The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [19]
Back at Duffy’s house, new marriage plans were under way. This time her father had found a poet, but Brigid already knew that she wouldn’t be any man’s property—not even a poet’s. She found a willing wife for the groom, then took the veil as a nun, later founding Kildare, the Church of the Oaks, a coed spiritual community that doubled as a school.
Quite the hottie by all accounts, Brigid wore a red-purple cloak over her habit, invoked her namesake, the Celtic goddess of inspiration and poetry.
“What’s heaven like, Brigid?”
“It’s a giant lake of beer! Everyone’s welcome to come dip their mug, and we’ll drink for all eternity.”
The nuns and monks at Kildare ate simply—bread, milk, homegrown vegetables, the occasional fish—but guests were treated to huge feasts fit for the Lord himself. “Pull up a chair.”
Irish hostess extraordinaire, my girl Brigid could turn water into ale and stone into salt. She presides over all transformations—birth and brewing, metalsmithing and poetry, the passage from winter to spring.
If you find yourself in need of a cold beer, just pray to Brigid, patron saint of travelers, poets, and bastard children. To protect your house from fire, weave wheat stalks into an X-shaped cross and hang it from the rafters. God granted Brigid everything she requested, and at once. But don’t forget to end your prayer—all prayers—by saying “or whatever is best for all creatures in all realms.” Sometimes what we want isn’t what’s best for all. To honor Brigid, leave a loaf of bread and an ear of corn on the windowsill on the eve of her feast, commune with oaks, and if anyone tries to enslave you, just start giving their stuff away.
I want to be a good hostess, Brigid, really I do. But Judy just will not get into her forest green Volkswagen Jetta and go away. She sits through our show at Theatre West in Lincoln City, cell phone in hand, refusing to give up on her merging forest fires. She follows us across the highway to watch us feast on black bean tacos and gulp down dark beer. She picks at her Mexican salad, complains about the shredded cheese. Enough is enough and I’m ready to sell her to a king, but the others want to go out for whiskey and vodka crans.
“Unwind to some country music?” Paula offers.
I shake my head no.
“I’ll bunk with you tonight, okay?” Magdelena calls after me as I leave them all to their reporter.
“Sure.” A few stars flicker in the night sky.
For some reason my palms ache. We’ve got tomorrow off, thank God. Then Monday in Sacramento, Tuesday in San Francisco, Wednesday and Thursday off, Friday in L.A. What if Judy follows us all the way down the coast? Surely she’s got better things to do.
Alone in the blue motel room, I light a beeswax candle. The coiled waves of Clatsop Beach still crash in the back of my mind. The passing trucks sound like breakers on the shore. I close my eyes, and all of a sudden I’m being interrogated, everything sepia tinted and strange. It dawns on me where I am, and why: This is a trial, and I am the witch. I wake gasping.
Magdelena and Judy sit smoking at the table, mascara smeared, probably drunk.
“What are you doing here?” This is a nonsmoking room.
“Remember I told you I was gonna bunk with you?” Magdelena says softly. “Sorry we woke you.”
Of course I meant What’s Judy doing here? but as the dream fades into blue motel room, I realize the question’s rude. “Sorry. I just had a weird dream.” I climb out of bed, grab a plastic cup, and fill it with tap water from the bathroom, fuzzy headed.
“I’ll be out of here in a flash,” Judy promises.
“Good-night.” I cover my head with the soft white pillow.
Please, Brigid, find Judy a new story.
When I open my eyes again, the room is gilded with sunlight. Surely I’m dreaming all this gold. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper to no one.
Magdelena sleeps.
We’ve got a lot of driving ahead of us, but any day I can eat breakfast is a good day.
At the seaside café with my fellow