The Marriage of Opposites
Page 39
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“And feed him what? Oh, no. I can’t have a pet. He should have stayed wild. You should never have spoiled him.”
Before long, Jestine and I had walked so far the moon was hidden. We were both deep in thought. We thought of the men we loved and men we didn’t. Though we didn’t speak, our breathing was in the same rhythm. We let the donkey go on the dark road. He stood where he was, confused. Then he came up to me, and nudged me. I did not shed a tear at my husband’s funeral, though he was a good and decent man, but now I wept openly, sobbing, and I could not stop. Jestine slapped the donkey on his rear to force him to trot away. Still he looked back. He did not want to leave me. Who would give him bread soaked with milk as a treat? Who would brush the dust from his coat? I didn’t believe I could love anyone, and yet I was in tears. I was as alone as that poor motherless creature.
Then and there I thought of all the things a woman could do to escape her life: She could walk into the water and see nothing but blue, hear nothing but the rising tide. She could leap into a ravine where the parrots were hidden in the leaves. She could climb onto a boat in the harbor, cover herself with muslin tarp, eat limes until her journey was over. Jestine and I could make our way to France. I could leave my children until I was able send for them; surely they would receive the blessings of our congregation, even though I had little to do with the Sisterhood. I could buy the tickets, pack a suitcase, wait for Jestine outside her house. But there on the dark road, I felt a kick inside of me, the spark of life. I had kept what I knew to be true to myself. There was a baby to come. I had known for some time, but I’d told no one, not even my husband. I had already decided to name him Isaac in honor of his father, the man I could not bring myself to love. The baby had been inside me for six months, but I wore bigger clothes and ate less.
Waiting for the third loss, I hadn’t known who would live and who would die. Sorrow always comes in that number, and I had feared the child I carried might be taken. But instead it was Isaac. Tonight I told Jestine about the baby. She hugged me and said all children were gifts from God, therefore God must believe I could carry this burden, even though I was alone. I remembered what Adelle had told me, that I would love someone one day. But that day was not yesterday and it wasn’t today. It was the red season, when the twisting roads were covered with petals, as if a woman had cried blood suddenly, without warning, after her heart had been broken.
WE MOVED IN WITH my mother. I wore black on that day and kept my eyes lowered. This was the last place I wanted to be, but I was a widow with six children and one still to come. I needed to practice logic and thrift. Most of our belongings had already been sold to pay off Isaac’s debts. Women were entitled to no earthly goods in this world, and when the will was finally read in the parlor of my mother’s house, I was passed over for a male relation in France. No one had heard of him before, no one had met him, but Isaac’s family in France now owned most of the estate, including my father’s store and house. We would be allowed to live off our smaller portion. A stranger would decide all of our fates. Our situation did not surprise me. I was more shocked when the will was read to discover that Rosalie was not a maid but a slave, something my husband had kept from me. Perhaps he was embarrassed, as he should have been. He was a kind man, but he believed in the social order, and his views were not mine. My father had freed Mr. Enrique before they reached this island. I begged Rosalie’s forgiveness when I discovered the situation, yet again there was nothing I could do. Because I was a woman, I had no legal right. I could not change what had been written into the law.
Once I’d moved into my mother’s house, I attended services on Saturday mornings and sat among the women with my mother and her good friend Madame Halevy. “You haven’t been here for quite some time,” Madame Halevy remarked. Nothing went unnoticed by her sharp eye.
“I was mourning my husband,” I said.
“As I once mourned mine. But I didn’t forsake my God.”
We stared at each other, then I said, “I’m sure he will take that into consideration when you die.”
“Which will be a very long time from now,” Madame Halevy assured my mother.
I turned from both of them. Their lives had been built around our faith and our congregation, but I went to the synagogue only because I was expected to do so. When prayers were spoken, I didn’t ask God for anything, nor did I beg for mercy. My life had returned to the one I’d had as a girl, only now I had six children depending on me. I was more trapped than ever. During the months that we waited for Isaac’s relative to arrive and claim his property, I worked beside Rosalie at mealtime and in the laundry. There was a space between us now that I was aware of her situation, and we did not speak as freely as we had when we lived in my husband’s house. There was endless work to be done, and I often was too tired to eat. Sometimes in the evening I sat in the garden and thought of my dreams and how they were further away now than they’d been when I wrote my stories in a notebook. I’d packed away my notebook. I was a disbeliever now. All of the books in my father’s library had been sold. I had managed to save a single volume. Perrault. But of late I hadn’t the heart to read those stories and imagine cold, black nights in Paris and paths that might lead through the woods outside the city where there were the old châteaus. My oldest daughter, Hannah, often came to sit with me, as if she could sense my despair. She was nine years old but wise beyond her years. She had always helped me take care of the younger children, who were a little troupe, always together. Although she was not my daughter by blood, she understood me and she slipped her hand into mine when she took note of my despair. I stroked her hair and was glad she had an open heart and was nothing like me. She asked me for a story, for I had often read to her from my notebook, but I said I didn’t believe in such things anymore.
Before long, Jestine and I had walked so far the moon was hidden. We were both deep in thought. We thought of the men we loved and men we didn’t. Though we didn’t speak, our breathing was in the same rhythm. We let the donkey go on the dark road. He stood where he was, confused. Then he came up to me, and nudged me. I did not shed a tear at my husband’s funeral, though he was a good and decent man, but now I wept openly, sobbing, and I could not stop. Jestine slapped the donkey on his rear to force him to trot away. Still he looked back. He did not want to leave me. Who would give him bread soaked with milk as a treat? Who would brush the dust from his coat? I didn’t believe I could love anyone, and yet I was in tears. I was as alone as that poor motherless creature.
Then and there I thought of all the things a woman could do to escape her life: She could walk into the water and see nothing but blue, hear nothing but the rising tide. She could leap into a ravine where the parrots were hidden in the leaves. She could climb onto a boat in the harbor, cover herself with muslin tarp, eat limes until her journey was over. Jestine and I could make our way to France. I could leave my children until I was able send for them; surely they would receive the blessings of our congregation, even though I had little to do with the Sisterhood. I could buy the tickets, pack a suitcase, wait for Jestine outside her house. But there on the dark road, I felt a kick inside of me, the spark of life. I had kept what I knew to be true to myself. There was a baby to come. I had known for some time, but I’d told no one, not even my husband. I had already decided to name him Isaac in honor of his father, the man I could not bring myself to love. The baby had been inside me for six months, but I wore bigger clothes and ate less.
Waiting for the third loss, I hadn’t known who would live and who would die. Sorrow always comes in that number, and I had feared the child I carried might be taken. But instead it was Isaac. Tonight I told Jestine about the baby. She hugged me and said all children were gifts from God, therefore God must believe I could carry this burden, even though I was alone. I remembered what Adelle had told me, that I would love someone one day. But that day was not yesterday and it wasn’t today. It was the red season, when the twisting roads were covered with petals, as if a woman had cried blood suddenly, without warning, after her heart had been broken.
WE MOVED IN WITH my mother. I wore black on that day and kept my eyes lowered. This was the last place I wanted to be, but I was a widow with six children and one still to come. I needed to practice logic and thrift. Most of our belongings had already been sold to pay off Isaac’s debts. Women were entitled to no earthly goods in this world, and when the will was finally read in the parlor of my mother’s house, I was passed over for a male relation in France. No one had heard of him before, no one had met him, but Isaac’s family in France now owned most of the estate, including my father’s store and house. We would be allowed to live off our smaller portion. A stranger would decide all of our fates. Our situation did not surprise me. I was more shocked when the will was read to discover that Rosalie was not a maid but a slave, something my husband had kept from me. Perhaps he was embarrassed, as he should have been. He was a kind man, but he believed in the social order, and his views were not mine. My father had freed Mr. Enrique before they reached this island. I begged Rosalie’s forgiveness when I discovered the situation, yet again there was nothing I could do. Because I was a woman, I had no legal right. I could not change what had been written into the law.
Once I’d moved into my mother’s house, I attended services on Saturday mornings and sat among the women with my mother and her good friend Madame Halevy. “You haven’t been here for quite some time,” Madame Halevy remarked. Nothing went unnoticed by her sharp eye.
“I was mourning my husband,” I said.
“As I once mourned mine. But I didn’t forsake my God.”
We stared at each other, then I said, “I’m sure he will take that into consideration when you die.”
“Which will be a very long time from now,” Madame Halevy assured my mother.
I turned from both of them. Their lives had been built around our faith and our congregation, but I went to the synagogue only because I was expected to do so. When prayers were spoken, I didn’t ask God for anything, nor did I beg for mercy. My life had returned to the one I’d had as a girl, only now I had six children depending on me. I was more trapped than ever. During the months that we waited for Isaac’s relative to arrive and claim his property, I worked beside Rosalie at mealtime and in the laundry. There was a space between us now that I was aware of her situation, and we did not speak as freely as we had when we lived in my husband’s house. There was endless work to be done, and I often was too tired to eat. Sometimes in the evening I sat in the garden and thought of my dreams and how they were further away now than they’d been when I wrote my stories in a notebook. I’d packed away my notebook. I was a disbeliever now. All of the books in my father’s library had been sold. I had managed to save a single volume. Perrault. But of late I hadn’t the heart to read those stories and imagine cold, black nights in Paris and paths that might lead through the woods outside the city where there were the old châteaus. My oldest daughter, Hannah, often came to sit with me, as if she could sense my despair. She was nine years old but wise beyond her years. She had always helped me take care of the younger children, who were a little troupe, always together. Although she was not my daughter by blood, she understood me and she slipped her hand into mine when she took note of my despair. I stroked her hair and was glad she had an open heart and was nothing like me. She asked me for a story, for I had often read to her from my notebook, but I said I didn’t believe in such things anymore.
