“Who’s the Queen?” a broad-shouldered man in a bright yellow sports jacket asked Jack. He had so much gel in his hair, which stood straight up, that the top of his head resembled a shark’s dorsal fin. Both the bright yellow jacket and the hair were familiar to Jack from the tattoo magazines he’d seen—Crazy Philadelphia Eddie; there could be no doubt.
The Reverend Parker arrived late. “There was no place to park!” the chaplain peevishly complained, before he had a closer look at the congregation—the tie-dyed tank tops, the tattooed arms, the open collars of the Hawaiian shirts, the exposed chests, also tattooed. Real snakes and mythological serpents regarded the chaplain coldly; in the reptilian tattoos, there were creatures that the Garden of Eden and the Reverend Parker had never seen. There were many depictions of Christ’s bleeding heart, bound in thorns—lacking the usual Anglican reserve. There were many skeletons—some breathing fire, others speaking obscenities.
In the blaze of all this tattooed flesh, The Wurtz had outdone herself with “Lord of the Dance.” The boarders, whom Leslie described as “a choir of not-quite virgins,” sang all five verses—the bikers joining them for the five refrains. The wrecked blond boarder who’d lost her shoe at Emma’s memorial service sang the fourth stanza solo, and a beautiful soloist she was; though they’d rehearsed this together several times already, she had the bikers in tears.
I danced on a Friday
When the sky turned black—
It’s hard to dance
With the devil on your back.
They buried my body
And they thought I’d gone,
But I am the Dance,
And I still go on.
When it was time for the chaplain to read the Twenty-third Psalm, it was warm in the chapel and some of the heavily tattooed types had taken off their shirts. They weren’t all tattoo artists—there were many of Alice’s clients present. Her signature work was everywhere; Jack recognized more than a few Daughter Alices.
He also noticed that Mrs. Oastler was crying. She slumped against him in the pew, her small body shaking. That was how Alice’s colleagues knew who she was. “I’ve got a sweetie in Toronto,” Alice had told more than one of them. (As in: “No, thanks—not tonight. I’ve got a sweetie in Toronto.”)
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” the Reverend Parker began anxiously. He was thoroughly rattled by the time he got to “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will feel no evil—”
“ ‘… fear,’ not feel, ‘no evil—’ ” Miss Wurtz corrected him.
“… fear no evil,” the chaplain stumbled ahead. “For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.”
“Your what?” someone in the congregation said—a woman’s voice. (Jack didn’t see who said it, but he would bet it was one of the Skret-kowicz sisters.) This was followed by general laughter; one of the Old Girls among Mrs. Oastler’s former classmates was in hysterics.
That was when Leslie lost it. “No praying, no saying anything!” Mrs. Oastler shouted to the chaplain. “Alice wanted just singing!”
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies—” the Reverend Parker mumbled; then he stopped. He saw the presence of his enemies, all around him.
“Just singing, pal,” Bad Bill Letters said.
“Yeah—sing or shut up,” one of the Fronhofer brothers said.
“Sing or shut up!” Flattop Tom repeated.
“Sing or shut up!” the congregation shouted.
Eleanor, the organist, was frozen. Caroline sat down on the organ bench beside her. “If you’ve forgotten how to play ‘Jerusalem,’ Eleanor,” Miss Wurtz said, “the good Lord may forgive you, but I won’t.” Eleanor, bless her timid heart, lurched forward; she attacked the keyboard. The organ was a little louder than expected, but the boarders’ and the bikers’ choir gave it their best.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen?
As they went up the aisle, Mrs. Oastler was swept into the arms of Crazy Philadelphia Eddie; she was overcome with emotion and didn’t, or couldn’t, resist him. All of Alice’s friends had heard of Leslie and wanted to hug her. “It’s Alice’s sweetie,” people were whispering.
“Why do they know me?” Leslie asked Jack.
“Mom must have told them about you,” Jack said.
“She did?” asked Mrs. Oastler, who was in tears. They were all in tears—all the tattoo artists, all of Daughter Alice’s clients, and her friends. (It was a sentimental business, tattooing—as Leslie was only now discovering.)
They were marching up the hall to the gym by the time the boarders and the bikers hit their full stride in the fourth verse; even Eleanor, with Miss Wurtz’s encouragement, had kept up.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
A bathtub-size bucket of ice, full of cold beer, awaited them in the gym; wine corks were popping. Huge slabs of roast beef and platters of sausages weighed down the picnic tables—not the usual cheese-speared-on-toothpicks fare.
“Who ordered all this food?” Jack asked Leslie.
“I did, Jack. Peewee had to make a few more trips.”
Wolverine Wally and Flipper Volkmann were having a heated argument. “A Michigan matter,” Badger Schultz was saying diplomatically, as he forced himself between them. Badger’s wife, Little Chicken Wing, had taken Mrs. Oastler’s arm. Joe Ink, from Tiger Skin Tattoo in Cincinnati, placed his hand on Leslie’s shoulder—the tattoo on the back of his hand was an ace of spades overlapping an ace of hearts.
“If you’re ever in Norfolk,” Night-Shift Mike was saying to Mrs. Oastler, “I’ll show you the town like you wouldn’t believe!”
“They loved her!” Leslie said breathlessly to Jack. “Invite them to stay, Jack,” she added. (Slick Eddie Esposito was showing her the Man’s Ruin on his belly; it was Daughter Alice’s work.)
“Invite all of them?” Jack asked Mrs. Oastler. “To stay with us?”
“Of course with us!” Leslie told him. “Where else can they stay?”
Maybe not the Skretkowicz sisters, Jack thought—maybe not both of them, anyway. Why not just the one who hadn’t been married to Flattop Tom? But he realized you couldn’t control a tattoo artists’ party; you had to go with the flow, as Alice’s generation would say.
Miss Wurtz was in fine form, praising the bikers’ first-time performance. Ever the nondrinker, Jack watched over the boarders like a sheep dog. But everyone was extremely well behaved, the dispute between Flipper Volkmann and Wolverine Wally notwithstanding—and not even that Michigan matter had resulted in a fight.
It was a mild surprise that Mrs. Oastler’s former classmates appeared to be having a good time, too. The Old Girls had not seen so much skin on display in a great while—if ever. The St. Hilda’s gym was hopping; there was nonstop Bob Dylan on the CD player.