by Carys Bray
“I’ll ask you some questions and you can answer yes or no,” President Carmichael offers. Something inside her shrinks, but Zippy nods her head and tries not to look embarrassed.
“So, um, did you, were all of your clothes on?”
“Yes,” she says.
“And were you dressed modestly?”
“I was, but well, I—then I … no,” she says.
“You girls don’t realize how difficult you make it for young men. Boys miss out on your … loveliness if you show them more than they’re meant to see—good lads will avert their eyes, but boys in the world will look.”
She folds her arms across her chest and stares at the desk.
“Were you lying down?”
“No.”
“Good. Was it something that involved your bottom half?”
Her bottom half—the shrinking feeling intensifies. “No.”
“Good. Your top half, then?”
“Yes.”
“And the boy’s hands?” She shakes her head.
“Oh, right, I see. Oh, um, his mouth? Yes? That’s it? That’s everything?”
Zippy nods. She feels filthy. She has committed one of the diabolical crimes that Sister Campbell talked about during Standards Night.
“So, I think we can refer to what happened as petting, that’s what they call it in the ‘For Strength of Youth’ pamphlet, isn’t it? It’s a bit of an old-fashioned word, but I’m sure your mum and dad, and Sister Campbell, have explained it to you.”
Zippy hates the word. What happened was not petting. She has not been petted, like an animal at the zoo or a little dog.
“Zipporah, you need to remember that boys your age—actually it’s an unfortunate fact that applies to males in general—are frequently after only one thing.” President Carmichael leans back in Dad’s chair and makes himself comfortable. He seems perfectly at ease, as if he has said what he is about to say lots and lots of times. “Girls need to be careful—you like him; you love him; you let him; you lose him—that’s what happens. It’d be such a shame to throw away an Eternity of happiness for five or ten minutes of pleasure. I like to think of chastity as a race. Runners spend a lot of time preparing. They train to make sure they’re absolutely ready. You’re preparing now, aren’t you? You’re getting ready for the blessings of marriage, in that pretty dress. Sometimes, despite all their training, runners do a false start. They jump the gun and take off before they’re ready. It’s such a shame when that happens because all their preparations have gone to waste. Don’t jump the gun. Your family would be so disappointed. You won’t, will you?”
She shakes her head.
“You’re very sorry?”
“Yes.”
“I suggest you explain it to the Lord in your prayers tonight and ask for His forgiveness.” President Carmichael starts to stand up.
“But, aren’t you going to tell me I can’t take the sacrament, or—”
He sits down in Dad’s chair again. “Your mum and dad would notice if you didn’t take the sacrament. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to upset them, especially at the moment. You’re a good girl, I’m sure you can work this out with the Lord. The boy, is he your boyfriend?”
“No, he isn’t … I think he—we might, one day—”
“Well, there’s no point, is there? You won’t be getting married until you’re, oh, eighteen at the earliest, so having a boyfriend now would be dangerous, especially a nonmember—it could never go anywhere except the places where these things aren’t supposed to go.” He digs around in his suit pocket. “I’ve got some missionary pass-along cards—here, give him this.”
Zippy accepts the card; there’s a picture of a Temple on it and a link to the Church’s website.
“Eternal marriage, that’s what you want. Associate with worthy priesthood holders. I always thought that maybe, one day, you and Adam …” He winks as he pushes himself up out of Dad’s chair.
She stands and bustles to the door, anxious to get out, get home, and shed Mum’s ridiculous dress.
“Oh, and Zipporah?”
She pauses, hand poised on the handle.
“How’s your mum?”
He is determinedly casual and she suddenly realizes he didn’t suspect a thing. This is the question he has been waiting to ask, the reason he brought her into the office to begin with.
“She’s not feeling very well.”
He stares at her for a moment, as if he is trying to see past her pupils and read the truth of the thoughts behind.
“Do you think she would like a visit?”
“No.”
“That’s what your dad said. Is there anything you want to share with me? Anything I can help you or anyone else in the family with?”
“No.”
“If you think of something, you can speak to me. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Grieving affects people in different ways.”
“I know.” She opens the door, even though he looks like he hasn’t finished talking.
Dad is waiting in the corridor where she and Adam were sitting earlier, leaning forward with his head in his hands. She taps him on the shoulder and he sits up quickly.
“Right,” he says. “I’ll go and tell Alma and Adam to wrap it up and we can get going.”
IN THE CAR on the way home Dad tells her off. “You shouldn’t have written that letter for Mum, Zipporah. She wouldn’t have said any of those things. You can’t presume to speak for someone like that.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“You shouldn’t have written it.”
Dad’s failure to answer the question makes her angry.
“I don’t know why she won’t just get up. She’s got responsibilities. She’s got children.”
“What did President Carmichael want to talk to you about?”
“He just wanted to ask if we’re all OK.”
“And you said?”
“I said we’re fine.”
“Good girl.”
Dad doesn’t pretend to be Brigham Young as he pulls into the driveway. He doesn’t say, “This is the place.” He just yawns and sighs.
Mum’s dress swishes as Zippy walks up the stairs. When she reaches her room she kneels next to her bed beside the prayer rock and Persuasion and she closes her eyes, folds her arms, and explains. She uses Sister Campbell’s “walking pornography” defense to excuse Adam and she also apologizes on his behalf, in case something bad occurs before he gets round to it. What happened between them was lovely, but it was wrong. The whole point of coming to Earth is to take the test of life and she has made a great big mistake in her test—a filthy, diabolical mistake. A tear lands on the bodice of the dress and another few slip down its front. The tears are mascara-stained—she will ruin Mum’s dress. Good, none of this would have happened if Mum had been there tonight. Serves Mum right.
– 17 –
Listening
The morning noises are late, the front door hasn’t slammed shut, and the house is full, even though it’s after nine. Claire can’t get up, she won’t have her grief trampled by their busyness and chat and occasional laughter. Yesterday was Sunday—they left for church around 9:30 and didn’t get home until 3:30—so today is Monday, and they shouldn’t be here.
Slam. The front door shuts finally but the sound is followed by Ian’s feet on the stairs. He has taken to saying goodbye in the mornings and goodnight in the evenings. He is very solicitous, addressing her as he would an elderly relative.
“I’m just going across to the park with Jacob. Alma’s gone to play football with Matty, and Zipporah’s meeting Lauren in town.” He’s wearing ordinary clothes, jeans and a T-shirt; it’s unusual to see him dressed normally—even on Saturdays there are meetings to attend and people to visit and he must wear a suit. Then it dawns on her—half-term. They are going to be here all week, stomping over her sorrow with their noisy feet and loud voices.
“I’ll be back i
n about an hour.”
She listens for the final slam of the front door. After it bangs shut she slides her legs out of the bed and stands. The room wobbles and she holds onto the bunk and closes her eyes for a moment. When everything is straight again she steps out onto the landing.
There are wet towels on the bathroom floor, the window is shut, streaked by condensation, and the windowsill is puddled. She doesn’t address the mess. She sits on the toilet and afterward, when she is washing her hands, allows herself a look in the mirror. She is wearing her grief honestly. It has spread all over her face; unwashed skin and hair, unplucked eyebrows, unbleached upper lip—she is coming undone.
She wanders along the hall to her own room. The bed is unmade and Jacob’s pajamas are on the floor. One curtain is open, the other is closed, and the single-glazed window is soaked. Ian promised the windows would be done first when they moved in, he said he’d find a company that could do them on the cheap, but he’s never got round to it and the house is cold in the autumn and winter. Wind squeezes through the gaps in the wooden frames. Last year she used to turn the heating on for an hour at lunchtime. It meant she and Issy didn’t get too chilly in the afternoons and it also ensured that the radiators were cool again by the time Ian got home from work. He moaned about the energy bill but never asked whether she had been helping herself to extra heat, and she didn’t feel obliged to confess. It was just a small, harmless deception. The thought puts her in mind of something else Ian doesn’t know and she walks to her side of the bed, bends down, and opens the bottom drawer. Her Temple garments are jumbled—Zipporah has been doing the washing; Ian popped into Jacob and Issy’s room one night to tell her this, as if he expected it to rouse her and make her feel guilty. It didn’t, and she doesn’t.
Her grief has grown so big it has ballooned past every other feeling. She rummages through the white, silky pile. Garments must be treated with respect at all times—they aren’t supposed to touch the floor—but she drags them out of the drawer until it is emptied and she is blindly patting its bareness. She shakes each item in the heap; floaty camisole tops and knee-length bottoms, symbols of the covenants that bind her to Ian and the children forever, absolutely nothing concealed in their silky folds.
Someone has taken her money. She opens the top drawer and pulls out bras, socks, and flesh-colored tights. Nothing. She empties Ian’s drawers next: garments, socks, handkerchiefs. No money. One of the handkerchiefs is bunched and lumpy. She unfolds it and discovers Issy’s broken glasses. The bridge is snapped, both lenses are cracked, and there is a scrape on the outside of one of the stems.
She remembers an afternoon during the summer holiday. Ian was at the hospital with the Andersons and she’d taken the children for a walk up the pier to play on the Victorian arcade machines. The children had all won something—a lollipop, a long chew, a packet of Refreshers. On the walk back down the pier they noticed donkeys being led out of a horse trailer on the beach below. Issy jumped up and down, begging and bartering, desperate to have a go. “It’s only three pounds and I’ve wanted to go on a horse my whole life,” she pleaded as they approached the steps down to the parking lot. Alma laughed and said they were just donkeys and he would buy her a real horse one day, when he was rich. Issy stamped her foot, tore off her glasses, and threw them to the ground. They made a cracking sound as they hit the concrete at the top of the steps and she looked surprised, as if she couldn’t quite believe her own daring. Claire retrieved them. There was a scrape on the outside of one of the stems. Zipporah picked Issy up, even though she was getting too big to be carried. If Claire had known, she’d have paid for Issy to ride the donkeys all day. She wraps the glasses in the handkerchief, stuffs the rest of Ian’s things back into his drawers, and wonders where to look next.
She has been saving ten pounds a week for nearly two years. She buys cheap, store-brand groceries and secondhand clothes, cuts out coupons, and takes down hems. And it’s been worth it to feel the cylinder of cash growing and to know it is there, should she need it.
When Ian first told her about tithing, it seemed like a nice idea. Typical Ian, she thought, thinking of others before himself, giving away ten percent of his income to the Church. It didn’t matter so much when they first got married, they managed, and every time something unexpected happened—a tax rebate, a bargain, the donation of secondhand furniture from Ian’s parents—he said the windows of heaven had been opened, and it felt like that in the beginning.
She assumed the donations would be flexible after they had children, that it would be OK to pilfer a bit back, when necessary, to pay for new shoes, the car battery, or a broken-down washing machine. But it wasn’t; they couldn’t go to the Temple if they didn’t pay tithing. Not because of the money, Ian explained, the Church didn’t need their money; it was to do with obedience. “Will a man rob God? But ye say wherein have we robbed ye? In tithes and offerings.” She didn’t want to steal from God, did she? She thought about it and said she wasn’t sure whether keeping something that belonged to you was the same as stealing. He assured her it was, and although he explained it very patiently, he looked worried and she was scared he might be wondering if he’d made a mistake in marrying her, so she said she was happy to pay tithing, but perhaps they could cut back on their other offerings: Fast Offering, the Humanitarian Fund, the Mission Fund, the Perpetual Education Fund, and the Book of Mormon Fund. However, it turned out that these were also nonnegotiable. The prophet had asked Church members to be generous and Ian was determined to be obedient, and very generous.
If Ian found the money he’d say something. He’d probably ask why on earth she was hiding so much cash in the house; he wouldn’t be confrontational, he’s never confrontational.
“Guess when I last had my hair cut,” she said during the summer holiday.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Two years ago.”
“Good grief, Claire, I’ve never said you can’t get your hair done. Go, if you want.”
“It costs fifty pounds.”
“Well, you don’t need it done, it looks fine to me.”
“I’m going gray, see? Here and here.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She gets so much a week. It’s the way Ian’s mum and dad did it and it worked for them. Ian would be bewildered and hurt by her hoarding; he’d want to know exactly what she intends to do with the money, a question even she can’t answer. Sometimes she imagines spending every last penny on herself—booking the personal shopper in Debenhams, coming away with bags of clothes, new earrings, a tinted moisturizer, and a brand-name mascara that doesn’t clog her eyelashes. Other times she pictures the money growing exponentially over the course of several years until there’s enough to pay for double-glazed windows or a proper holiday.
One of the children must have helped themselves. Jacob wouldn’t dream of it. Alma might, but he has no reason to rummage through her drawers. It has to be Zipporah, she thinks as she shuffles up the stairs. Zipporah’s bed is also unmade, but the curtains are open. Claire roots through the drawers and wardrobe. She shuffles papers and lifts books from the desk—Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights—her own old editions; she remembers feeling deeply invested in each denouement and wishing, in the way of teenage girls, for a similarly passionate and extraordinary life.
Her hands are trembling as she heads back down the stairs. Over the years she has heard other mothers chatting in the playground about what they would do if they won the lottery. She can’t play, of course, but the roll of money has sat in her drawer like a ticket to something.
There are dishes in the kitchen sink and crumbs on the floor. A cup of tea, that’s what she’d like: a cup of tea in a mug to cradle and sip. It’s been more than seventeen years since she’s had tea; just one cup would be enough to disqualify her from the Temple. She used to drink tea with her mum in the mornings before school,
usually in the kitchen, once she was dressed and ready, but sometimes, for a treat, Mum would wake her with a cup and she’d drink it while Mum sat on the end of the bed and talked to her about school. They did a lot together after Dad left, especially in the beginning when it seemed like they were just passing time until he came back, measuring out the wait in cozy chats and cups of tea.
She opens the fridge then closes it; she doesn’t want to eat. Every so often she gives in and grabs a cookie, but when she thinks of Issy lying under the mulching, autumn-heavy soil, each bite feels like a betrayal. Her stomach growls and she ignores it. There is something intoxicating about the subjugation of the self. She feels it every month on Fast Sundays when her brain, high in the nutrient-free atmosphere at the summit of her body, becomes airy, almost weightless; by the time she has gone twenty-four hours without food or water it feels as if she could step outside herself and float all the way up to heaven. She feels similarly buoyant whenever she is required to be obedient to an incomprehensible commandment; there is something horribly appealing about the idea that someone—God, the prophet, Ian—knows exactly what is best and if she obeys their dictates with exactness everything will work out. She has practiced obedience as a precaution up to this point, as a means of ensuring everything will turn out all right in the end. But things can never turn out right now. The children will traverse life without their little sister. Issy will miss everything: She won’t be an auntie or a wife or a mother. The fact that they will be reunited sometime within the next hundred years doesn’t make everything better, no matter what Ian thinks.
She trundles back up to Issy’s room, climbs into the bottom bunk, and wraps herself in Issy’s covers. She is empty and exhausted; sleep comes easily.
She dreams she is on the beach with Issy. It is sunny and windy, always windy. The tide is out and the beach is spattered by leftover saltwater puddles that appear to be racing toward the pier as the wind blows. The parts of the beach that aren’t puddled are muddy, rippled by the tide and spliced with razor shells. Issy is wearing wellies. Her dark hair is blowing in the breeze. Claire is watching her bend down to examine the shells when the wind whips up, the sunlight switches off, and she can hear the sudden roar of the sea. She looks away from Issy to the horizon. The sea usually slinks in on its belly, but it’s approaching at speed, standing on roiling hind legs, a skyscraping bulwark of water. She grabs Issy’s hand and tries to drag her away. There’s no high ground and the gooey sand sucks at their wellies. “Run, Issy, run!” she shouts, even though she knows it’s hopeless and she is already anticipating the slam of the water and the tearing apart of their hands.