Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

James springs up and around, though the hammers barely winged him, belts her with an open hand then a closed fist before he realizes who it is and what he’s done, and how he’d never, not even Materia, though God knows —

His daughter is crying. She’s shocked. He’s hurt her, how? With my own hands. Dear God.

He reaches out, grazes a shoulder, an elbow, finds the small of her back, crushes her to him, he has never, would never do anything to hurt you, rather die, cut off my arms. He feels so acutely what she feels, clasping her, “Don’t cry,” a perishing empathy, “Hush now,” his throat scorched and taut, “Shshshsh,” he must protect her from — he must shield her from — what? … From all of it. From it all.

A life and a warmth enter his body that he hasn’t felt since — that he has rarely felt. She will be safe with him, I’ll keep you safe, my darling, oh how he loves this girl. He holds her close, no harm, never any harm. Her hair smells like the raw edge of spring, her skin is the silk of a thousand spinning-wheels, her breath so soft and fragrant, milk and honey are beneath your tongue …. Then he shocks himself. He lets her go and draws back abruptly so she will not notice what has happened to him. Sick. I must be sick. He leaves the room and bolts through the back door, across the yard, over the creek to the garden, where he calms down enough to vomit.

Materia gets her balance in the archway where she stumbled just now, when James knocked her aside on his retreat. She came when she heard the commotion, and stopped in the doorway and watched. She’s still watching. She goes to her daughter.

One of Kathleen’s teeth is loose. She’s young, it’ll mend. There’s a silly amount of blood on the carpet. Looks worse than it is. Materia takes Kathleen by the hand to the kitchen, where she washes her at the pump. She puts her to bed and brings her soft food. Sings until the green eyes close. Takes a pillow and places it gently over the sleeping face.

But removes it the next instant. If Materia’s heart were full, she’d know what to do. Who to save, how. Loving the girl now seems like an easy task compared with protecting her. It’s because I failed the first test that I am confronted with the second.

Materia tries to think what to do. But thinking never helped in such a situation. She gets a whiff of salt air, a chill laps her cheek, she feels movement beneath her feet, the bed pitches and she is on a liner bound for New York City, the girl with the heart-of-flame hair at her side clinging to the rail. But the moment flees before Materia can get hold of it, a message telegraphed weakly over a sagging distance of time and space, every second word missing.

Materia knows now who sent Kathleen, and why. It’s her own fault God is forced to work in this way. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Kathleen knew that her father had hit her by mistake, that he was terribly sorry. She knew he’d been working too hard and all for her sake. No harm done, the tooth settled back into the gum. She made him a card to tell him she loved him. She wrote a funny poem about “the lost chord”. They put it behind them.

The next night, Materia conceived Mercedes.

To her own surprise, Materia began to look forward to this child, not even caring if it was a boy. She was Hebleh again and she liked it this time. It made her feel close to her own mother, expanding body, avalanche breasts, slow thighs. Her troubles went into remission.

James still didn’t take her places, but he came alive again at night — she’s my wife, after all. Her dark body and soft mind allowed him to enjoy her in an uncomplicated way. Why did he ever look to her for conversation or mental stimulation? It was unfair of him. A man looks elsewhere for those things. James finally felt normal.

He put on a little weight; she fed him, ran his nightly bath, washed his back, licked his ear and reached into the water. He let her. He was soothed. He had outrun the demon that had leapt up in him the day he hurt Kathleen.

Materia tried to conceive in sorrow, telling herself that it was only to prevent a greater sin on her husband’s part that she acted the harlot with him, enticing him even when she was already pregnant. Lust in marriage is the same as adultery. Adultery’s a mortal sin. That’s in the Commandments. Materia prayed that God might overlook the impurity in her heart. For after all, her actions were correct.

Mercedes is born late in 1912. Materia loves her. She doesn’t have to try, she just does, it’s a Joyful Mystery. Thank you Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all the saints. And God too.

Materia doesn’t begrudge Mrs Luvovitz a third son, Ralph, two months younger than Mercedes; maybe they’ll grow up to marry each other.

James doesn’t object or even comment when Materia gets Mercedes baptized by the priest at the Catholic church in nearby Lingan. She starts going to mass again, not just Sunday but every day. Holy water in the desert, she hadn’t known how thirsty she’d been. Materia lights candles and kneels to pray with Mercedes in her arms at the base of the beautiful eight-foot Mary. But Materia doesn’t look up. She looks straight into the ruby eyes of the grinning serpent dying under the Virgin’s foot.

Materia offers it a sacrifice. She will play only at church, and only from the hymnal. Her one concession is Mrs Luvovitz’s Yiddish songbook, which is the least she can do for a friend who has given so much. It’s the same God, after all.

Eleven months later, Mrs Luvovitz is on the spot again when Materia gives birth to Frances. Lucky thing, because Frances is set to walk out feet first. Mrs Luvovitz reaches in and turns her around. Not so much difference between a calf and a child. Frances is born with the caul. An especially good omen for an island child, being a charm against drowning.

Frances looks a little starveling and she’s bald as a post. Materia figures it’s because she conceived too soon after Mercedes, the goodness in her womb hadn’t yet been replenished. And her milk isn’t as bountiful. All the more reason to love this one too.

Frances is baptized at the Empire Theatre on Plummer Avenue. The temporary digs of the new Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church.

Mercedes is a good baby, following everything closely with her brown eyes, sleeping when she ought, wanting to hold the cup and not spill a drop. Frances laughs at seven weeks.

Along with Frances, the town is officially born in 1913. The boom town has a name now: New Waterford.

James feels the normal pride of a man with a growing family. He works double shifts but that’s a small price to pay. Those two babies are the proof. His demon is so far behind him now, he can reflect upon it: he was overworked. He hit his daughter by mistake and got terribly upset. In the ensuing panic there was a physical accident. Meaningless. Hanged men get hard-ons, for heaven’s sake.

Materia’s pregnant again.

James is glad to see that his wife has recovered her senses. No more roaming the shore, babbling. No more unnerving sights like that of his wife in the attic with her head in the hope chest, sound asleep or entranced. Never now does he hear her tormenting the piano as he comes up the walk from work. Crazy for religion, yes, but women are. And she’ll get her shape back after the baby.

The two little ones seem fine, Mercedes breastfeeding a dolly and cooing to Frances. Frances has hair now. Curly golden locks, hazel eyes with glints of laughing green, first word: “Boo!”

It rains all winter. Plummer Avenue is aptly named and runs with mud but the Pipers have plenty of coal to burn off the damp. The fire is lit and the radiators clank to life the moment Kathleen gets home from school.