A Live Coal in the Sea

by Madeleine L'engle

  Dr. Edison opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by a loud knocking at the kitchen door. There was a doorbell at the rectory’s front door, but it had not functioned for many years, and the door stuck from the damp and was seldom used. ‘I’ll go see what it is.’ Dr. Edison hurried out through the dining room into the kitchen.

  ‘She’s marvelous.’ Olivia turned to Camilla with her old smile.

  ‘I didn’t think I wanted to see anybody, but she’s an exception.’

  Dr. Edison returned. ‘It was a troop of young people, bearing a baked ham and obviously heartloads of love.’

  ‘The youth group.’ Camilla opened her arms as though to embrace them. ‘People have been bringing in funeral baked meats ever since—ever since it happened.’

  ‘They’re thoughtful kids,’ Dr. Edison said. ‘They handed over their gifts and left. I’ll tend to getting the ham in the ice box as soon as—’

  She was stopped by the ringing of the phone. Olivia reached for it. ‘Hello … Yes, this is Olivia Xanthakos … Where?… What?… Yes, of course, as soon as possible.’ She hung up, as though to forestall further conversation. ‘Camilla, that was your father. He’s in the airport in Atlanta. I told him I’d drive over and bring him here.’

  ‘No.’ Dr. Edison was brusque. ‘I’ll go. Much more sensible.’ She stood up.

  ‘Father—but why—’

  ‘Perhaps he needs to be near his daughter,’ Olivia said. ‘Perhaps he needs to do some grieving with you.’

  Dr. Edison headed again for the kitchen. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She picked up the white kid gloves which she carried as a concession to propriety but never wore.

  ‘How will you—’ Camilla was too bruised even to demur. ‘How will you recognize each other?’

  ‘I’ll have him paged if necessary.’

  As she left, Camilla said, ‘Mama, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Olivia said. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘What about Papa?’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘Art will phone and tell us what’s going on as soon as he can. Now, love, it will be a while before Dr. Edison can get to Atlanta and back. Go upstairs and rest. With the afternoon sun swinging around, it’s stifling in here. I’ll be up in a few minutes.’

  Camilla took the record Dr. Edison had brought and put it on the turntable in the bedroom; she often listened to records while she was resting. The pure notes of the Musical Offering moved calmly across her turbulence.

  Downstairs she heard water running. Heard the refrigerator door open and close. Heard the tumbling of the dryer.

  —If the centrifugal force of the dryer is dependent on the fixed stars, so is the life of that baby born of my dead mother and God knows what father (someone in Paris? someone French?). So is the life of my own infant swimming so gently inside me in the amniotic fluid. So is Mac. And Frank. And Mama and Papa. So am I. We cannot do anything in isolation. It is all interconnection. Why is my father in the Atlanta airport?

  The fugue wound its pattern about her. She closed her eyes. Did not wake until her father came into the room, casting his shadow across the white coverlet on the bed.

  She lay flat, her hands as usual over her belly, feeling the affirming movements of the baby, the strongest affirmation in the chaos of all that was happening. Her father sat upright in a straight chair he had pulled up beside her.

  ‘I can’t do it, Camilla. I can’t raise that child, knowing he’s not mine.’

  Camilla, wishing Olivia had not tactfully gone downstairs, said nothing.

  ‘I’ve thought and thought. If I were a praying man you might say I’ve prayed. The doctor suggested adoption. There are plenty of childless parents looking for children. But I can’t do that, either. He is, after all, Rose’s child. He’s all I have left of Rose. But I can’t do it. I’m too old. I’m away too often. I might grow to love the child, but then there would be times when I’d hate him for not being mine. I’ve weighed various factors and I’ve come to only one conclusion.’

  Camilla waited.

  ‘You and Mac take him. You’ll have one of your own soon, and they’ll be company for each other. Raise him as your own.’

  ‘But, Father.’ Camilla shook her head in confusion. ‘Where’s Papa? Didn’t he come home with you?’

  ‘He’s in Jacksonville. He needed to get back to his cathedral. And I wanted to speak to you alone. This is between us. Name the baby after Art. That man saved my life. I was ready to jump in the Seine.’

  Camilla made herself breathe slowly, regularly. This suggestion—command—of her father’s was almost as much of a shock as her mother’s death.

  ‘It’s a small way I can thank Art,’ Rafferty said. ‘Naming the baby after him.’

  ‘But—’ Months ago she had written her parents that if she and Mac had a boy they would call him Artaxias Rafferty. If they had a girl she would be Frances, after Frank. Camilla had been happier about that before Mac left for England, but that was not reasonable, was not Frank’s fault.

  ‘It would give the child security. And I’ll provide for him. You and Mac won’t ever want—’

  ‘Father, we don’t want money.’

  ‘If you and Mac don’t take him I’ll have to make some kind of foster-care arrangement until he’s old enough for school at least. Camilla, do this for me. I’m devastated. We were so happy. Rose was so much mine these past months, carrying my baby. I’m sure she thought it was mine.’

  ‘Father, who—’

  ‘God knows. There was a small fling with a French diplomat, but it didn’t last. However, I suppose—’ Dry, heaving sobs began to rack him. Finally he looked at her. ‘Camilla, take the baby. Promise.’

  ‘I can’t make any such promise without consulting Mac.’

  ‘And where the hell is Mac?’ Rafferty demanded. ‘Why isn’t he with you when you need him?’

  Her voice was steady. ‘He’s in England. Frank is being married, and Mac is his best man. After all, Frank came all the way from Turkey to be with Mac when we were married.’

  ‘Frank doesn’t have a pregnant wife whose mother has just been killed.’

  ‘Please, Father.’

  ‘Your father-in-law, the bishop, didn’t say much. But a long life with Rose has taught me to read between the lines.’

  ‘Father, it was wonderful of Papa—of Art—to fly to Paris to be with you.’ Papa. Papa. Are you still Papa after what Mama told me? Is anything the same?

  Rafferty rubbed his hands across his cheeks, where stubble was beginning to show. ‘He helped me cry. I did cry, but now I can’t. No tears left. He’s a good man, your bishop, I grant you that. Trustworthy. Camilla, please take the baby. He’ll have to be in the hospital a while longer until he’s gained enough weight, but then—’

  Camilla moved her head in negation back and forth on the pillow. ‘How can I? I’m not due till November. I can’t—’

  Olivia came in with a cup of warm milk and nutmeg for Camilla. ‘Can’t what?’

  ‘Father wants Mac and me to take the baby.’

  ‘You are not even to think about it,’ Olivia said. ‘He’s asking the impossible.’

  Camilla smiled wanly. ‘You’ve done a few impossible things in your life, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not like this. Lovey, I’ve got to go over to the store to pick up some more milk. Just rest till I get back. Don’t think. This is too much. Put everything out of your mind except your own baby.’

  How could she?

  While Olivia was gone, the phone rang. Noelle Grange. ‘Camilla, I just spoke to Andrew and he told me about your mother. Oh, my God, I’m sorry.’

  Andrew’s friend was Dr. Edison’s nephew. There was no need to keep Rose’s death secret. But that was enough. The baby’s parentage need not be known. Ever. For at least a while. Until, perhaps, the father appeared to claim his child. ‘Thanks for calling, Noelle. Yes, it was a terrible shock.’

  ‘I called Mom and Dad. Da
d’s really shook up. Camilla, I think he and Mom are going to split. They do nothing but yell at each other. About anything. Your mom. Whatever. I hate going home. Thank God I don’t have to, much. I did talk to Ferris and he was wonderful, so I hope Mac is being wonderful for you. I mean, this is really lousy for you. Andrew wants me to tell you how terribly sorry he is about your mother. It’s weird. There’s so much bad stuff going on all around us, and Andrew and I are both happier than we’ve been in I don’t know how long. When Andrew and Liz are through at Grady they’re going to New York to join her father’s practice. He’s a pediatrician, and that’s what they’re going to specialize in. Her father has a huge practice and he needs them, so it’s a terrific situation.’

  ‘Good,’ Camilla agreed automatically. It was all right for Noelle to talk about herself. To some extent it stopped Camilla from thinking.

  Noelle ended with, ‘I’m terribly sorry about your mother. It must be awful for you.’

  She could not tell Noelle, she could not tell anybody, how awful it was.

  EIGHT

  Rafferty returned to Paris. ‘I’ll find someone to care for the—for Rose’s child until you—’

  They left it there. Until. Until Camilla had her baby. Until—what?

  Mac and Art came to Corinth together, meeting in Atlanta and driving from there. Camilla did not know who Mac was, who Art was. She looked at Mac’s eyes, clouded like dark amber, at his curly dark hair, his slight, tense body. It felt taut, resisting, as he kissed her.

  She drew back, looked at Art, at the serenity in his face as he leaned toward her to kiss her, then put his arms around her in a loving embrace. She had thought she might recoil. Instead, she relaxed in his reassurance.

  It was late, but they had all waited for dinner. Olivia lit the candles.

  The heat bore down on them. The ceiling fan stirred the air and made it almost bearable. Art pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. ‘Paris was cool. Even Jacksonville is cooler than this, with the breeze from the river.’

  ‘England was cold,’ Mac said. ‘Frank and Bethann’s wedding was lovely, but we shivered.’

  Camilla felt her own skin prickle.

  Mac continued in a level voice. ‘I liked Frank’s wife. Too bad Luisa couldn’t come but she was in the middle of her residency and couldn’t get away. So it was just me and Bethann’s parents and sister and one aged aunt.’

  ‘Mac.’ Camilla interrupted. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘No.’ Olivia’s voice was shrill. ‘No. It can’t be done.’

  Art and Mac looked at Olivia, at Camilla.

  ‘My father wants Mac and me to take the baby—my baby brother.’

  ‘No,’ Olivia said again.

  Art leaned back in his chair. ‘Rafferty told me of this request. It is not to be considered lightly, and it is not to be considered at all, daughter, until you have had your baby.’

  Mac had dropped his bags by the door. When they left the table he went to them, picked them up, turned toward the door, then back, taking his cases to the foot of the stairs and setting them down. A statement. A statement that he had come home.

  Gravely, adding no advice, Art and Olivia left after breakfast.

  Mac said, ‘Camilla, I have to go into the church. I have to pray. Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mac never pushed her. He let her move in her own direction, at her own pace.

  She did not know how to pray. She was not sure she even knew how to be with Mac. They had made love the night before, wonderful love, during which time had no meaning and they were free of its tragedies. But night was over. She walked beside Mac to the church into the dim interior of the old building. The stained-glass windows were dull and needed cleaning. The woodwork, the pews, were brown. The walls had once been cream-colored but had darkened so that they blended into the brownness of the wood. It was comforting, rather than depressing. The church’s interior seemed to enfold them maternally. Mac was trying to raise money for fresh paint, and while Camilla knew that it was long overdue, she liked the warmth and coziness which seemed to hold all the prayers that had been lifted to God over the centuries. The ceiling was high, with fans stirring the air, and the heat was tolerable. She sat beside Mac in the front row, looking at the simple, unadorned cross above the altar.

  Mac looked at the cross as he asked, ‘Is naming the baby after Papa a way to pressure us into taking him?’

  ‘Father’s grateful to Papa. It was amazingly wonderful of him to drop everything and go to Paris to be there with Father.’

  Mac buried his face in his hands, then looked up at the cross again. ‘I wonder what Papa thinks of the baby being named Artaxias?’

  ‘He hasn’t said no.’

  ‘It’s asking more than should be asked.’

  ‘I know. But haven’t I heard you say that this is what God does?’

  ‘It’s your father who’s asking this. What is he thinking of?’

  ‘Himself. He’s not thinking of us. He’s hardly thinking of the baby. He’s like a wounded bear, striking out. He did say that it would be easier for him, for the baby, if people thought he was ours.’

  ‘In Corinth, Georgia?’

  ‘Mac, I’m very confused. But we’re not going to be here forever.’

  ‘People aren’t exactly beating a path to my door. I don’t have any better mousetraps.’

  ‘You’re making this place work. I don’t know much about church, but I know that much. In spite of everything, people are kinder to each other than they used to be.’

  ‘And we have to be kind, too?’

  Mercy. ‘Oh. Mac, I’m so confused. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He groaned. ‘Let’s pray.’ He turned to her, put his arms around her, holding her close, quietly, wordlessly.

  Finally he shouted at the cross, ‘God, what do you want?’

  For a moment it seemed that the fans stopped moving. The branches of an azalea bush that had been scratching at one of the windows were stilled.

  Then Mac said, ‘I don’t see what else we can do. Your father can’t handle it. The poor little thing’s an orphan, no mother to love and hold, none of the early touching and cuddling that’s so important. I swear I remember Mama holding me and rubbing me between my shoulders to make me burp.’

  ‘Mac, are you sure?’

  ‘About Mama burping me?’

  ‘No, no, about the baby—’

  ‘Of course I’m not sure. It’s just that the alternatives seem intolerable.’

  Camilla’s voice was tentative. ‘If we’re going to take him—’

  ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘He’ll have to be our child. As much as our own baby. Mac, is that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Camilla looked at the plain wood of the cross, then at the round, dusty stained-glass window above it. ‘The whole thing—Mother’s death. I don’t want to blame a stupid accident on God.’

  ‘No,’ Mac said. ‘I don’t, either.’

  ‘We’ve left the Newtonian world of a predetermined universe, everything being acted out according to an ordained, predestined plan.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mac said, ‘I agree about that. I don’t want a predetermined universe, either. You’ve taught me that much about particle physics, and it makes total theological sense to me. God doesn’t plan the horrors. They happen. But God can come into them.’

  ‘When Mrs. Lee arrived, bearing lilies, and talked about its being God’s will, I nearly stuffed the lilies down her throat.’

  ‘At least she didn’t say it was God’s punishment.’

  ‘If she’d known my mother, she would have.’

  ‘I thought you said people were more loving?’

  ‘They are. Truly. But I’m not sure what people like Mrs. Lee think about God.’

  ‘All I know,’ Mac said slowly, ‘is that I believe God can come into the terrible things and redeem them.’

  ‘Do you think
it’s God’s will that we take Mother’s baby?’

  ‘I’m not sure about will. I think that it’s what God is asking, and if that’s a contradiction, I can’t help it. It’s a way of bringing some reason into what otherwise seems incomprehensible and irrational.’

  ‘Like Mach’s theory—remember when I shocked Mrs. Lee, who still thinks it’s your theory? Everything connected. It’s as though there are a lot of loose strands around us, and we have, somehow, to bring them together.’

  ‘Cam, if we don’t take the baby, what will happen to him?’

  ‘Father won’t consider adoption—except by us. He’d get nurses and governesses, and he’d never be able to be a father to the child because he knows he isn’t the father, because—because once again Mother—’

  ‘It’s a hell of a situation.’

  ‘Hell is right.’

  ‘But, my love, you listen to the singing of the trees. You go out at night and lie under the stars.’

  ‘Okay. All right. When I listen to the trees’ song, when I listen to the stars, then I can say God. I’m not sure what I mean by it, but I can say it.’ She looked around the small, comfortable brownness of the church.

  ‘Can you say it about taking this child?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can try. Oh, Mac, do all parents give their children terrible wounds?’ She was thinking of Art and Olivia as much as her own parents.

  Art and Olivia called that night. Listened, as Mac outlined their conversation.

  Art’s voice was low. ‘I agree with you. I do not think you have a choice.’

  ‘They do!’ Olivia cried. ‘Why should they be drawn into this situation in which they have no part?’

  ‘I do,’ Camilla said. Her fingers tightened around Quantum, who stopped purring and jumped off her lap, then leapt onto the sideboard.

  Olivia’s voice quavered. ‘Art feels drawn in.’