by Chris Cander
“I’ve examined my conscience and told God of my sorrow as you suggested,” she said. “Please.”
“Yes,” he said, taking a breath. “Of course.”
She followed him to the rear of the small nave, and after he entered his compartment in the confessional, she went into the other. When she had knelt on the prie-dieu, Father Timothy slid open the screen between them.
Myrthen made the sign of the cross and said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was two days ago.” She confessed regularly — all her minor sins, in order to make up for the very big ones that she could not bring herself to admit even to Father Timothy. That she had wanted John to touch her.
That she hadn’t wanted to share her birthday doll with Ruth.
“Yes, child.”
“Father, tomorrow is supposed to be my wedding day.” She paused.
“Yes.”
“I still don’t want to get married.”
“It’s natural for a bride to experience some uncertainty. Did you pray the novena, as I suggested?”
“I did, Father. And I know God wants me to heed my calling to a religious life. My parents …”
Privately, Rachel had told Father Timothy the truth behind the wedding, as well as about John’s earlier courtship. In the end, Father Timothy agreed with Rachel that the shame of Myrthen’s actions could be resolved only by marriage. Knowing her daughter, Rachel had told him that Myrthen would have cold feet, and would Father Timothy be so good as to counsel her on the correctness of fulfilling her duty?
Myrthen could hear a shifting of cloth from behind the mesh screen. An audible sigh. “Myrthen,” he said. “Your parents are good, God-fearing people.”
“Yes.”
“They want you to marry John Esposito.”
“Yes, but only because they need me to stay close by. They need me to take care of them when they’re old.”
“I understand their concerns,” he said. “And you, as their only daughter, have a duty to care for them if that is their need. Remember the fourth Commandment.”
“Yes, Father. Of course I do.”
“And you have given your heart to your fiancé.” He paused for effect, leaning back in his chair on his side of the screen, the side of authority, the side of God. “So you now also have a duty to him.”
She brushed the lace mantilla off her face, sticky with sweat, and moved closer to the hard edge of her small seat. “But, Father, you said you would help me find my place at one of the convents,” she said anxiously. “When I was the right age.”
“Myrthen, I’ve known you since you were a young girl, have I not?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And I know, though it pains me to admit it, that you are unable to hear God’s voice. His message. Though of course you have been diligent in trying.”
Myrthen hung her head lower. Even now, at what felt like a sentencing, she could not muster a defense. After spending so many hours each day for so many years in her company, Father Timothy knew her far too well. She answered in a tiny voice: “No.”
“I have prayed for you, Myrthen. I have asked the Holy Spirit for His divine intervention. I received the reply.”
She moved to the edge of her seat. “You did?”
“God rent the heavens and came down, Myrthen,” he said. Was he going to release her from her bondage? “He told me that you must comply faithfully with the duties of your state, carry your cross most patiently, and endeavor to accomplish His divine will with the utmost perfection.”
Yes! she thought. Thy will be done. “What did the Lord tell you, Father?” she whispered close to the grill, then leaned forward, curling around the space that would soon be filled with his answer.
“That you will marry John Esposito tomorrow.”
“No!” She jerked up so quickly the wooden confessional quivered where she kicked it.
“Child. It was made clear to me even if it is not clear to you.”
“No,” she said again, but quieter; she was shrinking already.
“It is God’s will.”
She plunged her face into her hands. Had she not been faithful enough? Penitent enough? Had she not proved her heart, even in spite of falling prey to John Esposito’s seduction that one and only terrible time? After a moment of sobbing, she whispered, “I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past.”
“Say your act of contrition.”
She cried as she did so, sniffing and gasping between the words.
“Go home, now. Get ready for tomorrow. It will be a big day for you and your family. A blessed day.”
Myrthen left the church reluctantly, dipping her finger into the holy water and making again the sign of the cross; then she began the walk from the rugged heights of Whisper Hollow to her home, where her mother would be laying out sauerbraten and schnitzel. Her bridal wreath of myrtle branches would no doubt be completed and waiting.
Myrthen passed the cemetery without stopping. Into the mercilessly bright sky she whispered, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
June 7, 1930
On the morning of her wedding to Walter Pulaski, Alta carried an armload of foliage from her mother’s garden up Whisper Hollow to St. Michael’s Church. She hadn’t the benefit of a mother to plan the ceremony, nor the means for flowers. But she had her mother’s garden, which she’d tended alone for the four years since she died, and the ivy that grew along the fence.
Wedding ivy, it was called. It symbolized fidelity, faithfulness, and marriage. When her mother died, it symbolized something else, although she didn’t have the vocabulary for it then. That variegated green that grew wild surrounded her shattered and mended home and was like protection from the outside world. Something that meant she belonged within the space it enclosed. So, on the occasion of her wedding to the gentle, unromantic man who’d asked her father for her hand during their lunch break, she thought it appropriate to adorn the altar and the first two rows of pews with these treasured-up vines. These barriers might become a path to something more encompassing as she moved into this strange new union.
Her ceremony was to take place at high noon, immediately following that of another couple whose identity she didn’t know. She expected few guests: her brothers, of course; her uncles and aunts. Punk and Maggie had sent a telegram with the promise of a visit and a gift later; they were in Paris on holiday. Her father would give her away — reluctantly, she hoped. She would still cook many of her father’s meals, although from this point forward they would be served from her own kitchen.
Would Walter, whose mother had been a wonderful cook, like the kluski? And the fried chicken, green beans, sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, and rolls? She’d been up since 3:00 a.m. to set the dough for the desserts and by 7:00 had already prepared most of the meal. On this warm Saturday, she was to be many things: daughter, sister, bride. And since she had no women to prepare her trousseau or lay her banquet or set forth the bread and salt and wine that would ensure her health and happiness as a married woman, she would also take the role of the cook and the hostess and the server. Her future, therefore, would have to hang on her own inexpert skills.
When, she allowed herself to wonder for a tiny moment as she wound the wedding ivy around the kneeler at the pew, when would she ever be simply Alta?
From the far right of the sanctuary came a quiet sob.
She turned and looked. A girl, a bride wearing a fine ivory silk gown, knelt in front of the small side altar of the Virgin Mary, hands clutched in prayer. Her hair was done in two braids, a symbol, Alta knew, of a girl about to become a wife. But her voice, oh her voice, was not that of a young woman on the joyful path to wifedom. It was that of Charlotte Corday on her way to the guillotine, guilty of murder, or of Mary Easty at the gallows, condemned as a witch. In all Alta’s life and with all the books she’d read, it was as shrill a plea as she had ever heard:
“Oh holy Virgin! Mother Mary! You know more than an
yone what it’s like to lose something. Your own son, sacrificed and in agony. I beg you to look down on me with your compassionate heart.”
This girl, this bride, rocked forward on her knees, grinding her gloves into the silk across her thighs as she spoke, louder and louder:
“Oh Mother of Mercy, I have no one to turn to but you. Please please please hear my humble prayer. Take pity on me, I beg you. I cannot marry anyone other than your son, my Savior. I am devoted to Him and no one else. In His name I beg you.”
She stopped and took a breath; then she released the gloves from their vice and set them down neatly on her lap. She wiped her eyes and spoke again, more softly:
“If I am forced to take this man as my husband, so be it. I will accept it as God’s will. But my true heart will always be reserved for my Lord and only Him.”
Alta quietly placed the unwrapped end of ivy on the floor, wiped her hands across her cotton trousers, and moved to where the girl knelt in misery. She hesitated, then reached out and touched her on the shoulder.
Myrthen whipped her head around and glared at her. Alta took a startled step backward and brushed against the hard edge of the first pew. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean — ”
But Myrthen had already turned back to the altar and gotten back in position, bowing her head toward the Virgin Mary. She shot her right arm out behind her and made a flicking go-away movement with her fingers. Then she turned toward the cross in the center of the sanctuary and said in barely a whisper, “Heavenly Father, if it is Your will, please take this burden away from me before it’s too late.”
Alta retreated quietly, and knelt to complete her work. She wondered with pity about the man who would meet his grieving bride at this same altar only two hours before her own husband-elect would meet her. Did the other groom know how unwelcome he was? Had he imagined broadly enough his future with this mournful soul?
As she completed what now seemed like the silly task of decorating the church for her own — and this other unwitting bride’s — wedding ceremony, she wondered:
What would become of them all?
June 7, 1930
By the time Myrthen was forced — by the clock, by her mother, by Father Timothy — to suspend her supplications to the Virgin and the Holy Father, she had run out of tears. Her face was streaked and splotched when Rachel snatched her by the arm and nearly dragged her down the length of the sanctuary, hissing, “Was ist mit Dir los? You’re being married in forty-five minutes.” She looked around. “I am glad your new in-laws aren’t yet here to see you behave so badly. Again.”
At the narthex, the girl who’d been decorating the pews, Alta, stood, open-mouthed and carrying her basket of tulle and twine. As Rachel, muttering in German, dabbed a spat-upon handkerchief across Myrthen’s face, she stared back at Alta with shiny, lifeless eyes. Myrthen’s gaze wasn’t searching or curious. It was as though she’d picked Alta at random, a blank spot on a wall, something to anchor herself as she swayed rigidly under her mother’s merciless swabbing.
“Perk up, Myrthen. What will your groom think of seeing you like this? It’s almost time. People will be arriving any minute. Where is your wreath?”
Myrthen, still looking through Alta, raised a finger and pointed to where it lay on the pew closest to the door.
“I’ll get it,” said Rachel.
Myrthen was yanked from her stupor. “No!” she said, jarring them all with the sharp edge of her voice. She released Alta from her immobilizing stare and spun around. In almost no time, Myrthen overtook her mother and lunged toward the wreath.
“Was soll das?” Rachel’s hands flew up by her shoulders, palms out, as Myrthen passed.
Myrthen quickly bundled the braided myrtle branches inside the attached veil and clutched it to her chest. “Nothing,” she said, bending her head. “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want Rachel to know that the day before, when she’d sent Myrthen to collect the myrtle branches, Myrthen had also picked some roses for her crown. But it wasn’t the blossoms she wanted. She pulled those off, and later, after her mother had gone to bed, she added the thorny stems to the inside of the wreath.
Rachel recovered her composure. “Well, then. You should put it on. It’s nearly time.” She reached out as though to take the wreath from her. “I’ll help you.”
“No,” Myrthen said again, but more quietly this time. She turned away, out of Rachel’s reach. “It’s all right, Mama. I can put it on.”
“Go. Use the mirror in Father Timothy’s lavatory.”
When she had left to do so, Rachel turned to Alta. “Thank you for putting the ivy,” she said, looking at her with the same intensity her daughter had, and only slightly more interest. “I hope you and your husband walk together in the happy ways of love.”
Alta stared back until she recalled her manners. “Thank you.” Then she turned and yanked open the door. “I wish her well, too,” she said. Then she slipped outside and was gone.
The wedding day and evening were spent dancing and drinking and eating at Myrthen’s parents’ house. Myrthen wore the wreath for the duration of the event. Only a few guests showed up, but nonetheless, Rachel had rolled up the living room rugs and engaged their neighbor’s brothers to play the accordion and clarinet while Myrthen dutifully, though unhappily, danced with the male guests. Each one paid a dollar a turn, a gift to the newlyweds. But if they counted the gifts against the cost to entertain, the deficit would have been staggering. Passage to the New World was a bargain compared with the price of a dress and ceremony for their only child.
“Your mama and I were married on the ship coming to America,” her father said to her at the end of the night. “No money, no church. I said to myself, in America, it will be better. There I will make money enough to give proper weddings for all the daughters I will have.” He patted her hand and looked at her with seeping rheumy-gray eyes that hadn’t seemed happy in as long as she could remember. “But I only have one daughter, Liebchen. So I don’t mind spending extra for yours.”
At long last, the guests retired. John took his bride by the hand, and he bid farewell to her parents and his while she stared at the floor. A friend of his had offered to drive them to their new home, a company house that had been recently vacated.
A week before the wedding, in a rare moment of lightness, Rachel had used some savings to buy two sets of lingerie. “Perhaps some good would come of this coupling after all,” she’d said. “Grandchildren, at least.”
But when John’s friend dropped the couple off at their front step in the middle of the night, Myrthen had only one hope: that her unwelcome husband had had too much to drink and might possibly abandon any intent to consummate the marriage.
John — who’d drunk only enough to overlook his wife’s obvious unhappiness — unpacked her trousseau. He found the lingerie that Rachel had bought: a sheer yellow nightgown, and a peach-colored silk negligee. “Which will it be?” he teased, dancing into the living room and holding them both up for her to see.
“Excuse me,” she said. She picked up her small valise and passed him, allowing a wide berth, and shut the bedroom door behind her. With slow, deliberate care — much more than was due the gown she detested — she disrobed. She hung her wedding dress on a hanger and suspended it from one of the three hooks on the wall. Later, she would put it away where she wouldn’t have to see it. On the tiny nightstand, she laid her wreath, its veil floating down.
Minutes passed. A half hour. Finally, John knocked on the bedroom door. “Myrthen?” She didn’t answer. “Myrthen?” he said again, singsong, pressing his mouth against the jamb. When there was no reply, he turned the knob and pushed the door. The room was dark but for the starlight. He blinked to adjust.
She was in bed, with the coverlet up to her chin. Her eyes were closed.
“Myrthen?” He tiptoed to the edge of the bed and leaned over. Then he pulled his loosened tie off, unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it onto the floor. He undid his belt and pants
and wriggled out of them. Underwear. Socks. Once naked, he stretched and yawned, loud, extending it into the “aaarwwh!” of a coal car passing by the station without stopping.
Myrthen opened her eyes and beheld her husband and that part of him that only weeks before had ruined her life. “You don’t want this any more than I do,” she said, her voice a low growl. “We don’t need to play our roles now. Nobody’s watching.” She closed her eyes again and shifted onto her side for sleep.
John pulled back the sheets, and she rolled unwittingly toward the center of the weak mattress when he climbed into the bed. He moved toward her and reached out to touch her face. As he looked at her, she noticed the way his eyes crinkled when his mouth spread into a slow smile. That mole on his cheek. For a moment, just a flickering moment, she remembered the pleasure that had passed briefly between them. Then she turned her face away. She had slipped that night, let herself indulge a low desire, and look where it led her. Never again.
“We’re married now,” he said. “We might as well make the best of it.” He touched her neck. “What do you say?” Sliding his hand down her throat, he felt a thick flannel ruffle at the hollow there. “You’re all covered up.”
He moved his hand farther down, brushing her breasts. Instantly, like a flinch, her arms flew up to protect herself. As they did, she elbowed him in the jaw.
“Damn!”
“Sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t, not entirely.
He reached over and pulled her toward him by the shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just come over here. I won’t hurt you.”
She lay still, staring at the wreath on the table.
“Come on, Myrthen.” He pulled, and she snatched herself back.
John heaved himself up and yanked back the covers and lifted her a few inches to move her to the center of the bed. Then he straddled her and leaned down into her face. She squeezed her eyes against the sight of him, the smell of Prohibition liquor on his breath. Her parents, who never touched it as far as she knew, had procured it for the celebration. Rough and forbidden, it wasn’t something people knew instinctively how to hold.
