That afternoon, Teresa stands outside the Mantecombe post office. She has just sent off the first draft of the memoir to her editor. She feels sad to be finished, but there is also an inner lightness, a sense of relief. It is rather like the euphoria one feels after a bout of the stomach flu, when there is nothing left to purge and the internal fireworks have subsided. Teresa tells herself to enjoy the sensation, since she knows that she’ll be revising great chunks of her writing as soon as Janine has read it.
The work of revision, however, is in the future. Right now she has hours of free time, and a date–well, let’s just call it a dinner– tomorrow with Father Michael. She should get something nice to wear, a swirly skirt, or a bright summer dress. Teresa decides to drive south as far as she can go today, all the way to Land’s End. The tourist towns in Cornwall will surely have some clothing stores. She returns to the Manor, packs an overnight bag, and leaves a note for Miss Micklewhite that she’ll be back tomorrow.
The traffic gets worse the closer Teresa gets to Penzance. While creeping along in a line of cars, Teresa muses over finishing the memoir. She knows the therapeutic value of writing; there are innumerable self-help books that recommend journaling, goal-setting, or some other type of writing to achieve clarity or release. The memoir has freed her of some weighty baggage. In particular, writing about the process of forgiving changed her. She had been inhabiting her past. Now the past is just that, past, and it has lost its grip. A new feeling is tickling the space between her ribs, like a fresh green sprout. She might, just possibly, call it peace.
What if Margaret forgave her father? Teresa wonders. The next thought comes in a flash of surprise: what if I write forgiveness into the story? What would happen to the real ghost if the story I write has a different ending? By the time Teresa finds a hotel and dinner, it is late. She lies awake in her hotel bed, her mind unable to let go of this new intriguing idea. She knows how she would write the scene. She can see it unfold as if on a cinema screen.
It takes place in Margaret’s room at the Manor House. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, giving light and warmth into the darkness of the room. Outside the window, it is still night. George sits slumped in a chair, dozing. Margaret is on the bed, a blanket thrown over her. Her skin is the color of skim milk, her face bruised and swollen. She stirs and opens her eyes. She sees George.
“Da?” she says. “Is that you?”
He snaps awake. “Margaret? Nooo, it can’t be!” He kneels at the bedside.
She lifts her hand, reaching out to him. “Da, where’s Lucas?”
“He’s alive, but he’s hurt some. He’s at a farm nearby, with a woman who’s a healer. She has a babe, too. She’s feeding Lucas.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She lapses into silence from the effort of talking. Then she says, “And Mary?”
“Died of a fever, three winters past.” George begins to weep. “Oh, Maggie, I’ve missed you these years. We treated you poorly, we did. Even Mary said so, before she died.”
Margaret squeezes his fingers. “It’s all right, Da. It’s over and gone. I knew you loved me.”
“Always did, always will, Maggie-pie.” He kisses her hand.
Here the film in Teresa’s imagining fades into blankness. Would it be too corny if Margaret turns to look out the window where dawn is beginning to show its light, and then dies? The camera could pan out the window, over the farm fields and down to the sea, where the wreck of the Maeve lies broken on the rocks. Teresa wrinkles her forehead. I’ll have to work on that part.
Teresa finally falls asleep. She will stay at the Manor to write Margaret’s story. She’ll do more research and see more of Father Michael. And maybe Father Michael will understand how Teresa’s life and Margaret’s life were meant to come together across time. How it had to be Teresa, with her own ghost and bearing the loss of her own child, who would uncover Margaret’s secret. And maybe Father Michael would also understand about the writing. That just like history is rearranged in textbooks to suit the particular slant of the government in power, memories can be rearranged as well. And if Father Michael is really astute, and truly compassionate, he might also understand how Teresa could write her own and Margaret’s way out of anger, into forgiveness and peace of heart. He might be a man like that. If he is, it could be a very good year.
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Salerno Enterprises did not go under. Not only did Angelina keep the business afloat, she also made shrewd investments. She found other markets for the olive oil, making the boycott by the stores in New York ineffective. When she was ready to retire, she turned over her position of CEO to Dolly. By that time, Dolly knew all the inner workings of Salerno Enterprises, and had some of her own innovations to contribute. Angelina went to live in Florida where she still resides with her three obnoxious Yorkshire terriers, Mimi, Fifi, and Lulu.
Cousin Alberto was released from prison. His sentence was reduced by five years for cooperative behavior. I saw him only once after that, at a restaurant. He did not appear to be a broken man, but he was definitely damaged. There was none of the old bravado. His dyed dark brown hair had gray peeking out along the part line. His smile startled me; he had false teeth! I guess the prison diet wasn’t that healthy, or maybe he offended a prisoner with a big fist.
Neither Debo nor Dolly ever married. Dolly lived with Jason for many years. He died of a heart attack two years ago. Debo finally wearied of police work in the City. Now she teaches classes at the New York Police Academy. The four of us, Dolly, Debo, Angelina, and I, get together twice every year, once at Christmastime in Florida, and again at Easter in New York City. I never did tell them about Father’s ghostly visits. At first I was too ashamed of my own role that caused his appearances, and then too much time went by to bring it up. When this memoir is published, we’re going to have plenty to talk about!
And Father? He never appeared to me again, but Dolly, who lives in our old apartment, swears that when she’s taking a shower, she hears him singing arias in the kitchen.
The sun is high in the window when Teresa wakes up from a blissfully deep and dreamless sleep. Before getting out of bed, she closes her eyes to better recall Margaret’s appearance. Now Teresa remembers that she did see Margaret’s shoes, a pair of sturdy leather boots, repaired and worn. One more detail comes to Teresa in the daylight. Margaret’s wrist was wrapped in a dark, stained cloth. Teresa shivers, remembering the reason for the bandage. Eddie Thomson’s version of the story seems to be true.
Teresa is hungry. She decides to have a real English breakfast at the cafe in town. She washes and dresses quickly, thinking of fried eggs and tomatoes, sausage, and toast. She is delighted to get a seat at a table by the window. She orders her breakfast while pushing down the guilty knowledge of how the heavy food will make her feel later on. She is sipping her first cup of tea and gazing out the window when Father Michael passes by. Here is the one person in Mantecombe she can tell about Margaret. Even if he doesn’t believe her, he will listen and keep her tale in confidence.
A moment later, Father Michael steps into the cafe. He sees Teresa just as she is lifting her hand to wave to him. He strides over to her table.
“What serendipity!” he says. “Miss Salerno! I was hoping to catch you. May I?” He indicates the chair opposite her.
“Please, Father Michael. Sit down.” She returns his broad smile. “I’m having the death-defying English breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
“That would be a pleasure, one that I allow myself to indulge in perhaps twice a year.” They laugh together. Teresa notices the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles.
“I have to confess, Miss Salerno, that I googled your publications after our last meeting.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and I found you to be quite a prolific writer. A good one, too, I might add. I read the articles you wrote on the effects of television on young children. Rather horrifying.”
Teresa finds her cheeks getting hot. When was the last time I blushed? she asks herself.
Father Michael leans forward over his teacup, his expression earnest. “But don’t you think there should be more longitudinal studies, ones that follow the children through their secondary schooling?”
“Absolutely. In fact, one of the teams of scientists that I interviewed is trying to get funding to do just that.”
Their conversation flows easily through breakfast, ranging from children and television, to the Middle East, to the New York Times Book Review that Father Michael reads weekly. Teresa joins him in laughter often during their talk. When he leans toward her to make a point, she catches a whiff of his after-shave, fresh and citrus-y. She likes everything about this man, his kind face, his intellect, and his zest for life.
Finally, the last cup of tea is drained, the plates are removed, the cafe is almost empty of customers.
“This has been a delightful meal,” Father Michael says, standing up. “I have another confession. I also googled your bio, Miss Salerno.”
“Oh, dear. I haven’t looked at it for months. I hope it wasn’t too pompous.” Or too revealing, she adds in her mind.
“Not at all. However, you have had quite an interesting life so far. And quite a few losses,” he adds after a pause.
“Yes, well…” she hesitates, embarrassed, and determines to google herself as soon as she gets back to the Manor. Then she gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh! Father Michael! I have the most amazing news about Mar— my research. I completely forgot that I wanted to tell you about it.”
“I should love to hear,” he says. Then wrinkling his brow, “Today I’m all booked up. I know! How about we have dinner tomorrow evening? There’s a little inn just north of here, quiet, good food. What do you say?”
“That would be lovely,” Teresa answers, her mind racing. Is this a date? What shall I wear?
“I’ll meet you in the Manor car park, at seven o’clock. How is that?”
“Perfect,” she says, smiling. “That will be perfect.”
Father’s ghost came to speak to me three more times in the next months. Each time the odor of his cigar alerted me to his presence, and each time he was harder to see, but easier to hear. It was as if he had to choose to focus his energy on only one mode of manifestation. The second appearance came only three days after the first. He hovered faintly in the corner by the chair
“You were a good sister, Teresa. You took care of the twins.”
Perhaps that took all the spirit energy he had, since he faded out before I could stop shivering and gather my wits. When at last I did, I spoke angry words to the spot where he’d been, hurling my rage into the dark room.
“Somebody had to take care of them! You were off in Italy for weeks on end, with Angelina, I suppose. And Mother was out with Cousin Alberto. You were total losers as parents! The girls could have become whores or heroin addicts, and you’d never have noticed!”
The baby inside me moved, as if protesting the angry tone and the influx of adrenalin that my emotion transferred to him. Even though I stopped lambasting Father aloud, I continued the diatribe in my mind, until I heard the clash of the trashcans announce the coming of the day. I maintained a long litany of his failings that I fingered mentally, as if telling a rosary made of pain.
The third time Father came, four months later, I was awake with indigestion. The clock in the hall had struck 1 a.m. As I sipped my second cup of peppermint tea, I read the galleys of a book I was editing. For several nights I had slept poorly. My pregnant belly made it hard to find a comfortable position. When I smelled the cigar smoke, I slapped the papers down on the quilt.
“Not again!” I growled. “Haven’t you caused enough pain and trouble? What do you want from me?”
Father’s voice seemed to emanate from the walls. “Forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you? Is this some sort of celestial homework assignment?”
“Forgive me, Teresa. Let me go.”
I was so stunned that I hardly noticed when he faded away. I had never considered that my hurt and rage could be binding Father’s spirit to me. No one else, not Debo, not Dolly, not Angelina, had mentioned a visit from Father’s ghost. He kept coming to me. All my life, the mere mention of him caused me to be swallowed in a wave of rage and hurt. All the memories that I nurtured highlighted Father’s neglect, and his withdrawal of affection, attention, or approval. It took effort to maintain this mountainous grudge I carried against my father. Did I have any positive memories of Father? Any at all? In the lamp light of my bedroom, I made myself reconsider.
In the years before Junior was born, I was wrapped in the warm blanket of Father’s love. It seemed to end with my brother’s birth, but now, in the wee hours, with the scent of cigar smoke still drifting in my bedroom, I could recall other times. Some small, sweet moments came back to me. I remembered practicing a Chopin Etude on the piano while Father sat in his recliner. When the piece came to an end, I glanced at him. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling.
“That was beautiful,” he said. “Play it again, little bird.”
I remembered one evening when I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, he came home with a velvet jewelry box that he put in my hands. I looked at him, surprised, searching in my mind for the occasion that merited a gift, but I could think of none. I was eleven years old, as awkward and funny-looking as I could be, with braces, a bad haircut, and an attitude.
Father smiled at my consternation. “I saw these in the window at Saks. I thought you’d like them.”
In the box was a pair of pearl stud earrings. The pearls were set in gold petals, making a delicate, luminous flower. They were lovely. I wore them for years, and I have them still. Now other events came back to me. There was the time he took me, just me, to the opera. I was fourteen and the performance was La Boheme. Junior sulked for days because he wasn’t invited.
Father said to him, “I’ll take you to the opera when I know you can behave yourself.”
The evening was that much sweeter for me because Junior was excluded. I wore my best navy suit and, of course, my pearl earrings.
When I was working at the publishing company during the summer, Father came by occasionally to take me out to lunch. Mostly we talked about the business and the twins, nothing personal or significant. But it was time that he gave to me alone.
As I sifted through my twenty-three years with my father, I was slowly filled with shame. All along there were expressions of his caring, and I had blocked them out in order to feed my rage. I cried a great deal that night, hot tears of regret. I even called out to his spirit to come back, but he did not reappear.
A week went by during which my heart felt like it was being reshaped. The process involved an ocean of tears and much chest pain, like the organs between my ribs were imploding. When finally Father swirled in on the scent of smoke, I wept as I said, “I’m so ashamed and sorry that I’ve stayed angry at you for so long. I can forgive you, Father. But can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “I did not love you well enough. I will do better the next time, my little bird.”
With that eerie promise, the smoky trail dispersed. To this day, the odor of cigar smoke sends prickles up my spine, but Father’s ghost has never returned.
Tangled Magic 