by Peg Kerr
It surprised him greatly to be thanked. Embarrassed, he ducked his head awkwardly in acknowledgment. “Sean’s been rather, urn, closemouthed about his condition with you?”
She nodded. “About everything. He’s been too angry at us, I suppose. Ever since he came out.” She seemed to be looking at the dust motes, too.
Had it really started then? “How old was Sean when you married his father?” he asked curiously. Was that the trouble at the bottom of everything?
She gave him a startled look. “How old was— I don’t exactly understand the question.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again.
“I’m his mother.”
He frowned, puzzled. “I guess I must be confused about something. Sean told me you were his father’s second wife.”
She nodded, understanding. “I am. Jim married briefly just out of high school. But I married him after his divorce, and we’ve been together for thirty-one years. It’s Sean’s little joke to call me his stepmother, you see,” she said dryly. “Sort of part of the way he keeps me at arm’s length.”
“I don’t quite see why,” he said, bewildered. My god. Yet another layer? Am I ever going to get down to the truth?
“When he quit the seminary, he came home and told us it was because he had discovered he was gay. Jim and I were so stunned, so hurt. I went out and read everything I could get my hands on about homosexuality, trying to”—she groped with her hands for an explanation—“to make sense of it all: Why had this happened to him? Why to us?” She sighed. “I read something that said homosexuality may be caused in the womb, by hormones or stress in the mother. I took it to heart; I told him I blamed myself. He said that”— a rueful smile played around her lips—“if I wanted to let myself off the hook, we could just pretend I was his evil stepmother instead of his real mother.” Her smile faded. “I thought he was just trying to laugh it off, make me feel better. But I think it made him angry, too. He’s kept up the joke ever since. Only it isn’t really a joke anymore.”
It suddenly occurred to Elias that if she thought Sean’s being gay was her fault, maybe she would also blame herself now that he had AIDS. The idea appalled him.
She gave herself a little shake and stood, looking down the hall to where her husband had just emerged from Sean’s room. “So ... tomorrow then, Elias?”
He nodded, and she went over to push the elevator button. Sean’s father walked toward them, holding out an arm toward her. “Good-bye, Elias,” he said. “We’ll talk with you then.”
“Oh, and Elias,” Janet said and stopped. She smiled uncertainly, seeming to search for something to say, or some gesture. “If you’re sitting with ... Sean anytime this week, and you want to get away for a little while to get a sandwich or something, just let us know. We’d be happy to stay with him until you get back. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too, okay?”
“Sure,” Elias said, surprised again, and a little touched, too. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”
When they got on the elevator together, Elias caught a glimpse of her, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder before the doors closed all the way.
“Peer Gynt” he said aloud. He got up and walked back to Sean’s room. Sean wasn’t quite asleep yet. Elias came over to stand by the bed. “Your name is really John. Not Sean,” he said. Despite his best efforts, it came out sounding like an accusation. Sean shook his head slowly. “It was John. Sean is just the Irish version of the same name. I did go to the trouble of having it legally changed when I came out.” He smiled faintly. “I wanted a new identity.”
Elias sighed, dragged the chair over, and sat down. That didn’t work; the chair was too low. He got up, lowered the bed rail, and sat on the edge of the bed. Sean shifted over, painfully, to give him room.
“Tell me the rest of it,” Elias said.
“The rest of what?”
Elias frowned. “All the things you haven’t gotten around to telling me yet. About yourself. So I know.” So I know who I’m fighting for. And if worse comes to worst, so I’ll know what I’ve lost.
“Like what?”
Elias thought for a moment. “If you planted a garden, what would you put in it?” he tried at random.
“Mmm.” Sean closed his eyes, considering. “Red roses. My grandmother had a rose garden, and I always loved it.”
“I’d plant snapdragons. And tomatoes, I think. What was your favorite thing to do when you were a kid?”
“Building forts behind the couch with blankets.”
“For me, it was soccer. What’s your first memory?”
“The underside of the kitchen table, with the dog’s nose poking through the tablecloth on the opposite side.”
“I remember looking out the window overlooking our garden. Everyone else in the family was outside. My brother was jumping into the pile of leaves Father was raking; Mother was planting tulip bulbs, I suppose.”
They went on like that, trading small pieces of each other back and forth, tucking them into the proper places like a mosaic. Surely, if they exchanged enough pieces, they would come close enough to each other that only the tiniest pieces would remain, and finally only points of light, until everything blended together like a shimmering pointillistic painting. As close as they could come to the truth. But Sean grew drowsy, and his sentences came more and more slowly. Finally, Elias stopped asking him questions and let him slip into a light doze, content just to watch him breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. He might look like a starved bird, the skin of his face pulled back so that his nose looked like a bony beak, his arms, bent, like molting bird wings. But still Sean breathed. For now, that was enough to feed his heart’s hunger.
A noise at the door made him look up, startled. A man stood there, in a dark suit with a clerical collar. He wasn’t handsome; he had thinning hair, a long nose, and a rangy build, with arms and legs somehow out of proportion to the rest of his body. Although Elias had never seen him before, the expression in his eyes as he looked at Sean made Elias suspect all at once who he was. Elias bent down to whisper in Sean’s ear. “Sean. I think... I think it’s Bill. Bill, from your seminary.”
“Mmm?” Sean slowly opened his eyes and looked up, blinking. “Who?”
The man in the doorway smiled. “Me. Hello, ratface.”
Chapter Nineteen
For I hare heard the slander of many:
Fear was on every side:
while they took counsel together against me,
they devised to take away my life.
But I trusted in thee, 0 Lord,
I said, Thou art my God.
My times are in thy hand;
deliver me from the hand of mine enemies,
and from them that persecute me!
Make thy face to shine upon thy servant;
save me for thy mercies’ sake.
Let me not be ashamed, 0 Lord,
For I have called upon thee;
let the wicked be ashamed,
let them be silent in the grave.
Let the lying lips be put to silence
which speak grievous things proudly
and contemptuously against the righteous.
—PSALM 31:13-18
Eliza had already left the bed again by the time Jonathan arose the next morning. The sweet tangy smell of cut apples greeted him when he clattered down the wooden stairs. Eliza and Goody Grafton were busy paring the first of the autumn crop, some to string up to dry and some to stew down into sauce. Goody Grafton pointed with the handle of her knife at a kettle set over carefully banked embers.
“The mistress boiled up some oat porridge for you to break your fast.”
“Your mistress is uncommonly good to me, thank you; I fear she shall think me an ungrateful dog to refuse it. But I must take a deposition this morning, and I have tarried too long nodding abed. Will she have patience with me and instead pack a bit of cheese and rye-an‘-injun for me to eat as I ride?”
As Eliza looked up to smile at hi
m from the stool where she sat paring, he thought suddenly that her eyes looked tired. But before he could ask whether she had slept poorly, the apple she was turning in her hand skipped out of her grasp like a surprised frog and went bumping across the floor. Jonathan hastened over to the corner to pick it up.
“Eh now, that’s the third one you’ve dropped this morning,” Goody Grafton observed, laughing. Eliza blushed and ducked her head. Her hands and feet were newly swollen and clumsy from plucking and breaking the fresh nettles, despite the dock decoction she had slathered on them; she prayed that Jonathan would not notice the fresh blisters on her fingers.
“Sensible apples, they doubtless are wishful to avoid my pretty wife’s kettle.” Jonathan smiled. With a flourishing bow, he handed the half-pared apple to her, and in turn, she handed one to him from the pile at her elbow, her eyes dancing. He accepted it with a cordial nod of thanks, polishing it on his sleeve. She rose and sliced off a hunk of cheese and another of bread for him, then tied them up in a cloth. He accepted the packet and brushed a kiss against her brow. She leaned against him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Tonight,” he breathed in her ear, both a promise and a question, and she turned her face to kiss him lingeringly in return. He was whistling as he rode away into the crisp autumn morning. Jonathan’s route led him past the commons and to the outskirts of town. As he passed the cooper’s shop, a man passing in the opposite direction raised a hand to hail him: “Mr. Latham, a moment, if you will.”
Jonathan pulled his horse to a halt, squinting, and then tipped his hat in greeting. “Lieutenant Sewell, well met.”
“Good morrow to you, sir,” the other man replied. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the breast pocket of his coat and handed them to Jonathan. “I have the committee’s report from Boston for you and Reverend Avery—oh, and Deacon Brownell instructed me to inquire of you, have you asked the Reverend the selectmen’s question about his winter’s quarter pay?”
“Nay, I fear I have not had the opportunity.” Jonathan looked down at the papers in his hand, struck by an idea: he could go and speak with the minister now and leave the report for William to read at the same time, since his own business would probably prevent him from doing so for several days. After exchanging a few pleasantries with Lieutenant Sewell, Jonathan then rode on toward the parsonage. There, William sat hunched over his desk, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. He had passed a difficult night since returning from the churchyard, for although he had tried to pray, the turmoil of his thoughts chased away any semblance of serenity. Shortly after dawn, a servant brought him a plateful of Indian hasty pudding to break his fast. He ate quickly, barely tasting it, thinking only of how he could speak to Jonathan. The idea of going to the magistrate’s house to meet with him there made William uneasy, for he did not like the risk that Eliza might overhear them. The safest thing to do, William decided, would be to send Jonathan a note, asking him to stop at the parsonage before the end of the day. He pulled his pen and inkwell toward him—and then glanced out the window just in time to see Jonathan dismounting from his horse. “Providence,” William muttered, his heart lightening, and he hastened to the hallway to open the outer door.
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder as he drew the reins over his horse’s head to tie them to the iron ring on the horse block. “Oh—good morrow, Reverend. I have the newest report from the council of safety for you. And a message from the selectmen: could you accept a cord of cut firewood in place of the two flitches of bacon as part of your pay this winter?”
“Perhaps, but that needs must wait. Magistrate Latham, there is a pressing matter I must discuss with you at once.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, wondering a little at the gravity of the minister’s expression. “Oh? And what is it, then?”
“I do not like to speak of it here in the street. Will you consult with me inside?”
Jonathan hesitated. “Can it not wait, Reverend? I go to Colonel Forster’s to take his deposition today; the clerk was to meet me there.”
William shook his head slowly. “I think you shall want to hear this. Nay, you needs must hear it. A matter touching upon your duties as magistrate, and... your own household.”
“Indeed?” Jonathan cocked his head, frowning, and shrugged. “Very well, man. Inside, if you will but lead the way.”
William did so, and when the door was closed and they had both seated themselves, he ran his fingers tiredly over the stubble on his chin and began. “I did not sleep well last night—”
“That much is clear to all, at least,” interrupted Jonathan with a gleam of humor. William held up a hand. “Have patience, and hear me speak. Tis no matter for jesting.”
“Well then?”
William took a deep breath and plunged into an account of the previous night’s events. He recounted his tale as dryly, as emotionlessly, as he could, watching Jonathan’s face carefully all the while. As William described how he had seen Eliza in the middle of the night and followed her to the churchyard, the humor drained slowly from Jonathan’s eyes. He pressed his lips together, eyes hooded, face like marble, as William spoke of the ghosts. William recognized that expression and quailed inwardly, but he continued telling the rest until he had nothing left to say.
Then he stopped. The silence stretched painfully between them.
“Those who bear false witness shall be damned, Reverend,” Jonathan said. His voice sounded faint in his own ears. He felt light and weightless, scattered and chaotic, as if the shock had made him unable to command his own thoughts.
William felt a quick flare of anger, which he immediately suppressed. “With horror I speak it. Yet it is the truth, by my hope of Heaven.”
“Heaven? Where is Heaven, if—” Jonathan stopped, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He thought he felt the floor dissolving beneath him, as if his entire world were becoming unmoored.
“She is a witch, Jonathan.”
“I do not believe it!” Jonathan cried, slamming a hand down on the desk; the crack made William start violently.
Jonathan jumped to his feet, pacing to the wall and back, unable to contain the fierce nervous energy now boiling up inside of him. “No! She is good, she is pure, I would stake my life on it!”
“Would you stake your soul’s salvation?” William replied coldly. “For that may be the price if you err. Evil may assume the guise of innocence, Jonathan, until the Devil has you entirely in his snare.”
Jonathan stopped, choking. A vision came to him of Eliza handing him the apple, a warm glow in her eyes.... “Have you spoken of this to anyone?” he snapped, his coldness now matching William’s.
“No.”
“Good. As magistrate, I order you not to do so. Until...” He hesitated.
“Until when?”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “Until you have more evidence.”
William caught his gaze, held it, and nodded once, firmly. “If she be a witch, I shall obtain it.”
They fell silent again for a moment, both breathing like fighters.
“Jonathan,” William said finally, tentatively. “She plucked a whole sheaf of the nettles. Did you... Did you observe her hands this morning?”
Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat. He remembered her clumsiness, the apple falling to the floor.
“No. Not closely.” He swallowed. “I would ask a favor of you, if I may.”
“Only name it, my friend.”
“Send a boy to Colonel Forster’s, to tell him and the clerk I cannot attend to this day’s business. Have him say ... I am ill, and I have gone home.”
“Do you think it wise—”
“I am going home, I tell you,” Jonathan said sharply.
William searched Jonathan’s face, worried. “I will do so. If... you will be very careful, Jonathan. Know that my prayers go with you.”
Jonathan nodded stiffly and turned to go. He paused just inside the door frame and said huskily without looking back, “Remember, Reverend. Nary a word to a soul. Not
until you have proof.”
“I understand.”
Jonathan swayed for a moment and shut his eyes against the dizziness. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. “Good day to you, Reverend,” he said firmly and went out the door.
He rode home with his head down in a numb daze, ignoring greetings from the people he passed. A band of Indians could have come out of the woods and hailed him and he never would have noticed. All he could think of was his wife, sitting with her head demurely bent in prayer at the meetinghouse, or bending over a kettle tasting a stew, or looking up at him from her mending, with her head at the inquiring tilt that he loved, smiling. He remembered the first time he had seen her, trembling in the cave, all wild hair and enormous eyes. He could not understand how someone so frightened of him could have put herself in league with the Devil.
All too soon, he arrived home. He took his horse to the stable, and, refusing Jonas’s help, he methodically set about unsaddling the animal and rubbing it down, as if they had been out for an entire day’s hard ride. Then, out of excuses, he strode slowly into the house.
The apples still simmered over the hearth with Goody Grafton in attendance, but Eliza was nowhere in sight. Goody Grafton straightened up in surprise at the sight of him. “Mr. Latham! We did not expect you until nightfall, sir.”
“I have ceased this day’s business, for I fear I may be ill.” He raised a hand to cut off her exclamation of sympathy. “Where is your mistress?”
“Why, Goody Pritcher came with Goody Carter, sir, for Goodman Taylor has called the women for his wife. They asked her to come sit with them to wait, and so I told her I would finish the apples. She took some things with her for Goody Taylor, too—apples and sugar and linen rags and such.” Her words trailed off, for her master looked so strange. Goody Grafton frowned, and she wondered uneasily if he was displeased to come home and find his wife gone. “She never refuses anyone who asks for her help, sir,” Goody Grafton offered in appeasement. “A good-hearted Christian woman she is, truly.”
That, she saw with satisfaction, was apparently the right thing to say, for her master’s face softened.