by John Gardner
I’ll run away, she thought, standing motionless, knowing she would not run away. Tears filled her eyes. I’ll run away somewhere—to New York City, yes—and I’ll write to Henry later and explain. It’s the only honest thing to do. She closed her eyes, hurriedly composing.
Dear, Good Henry:
Forgive me for leaving you and causing you so much embarrassment and expense. Please ask all my friends and relatives to forgive me too. I hope I have not hurt anyone, and I know how disappointed. …
Dear Mr. Soames:
Miss Calliope Wells has asked me to tell you (since she is unwell. …
Because of the presents she couldn’t run away. And because Uncle Russel and Aunt Kate had come from Ohio, and Aunt Anna had altered the dress and was going to play the church organ, which she loved doing more than anything (and had once done beautifully, so people said), and Robert Wilkes had come all the way from the Eastman School of Music to sing “Because.” She slipped her hands up inside the veil and covered her face. In fifteen minutes Uncle John would be here.
She remembered sitting in the grass as a child, watching Uncle John at work. He was a carpenter, and the tools were like extensions of himself: He was one with the plane that glided down the pineboard, lifting a long, light curl of white; one with the quick, steady saw, the hammer that sent nails in cleanly at two blows, the wooden rule, the chalk, the brace and bit. When she tried, the nails would bend over cruelly, and Uncle John would smile. She’d fly into a temper, and he would laugh as though he and the old claw hammer knew a secret, and then he’d say kindly, “Be calm. Be patient.” She thought: Uncle John. He was old now, retired. His hands were twisted with arthritis. It was Uncle John who had brought her Prince when she was eleven. He was still just a puppy. He didn’t look at all like a police dog then. Furry as a bear that had not yet been licked.
She thought, fiercely, Of course I’m going to marry him. But Willard Freund was her own age, handsome and graceful: She saw him again in his white suitcoat at the senior dance, smiling at her with his head lowered a little, shy. Somewhere, surely, there was a man who was young and handsome and good as well, someone who would love her as completely as Henry did, and would make her heart race the way Willard did, by nothing but a smile. If she only waited. … The thought made her want to laugh bitterly, or, better yet, die. She would hate the child inside her. How could she help it?
But the maples on the lawn in front said, Be calm. In their heavy shade where the tables were, it would be cool. Always when there were family reunions, funerals, weddings, they would set up the tables there, as they had today, and cover them with bright colored cloths, and all the older women and some of the girls would work in the kitchen, and the men would play softball on the level space at the foot of the steeply sloping back yard, tromping down the clover, using burlap bags full of straw for bases. When Prince was young he would bark and chase them as they ran, or he’d steal the ball. (Uncle John had taught him to sit and stay.) Some of the women would play softball too, the girls and some of the younger wives. Uncle Grant was always the pitcher for both sides (smoking his pipe, wearing calf-manure-colored loafers and white slacks and a light blue cardigan sweater with leather buttons); Uncle Harris would be at third base, his suitcoat off, the striped suspenders tight-looking, and when nothing came his way he would stand there grinning, just like Bill, his jaw thrown forward as if crossly, stiff hair curling out from in front of his ears as her grandfather’s had done. Each time, some of the younger wives who’d played softball last time would not play this time but would sit on the porch with the older women, watching the children in the grass below and talking, laughing or complaining. When she’d hit her first homer, Uncle Grant had pretended to be indignant at her having connected with his pitch, and her handsome cousin Duncan had smiled as though he were proud that she was his cousin. Duncan was always the best of the players. If he missed a catch it was because he wanted to give you the run, or because one of the smaller children had grabbed hold of his legs. They made him bat one-handed, to be fair, but that was a joke; he would pop out a fly—so gentle that it seemed to float down to you on dove’s wings—to whichever of the younger kids hadn’t caught one yet, and if you missed the catch he would be out at the first base he came to that wasn’t being covered by a grown-up. They called him “the loser,” because every time he came to bat he would get himself put out, one way or another, and when he was at field he’d put nobody out except—he pretended—by accident. They razzed him and hooted at him and loved him: Useless as he was if you wanted to win, he was always the first one chosen. He was beautiful and good—he didn’t even smoke—and juggling three bats, gently and precisely popping up flies, standing on one hand, coins dropping from his trousers—and grinning, always grinning—he seemed to shine like an angel … or a bride. (When he’d brought the present by last night, he’d smiled again exactly as he’d smiled all those years ago when she’d hit that first homer, as though he was proud to be related to her. “Do I get to kiss the bride now?” he’d said, “—in case I come down with a cold sore?” She’d given him her cheek, blushing, and he’d kissed her lips and said, “Missed!” She’d pretended to slap him.) She thought of Henry Soames trying to play softball.
But, after all, her cousin Bill was no ballplayer, and she loved him as much as Duncan. They would sit in the room that had once been her grandfather’s study—this up at Pear Hill, the old family place—playing chess. He’d sit with his horn-rimmed glasses in one hand and would talk about books she would really like, he was sure. (She would promise herself faithfully to get them from the city library in Slater, but always she would forget the titles.) Bill was going to be a lawyer and maybe go into politics, like Uncle Earle. He was only twenty-two, but already he was a member of the steering committee for some organization that had something to do with Indians. He and Duncan were like brothers, and always it had been sad to her that she was younger. Even grown up they were as splendid as ever, “professionals,” her father said—the two prides of the family. (Her father, the family failure, in a way—he’d left off farming to work in a factory—was even prouder of Duncan and Bill than the rest of the family.) Bill had given her a subscription to the Columbia Record Club. When Cousin Mary Lou had said, “Who’s the cheap one?” fingering it, Callie had bristled with anger. Bill gave away money to every charity there was and probably some that had gone out of business fifty years ago, and one time he’d given Callie a book worth fourteen dollars, pictures of famous places. He gave presents because they seemed to him right, just like Uncle Earle. He would have given her the same present whether it cost him fifteen cents or a thousand dollars, practically. “That just shows how little you know,” Callie had snapped. Cousin Mary Lou had been hurt. And immediately Callie had seen that Mary Lou was right, everyone who didn’t know him well would think the same thing Mary Lou had thought: so that even the wedding presents weren’t hers, it turned out, but everybody else’s; she decided to put his present out of sight.
“You don’t really like me,” Mary Lou said, tears in her eyes.
“Don’t be stupid,” Callie said. “If I didn’t like you would I choose you for maid of honor?”
“Your mother made you do it,” she said. One of the tears rolled down her fat cheek toward the fold between her chins.
“Oh, really, Mary Lou!” She took her hand, feeling guilty (it was true, Mary Lou had been her mother’s idea), and she said, “Mary Lou, I feel closer to you than to anybody else in the world.” She was amazed, hearing herself say it; but Mary Lou believed it. If she didn’t like Mary Lou, she ought to. Mary Lou had hardly eaten a bite since the morning Callie had asked her to be maid of honor, dieting ferociously to look pretty for it. She hadn’t lost weight; she’d gotten circles under her eyes.
Mary Lou wiped her eyes and blew her nose and said, “I really was proud that you chose me, Callie. I always loved you more than anything, and I didn’t think you knew I was alive. Do you remember the time the Griffith bo
ys threw stones at me and you came and caught my hand and we ran home?”
Callie gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She didn’t remember.
Mary Lou said, “I was four-and-a-half and you were six.” Suddenly she was weeping rivers. “Oh, Callie, I do love you.”
“Dear Mary Lou,” Callie said softly, standing thousands of miles away, shaky at the revelation. How had she not realized? And how was it that her mother had known? How was it possible that one could be so incredibly, selfishly blind? And so that night, busy as they were, they had talked for hours, or rather Mary Lou had talked, Callie listening intently—in secret feeling trapped and bored—as if the two of them had just got engaged, or as if she was catching up on the life of a friend after years of separation.
A long, low truck carrying a big orange machine that looked vaguely military passed on the highway in front of the house. It was time now, but still no sign of Uncle John. She heard her mother shouting into Aunt Mae’s good ear, in the front parlor, and then she heard Cousin Rachel calling in the children from outdoors.
She smiled to keep from crying. It was supposed to be the groom that ran out at the last minute, not the bride. (She saw herself slipping quietly out the cellar door—she could reach the cellar from the pantry without anyone’s seeing her—and she saw herself lowering the cellar door again gently behind her, then going down swiftly toward the haylot and the woods beyond, carefully holding up the train and raising the skirts of the wedding dress.) Henry Soames would not run out, of course. He would be there in the church coat-room now, sweating in his tight collar, pulling nervously at his upper lip, wiping his forehead again and again, nodding and smiling whenever anyone spoke to him, no matter what it was they said. Aunt Anna was perhaps at the organ already, playing the favorite old hymns very softly, dragging her feet a little on the pedals, playing slowly, slowly, scowling at the page with her mouth bit shut as though she had pins in it. The ushers would be taking people in, the friends of the groom on one side, the friends of the bride on the other. Robert Wilkes would be fitting himself to a choir robe. The Griffith boys and John Jones and Ben Williams—maybe even Cousin Bill and Cousin Dune—would be behind the church tying tin cans and shoes onto Henry’s car, and putting signs on it, or worse. Again Callie smiled. Henry loved that car, beat up and old-fashioned as it was. He loved it as much as Uncle Grant loved his cream-colored hardtop. When they came out of the church and all the people were throwing rice and confetti and she was getting ready to throw her bouquet, there would be the car, poor Henry’s pride, at the foot of the walk, pushed around from where he’d parked it so that it would be the first thing he saw when he came out. It would be fixed shamefully, all its square antique dignity mocked by streamers and vulgar signs (they wrote on one car, “Hot Springs by sunset”), and Henry would gape, having known all along it was going to happen, for all George’s caution, but still not prepared, deeply shocked, feeling as though a whole part of his life had been torn from him and trampled. He’d stand frozen, staring in disbelief and sorrow. And then what? she thought. And then he will smile.
The bakery truck was still outside, and around the corner, out of sight, the man was saying, “Lady, I don’t care who signs it, I don’t care if a two-days-old baby signs it, but when I check in all the slips are supposed to be signed.” Aunt Joan’s voice said, “Don’t you sign it, Priscilla. Never sign for merchandise till you’ve checked it.” The man said, “So check it. I’m stopping you?” Aunt Joan said, “There might be nothing inside, only rocks. He might be a thief that came here to steal the jewels.”
When Uncle John’s green Buick appeared (all at once, as if out of thin air, nosing tortuously into the driveway), she felt dizzy. The same instant there came a soft knock on the door and a child’s voice—Linda’s—calling her name. “Callie,” she said, “your mom says to tell you it’s time.”
3
When she opened the door, her mother and the bridesmaids and all the aunts who hadn’t left for the church were standing with their faces turned toward her, beaming. Prince got up slowly, with an old-dog sigh, and came over to stand at her feet. Uncle John was standing at the front door, watching too. When he saw her he took off his hat. No one moved or spoke for an instant (except the children, as indifferent to what was happening as Callie was unaware of their indifference) and Callie was overwhelmed by her sense of their mutual helplessness: They had done everything they could, had swarmed to her side as they might in a time of tragedy, some of them hardly knowing her, from Cobleskill and Rochester and Cleveland, Ohio, and even, one of them, California, bearing gifts that would make her house beautiful and give it its solid anchor in tradition, and they would join her celebration of the ancient forms—the ride to the church with her mother’s oldest brother, the lighting of the symbolic candles, the pure white runner now walked on, stained, her father’s words, signifying to all the world (she understood now for the first time, in alarm) that she had lost forever what she’d never realized she had. There would come the magical exchange of rings, the lifting of the veil, the kiss, and then Aunt Anna would play that organ maniacally, tromping the pedals, not caring how many of the notes she missed, for Callie (poor Callie whom we all knew well) had died before her time and had been lifted to Glory—and the rice would rain down (Uncle Gordon ducking, trying to snap pictures, shielding the expensive camera he’d bought for taking pictures of the flowers in his garden and the prize turkeys he raised for the Fair)—rice and confetti raining down like seeds out of heaven, numberless as stars or the sands of the seashore, shining like the coins that dropped from Duncan’s pockets—and then the symbolic biting of the cake, the emptying of the fragile glass (Uncle Gordon taking more pictures, frenetic, even George Loomis the eternal bachelor smiling, joyful, quoting scraps of what he said was Latin verse): They would join her in all this, yet could no more help her, support her, defend her than if they were standing on the stern of a ship drawing steadily away from her, and she (in the fine old beaded and embroidered white gown, the veil falling softly from the circlet on her forehead), she, Callie, on a small boat solemn as a catafalque of silver, failing away toward night.
I will love him, she thought. I don’t know whether I love him or not, but I will.
It was suspicious, now that she thought of it, that they’d left her there alone for half-an-hour, knowing where she was, surely having things to say to her but not saying them, waiting, gathered at the door: Not even one of the children had violated the room. Not even Prince. But now they were all of them talking at once, saying, “Callie, you’re beautiful, beautiful, an’t-it?” Saying, “Hurry, hurry! Just fifteen minutes,” and “Children, out to the cars! Quick about it!” And now Uncle John was beside her, giving her his arm.
Neither of them spoke on the way to the church. She sat very still, hands folded in her lap, looking out at brilliant yellow wheat stubble on hills pitched or slanting away into tree-filled glens where spring water ran and brightly dappled guernsey cows could go to drink or lie down in the heavy shade. They came to the maples and beeches of the slope, the nearer mountains bright with twenty shades of green (in a month it would all be gold and red), the higher mountains in the distance clean blue. They passed the little store—Llewellyn’s American Eagle Market—with its sharply pitched roof and long wooden porch where in her grade school days she’d played jacks or sat with her lunchpail eating sandwiches and black bean salad, sometimes going in to buy an Orange Crush with a dime she’d earned picking up sticks from the yard or with a handful of pennies that had spilled out of one of the thrashing men’s overalls. They passed the cottage-like house where David Parks lived once, the house crudely snow-fenced, set back from the road, shaded by pine trees and jutting out from the mountain’s bank like a granite boulder, and she remembered sitting in the swing in her yellow dress the day of his birthday party, shyly watching his older sister Mary holding hands with her boyfriend from Slater. Uncle John slowed down, pointing up into the woods with his bent first finger, and she s
aw a deer. She smiled. It was a lucky omen. And then the church steeple came in sight, and then the whole church, white and old-fashioned, the paint peeling, the shingled roof newly patched with yellow-red cedar, and all around the church and all along the highway more cars than she could remember having seen in one place in all her life. (They’d be hustling Henry away from the window, because he mustn’t see her until the moment all of them saw her at the end of the aisle. George Loomis would be there beside him, looking him over, telling him he looked like Good King Jesus (for the Preacher’s benefit), and keeping one eye on where the car was hidden, actually believing he’d be able to protect it.) Everywhere she looked there were birds—orioles, robins, blue jays, waxwings, nuthatches, sparrows—bright as the red and yellow roses climbing the bank at the foot of the church lawn. The sky was bright blue, the bluest sky in the world, with just one white cloud, so precisely outlined it looked like a picture in a child’s book of fairy tales.