The Passion of Mary-Margaret

by Lisa Samson

  Rosalie motioned to a chrome chair upholstered in off-white vinyl with silver flecks. “Have a seat if you’d like. We’re about to eat dinner. I eat early so I can have time with Alice before I leave for the club.”

  “Who watches her when you’re working?”

  “Oh, my husband, Jack. He’ll be home soon too. You’re welcome to join us for a bite if you have the time.”

  I shook my head, the wonderment obvious on my face.

  She laughed. “It would take all night to explain it and neither of us have that kind of time, I’ll warrant.” She rubbed her hands down the sides of her black skinny pants, then pushed back her bangs. Even a little harried and worn by the day, she was beautiful and glamorous in a carefree, natural way, as if her costumes and makeup colored in some of the missing bits. Her body, thin and lithe, didn’t seem to be that of a stripper, her breasts small. She didn’t ooze sex appeal. She did look French though, very classy and continental. Maybe that provided its own sort of fantasy for those oafish men who would never get the opportunity to bed a woman with such seeming style and grace.

  I became painfully aware of my shoes because it’s one thing to wear such sensible shoes when you’re a religious sister, but as a person on the street, well, it says more about you than you’d like someone else to know. Perhaps. Or it might just say you have corns and bunions. Which I didn’t.

  Oh dear.

  “So you must have met Jude when he first made it to town?” I asked.

  “Oh yes! Young and angry with everything to prove but nothing to show for it and very little to concretely offer in the long run. Especially coming from a place as remote as Abbeyville. We see those types all the time down there on Baltimore Street. But I liked Jude. We took him in for a few weeks until he found his feet. I tried to guide him a little, to not take it all so seriously, that it would kill him if he didn’t view it as a job and nothing more.”

  “Jude could never do that.”

  “You’re exactly right.” She leaned down and extracted a can of peas from the bottom cupboard, then slid open a drawer and plucked out a can opener. “Peas!” She jiggled the can at Alice. “Your favorite, sweet girl!”

  I could barely take all of it in. Rosalie—LaBella. Housewife by day, stripper by night. How in heaven’s name did she find herself at home in both worlds? Leering men, feathers, bumps and grinds on the one hand, canned peas, diapers, bibs, and sea foam green cabinets on the other? A dinette, for goodness sake!

  I couldn’t help it. “I just can’t add up what I’m seeing here.”

  She ground the blades into the top of the can. “It’s like this. They’re just breasts. That’s all I bare.”

  “But they’re your breasts.”

  “I know it’s not the best of choices for a job, but I landed it years and years ago. I’d run away from home. Can we talk about Jude, Mary-Margaret? I don’t know how you will possibly understand me.”

  She was right. “If you’d like. I’m sorry.”

  “No offense taken. So anyway, Jude and I have remained close friends over the years. Never intimate in any way. I never found him all that attractive.”

  “Really?!” I blurted out.

  “Well, your reaction is most women’s when it comes to him, I’ll tell you that.”

  My cheeks burned and she laughed.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “About a week ago. He was planning on heading to Europe, he’d said, but came home to do one more piece of business. I don’t know what it was. Said he’d been out to the island and saw you, but just couldn’t bear to drag you any further into his life. Then he went to the doctor for a fever, headache, and a rash on his abdomen. I told him it might be scarlatina and he shouldn’t mess with that. Well, he ended up with a diagnosis of syphilis.”

  “Oh no!”

  She turned on the burner beneath the pan of peas, reached into the refrigerator, and pulled out a pound of ground beef. “Hamburgers,” she said. “Mashed potatoes and gravy too. Sure you can’t stay?”

  I shook my head almost wildly. She just told me someone had syphilis and then, another dinner invite. What a wacky world.

  I didn’t know much about syphilis. I’d have to get to the library.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m sure. So after the diagnosis, what did he say?”

  “He changed his plans. Said he didn’t feel like going overseas after all.” She handed the baby some zwieback. Alice smashed it against her gums and grinned.

  “What about the trouble he was in due to drugs?”

  “He had a windfall. Probably bribed somebody important after he did his business with him.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Jude.”

  “No. You’re right. He’s always been straightforward. Anyway, I didn’t ask where the money came from. Jude doesn’t confide in anybody, anyway.”

  He always did with me, I thought.

  Rosalie began to form the ground beef into patties. “The truth is, Mary-Margaret, the light had gone out of him. I don’t know how to describe it, but something happens there on The Block. If you make it your entire life, pieces of you die. At least that’s what I’ve noticed. I don’t know if it’s possible to see it when it’s happening to you. I doubt many of the folks down there would say they weren’t all they used to be. But it’s true. And when enough dies, you either slink away or end up down at the mission.”

  “What mission?”

  “Brother Joe’s. The Catholic priest down there. Heart of the City Mission. Does some good work with the alkies and the streetwalkers. Started up sometime after the war. Good man. Anyway, Jude found himself there and it scared him. Then the diagnosis came”—she sighed and laid a patty on top of the other two she’d formed while speaking—“and that was it for him.”

  “So where did he go?”

  “I’m not sure. All he said was that he was going to the place he should have never left in the first place. As I said, about a week ago.”

  “Did he ever talk about his childhood, growing up out at the lighthouse?”

  “Only once. And then in passing. When I’d ask him about it, he said he didn’t like to talk about it.”

  I nodded, giving her the one-minute version of Jude’s childhood. “I don’t know who he would have been had he stayed.”

  “There’s a wild streak in Jude, always one to do whatever he wants. Location wouldn’t have changed that, Mary-Margaret. It’s like he was born to go against the grain.”

  Aren’t we all? I wanted to say.

  I stood up. “Well, I’d better go, I guess. Thank you for your time, Rosalie. Thank you for being Jude’s friend.”

  She set a cast-iron pan on a burner and turned on the gas flame. “Oh, you know Jude. Despite the edges, he’s not bad to be around. There’s something inside there you just feel sorry for.”

  Jesus didn’t have to tell me where Jude was. How he got out to Bethlehem Point Light without anybody knowing was beyond me, though. Maybe he hired somebody to take him across and paid them a little extra to keep quiet about it. Most likely that was the case. It being May by this point, the waters still would have been too cold to swim and in his weakened state, a fever and all, he couldn’t have made the half-mile swim anyway.

  What did Hattie think when he showed up?

  Thoughts like those milled about my brain as I sat on the bus back to the island. The large tires vibrated against the tar joints of the Bay Bridge, and the sight of the water that next morning, the sun throwing a healthy smattering of glitter over the waves, comforted me. Water always does. Cleansing water. Holy water.

  God likes water. Of that I’m sure. We baptize with it and the people of Israel would purify themselves ritually with it. And something holy happened. I don’t pretend to understand why God uses the stuff of this earth to commit holy acts for his people, why he allows the ordinary to become sacred, but I read the Old Testament rituals he designed himself for Israel, and I can’t escape the fact that he uses his crea
tion, makes it holy, to bless his people.

  So that morning, the expanse of water flowing from either side of that miles-long bridge, I drank in the power of the Spirit. I remembered the circumstances of my baptism long ago. I remembered the love of God for me. I remembered my response in kind on a Pentecost Sunday in 1941 when I felt the Holy Spirit’s power flood my soul and I said, “Yes, yes,” to a life of following Jesus. I thought about the expanse of water I sat in front of for more hours than I could count, staring out at the lighthouse, the same expanse of water that now separated Jude from his bride.

  His bride. Me.

  I felt sick again. I’d been feeling sick a lot.

  The whole syphilis revelation didn’t help any either. Was he getting treatment? Was I supposed to sleep with him if he refused to get help? Was there treatment? I didn’t even know. I’d get to the library later. The first order of that day was find Jude. Hopefully, that little house on the water, the light swinging round and round, had not, or would not, become his tomb.

  I stepped off the Greyhound around eleven a.m. and found a ride on a produce truck to the ferry. I knew the driver slightly, a quiet sixteen-year-old named Patrick whose family owned the supermarket on the island. I sat beside him as he drove without saying much. I said little as well. It was awkward when I offered to help with the gas, but Patrick wouldn’t take so much as a dime. Patrick ended up in the military, dying in Viet Nam in 1968. His wife teaches second grade on the island and is very helpful with the altar society at church. She remarried and had six children, but she keeps a picture of Patrick in her Sunday missal.

  Wondering for the first time where I was going to stay, I realized I couldn’t ask the sisters at St. Mary to provide a room. I’d just, in all practicality, turned my back on them, on all the years and hours they’d invested in me, loved me, rebuked me, and encouraged me. Oh, how glad I am I didn’t know Sister Thaddeus was my benefactress. And when I think how she supported my decision, how she trusted me implicitly, it amazes me further.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bray. I knew they’d take me in. And maybe they’d understand what had been happening, because the Lord knew nobody else really did, least of all myself.

  Suitcase in my grip, I clipped down Main Street, past the school, the drugstore, and negotiated the tree-lined gravel lane that led to the Brays’ cottage. As I write this, Mercy House is painted the palest, creamiest of yellows, but back then the Brays’ chose an eager blue that reflected the emotions of the sky and the Bay. The lacy trim has always been painted white as far as I can remember. It’s always a relief when what to do with something is that evident.

  Regina Bray opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of me with a suitcase. “Mary-Margaret? What are you doing here, child?”

  “I’m on a mission of mercy.”

  “With that suitcase? Come on in.”

  I followed her yellow-chiffon-clad form, so thin and lithe and golden brown despite bearing all those children, into their parlor. Mr. Bray made his wife the most beautiful clothing. She was by far the smartest dresser on the island. And she had her hair done every week at the beauty parlor for black women. Its soft waves flowed into a turned-under curl around her shoulders that bounced with each footstep. She’d slid her feet into matching, kitten-heeled pumps. Perfect.

  I made a mental note to ask Mr. Bray if he’d give me a few sewing lessons, something to keep me occupied.

  And then it hit me. How were Jude and I going to support ourselves? He was a drug-dealing prostitute and I a former religious school sister. Perhaps the local elementary school needed an art teacher. But I doubted it.

  I mentally pictured myself crossing my fingers in blind hope. And, after being in the shadow of the Church’s wings all my life, the thought of “getting out into the world” like everybody else scared me silly. Is that what my faith had become, a place to hide from society, from possible pain, from vulnerability?

  Nah.

  Even if I was doing that, who could blame me? I was handed a raw deal from the get-go.

  “Don’t beat yourself up for that,” Jesus whispered in my ear. “You were right where I wanted you, my dear.”

  Thank you, Friend.

  Mrs. Bray gestured toward her brown, crushed velvet sofa that had clearly just been vacuumed judging by the satiny, then suedelike streaks. Regina Bray’s house was perfect all the time—pillows placed just so, the fringe on her area rug combed, the walls washed and nary a cobweb (even in the attic, I suspected)—I do believe she cleaned it every day. And in such beautiful clothing too. Truly a modern housewife, such as they were at the time. At least in the advertisements.

  Somehow Regina achieved what most women only hoped for.

  I had to stifle a laugh at the thought of the house I was going to keep. Art supplies everywhere, sandwiches for dinner, ironing on-demand,laundry only when the undergarments ran out, an overgrown lawn.

  This whole thing is destined to be a nightmare, Lord, an absolute nightmare.

  He didn’t answer back, but I did get a quick vision of colorful flower gardens.

  “Would you like some iced tea or lemonade?” she asked. “Maybe a cup of coffee?”

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked.

  “Not really. I just had a cup of tea.”

  “I’m fine then.” I set down my suitcase, then sat on the couch.

  “You look like you’ve got a story to tell.” Mrs. Bray sat on a mustard-gold occasional chair with a rattan back. She crossed one leg delicately over the other, the top leg dangling down close to the other, the top foot not so very far off the floor. I’ve noticed that thin people’s legs always do this and it looks so elegant. Her spine supported the entire effect like a pillar.

  I sat with my left foot crossed behind my right ankle, like the nuns taught us to sit, so proper, and I folded my hands in my lap. “I left the order.”

  Her hand slapped against her heart. “Mary-Margaret, no! That was the last thing I expected to hear! Are you sure about this?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Is this God’s doing?”

  “Fortunately, yes.”

  “Oh dear. Oh, my my my. You need to tell me about this. But first of all, do you need a place to stay?”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “You came to the right house. Now, our spare bedroom is tiny, but I think you religious are used to small rooms, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “Of course. So then this might actually seem downright spacious!” She chuckled, a warm breeze of a chuckle, the final “hmph” upswept in the same curl as her lips.

  “Thank you.”

  She stood up. “So tell me the rest of your story and I’ll help you unpack.”

  I’ve always found the Methodists to be good listeners.

  Two hours later, a cup of tea and some fresh-baked cookies down the hatch, Mrs. Bray wiped her eyes, then neatly folded her hankie and placed it in a hidden pocket in her dress. “Oh, sweet pea, I don’t know how you know God wants you to do this, but I know you wouldn’t be doing it for any other reason. It’s too crazy to consider something like this all on your own.” She reached out where we were sitting next to one another on the sofa and grabbed my hand.

  “I just have no idea where we’ll live. I realized that on the bus here.”

  “Let me just tell you about my sister’s little place over near the wharf. It’s a cute little two-room apartment above the bait and tackle shop, you know, that touristy place?”

  I nodded. “Ron Purnell’s?”

  “She owns the building. Her renter’s due to be moving out next month. I can talk her into giving you all a good price.”

  “I’m going to need to find a job too. I was hoping the elementary school might hire me.”

  “Art?” She tapped her finger against the spot between her mouth and nose. “I don’t know. Now, at the Negro school, we could use an English teacher in the fall. You think you might be interested in that?”

&
nbsp; A dream fulfilled? “Of course! You know I would be.”

  I quickly filled her in on what happened in Bainbridge.

  “Lord have mercy!” she cried. “God restoring what the locusts have eaten. We can go by and talk to the principal tomorrow.”

  Mr. Bray was full of love and encouragement, mystified, truly, like most people, but trusting. “Mary-Margaret, I never known you to do anything stupid or rash. I believe you mean what you say. But I do wonder this. What if Jude turns you down?”

  “What?” I set my fork on my plate and reached for my water glass. “I guess I haven’t imagined that.”

  “Oh, you should! The man has been around the block a time or ten, so he’s obviously feeling worthless and ready to pack it all in if he’s back at the light. He may not want to drag you into his sorry life. I imagine it feels pretty complicated to him. If he truly loves you like you say he does, he’ll turn you down flat.”

  “My goodness,” I breathed. “I hadn’t even considered it. But, well, you may be right.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he is.” Regina handed her husband the platter of fried soft crabs. “Johnson has a sixth sense about people. He really does.”

  That night I walked to Bethlehem Point and sat beneath my mother’s tree. I prayed—well, talked to God would describe it better even though, yes, that’s technically prayer. I whispered words of fear, of trust, of anguish, of anger too, and finally Jesus came and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the light.

  “I am the light of the world, T—.”

  “Yes, Lord, you are.”

  “The way will be clearly marked for you. We don’t do that for everyone, as you well know. But this is something you can count on. You’ll know what you need to know when you need to know it. Don’t be afraid.”

  And then he spread wide his hands and showed me a portion of his glory, his skin glowing like molten steel, his eyes like white-hot coals. He pulled aside his robe and revealed his flaming heart and I gasped at the beauty and fell on my face before him, reveling that One so full of majesty and power and love loved me so completely. I worshipped his holiness, feeling small, but altogether safe in the light of his grace.