by Mary Gordon
Kissing Laura, thanking her, Anne felt the words close around her. The girl wanted remembrance, and Anne had hoped that after she left the house, Laura would be forgotten. She saw now that this would never happen. Laura would always be with her, reminding her forever of the failure of her heart. The jewel would be a witness: she would never be able to think that Laura had been impervious to the life of the house, that Laura had not understood her. Looking at the necklace in her hand, Anne knew that Laura had broken into her life. And she could no more welcome her than, standing naked, she could welcome the voyeur’s face at the window, silent, seeing, intimately holding in his mind’s eye all that she would never give.
Nine
SHE AND ANNE WERE just alike: she knew it now. Their families were just the same, their parents didn’t love them. She was the only one who understood Anne. Other people thought they loved her, said they loved her, but they came to her for what she gave them. They came to tell her things or to be near her, thinking from her looks that she was always rested, always glad to see them. But Laura knew when Anne was tired, fearful, lonely, when she was angry and wanted to be by herself, when she wanted her children and did not want them. She knew what Anne’s husband didn’t know: that she had moved away from him. That she had; while he was away, looked at another man as she had not looked at him. She had felt it in the air as she lay sleeping in the room above them, Anne and that man, the electrician, sitting so late in the kitchen, drinking tea. She could feel Anne’s body and the man’s desiring to be near each other. She had prayed above them that the two might not embrace. And they had not embraced. She knew that. She had prayed that the man would go away, and he had gone away. He would come back, but she would keep Anne from him. She must keep Anne from him or Anne would be lost. Swallowed up, desiring the body of another person. And she must keep Anne from the woman Jane. Or else she would be lost to the proud world. She had found, in Ecclesiastes, the words God sent her for her understanding: “And I found more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets, and whose hands are fetters; he who pleases God escapes her, but the sinner is taken by her.”
She would not allow Anne to be taken in. Jane, the proud woman, would fall before her feet. She had prayed for guidance and had opened to Ezekiel. “Her proud might shall come to an end; and she shall be covered by a cloud.” So the woman would disappear and Anne would never see her. Anne would know, through the will of the Lord, that only Laura loved her. She would see that even her children did not love her. That Laura loved her with the pure love, stronger than the love of children, or the love of men’s desires, or the love of father, mother, or the proud love of the mind. She would see, and it would not be long, that only Laura loved her with the Spirit, before which all other love must be consumed and die.
Now that she knew Anne loved her, now that she knew that they were just alike, she could start. Now she could teach her, give her messages and guidance, pull her from the love of others, the temptation of false love. The hour was upon them. Now she would touch Anne with the burning hand of love: the flesh of Anne would burn and open. And the Spirit would fill her, driving out the error of her life. Oh, she was ready now, Laura could see, to know that her life was an error, that she had put her treasure where the moth ate and the thieves stole. But no more. Laura would help Anne to leave behind all that she thought she loved.
And then the children, too, would follow. She did not mean that Anne should not be with her children. “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Jesus had said it. She, Laura, would help Anne with the children. Anne would care for them, and Laura would instruct them. There was no need to keep the children from their mother. Only they must learn in time, as Anne would learn, that that love, too, was false and a delusion. That children must leave mother and father. That only the love of the Spirit was abiding. That all other love was death.
She imagined how their life would be. First Anne would leave her husband. Laura did not like Michael, the husband. For Christmas, he gave her two books: Fear and Trembling and Waiting for God. He tried to tell her about them. But she didn’t care. Books would lead no one to the Spirit. In the Scripture she found all she needed. The rest led astray. He talked to her in the voice he used with Peter, the voice that rose and fell in false curves. She saw the shape of it, the shape that said, “See, there is nothing that you know.” She would pretend to read his books because that would please Anne.
She would let Anne read books if she wanted to when they lived alone together. When she had left her husband. How had Anne been able to lie with him? She must have done what Laura did. Had closed her eyes and let the Spirit leave her. Had covered herself over with white sleep. A cloak, a cloud. Then opened her eyes and saw the dangerous, heaving body. And heard him crying out. Sleeping in the room beside them, Laura had heard his cry, the first night he was home, as he lay with his wife. She had not heard Anne cry out. Because it could not bring her pleasure. Pinned unmoving underneath.
Often she thought of what their life would be like. Hers and Anne’s. They would go away from everyone they knew. They would live together in a small house by a lake. Anne would cook and clean the house and tend the garden. Laura would sew and read the Scripture. In the evenings, late, they would drink tea together. Laura would speak of the Spirit. Anne would brush Laura’s hair for her and kiss her thankfully for having given her her life. When the children went away, they would see no one. They would die at the same moment. Holding her hand, Anne would let Laura lead her to the throne of God.
She had feared the husband could raise up his hooves and crush her underneath. Could lift his wife onto his back and carry her away. But Laura knew now that his power was nothing compared to hers. Was not even as strong as the power of the other man. For he had had another woman, and Anne knew. But that was the hand of the Lord. And Anne would know soon that the love of men was the root of death.
Because she had loved Anne, Laura had lain with Adrian. He had not wanted to at first. The Scripture said you should not lie with men. But had not the good woman Naomi counseled Ruth to lie upon the floor where Boaz slept so that the work of the Lord could come to pass? So she had been wise and cunning, knowing that only if she knew the love of men could she keep Anne from it. She had thought once that she might make Adrian marry her so she could be near Anne. But now she saw it was not necessary. Now she saw how easy it would be to show Anne no one loved her, that what she thought was love was like fresh grass that before her eyes would wither into nothing. Into dry stalks, into air.
Although she had lain with men, Laura was still innocent. Her body had been there but not her spirit. She remembered nothing of it. She had closed her eyes and caused her spirit to depart. She had come to him again and again, and he had taken her into his bed out of pity. It was through pity she had got to him at first. She had said to him, “No one’s ever said that I was beautiful. Or even pretty.” It was so easy to make them do what you wanted. She pressed the button of his pity; like a cheap top of the children’s, he had moved his hands, his arms.
She asked him to turn the light out, not out of shyness, as he thought, but so he could not see her laughing. He made her touch him. “Sometimes I need a little help at first.” Then she didn’t know what they did. Only her body lay there, but her spirit traveled. Afterwards, her spirit entered her body, and she saw him lying next to her, worn out, trying to catch his breath. Love, they called it, what they did. She thought of that as they lay together, their flesh damp like dough left out. She began to laugh because that was what they could call love. He asked what she was laughing at. I’m happy, she said. That was all he needed to hear. Then he could roll over and sleep. He lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring, making loud disgusting noises like the animal he was.
She knew that it was Anne he wanted in his bed. She knew that it was Anne he thought of as he pinned her underneath. Once he told her how lucky she was to be living in the house with Anne. He said it thinking she would think he meant she was
lucky to have the job. But she knew he meant she was lucky to walk on the same ground, eat the same food, to see her first thing in the morning, to sleep as she slept, hearing, through the wall, Anne’s breath.
“Was Anne ever your lover?” She asked him that as he cooked an omelet for her. She had found, in the drawer where he kept string and tape, a picture of Anne with the children. They were sitting on her lap, smiling, nearly babies, clumsy on her knee. She sat holding her babies, and her face was golden, the face of light. Seeing the picture, Laura worried. How would she be able to convince Anne that her children, too, were grass that would wither? “Anne Foster my lover?” Adrian said and laughed. “I thought about it once, but it was crazy.”
So she knew that it was Anne he thought of as he lay above her.
“I would never take Anne for my lover,” he said. “Not just because of Michael, who is my friend, but because I’d always be afraid that she’d go to bed with me because she thought it was her fault that I desired her. That she’d have to make it up to me.”
“Don’t you think she likes sex?” Laura asked him. She hated him so much that she could hardly speak. At the end of the world, the Lord would wither him with one blast. He was a creature drunk on lust, hardly above an animal. She couldn’t even try to help him. It was not to help him that she lay with him; it was for Anne.
“I’m sure she’s very ardent when she’s with Michael. But she likes sex, she doesn’t need it.”
“Not like me,” she said, giggling. It was so easy to know what they wanted you to say.
He knew nothing about Anne. Laura knew that Anne desired the man who drank tea with her every night, his gut sticking over his belt like a pig. And she knew that Anne knew that her husband had another woman.
Christmas had revealed the truth to her. Anne with her family. Alone among the ones who claimed to love her. In the future, Laura knew, Anne would look back at that Christmas as the time when Laura gave her the necklace. She would hear Anne saying, “That was when I knew you were the one who loved me. Only you.”
Poor Anne. Since she did not yet know the love of the Spirit, she was hurt by her parents showing her they didn’t love her. That they loved only her sister. Laura couldn’t remember anymore what it felt like, the pain of thinking she was alone because her parents loved only her sister. Now when she tried to remember, she was covered by the thin white sleep. The peace of the Spirit that came when it was needed. Nothing hurt her now. She felt no anger, no bitterness. Only love. The pure love of the Spirit, which shone like the sun. That was how she loved Anne. That was how Anne loved her. In the Spirit, there was no suffering.
Now Anne must suffer. She must stand in her parents’ living room alone, knowing they didn’t love her. Anne’s parents were exactly like Laura’s. Anne’s sister was exactly like Debbie. Laura had seen in one minute that Anne’s mother had never loved her.
“It’s hard work, taking care of two children,” Anne’s mother had said to Laura. She was small like Laura’s mother, and like Laura, Anne stood above her mother in a way Laura could tell Anne’s mother hated. Laura’s mother had said to her, “Don’t hang on me. You make me sick, hanging on me.” She knew Anne’s mother had said that to her. And it had hurt Anne as it had hurt Laura, before the Spirit kept her from all hurt.
“I love taking care of the children. They’re wonderful.” She said that because she knew that was what Anne’s mother wanted her to say.
“I suppose I never had the talent for it,” Anne’s mother said. “I would get very bored. Neither of my daughters takes after me in that. They’re both more domestic than I ever was. I guess every generation of daughters has to reinvent family life.”
Laura didn’t know what she meant. She smiled, because the mother wanted her to smile.
“Anne was lucky to get you,” said the mother. “But then, Anne’s always been lucky. Not like poor Beth.” “Poor Beth” meant the mother loved Beth only.
“What will you do when you’re finished with this job?” the mother asked.
They all asked that, not knowing. I will never be finished. I will be with your daughter through eternity.
“Something will turn up,” she said.
“I admire people of your generation who aren’t burdened with anxieties about the future. Perhaps it’s your faith. Anne says you’re interested in religion. My daughter Beth is the religious one in our family. Some mix of Buddhism and Transcendentalism with a drop of pantheism, from what I understand. I don’t think Anne’s thought about it much, one way or the other. They were both brought up quite irreligiously. I went to convent school for twelve years and had all I could take. Perhaps that was rash.”
Anne will abide in the Spirit. She will be taken up, consumed in a garment of shining flames.
“I don’t know what she tells the children about God,” the mother said.
“She tells them God is love,” said Laura, smiling.
“True enough and vague enough, I guess, not to give them any trouble later.”
They are safe with me. Together we will all be carried up. I will lift up Anne and her children. You will never hurt them; you will never touch them. Stay with your other daughter, whom you love.
The sister said, “I suppose my sister’s quite the taskmaster with her Mrs. Dalloway fantasy that you have to bring to life. Only, now she thinks she’s Mrs. Dalloway and Virginia Woolf rolled into one. Very handy, with you to pick up the pieces.”
Laura didn’t know what they meant, what the words said. Except the words were saying, “I have always hated my sister.” I will save you from this hate, she said to Anne in her heart. I will lead you to the Spirit, where there is no hate or sorrow.
And the father did not love her either. Did not say to the sister, the mother, “Do not hurt my child.” Stood by, gaping, laughing, while they made a fool of him. Took the other daughter’s side, said it was she who was important. Said to Anne (the murmur underneath the words), “I will always desert you. I will always leave you alone.”
I will save you, Anne. Only in the Lord is safety, Laura was saying in her heart as Anne stood in the center of her parents’ living room alone. When her father said, “If this planet survives, it’s because of the energy and responsibility of people like you.” Meaning, I do not love Anne, my daughter. See, I leave her alone in the center of the room. See, I cause her tears to flow. Should she fall to the floor from the weight of her sorrow I would do nothing for her. Should they all surround her, trying with their hands to kill her, I would stand and watch them.
Anne could hear her father saying that, Laura knew she could. Could hear the murmur underneath the words. Why couldn’t she hear the words of Laura’s heart to her heart: I, only I, can lead you into safety. She could not hear those words that day because her husband was there, her children. Because she looked out at the white sun in the clouds. The white sun in the clouds was not her safety. Or the strength of her husband’s arms. Or the sweetness of her children’s bodies. That was the error that Anne lived by that the Lord would teach her in the proper time. The day was coming when Anne would know herself alone, unsheltered, and would turn to Laura, who would lead her to the Lord.
Ten
SARAH’S CHRISTMAS DANCE RECITAL had been canceled because of snow; it was rescheduled for January sixth. The cancellation had caused in her that dark, late-morning storm of despair that children can’t know is merely disappointment. Early on in motherhood, Anne had learned the truth of children’s moods: postponement, as an idea, meant nothing to them; the future stretched ahead like death. Empiricists to the bone, faith was to them unimaginable. What was not present wasn’t possible.
On that day three weeks before, Anne had watched her daughter suffer, knowing the suffering would lift, but that while it hovered, there was nothing she could do. She offered her diversions, feeling even as she did that she insulted Sarah’s grief. Sarah sat at the kitchen table crying. Peter, who couldn’t bear to see her unhappy even when he had worked to make
her so, kept popping in and out of the room with toys, books, card tricks, jokes. His desperation only burdened Sarah further; she had her own unhappiness to deal with, she could not bear his sense of failure. Wearily, she put her head in her mother’s lap, a shipwrecked survivor holding for a moment to a soggy plank. Anne felt her breathe deeply. “Oh, well,” she said, “at least Daddy will be able to see it now.”
The weeks passed, and Anne had forgotten about the recital until January second, when she met one of the other mothers at a party. Sarah was in a dance class called pre-ballet, for girls aged five to seven. She had wanted to join it because her best friend, Margaret, was in it. Ambivalently, Anne had agreed. The ballet school daunted her. It was run by a woman, Terri Blake, who at forty-five had a better figure than anyone Anne knew at seventeen. She walked around her studio in leotards. To receive checks she put around her a silk wrap skirt. She wore her hair pulled tight on the top of her head so that her eyes, ringed heavily with liner, looked a bit Chinese. A whole cadre of mothers paid her homage with a sycophantic devotion born of their sense of the inadequacy of their own slow bodies. Gratefully, these women sewed costumes, painted posters, passed out leaflets, printed tickets, raised money through bake sales and raffles, so that Terri Blake could save their daughters from the fate of their mothers’ lives. Anne was glad that she had the excuse of her work not to participate, even though it was well known that the best parts were given to the daughters of mothers who “cooperated.”
Anne could see that Terri didn’t like to teach younger children, but pre-ballet was her most profitable class. She had had ambitions as a ballet dancer. She had had a short and vaguely unsuccessful career in New York. She drove her talented older students mercilessly, determined that some of them would make it into a company. How could she enjoy the clumsy, boneless bodies of the five-year-olds, their simple portrayals of angels and snowflakes, when what she wanted was to put her older dancers through her adaptations of Jerome Robbins’ later works? Still, she worked hard with the little girls on “Angels and Snowflakes” to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” And the children adored her, for some reason Anne couldn’t understand. She had learned that it was quite impossible to predict the adults that her children would be drawn to.