D., in the simplicity and goodness of his heart. A natural-born Christian. He would grieve for G., but forgive him.
D. had his own, separate life now. For years. He was assistant to the minister of a large, prosperous church in Springfield, Massachusetts. He was proud husband and father of two-year-old girl twins. To make of D. an accomplice of a kind if only at second- or third-hand would be a sinful act. To make of D. a sharer of so shameful a secret. Unless it was so beautiful a secret. I can’t love any woman, God help me I’ve tried. I can only love you. D. had joined G. in his rambling walks in search of fossils. He’d begun as a boy collecting Indian arrowheads and artifacts but “fossils” came to fascinate him more. These delicate, leafy remnants of a lost and scarcely imaginable time before human history. Like mysterious artworks they were, skeletal impressions of once-living organisms from an era millions of years—an unfathomable sixty-five million years!—before Christ. A world of slow time in which one thousand years was but a moment and sixty thousand years was too brief a time to be measured by geological methods of fossil dating. As a boy of thirteen he’d fashioned a fine-meshed net attached to a wooden frame so that he could wade creekbeds and sift through soft black muck in search of fragments of fossil rocks and bone, the teeth of ancient sharks and skates; the outlines of ancient squids calcified to a kind of amber. So far inland as Troy, New York! G. couldn’t believe, as his own father did, that the Devil had planted so-called fossils in the earth to mislead mankind; to cast doubt on the account of creation in Genesis—that God had created the earth and the stars and all the creatures of the earth in seven days and nights, no more than six thousand years ago. (Six thousand! G. smiled to think of it.) Yet he resisted the very premise of “evolution.” Blindness, accident. No! Not possible.
And yet: could it be true that ninety-nine percent of all species, flora and fauna, that have ever lived have become extinct, and that species are passing into extinction continuously? Daily? Why did God create so many creatures, only to let them fight frantically with one another for existence, and then to pass into oblivion? Would mankind disappear too, one day? Was this God’s plan? For surely there was a plan. Christianity must try to comprehend, and to explain. G.’s father refused to discuss such issues with G. He’d long ago come to the conclusion that science was a false, shallow religion and that deep abiding faith was all that mattered, finally. “You’ll see, son. In time.” A few of G.’s younger instructors at the seminary were more open to discuss such questions but these men, too, were limited in their responses, and uninformed in science. To them, there was little difference between six thousand years, sixty-five million years and five hundred million years. Faith, faith! G. complained to D., “What good is ‘faith’ if it’s based upon ignorance? I want to know.” But D. said, “Look, Gil. Faith is a day-to-day, practical matter. I can no more doubt the existence of God and Jesus than I can doubt the existence of my family, or you. What matters is how we relate to them, and to one another. And that’s all that matters.”
G. was moved by this answer. Its simplicity, and the essential soundness of such an attitude. Yet he doubted he could be satisfied with it. Always he wanted more…
“Maybe that’s your special destiny, Gil. To make sense of these things. To bring together science and ‘faith.’ Ever think of that?”
D. seemed quite serious, saying this. He seemed to think that G., graduate of a provincial Protestant seminary in upstate New York, with virtually no science in his background, might be capable of such a task.
No one but D. had ever had such ambitions for G.
No one but D. had ever called him Gil.
Well, that was finished now. G. would be leaving his fossil collection behind, in his parents’ house. In his boyhood room, in drawers and cartons. In junior high he’d begun bringing these to show his science teachers, who made a stab at identifying and dating them. Had his teachers known much more than G. himself, he wondered. He’d wanted to think so. They assured him that, at least, the fossils were millions of years old. Hundreds of millions? There was the Cambrian Era, and there was the Cretaceous Era. Fossils in this upstate New York region might belong to the Ice Age. The Age of Dinosaurs. The Age of Neanderthals. He’d been thrilled to think that these mysterious objects had ended up in his possession. There were no accidents in God’s plan, and he knew that God had intended him to be a minister; since God had allowed him to find these fossils, too, there was a reason. One day, he would know that reason. He intended to take courses in paleontology, paleozoology, at a distinguished university like Cornell…Somehow, he never had. He wondered if he’d been fearful of what he might learn.
That you have no special destiny. Not you, and not mankind.
At this early hour of Sunday morning the city was nearly deserted. Yet church bells seemed to be ringing continuously. A noisy clamor. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears. Never had he noticed how intrusive his faith was. Here we are! Christians! Surrounding you! Bringing news of the Gospels! Good news! Come and be saved! How much more seductive he found the monosyllabic roar of The Falls.
He forced himself, panting, to walk at a normal pace. For what if a police officer saw him, and guessed his intention. His face. His ravaged face. His boy’s face that had aged years in a single night. His eyes sunken in his face. He was afraid it shone unmistakably in his face, the release from misery he sought.
It was difficult for him to simulate calm, though. He felt like a wild beast on a leash. If anyone got in his way or tried to stop him, if the woman had tried to stop him, he’d have flung her aside in a rage.
It wasn’t despair he felt. Not at all. Despair suggested meekness, passivity, giving-up. But Gilbert Erskine wasn’t giving anything up. Another man would return to the hotel suite, to the lawfully wedded wife. The bed, the swath of rusted-red crotch. The moaning fish’s mouth and the eyes rolled back in the head and the eventual babies, a cozy stink of diapers. That was Gilbert Erskine’s true destiny. The tall gaunt house in Palmyra, New York, mud-colored brick and rotted shingleboards in the roof and a congregation of less than two hundred people, most of them middle-aged and older, to whom the young minister must “prove” himself. “Win” their confidence, their respect, eventually their love. Yes? But no.
Not for G. He was acting out of courage, conviction. God would not forgive him. But God will know me as I am.
The roar of The Falls. Like the blood-roar in the ears. Penetrating his fevered brain as he’d lain sleepless in that bed. Recalling the vanity of their first meeting. He’d believed the woman a “sister”—what a cruel, crude joke. How they’d met. Now he knew. Their elders had shrewdly planned the meeting, he saw now. Her parents were desperate for the prim, plain spinster to be married, and his parents were desperate for the prim, plain bachelor to be married. (Possibly they worried about his manhood? Reverend Erskine at least.) And so “Ariah” and “Gilbert” were but pawns on a chess board who’d imagined themselves players!
Last night. His life careening past as if already he were drowning in the river. Broken like a cheap plastic doll in The Falls. Beside him the stuporous snoring woman. Drunken woman. His wedding night, and a drunken woman. Run, run! He had to throw himself into the most monstrous of falls, the Horseshoe. Nothing less would suffice. In his expansive sense of himself he dreaded surviving. He dreaded being pulled from the churning water below The Falls, broken and maimed. Would rescue crews be on duty, so early in the morning? He wished for total extinction, obliteration. To erase forever from his sight the smeared greedy face of the red-haired woman. Chaste and virginal and cool to the touch as an icicle she’d been for the long months of their engagement, and that thin-lipped smile and awkward manner…Well, he’d been deceived. Like a dupe of the Devil he’d been deceived. He, Gilbert Erskine! The most skeptical of the seminarians. The most “free thinking.” He who’d prided himself on eluding the wiles of featherbrained simpering-coy females for years. Desperate to marry, they were. The pack of them desperate to be “
engaged”; shamelessly greedy for a ring to wear, to present boastfully to the world. See? I’m loved. I’m saved. But Ariah Litterell had seemed to him so different. Of another species. A young woman he might respect as a wife, a woman who was his equal socially and almost his equal intellectually.
He was bitter that D. had not asked Do you love this woman, Gil?
He’d planned to say to D. As much as you love yours.
The occasion had not arisen. In fact, no one asked G. Do you love this woman?
Possibly G. had murmured to her, yes he did. He loved her. Possibly, stricken with shyness. Embarrassment. And the woman in turn stiff, self-conscious, blinking rapidly and her green-glassy eyes wavering from his eyes. Possibly she’d murmured to him, in turn. And I, I love you.
So it was decided. He’d slid the ring on her thin finger.
Run, run!
Spray wetted his face like spit. The roar of The Falls had been steadily getting louder. His glasses were misted over, hardly could he see the pavement in front of him. That bridge. Goat Island Suspension Bridge. Love me why can’t you love me for God’s sake can’t you. Do it, DO IT! It was Goat Island he wanted. He’d marked on the tourist map. With the little silver pen she’d given him, inscribed with his initials G.S. His pride in this artifact! I’m loved, I’m saved.
Their shy groping dry-mouthed kisses. Her stiffening body, the tough little skeleton holding her erect when he touched her, put his arms around her. Like they do in the movies. Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, let’s dance! It’s so easy.
He’d known she hadn’t loved him. Of course he’d known.
Yet he’d believed (almost!) that he loved her. He would come to love her, his lawfully wedded wife. In time.
As his father had come to love his mother, he supposed. As all men came to love their wives.
For had not God enjoined mankind to Increase and multiply.
Run! The shame of it would paralyze him otherwise.
Champagne at the reception, and in the hotel room. He had not known. Had not guessed. This delicate-boned woman drinking thirstily as a day laborer. Ignoring his tactful suggestions that maybe she’d had enough. Giggling, wiping her smeared mouth on the back of her hand. Kicking off her shoes. When she tried to stand she’d swayed, light-headed; he’d jumped up to steady her. She half-fell, pushed herself into his arms. How different from the stiff-backed minister’s daughter he’d known. Ariah Littrell in her white ruffled blouses, her Peter Pan collars and crisply ironed shirtwaist dresses and flannel skirts. Neatly polished high-heeled pumps and spotless white gloves. That Ariah was nearly three years older than G. secretly pleased him. It was like a trump card, for he knew she had to be grateful he’d chosen her. And he didn’t want an immature woman for a wife, he understood that he would be the immature spouse. Ariah would take care of Gilbert as his adoring mother had done for twenty-seven years. If he was hurt, sulky, irritable, disappointed, Ariah would understand and forgive. If he flared up in a childish temper, she would forgive. All this he was counting on. An ambitious young minister requires a canny, mature, responsible wife. Attractive but not overly attractive. And Ariah was gifted, in the way of small town, sequestered talent: he’d been impressed by her piano playing, and by the quality of her soprano voice. At a Christmas recital there was Ariah Littrell singing “Silent Night, Holy Night” so beautifully you saw her as beautiful. The sallow skin was radiant! The rather chill, shrinking eyes were green-glowing as emeralds! The small pursed mouth was gracefully opened to shape surpassingly sweet words. Silent night, holy night…G., seated with Reverend and Mrs. Littrell, was taken by surprise. He hadn’t expected to much enjoy the recital but as soon as Ariah stepped out onstage, nodded to her pianist-accompanist and began to sing, he felt a thrill of—something. Pride? Covetousness? Sexual attraction? This beautiful, coolly poised young woman singing to an audience of admirers, strikingly dressed in a long wine-colored velvet skirt with a sash, and a long-sleeved white silk blouse. Her eyes were uplifted as if to heaven. Her narrow tapered fingers were pressed to her bosom in an attitude of prayer. The hair that in ordinary light was dull, faded, limp, was lustrous in the stage lighting. Subtle spots of rouge enlivened her face. All is calm, all is bright…G. clenched his fists thinking yes, yes he would love this remarkable woman. He would make her his.
Run for your life.
The wedding ceremony had passed in a haze like landscape glimpsed from the window of a speeding lurching vehicle. Though D. was not present, hadn’t been able to attend, G. persisted in seeing him in the corner of his eye. D., smiling and nodding encouragement. Yes! Good! I’ve done it, Gil, and so can you! At the reception she’d begun drinking and on the drive from Troy to Niagara Falls she’d fallen asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder in a way that annoyed him, it was so intimate and yet unconscious, brainless. And in their hotel room she’d drunk most of the bottle of champagne that awaited them. She chattered nervously, her words slurred. She giggled and wiped at her mouth. Lipstick on her teeth, her clothing disheveled. Rising, she became dizzy and lost her balance; he’d had to jump up to steady her. “Ariah, dear!” Preparing for bed she giggled and hiccuped and stumbled to him. When he stooped to kiss her wet, parted lips he tasted alcohol and panic. His heart was lurching and kicking. The bed was ludicrously large, the mattress so high from the floor, Ariah insisted he “boost” her. Heart-shaped velvet cushions everywhere, lace coverlets like nets to catch unwary fish. This was a shrine to—what? Ariah lay in the bed like an awkward sea otter in her ivory silk nightgown, hiccuping, jamming her knuckles against her mouth and trying not to burst into laughter. Or was it hysterical sobbing.
He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t wanted to think ahead, but, dear God, he hadn’t expected this. She drew him to kneel beside her aroused and trembling as in a fever dream of lurid degradation. Beneath his hesitant weight she squirmed and moaned. Suddenly clasping her arms around his neck—tight!—tight as an octopus’s tentacles—and kissing him full on the lips. Was this Ariah Littrell the minister’s spinster daughter? Clumsily seductive, one of her eyelids drooping. He couldn’t bear it, her hot hands swiping blindly at him. She was moaning his name, that in her mouth sounded obscene. Groping against his chest, his belly and groin. His penis! That any woman would touch him there, like that…In a guttural moan pleading Love me, why can’t you love me for God’s sake. Do it! DO IT! The bared gums, damp exposed teeth. A ragged swath of rust-colored hairs between her clutching thighs. She was ugly to him, repulsive. Damn you please what’s wrong with you DO IT! Bucking her groin against his. Her bony pelvis. He wanted to strike her with his fists, pummel her until she lost consciousness and had no further knowledge of him. He too was moaning, pleading Stop! Don’t! You disgust me. In fact he may have slapped her, not with the flat of his hand exactly, flailing out in instinctive self-defense, knocking her back into the oversized pillows. But she’d only laughed. Unless she was crying. The brass bed jiggled, creaked, lurched and careened like a drunken boat. His elbow raked against her breast. There was something offensive, obscene about the small hard breasts, the inflamed-looking nipples. He shouted and spat at her to leave him alone yet blindly she swiped at him, grabbed at him, her strong fingers gripped his penis as in the most lewd of adolescent sex-fantasies. To his horror a sharp shuddering cry escaped from his lips even as his milky seed leapt from him piercing-sweet like a swarm of honeybees. He collapsed upon her then, panting. His brain was extinguished, like a flame that has been blown out. His heart pounded dangerously. Their sweat-slick bodies held fast.
Later he would hear her gagging and vomiting in the bathroom.
A delirium of sleep washed over him like filthy frothy water. In the confusion of a dream he believed he might have murdered the woman whose name he couldn’t remember. Lawfully wedded wife. Death do you part. He’d snapped her neck. Smothered her in the smelly bedclothes. Pounded and clawed between her legs. He was trying to explain to his father, and to his friend D. whom he’d betrayed. He co
uld not bear it. Never again.
Run, run!
Crossing the plank bridge above the rapids. His bare feet in leather shoes were hurting. He’d dressed hurriedly, carelessly. His zipper had jammed. A voice lifted in his wake—“Hey, Mister? Tickets are fifty cents.” Someone was calling after him. Fifty cents! G. didn’t so much as glance back. He’d had a reputation, he’d prided himself in his reputation, at the seminary, for being rather aloof, even arrogant. D. was his only friend, D. was truly Christly, good. D. would understand his desperation and forgive him even if God would not. He hadn’t a penny for a ticket. Where he was headed, proudly he had no need for a penny. And possibly it was the Devil who teased him in the guise of a gray-haired gatekeeper. As it might be the Devil who teased mankind by placing “fossils” in the earth. Tempting him to turn back. Tempting cowardice. But G. in his headlong plunge would not succumb for G. had vowed to see this through. To God he’d vowed. To Jesus Christ (whose salvation he repudiated) he’d vowed. In a dead hour of the night before dawn, by his gold Bulova watch nearing five o’clock, he’d knelt on the painfully hard mock-marble tile floor of the bathroom. Steeling himself to endure the woman’s odor. Vomit, sweat. Odor of unclean female flesh. He’d bared his soul to his maker, that it be extirpated by the roots. For he had no need of a soul now. This act would be his crucifixion. A man’s death and not a coward’s. D. would see. All the world would see.
D.’s heart would be broken at last. The world’s heart would be broken.
And no possibility of survival.
Behind him the gatekeeper shouted. Barely G. could hear the man’s voice over the roaring of The Falls. At his left hand the Niagara River was wild, deafening. You would think, as local Indian tribes had thought, that it was a living thing that must be placated by sacrifices. A hungry river, and insatiable. Its source must be unknowable. And the massive falls ahead. The Falls stretching in a horseshoe curve, as far as the eye can see through curtains of rising mist and spray. (Winking flirtatious little rainbows appeared and disappeared amid the spray. Like bubbles, or butterflies. Tempting the viewer to stare in surprise, admiration; tempting the viewer to smile. Such useless beauty, amid such destruction!) Scarcely could G. see but he knew The Falls were ahead. It was a site called Terrapin Point he sought, knowing by the map that it was the southernmost tip of the little island. The Falls were so loud now as to be mesmerizing, calming. Flying spray blinded him but he had no need any longer to see. Damned glasses sliding down his nose. Always he’d hated glasses, diagnosed with myopia at the age of ten. G.’s fate! In a gesture of which he’d never have been capable in life he seized his glasses and flung them into space. Good riddance! No more!
The Falls Page 4