by Brandy Purdy
There was a streak of vivid light in the sky above us and we both looked up to watch the silvery tail of a shooting star arc its way across the sky. And I could not help but think, God is smiling down on us—this is a sign!
Orrin’s eyes met mine and I knew he was thinking the same thing: This was meant to be! We were meant to be!
“Did you make a wish?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No; everything I want is right here,” I said, and drew his face down to mine. And this time I kissed him.
When school started I used to walk out every day to the little red schoolhouse where Orrin taught with a picnic lunch for us to share while the children scampered off with their lunch pails to play outside in the sun. The weather was still warm and Orrin left the doors and windows open so the heat would not be trapped inside and stifle the children and, like me, he was always prone to headaches. I used to love to stand outside, out of sight, and watch him teach.
Orrin loved children, and he loved teaching, and he was so good at it! And the children loved him; they responded to his warmth and kindness. He used to say that to make a child smile was his greatest reward; if he could lay his head down on his pillow at night knowing he had done that then he knew beyond a doubt that the day had been worthwhile. He strove to make learning fun, to leave an indelible impression, not just to drill facts they learned by rote into his pupils’ minds. “They’re not parrots,” he said to me, “so why should they learn like them?”
He told stories from history, interesting and amusing anecdotes not to be found in textbooks; he wanted the people, the kings and queens, the presidents and warriors, explorers and inventors, he taught the children about to be real to them, personalities that came to life in their imaginations, not just names printed on the pages of dull, dusty old books. Sometimes he even devised little plays, “history pageants,” for his pupils to act in, “to make history come alive.”
Sometimes he would tell them to put away their slates and books and they would go outside to make kites with paper and string and fly them, or just go fishing, or catch frogs and race them. He taught the children about nature amidst nature as bees flitted from flower to flower and butterflies lighted on their little fingers and birds sang in the trees.
And when it came to mathematics, Orrin was a man of infinite patience even with the slowest learners. He devised games and contests and, as an incentive, and to reward effort, gave candies and little toys and trinkets as prizes. Every Friday they had a spelling bee with a special prize for the winner and when the day was done Orrin stood by the door as his pupils filed out, placing a candy in each grateful little hand and wishing them all a good weekend. Knowing they had chores waiting for them at home, he never overloaded his pupils with a superabundance of homework, and he never blistered palms or rapped knuckles with a ruler or left stinging red stripes on a bottom with a birch rod. And in Orrin’s classroom no child ever sat in the corner wearing a dunce’s cap.
When we met again Orrin had just begun building a home of his own. He was a grown man of thirty and felt it was time he left his parents’ house. The timing was perfect, he said; the construction was not so far along that changes weren’t possible or practical. He took me to see it and then we sat down with the builder and his plans; it was to be our home, not his alone, Orrin said; he wanted to be able to look at it as he came up the road from the schoolhouse at the end of the day and say to himself “she chose that door” and “that rooster weathervane on the roof was my idea.” He wanted us to merge our souls in brick, mortar, glass, and wood; even the flowers and vegetables in the garden would be born of the mingling of our desires.
We went up to Boston on the weekends and chose decorations and furnishings. We found a lamp set with midnight-colored glass with a pattern of shooting stars worked into the silver metal between the panes and bought it for our sitting room to remind us of the shooting star we had no need to wish upon—we had each other; we were the luckiest people in all the world. We tried to be discreet, I kept my veil down and never gave my name, but I suppose it was inevitable, someone recognized Lizzie Borden, and it was obvious that Orrin and I were in love. The truth shone in our eyes whenever we looked at each other; no one could have looked at us and doubted it for even a moment. But we were too caught up in each other and our mutual dream to care or take heed.
We planned to be married at Christmas in a quiet, private ceremony with just a few family and friends as witnesses and to honeymoon afterward for six months in Europe. I had always wanted to go back and had often thought about it, but somehow I could never bring myself to actually do it. Something always held me back; I am still at a loss to explain why I never went. It was certainly not the money or time; I had an abundance of both.
I ordered my wedding gown and a lavish trousseau from my favorite dressmaker, Mrs. Cummings on Elm Street, all to be rushed and ready in time for Christmas. I even paid extra for her to take on two more girls to help her. She promised me that she would be discreet and neither she nor those in her employ would spread any gossip about me. If anyone inquired she said she would tell them that the clothes were for a European excursion.
In early December, as the home Orrin and I would make together was nearing completion and the furnishings were being put in place as they arrived, he took me there one afternoon after school. It was already getting dark, and we both knew it was not, by society’s standards, an entirely proper thing for us to do, but I had already begun to notice that as each year passed such things mattered less and less to me, if they had ever truly mattered at all. He built a fire in the new fireplace crafted of great river stones and brought blankets and cushions for us to rest upon.
We never discussed it, and there was really no need to; we both knew what was about to happen. There was no need for words of any sort, passionate or practical. The silence between us was a comfortable one, a quiet, mutual contentment, that needed no conversation or nervous, awkward chatter to fill it; the love and trust between us was more than enough.
He lifted the hat from my head and laid it aside, and then he took my hands, first the right and then the left, and slowly, starting at the tips, eased the gloves from my hands. Then his fingers were at my throat, carefully unfastening the row of black silk braid frogs fastening my dusky mauve velvet coat.
I shut my eyes and shivered as his knuckles and wrists brushed against my breasts as he patiently worked his way down the front of my coat, then, after pausing first to kiss me, pushed it from my shoulders and freed my arms from the wide pagoda sleeves. I turned my back to him, presenting the row of tiny pearl buttons his mother’s maid had painstakingly fastened for me that morning. His fingers moved diligently downward, and as the pearls parted from the buttonholes I felt the cold kiss of the air upon my skin followed by the warmth of Orrin’s lips.
I shifted my position and rose up onto my knees so he could gather up the velvet skirt, cumbersome layered flounces fading from deepest plum to the most delicate pink, and lift it over my head. I kept my back to him, bowing my head and blushing a little, shivering with cold, and nervous eagerness, as I felt his hot blue gaze burn my bare shoulders, followed swiftly by his ravenous lips. I had never felt the sun on my naked skin, but this was what I imagined it must be like. Then his hands were on my shoulders, kneading and caressing, and his lips were at the nape of my neck, then the sides, roaming over my shoulders, covering me with a hundred hungry kisses that made me so dizzy and weak I had to shut my eyes and pray that I would not faint.
His fingers fumbled with my corset until I was blessedly free of my restrictive whalebone cage and could breathe deeply and easily and feel my breasts rise and fall naturally. My nipples hardened and glowed like rosy embers through the thin wedding-veil-white silk of my camisole. I gasped in delighted surprise as his hands crept round to gently cup my breasts. I sighed and arched my neck and leaned back against his chest as his lips once against found the sensitive curve of my neck while, through the thin silk of my camisole, his han
ds massaged my skin where my stays had plowed angry red furrows before he lifted it over my head.
I can’t remember every detail, the distraction of pleasure began to deliciously muddle my mind, but I was soon shed of my petticoats and lay back. I felt the warmth of the fire on my skin as he unlaced my boots, then peeled off my pink satin garters and rolled my black silk stockings down, kissing my knees, ankles, and toes as he bared them. Then I felt his hands at my waist, gently easing my drawers down over my ample hips. My legs lifted of their own accord to help him, and I felt the lace and pink silk ribbons that trimmed them tickle my naked ankles.
I sat up and wrapped my arms around Orrin’s neck, and our lips met in a soul-stirring kiss, passionate, devouring, and deep. I pushed his brown broadcloth coat from his shoulders and left him to deal with the sleeves while I tugged and struggled with his green silk tie. I had never undressed a man before, and my fingers fumbled nervously over the row of buttons down the front of his white linen shirt. My fingers were even clumsier when it came to undoing the row of little black buttons on the front of his trousers. I found myself flushing bright as a boiled lobster when I felt his manhood straining against them, eager to come out and play. But this time I wasn’t frightened or repelled in the slightest—Orrin was nothing like David Anthony!
I had to pause for a moment to bow my head as I blushed and smiled sheepishly, nearly laughing out loud at myself, at the shock and surprise of my unexpected carefree, brazen wantonness. Here I was, a confirmed spinster, an old maid of thirty-seven, sitting on a plaid blanket before a stone fireplace, orange flames crackling and dancing, casting their shadows over our skin, stark naked, with my legs spread wide in indecent abandon, all modesty forgotten and forsaken—and good riddance to it! To see the most intimate part of my body all Orrin had to do was look down, but I didn’t care if he did; I wanted him to. I know I should have felt at least some degree of unease and embarrassment, but I didn’t, not at all, not the least little bit, it all felt so natural and right. This beautiful, blissful experience with Orrin was God’s gift, the one I had been waiting for all my life, blundering and rushing out and searching the world for when I should have known better; all I really had to do was be patient and wait for it to come to me, all in God’s good time. Orrin’s love renewed my faith and I felt myself reborn in his arms.
Orrin said he loved every part of me and then proceeded to prove it. My body was like a virgin island and there was not a part of me this bold conquistador did not explore with his eyes, mouth, and hands. And I . . . I was equally bold with him; I didn’t give a fig for all society’s teachings about womanly modesty. I could not let any shyness, real or instilled or affected, inhibit and deny me this joy. I gloried in the feel of his skin against mine, with no barriers of cloth between us, not even the sheerest, most delicate silk, and the delicious warmth and weight of his body atop mine.
As he entered me, Orrin looked deep into my eyes. I held his gaze, and I felt our souls merge and become one just as our bodies did. Then I was lost in a heady, dizzying maelstrom of pleasure and sensations that defy my ability to accurately describe them. Some things are not meant to be put into words, and this, I think, is one of them.
When I felt him start to withdraw from me in precaution, to prevent his seed from taking root, I wouldn’t let him. I wrapped my legs tight around him and pulled him closer, drawing him deeper into me.
“You were the first baby I ever held, Orrin,” I said to him, “and I want the second to be the one we made together.”
And it was not too late, though I was closer to forty than thirty and the perils of childbirth increase as a woman ages. I still bled every month, and I was not afraid. When I thought of having a child—our child, Orrin’s and mine, born of our love—the danger seemed so very far removed I couldn’t even see it as a speck upon the horizon. And even if it had stood looking right over my shoulder, breathing the fetid breath of Death right onto the back of my neck, I still would have chanced it; it was a risk well worth taking.
Every night in the casinos of the world people risk their money for more money, or just for the thrill of it, or to stave off boredom; I thought surely the miracle of a new life was worth greater stakes. An old life for a new life, and if one trumps the Reaper the rewards are infinite beyond measure. I had gambled with my life before. I had risked death via the hangman’s noose or a living death walled up behind the bricks and bars of a prison, and I was not afraid to try my luck again. Before, I had done something wrong to try to make my world right. I had taken lives to give myself a life, the life I had always longed for. My motives had been material and selfish, but this . . . this was noble and pure, and right in every way; this time I would risk my life to bring a new life into the world, to create something wonderful and good. And if I lost my own . . . it would still be worth it. But I hoped that once again—please, God, just one more time!—my luck would prevail, and I would win and live to hold our child in my arms and nurture and watch him, or her, grow and thrive, and be there to tie our son’s silk cravat on his wedding day or adjust the fall of our daughter’s heirloom lace veil and coronet of pearls and silken orange blossoms on hers.
Afterward, Orrin fell asleep with his head upon my breast. And for the first time in my life I felt as if my bosom had a purpose—to provide a pillow for my beloved’s head. I stroked his wild red hair and caressed his freckle-spotted shoulders, my fingertips, light as a feather, tracing the length of his spine as the fever sweat of love cooled against his naked skin. And though there was a fine new ceiling blocking my view, I was still looking at the stars. But I still felt no need to wish upon them; I would give my wish to someone who needed it more. My dreams were already coming true. I felt like my life had for so long been a great big jigsaw puzzle, with all the pieces scattered about willy-nilly with no rhyme or reason, some here, some there, some near, some far, some missing altogether, but now, since the day I stepped off the train in Swansea and straight into Orrin Gardner’s arms, the pieces were all falling into place, and nothing was missing after all. For the first time in my life, I truly felt complete. I was in love. I truly was the happiest and luckiest woman alive!
“We met again because we were meant to be together,” those words were to come back to haunt me, as the worst and cruelest mockery of all. And they are still there, like a ghost in my dreams, they still haunt me in an endless echo, but now they only bring pain; they have completely lost their beauty; there is no miracle or marvel, or hope, only mockery—stinging, bitter, mean mockery!
There is nothing crueler, I think, than a miracle that is snatched away like a cup of cool sweet water from the parched lips of a man who has just crawled out of the desert sunburned and dying of thirst. God works in mysterious ways; sometimes the answer is yes; sometimes the answer is not yet; and sometimes the answer is no; but, regardless of the answer, and the tears and joy, the ecstasy and despair, the frustration and fulfillment, it may bring, God is under no obligation to explain Himself, He does not deign to tell us why, and we are left to ponder the mystery and grope blindly for the solution ourselves, though we may never find it.
I sometimes wonder if those who do not believe in God are happier since they have no faith to lose or become disillusioned in, no higher power to prostrate themselves before, to pray and beg and cry out the eternal despairing Why to with no real hope of receiving an answer. They accept such things as the way of the world, the luck of the draw, as a gambler does the roll of the dice or the fall of the cards. Perhaps the more romantically inclined chalk them down to chance, or fate, if they believe in that either, if they believe in anything at all.
“Everything happens for a reason,” some say in sage and lofty tones as if they have some wisdom that the rest of us are lacking. But, if this is true, and the reasons really are there, perhaps we are, for the most part, doomed to blindness where our own lives are concerned. Perhaps it is all a matter of distance and perspective? I’ve tried and tried, but the reasons still elude me. And ev
en if I knew why, it would not change anything. Why does not come bearing the gift of Peace of Mind. The heart is often stone blind and deaf to Reason. It is stubborn and recalcitrant; it wants what it wants.
WEDDING BELLS FOR LIZZE BORDEN! LIZZIE BORDEN TO WED SCHOOLTEACHER!
. . . the headlines screamed in boldly inked inch-high black letters.
Friends of Lizzie Borden, who was once accused of the murder of her father and stepmother, and whose trial was one of the most famous the nation has ever known, are congratulating her upon the approach of her marriage. The husband-tobe is one Orrin Augustus Gardner, a schoolteacher of the village of Swansea, which lies a few miles across the bay to the west of the city. He has been a friend of Miss Borden since childhood days, when they spent summers together upon adjoining farms. The engagement has been rumored about for weeks, but it lacked confirmation until a few days ago, when it was learned that Miss Borden has given to a well-known dressmaker an order for an elaborate trousseau. It has been given out that the garments are for a European trip, but as one of the dresses is known to be a beautiful white satin creation, the knowing ones simply smile when asked about the matter. Mr. Gardner has had erected a fine new house. It is said that the wedding will take place about Christmas, with a European honeymoon to follow.
There it all was spelled out in black and white for the whole world to read. DAMN YOU, Mr. Edwin H. Porter! I wanted to spit on his byline and gouge out his eyes with one of my silver spoons! I threw the paper on the floor and stamped on it, then ground it to pieces with my French heels. Did he pay the Judas who betrayed me thirty silver dollars for the story? Damn him! How dare he spoil it? How dare he deny me my greatest desire? He had a happy home, a wife and children, so who was he to decide that I didn’t deserve the same? That I hadn’t been punished enough, that since I had gotten away with murder, I should be deprived of a true and lasting love and made to grow old and die alone? He was just a newspaperman, not God, but he set the dogs on me. GOD DAMN HIM, he, Edwin H. Porter, led the pack of filthy newshounds straight to my door and ruined EVERYTHING!
