A Live Coal in the Sea

by Madeleine L'engle

  “But you noticed—”

  “Mom. Yes. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. He gave hints to Raffi that I’m not her—her biological grandmother. He upset her.”

  There was a long pause. Camilla looked at the dark windows of the French doors that led out onto a balcony where, in clement weather, she ate breakfast. She waited. Finally Frankie said, “Mom, you and Dad let Taxi live with a lie.”

  “Was it a lie?”

  “Yes, Mom, it was. Maybe it was a lie more of omission than commission, but it was still a lie.”

  “Taxi was so passionate about it, about not wanting to talk—”

  “And you and Dad let the silence go on and on. Until it was too late.”

  “But why now?” Camilla asked. “Why would he want to hurt Raffi?”

  “To hurt you, Mom, even if he has to do it through Raffi.”

  “Raffi wants to know—”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “Yes. I think I have to.”

  “Good. Oh, Mom, darling, I don’t mean to accuse you, or to judge. But silence isn’t always golden.”

  “No. I know. I know.”

  “Listen, Mom, I love you. You’ve been—you are—a terrific Mom, to both Taxi and me. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “But terrific Moms make mistakes—”

  “All Moms make mistakes. It’s easy for me to judge, because I’m not a mother myself, I haven’t had the experience of trying to do my best and having it come back and hit me in the teeth. I love you, Mom, and I’ll call you in a few days. This, whatever it is, this, too, shall pass.”

  Winter passed. Spring came to Corinth with the loveliness of flowering trees and bushes. The rectory was surrounded with the brilliance of azaleas. Camilla enjoyed her work with the youth group, many of whom had shed sweaters and jeans for bright cottons. She did her best not to shock Mrs. Lee or the other women of the parish. Her work at the university in Athens was challenging, and Dr. Edison became Edith, or Dr. Edith, as Mac frequently called her.

  And then there were the plans for Art’s consecration as bishop. Olivia drew Camilla in, not only for the great service at the Cathedral, but into the redecoration of the big house on the St. Johns River, sending her swatches of wallpaper or curtain material, and colors of paint.

  Art and Olivia were staying in the beach house while the house on the river was being fixed up, and two days before the consecration Camilla and Mac flew down to Florida to join them. Spring was warming, but not heating the air. Camellias were in bloom. New leaves were pushing off the old ones on the water oaks. Mockingbirds were singing. Camilla was pregnant.

  She spent the day in Jacksonville with Olivia, walking through the large old house which was the bishop’s residence, approving the wallpaper Olivia had chosen, delighted with the big kitchen, which, like all the rooms at the back, looked across the lawn to the great river.

  ‘Everything I need,’ Olivia said happily. ‘A big freezer. Two ovens. Let’s go upstairs. I love this staircase, the graceful way it curves. We’ll put a love seat on the landing.’ Olivia showed her a large, light bedroom which faced the river. ‘This, dearest daughter, will be for you and Mac. And there will be a room for the baby.’

  ‘Oh, Mama, thank you.’

  ‘You can take a rest here after we’ve had lunch, before we drive back to the beach. You’re sure your doctor said it’s all right to drive?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mama. Everything is going beautifully this time.’

  ‘We won’t go up to the attic. It’s not an easy house. Too much of it. But the diocese insists that I have more help than I think I need, so we’ll manage.’

  ‘It’s a big change for you,’ Camilla said.

  ‘When I married Art I knew it would mean periodic uprooting. You’ll go through it, too. Mac won’t stay in that cozy little parish in Corinth for too long, and it’s not going to go on being cozy indefinitely. Corinth is a big name for a little town, and big tempests brew in little teapots.’

  ‘Are you speaking from experience?’ Camilla asked.

  ‘Naturally. When I left Charleston and moved to Memphis it was almost as much of an uprooting for me as this move to Florida. But I began my marriage in Memphis, and Mac was born there. And then we moved to Nashville, and I was very happy there for a great many years. I think I’ll be happy here, too, as long as Art is happy. I’m grateful for the river. Now, my dear, we’ll have a quick sandwich, and then you’ll lie down. We want you to keep this baby.’

  The day of the consecration was sunny, but not yet into the steamy heat which would settle in by the next month. The windows in the Cathedral were open, and a soft breeze kept the great space cool. Camilla sat beside Olivia in eager anticipation. One of Bach’s majestic toccatas and fugues poured out of the organ. Then came the procession. And finally the presiding bishop began, his voice solemn, sonorous. Camilla’s attention was focused more on Mac’s face as he stood beside his father in his priest’s vestments than on what was going on. What she saw in both Mac’s and Art’s faces was a love that was radiant. Ardent, she thought—in French ardent means aflame, as the burning bush was aflame and yet was not consumed.

  She was hardly aware of the words of the consecration service until Olivia’s hand in hers suddenly tightened.

  ‘Brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus, you have heard testimony given that Artaxias Xanthakos has been duly and lawfully elected to be a bishop in the Church of God to serve in this diocese. You have been assured of his suitability and that the Church has approved him for this sacred responsibility. Nevertheless, if any of you know any reason why we should not proceed, let it now be made known.’

  Olivia’s grasp tightened, tightened, for the brief moment of silence.

  Then the deep voice asked, ‘Is it your will that we ordain Artaxias Xanthakos a bishop?’

  The congregation shouted out, ‘That is our will.’

  ‘Will you uphold Artaxias Xanthakos as bishop?’

  ‘We will!’

  Slowly, slowly, Olivia’s grip relaxed.

  There was a reception after the service, enthusiastic congratulations, voices rising. Art and Olivia were gracious, bowing, smiling, letting themselves be surrounded, hugged, kissed. Camilla felt as she felt at most large parties, uncomfortable and out of place. But she stood beside Mac, with her smile frozen on her face. She, too, was being shown off, the new bishop’s nearly new daughter-in-law.

  It was dusk when they got back to the beach.

  Art said, ‘I need to lie down for a while. I’ve stood for too long on these old feet.’

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ Mac said. He did not ask Camilla to go with him.

  Olivia said, ‘I have chicken salad in the refrigerator, and deviled eggs. We’ll eat in about an hour.’ She turned to Camilla. ‘Let’s pour ourselves something cool to drink, and sit on the porch.’

  Art went upstairs, his footsteps heavy. Tired.

  Camilla and Olivia sat on the high-backed green rockers and watched Mac walking up the beach. He had taken off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and was splashing along at the water’s edge, occasionally bending down to pick up a shell.

  ‘Mama—’ Camilla’s voice held a question.

  ‘What, my dear.’

  ‘During the service—was anything wrong?’

  For a long time Olivia was silent. Then she said, ‘I clutched you pretty tightly for a moment, didn’t I?’ Camilla nodded. ‘There is no reason Art should not be consecrated bishop.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But sometimes the past rears its ugly head, if it is known.’ She was silent again.

  Camilla waited. Listened. The waves rolled in to shore with regular, peaceful breathing. A small breeze stirred the sea oaks on the dunes. A seagull called. Somewhere behind them a mockingbird sang an achingly sweet melody.

  ‘I grew up in Charleston, as you know,’ Olivia said at last. ‘Insular. Protecte
d. Loved. My playmates were mostly cousins. We had great imaginations for our games, but as far as the rest of the world was concerned, we were moderately thoughtless. There were skeletons in the closets as there are in most families, but they stayed decently behind closed doors. Reality broke in when my father returned from the First World War. Each war has its phrases that come into the vocabulary. “Shell shock” was the one that war brought in. My father was like a ghost in the house, until he swam out to sea. An accident, the paper said. Everybody said. Even then it was my belief that he knew he was killing my mother and he didn’t know how to stop except by killing himself. But I held my peace. There are some things better not talked about.’

  Camilla sat quietly, nodding agreement, not sure where this conversation was going.

  Olivia said, ‘My mother died when I was a freshman in college. I scandalized her and all my kin by going to Duke, but she was, in a way, proud of me. That wasn’t what killed her. Cancer did. So both my parents were dead when I met Art, and that was just as well. If they’d known he was going to end up a bishop they might have been reconciled. What snobs we are. As it was, the great-aunts with whom I was living thought I was marrying into the gutter and were grateful my poor parents hadn’t lived to see the day. Nevertheless, they stood by me, and we were married at St. Michael’s, and then I went with Art to Memphis.’

  Olivia rocked in her green chair, back and forth, back and forth, the old wood squeaking as though in pain. Camilla glanced at her, saw a face drawn with distress, and turned her eyes back to the ocean.

  ‘Art’s background was completely different from mine. Grinding poverty, though by the time Art was a teenager his father had done amazingly well financially. But he was a strange and primitive man. Dominant. Determined that Art should have all the educational advantages he had not had or even dreamed of. But he also abused Art, physically. Sexually. His wife knew about it. There was no attempt at secrecy. She was a passive woman, assuming that this was the way men were, using, abusing. It was their right.’

  Camilla moaned softly.

  ‘It was not unique,’ Olivia said. ‘It happens in all cultures. It was primitive, but not unique. Art grew up accustomed to brutality. Determined to get away from it. Thought he had by the time he had graduated from seminary, had his first church. Was certain he had by the time he married me.’ She looked up, saw Mac coming toward them, up the ramp that led from the beach, over the dunes, to the house. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Mama?’ Camilla asked softly.

  ‘Dearest daughter,’ Olivia whispered. ‘Enough for tonight. It’s all I can—’

  Mac came up onto the porch. ‘All hail, you two.’

  ‘All hail, my son,’ Olivia said.

  Mac sat down beside them. ‘I wish we didn’t have to go back to Corinth tomorrow. I love the beach. Peace.’

  Art came out, letting the screened door slam softly behind him. ‘Peace. Yes. Thank God.’

  Peace? Camilla wondered. Olivia had more to tell her, and she had no idea what. Did Mac know that his father had been abused? She visualized Art, and the quiet wisdom in his face, and could not imagine his childhood. How could a father—She thought of her own father. Surely “reticent” would be a good adjective for him.

  She woke up during the night. Mac was breathing peacefully beside her. The waves rolled in to shore in a slightly different rhythm. The wind in the palms sounded like paper rattling. She found herself wondering again about what Olivia had told her. It had nothing to do with the great service in the Cathedral, and yet something there had caused Olivia’s anxiety.

  She remembered her own words about abused children often becoming abusive parents. Surely that was not true in this case. Mac’s love and respect for his father was evident. Olivia would never have stood silently by and let her son be abused. Art would not be the Papa she loved if he had acted with that kind of violence.

  If she asked Luisa, speculating on an imaginary case, Luisa would guess that her interest was not academic.

  She sighed, pushed closer to Mac. If there was more to tell, ultimately Olivia would tell it.

  Back in Corinth, she had to continue learning to be a rector’s wife. As her first pregnancy had helped, so had the baby’s loss. For a while she was “our dear little rector’s poor wife.” She was not going to talk about her present pregnancy until she began to show enough so that it was obvious.

  She was watched carefully by her obstetrician. As the heat progressed, so did her fatigue. She had a hard time sleeping. She felt comfortable only at the university, and in Dr. Edison’s office, which was in one of the air-conditioned new buildings. Even the university, with its emphasis on sororities and fraternities, was very different from the New England atmosphere of her own college. At first she had thought the students frivolous, that this was a party school, but she came to recognize a core of students as bright and eager as any at her egghead Ivy League school, and a faculty equally dedicated.

  The uprooting from New York, the living in Italy, the traveling during vacations, the move to Chicago, should have prepared her for radical changes in culture. Perhaps it had, to some extent.

  She cooked a spaghetti dinner for the youth group. Invited the ladies of the Altar Guild for tea, and suspected that they were looking surreptitiously at her waistline. She began her dissertation, which Dr. Edith told Mac was innovative and was going to be worthy of publication.

  ‘I told you you were brilliant!’ Mac crowed. ‘That’s my Camilla. Your profs appreciate you, even if the parishioners are out to trip you.’

  ‘I used to be very good at skipping rope,’ Camilla said modestly. ‘I’m not as easily tripped as I was at first.’

  Their phone was constantly busy. They had two lines, one for their private use, and when Mac was in his office she could ignore the parish ring.

  The home number was used regularly by Art and Olivia. Rose and Rafferty called nearly every week. Occasionally Frank, who was engaged to his girlfriend, gave them a call. One day Camilla picked up the phone and heard Noelle Grange’s voice.

  ‘Camilla, I’m in the airport in Atlanta, so I thought we could at least talk for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Fine. Is everything okay?’

  ‘I’m in love. I mean really in love, and I think it’s going to lead to something real. I mean permanent. I mean marriage.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Who is he?’

  ‘The guy I told you about when Andrew and I dropped by. Ferris Hamilton. He’s in the Harvard Business School now. He’s going to be a banker, here in Atlanta, in the family bank. But he’s gentle and understanding and not a bit of a chauv. I wish you could meet him.’

  ‘I wish I could, too.’

  ‘Listen, Camilla, I need your advice. I mean, I adore Ferris. I wish our lives began on the day we met. But they didn’t. What I mean is, I always want to be truthful with Ferris. But we can’t tell anybody everything, can we? So what I want to know is, how much do I need to tell him to be the kind of truthful I want to be? I haven’t done a lot of sleeping around. You know that. But a couple of times—So. How much?’

  ‘That’s something you have to figure out for yourself.’

  ‘Were you and Mac—did you tell each other?—like, everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure what okay means. It was essential.’

  ‘That’s what Andrew says. He’s engaged to one of his classmates. She’s terrific. But—Andrew hasn’t lived a wild life, he’s good, I mean, Andrew’s really good. But human. Like, we all make mistakes. Andrew’s no exception, and I guess that’s a relief to me. He had one sort of fling when he was taking a course in pediatric cardiology at the University of Chicago, just after he met his Liz, but before they—And I think there was another, when he was in Cleveland for some conference. He told Liz. All about it. And Liz told him—about some guy when she was in college, who turned out to be a real creep. I guess I’ve answered my own question. I guess Ferris a
nd I need to do some talking. But it scares me.’

  ‘Of course it does. But if you’re honest with someone, and he doesn’t respect you for it, or if he turns against you, the sooner you know, the better.’

  ‘I think I’d die if Ferris turned against me.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. And if he’s as wonderful as you think he is, he won’t.’

  ‘Okay. I guess. It was okay with Andrew and Liz. She’s good for him. He hardly ever stutters when he’s with her. As for my parents—’ Noelle paused. ‘Things are definitely not good. I’ve told Ferris about them, and he was really understanding. I’m glad Andrew and I are at a wide geographical distance from them. When we’re around they tend to drag us into their morass.’

  ‘Rough,’ Camilla murmured.

  ‘Mom and Dad both miss New England. They’re both restless. Dad’s gone off on a work leave to put some distance between them. He’s more or less going around the world, all through Europe, Asia, Africa. He’s a good professor, otherwise he wouldn’t get away with it, and Mom’s got a lot of clout. I’m just as happy to have all the space possible between Dad and me, too. Well, it’s time for my flight to be called. I just thought it would be nice to hear your voice. ‘Bye, Cam.’

  ‘Goodbye, Noelle.’ Camilla had heard more of Noelle’s voice than Noelle had of hers, but that was all right. That had always been their pattern, Noelle talking, Camilla listening. She had no real answer to Noelle’s question. She believed that honesty was important, but also privacy. What Mac had told her about Cissie, about Korea, did not have to be spread abroad. There was a fine line between confession and discretion, and she did not know where it lay.

  How did Professor Grange justify a trip through Europe, Asia, Africa, to the astronomy department in Chicago? Probably he was dropping in at various universities with good observatories. She did not want to think about Professor Grange. She hoped he was out of her life forever.

  She was about to be Dr. Camilla Dickinson, and what was she going to do with her doctorate? Dr. Dickinson in Athens, Mrs. Xanthakos in Corinth. Right now it was enough to be Mac’s wife, to think about their coming baby.