cottage by the shore was when she was a child. It was at the ocean that she felt truly alive. Although Addy did not realize it at the time, as a child, she believed there was something wrong with her because she had lost her parents. That was a very unlucky thing. Aunts Sophia and Hazel used to take her to Sound View Beach to stay with some Italian friends who rented cottages in a little Italian enclave every summer. During those two weeks, Addy became someone else. She spent her days floating in the ocean, collecting shells, digging in the sand, and fashioning elaborate castles with canals and moats. All the kids would hunt for snails, and the women would boil the hapless creatures for supper. They would use an open safety pin to dig out the snail’s body. Addy just could not stomach the snails. Fortunately, there were always other delicious choices like homemade raviolis or veal cutlets.
The women, joking and laughing, standing over huge pots of boiling pasta, and brushing the hair away from their sweaty brows with bent wrists, could have been a Van Gogh painting. Addy didn’t know Italian, and the women knew very little English, but no one cared. At times, a look of sadness clouded the women’s happy faces as they observed Addy, commenting, “Poveretta.” Addy later learned that translates something like, “Poor little thing.” They felt sorry for Addy because she was an orphan, but they treated her as if she was one of their own children. Even Addy’s aunts loosened up at the shore, smiled more, and treated Addy with greater warmth. In Addy’s mind, Italians were magic. They loved life, no matter what the circumstances. Food, wine, music, children, nature…. these were the treasures of those beloved people.
In addition to the snails, the kids collected buckets of indigo blue mussels, and the Italian men would pry open the shells, then slurp and swallow the slimy orange bodies of the mussels live. Addy nearly threw up at even the idea of this practice, but she had to admit, the mussel-slurping men stirred admiration for what was to Addy a solely masculine pastime. There was so little masculine influence in Addy’s life.
The Italian ladies were fat, but they didn’t seem to care. They all wore long, dark swim dresses, rubber bathing caps, and water shoes. Later in the day, when the cooking was done and the sun less intense, the women would wade into the shallow water, link hands, and sing in their broken English, “Ring arouna da rosy.” They coaxed the children to join the circle, and when they came to the verse, “Ashes, ashes, all fall down,” everyone would dunk into the water, squealing with laughter. Addy was sure this was how life was supposed to be.
The old Italian ladies would jokingly call Addy, “Cigar Mail.” Well, at least that was how it sounded. Addy later learned they were saying “Zia Carmela,” which means “Aunt Carmela.” The practice she shared with this “aunt” was to change her bathing suit every time it got wet. Addy hated when the sand collected in the rear of her suit, making it droop, as if she had a load in her pants. Thankfully, her aunts did acquiesce to this one simple pleasure and brought along an ample supply of swimwear for Addy. Some suits had coordinating bathing caps decorated with floppy rubber flowers.
The grown-ups warned the kids not to track sand into the cottages, so when Addy needed to change her suit, she rapped dutifully on the wood frame of the screen door, hoping to get the attention of one of the adults inside. Sure enough, “Cigar Mail,” amused by their mutual habit, brought out a fresh suit from Addy’s dresser drawer. It happened to be one of Addy’s favorites: it had a gray background printed with small yellow flowers and a flounce around the bottom.
Addy thanked “Cigar Mail” politely and then ran down to the changing rooms. This little group of shorefront cottages