ROME
The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
Gian Lorenzo Bernini (c.1647–52)
CHIESA DI SANTA MARIA DELLA VITTORIA
Northwest of the Piazza della Repubblica, against a swirl of urban traffic, Chiesa di Santa Maria della Vittoria: an aura of disturbance. Inside, above the main altar, thick gold clouds cluster, chunky and graceless, and small faces peep out, gold rays enunciate the heavy composition. To the far right of the altar, beyond the pews, a clear sarcophagus holds a mannequin: a bleeding young woman.
To the altar’s left, set off behind a protective rail, the main attraction: Bernini’s famous Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. She’s nearly alive, the swooning marble Teresa, her skin luminous, the drape of her robes delicate, the flowing lines a superb deceit, as is her face, her mouth an O of pleasure and pain. In a moment, she may rise out of the stone. Gold rays splay above her, an aperture in the wall bringing in more light. Nearby an impish angel readies another piercing arrow; marble opera boxes line the upper side walls, galleries from which a marble Cardinal Cornaro and other notable marble men gaze down. Below, along the wood guard-railing hang laminated pages from the life of Saint Teresa, describing in three languages her terrible exquisite pain, her rapture.
A rising into light—say, divine light—or an obliteration? Orgasmic bliss, here with the torturing angel, the scrutinizing men, and the text proclaiming the splendor of her pain. Do not forget—how could you?—the larger scene dominated by those chunky gold clouds, and opposite the Bernini, just beyond the pews, the bloody mannequin girl.
FALL
Yet once summer gave way, so did the relative harmony. Often Nora and James rotated through separate rooms of the house, and in the same room remained silent, and when in conversation spoke curtly, not knowing why, and in bed remained disengaged and separate. After September, when the hours of light shortened and the season’s cloud cover thickened, James became restless, and spoke again of other towns. As if, seduced by summer, he’d forgotten about the colder, darker seasons; as if, after five years, the long commute came as a surprise.
Barely light—or still dark—when he left the house in the morning, full dark when he returned. The sound of the sea washed over everything as if it were the sound of darkness. He did not like living in a town of nightscapes, although in early morning, a calm settled as he quickly traveled along the South Shore. Until the last several miles he moved unimpeded up the highway and found reprieve in the solitude of the car, the blue air of half-sleeping towns dotted with floating colored orbs of traffic signals, convenience store signs glowing. On the radio, news from Washington, or New York; news from abroad, read without fanfare by an anchor whose steady baritone pitch knit a surface of reason over the chaos; or a string quartet, a duet for piano and violin, a bit of Paganini. Sweet coffee from the donut shop. A purposefulness would take hold as Blue Rock dropped away, and the highways extended north, and Boston’s southern industrial flank rose into view, on better days the light still peach-inflected, momentarily lending the steel containers, the rusting ship hulls, the smoke-blackened warehouses and dull russet boxcars a candied gloss. And then Boston’s downtown appeared, awake, and he left the highway and crossed onto the busy surface streets with their close press of cars, the rush of pedestrians in good overcoats and fine shoes, the women wearing lipstick and colorful scarves. His office waited—quiet, uncluttered—reports and notes neatly stacked, computer on, his calendar open. More coffee. The usual half hour of reading before phone calls and meetings began. The day’s obligations streamed forward, and though they would become layered and chaotic there was still a logic, an underlying structure they did not lose. In this space he could think. In this space there was no feeling of diminishment (headhunters often contacted him; bonuses often appeared), no sea sounds, no wash of darkness.
And as the day unfurled, there would be other moments: camaraderie with his secretary Maureen, camaraderie with Parker, the senior VP, a brief smooth plane of tasks, the pleasure at the deal completed, the pleasures of passing conversations with Janelle, a brainy, athletic girl in legal, and Margaret, the dark-eyed HR rep he’d sometimes take to lunch.
Only a few blocks to the athletic club: Mondays and Wednesdays at six he’d work out, avoiding rush hour. Occasionally he took late meetings, or a drink with Parker before heading home. He did not hurry. As he left the city, he’d again listen to the radio, passing walls of city lights, which faded as he approached the shore towns, his discomfort gathering in dense nightfall.
He pulled up to the house and ascended the outdoor stairs to the deck. There was always the wind and the wash of the sea, and now infrequent stars. Opening the door was like opening a jack-in-the-box, all the energy of the house springing out in his direction. His thoughts seemed to scramble then, in the presence of his family—sparked by the near surprise that he had a family—his clear work mind now obscured. The little girls, if they were awake, called to him, running, and Katy, so quick to take offense, offered her skittish Hi, Theo—grounded for curfew infractions—barely nodded, Nora kissed James hello. It all seemed to happen at once, the wave of greetings, followed by baths and bedtime stories, and he’d promised Katy something—civics? Math? A report on district elections?
When had he begun to find himself aghast, stunned by the instant erasure of solitude? There had been a tipping point, now submerged. He knew only that while he was in Boston, his family seemed remote, as if they lived not an hour’s drive from work but a day’s; or as if they lived in the Blue Rock of another decade; as if in his evening commute he traversed both time and space.
A now-chronic disturbance: when he spoke with Nora, he could not name it, substituting the commute. And perhaps, yes. Perhaps if he were traveling home to Wellesley after all (his cousin Patrick lived in Wellesley; cousin Patrick seemed content), or simply to Brookline, the moment of arrival would also transform. The family had lived in Blue Rock since Rome, since Molly; perhaps each day then was an extension of the return from Rome, no barrier to stop the aftermath from seeping forward. It seemed plausible. And yet, despite his complaints to Nora, he could no longer picture himself in Wellesley at all.
Was Rome sufficient explanation? Even now, after Sara and Delia? It had become difficult to remember the living Molly, reduced, at times, to a girl thrown across the hot street. That, and the confusion of Delia’s resemblance to her, the way the raising of one girl blurred into raising another. But even when he searched, he struggled to find Molly behind the name, Molly now so thickly wrapped in event and repercussion it seemed her center had dissolved: in this way, too, the girl ceased to exist.
Whatever mood James was in when he arrived home rippled out, changing the air in the house room by room—lately, Nora thought, a daily upheaval. In anticipation of his arrival, the kids became anxious and sullen, the sounds of the house strained. When James began to spend occasional nights in the city, she expected more turmoil. The first time, yes: Delia teared up dramatically, Sara sulked, Katy retreated. But Theo’s petulance abated; he offered to read to the girls. Nora coaxed Katy out of her room with popcorn and a TV movie. No one woke in the night, and the next morning, Nora slept until six thirty. She discovered she did not object.
Yet city nights did not alter his mood in Blue Rock. James took to arguing against the house, as if the place had failed him. Its inadequacies multiplied. The windowed living room—a play zone for the little girls, admittedly scattered with toys—was a pit, he’d say. Nora had painted their bedroom white and delphinium blue, hung long drapes over the window quilts. Yet it was unredeemable, James said, because of the drafts (he’d put off window replacement). He was fed up with storm damage; in the laundry room, they’d found mice. And from Boston—how could she disagree?—Blue Rock was much too far.
A long drive, yes. The bedroom was drafty; each spring gnats floated in the morning coffee. Yet Nora had painted and furnished each room, hung the art on the walls. It was Nora who filled the fruit bowl on the table; every day,
as the closets, shelves, and drawers emptied, it was Nora who pushed back, tidying, washing, returning hundreds of objects to their places. The house remained a haven.
Hadn’t it also been a haven for James?
“Go ahead.” The woman waved at the French doors. “Open them—you’ll love the garden patio. Not the season, of course, but look at all the brickwork.” It was as she said: the doors, the broad patio, the garden brickwork, and still the snow-filled yard beyond, and the old-growth trees. (You have to imagine grass, said the woman—Miranda, was it?—you have to imagine plantings.) The living room was double the square footage of Blue Rock’s; the kitchen also; the dining room accommodated a table for twelve, though Miranda called it “modest,” stressing the house’s versatility—perfect for entertaining and for kids. A finished basement with a rec room, home office, and extra guest room. “Brand-new listing—it’s a great find, Nora,” Miranda said. “It’s going to go fast.”
Fresh tulips on the kitchen counter; roses on the mantel. It was not hard to imagine grass; it was not hard to imagine the children in the various bedrooms. She’d driven through Wellesley before, lovely, yes, in spring. Even now, the neighborhood seemed well accessorized with red-ribboned wreaths on doorways and garages. Perhaps Miranda’s enthusiasm meant Nora had successfully played her role, in the soft gray suit she’d worn once to a luncheon with James, gold drop earrings, lipstick. Only twice had she drifted off during their conversation; once in the kitchen and once in the previous house, a four-bedroom Miranda called “very nice” though not, of course, as versatile.
She imagined grass, those cocktail parties with James. Certainly it was a beautiful house. She imagined the little girls running loops around the first floor. At that moment, they were likely running loops in Blue Rock with Joanie MacFarland, Joanie the lively, scrappy, still-pretty neighbor whose father had sold fish. Nora imagined plantings; she imagined a swing set. She thought it unlikely her neighbors would be children of fishmongers; unlikely that she’d meet local artists. You never know, James used to say. Though not for a while.
“Wonderful,” she told Miranda. “Let me bring James.” They would see other houses, “Just in case,” Nora said, “he has other ideas.”
Saturday then? Or Sunday? Or both? Miranda said. Nora would call.
She drove back to the South Shore through sleet, changed into her jeans before picking up Sara and Delia. In another hour Katy and Theo returned from school, as if on any other day. James arrived just after seven. They managed a family dinner, Delia on Nora’s lap, Sara on Theo’s. James had things to say tonight: he remembered to ask Katy about skating lessons; he remembered to ask Theo about the school play. Someone had offered him Bruins tickets; at this, Katy glanced up from her chicken but said nothing. James did not seem to notice. “A school night, Theo, but what do you think?”
A holiday reception at the Hyatt this Friday, he reminded Nora (whether to insist she join him or warn her of his late return, Nora could not tell). “It’s that season.” Which meant he’d be off to other parties.
The household silence after dinner would be brief, Nora knew. For now, Katy took the girls to read stories in the living room and Theo disappeared upstairs. Nora handed James Miranda’s file.
“I looked at some houses,” she said. “Closer in. We can see them this weekend.”
“This weekend?” James dropped the file on the table, pushed it toward her. “Nora, I’ve got deadlines.”
As if deadlines weren’t perennial; as if he could not forgo the Hyatt, or, if need be, the Bruins. Nora nodded toward the wall calendar. “When else should we look?”
He paused. She could see him stretching for an answer. She waited: she could wait.
Though here was Katy again—not in the living room reading stories, but toting Delia into the kitchen.
“Look at what?” Katy said.
“Oh, Katy, another time,” Nora said. “Is Sara alone?”
“Delia’s thirsty. Look at what?”
Delia reached for Nora, and Nora took her. “Dee, you want some water?”
James had the newspaper now; he seemed to be skimming Region.
“Milk,” Delia said.
Katy picked up Miranda’s file, flipped it open to “Arboreal Dreamhouse” near the Weston line.
“We’re moving?” she said.
“Delia, sweet pea, let’s get water. You’ve already had milk.” Nora set Delia down beside the counter and took a pink cup from the cabinet. “Looking,” Nora said. “We’re looking.”
“No,” Delia said. “Milk.”
“Theo!” Katy yelled.
Nora filled the cup halfway with water, and began to reach for a second cup. “Katy, where’s Sara?” she said.
Theo appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“I gave her Harold,” Katy said. “I’m not moving.”
“We’re moving?” Theo said.
James sipped his coffee and read, as if alone at a café.
Without further protest, Delia accepted the water.
“Theo, find Sara,” Nora said. “Your father has a long commute.”
“You can wait until I graduate, right?” Theo said. His face—was it the light?—a bit pale. “I guess I could stay with the MacFarlands.”
“If Theo gets to stay with the MacFarlands,” Katy said, “I’m staying at Amanda’s.”
“Who is Amanda?” James said, dispensing with Region after all.
Katy glared at him.
“Amanda. Sweetheart—you remember,” Nora said. “Katy’s good friend. The field hockey girl.”
“Oh. That Amanda,” James said.
“I have friends here,” Katy said. “Of course you do,” Nora said. “We both have friends,” Theo said. “Yes, you do,” Nora said. “Then why would we move?” Theo said. “It’s just an idea,” Nora said. “Just an idea?” James said. “Where is Sara? Darling,” Nora said to James, “would you take Delia? Let’s get the girls to bed.”
“So we’re staying?” Katy said.
In the living room, behind the blue sofa, Nora found Sara patting storybook drawings of fish.
Later, alone in their bedroom—another night estranged, untouching—James asked her, “Did you set that up?”
“Oh, please,” Nora said. She sighed. “Think what you like.” On Saturday, they viewed six houses in Wellesley—none “the right match” for James.
Christmas: Blue Rock harbor strung with white lights, the houses in the neighborhood sporting red-ribboned wreaths, candles in the windows. The briefest peace.
BLIZZARD
Early January: the remains of Christmas seemed like an abandoned theater set that Nora then dismantled. The moment had already slid beyond the holidays’ penumbra, and with January came winter’s harsh deepening, as if to complete the erasure. Near-constant, buffeting wind, sometimes a whistling, a kind of arctic speech punctuated by snow and freezing rain, and more snow, which spread and froze in drifts and wavy patterns along the beach. And in the stormy mix, the neighborhood became static, summer houses boarded up, year-rounders taking refuge indoors. On a clear morning, the sun reflected off the snow and the bay turned cerulean; Nora took the girls down to the beach, and later gave them cocoa and read their books aloud, the day’s equilibrium momentarily restored.
That Monday, when James kissed her good-bye, he seemed blankly innocent (but of what, exactly? She couldn’t say). By daylight, a gray churning sea, wind, the slight rocking of the house, snow by midmorning. And the dismantling continued: warnings of storm surge high enough to flood the neighborhood access road. It happened every few years, yet still the evacuation order surprised her. She had just cleaned the house, and the rooms smelled of soap and lemon oil. It was counterintuitive to leave. Even as she packed overnight bags and loaded the girls into the car, the snow falling thickly, the paradox rankled her, as if someone—town hall, the meteorologists, the local cops checking the houses along the shore—had misunderstood. Here was the warm kitchen, the fresh pot of
soup; in the bedrooms, layered quilts and flannel sheets; there the stormy, snow-filled roads. You had to leap, unseeing, beyond your own perceptions.
The shoulderless two-lane roads near the shore had long since iced over, the visibility dropped to squinting distance—taillights disappearing two houses ahead—the car itself rocking in the wind. Roads improved a half mile inland, and she managed to collect Katy at the middle school, then drove the three girls to the high school, where a gym teacher and several boys—Theo among them—set up cots on a basketball court.
A teacher from social studies brought a television on a tall rolling cart and plugged it in near the low rickety bleachers: a meteorologist on-screen moved his hands in circles over eastern Massachusetts, as if polishing the map. There were cookies for the girls, apple juice. Along Route 128 and I-95 dense traffic seemed to have frozen. Around Boston the snow was falling at two inches an hour. The storm surge could be fourteen feet.
Only now, from the high school gym, could she picture the house afloat like a bath toy. And yet the impulse to stay had felt like intuition, or perhaps wisdom. How did one know when to trust one’s own mind?
From a hallway pay phone, Nora left a message at James’s office.
In one of Nora’s bags, Katy found Play-Doh and set the little girls to making blue and yellow animals. Eventually, the staff put up a telephone message board beside the snack table and posted weather updates: the snow would fall through the night. Eventually, a message appeared from James: Will stay in the city. Very glad you’re okay, love to the kids. Love, James.
Rare to see Love, James in handwriting other than his own—as if from a florist. And what had become of the authentic Love James, the original one? For a moment, it seemed possible that the authentic Love James had written to her from Boston, having bested late day sorry James. But then, too, she’d been swayed by a clean kitchen floor.
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