Certain Women

by Madeleine L'engle

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘I can’t—I can’t—’

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Emma, I’m coming. Adair’s here. We’re coming.’

  They held her, bathed her, sobbed with her. ‘I should have been the one,’ Chantal cried. ‘You went instead of me. Oh, Emma, Emma!’

  ‘How’s your sore throat?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ Adair said.

  And King David was angry with Amnon. But he did nothing.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know,’ Emma said.

  ‘We ought to call the police.’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘I tried to fight him, but he’s so big. I hit him and it just seemed to make him more strong.’

  Chantal blew her nose. ‘Papa has to know,’ she said grimly.

  ‘Why?’

  Adair’s hands were clenched. ‘Billy can’t get away with this.’

  Memory was hazy. David and Sophie were in her room with Chantal and Adair. There were phone calls, Sophie trying to call the obstetrician she had had for Louis. He was away. Another doctor was taking his calls.

  Emma curled up inside her own mind like a very small snail retreating into its shell.

  Arms around her. A taxi ride and then blazing, painful lights. A hospital. Sophie and Chantal with her.

  ‘No,’ she heard Chantal say. ‘We’re not leaving her. We’re staying.’ An argument, and Chantal insisting, ‘We’re staying with Emma.’

  She was put on a table, examined. Billy’s violence had torn her. There were stitches. And a cold, male voice telling her, telling Chantal and Sophie, that she would be all right, that no permanent damage had been done.

  ‘She should be more careful next time,’ the voice said.

  Sophie swore at the man. ‘You arrogant bastard. Get out.’ She had never before heard Sophie swear.

  And then she was in the Riverside Drive apartment, in her old room, with Sophie and Chantal. David and Adair hovered in the doorway.

  ‘Leave her alone for now,’ Sophie ordered. ‘Let her sleep.’

  She drank hot milk which must have had a sedative in it, because her eyes began to droop, her ears to buzz.

  She heard Adair’s voice. ‘Papa, you can’t let Billy get away with this.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Put him in jail.’

  ‘Do you want that kind of publicity? Does Emma?’

  Chantal said, ‘Billy’s a pervert, a sick pervert. He should at least be put in a mental hospital.’

  Their words were lost in the buzzing in her ears. She slid into darkness.

  Sophie was in the room when she drifted into wakefulness, a thin winter sun coming through the windows. Sophie hugged her, kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘Darling love, you’re all right. You’re all right.’

  She stayed with Sophie and her father for a week. Sophie would have kept her indefinitely, but Emma said, ‘Things have to get back to normal as soon as possible.’ There was too much talking going on around her in the apartment, David talking to Myrlo, trying to get her to get Billy to a psychiatrist. Myrlo shouting. Emma heard Myrlo’s ‘She asked for it!’ before a door was slammed. Chantal called her daily, sounding miserable with the terrible cold she had tried to avoid and which developed into flu.

  Chantal said, sneezing, ‘Edith came to see Papa. She wanted him to know Inez had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Billy’s wanting one of us to come bring him medicine. All Papa’s doing is trying to get him to see a doctor, and Myrlo refuses. Adair says Papa can override her. Billy’s dangerous. Adair thinks Billy still might—with me—One of my friends is staying with me so I won’t be alone.’

  King David spoke to Amnon. To Ahinoam. But he did nothing definitive.

  During a crowded rush hour when Adair and Billy were standing on the subway platform, Billy fell and went under an oncoming subway train.

  It was an accident it was an accident it was an accident

  Myrlo blamed Adair, wanted him in the electric chair. Myrlo, still grieving for her insurance-executive husband, was insane with grief over Billy. David managed to keep her mouth shut, keep reporters at bay. It was an accident. Prosecuting Adair would not bring Billy back. Any revenge she tried to take would only smear Billy.

  Myrlo screamed, ‘It was Adair who seduced Emma, not Billy, not my baby, sweet Jesus, it was not my baby Billy!’

  David stood unmoving and let her shriek herself out. Finally she turned her energies to Billy’s funeral, held in a church near Times Square.

  Sophie came to Emma. ‘You don’t have to go to Billy’s funeral.’

  Emma said dryly, ‘I hadn’t planned to.’

  ‘It’s going to be awful,’ Sophie said. ‘But I promised Davie I’d go with him. Emmelie, what are you doing with yourself? You’ve got purple shadows under your eyes.’

  ‘I’m starting rehearsal for a TV show tomorrow. I’ll be all right, Sophie. I just wish I’d get a job in China.’

  Tears came to Sophie’s eyes. ‘Sometimes we hurt you just by loving you, don’t we?’

  —Adair, Emma thought. Where is Adair?

  Adair withdrew completely from the family. Refused to talk to his father.

  Absalom, Absalom, oh, my son, Absalom. Would I had died for thee, Absalom, my son.

  But Adair was not Absalom.

  Finally, unexpectedly, without warning, he came to Emma. Came at night to her apartment on Fifty-fifth Street. Held out his arms.

  ‘Go to Georgia, Emma,’ Adair said. ‘Go to your grandfather.’

  Chantal told her father and Sophie, ‘Adair thinks Emma should go South to see her grandfather.’

  Oh, how right! How right of Adair!’ Sophie exclaimed.

  She helped Emma pack. ‘Listen, Emma, darling. Nothing in you has changed. You’re still the pure young woman you always were.’

  ‘I feel soiled.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know, sweetheart. But you’re not. It’s Billy who’s soiled. He should have had psychiatric help years ago, but Myrlo wouldn’t hear of it. Emma, don’t let this turn you against men. One day you’ll meet a man who loves you purely, the way Davie loves me.’

  In Georgia, winter was over. The Judas trees were in full rosy bloom. Dogwood and azaleas were budding. Emma sat on the screened porch with Grandpa Bowman and listened to a mockingbird singing its loveliest song.

  ‘Are you angry?’ Grandpa Bowman asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have every right to be angry. The fact that Billy is dead does not change what he did. Don’t keep putting your anger off. Until you go through it, you can’t get out of it.’

  ‘Myrlo says I asked for it.’

  ‘Since when have you started paying attention to what Myrlo says?’

  ‘Grandpa, I didn’t.’

  ‘You don’t have to persuade me. I know that.’

  ‘He took me completely by surprise.’

  ‘Emma, Emma, stop trying to blame yourself.’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. When I was little, he used to kiss me on the lips and I hated it.’

  ‘When your father married Myrlo, he made a very expensive mistake.’

  ‘Grandpa, I don’t like feeling hate.’

  ‘It is a destructive emotion, you are right. Anger is better, rightful anger. Have you cried?’

  ‘I’ve cried for Adair.’

  Grandpa Bowman put his arms around her. His beard scratched against her face. And then she felt his tears.

  Life continues. Somehow.

  Emma went back to New York. She took a role in a play in a small, experimental theater.

  Adair was gone. He had enlisted in the army and been sent overseas.

  There was no news of Etienne, or what waters his battleship plied. Marical wept, wept.

  But as long as Adair and Etienne were alive, there was hope.

 
; Everard came to the city, to Emma. He could not stay away from his duties at the hospital late enough in the evening to take her for supper after the show at the little theater down in the Village, so he met her at Chantal’s.

  After Chantal had put out soup and sandwiches, Everard looked at Emma carefully. ‘You’re better.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did going to Grandpa Bowman help?’

  ‘Yes. I have a wonderful grandfather. But I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to Adair.’

  ‘Nobody did. Adair just left.’

  Chantal added, ‘Papa’s very broken about it. Maman is praying that Adair will come back safely.’

  Emma looked at Everard. ‘Why would anybody want to rape someone? Take what wasn’t being given?’

  Everard grimaced. ‘What I think is that it’s a sort of throwback.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘In the beginning of human history the planet was very sparsely populated. Men got killed by each other, or wild animals, or earthquakes, or other natural disasters. Keeping the population from dying out was a big priority. So men were programmed genetically with an enormously strong sex drive. Then, when the population increased and it wasn’t necessary anymore, the strong sex drive was still programmed in—’

  ‘Hey, wait!’ Chantal broke in.

  Everard looked at his sister with his gentle gaze.

  ‘Rape is not aggressive sexuality,’ Chantal said. ‘It’s sexualized aggression.’

  Everard sighed. ‘Right. You’re right. I guess I was trying to let Billy off the hook by making him a Neanderthal.’

  ‘Billy may be dead,’ Chantal said, ‘but that doesn’t change who he was or what he did. He wasn’t a Neanderthal trying to propagate the species. Rape is hate. It would still have been hate if I had gone to Billy, instead of Emma.’

  ‘Is lust hate?’ Everard asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Chantal was definite.

  In early June, Sophie came to Emma. ‘Are you set for stock this summer?’

  For July and August.’

  ‘Emma, will you go to the West Coast with Davie, to be with him on the boat? For a few weeks? He’s afraid to ask you.’

  Emma sighed. ‘I can’t do anything with Papa when he’s depressed.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. He’s trying hard to pull himself up. Louis’s going to a day camp and I can’t leave him. And I know you love the Portia and being on the water. Emma, I’m asking a lot of you, when it’s you I should be thinking of, not Davie, but Davie’s my husband, and I think it would do you both good.’

  Reluctantly, Emma went. Once they were away from the city and the crowded boatyards, she found the quiet of the water and the forests healing. David, too, was quieter.

  They stopped at Norma’s village. Norma came out onto the dock to greet them.

  ‘Come,’ David said, and led the way onto the boat. ‘Emma. Wait.’ He headed for the pilothouse, gesturing to Norma to follow him. Emma sat on a bench on the dock, letting the sun warm her. Waited. Waited. At last Norma came back to Emma, took her in her arms. ‘Your father told me.’

  Norma took Emma home to her village, to her house. There she bathed her like a baby, washing every area of skin, every orifice. And then she rubbed Emma’s body with pungent, healing oils. When Emma was clean and dry, Norma rocked her, speaking slowly in her deep voice. ‘You will stay here with me for a few days.’

  Emma nodded drowsily, then asked, ‘Papa told you—’

  ‘He told me everything.’

  ‘That Billy is dead?’

  ‘Yes. There was an accident.’

  Norma waited.

  ‘There is more. Billy was with Adair—the brother I have always loved the most—I don’t know whether or not Adair was—whether or not—somehow—responsible.’

  At the end of three days, Norma took Emma up the hill behind her house, sat with her on a sun-warmed rock. ‘Emma, you must make a decision.’

  Emma looked at her, not understanding. ‘What decision?’

  ‘To come back to life. To love, and laugh.’

  Emma wrapped her arms about her knees, put her head down. Norma’s hand was warm against her head.

  ‘When I was younger than you, only sixteen, I went to see cousins in—a city which need not be named. It was over the border. I was sent out to buy some groceries and when I left the store five men jumped on me, knocking the bag out of my hand. Everything spilled. A bottle of milk broke. I didn’t realize what was going on, and I bent over and tried to pick things up.’ Emma looked at the dark eyes, at the face which revealed nothing. ‘They raped me,’ Norma said in her level voice. ‘All of them, and more than once, and some other men just stood looking on.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘I was made pregnant by God knows which of the men.’

  ‘Norma, the police—’

  ‘I was an Indian, a girl, the police were not interested in me. They said I asked for it. My cousins brought me home, back here, to my village. I drank some tea which usually helps a baby such as mine to abort, but nothing happened. I carried the baby for seven months and then it came, premature, deformed. I wept for it, poor little thing who had no part in its own conception. I nursed it, cared for it, with little stumps for arms and legs which never would have carried it. When it died I felt that I had died, too. No one told me that the baby and I were both better off for this death, and I was grateful for that. And then I nearly died, as well, of a strange fever that raged through my veins. The women in the village took turns sitting with me, nursing me, caring for me. When I was well they told me that I was at a crossroads, and I did not know what they meant.’

  Norma continued, her voice still quiet, devoid of emotion. ‘The elder of the village, our wise woman, came to me. She was old, over one hundred years of age, and she smiled at me and repeated that I was at a crossroads. I asked her, “Where do the roads go?”’

  ‘Where?’ Emma asked.

  ‘She told me that one road led to a wedding and the other to a funeral, and that it was up to me which road I chose. It’s up to you, too, Emma.’

  Emma looked for a long time at Norma, who returned her gaze with luminous dark eyes that emphasized the smile on her lips. ‘You chose the wedding. If you can, then I can,’ Emma said.

  ‘It was after I had chosen that I met Ellis. Not before. My only sadness is that I was not able to have children. Something about my poor little deformed baby and the fever burned out my ability to have babies. But I have a good life, Emma, a life of great joy.’ She rose, standing tall and straight on the rock, looking out to sea. ‘You can still have children.’

  Emma nodded. ‘The doctor said I’m okay as far as that’s concerned.’

  ‘That is good. Joy will return, Emma, and then, one day, happiness. Now it is time that you and your father move on.’

  ‘Papa—’

  ‘He has a wound, a darkness that is beyond his control. You do not have this wound. Go and love him now.’

  Emma read from Nik’s Bible. ‘So Tamar remained desolate … But Absalom fled … And David mourned for his son every day …

  ‘Emma, Emma, Emma—’ Nik’s arms were around her, his tears mingling with hers.

  ‘I didn’t know how I’d tell you—when we came to that part in the play—’

  ‘No—no—’ Nik gently pushed Emma away so that he could look at her. ‘So there are certain resemblances between your father and King David, between their wives, but as you pointed out yourself, you’re not a twentieth-century equivalent of Tamar. Sure, I can see the parallels, but there’s no preordained necessity.’

  She leaned her forehead against his chest. ‘I know.’

  ‘Free will, Emma, sweetie, not predestination. For instance, where do I come into the story?’ He kissed her gently, pushing her hair back from her forehead.

  After a while she said, ‘You don’t. Thank God.’

  ‘And we belong together, you and I.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And
if we’re looking for coincidences, what about Henry VIII? He had eight wives.’

  ‘No—’ Emma laughed shakily. ‘I think it was only six.’

  ‘Six—eight. I could see you as Queen Elizabeth, Anne Boleyn’s daughter.’

  Emma laughed again, ‘Neither King David nor Papa killed off their wives.’

  Nik took her hands, held up the left one, touched his ring on her finger. ‘You’re a marvel, Emma. Norma didn’t make you choose the wedding at that crossroads. It wasn’t just Grandpa Bowman and Norma who healed you. You had to heal yourself.’

  ‘For a while I took baths three and sometimes four times a day. Then, when I went on the boat with Papa, that had to stop. We don’t carry that kind of water. And Norma’s cleansing did help. When we came back to New York I could look at my body and accept it as mine, and okay.’

  ‘My sweetie, my sweetie.’ Again Nik held her close. ‘You know how to love. I only hope I’ll be able to love as well as you. I love you, Emma, I love you.’

  On Saturday Emma went down to Chantal’s between the matinee and the evening performance. Her sister was alone.

  ‘I thought maybe you could give me a quick bite to eat,’ Emma said. Chantal put down her violin, which she had been playing. ‘It sounded good. But sad,’ Emma commented.

  ‘It’s a sad piece. I was feeling broody. How about some salad? And I have a little smoked salmon.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Emma tried not to hold out her left hand too obviously.

  But Chantal saw. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’

  ‘A ring.’

  ‘What kind of a ring?’

  ‘An engagement ring.’

  Chantal took Emma’s hand, studied it. ‘Um. Nice. Not ostentatious, but nice. It came from Niklaas Green?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Thanksgiving night. Late. Or early the next morning.’

  ‘And you’ve taken this long to tell me?’

  ‘I’ve been—absorbing it. Absorbing that I’m happy.’

  She called Georgia. Yes, Grandpa Bowman said, yes, he would manage to make the trip. He needed to meet this Niklaas Green, and certainly nobody else was going to perform Emma’s wedding ceremony.

  Emma tried to call Abby, but, as often happened, could not get her call through, so she sent a telegram. She tried not to look too often at the ring finger of her left hand.