Certain Women

by Madeleine L'engle

  Alice shook her head.

  “And it does add to the woman’s pleasure. However, Saul would have cared about the symbol.”

  “Anyhow,” Emma continued, “Saul’s armor bearer would not, could not kill the old king. And Saul took his sword and fell on it, and when his armor bearer saw that he was dead he, too, took his sword and fell on it.”

  “But then,” Alice said, “in the first chapter of Samuel II, when David learns of Saul’s death, it’s from an Amalekite who said that he happened to come to Mount Gilboa and saw Saul leaning on his spear, and there were chariots and horsemen coming after him. So Saul begged the Amalekite to slay him, which the man did. Weren’t we just saying that the Amalekites were uncircumcised pigs?”

  “We were,” David said. “It doesn’t ring true that Saul would ask an Amalekite to slay him.”

  Emma turned the wheel slightly. “I don’t give it my willing suspension of disbelief, that the Amalekite would slay him and then take Saul’s crown from his head and bracelet from his arm and give them to David.”

  David Wheaton’s voice was strong. “David’s response was to ask the man how he dared raise his hand against the Lord’s anointed, and then David had him killed.”

  Emma turned briefly to look at her father’s face, thin and drawn, but alive with interest. “In Greek history and drama, doesn’t the messenger of bad news usually get killed?”

  “Usually. So not many people want to be the bearers of bad news.” David held out his hand to Alice, and she came and sat on the side of his bunk, holding his hand in hers. Emma thought she was taking David’s pulse, but her face was calm and unreadable.

  “There’s a logging camp ahead,” Alice said, and Emma looked and saw a series of small houses, barely more than wooden huts, plus a big ship with a rig for loading logs, with three little bug-like boats nudging the logs into position. Then the camp was behind them and they were alone with water and trees, with an occasional eagle brooding above them on a high tree.

  Alice reached for her binoculars. “Two loons,” she said, and handed the glasses to Emma.

  In the water ahead of them Emma and Alice saw an eagle flapping great wings, swimming with massive effort.

  “What’s the matter?” Emma asked.

  “The fish he’s caught is too heavy for him. When eagles’ wings get too waterlogged they can sink, and sometimes they drown because their claws are trapped in the fish.”

  Emma turned the Portia to move closer to the exhausted eagle, and suddenly it dropped the fish and with an enormous effort raised its wet wings and soared up into the sky, to land on a high tree.

  David said, “I think I’ll snooze again for a few minutes.”

  “Okay. We’ll let you know when there’s anything worth seeing.” Emma looked ahead at the great expanse of wrinkled sea. They were leaving the islands behind now.

  Ben came up to the pilothouse. “Thanks, Em. I’ll take the wheel.”

  Emma nodded, sliding off the revolving chair.

  “If all goes well,” Ben said, “we’ll make Port Clements by evening.”

  The crossing of the Queen Charlotte Sound was unusually smooth, and full of delights. They saw many ducks, mergansers, scooters, guillemots. The greatest joy was seeing a mother and baby humpback whale playing, slapping flukes on the surface, for a full forty-five minutes.

  But even that joy could not stop Emma from projecting. Each minute they were coming nearer and nearer to Port Clements and a public telephone. She would be able to call Nik. She was going to be the bearer of bad news.

  The phone, and then a plane, would propel him into the present, whether she wanted him there or not.

  And whether she wanted to or not, she was drawn back into the past, the past of that Thanksgiving night. They had talked about the two versions of Saul’s death, because David did not want to talk about the tensions of that afternoon. And Emma? When would she explain the tensions to Nik?

  ‘The first version of Saul’s death rings more true,’ she said, turning her concentration to the play. ‘That Saul would fall on his sword himself, rather than wait for an Amalekite to kill him. Whatever he was, he was not a coward.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Nik agreed. ‘The other somehow diminishes David’s grief.’

  ‘And Abigail’s,’ Emma said. ‘David’s grief over Saul and Jonathan would have been so overwhelming that baby Chileab’s death would go almost unnoticed. And probably David wouldn’t have seen much of his frail little son.’

  ‘You feel for Abigail, don’t you?’ Nik asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, I empathize. I can hear her with Zeruiah, saying, “I won’t tell him about Chileab till later. He will not even hear me now, and I need to be with him in his grief.”’

  ‘Um, um.’ Nik scribbled on his yellow pad. ‘But what do you bet Ahinoam would have spread all over the palace the news that Abigail’s puny little son was dead.’

  ‘When David heard about it’—Emma closed her eyes in the intensity of her visualization of the scene—‘he’d push Ahinoam and bouncing Amnon out of the way and he’d sweep Abigail into his arms, and they’d weep together, Abigail for her child, David for the dead king, and for Jonathan, his friend Jonathan.’

  ‘Then, when the weeping was spent,’ David Wheaton suggested, ‘they’d make love, and when that, too, was spent, they’d take their harps and sing.’

  Nik smiled. ‘Yes. Music would be good here. They’d sing for the baby, for the king, for Jonathan.’

  Emma read from Nik’s Bible, ‘The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!’

  ‘Wonderful.’ David leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s a great requiem song.’

  ‘Verbose,’ Nik said. ‘I can’t use all of it. David will weep again, and Abigail will hold him, wiping away his tears with her hair.’

  Emma continued, her voice gentle, ‘Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places.’

  Nik gave her one of his rare sweet smiles. ‘Beautiful words of love and exaggeration pouring from David’s lips and melody from his harp.’

  Emma took up the lament again. ‘I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.’

  At that, Nik laughed, a pealing of merriment. ‘And then David presses Abigail down on the bedclothes and tells her, “Passing the love of Michal and Ahinoam, not you, Abigail. Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck …”’

  ‘Song of Songs?’ Emma asked. Her flesh was tingling. Were Nik’s words only the words of his character, King David, for his character, Abigail? Or was Nik also speaking to Emma? ‘Wasn’t that attributed to Solomon?’

  ‘If David could get some of the Psalms from Abigail, Solomon could get some of his Song from his father.’

  ‘Why not?’ David looked at Nik, who had turned to his pad and was scribbling.

  Emma continued, ‘David, exhausted from tears and grief—’

  ‘And love,’ David said.

  ‘Okay, Papa, but that’s not going to be shown onstage.’

  ‘And then,’ Nik said, ‘David asks God where he should go next. I still find it difficult.’

  ‘What?’ David asked, looking up from the script.

  ‘This speaking personally and directly to God.’

  ‘Didn’t your father?’ Emma asked.

  ‘To a God who wasn’t there.’

  ‘Can you speak to someone who isn’t there?’

  Nik looked at David. ‘Dave?’

  David Wheaton winced. ‘Oh, I speak to God. I beg, I implore that my sons
will come home safely. But I’m not sure that’s part of the promise. I don’t think God interferes with our free will. But I speak. And I know that David did. He had such a conviction that he had been anointed by God that he truly believed that he could talk, ask specific questions, and be answered.’

  ‘But were the answers real, or were they in his head?’

  David shrugged and took a swallow of milk.

  ‘But you think it’s possible? A direct line? Emma?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘David believed,’ Nik said, ‘that God told him to go to Hebron. Abigail would offer to go with him, and David would wave his arms grandly and say, “We will all go. All the household.”’

  —It can’t be avoided. The household always goes with us, Emma thought.—Nik will always carry the wounds of his parents with him. I will carry my whole crazy family. I will carry forever what I’m going to have to tell Nik—

  ‘Time to go,’ Nik said.

  ‘I don’t want you walking home in this weather.’ David Wheaton shoved a bill into Nik’s hand.

  ‘No, Dave—’

  ‘Take Emma home in a taxi, and there should be enough to get you to Brooklyn.’

  ‘Don’t argue, Nikkie,’ Sophie urged.

  ‘Papa’s as stubborn as you are,’ Emma added. ‘Give in gracefully.’

  When the taxi drew up in front of Emma’s apartment, Nik asked, ‘Okay if I come in for a few minutes?’

  ‘Sure.’ Emma opened the door, turned on lights, sat cross-legged on the foot of her bed, waiting. For what?

  Nik sat in her most comfortable chair, upright, not relaxed. ‘Emma—’

  “What is it?’

  ‘Emma, I love your family. But it was very clear today that I am not entirely included, and I understand that. I’ve been ambiguous about—about us. I love you. But I haven’t taken the next step and asked you in any formal way to marry me.’

  She made her voice light. ‘And informally?’

  ‘Whenever King David makes love to Abigail, I’m making love to you. I don’t know what’s holding me back. My parents, I suppose. Emma, if I ask you to marry me now, will you misunderstand?’

  ‘Misunderstand?’

  ‘Your family—I want to be part of it. I want to know what was going on when your father said grace. So maybe this isn’t a good time for me to ask you to marry me. But I do ask you. Emma, will you marry me?’

  She looked at him, slowly nodding her head.

  ‘You will?’ He was out of the chair, reaching for her hand.

  ‘Yes, Nik, but there are things we have to talk about—’

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box. ‘I bought this a week ago. I’d planned to offer it to you today. Then—after dinner—I wasn’t sure the timing was right—but I can’t wait any longer.’ He put the box in her hand.

  She opened it, to see a gold band, set with five small stones, three diamonds interspersed with sapphires. ‘Oh, Nik—’

  ‘They’re not the big jewels I’d like to give you, but—’

  ‘Oh—it’s lovely, Nik, lovely—’

  He took the box from her, took out the ring, and put it on her finger. Kissed her. Then he drew back. ‘Emma! You’re crying! What is it, sweetie, what is it?’

  She tried to rub away the tears with the heels of her hands. ‘It’s all out of order—’

  “What is?’

  ‘What I have to tell you. I knew—if we ever decided to marry—I’d have to tell you. I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t ask me till—till—’

  ‘Till what, sweetie?’

  ‘Till we’d come to the part in the David story where—’

  His voice was very gentle. ‘Where what, Emma?’

  ‘You know how Papa tends to—emphasize—the similarities in his life and King David’s—when you—when you came to him with your idea for a play about King David and his wives I could hardly believe it—’

  ‘Why, Emma? It just seemed to me to be a good idea.’

  ‘Nik. Be patient with me, please.’

  It was out of chronology. It was too soon. But she had his ring on her finger. She opened the Bible, slowly and carefully turning the pages. ‘Here. Where Amnon—where he lusts after Tamar—his sister—’

  Emma was half a year out of college, back in New York and the world of the theater. She had done an Off-Broadway play and a couple of TV dramas. She was beginning to be known as someone to watch. And at last she had her own apartment.

  Shortly after Christmas, in the miserable dank weather of early January, she had dinner with friends with whom she was discussing a Molnár play, and then went home, reasonably early, ready for a hot bath and bed and rereading the play and her potential role in it.

  As she opened the door to her apartment, the phone rang. It was Chantal.

  ‘Emma, I’m glad I got you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing earth-shattering. Inez just phoned me.’

  ‘So Amnon lay down and made himself sick.’ Emma’s finger still pointed to the verses in the Bible.

  It was an ugly story in Scripture.

  Ugly.

  ‘Billy called Inez, saying he’d tried to get all of us. Maybe he did. I just got in myself.’

  ‘What did Billy want?’

  ‘He’s got the flu, or something, and he told Inez he has a high fever, and he needs one of us to go to the drugstore and get a prescription his doctor called in.’

  ‘Why can’t Myrlo go?’

  ‘She’s in Florida for the winter.’

  ‘What about Inez herself, then?’

  ‘Edith won’t let her go, and she said Billy sounded really sick.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly out of the way for you,’ Emma said. ‘It’s only a few blocks for Inez.’

  ‘It’s out of the way for you, too. I’d go, but the thing is, Em, I’ve got a miserable sore throat, and I really don’t want to get sick. It’s starting to rain, and I’d have to take two subways.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ Emma tried not to sound weary. ‘It’s just across town for me.’

  ‘Oh, Emma, you’re an angel. I’ll love you forever.’

  So Amnon lay down, and made himself sick: and when the king was come to see him, Amnon said unto the king, I pray thee, let Tamar my sister come, and make me a couple of cakes in my sight, that I may eat at her hand.

  It was like and it was not like. David Wheaton knew nothing about it. It was Inez who called Chantal.

  Chantal who called Emma.

  If it followed the story, it would have been Chantal, wouldn’t it? Chantal would have been Tamar’s equivalent. Not Emma. It didn’t fit the story at all.

  Neither of the Davids knew what their sons were up to. They were pawns in the story. But, as Grandpa Bowman had pointed out, ignorance is not an excuse.

  Is it, ever?

  At the drugstore the pharmacist looked puzzled. ‘No. No one has called in a prescription for William Wilburton. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Could it possibly be under the name of Wheaton?’

  ‘No. I know Mr. Wilburton.’

  Emma sighed again. It was indeed raining outside. She wore a raincoat, but it was not quite warm enough. The crosstown bus had been dank and damp.

  ‘I can give you something over the counter, one of the new cold remedies,’ the pharmacist suggested.

  ‘I think it was a prescription. Thanks, anyhow.’

  Billy was living in his mother’s Park Avenue apartment, left her by her rich husband, who had died the, summer before. While Myrlo was in Florida, Billy had the apartment to himself, plus Myrlo’s cook and maid. Billy liked to live well. Emma went up in the elevator and rang the doorbell. It was answered by the maid, impeccable in grey uniform and white apron. ‘Oh, Miss Emma. I think he was expecting Miss Chantal. Never mind. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. Go on in.’

  So Tamar went to her brother Amnon’s house …

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Billy said. ‘I thought Cha
ntal—’

  ‘Chantal lives all the way down in the Village, and all I had to do was take the crosstown bus and walk a few blocks. But, Billy, there wasn’t any prescription at the drugstore.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Billy pushed himself up against the pillows. ‘You’re as good as a prescription any day.’ He patted the side of his bed. ‘Sit down, puss.’

  She sat, and put the back of her hand against his forehead. ‘You don’t feel hot.’

  ‘I have a raging fever,’ Billy said. ‘Feel my chest.’

  And Amnon raped Tamar.

  ‘Billy, what are you doing? Billy, no! Billy, don’t!’

  He was strong. She fought, but he was much stronger than she.

  Then Amnon called his servant … and said, Put now this woman out from me, and bolt the door after her.

  ‘You’re not Chantal,’ Billy said. ‘Get out. I wanted Chantal. You’re an ugly cunt.’

  Emma struggled to button her blouse where Billy had torn it open.

  ‘You’re no better than a whore,’ Billy said. ‘Emma. What a stupid, Victorian name. If you want to be an actress, you should change it to Emily.’

  Emma struggled to her feet.

  ‘You can’t even act, you bitch,’ Billy said. ‘Get out.’

  Blindly, Emma left. Went down in the elevator. Did not have enough money for a cab.

  On the bus a woman asked her, ‘Miss, are you all right?’

  —My brother has raped me. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Miss, there’s blood on your coat.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  She got off at the next stop. Thank God the bus had already crossed the Park. It was only one block west to Sixth Avenue, one long block and half a block more …

  Chantal called her. ‘Emma, did you get the medicine for Billy? Is everything okay?’

  Emma could not speak. Could only moan. She had answered the phone out of instinct, not thinking.

  ‘Emma, what is it?’

  ‘D-don’t—don’t—’