Saints

by Orson Scott Card

  Dinah could finally bear no more. She laughed aloud and said, "Mother, it would take at least two wives to accomplish all of that."

  Immediately she regretted having said it, for Anna's face became rueful, and she nodded wistfully, and the talk turned again, into realms of pain from which Anna had tried to emigrate years ago, but never quite succeeded. "It's true. I never succeeded in any of that, nor any woman I know. Though you may, Mary -- you're such a glad girl, it'll smooth many a quarrel before the first word gets spoken."

  "We'll never quarrel," Mary said. "I'll give in too quickly."

  Dinah could not account for the strange anger that came to her then. But she held her tongue and said nothing.

  "John and I never quarreled," Anna said. "But still he left me. There's more than that." She sighed and looked at the wall, where imaginary paintings hung. "I've thought about it often and often during these years, I've thought why did he leave me.

  "He left because he was weak," Dinah said coldly. She was afraid of what her mother would say.

  "No, he wasn't weak. He was strong in his own way. But the needs of others weighed on him. Think what a man goes through. When he goes to work, he doesn't carry just the labor of the job with him. He also carries on his shoulders all his children, and his wife, all the bellies he has to fill -- all his days are spent satisfying others. When does he satisfy himself?" Anna hesitated, for it was not an easy thing for her to say. "He satisfies himself in his wife's bed. No, don't blush or get silly when I say it. We're only women here, and I'll speak frankly, as much for my daughter as for you, Mary. When there is nothing between your husband and you but your own flesh, what he needs is to satisfy himself, and no one else. My mistake was that I loved his body more than he loved mine. My mistake was that I desired his love. I took more pleasure from our embraces than he did, and he knew it, so that even in our bed he was satisfying me more than himself. Even that became an obligation for him, instead of a release. Do you understand? It's a great pleasure, the love of a man and a woman, and the preachers who tell you about the carnality of lustfulness between a husband and a wife are liars. It's a glorious thing that God gave to Adam and Eve as their greatest comfort in this lone and dreary world. But it isn't good for the woman to show her pleasure too much. Don't cry out for joy. Don't clasp him hard or urge him on. Act as if it were only a gift you gave to him, and then he will be satisfied. Take your pleasure, but secretly."

  Dinah could not understand why this made her so upset. She was a virgin and had hardly talked of this with anyone, only the joking comments among the women at the factory. Yet she could not hold her tongue. "I still say it was Father who was weak. A real man would rejoice in the pleasure he gave his wife, and not begrudge her any of it."

  Of course Mother smiled patiently and nodded. Of course Mary blushed and looked at her lap. "There's time enough for you, Dinah," Anna said. "You're still so young."

  Dinah laughed in embarrassment. "I'm a year older than Mary."

  "Forgive me for saying it, Dinah, but a mother must say such things. All married women are older than all unmarried girls, regardless of their years."

  "Mary isn't married yet."

  "Even the day before a wedding, a woman's heart changes. She begins to know things that a woman who has not given her life into a man's hands can never know."

  Dinah longed to make a sharp retort to that, because it hurt her to be made to feel so childish, and by her own mother. But she held her peace as she had known from infancy to hold her peace. Things were simpler that way, and anger soon faded. Besides, for all she knew her mother might be right. And she was jealous of Mary and contemptuous of her: jealous that she would be initiated into the mysteries of passion, of conception, and of birth; contemptuous because Mary was too small for him. How could a woman not despise herself, to marry so unworthily a man who deserved an equal partner? Or the opposite, as Mother did, to marry a man who needed someone small-hearted and weak, who could not hold his own with a woman who had something of the strength of Ruth in her?

  Ruth: The woman who knew only one man in Israel was worthy of her, and so went to Boaz and lay at the foot of his bed, not waiting for chance to bring them together, because she knew that only she could make him happy, and only he could give her joy.

  I would rather stay a maiden all my life than marry a man too great or too small for me. She meant it when she said it, or at least the second part; even now she suspected there might not be a man who was too much for her, for she had never met one, not even her brothers.

  Of course the other women misinterpreted Dinah's silence; people usually did. Mary tried to reassure her. "You'll marry, too, Dinah, and soon. Though I may have taken the last good husband in the world."

  Dinah smiled. "Probably. But I'll make do." Lies made conversations go so much more smoothly.

  For once, perversely, someone saw through her lie. "You're not so easy as you pretend, are you?" Mary said. " Is there a man, then?"

  "Not for me."

  Of course when Dinah told the truth she would not be believed; Mary was too clever for that. "Oh, you can't fool me. There's a man. But why is your face so sad? Look at her, Mother Kirkham. Oh, she denies it, but her heart is breaking for someone. It's a tragic love -- someone hopelessly above her station that she cannot wed."

  The histrionic tone in Mary's voice was infuriating. She was turning Dinah's life into a ridiculous romance. And yet Dinah said nothing, for the only thing she could think of to say was, " I'm not the one who's marrying above her station," and it would never do to say that.

  Mary took silence for consent, of course. "It's like Romeo and Juliet! Who is he? Dinah, you must tell us!"

  "My heart isn't breaking."

  "See how she suffers in silence, Mother Kirkham? Oh, we won't tell anyone, not even Matthew, though it would break his heart." And then Mary put her hand to her mouth and giggled. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? He'd just kill me if he knew. But it's true, and I'm glad I said it, so there." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's dying for love of you."

  "People don't die for love," Dinah said.

  "Perhaps not. But sometimes they suffer so much that they wish they could."

  "Mother, perhaps it's time for us to go to bed."

  But Anna would be no help to her. "Don't be rude, Dinah. You know Mary's welcome here as long as she likes."

  "I didn't mean to offend you," Mary said. "I wouldn't offend you for the world. But it's true. Matthew said so. He said he's so jealous of Robert, marrying the woman he loves. And so jealous of me, to be taking a Kirkham into my bed." Mary blushed, but clumsily stumbled on. "Matthew's a blunt one, plainspoken, if you know my drift. He thinks you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

  "His perspective would improve if he stopped going to pubs with Robert and saw more women instead."

  Mary was so caught up in her own enthusiasm now that she was incapable of knowing when she was being told to shut up. "Oh, Dinah, wouldn't it be lovely if we could be sisters?"

  At last Mother saw that things had gone too far, and she interrupted the grotesque conversation. "Mary, dear, tomorrow you and Dinah will be sisters."

  "Oh, yes, of course, I forgot. Robert and I will be one, as the parson says. I'm to be Robert, in a way, we'll be parts of the same person, and so we will be sisters, won't we!"

  And on that cheerful note the conversation turned to other matters until Robert and Matthew came tipsily home, singing bawdy songs until Anna threatened to throw both of them into the street and let Mary stay with them tonight. Finally all was calm; Mary and Matthew were gone, and Robert snored heavily, filling the bedroom with the smell of celebratory beer.

  In the dark, returning from the private house to the cottage, Dinah paused for a moment in the courtyard. The air was smoky, so there were no stars; it was not for contemplation that she waited. It was something else. She wanted something, wanted it very specifically, and yet could not think what it was.

  In the da
rkness she heard Charlie pass her, heading for the private house. She said nothing to him; he did not see her. She tried to think what had made her so unsatisfied. Was it all the talk of love? Was she longing for a man's touch on her body? The moment she thought of it, she remembered Mr. Uray, whose touches were becoming less subtle and far more frequent. Because they were done with the pretense of discipline, to call her to her work when her attention wandered, she had been able to ignore them. But now she knew what the pokes and pinches really were; now she understood why the other girls were getting colder to her. Mr. Uray had long looked at her in the wrong way; she was so used to ignoring it that she hadn't realized that the other girls might think more of it than she did. They must pity her for it, and yet feel so ashamed they couldn't speak of it. Or no -- could some of them even be jealous, wishing the overseer would try to touch them? Welcome to him, I'm sure, Dinah thought, laughing silently. If that's what Mr. Uray thinks is love, pinches that leave a bruise, he can take his love to someone else and welcome to it. What did not occur to her was the truth: that the other girls believed that in her very silence, in her very ignoring of Mr. Uray's provocation, in the fact that she had not quit her job long ago, they believed that she was encouraging him. They believed that she was getting special favors from him; some were even sure that he was paying her extra on the side. The only thing that was really debated was whether he had actually had her yet. The majority still held that Dinah was a virgin who was playing with fire, not a harlot who was already well scorched. Of course none of them spoke of it to her, as her reputation slowly deteriorated though she was innocent of any of the sins assumed for her.

  Charlie saw her on his way back to the cottage. It turned out he had come out less to use the privy than to find her. "I heard," he told her.

  She looked at him calmly.

  "I mean -- what you and mother said." He was resolute -- embarrassed to speak, but determined not to stop. "I couldn't help hearing. I just wanted you to know that I agree with you. And when I marry, I'll be as careful to please my wife as to be pleased by her. I'm not like father. I'm not like him at all."

  It touched her that he was so eager to have her good opinion. "Of course you aren't. And when you marry, Charlie, you'll be a good husband. But not too soon, please."

  He laughed. "I guess not. I'm only a boy." But the way he said it, she knew that he thought of his youthfulness only as a disguise for a fully grown man inside.

  "You're taller."

  "You noticed."

  "You'll be as tall as Robert soon."

  "I'll be taller. He's built wide, like an ox."

  Ah, yes. Robert was animal-like, in Charlie's view. While he would be a man. Let be, let be. "Better go in now, Charlie. There's the wedding so early tomorrow, and then a day's work afterward. Only Robert and Mary get the whole day."

  "Oh, they'll be working far into the night."

  "Enough of that, Charlie. I'm only your sister, but you should still think of me as a lady."

  "I'm sorry -- "

  "Go on in. I'll come soon."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Your sins are forgiven."

  They laughed, and Charlie left her. She stood in the darkness and touched her lips, wondering what it would feel like to have a man do that. And then she felt a terrible, trembling fear that no man ever would, that like Matthew all men would be afraid of her, would adore her but never want to be one with her, to be part of her, as the parson said.

  The wedding came and went in the weak light of smoke-blocked dawn, at the chapel a few blocks away on Canal Street. Mary was pretty and Robert was handsome in their rented finery -- and Charlie was fiercely proud of the fact that his gift to them had been a rented coach for their trip from the chapel at Canal Street to their new home at Ravald Street. There had been some argument on that, Anna insisting that Charlie should spend his gift money on something that would, last, and Charlie equally adamant that he wanted his brother "to have the best." Privately Dinah was sure Charlie's motive was not so selfless: Robert would know whose carriage it was when he took his bride away, and though he had the manners not to refuse the gift, he hadn't the charity to forgive it.

  Dinah's gift had been the rent of Mary's dress. It was the only secret Dinah knew for a fact that Mary had ever kept; between the two women, Mary was profusely grateful, but she had readily consented to Dinah's request that she tell no one who paid for the dress, so that Mary's family wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of having it be known they were too poor to rent the gown themselves.

  At the moment of the vows, Mother squeezed Dinah's hand tighter, is if to say, "Someday you." Dinah did not squeeze back. Instead she thought of her mother's marriage, and silently resolved that if she ever married a man who wanted to leave her, she would make him leave her in daylight, not lie there in the dark passively while he took her money and walked out the door; she would kill him first before she would let him be so cowardly. Then she realized that God might construe her thought as a wish for the death of her own father. Forgive me, she said to God. The prayer was not answered. Never was.

  It was November when Mr. Uray tired of his subtle pinching and poking and decided that the time had come to win the beautiful young operator who obviously didn't mind his advances but never did anything to come halfway with him.

  He began his direct approach by slipping two extra shillings into her hand on payday. The idea was not his own. The women who worked in the factory had told the men there about their speculation that Dinah was getting extra pay; the rumor had reached men on the same level as Mr. Uray, and they had teased him about keeping his own private payroll for work done after hours. Mr. Uray liked the idea of the other men thinking him something of a rake; he did not contradict them. And now he had decided that the strategy of extra payment might raise those skirts.

  He was wrong. Dinah immediately noticed the extra coins and stepped back to drop them on the table in front of Mr. Uray. Uray looked dumbly at the money. "You must have miscounted," Dinah said softly, and then she hurried out the door. Mr. Uray was furious, sure that he saw ridicule in the faces of the other men and women as they passed to get their money. Now they would know that the rumors weren't true, and he had not had Dinah after all. It was humiliating, and he would not bear it.

  All Sunday he fretted about it, burning with shame that Dinah was too proud to take his money, that she would dare to humiliate him in front of everyone. It did not occur to him that she had never heard the rumors about the extra money and that she could not have known that anyone would think that his overpayment was anything but an accident. He knew better. The way she moved more slowly and liquidly when she knew he was watching her; the way she breathed faster when she saw him coming toward her; the way when he pinched her she blushed and said nothing, but only worked faster, pretending that she hadn't noticed it -- it was obvious to him that she desired him, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And why not? He wasn't young, but some women prized the wisdom of a mature man over the flightiness of youth. He knew well enough from his discreet inquiries that she had no man, that she never kept company with any of the fellows at the factory. The poor wench was obviously dying with desire for him, but she was too proud for his money. All right, then. She might think the money would turn her into a whore -- he should have thought of that, she was better than that sort. He would not try again to appeal to her purse; now he would appeal directly to her heart. But since her heart was so well-concealed behind bodice, blouse, and bosom, he decided that the best persuasion would be to give her a taste of what his love could be like. It wasn't money she wanted, it was the ecstasy of love, and Mr. Uray was the man to give it to her.

  Monday morning was icy, and the women all came to work bundled in whatever warm things they owned; raggedy clothes, mostly, though a few had had the spare coins to buy something still in fair condition. But Mr. Uray was adamant about the washing. The master insisted on cleanliness, because he was concerned for his employees' health. H
e was an enlightened man and took some pride in the fact. So his overseers did his bidding and whatever the weather, warm or cold, the sinks like horse troughs were filled with hot water and the soap and towels were set in their bowls. Men and women alike had to wash arms to the shoulder and faces to the neck and feet to the knee. But enlightenment was not carried to extremes. Real estate costing what it did, there was no sense in having men and women wash in separate rooms. Poor people had no modesty anyway -- that was plain from the holey, scanty clothes they so often wore. So never mind what clothing might have to be removed. Men and women would wash each morning and each night, wash to the neck, to the shoulder, to the knee, and quickly, too. And of course it was Mr. Uray's job to watch closely and be sure that all washed as thoroughly as they should. Dinah Kirkham had such a graceful leg.