Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

The Mountie looks at Adelaide and asks, taking out his notebook, “Is that correct, ma’am?”

Mercedes snaps, “Of course it’s correct, look at their clothes!”

And as she turns she finally reads their bloodstains and cross-references them with the spotlessness of the woman upstairs. “Oh my God.” Her scaffolding of pride collapses and her face falls so far that even Adelaide might begin to forgive her, but there’s no time for that because Mercedes is travelling up the stairs, leaving the Mountie at a bit of a loss. He turns to Adelaide, “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to come with me down to the —”

“In a minute, b’y,” she says, brushing by him and up the stairs.

Ginger follows, then so does the Mountie. It’s been a rough couple of days for the rookie. Last night he broke the news to a woman of her husband’s death in a car wreck and she took it like a weather report. Today he failed to obtain evidence of illegal alcohol production and just now he nearly fainted — he can handle the sight of blood so long as he isn’t ambushed by it. He follows the procession up the stairs, determined to redeem himself with an arrest.

Mercedes is running now, slipping on beeswax, she reaches out and catches the doorjamb of the recovery room, propels herself through, sees the curtained bed at the far end standing like a draped chalice. She hurries towards it praying. There’s a sound coming from within. The head nurse sees the look in Mercedes’ eyes at twenty feet, rises, sets aside her racing form and catches Mercedes’ wrists before she can tear at the curtains. Mercedes starts breathing again under nurse’s iron gaze, and listens. Someone is singing. The head nurse releases Mercedes and gently parts the curtains.

Teresa towers over Frances, singing softly, a West Indian lullaby. One hand rests lightly on Frances’s forehead. Frances and Lily and Trixie are all asleep. Nurse and Mercedes look on and are joined by Adelaide, then Ginger, then the Mountie. “Now, what seems —” Mercedes silences him with a look.

Teresa finishes the song. She turns to the constable. “I’m ready to go.”

Lily and Trixie open their eyes. Teresa goes to move from the bed but is prevented by Frances’s grip on her hand. Frances, her face still marked from the self-administered beating of the day before, turns to her audience filling the parted curtains and speaks, “Mercedes?”

Why does Frances suddenly have an English accent, wonders Lily.

“I am truly sorry to have brought shame and anguish upon my family. Officer, arrest me, do your worst, for finding myself with child and without a husband, I betook me to the brink of the roiling deep where I did shoot myself. O, that I had died.”

Frances turns her face upstage and allows a sob to escape her. Then the nurse clears the sick-room. “Show’s over, folks.”

And that’s how Frances took Teresa’s hate away.

Nine and a half months later, Teresa gives birth to a perfect baby girl she calls Adele Claire. Adelaide was right. Hector still works.

The head nurse’s stitches were a thing of beauty. They’ve been out for a month or so now, leaving only a shy smile below Frances’s ribcage on her right side. It is the sly widening of this smile that indicates forces at work within Frances. She strokes her belly and returns the smile, Hello .

Mercedes notes with approval, “You’re putting on weight.” Frances has just risen from the steaming bathtub and Mercedes has wrapped her in a big towel warm from the radiator. It’s the first of November but Mercedes has been burning coal since “the accident” in July, knowing Frances to be prone to chills. And Frances has permitted herself to be immersed, bathed and dried, docile as a drugged child.

It’s been so peaceful, Frances’s convalescence. She sits at the table without jittering and eats large meals. She smiles instead of grinning. She has ceased her roaming and spends the days under a light blanket on the veranda and, when well enough, strolling of an evening to the sea cliff with Lily and Trixie. Frances has become clean and soft, sweet to smell. And her face. It is fuller. Her eyes are calm, no longer furtive. The white stripe across her nose, emblem of glee, has not appeared, not once. She has breasts. Ripe. At their centres, mauve haloes resolve into walnut erections, the only part of her body not in lush repose. And her hair-of-all-directions has begun to shine. A bonnet of crackling copper lights and pure blonde threads. Frances is pretty. Yes, that’s what it is.

“It’s been four months, high time I had something to show,” replies Frances, tranquil beneath the comb Mercedes is drawing through her wet curls. Mercedes stops, looks down and plucks a golden strand from the comb.

“Frances, that’s not possible.”

The nurse told Mercedes that, what with the shooting, nature would take care of Frances’s predicament. It would be like a particularly bad period. Mercedes has been waiting for Frances’s cramps to start, but Frances must have suffered in silence, because how could she possibly still be —

“Look at me.” Frances stands naked, serene on the bathroom tiles.

Mercedes looks. And blushes with a prickly flush. No good pretending she has been looking after a child. She has been washing, stroking, feeding, drying a woman who is blooming like a hothouse rose. The nipples look ready to burst and scatter seed, the russet pubic hair hangs proud like a bunch of grapes. A fig leaf would not do in this case — ripe and uncooked, pink and grainy as that fruit, Frances’s whole boatful of genital cargo, from lip-wrapping-lips to clitoris in the prow, is in constant rockabye motion in response to the new deeper tides of her body. She is almost always somewhat aroused, can feel her soft-sided barque opening, closing, taking on water from within. Her body is making love to itself. Until now, Frances had no idea what all the fuss was about.

For once, Frances is stripped of irony. She is in the presence of something bigger — namely Herself. Or at least the self implied by her new body. This is how the Blessed Virgin visits us. She inhabits our own flesh and makes love out of it. Nothing is ironic in the moment of first love. And Frances is in love. With her body, and what it is bringing forth.

“Frances. You couldn’t still be pregnant. Not after what happened.”

Frances replies, “Especially after what happened.” She takes her white nightgown from the radiator and slips it on over her head, saying, “Thank you, Mercedes.”

Mercedes aches after Frances leaves the bathroom. Suddenly bereft, she sinks to the floor and leans her cheek against the enamel tub. The last of the water sucks down the drain and, before she knows why, her tears are flowing. It’s the same grief that’s been waiting, bottled, against the day of Frances’s death. Why has it been uncorked and sampled now? “Frances … my little Frances.” Mercedes manages to get the bottle stoppered, hurriedly fumbling as though unaware that it is a magic bottle, capable of refilling itself eternally.

She splashes cold water on her face and realizes she cried because Frances really has gone away — her Frances, that is. This new Frances says thank you; is careful of her health, looks forward to being a mother. My Frances is not a mother. My Frances is a child. Naughty but so dear. My child.

James has had his first stroke. But no one knows it, not even James. He just looks, and feels, older. One side of his face has slid a bit on its foundations. His left eye now always slightly sleepy, the left side of his mouth permanently triste. And he can’t make a good fist with his left hand. A state of “just woke up” along that whole side of him.