Penelope
by Shauna Checkley
part 1
A small but dedicated group congregated in the main meeting room at Saint Basil’s church. The walls beyond them were yellowing with age and had a waxy smell. The air had a dry, cloistered feel, and the tiles sometimes sagged and creaked under their shoe soles, but all that was hardly noticed by all those gathered.
They sipped their coffee and scribbled notes on their note pads. They were a determined bunch: local, colorful, with a clannish feel about them at that neighborhood parish.
It was the first Tuesday evening of the month. 7 p.m., the time allotted for the monthly meetings of the committee to canonize Penelope Brisham: Bishop McIlhenny. Jane and Ross Brisham, Penelope’s parents. Peg Valentine, Rob McManus, Ivy McKendry, who were neighbors and fellow parishioners, and Father John Bristow, the parish priest at St. Basil’s.
Jane, the late Penelope’s mother, looked at the group gathered and thought, I wish that dear, blind Mavis were here tonight. But I guess that the testimony she gave a month back is sufficient. I don’t want to put undue pressure on her or anything. Picturing Mavis with her dark glasses and pulled-back hair made Jane nostalgic for earlier, happier times. Still, Mavis’s testimony had been jaw-dropping, fascinating even. Nothing like a blind woman to set the record straight.
It was a brilliant September, as if Dante had put the finishing touches on an golden Autumn, bleeding it with reds and oranges and yellows. There existed a hush in the air. A strained, hopeful silence had followed them right into the meeting room, occupying the very same space.
Clearing his throat, Bishop McIlhenny spoke. “It seems that we have everything together. Witness statements. All of the papers necessary to petition for the beatification of Penelope.”
He referred to the documents in his hand. The ones he straightened by pounding them up and down on the tabletop. A big, beefy, middle-aged man, he was somber, taciturn. Though he betrayed no emotion, he agreed with the aims of the committee.
All eyes fell on Jane, the late Penelope’s mother. Most of the people smiled or nodded sympathetically. Though furrows lined her forehead, Jane responded with a light nod as well.
“Then I guess that’s it. I will pass it along through the ranks, and we should find out sometime in the future, though I can’t say when. One thing to remember though is that this is never a speedy process. It often takes years, even decades, in fact.”
Leaning forward in his seat, the parish priest, Father John said, “Thank you, Bishop McIlhenny and everyone for coming out tonight. This has all been a very fruitful process. So good night and take care, everyone. Meeting adjourned.”
The neighbors and friends all exited in a clump, since they lived within walking distance of one another. The church officials remained behind.
The group entered a breathy, early evening. It was a multicolored, stained-glass world. Traffic whizzed past. Piles of leaves lined the sidewalk like cast-off coins of copper and gold.
Jane felt a somber beauty to it all, even though it regarded the death of her only child, even though the committee felt like a puny attempt at making sense of the world. Still, she felt like she was slowly becoming reconciled to life once again. Better than nothing at all. Maybe this was what Penelope’s poor, short life was all about.
At home, she made some herbal tea, avoiding caffeine, which would keep her up all night. She sipped it alone at the kitchen table. As he always did after committee meetings, Her husband, Ross, disappeared into the basement, presumably to watch TV, though she was certain that it sheltered him from big emotion. Let him have it. Let him do things his own way. Instead, she clutched her blue mug and reminisced.
* * *
Penelope Jean Brisham was born Monday February 11th, 1963. It was early in the morning, and most of the people gathered had either fallen asleep on waiting room chairs or gone home to bed. There was nothing remarkable about Penelope’s birth, just a blotchy-looking babe of normal size and weight.
Jane had endured what seemed an extra hard labor, though, a grueling thirty-six hours. But in the aftermath, Jane was pleased that she had produced a squirming little pink girl, since that was what she had secretly hoped for all nine months long, though she would have said otherwise.
It was a watershed time in the Western world. The Cold war Was raging. President Kennedy was negotiating the Bay of Pigs fiasco. The world was twisting, surfing, taking the pill. Two years later, Time magazine would boldly proclaim on their cover, “God Is Dead,” echoing an earlier sentiment by Nietzsche. Yet the Brisham family was untouched by it all.
As ever, they quietly observed their faith. Theirs was a comforting and insular world. They sought faith and family fun in equal measure. Their issues regarded the spending and budgeting of money, bedtimes, whether or not to get a cat, yes, simple, straightforward matters.
“Now that one has a good set of pipes on her,” Grandma Brisham observed. She looked up from the crossword puzzle that she was working on, smiled. Jane cradled the child who was teething, fiery gums gleaming with Ora-gel. Penelope howled. It was late in the evening. The battle had raged all day long, and mother was exhausted while the babe was in pain.
Setting her pencil down, Grandma Brisham said, “Here, let Nana take her. You need a break.” It was one of the very few times that Jane found her daughter challenging, as she was an easy child overall.
Baby Penelope was never colicky or sickly, however. She developed along the same normal lines as her peers. She began to speak early and read, too. She walked without crawling.
By preschool, she was a tiny, slight of build girl with blonde hair of the kind that one knew would grow mousy later on in life. She was shy and mild. At church, Penelope was seen as fay, the older ladies there calling her “their little fairy girl.” She was universally beloved for her golden nature.
“What does the blind lady next door do all day long?” Penelope asked when she was in the second grade. Setting down her pink crayon, she looked up from the Tinker Bell coloring book she had been immersed in that slow Sunday afternoon. Penelope looked curious.
“Probably not much, as it’s hard to do things when one is blind,” Jane explained. She was ironing at the ironing board, with a rhythmic thump and hiss as she worked.
“Doesn’t that get boring?” Penelope asked.
“I imagine it would.”
Pausing, Penelope screwed up her lips. “I feel sorry for the blind lady if she hasn’t anything to do or people to visit with.”
“I hear the radio playing on the verandah when she sits out there. They put it on, so she has something to listen to,” Jane explained
“That’s good. But you can’t just listen to the radio all the time. That gets boring, too.”
Her expression had shifted to one of sadness. Then she said, “Would she like it if I read to her? I could read books to her and that would give her something to do besides listening to the radio.”
Her mother broke out into a wide smile. “That’s so thoughtful of you! We could ask them if she’d like that.”
Clapping, Penelope said, “Can we go now? I brought a new book home from the school library.”
Without hesitation, they went and knocked next door. It was a care home for the elderly, though Winston Homes also included the one blind resident. Mavis Weinhardt. It smelled mildly of disinfectant and mothballs and, as Jane conferred with the owner and manager, Lillian Grace, Penelope stood on the verandah clutching Wind in the Willows tightly to her chest.
Finally, smiling, the two adults turned to Penelope. “We’re going to bring Miss Weinhardt out to the verandah. You can meet her and read to her.”
“Okay.”
Mavis walked out unassisted and felt for the wicker chair she always sat on. Once seated, she said, “Well, I hear that there’s a little person who wants to read to me. What’s your name dear?
“Penelope.”
“That’s a lovely name, I’m Miss Weinhardt. But you may call me Mavis. Say, tell me about yourself. How old you are? What grade you are in?”
“I’m seven. I’m in grade two.”
“Do you go to the local school? “
“Yes, Sacred Heart.”
Seating herself on the wicker chair next to the woman, Penelope studied her. Like most visually impaired people of the time, Mavis wore large, oversized black sunglasses. She was middle-aged with very pale skin, graying chestnut brown hair and cords in her neck when she laughed or strained. Her breath was sweet-smelling and thick, like she had been sucking on hard candy.
Penelope read with gusto. She was the best reader in her grade two class and, next to coloring, reading was her biggest passion.
With her head tilted back, Mavis listened to the child. A wide smile slowly spread across her face. Her drab gray clothes no longer seemed so dismal as she blossomed facially. Occasionally, she laughed or clapped her hands. But mostly she just listened intently as if it were the Queen or the Prime Minister of Canada addressing her. What a little sweetheart to think of me! Who ever thinks of me? Who has ever done for me? Just who?
When that first session was over, Penelope skipped back home. Picking her up and squeezing her tight, Jane cried, “That was so kind of you! I’m so proud of you for doing that!”
Grinning, Penelope said, “I’m going to do that every day, just so she has a friend and some fun.”
“My oh my,” Jane remarked.
Penelope was good to her word. Every day, she would go over and visit and read to Mavis. There were even times when her little playmates would implore her to play with them, but she never shirked her commitment to Mavis. In fact, she continued reading and visiting for the next three years.
She would just search her friends out afterwards. Then they would play hopscotch, or skipping rope, or tag or hide and go seek. Or whatever.
* * *
Though she was addressing the committee members and church officials, it was not easy to discern. Mavis wore the extra-large, black sunglasses and held her head slightly askew. It almost looked as if she were speaking to the tall angel statue off to the side.
“Funniest thing. It got to where I’d know when she was coming. It wasn’t like that at the very first. Things were normal then. But after a while, I could feel Penelope coming. I could feel a warmth, feel a prickly radiance. I don’t even know how to explain it. I think I even saw a few flashes. Anyways she took me out of that total darkness that I live in. She took me out. No one else has ever done that to me. I truly believe that the child was gifted, a blessing.”
Exchanging sideways glances, the two clergymen looked astonished. Bishop McIlhenny clutched his rosary. Father John stared. The others gathered smiled and nodded. They were not unfamiliar with such accounts about the girl.
Overhead, the wooden and bronze clock could be heard ticking on the wall. No one stirred.
Finally, Bishop McIlhenny spoke to Mavis: “Do you have any final words to add?”
“I really do believe that Penelope was a saint,” Mavis said, “a child saint-in-the-making. But heaven has her now,”
Jane flicked away a tear at the corner of one eye. Ross looked at his feet.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Shauna Checkley
