Monday Afternoons at Three-Thirty E-Book

Ron Talarico

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 182

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Monday Afternoons at Three-Thirty is a heart-warming true story about the effects of lifelong marginalization on a woman and the efforts of one man to lessen its impact. Mary, a homebound octogenarian, is trapped in a life of isolation and reclusion. Ron, a middle-aged stranger, visits her every Monday afternoon, and over three years, a delightful, affectionate, and moving relationship develops between them. The story contrasts their bond with the disruptive presence of Frank, Mary's resentful younger brother, whose put-downs she bears daily. As the story unfolds, Mary's patience and courage in facing the effects of an early misfortune and the resulting social and emotional deprivation shine through. The honesty, trust and intimacy that develops over 150 visits transforms both their lives.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2025 novum publishing gmbh

Rathausgasse 73, A-7311 Neckenmarkt

[email protected]

ISBN print edition: 978-3-7116-0271-8

ISBN e-book: 978-3-7116-0272-5

Editor: Chris Beale

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Foreword

All rights reserved. No part of this book, including audio components, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

e-mail: [email protected]

web site: www.rontalarico.com

TO MY PARENTS

To Angelo John and Rose Antidormi Talarico,

who offered me the most precious gifts I would ever know: values, education, faith, and the ability never to see myself as the center of anyone’s universe. None of these can be taken away or stolen or lost. All are rewarding beyond imagining. And together at my side these gifts have remained best friends through each new storm and joy that life has presented. On some level, in some sense, way down deep, they just may be all I need.

Thank you.

TO THE VICTIMS & THE PERPETRATORS OF MARGINALIZATION

To those of you everywhere

who silently patiently suffer and endure

endless acts of discrimination

and bigotry

and the cruelest forms of marginalization…

To those of you too

– true poorest of the poor –

who perpetrate and perpetuate such abominations

from deep within the darkest chasms

of your every fear of those who are not like you,

dying slowly miserably from within

with each new effort to exclude…

TO EACH OF YOU AND ALL OF YOU

ALIKE

(for the same Stardust of which we are made

and the same Waters of the Womb from which we burst forth

neither favor nor exclude

the one or the other of us

but instead hold out to each of us

a lesson for all of us)

THIS BOOK

IS

DEDICATED

LOVER

Mary.

Her name was Mary.

Now Mary lived only a few blocks from the church of St. Philip Neri, where she had worshiped for most of her life and whose grade school she had attended.

Little Italy many had once called the area, because for maybe a hundred years before and even in some of my lifetime it had been home to a large Italian immigrant population.

The Italians had built St. Philip’s. Located where Southeast Division Street and Eighteenth Avenue meet, the church stands quietly, stark and handsome, at the south end of historic Ladd’s Addition – one of the most laid back and romantic neighborhoods in all of Portland. A place where neighborhood still means community, and neighbors and their dogs still really know each other. Where tall magnificent elm trees spire up and up in majestic elegant vigil and all main streets lead to a central park – Ladd Circle – around which vehicles and bikers alike move together with grace and harmony along a generously broad yet intimate one-way road. Inside the Circle stretch wide expanses of green grass and massive plantings of rhododendrons and camellias. A small park in the middle laughs with children bustling at play and welcomes lovers holding hands as they stroll amidst the mirth that surrounds them or whisper sweet nothings to each other on a nearby bench.

It was still common to see a large number of Italian surnames at St. Philip’s. As for the language itself, you could still hear Italian spoken at Sunday Mass and at the many social functions throughout the year, like the Spaghetti Dinner every November or the Rigatoni Luncheon each spring.

The section of the neighborhood where Mary lived, however, was on the other side of Division and was not a part of Ladd’s Addition. It was rather run down. Disintegration had begun there in the seventies and eighties during a period of a fair amount of urban decay in the city generally, and especially wherever the concept of “old” had become underappreciated and even devalued. Mary’s neighborhood hadn’t felt particularly safe at that point of relative collapse, but by the time I began to visit her things were better.

The year was 1994. I had offered to become what was called a “minister to the homebound” for St. Philip’s, and Mary was to be my first experience. It was my charge to visit her regularly and bring her Communion, as well as to keep her updated on the various happenings in the parish; in short, to help her maintain a sense of connection to the other parishioners and to parish life in general.

The pastor had introduced me to Mary a few weeks before and to her youngest brother, Frank. I had found out during that visit that Mary had some hearing loss, and it was clear to me that the situation was going to be different from what I had been imagining. For one thing, all the window coverings that I could see during that meeting were in the closed position even though it was only three-thirty in the afternoon. For another, the priest found it next to impossible to determine exactly what kind of arrangement Mary wanted since she seemed reluctant to respond. And her brother – well, let’s just say that he seemed neither excited about our presence nor fond of his sister. I don’t know to this day who called the parish to request Communion visits for Mary, but it seemed rather obvious that it had not been Mary herself, and (as you might conclude the same for yourself later) neither do I believe the request came as a kindness from Frank.

Both Mary and her brother were born in Portland, but their parents, now deceased, had come from Sicily. Sicilian dialect rather than standard Italian had been the language of preference in the home as the children were growing up. Mary was in her mid-eighties when I met her, while Frank, the youngest of several children, was, I guessed, in his mid-seventies.

It was agreed that I would visit Mary once a week on Mondays at three-thirty in the afternoon. That would give me just enough time to walk to the church from my place of work downtown, remove a couple of consecrated Hosts from the tabernacle, add them to my pyx, and then proceed on foot to Mary’s house.

The pyx, which the church had given to me, was a brass-plated round metal receptacle, one and a half inches in diameter and a half inch high, with a cover that hinged at the back and snapped open and closed at the front. My pyx could hold up to five or so Communion Hosts.

I remember feeling awkward at first carrying the Blessed Sacrament on my person. While I never quite lost the feeling that I was some sort of Grand Protector of the Lord, a crusader, a type of Swiss Guard or the like, I really never found a place or a way in which to carry the pyx and Hosts that felt either dignified or reverent.

Pants pocket was too presumptuous somehow – and what if I had to use the restroom? I didn’t like the image.

Coat pocket was too distant and transient. What if I had to remove my coat and then forgot about the pyx? Or if someone stole my coat? To misplace or outright lose Jesus was not an option.

Now my shirt pocket didn’t make much sense either. What if I had to bend over and it fell out? And often my shirts didn’t have a pocket anyway.

Putting it in my fanny pack felt too “out there” and crass, especially when the time would come to remove the pyx. I could not appreciate the image of reaching for the Lord in such a contraption.

I concluded there was no appropriate place to keep consecrated Hosts but in the locked tabernacle, at the church, that’s all.

In the end, forced by circumstances to compromise, I settled on the fanny pack as the best of all the undesirable options. And I suppose to conjure a blessing upon this most scrupulously arrived at and still uncomfortable decision, I added a “ritual of transition” of sorts from fanny pack to full exposure of the Host by buying a brightly colored cloth pouch with zipper in which to store the pyx. The pouch had the additional advantage of providing one more layer of shelter from the crazy world beyond.

As I climbed the steep, numerous, creaky wooden steps that led to the front door on this my first solo visit, my foot went out slightly from under me and I lost my balance. One of the boards was loose. “I should tell Frank about this,” I remember saying to myself.

I rang the doorbell, which I could not hear. As I stood observing the house, I noted how old and run-down it appeared. Upon more careful scrutiny, however, I realized that, while old, the house was actually more drab and unremarkable than run-down. I had the impression that it would be care-free for ages. For one thing, the siding was asbestos shakes and there were well-secured aluminum storms on all the windows. It seemed that someone had weather-proofed, maintenance-proofed, and, in effect, time-proofed the house not altogether dissimilarly in intent to an Egyptian pyramid. The faded, weather-worn, scratchy-textured surfaces of the house reminded me of a parched land. The shakes would have been perfect for running your fingernails down and watching someone you didn’t like too much be startled and grimace. Except for a large spider and webs that were everywhere, a vague absence of life surrounded the entrance.

I rang again. Then, remembering Mary’s hearing problem, I began to pound on the cheap aluminum storm door, which was locked. After a bit I heard a soft and regular thumping as of one soft surface coming down against another. It was becoming increasingly louder.

Click, flip, slide, bang sounded from the various locking mechanisms, and the tightly weather-stripped front door sucked ever so slowly open. Through the small crack that had been formed between the door and the jamb, I could make out long strands of gray hair that seemed almost to blend in with the rest of the opening. Then the large old wooden door opened fully, and there she was.

Mary.

She pursed her lips while simultaneously rolling them outward somewhat and repeatedly raising and lowering her jaws without her teeth touching. Mary continued these movements while focusing intently on the screen door latch and furrowing her eyebrows in concentration. Then, moving her head very slowly toward the latch until just five or so inches from it, she brought her kinked forefinger to meet it. Click, flip, and she had unlocked the door! Turning the squeaky hand-lever slowly downward, she then pushed the door open toward me so quickly that I was forced to move back and down one step equally as fast in order to avoid falling and allow the door to open sufficiently wide for me to enter.

Mary smiled at me sweetly and with a surprisingly coy and somewhat little-girl-devious expression on her face. She began to speak slowly and in a staccato manner, giving every word its own special emphasis, “Oh… What-Do-You-Know-A-bout-That!” she said. Then pursing, rolling outward, and spasming her lips and jaws again, over and over in the same manner as before, with delight in her eyes and long whiskers in continual undulation above her upper lip, she added as I stepped over the threshold, “My L-L-L-L-O-V-E-R! My L-L-L-L-O-V-E-R has come to see me!” As I turned around to watch her close and lock the door, she repeated, stressing each word equally, “What-Do-You-Know-A-bout-That!”

Well I didn’t know anything about that, and even less if I was going to last on my very first assignment.

I was led into a barely lit living room. Aside from the fact that it was fall – October to be exact – and even though only three-thirty in the afternoon, the room was dark. This appeared to be due mainly to all of the windows’ roller shades, which were pulled down to the closed position, same as during the introductory visit the week before. Every one of them. I remember thinking to myself how strange this seemed. Was she allergic to light? Did she suffer from depression? The shades had likely been cream-colored and normal-looking at one time, but now they were severely jaundiced, torn in many places, and just in terribly sad shape. Though Mary and Frank were not poor, they did not have money to spare or waste, and they both were frugal, understanding the value of a dollar. Yet it seemed a shame that they had not replaced these emotionally heavy and sad-looking shades.

Mary was using a walker to get to her chair, and I realized then that the thumping I had heard previously had been the sounds made as the rubber caps that tipped the walker’s legs struck the carpeted floor with the weight of her body coming down on them. She appeared to manage the walker with a fair amount of agility, pushing it forward incrementally though barely touching it, then jerking her hands quickly off the handlebars as if they were hot metal. Two steps, then a push. Two steps and a push.

Mary’s clothing was always plain and simple: an old-fashioned, old-lady’s thin cotton dress with lots of little flowers, over which she would wear a long-sleeved sweater with buttons. Almost always over these I would find her wearing a full-length kitchen apron made of cotton, the kind that loops over the head and goes to below the knees. I am not sure why she wore the apron, as she no longer cooked or cleaned. Perhaps this was simply a prudent economy measure to help keep her dress and sweater clean longer while doing other activities.

On her feet would be either cute, fuzzy, soft slippers or, if she had been to the doctor’s that day, then plain, black, closed-toe, thickly heeled, tie shoes – substantial objects. Those shoes seemed identical to the ones the nuns in their habits used to wear during my years at St. Stephen grade school in the fifties.

The heat in the house was excessive and I would often find it challenging to stay awake, especially after having walked an hour by the time I would get to Mary’s place from downtown after a full day of work. Yet there was something reassuring and almost comforting in hearing the furnace humming quietly in the background and seeing the effects of the warm air from the heat registers as it blew gently on the sheer curtains that would dance effortlessly nearby before the windows they stood guard to. And I would see the air blowing almost playfully on a dress that would now and then be hanging over a chair to dry in front of one of the registers. Too bad the blowing heat and the sound of the furnace aren’t love, I thought, because like good love they were enveloping, reliable, and abundant. They were also one of the few things I could identify with as familiar in this new and otherwise strange environment, as I had the same form of heat where I lived. Still, the heat was excessive.

As she eased herself down gently and gingerly into her large over-stuffed chair, Mary eventually surrendered to a mild plop a few inches above the seat proper. I had chosen to sit on the sofa a few feet away.

There… the two of us now were both settled and ready to begin.

“How are you, Mary?” I asked cheerfully and in quite a friendly manner I thought.

At this she lowered her head some, and I noticed that her eyes were shut. They were not closed softly as when in slumber, but tightly as though consciously and deliberately. “What is the message?” I asked myself. And what was I to do?

I waited. Nothing.

Thinking that her hearing loss might be the problem, I repeated loudly, “HOW ARE YOU, MARY?”

With her eyes still tightly closed she began to rock her head from side to side, slowly and rather widely, in three or four return trips, as she lowered her chin toward her chest until it came to a halt on her sternum. She remained in that position for twenty seconds or so, which seemed like forever. Still I had no clue what was going on or what to do.

Then I began to notice a very slight smile form on her lips. With her mouth remaining closed, the smile expanded and solidified and she sat up straight, looking as though she had just awoke from a pleasant dream or a trance, or as though we had been playing some sort of game that was now at an end and she had won.

“Oh, perty good, Don,” she said at last.

“It’s Ron. My name is Ron, Mary.”

“Ohhhh?” she responded with an ascending pitch that indicated this might be news to her. Long pause. “Well… that’s okay, too,” she continued slowly, in a deep-voiced, declarative manner.

In the distance I could hear thumping sounds again – slow, firm, evenly paced – followed not long after by what sounded to be a door creaking open shyly. From the room that was hiding behind the dining room door just across the way from me, I heard the sound of shoes quickly picking up the pace as they moved across the floor there, as though finally encountering an unobstructed surface and the person wearing them could move with more speed now. Finally the dining room door swung open, revealing bright light and the silhouette of a man, behind whom was what appeared to be a kitchen.

It was Frank, Mary’s brother, come up from the basement. He continued his entrance without excusing himself or conveying anything beyond a simple acknowledgment of our presence with a nod of his head. It appeared he thought he had been invited and now we should just continue, pretending that his little interruption hadn’t happened or didn’t matter. He pulled up a dining room chair, sat down, folded his arms across his chest, spread his feet on the floor forming a wide V-shape with his legs, and sat there silent and still.

Mary and I carried on for a while as if nothing had happened and we were still alone, yet I found Frank’s presence distracting and stymying. I asked her a few simple questions – small talk really – in an effort to get to know her better and solicit what some of her preferences might be regarding our visits. But Frank began answering for her. He did this several times, which felt irritating, invasive, and controlling to me. Though Mary did not seem to mind his verbal intrusions, I wanted to hear her answers, and Frank’s continual intervening frustrated this. In addition, his responses were condescending in her regard. He seemed definitely to be impatient or even annoyed with her. I had the sense, again, that Frank didn’t care much for his sister and, even more, that he thought her to be slow and too far behind the times to count for much. I had the impression also that his expectation might have been that someone from church would simply come once in a while to quickly give Mary Communion and then dash off faster than would give him the time to have to muster up a welcome. Frank did not seem to be aware of or interested in process, including in the relationship which needed yet to form and develop between Mary and me, but to be concerned rather with quick results. It would be nice if he didn’t interfere like this in the future, I thought.

Suddenly I remembered the bad step.

“Oh, by the way Frank, one of your front steps needs some work. I think it’s the top one or second one down.”

“No, no,” he said, drawing out his words while frowning and sounding quite irritated at hearing this news. “All the steps work real good,” he insisted confidently.

“But I almost fell, and someone with less balance than I have–.”

“No, no, no,” he replied in the same way as before, but this time as though I had not understood. “You must have stepped on it wrong.”

“Stepped on it wrong?”

“Why sure,” he said in a consoling tone. “Next time I bet you don’t even notice.”

“Next time I will probably break my neck!” I muttered to myself, annoyed. Though he was having the effect on me that a grater must have on a carrot, I decided not to pursue the subject of the malfunctioning step any further that day.

As I tried to continue the conversation with Mary, Frank resumed his interrupting. By now I was more than annoyed and wanted him out of our hair as soon as possible and for as long into the future as possible. Besides, I had come for Mary, the homebound of the two, not for Frank. I wanted to have Mary to myself during our visits and just maybe she wanted the same. It was time to proceed full force into the headwind of Frank’s intrusive and negative behavior, hopefully nipping it in the bud and thereby eliminating any chance of his establishing a precedent regarding participation in the time that Mary and I would share together.

“So Frank…” I turned to him. Then, with veiled and uncomfortable sarcasm, yet firmly and matter-of-factly, I continued with my best poker face. “Were you wanting me to come each week for you too, Frank? Shall we do this Communion visit together, with you here with us every Monday? We’ll pray together every week for an hour or so, and talk and things? Would you like that kind of commitment every Monday afternoon at three-thirty?”

Skeletons, scarecrows, demons, ghosts, lions and tigers on the loose. “No, no,” he said, sending a “not interested” gesture my way and a shake of the head while rising quickly from his chair as though his worst nightmare were about to entangle him. “No, no. Just seein’ how things were goin’. How things were goin’. Gotta get back downstairs now. Gotta see about the cookin’.” Then he turned away from us, adding on his way out of the room, “Gotta get dinner goin’. Dinner goin’.” Thump-thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump, he and his short little footsteps very quickly disappeared into the kitchen, followed by the same dull, firm sounds I had heard before he had cracked open the basement door and so unpleasantly arrived to us. The more his descent down the stairs faded into its final landing, the more I could hear the soft ticking of the wind-up clock on the coffee table before me.