My Not Enough
By: Peter
Mrs. Quigley slips into the pew in front of us. I wish she hadn’t. When I see her, I must endure a rush of unfair questions. I call to Neil who is drifting out of the pew and into the aisle. Meeting my eye, he smiles and moves back next to Tallulah. Neil is the sweetest thing in my life. His too-wide eyes and puffy, innocent face. Blond brown hair flopping onto his forehead. His tongue hanging out of his wide lips. Eyes rich and blue from his father. A beautifully generous smile. Tallulah is kneeling in the pew. Without looking at him, her arm links around his waist. He turns and hugs her too intently, nearly knocking the two of them to the floor. Into the seated Randall Tallulah falls. Wordlessly he shoves her away and back to her kneeling position. Neil still hanging on her neck, I whisper Neil’s name and he obediently disengages and kneels next to his sister. Randall turned fourteen last week. I have completely lost him to that next stage of life, that moody, leave-me-alone-while-still-giving-me-attention stage. Tallulah is almost twelve. She, I am convinced, understands more about this world than she should. A lavender saffron dress hangs too loosely on her just-blossoming frame. Neil is only five, although it seems like forever ago when he was born.
Mr. Quigley was a known neighborhood lush. Fat face, bloodshot eyes, swollen red nose - just like a barroom caricature. When we were kids, my mother whispered that my sisters and I should keep clear of him if we saw him walking up the street. That we should move indoors or at least into the backyard. Later we learned he was undoubtedly walking, more likely staggering, home from The Emerald Isle Pub. He had the sense not to drive, but not to not drink is what my father explained. It was a sickness. We Irish are sensitive to that, he said. He said this even though Momma was German, and we were half German too. It was clear from father that Mr. Quigley deserved our pity. But, per mother, he should be avoided all the same. Once, walking home alone from the Circle K, I encountered the swaggering Mr. Quigley. He slurred in a quite jovial fashion. Aren’t you one of the McNally lasses? Joannie? Betsy? He swayed toward me. I was trapped. Together for two and a half blocks we slowly plodded. The whole time he spoke sweetly and barely intelligibly about my parents, my family - a fine Irish family. His family, too - especially his daughter Catherine who he claimed I was the spitting image of. He patted me gently on the shoulder as we reached my house, and pushed off toward his own. Three sheets to the wind. I saw my mother at the window, the white curtains falling shut as I looked toward the house. As I walked in the door, her lecture began. I could not understand her repeated cautious instruction. Father’s take seemed to better fit my experience. Mr. Quigley was worthy of my pity, not my fear.
The organist strikes the opening notes of mass. Randall I need to nudge to his feet. Tallulah and Neil stand without prompting. Tallulah’s sweet, soft voice joins the song. Morning has broken. I whisper to Neil who was lodging his index finger into his nose. I hand him a tissue. Smiling innocently he takes the white sheet. The processional heads past us and toward the front of the church. I hear my own voice joining the song. Randall silence is almost as loud as my voice. I want to admonish him. Instead, I try to rub his back lovingly. To my surprise, he lets me. Neil hands me the balled-up tissue. This is what mass has become for me - an hour’s worth of hollow introspection, almost devoid of prayer. And riddled with instructions to my children. Neil, Neil, don’t tear that. Randall, Stand. Neil, get back here. Stand. Sit. Kneel. Neil! I contemplate that it might all be easier with Randy, but I am not certain. Maybe, Randy could prompt Randall for me. Maybe. Probably Randall wouldn’t respond to him any better.
I met Randy when he was a veterinary student at Penn. I was an accounting major at Saint Joseph’s University. We met at the Palestra before the start of a Big Five game. Despite my crimson and his red, we hit it off immediately. By the time the Hawks and Quakers tipped off, we had bet dinner on the outcome. The oldest trick in the book I had told him. Tony Costner lit Penn up for twenty five points in a 86-66 victory for the Hawks. Randy suggested drinks at Cavanaugh’s after the game. But I would not let him off that easily. We met for dinner on South Street the next Saturday. Randy was so funny. And so much fun to be around. Talking and laughing, we strolled from shop to shop. Before long we were introducing each other to our friends, each apologizing for the other’s choice in higher education. Randy had a bushy head of curly blond hair with long sideburns, and wide blue eyes. He worked with the large animals at the Philadelphia Zoo. Randall was so kind and compassionate, like no man I had ever known. We married in the summer of 1986 right here at St. Aloysius Church. Randy was not Catholic, wasn’t anything really. But he always came to church with me, and then me and the children. Stared blankly at the ceiling, as if at a meeting house. But he was always there.
When Randall was born, Randy walked with his feet off the ground. Never had he been more proud. As soon as we got home from the hospital, Randy was trying to take his son back out to the car to bring him to the zoo. I remember laughing and hugging Randall close to me. No, Randy, no! He is too young. As soon as Randall could hold his head up, Randy would want to go back to the zoo every moment he was not working there. He would explan in vast detail everything he could think to tell Randall about the animals. On those days, he would grin ‘til his face hurt and talk himself hoarse. Same with Tallulah. His mother’s name, incidentally - at first I disliked it, but it has grown on me. Randy would read veterinarian journals to put them to sleep. He would take us to the zoo on weekend mornings to glimpse hatchlings not yet ready for public interaction. Tallulah really displayed more interest than Randall. Even before she was old enough to understand what all he was telling them.
Randy seemed the model father.
Then Neil was born.
Randy could not cope. Couldn’t even pretend to. Neil was this tiny little person non grata in our own house. I would hold him and sing to him. Randy would pass right by us to play with Randall and Tallulah. As he withdrew from Neil, I withdrew from Randy. Farther and farther. I found myself casting sides, and drawing Randall and Tallulah to my side, Neil’s and my side. They were old enough to form impressions. And Randy realized a wedge was being driven between him and his two normal children (his term). That is when his drinking advanced. At first, after the children were in bed. After a while, as soon as he got home from work. Finally, he stopped for drinks before he returned home. Few and far between were the good moments. One night as I prepared the children for bed a taxi dropped Randy at the door, the driver wanting a thirty-five dollar fare from me. Randall averted his eyes, and swayed to the bedroom without saying hello or goodnight to me or the children. I slept, but not really, on the sofa that night. Randy had become Mr. Quigley. Except he did not deserve my pity. We Irish are not as sensitive to that as we thought.
Father Landis is passionately explaining about the loaves and fishes. Randall is slouching next to me. Too seriously, Tallulah stares at the altar. Neil is transfixed by Father Landis loud inflections. What does Jesus ask? He asks us to give him our not enough. There were only a couple of loaves and fishes. Jesus said, ‘Give them to me. Give me your not enough!’ That is what Jesus came for. Do we offer him our not enough? Spying Widow Quigley in front of me, my shame emerges. Randy was, is, my not enough. Isn’t he? As much as Mr. Quigley was Mrs. Quigley’s not enough. Yet she stuck with him to the end. Here is what I will always remember, here is why I do not want to see Widow Quigley: she was there for him until he died this spring. I am not. Challenging those of us who are not able to turn to God with their feeble offerings, father‘s voice grows passionate. Tallulah’s eyes on my face, I flush. Is Randall looking at me, too? Neil sniffles. Keeping my eyes fixed forward, I hand him another tissue. Stand.
Randall came home at four AM one morning. He had been at the Spectrum to watch the NCAA tournament with some friends. He called to say they were going for drinks and that he’s be home by eleven. I could smell her on him at once. He didn’t even try to deny it. It’s quite funny actually. I didn’t even know she was British. I said, ’I’m Randy.’ She said, ’Me, too.’ Ha ha! Randy. When he woke, his bags were packed for him. The kids were at my parent’s house. I didn’t want them to hear the fight we never had. Randy showered, dressed, lowered his blue eyes, took the suitcase, and was gone. Randall and Tallulah didn’t understand, but didn’t ask much. At least not a first. Neil never noticed a thing, but I don’t fault him that. Randy was just this thing that passed by, like airplanes in the skylight above my bed.
Not knowing what to do, I made an appointment to meet Monsignor Griswald after Randy had left. I was glad that he was out of my life. At the same time, I was worried for Randall and Tallulah. I wanted help in figuring out what to do. Monsignor Griswald feigned interest in my story. He grunted occasionally as I unloaded my feelings. He asked that I not rush to judgment regarding Randy’s “indiscretion.” He seemed to me so cold and uninterested in how I felt regarding both Randy and the children. He got me to wondering about him, and about his sexuality. How did I know he wasn’t some crazed sexual deviant in his own right? Would he ask me to detail my marital experiences? While rubbing his supposedly chaste member under the desk? Sex was the enemy, I considered. It had driven Randy from our house, or so I let myself believe. And I had no reason to trust that this man I was speaking with was an ally. I ended the conversation as swiftly as possible. On the way home in the car, I became completely hardened. Like a poorly mixed batch of cement that finally set. Randall’s actions could not hurt me. The church could not help me. I had to provide for my children. I had to offer them the chance to succeed.
Within a year Randy had moved to California, where he had taken a position at the San Diego Zoo. We would speak maybe monthly. He always sent money for the children. He would ask for and speak to Randall on the phone. And Tallulah. And he would apologize to me. Again and again. He is sober now. Or so he says, and I believe him. Randy sounds different. Maybe mature finally. He doesn’t speak to or of Neil. I’m not sure if that is a sign of his continued ignorance or his guilt. He has asked about moving home. I am not ready to even think about this. And I have told Randy this.
One night, when he still was drinking, maybe three months after he left for San Diego, Randy called me. He was muttering drunk, but he needed to tell me something. Sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, he started. He proceeded to explain an event that he had seen at the zoo. A lion gave birth to four cubs. Three were suckling. The fourth tried repeatedly to suckle the bottom of a bar on the cage, barking at it when the desired milk was not forthcoming. One would be tempted to think blindness was the issue. But they were all an hour old; none could see. The fourth cub was obviously somehow brain-damaged. After trying to roar the cub to attention several times, the new mother gently swatted the three sucklings away and stood. Methodically, she paced to the misguided pup and took him up in her jaws. She turned and Randy was certain she would place him with the others. But as she turned she jerked her head in a quick snap, breaking the newborn’s neck. She discarded him casually in the corner of the makeshift den. Then went back to the gently barking three. I’ve always put all of my faith in nature, he cried. It’s not like I have a choice. It was not until that moment I realized that the event he was recounting had happened in Philadelphia. Before Neil was born. My eyes welled up with hot tears. I could do nothing other than whimper into the telephone before setting it on the receiver.
Tossing in my bed that night, and many nights after, I considered just how severely that episode must have played on Randy. He never mentioned it again. Nor did I. He was afraid that, should he in any way recognize Neil as his own, he would be forced to treat him in the same manner as the lioness. The joke, no - pity, in it all is that that is exactly how he treated poor Neil. He left him for dead. And, maybe saddest of all, he sacrificed his other sucklings in the process. Several times a month, I vividly dream the detail of the story Randy recounted for me. I wake up trembling terrible, and never even attempt to return to sleep.
I want to let Father Landis know it is not that simple. I want to let Tallulah and Randall know, as well. Then I see Mrs. Quigley. She is turning to offer me a sign of peace. I know the passion she was capable of, even to the end. I shake her hand and look into her eyes for some sort of answer. I remember last Christmas morning. Randall, Tallulah, Neil and I were at eight AM mass. Mr. And Mrs. Quigley moved into the pew across from us. At the very back of the church. He could barely move. She was holding him up as he shuffled in the church. He had become a skeleton of the man I remembered from my youth. Everthing was bone-thin except the drunkard’s fat nose. His hands were noticeably shaking. He was wearing a suit and tie, which I imagine she had put on him. At communion time, I witnessed the single most beautiful act that I have seen in my lifetime. Mrs. Quigley walked to the altar to receive communion. Mr. Quigley sat impassively in his seat. When Neil and I returned from the altar, I saw the love Mrs. Quigley was capable of. She had cupped the Eucharist in her palm, sneaky-like, having presumably pretended to consume it. Like a magician palming a coin. She looked quickly and nervously around the church before placing it on her husband’s tongue and whispering Body of Christ. I saw a tear roll down the proud man’s face, as she straightened her dress and turned her attention to the cross at the front of the church. This she had done for him. Despite years of alchoholic who-knows-what. I felt a tear rolling down my face as well.
Now we are walking to communion. Neil holds my hand. Randall lopes along in front of us. Wasn’t it just yesterday he celebrated his First Communion? Tallulah walks primly, hands folded, in front of Randall. Mrs. Quigley is in front of her. When we reach the altar, I watch her. She does not even take the host in her hand. She sticks out her old tongue - her hands crossed over her breast - pre-Vatican Two. Not worthy to touch the Body of Christ. And yet, she had carried it to her husband and placed it in his mouth. Tallulah takes the Eucharist in her hand and solemnly places it on her tongue. Randall pops his in one handed, carelessly. Neil reaches out for his own and I am forced to pull his arms back down. Not just yet, I whisper. I take the bread in my tongue so as to keep a grip on Neil.
Back in the pew, Tallulah intones The Servant Song. How do you want me to serve you? Randall sits aloof. Neil is flapping his arms - a sign that he is near his threshold. I whisper that we will be going soon. Tallulah seems to be lost in the song. I am just lost.
I had gone to the viewing. My parents could not understand why. Well maybe they could, but they didn’t let on. It’s not like we were close to them or you really knew the girls, did you? I had left the children with my parents. It was middle March. Raw, nasty weather. And Mrs. Quigley received me so nicely. She was so strong and ready. My presence caused her no surprise. Did she expect me? Did stories about Randy circlulate the way they had about Mr. Quigley? Was I pitied by my neighbors? Was I pitiable? Mrs. Quigley had offered daily, for how many years, her not enough. Having waited my turn, I had knelt in front of the coffin. How many years had passed since my one conversation with him? Thirty almost. His thin painted face was cover with deep lines, all running away from his veined nose. The nose, bulbous and powdered. His eyelids resting gently, like peace itself. Hello, Mr. Quigley. Betsy Wallace, uh McNally, from Chandler Lane. I came to say I thought you were a nice man. You must have been with the way your wife loved you. Despite your condition. We Irish are sensitive to that, you know. Rest peacefully. Our Father, I prayed, who art in heaven…
We are walking out of mass, the widow several steps ahead of us. Father Landis stoops to speak with Neil. He is a good man. Neil is telling him something seemingly important in a garbled voice. I doubt that the priest understands a word, but Father Landis laughs when Neil does. He then musses his already mussed hair. Randall and Tallulah are outside the building already. Father Landis says hello to me. I smile briefly. Then I begin to cry. He places his hand on my shoulder. Compassionately. That calms me. It has been so long since I have been touched. I regain composure. He asks if I would like to talk. I tell him that my husband would like to come home. And that I am not sure what to do. Neil is tugging at my arm. He wants to get home. Neil cannot understand. I let him pull me forward, telling Father that I will schedule and appointment to speak with him. Tallulah is smiling in the sunlight looking back toward Neil and me. Randall is slouched alone on a planter by the door. Father Landis remains fixed on me with arched eyebrows as if to say are you sure you want to go? I smile weakly. And ease into the sunlight.
