by Tricia Dower
By the end of November, she has spent eight Friday nights with him since that awful first one and partaken of eight Sacred Time breakfasts without incident. Yet the very act of driving to Prairie Fire still feels brave and daring. Tavis settles down as Ron said he would, appears happy she’s there. Ron remarks on how much more grown-up he seems and relief rolls through her.
The past four Fridays she’s encountered an altered sense of herself on the drive down and back. She’s read about people who come to believe someone they’ve known for years is no longer that person, that a stranger hides behind a mask-like face of a lifelong friend or a husband, wife, sister, brother. An Invasion of the Body Snatchers delusion. What if you believe that about yourself? Occasionally another Lin, startled, half-formed, stares back from the mirror. Who is this person she calls “myself?” Seth might say the Lin who lived in Prairie Fire and the one who lives in apartment 205 are fragments of her larger soul: probable selves, each living a singular reality. They take turns going to Prairie Fire on Friday nights. One likes to hold Ron’s hand and kiss him goodnight. When she shows up, warm emotions emerge like heat from the radiator. The other lies stiffly beside him in bed and gets dizzy from lack of air if he gets too close. Neither wants him inside her yet. How do you know which idea of yourself is the true one?
Thurs, Dec 21/72
Bad Day At Black Rock. I didn’t understand the numbers in a file so I trekked down the hall to speak to the actuarial student who’d done the calculation. LP’s only other female supervisor, the formidable Astrid Oledatter, aka the Warden, swooped down on me like a Valkyrie. You are never to question our calculations, she shouted. 50 students, all male, looked up from their slide rules w/sympathetic eyes. I withered like a leaf & blew myself back to my desk. How can one woman turn on another like that?
42
Artie tugs on the heavy wooden door to the sanctuary and holds it open for her with a theatrical bow that makes her smile. Eases her tension. If Tavis weren’t playing an angel this Christmas Eve, she wouldn’t be entering Open Door for the first time since she left.
The vestibule smells of years of winter coats and soaked-through boots. She hangs up her coat and stows her suitcase behind it, straightens the skirt of the sapphire blue dress she’s worn countless times since her honeymoon, the sleeves worn thin. Cora took it in for her after she lost weight. No one can say she’s been frivolous with Ron’s salary.
Artie drove her in a borrowed station wagon smelling of pizza. She was relieved not to be holding the wheel as their headlights clawed through cartwheeling snow and their tires met ice on the bridge. He kept her distracted along the way, railing against the massive aerial bombardment of North Vietnam that’s been underway since the North walked out of peace talks. She amused him by describing Friday’s Christmas smorgasbord for Lutheran Protection employees. How girls in white robes with red sashes and wreaths of candles around their heads strolled the cafeteria singing “Santa Lucia.” How she skipped the pickled herring and stinky lutefisk but stuffed herself with Swedish pancakes, saffron buns, ginger cookies, prune tarts and almond cake that melted on her tongue like snowflakes. How, unlike a church supper, nobody got to abscond with the leftovers. He said it warmed his cockles to picture her nourishing herself.
During the drive, she urged the most Adult of her probable selves to emerge so she’ll be more open, less judgmental, until at least the day after tomorrow when Ron is to drive her and Tavis home. She’s agreed not to spill the beans on purpose, but if Tavis asks her point-blank if Santa is real, she’ll say he’s pretend like King Arthur and tell him the story of the first Santa, St. Nicholas, though it’s probably also a lie.
Two teens from the youth group hand out white candles in paper sleeves. They smile and greet her with delighted surprise, as if absence has made her a celebrity. Guitar in hand, Artie escorts her down the aisle. She’d like to lie low in the back but Tavis needs to see her easily and Grace is waiting. She feels as exposed as she did the day Ron announced she was taking “a year’s sabbatical for professional development,” which Derek Hobart remarked later was an “odd ambition for a wife and mother.” Back straight as a wall and mouth in a tight-lipped smile, she nods at the DeForests, the Hellers (whispering behind their pageant programs), the Hamlins, the Powells, the Corsetts, the Barricks, all speaking the secret language of glances. Dear guileless Willard Spate is there. So is Alice Hemstad, Peter’s widow, with her daughter Melinda. No college students. They’ve gone home for the holidays. Jeff Vaske is there with his mother, Fern, and his German wife and year-old daughter. Lin doesn’t know their names, just that he dodged Vietnam, spent his four-year enlistment in Germany managing inventory for the Air Force.
Artie leaves her at Grace’s pew and goes to a chair set aside for him near the stage. Grace is a Christmas card in a dress of soft red wool. She looks up as Lin slips into the pew and hesitates a moment before flashing a smile for show. They’ve seen each other a dozen times or so since Lin left, each occasion cordial but strained. In the pew behind them, the dear Bertle sisters lean forward and stage whisper in unison how pleased they are to see Lin. She has to swallow hard not to cry in gratitude.
Ron picked up Tavis two days ago to get him ready for his dramatic debut. He and the other angels, in white pillowcases and fluffy coffee filter wings, are already on “stage,” the sanctuary’s raised platform. She gives him a discreet wave. He gives her a precious smile. The sanctuary smells like a hayride. Someone has constructed a wooden stable, open on all sides, its four supports and roof beams covered with straw out of Debbie and Dan Austin’s old brick barn. Tavis and seven-year-old angel Dougie McLaren stand to the left of the stable under a huge gold foil star. The two other angels, Carolyn Hamlin’s twin ten-year-old daughters, are on the right in front of a cardboard palm tree, hands in prayerful position.
At seven, a white-robed Ron, who’s been lurking in Congressional Hall, takes long-limbed strides to the pulpit. Lin experiences a wistful jolt of attraction. He reads from the King James Bible: “And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be taxed with Mary his betrothed who was great with child.”
Twelve-year-old Joseph (Eric Powell) pulls nine-year-old Mary (Traci Renslow) on a wagon decorated as a donkey. Tavis was disappointed they wouldn’t have a real donkey.
“And so it was,” Rons, “that while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”
Mary and Joseph scoot over to the stable where a doll waits in a tiny cradle. The angels sing “Away in a Manger” raggedly, off-key. A few people cough. Tavis, lip quivering, drops out at the stars in the bright sky, leaving the three others to soldier on. Her insides freeze for a moment, as though it’s her fault. She wants to rush up and hug him, tell him it’s okay if he’s lost the words.
Ron continues, “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.” Three boys in bathrobes with dishcloths on their heads rise from the first pew and turn to face the audience. One of the Hamlin twins, doing double duty, walks to the edge of the stage as Ron reads, “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”
Emily (or it could be Emma) raises her arms to the rafters and says, “Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes,
lying in a manger.” She expels a robust sigh, clearly relieved her part is done.
Ron again. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying…” He pauses for the choir to enter from Congregational Hall singing, “Glory to God, glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
Lin has witnessed this so many times the words have worn smooth in her ears. She tries not to be disappointed again. Ron knows as well as she that Jesus was likely born at the end of September and in Nazareth, not Bethlehem, that much of the story was imported from Hebrew messianic prophesies. He sees no need to celebrate the event on a different date than the one hundreds of generations have accepted. To him, the point is the theological message.
To her it should be the truth.
But what is that? She wants to believe Seth knows, yet finds it hard to buy the story that Jesus was one of three personalities who got mashed together by history as the Christ, the other two being John the Baptist and Saul of Tarsus, later known as Paul, who supposedly will return to straighten out the world no later than 2075.
“This is the story of the first Christmas,” Ron says, “the night God came to us as a helpless child. We celebrate to remember the hope this tiny baby brought to a world in which there was fighting and unhappiness. Much like today’s world with wars in places most of us will never see: Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, Cambodia, Eritrea, Burundi, Rhodesia.”
A spark of her former awe of him flares. How brave to disturb everyone’s pleasant thoughts of a bright shining star with the ugliness of war. She closes her eyes and lands back in Stony River, hearing him for the first time, his husky voice pulsating deep inside her ears. Before Lin left Prairie Fire, Grace warned her some woman might try to steal Ron away, that ministers are susceptible to flattery like everyone else and vulnerable women seeking counsel can confuse a pastor with God himself. Lin would understand and not even mind, if Ron, like a magpie, were tempted by a new, sparkling object.
Everyone stands to sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She smiles at the Bertle sisters’ wavering high-pitched voices behind her. They were her people once. Everyone here was. She just can’t live in their world anymore. The service ends with choir members lighting the candles of the people at the end of each pew. They in turn light the candles next to them and so on. Each candle seems to hold its breath until lit into flickering consciousness by another. Artie plays “Silent Night” and she can’t stop her shoulders from heaving, can’t stop the tears.
43
Sun, Jan 7/73
Met somebody sadder than me this morning, younger too. Ginger Maris. She was slumped over a basket of clothes in the laundry room, shoulders jerking from sobs, big brown eyes bleeding mascara. I asked her what was wrong & she said everything.
Apartment 230 is on another wing, across the stretch of carpeted hallway overlooking the lobby, past the stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke leaks through the door. Ginger answers Lin’s knock, her eyes and nose red, as if she hasn’t stopped crying since she left the laundry room six hours ago. Behind her, Linda Ronstadt weeps out “Rescue Me.”
“I baked rye bread and thought you might like a loaf,” Lin says. It’s still warm. She’s swaddled it in a clean dishcloth as she used to for new church members.
“Oh gosh, that’s so nice. Wanna come in?”
“If I’m not disturbing you.”
“Just doing Jolie’s nails.”
Jolie, it turns out, is five. She has porcelain fine skin, a snub nose and a kewpie doll mouth with a raw, red circle around it. She sits on the floor between a sofa and a white acrylic coffee table, one hand splayed on the table, her cat-light body in a short white skirt and fuchsia tights. Her ponytailed hair is as black as Ginger’s backcombed flip. Ginger turns off an eight-track player and takes a puff of the cigarette burning in an ashtray on a packing carton.
Jolie says, “Mommy can blow perfect smoke rings.”
Ginger demonstrates.
Their apartment is funky with chili pepper lights over the sliding glass door and a conch shell lamp atop the TV. A phony leopard-skin throw cloaks the sofa. Against one wall is a treadle sewing machine like Mother had when Lin was a kid. A long, narrow table fills the space where Lin has her card table. Ginger’s table holds pinking sheers, measuring tape, a fat pincushion and pattern pieces atop red taffeta and black velvet. Ginger offers her a strawberry-colored beanbag chair beside the sofa. It makes a rude noise as Lin sinks into it.
Ginger lowers herself to the floor beside the coffee table and picks up a bottle of Barbie-pink polish. “We do our nails every Sunday,” she says. She lifts Jolie’s unpainted hand and rests it in hers, dips the brush in the polish. Her voice is even softer and higher than Lin’s. A Psychology Today article suggested trauma could freeze the speech part of the brain’s development, resulting in a little girl voice. Maybe Ginger had her own Eldon Jukes.
They’re from Hibbing, four hours away on the Greyhound they took to get here five days ago. Ginger starts working tomorrow in the new pedestrian mall in downtown Hopkins, waitressing at her uncle’s restaurant, The Flaming Bohemian. He paid to have her furnishings shipped from Hibbing.
“Is Bohemian the same as gypsy?”
The brush caresses Jolie’s thumbnail. “I don’t know.” Ginger pronounces it doh-ent. “Bohemia used to be a country with a king and all. It’s part of Czechoslovakia now.”
“If I ever knew that, I’ve forgotten.”
“I’m half Bohemian. My mom’s side came to Hopkins as refugees a hundred years ago.”
“For real?”
“Oh yah, her maiden name was Dvořák. That’s Uncle Fran’s last name, too.”
“Like the composer?”
“I guess.”
“Did you move here for the job?”
“In a way.”
Jolie says, “Daddy moved in with Aunt Maureen.” She says aunt the snooty way.
So does Ginger. “She’s not your aunt, Pookie.”
“Daddy’s gonna come see me when we’re not mad at him anymore. He has giant ears.”
Ginger’s eyes mist up. “I couldn’t stay with everybody knowing.” The raw hurt on her face stabs Lin. She thinks of Ron having to carry on, plucking brave words from censorious fires when folks in church ask how her sabbatical is going.
Ginger’s brush reaches Jolie’s pinky. “I came here to find another husband, somebody with money this time. We’re gonna have a house full of Mediterranean furniture, aren’t we, Pookie?” Jolie nods like a Japanese papier-mâché bobble-head doll.
“Aren’t you gun shy?” Lin says. She can’t imagine marrying anyone else if she and Ron don’t make it.
“Nah. All I ever wanted to be was a wife and mother. I hate pumping my own gas.” She sniffs. “Not that I have a car anymore. Sonny kept it. Gotta find another guy before I’m too old to have kids. Sonny didn’t want even one but he knocked me up. He should thank me because it got him out of the draft until the lottery and, then, guess what? His birthdate got pulled last.”
“I want a sister,” Jolie says. “I hate boys.”
Lin is horrified at the course this discussion is taking in front of Jolie. “Tell me about the restaurant,” she says. “What could I eat there?”
Ginger says, “Schnitzel, goulash, sauerkraut, potato dumplings, poppy seed cake, blood soup.” Jolie pretends to gag at blood soup. “You have to come sometime. That would be so cool.” She screws the top on the polish. “Hey, can I try something on you?”
“Okay.”
“I’m taking out a personal ad.”
“A what?”
“A Lonely Hearts ad.” She picks up a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Listen to this and tell me what you think: New in town. White, attractive female, 22, likes country music. Seeks older, established gentleman for serious relations
hip.”
“That could be anybody. How about raven-haired and brown-eyed instead of attractive?”
“Raven-haired! Oh, that’s fun.” Ginger’s face is artless and eager, no mystery in it at all.
“Don’t you want him to be good-looking as well as established?”
“I don’t care what he looks like if he has money.”
What ad would describe Ron? Clean-cut, pancake-making minister seeks woman to pray with. Likes classical music, the funny papers & milky coffee. Roots big time for the Twins, the Vikings and Jesus. “What can you offer besides looks?” She’s thinking manicures, tailoring.
“Sex.”
Lin’s eyebrows lift involuntarily. She forces them back down.
“I can’t put that in the ad,” Ginger says, “but that’s what guys are looking for.”
What must Jolie be thinking? “Shouldn’t you mention you have a child?”
Ginger shakes her head. “Big turn-off. Or you get weirdos who like kids, you know?”
Lin thinks of the Wrestler. “They won’t print your phone number or address, will they?”
“Nah, they give you a mail box number and forward the responses.”
She’d ask how Ginger would know whether somebody who answered her ad wasn’t a weirdo but she doesn’t want to scare Jolie, doesn’t want to continue this conversation. She glances at her watch and says, “Gee, look at the time.”
I don’t really want another friend in the complex. I have only so much space in my heart for anyone who isn’t family & I save it for Angel. Another thing & I know it’s snobbish. Ginger is like too many single moms living here: poorly educated, clueless about parenting. They yell down to their kids from their balconies & drop them off at daycare all wrinkled & uncombed, sometimes snotty-nosed because the places they work don’t give sick days. They bicker like sea lions w/their exes in the parking lot. I don’t want to be lumped in w/them, one more statistic in a sociological study. Don’t want to identify w/Ginger even in sympathy. It feels dangerous. But she tugs at me, I must admit. And that little girl! I want to wrap her up in a cloud.