“Oh, but I did, honey, I meant everything . . .” But though he felt quite sincere, he couldn’t seem to stop laughing. “I do love you, Mattie!” he said between laughs, and when he took a step toward her his legs went wobbly under him and he lurched into Robert instead.
“Of course you do,” Robert said, bracing him up. “Now go on inside, Mattie, and hold the door. I think Romeo here is about to pass out.”
“Hamlet,” John Henry mumbled as he leaned against Robert. “It was Hamlet . . .”
“Yes, we’re very impressed. And maybe when you’re sober again you can do some Gilbert and Sullivan for us, as well.”
And that struck John Henry as very funny too and he started to laugh again. But Mattie was not laughing, and there was a shimmer in her eyes that looked like tears as she quietly opened the front door and stepped into the gaslight glow of the hall.
It took him a full day to get completely sober again, and when he did come to his senses, the memory of the night hung on like a bad dream. It had been a fool, drunken thing to do, letting his feelings for Mattie out like that. No, not letting them out—forcing them on her. But hadn’t she shivered and sighed in his arms when he’d bent to kiss her? Surely, surely she must love him too.
Come Sunday morning, he was feeling like himself again and ready to make his apology to Mattie—and to tell her that, drunk as he was, he really had meant what he’d said. He loved her and wanted her to be his wife, even if they had to wait another half a year to announce their plans to the world. But when he went out to the barn to hitch up the horse and buggy so that he could offer to drive her to Sunday Mass, there was no buggy to hitch.
“Already gone to church,” the little stable boy explained. “Miss Mattie went real early today, nigh before daybreak. Drove herself on in, though I said I’d be pleased to do it. But you know how she makes up her mind. ‘No,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll be goin’ alone today.’ I didn’t dare tell her she shouldn’t ought to do that, she seemed so set on drivin’ herself. Said she’d be back late, too. Guess she had some mighty big prayin’ to do.”
John Henry turned away in confusion. Of course Mattie knew how to handle a horse and buggy; as the oldest child in her family, she’d been trained early to a whip and reins. It was her leaving so early that concerned him, for Sunday morning Mass didn’t begin until eight o’clock. What had taken her to town so early? And would she even return before he had to catch the noon train to Griffin?
“Saddle me a horse,” he commanded the stable boy. “I’ll be ridin’ into town myself.”
“Can’t do that, Mist’ John Henry, Sir. Miss Mattie, she took the runabout with one of the horses. And Dr. Holliday, he took the phaeton with two other horses. And Mist’ Robert, he rode on in to Church on his own horse, so they ain’t no more horses for me to saddle. And it bein’ Sunday, they ain’t no streetcars runnin’, neither. Guess you’ll just have to walk, Mist’ John Henry.”
He was in no mood for walking, though the morning was fine and warm. But walking took longer than riding, and by the time he got himself downtown, Mass would be nearly over. Still, that was where Mattie was, and he needed to see her before he left for Griffin and lost the entire weekend—or worse, left her with only his drunken proclamation as a proposal. There was nothing to be done but walk, so he put on his hat and headed out the graveled drive, cursing to himself that the Sunday shine on his leather boots would be dirtied with road dust soon. Bad enough to have to walk, without having to appear in town looking like a pauper too poor to hire a horse.
He could see the Church of the Immaculate Conception for blocks before he reached it, the square towers rising on the horizon like a bastion of Catholicism in the middle of Protestant Atlanta. Even the spired sanctuaries of the nearby Central Presbyterian and Second Baptist, though they housed much larger congregations, looked like simple country chapels compared to the gothic grandeur of the nearly completed Catholic Church. Its walls were solidly built of granite and red brick, its towers twenty-two feet square, its windows filled with stained glass depictions of Saints and sinners. After four years of construction only the interior needed to be completed, with its muraled ceiling and ornate chandeliers and pews to seat a thousand communicants. It would be some time before there were that many Catholics in Atlanta, but the Church would be ready for them when they came.
If John Henry had his way, the parish would grow by one new convert soon enough. His Uncle Rob had converted before his own marriage to Mattie’s mother, and they’d been a happy couple until his untimely death. In the Holliday family, it was always the women who chose the religion and made sure their husbands and children stayed faithful to it. John Henry had been a faithful Methodist for his mother; surely he could become a faithful Catholic for Mattie.
Though the new sanctuary was nearly completed, Mass was still held in the basement chapel, and John Henry stepped quietly down the stone stairs, opening the heavy doors just enough to peer into the smoky shadows. Father Duggan, gowned in white robes and vestments, stood at the wooden altar with his hands outstretched. He was speaking in Latin and when the parishioners joined in, John Henry recognized the words. It was the Lord’s Prayer, spoken at the beginning of the Holy Communion, and he mouthed the words along with the rest of the congregation while his eyes searched the rows for Mattie. But it was impossible to tell one woman from another, with their heads all covered and bowed reverently, so he’d have to wait until the Communion service was over before he could find her.
He knew the order of the Mass, having attended church with Mattie many times before. Following the Lord’s Prayer there would be the breaking of the bread, the Agnus Dei, the responses, the communion, the final prayers, the blessing of the faithful. It was always the same in some ways, always different in others, as the prayers changed with the changing of the Church calendar. And though much of it was still a mystery to John Henry, there was something comforting about the repetition of the rituals, as if this one thing were immutable.
Then as the communicants rose to approach the altar to receive the Holy Communion, he saw her. She was dressed in her mourning gray, her auburn hair covered with a chapel veil, her gloved hands pressed together prayerfully, her head bowed as she walked. And for an eerie moment, John Henry had the impression that he was looking not at his beloved Mattie, but at some cloistered nun hidden under a somber habit and stepping forward to offer her life to God. He pushed the unsettling thought aside and stepped down into the basement, waiting until she had returned to her seat before sliding into the pew beside her.
“Mornin’, Miss Holliday,” he whispered when her head finally lifted from prayer, and she turned her face toward him in surprise.
“What are you doin’ here?” she whispered back quickly, glancing around the chapel to see if anyone else had noticed his sudden appearance there.
“Goin’ to church, like always. I thought we’d ride in together, but it seems you left me home without a rig, so I had to walk. Hope God forgives my bein’ tardy.”
Mattie looked away from him, a blush rising in her cheeks.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested in church, after all that drinkin’.”
“A sinner’s got more reason to be at church than a Saint, seems like,” he replied. “Though I reckon apologizin’ to God is easier than apologizin’ to you.”
“Hush, John Henry,” Mattie said, putting her finger to her lips, “Father Duggan is about to say the benediction.”
Then she bowed her head again as the Priest raised his hands to heaven once more, reciting the final prayer: “Benedictat vos omnipotens Deus, Pate, et Filium et Spiritus Sanctus, Amen.”
As Father Duggan made the sign of the cross, Mattie quickly crossed herself, then looked back up at John Henry. “You didn’t come here to pray for forgiveness, did you?”
“Not entirely, no. Mostly I came to be with you, like I always do. Why’d you leave so early this mornin’, anyhow? Were you tryin’ to avoid me again?”
�
��I had something to discuss with Father Duggan. He sees parishioners before Sunday mornin’ Mass.”
Though her explanation seemed reasonable, she hadn’t really answered his question. It was clear that she wasn’t happy to see him there, but he couldn’t really blame her for that.
“Mattie,” he said, trying a gentler tone, “we need to talk . . .”
“Not now,” she whispered, as she gathered her prayer book and bag and stepped into the aisle. “Not here . . .”
John Henry followed her, pushing past the other parishioners to stay at her side.
“Then we’ll talk as we ride home,” he said.
“No,” she whispered again, “Robert is comin’ to meet me here, after his services at the Presbyterian Church. He’ll be ridin’ alongside the buggy.” Then she turned to smile and greet the other members of the congregation. “Hello, Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Hagan. How are you, Mr. McDevitt? Mr. O’Donougho?” The whole congregation was Irish, it seemed.
John Henry had to reach for her arm to hold her back from flowing on out with the crowd. “Then when, Mattie?” he asked in frustration. “You know I’m leavin’ for Griffin on the noon train. And I must tell you somethin’ before I go.”
She hesitated a long moment, as the crowd moved past her, then she let out a sigh.
“All right,” she said. “But not here. Not in front of Father Duggan.”
“Then where?”
“Follow me,” was all she said, as she picked up her skirts and moved with the congregation to the rear of the basement chapel. But instead of going up the stone steps to the light of the street outside, she moved ahead into the shadows where another set of steps rose into a dark stairwell.
“Where are we goin’?” he asked, not unpleased to find himself suddenly alone in the dark with her.
But she didn’t answer, as she led him up the narrow passageway. At the top of the stair she stopped, turned a doorknob, and the passage suddenly flooded with light.
“It’s the new sanctuary,” she whispered reverently. “Father Duggan showed it to me just this morning, before Mass.”
As they stepped into the light of the sanctuary, John Henry gave a gasp. The space seemed as immense as heaven itself, the ceiling soaring to more than a hundred feet. At the far end of the sanctuary, the high altar was made of gleaming white marble, ornately carved. And though the gaslight chandeliers had yet to be hung overhead, the place was filled with light and color from the stained glass windows set into every arch of the roofline.
“It’s beautiful . . .” he said, though the word did not do it justice. While the outside of the new church seemed as formidable as a medieval castle, the interior was as light and radiant as sunlight itself. “Like heaven . . .” he murmured.
“To make us feel closer to God,” Mattie said, finishing his thought. And as she gazed upward toward the soaring ceiling, the light from the circle window in the transept shone down on her, illuminating her face in a rainbow of lead glass color. She looked like heaven herself, John Henry thought, like some angel too transcendent to be real.
“Oh, Mattie!” he said quickly, feeling suddenly full of repentance, “I am so sorry for how I behaved the other night. I’d been drinkin’ . . .”
“I know,” she said, her eyes still gazing heavenward.
“I had been drinkin’,” he said again, “but I still meant every word I said. The liquor only make it easier for me to speak my mind, my heart.”
“No,” she said, “you didn’t mean those things. You can’t mean them.”
“But I do love you, Mattie! I have always loved you. Surely you must know that. And I believe that you are in love with me as well. I felt the way you trembled when I held you. You can’t deny it. If Robert hadn’t come out on the porch just then . . .”
A sudden flush rose up in her face, and she looked away from him. “I don’t deny it. But I have repented of it.”
“Repented? What do you mean?”
“It was wrong, John Henry. Wrong for you to say such things to me, wrong for me to let you say them. But I have confessed to Father Duggan . . .”
“Confessed what? You haven’t done anything wrong! It’s not a sin to be in love!”
Then she lifted her eyes again and looked at him with profound sadness. “But you are my first cousin, my father’s brother’s child. We cannot be together.”
“That’s ridiculous! Cousins marry all the time! Why, Aunt Permelia’s Grandfather Ware married his first cousin, and no one thought anything of it.”
“They were not Catholic, as I am. The church will not allow marriages within the third degree—no closer relation than second cousins. There is no point in discussing something that cannot ever be.”
“Then we’ll marry in some other church,” he said, stepping toward her and taking hold of her arms, feeling that if somehow he could just pull her from that light, he could sway her to his plans. “My mother was a Methodist,” he said, “we’ll marry in the Methodist church . . .”
“But I am Catholic,” she said, shaking her head. “I must marry in the faith, or the church will not recognize the marriage. It would be . . . living in sin. Father Duggan cannot allow . . .”
“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” he said desperately, “we’ll find another priest to marry us, one who doesn’t know who we are. You can use your mother’s name, Fitzgerald. No one will know we’re first cousins. No one will care!”
And for a moment, he thought he might be able to make her surrender to him. But at last she shook her head and said with a sigh:
“No, John Henry, you’re wrong. God will know. And I will know.”
He could fight a rival; he could even fight her. But he couldn’t fight God, and he let his arms fall away from her, like his dreams were falling away.
“Then there is no way at all for us to be together?” he asked hopelessly, “not ever?”
“Not in the sight of God,” she said, looking back up into the light. “It wasn’t meant, John Henry . . .”
“But . . . you do love me, don’t you?”
And when she didn’t answer, he put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him, and he asked again: “You do love me, don’t you, Mattie? Tell me the truth at least, if that’s all I can ever have.”
Then she nodded, and whispered between her tears, “Oh yes, John Henry! I do love you!”
And before he could think what to say to her she was in his arms and he was kissing her lips, her face, whispering endearments into her hair, forgetting everything else but the blessed knowledge that Mattie did love him after all—loved him as he loved her, needed him to be with her as he had always needed her. And for a few desperate moments he could forget that there was no future for them, that they could never be together as he longed for them to be. Then Mattie pulled herself away from him, catching her breath and trying to stop the tears that flowed unbidden down her cheeks.
“I am so sorry, sweetheart!” she cried. “I never meant for this to happen! I tried to keep from fallin’ in love with you, as my father told me. But how could I help it? How could I ever not love you? And for a while I did hope—I did think that we might marry someday. Oh, John Henry, I am so very sorry!”
“Then what do we do, Mattie?” he asked, like a child again, leaning on her wisdom, believing that Mattie could make everything better somehow. “What are we to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Go on as we have always been, I suppose. Best of friends, dearest cousins. But not lovers. Never lovers . . .”
“And what then? Do I stand back like a good cousin and watch you marry someone else someday, make a toast at your wedding?”
“You’ll marry too,” she whispered.
“And you can live with that? Can you stand to see me with another woman?” and he turned away in anger and frustration. “Damn it, Mattie!” he swore, his words shattering the sanctity of the chapel. “I can’t stay here and keep goin’ through this! I want you more than I have ever wanted anything. I
need you, Mattie!”
Then he pulled her to him and kissed her again, without asking, without caring what she thought. He only knew that in the shimmering light of the stained glass, Mattie’s skin looked like ivory silk and her eyes were dark like deep shadows on the river. And when he kissed her, she sighed and opened her lips to his.
He could have stood there forever holding her in his arms, but the silence of the sanctuary was broken by the steeple bell of the Presbyterian Church around the corner, tolling ten o’clock.
“I have to go,” he said heavily, “I have a train to catch . . .” though he could hardly remember why he needed to return to Griffin. Without Mattie, without his dreams of the future, his life seemed suddenly meaningless.
“I know,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. And as she did, her little Irish Claddagh ring caught the stained glass light, shimmering gold.
“Like a wedding ring,” he murmured, and Mattie looked up at him with questioning eyes.
“Like a what?”
“Like a wedding ring,” he said again, his mind strangely focusing all at once on that tiny band of gold. “With this ring, I thee wed . . .”
And as if she were hearing his thoughts, Mattie slipped the ring from her finger and held it out to him.
“Then here, in the presence of God,” she said, “let us pledge to love each other always, even if we can never be together. Go on, take it, John Henry, I want you to have it.”
It was a ladies ring, so tiny that it hardly went onto his little finger, stopping short just past his knuckle.
“It’s so small,” he said. “I’ll never be able to get it off again.”
“Then you must wear it always, and whenever you see it on your hand you will think of me. The two hands for friendship, the crown for loyalty . . .”
“. . . and the heart for love,” he said, finishing her thought. “With this ring . . .”
“That’s Protestant, John Henry. We are in the Catholic Church.”
“Then what words shall we say? Right now, before God alone?”
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