by L. K. Rigel
1806, Shermer Landing
On George Grim’s first wedding night, the sickly first Mrs. Grim had shrunk from his touch, terrified. He’d tried to guide and encourage her. “Madam, it is your Christian duty to bear children within the blessings of marriage. But nothing can grow where no seed has been.”
“I will try,” she had said.
He never did enter her without suffering her silent tears. One entry in his 1802 journal reads:
The mysterious ways of Our Lord do confound me. I submit myself in all things to Him, even this. I swallow the bitter draught and await His mercy. Yet I do wonder, Lord, why did You give me such Longings only to deny their Satisfaction? Your will must be my master; I instruct myself in patience.
Mrs. Grim’s consumption finally won, and when she passed on to a better reality the robust pianoforte player gave George every encouragement. It was difficult to keep his thoughts unjumbled. Hattie Goodson wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. But she was healthy and strong and alive. In his bereavement, she was quick to comfort him with a kind word, a sympathetic squeeze of his hand.
She always stayed after services to help put things in order. One Sunday when the church was empty but for the two of them, he asked her to sit with him in one of the pews. “Perhaps you object to the surname.” His speech didn’t sound as romantic as he’d imagined it, but he plowed on. “Let me assure you it is a blessing, a constant reminder of the Lord’s service to which I am bound.”
“I admire your dedication, Reverend.” She rested her hand on the pew, close to his thigh.
“My dear Miss Goodson...Hattie. I humbly entreat you to become my Mrs. Grim.”
She said, “Make me a pot, sir, and we shall see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Make me a pot, and we shall see.” Her eyes twinkled as she stood. “That is your answer, Reverend Grim.”
Perhaps she’d learned of the first Mrs. Grim’s wedding present. Otherwise, he couldn’t account for the request. Through the rest of the day and into the next week, thinking about what might please Hattie gave George pleasure in return. The first Mrs. Grim had never enjoyed anything. George suspected that Hattie Goodson enjoyed nearly everything.
Making his tea one morning, he realized the parsonage contained all a woman could desire but a decent teakettle. A glow came over him. In an instant, he knew just the design he wanted.
“In due time, Miss Goodson,” he said later when Hattie wondered aloud if she would ever own a pot made by a local man. The undercurrent of playful tension between them made George hope very much that she would find favor with his “pot.”
When it was ready, he invited himself to dine with the Goodsons one evening and asked to see Hattie alone after the meal. In the parlor he said, “Wait here.” He ventured to stop her questions with a finger to her full, soft, pink lips. She sat down with a dutiful attitude—or mocking; he couldn’t tell. Nervous and excited, he retrieved the bundle he’d left on the porch.
He knelt before Hattie and trembled as he placed the offering on her lap. Her gown was made of a popular flimsy fabric, and the humid July heat made it cling to her skin. For so long, all his thoughts of love had belonged to Mrs. Singer. It suddenly hit him what Hattie’s acceptance would mean to him sexually.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
The teakettle of hammered copper glistened like bright-cut gold. He had etched a design of wheat and morning glories about the pot’s belly and in a circle on the lid. The spout was covered in delicately etched morning glories, and the handle was dressed in shafts of wheat.
“The wheat represents the prosperity I hope to give to you. The flowers represent the beauty you have already given to me.”
Hattie was quiet, and he began to doubt her answer. Then she laid her hand on his arm. “You great hulk,” she said. “There’s a poet within you. Dearest George, I should be honored to become your wife.”
They were married on a Saturday afternoon by Lyman Beecher himself. After a gay reception at the Goodsons’ grand house, the couple returned to the parsonage. “May I prepare tea for you?” George said. The first Mrs. Grim had enjoyed that.
“You may,” Hattie said with a tone of royal favor and the twinkle in her eye that sent a thrill through him.
The stove was lit, as was the fire in the sitting room. The servants had gone for the balance of the day. Hattie’s kettle simmered. George, too, simmered as his trembling hands collected the best teacups. It was as easy to own a lovely object as a plain one, and he’d found that beauty contributed greatly to his happiness. Within his means, he took pains to collect fine things for his household in the form of plate, rugs, and tapestries. His personal dress was always of good quality.
He put sugar into a porcelain bowl and laid a silver spoon beside it. He carried the tray to Hattie like an offering to a queen—his queen.
“I shall pour,” she said. He set the tray on the small table beside her chair. “You may sit here.” She indicated the floor at her feet. He knelt down, out of his mind with desire for this girl who had metamorphosed into Eve herself.
Every move she made commanded him. She scooped sugar with the sterling spoon and let the grains fall slowly through the steam into the tea. She stirred slowly, looking into his eyes. When she handed him a cup, he moved it toward his mouth, but she stopped him, mimicking him with her finger to his lips.
With her eyes, she told him to wait. She pushed her finger through his lips and teased his tongue. He sucked on her finger and groaned. He felt dizzy. She pulled away and poured another cup, then indicated that he could drink. Their eyes remained locked on each other. The sweetness of the sugar, the bitterness of the tea, the heat of the liquid, the warmth of the steam—all were as new sensations.
His queen set down her cup and ran her fingers through his hair. He dropped his cup and lunged for her, blubbering. “My love, my love, my love!” He covered her with kisses and pawed at her breasts.
She whispered, warm and wet, “Take me to bed, husband.”
George filled his diary the first year of the marriage with celebrations of his happiness. He praised and thanked God every day for his beloved wife, wondrous that he might be so loved. He recommitted himself to the chariot of Christ and vowed to be worthy of God’s unending grace. Before their first child was born, George experienced something close to heavenly bliss in the mortal coil.
For she liked him. To his utter amazement, Hattie longed for him.
Children came quickly. Lyman first, then Martin, and finally Mary. With three children born in three years, Hattie’s capacity for sexual play diminished. Often, she would say, “Take me, husband, even if I fall asleep.” And often he would, in physical need or in a sad attempt to recover their briefly realized Xanadu.
The Goodsons owned the local lumber mill, and Hattie’s father added a wing to the parsonage so the couple could take on boarders for extra income. She served as clerk to various prayer groups and matron to the boarders who attended Grim’s increasingly popular lecture series on General Aspects of a Christian Life.
From one of these boarders, a pleuritic divinity student from South Carolina, Hattie caught whooping cough, a disease generally fatal only to children. Two weeks of endless hacking weakened her heart, and one morning she choked on her own spittle and collapsed. She fell upon her two-month old daughter and smothered the baby. Hattie died from the heart attack brought on by the violent choking spasms.
George discovered the two cold and lifeless forms later when he came out of his study to enquire why breakfast had not been announced.
Pressed and Released
A glint of sunlight struck Josef Zehetner’s eye. He jerked awake and grabbed the saddle pommel to keep from falling. He’d set off for town early, when the stars were still out. The trip was as dull as this nag, and the new saddle Uncle Leopold had made was far too comfortable. He’d nearly fallen asleep.
The light that startled him had refracted off the steeple of The Grim A
bode, Willie’s name for the Congregational church. Josef felt truly sad for Reverend Grim. The preacher was to bury his second wife today, along with their newborn daughter. But Josef was still relieved to have escaped that man’s sermons.
For years Josef had suffered—suffered!—the preaching of Reverend Grim. He understood why Willie had turned atheist with their father.
Reason and Faith were the two great religions these days, but Josef couldn’t fix on either. To him life was beautiful and sorrowful in turns. Every time he slept on the roof, he knew beyond doubt that God was real, good, and everywhere. And until recently, every Sunday God’s mouthpiece had nearly convinced him otherwise. Josef passed by The Grim Abode and shuddered for all who entered there.
It was a sweet, sweet Sunday two weeks ago when their father announced they’d try that new man at the Unitarian Church.
“Lightfeather?” Willie had snapped to attention.
“They say he is part Indian,” Dieter had said. Dull Dieter. Even he had brightened with the news.
“Farewell and lack-a-day to The Grim Abode!” Willie had danced in circles around Josef and Dieter, and Josef had spotted Mutti’s smile before she shushed them.
Reverend Haden Lightfeather was as tall as Reverend George Grim. There ended the resemblance. Lightfeather was muscular but slender, elegant and soft-spoken. He pulled his thick golden hair back in a long ponytail that hung straight between his shoulder blades. He had prominent high cheekbones and dark brown eyes and an air of refinement and masculinity.
The sermon on the first day had been about the lilies of the field. Josef decided to give God another chance. That week he and the preacher had met when they were both out on a long walk in the woods. “I watched you during my sermon,” Lightfeather had said. “It’s gratifying when a young man pays such attention.”
“I am pleased to listen, sir,” Josef had said.
“Have you heard the call?” Josef’s face must have showed his puzzlement. Lightfeather said, “Do you feel the need to preach God’s Word?”
Josef had burst out laughing. “Sorry, Reverend. Half the time I am not sure God exists.” He would have admitted this even to Reverend Grim. He never felt the need to protect others from his truth.
Lightfeather had said, “Well, your father may pretend to atheism, but your mother still gets him into a pew every Sunday. Let’s keep that last confession between us. Still, I’m curious. What goes on in you that you pay such rapt mind in church?”
Josef had then told Lightfeather about the Maenad, Captain Dahms, Mr. Mills, the wide ocean itself. He’d kept his longing so close for so long, he hadn’t realized it was infinite and informed his every breath. All his questions had poured out. Would a loving God have dropped him into Paradise, only to yank him away? Would a God of grace have filled his senses with the delights of the sea, only to plant him decidedly inland among pigs and cows and corn and farmer after farmer after farmer telling him his fate was to farm?
He was fourteen, and the memory of his ocean voyage faded further every day. He couldn’t recall the sound of the dolphins’ chatter. He had merely the intellectual knowledge that he had once heard that chatter. He could no longer conjure a mental picture of Captain Dahms or Mr. Mills.
“It sounds like the ocean is a part of your soul, Josef,” Lightfeather said
“When I learned that pickles were made in brine, I stuck my face in the barrel, desperate for the smell of the sea,” Josef said.
Lightfeather had laughed. “A disaster, I’m sure.”
Josef had felt better. It was good to say to another soul all the things he had been saying to himself. “Have you ever heard a dolphin laugh?”
“I can’t say I’ve had that pleasure.”
“Oh, it is a pleasure, that’s sure. There’s nothing in the world more gladdening. When I heard them, I knew for certain God must be good. But it’s been so long.”
“Ah, Josef, you’re lucky. I believe God gave you that ocean voyage for a reason, as He gives you these longings for a reason. A good reason, Josef, not to give you pain. It’s to show you who you really are, what His plan is for you in this world. Think, for a moment. If you were God, and you had a plan for your child, whom you love, would you not give to him the desire for and the ability to delight in exactly what it is you have in mind for him to do?
“I never thought of it that way.”
“When I hear you describe your love for the sea, Josef, I’m not sorry for you. A great many people live whole lives without knowing such certainty.”
The next Sunday’s sermon had been about those who go down to the sea in ships. The English had put on another blockade, and as Lightfeather led a prayer for the runners who would bring coffee and whale oil and sugar, he had shared a wink with Josef. Everything was going to be all right.
In his reverie, Josef had forgotten the world. He was five miles beyond Shermer Landing. He turned his horse back toward town. “Belay that,” he said aloud, to himself as much as to the horse. If he rode hard, it would only be another three hours to Boston. He could go down to the harbor, see the ships and be home before dark. He had to. He had to see a ship again, smell the ocean, and hear the seabirds. He would be home by dark.
Resurrection
George Grim believed in predestination, so his destiny was no mere curiosity. From the example of Jonathan Edwards, he embraced autobiography as a method to discover God’s plan for him, but on the morning Hattie was to be buried, still in his nightclothes, George turned to his journal for comfort.
Today I bury my beloved friend and wife, Harriet Goodson Grim, and our poor daughter Mary. I cannot express the sorrow that occupies my thoughts and, indeed, every beat of my heavy heart. I take comfort in my wife’s legacy, Lyman and Martin, two fine boys who will, I trust, be a credit to their mother and their Lord.
On the matter of the next Mrs. Grim, I trust in the Lord’s guidance. I wish to understand why my thoughts again turn to Mrs. S_______ who, while a most worthy woman, is a married woman. Perhaps Our Maker has some Other Destiny in store for her present husband and intends me to comfort her in her bereavement. Such an angel was surely meant to be a Mother, that condition which would be my blessing and utter delight to cause.
Burying the first Mrs. Grim had been nothing to him. He’d felt sad for her passing, as he did for all souls who left the mortal coil, and rejoiced in her entry to heaven. He’d eulogized her and forgotten her. Life was for the living.
He gave the same speech for Hattie and his child before their open grave. One casket held both mother and child. The familiar words came automatically, one upon the other, a meaningless droning. He had to do it that way, or he wouldn’t be able to do it at all. Inwardly, he was in hell, having once drunk the milk of Paradise.
When the words were all said and the casket disappeared under shovels of earth, his wife and child receded further from his mind. It was necessary to let them go, to forget them in order to take on the lonely burden to come, caring for his flock and two little boys who remained. Wondering where God would lead him now, George looked up from the grave into Mrs. Singer’s compassionate gaze. It was a travesty that lovely and godly woman was married to that heretic Unitarian. In a just world, she would be his next Mrs. Grim.
-oOo-
Leopold and the Zehetners were happy at the other end of Taenarus Boulevard, but Marta had continued with Grim. If she were ever to break free of her bleak state, it would be somehow in connection to him. He had nearly saved her once.
He cited her as an example of proper Christian submission. May our sister Marta’s meek resignation to the Divine Will serve as an example to us all. He said this so often it had become embarrassing. She wasn’t the only one who’d ever lost a child.
And he was wrong. She was not at all resigned. She ached for the happiness she had with Leopold before England. Every day she pictured Obadiah’s wretched, lifeless body laid out for burial in his christening gown.
Life was cruel. God was not mer
ciful. This morning was alive with the frenzied rebirth of another spring, yet it was scarred by sorrow. Reverend Grim was left alone to raise two sons.
It seemed everyone else in the world had children. Marta envied them all, even the Zehetners with all their sons. Already Willie and Dieter were as useful as grown men. Josef was a real help when his mind, as Gisela said, could be held back. Little Leo collected the eggs now and fed the chickens. Of course, Leopold did have hired help. But who was the richer man? Zehetner would leave his land to his sons. Upon whom would Leopold’s legacy devolve? There was still hope. She was young and healthy, she had been pregnant once.
She smiled at the thought of Leopold. His shoulders had grown broad from labor and his skin tanned by the sun. Just to see his face was a pleasure, whether he was enthralled in his leatherwork, lost in a book, or laughing with Willie and Josef. How she loved him!
She had to tell him she was sorry. Sorry she had disappeared for so long. If Leopold were standing over her grave today, he wouldn’t mechanically spew an unoriginal speech. He’d be inconsolable. Indeed, it was as if Marta had been sequestered in an open grave since that horrible night with Sir Carey in London. She suddenly felt trapped beneath Grim’s sober droning. She had to get out.
“My dear Marta—Mrs. Singer.” The loud voice was beside her and the large hand was on her arm. “Shall we go in for refreshments? The ladies have done their usual fine job.”
She heard the proprietary tone in his invitation, and it repelled her. She averted her eyes, but not before an exchange passed between them, a silent acknowledgment that the again-widowed Reverend Grim wanted the very married Marta Singer. All at once, shock and awareness and fury bombarded her.
Gwendolyn Goodson’s expression told all. This was why the other ladies avoided her. She had believed them childishly jealous of her so-called piety. But no. They all believed there was an illicit intimacy between her and Reverend Grim.