A Live Coal in the Sea

by Madeleine L'engle

‘Your intelligence, sure, but intelligence is not what I’m talking about. Did you have to lie about being in the library?’

  ‘Self-defense.’

  ‘Gee, thanks for your confidence. Listen, Camilla, take my advice. Don’t get in too deep with Mac. Don’t let him get in.’

  ‘Does that have a double meaning?’

  ‘If you want it to. Gawd, this is worse than I thought. Mac Xanthakos is likable, I grant you that, and bright, but he’s Greek, and he’s unreliable.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was a Greek characteristic.’

  ‘Will you stop for a minute and listen? I know Mac, and I know he has a weak—’

  Camilla cut her off. ‘You and Mac are really abrasive, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s stupid, plain stupid, to get involved with a priest or anybody who’s got religion. They’re intolerant and hypocritical and—’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute. Frank’s not like that, is he?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And neither is Mac.’

  Luisa reached for two mugs on the shelf above her desk. Plugged in a hot plate on which a pan of water waited. ‘Why couldn’t you have fallen for a Taoist and done yoga?’

  ‘Taoism and yoga are not the same thing. Here.’ Camilla handed Luisa a box of instant cocoa.

  Luisa changed her tack. ‘I never thought I’d see you teaching Sunday school.’

  ‘It’s hardly Sunday school. We feed the kids and let them talk about whatever’s on their minds.’

  ‘And you and Mac put it in a Christian context?’

  Sharp Luisa. Those were Mac’s words. ‘If you like.’

  ‘And you buy it, because you’ve fallen for Mac.’

  No. Mac had in no way proselytized, tried to convert Camilla, get her to go to church or even ask her what, if anything, she believed. When they were together on Sunday evenings he answered the kids’ questions forthrightly, including Camilla in his responses, but not singling her out. Mostly she liked what he said, though it was less in the forefront of her mind than her visceral response to the dark-haired young man and his loving enthusiasm.

  ‘Mac, what about power?’ Noelle Grange had asked him. Noelle Grange: Professor Grange’s daughter.

  ‘What about it?’ Mac was twirling spaghetti around his fork.

  ‘Was Lord Acton right? Does it corrupt?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mac had said. ‘Look at any history book.’

  ‘Is sex power?’

  Camilla looked at the girl, her pale face intense, her rather stringy brown hair pulled back with a barrette. Did she suspect something about her father and Rose Dickinson? No. No.

  Mac answered her question. ‘It can be. It shouldn’t, but it can be.’

  The students had finished eating. Some of them were scraping leftover spaghetti into the garbage can, throwing out paper plates.

  ‘What about Jesus?’ someone else asked. ‘Was he hooked on power?’

  ‘No. He turned power upside down,’ Mac said. ‘He was powerful because he rejected power.’

  ‘Sex,’ Noelle persisted. ‘It has a lot of power, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Like a river,’ Mac said. ‘If there are no banks, there is no river.’

  ‘You sound like my brother, Andrew,’ Noelle said. ‘Except he’s doing pre-med at Princeton, not theology. But he’d agree with you.’

  So did Camilla; she liked what Mac said. She did not think Luisa would agree with it, but Luisa loved to disagree.

  Luisa disagreed.

  Luisa smashed.

  Luisa handed Camilla a mug of hot cocoa. She took it, murmuring, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What love can do! If he was a Taoist or a Mormon or a Buddhist you’d take that on with equal devotion.’

  Camilla sipped the cocoa, almost burning her tongue. There was truth in Luisa’s gibe. As long as what Mac believed did not conflict with Camilla’s understanding of the universe—and nothing had—she was willing to accept it because she accepted Mac. All of him. The slightly smoky smell of his tweed jacket, not cigarette smoke, but a woodsy aroma; the way his silky dark eyebrows almost met in the middle; his long, strong fingers, the nails clean and tidy. His lips, warm, searching—

  ‘Want a marshmallow?’ Luisa asked.

  Her interior description of Mac had been right out of a romance novel. Her lips twitched. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Mac certainly got uptight when I said he and Frank met in Korea. The Korean War was shit, and people did shitty things.’

  Turning her mind from Mac’s body, she asked, ‘Isn’t that a rather broad statement?’

  ‘Sure, I’m famous for broad statements, broad that I am. You still have your head in the stars. Korea’s down in hell, and that’s where Frank and Mac met.’

  Camilla took a long drink from the hot mug. ‘Cocoa’s good on a cold spring night. I like that thing Nan’s playing.’

  ‘She’d better quit.’ Luisa looked at her watch. ‘Nearly eleven.’

  ‘She always stops at eleven. I wouldn’t mind if she didn’t. She’d play me to sleep.’

  ‘Not with some of the modern stuff. It’d give you nightmares.’

  Camilla put her mug down. ‘Say good night to Nan for me. I have to study.’

  Back in her room, she could not concentrate. The conversation with Luisa had told her nothing about Mac that she had wanted to know.

  But something had happened, something had been broken, and she did not know what, or why.

  Mac was waiting for her Monday afternoon after Professor Grange’s class. He smiled at her, reached for her hand. Said, ‘The weather’s lousy. Let’s go right to the Church House. I’ve made coffee.’ It was all as usual, and yet it wasn’t.

  When she was seated in her regular chair, a mug of coffee in her hands, he said, ‘I have something to tell you.’

  She looked at him. Waiting.

  He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter on official-looking paper. ‘This is an invitation for me to go back to Kenya, something I’ve really wanted to do.’

  She waited.

  ‘Camilla, this may seem strange to you, and maybe abrupt, but I’m going tomorrow.’

  She gasped. ‘To Kenya?’

  ‘No, home to Nashville. I need to be with my parents for a while before I leave, and I have to have some shots, typhoid, malaria, and so forth. This is a really terrific opportunity, one I can’t afford to skip. My boss says, Go for it. I’ll write you. Send you postcards of some of the wild animals.’

  ‘If it’s what you need to do—’ she said faintly. Then, clearing her throat, getting her voice back, she asked, ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘You? Of course not. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since—’

  ‘But—’

  He was urgent. ‘Camilla, a chance like this comes once in a lifetime. I have to take it.’

  ‘Yes. Sure. Thanks for the coffee.’ She rose.

  ‘Will you come see me off?’ Mac asked. ‘I’m taking the ten-forty train to New York. Do you have a class then?’

  A survey of French literature. With Luisa. She did not want to see Luisa. ‘It’s okay. I can cut it.’

  Why why why?

  Why was he leaving so unexpectedly? What had she done? Had she thrown herself at him too obviously? Had she come on too heavy? Had he felt smothered? Then why did he want her to see him off? It didn’t add up.

  ‘Is something wrong, Cam?’ Luisa asked at dinner. ‘You look pale as a ghost.’

  ‘I think maybe I’m getting that flu bug that’s around. If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going up to bed.’ She put her hand over her mouth and left the dining room. A few minutes later, when she felt a presence in her room, she kept her eyes closed and the covers over her head and feigned sleep. As she heard the footsteps leaving, she opened one eye. It was Nan, not Luisa. But she did not want anybody’s sympathy, anybody’s concern.

  She skipped breakfast, but left the house in plenty of time to be at the train station at ten. He was st
anding there with two battered-looking cases. He reached out for her hands, but not her lips. He did not pull her close to him. Their bodies were separated by all the miles between the college and Kenya.

  When the train came he swung up the steep step to the car and stood, looking down at her. She waved him off, as she had so often waved her mother off.

  And then he was gone.

  She could not avoid Luisa forever. Luisa caught up with her after dinner as she was on her way to the library.

  ‘Cam, you okay?’

  ‘Sure. Maybe I still have a little fever from that bug …’

  ‘Where’s Mac?’

  ‘He had this terrific opportunity to go back to Kenya.’

  ‘God, Cam, I’m sorry, but you had to know, sooner or later, it’s a pattern. Whenever anything gets heavy he splits. I told you he had a weak—’

  Camilla’s voice was cold as ice. ‘That’s enough. Leave me alone.’ She shoved past Luisa and went down the path to the library. It was frigid. She slipped on a frozen puddle and nearly fell.

  It was six weeks before she heard from him, a long, informative letter. She read it quickly, gulping it, then going over it slowly. It was not a love letter, even though he did sign it Love, Mac.

  At least he wrote. And she answered. And played the “Dumky” Trio and wept.

  One day when she was walking to the music building to listen to Nan play, she heard footsteps thudding behind her and there was Noelle Grange, panting, her hair covered by a woolen cap, a matching woolen scarf wound about her neck.

  ‘Hey, Camilla, wait up!’

  She stopped.

  ‘Where’re you and Mac? Why aren’t you at the Church House on Sunday? Did he have to go back to seminary or something?’

  ‘Or something.’

  Noelle wailed. ‘He could at least have said goodbye!’

  Camilla said, ‘It all happened sort of suddenly.’

  ‘We don’t like that creep who’s taken his place. Why aren’t you coming anymore?’

  Camilla looked into Noelle’s troubled hazel eyes, dropped her gaze. ‘I was there to help Mac.’

  ‘Well, it’s lousy. Half the kids don’t come anymore on Sunday nights. I only go because Andrew says I should.’

  ‘Andrew?’ Her mind was on Mac, not Noelle.

  ‘My older brother. I s’pose he’s right. He usually is. But I miss you. I wish you’d come back.’

  ‘Thanks, Noelle. I miss all of you, too, but my course load is extra-heavy …’ It wasn’t a good excuse but it was the best she could offer. She didn’t know why she hadn’t told Noelle that Mac was in Kenya. Maybe it sounded too final.

  The letter to Mac inviting him to Kenya had been real. She had seen it. Why had it come when it came? Why did it seem tied in with Luisa’s barging into the Church House? Why did it all seem to have something to do with Korea?

  Finally she went to the library to look up books and articles about the Korean War. She took a stack of papers and magazines to her carrel to go over in moderate privacy. What she read did not comfort her. She could not relate it to the young man who had taken her into the Church House, given her his full concern as she poured out her anger and anguish, helped pull her back into perspective. Nor to the young man with whom she drank coffee and talked about books, about stars, about music, about the kids and their problems. Who kissed her with a wonderful totalness. Who had her love.

  The Korean War was the first war in which Americans had fought where there was a complete collapse of morale among prisoners. One of every three American prisoners of war, she read, actually was guilty of some kind of collaboration with the Communists.

  No.

  There is no objectivity in history. This was one writer’s point of view. It had nothing to do with Mac.

  She shoved the article away, knocking it to the floor. Picked it up. Leafed through another journal. Almost worse than the collaboration was the lack of loyalty among the men, the lack of any esprit de corps. P.O.W.s scrambled over each other for privilege. For food. Informed on each other.

  On the next page of the magazine was an article attacking Pope Pius XII for proclaiming the dogma of the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary. It made about as much sense as what she was reading about the lack of morale in Korea.

  A shadow fell across the page and she turned to see Nan, the pianist.

  ‘Cam? Are you okay?’

  ‘Sure. I’m fine.’

  Nan glanced at the magazine. ‘This doesn’t look like physics.’

  ‘Nan, do you know much about the Korean War?’

  Nan shook her head. ‘I’m a music major. Why?’

  ‘Luisa’s brother Frank was over there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It seems to be a total hole in my education. If I spend the summer with Luisa I’ll probably see Frank, so I thought I’d better …’ Her voice trailed off. Her words sounded lame. ‘Nan, do you know if Frank was a prisoner of war?’

  Nan shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I think maybe Luisa did mention it.’

  ‘Thanks. And, Nan, if you don’t mind, don’t tell Luisa I asked.’

  Nan laughed. ‘Luisa’s my roommate and I love her, despite myself. But remember, I live with her. Give me some credit.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And take care of yourself, Cam. Stop skipping meals. I’m giving an all-Bach recital in Page Hall Saturday afternoon. Will you come?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  ‘And then we’ll go out somewhere afterwards and eat.’

  ‘Good. That’ll be fun.’

  Nan left, with an anxious glance over her shoulder at Camilla, who turned to another article. She felt vaguely queasy, and wondered what she had eaten that had upset her. It seemed that the young Americans were not prepared for any kind of deprivation, for unfamiliar food, for ideological indoctrination. Affluence had made them soft.

  No. Not Mac. And certainly a lot of the men who fought in that war did not come from affluent backgrounds. Some of them went to escape grinding poverty. The writer was making stupid generalizations. She shoved the magazine aside, opened another.

  Read. Frowned. Pushed her hair out of her face. Read. It was the first time an enemy had tried to convert prisoners of war to their way of thinking. The writer of the article was convinced that some of the prisoners believed what they were told, that the Americans were warmongers, and it was the Communists who were working for peace. These men were willing to make broadcasts praising Communism and downgrading democracy.

  The articles explained nothing, certainly not Kenya. It was not so much that Mac had gone to Kenya as the way he had gone, abruptly, without warning, as though she didn’t matter, as though the love growing between them didn’t matter.

  She returned the magazines and papers and went back to her dorm for supper. Nan gestured to an empty chair at one of the round tables. Luisa was not there.

  ‘So?’ Nan leaned toward Camilla, speaking softly. ‘Learn anything?’

  ‘It seems I know more about Copernicus et al. than I do about the twentieth century. I was trying to fill in the gaps.’

  Nan cut open her potato and poured catsup over it. ‘You know what? When my mother was a child there was no Pentagon. Can you believe it? As long as there’s a Pentagon, things like Korea are inevitable. Stick to the stars. They won’t betray you.’

  Another girl nodded. ‘My father’s an actor. Listen, I’m going in to New York this weekend to see the Agatha Christie play. My dad’s understudying. I can probably get a break on tickets if anybody’s interested.’

  ‘Hey, Cam,’ another girl asked, ‘what do you think about Britain exploding a thermonuclear bomb in the Pacific?’

  Camilla shook her head. ‘Worse than playing with matches.’

  ‘Pandora’s Box,’ her questioner said. ‘We’ve opened it, and now we don’t know what to do. What I think—’

  Camilla stopped listening. The conversation continued around her, fairly typical for her particular gr
oup of friends. She had friends who cared about her. Not just Luisa and Nan; half a dozen others. But no one she could speak to about Mac. She could not talk about Mac any more than she could talk about her mother.

  It was her week to clear the tables. She did her job, then headed for the library. As she was walking along the path she saw a young man heading toward her, tall, bespectacled, slightly stooped. A cap was pulled over his red hair. He looked at her, paused. Stopped. Finally smiled. ‘Hi. You’re Camilla Dickinson, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Andrew Grange. Noelle’s b-brother.’

  Interesting. He identified himself as Noelle’s brother, rather than as Red Grange’s son.

  ‘Hi,’ she greeted him. ‘I thought you were off at school. Harvard?’

  ‘Princeton. Har-harvard might have b-better pre-med courses, but Princeton came up with a b-better scholarship. Are you okay?’

  She looked at him questioningly. ‘Sure. Fine.’ She didn’t know him. He didn’t know her. There was no way he could know of her pain at Mac’s departure.

  ‘L-listen. Thanks for helping my s-sister. She misses you.’

  ‘I miss her, too.’

  ‘When Mac gets back—’

  ‘Sure. We’ll get together again.’

  ‘That’s g-good. ‘Bye. Be s-seeing you.’ He ambled past her, his long legs covering the ground with amazing speed. What an odd young man.

  Then it occurred to her: maybe he wasn’t just thinking about Noelle; maybe he knew about their father and her mother. No wonder he stuttered.

  The year drew to a close. Mac’s letters came regularly, but the only personal part of them was the closing, the Love, Mac.

  Who was he?

  “What about my grandfather?” Raffi asked Dr. Rowan. “Who was he? What was he like?”

  Dr. Rowan twirled her pencil between her palms, then put it down. Smiled. “He was someone who helps remind me that people can and do change. When I was your age, an arrogant little know-it-all, I didn’t believe that people could change in any major way. But Mac Xanthakos did.”

  “How?” Raffi demanded. “I know my grandmother loved him a whole lot.”

  “She loved him totally. And he loved her, enough to make some radical changes in his behavior. It took a long time but he did it.”