Esmé Wang - The Border of Paradise

Right as I crossed the border into Killington, I made my plans. I decided that I’d claim to be Marty. I feared that I wouldn’t be allowed to enter without being a direct relation. And yet I was terrified that Marianne’s disappointment upon discovering my lie would make her angry, and that she’d send me away without a chance to explain. When I arrived at Killington I drove aimlessly, not sure of what to do or where to go until I found a filling station, and asked the attendant if there was a convent in town. He said that there was. I asked him, a tautly muscular young man with a mild overbite, if he knew where the convent was. He asked if he looked like the kind of guy who would know where a convent would be, and I said, “I suppose not.” I asked him if he knew how I could find out where the convent was. He shrugged and looked over my head at the mountains. I reached for my wallet and gave him a five-dollar bill. “And how can I find out,” I said, “where this convent is?”

He put the bill in his pocket and went into the garage, and when he returned he said, “The convent’s the Monastery of the Sacred Heart, on the only hill in Killington.”

As I drove toward the singular hill, I saw a bar on the main road. It, like most buildings of that area, and of Polk Valley, resembled a saloon, complete with swinging doors and a block-font sign, which read THE MINE SHAFT. I wanted courage. I parked the Buick in the dust, and I entered the open bar, where I sat on a stool and spoke to no one but to order my drinks. I knocked back whiskey till my face went numb. Yet I was in possession of all of my faculties. I didn’t stumble, I didn’t slur. I merely felt more confident when I thought of what was to come. I took care to rinse my mouth with soda, and then I paid my tab and stepped into the light, where the light was so blinding that I felt myself surrounded by angels.

At the convent I said I was Marianne’s brother, Marty, and the abbot directed me to her. I entered the kitchen in a daze. I was aware of a long counter and a long wooden farm table at the center of the room. On the wall closest to the door hung a crucifix and several small paintings in frames, but I only glanced at those; Marianne, standing alone, was all that I truly saw. She was making bread, with her hands and forearms covered in flour. Lumps of dough sat on the counter on wax paper.

Marianne turned, wearing a shapeless brown dress beneath a simple white apron at her front, and her likeness was that of a drab female bird. Her face had matured and thinned — the rounded cheeks were pulled sharply inward, and her nose gave her face a leaner, more beaky profile — but her lips were the same soft shade of blessed pink, her eyes green-blue, and when I say “drab” I mean no insult; only that her looks were more modest than Daisy’s spectacular ones, and simultaneously more angelic. Her face tensed. She said, “David? How did you know where I was? They told me it was Marty. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you,” I said. Her face was as holy as anything in that convent, I thought. Her head was uncovered, which surprised me, and my eyes traveled from her face to her hair, and her hair glowed, the experience of it like opening a window in a stuffy house. But I had to deal with the reality of where I was, and with whom I was speaking. I did try to rein in my heart. I struggled to remember that we were two human beings, each with our own commitments. (At her throat lay a simple cross. On my left ring finger clung a simple band.)

Marianne took a stool from the farm table and dragged it out. Flour dusted the seat. “Sit,” she said. “I need to deal with these loaves before they turn to stone. I’m not the best baker, but I’m learning.” As she punched the dough, she said, “They told me that Marty was here. I thought you were going to be Marty. You know,” she added, her fists thudding steadily, “they would’ve let you visit me, regardless. Our order isn’t known for being strict. You didn’t have to lie about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Well, it isn’t as bad as all that. I don’t mean to sound cross. I’m glad to see you — it isn’t as though I forgot about you.” These last words disrupted her movements for a second, and then she continued. “You look unhappy.”

“Is that a divinely inspired insight?” I asked, trying to joke, but feeling like death.

“No. I just know you.” She smiled. “Do you still pray?”

“Yes. And with my son, too.”

“Your son,” Marianne said, and paused again. She lifted the loaf and moved it, replacing it with the next ball of dough before resuming her small movements. “So you have a son. Goodness, how time flies. What’s his name?”

“William.”

“William. I’ll add him to my prayers. And your wife?”

“Daisy.”

“I’ll pray for Daisy, too.”

She was polite enough to ignore my uncontrollable twitching. How serene, I thought. Why was it so simple for her? Daisy’s name from her throat had a wretched effect on me. I imagined that the name, which in that moment I found anything but charming, had caused Marianne to feel safer in my presence, but I didn’t want her to feel safe. I wanted her to be on edge and shaking with complicated emotions, the way that I was on edge and shaking because I wanted to throw myself at her and run away all at once. I wanted her to be vulnerable, and even to come over and put her flour-flecked hand on mine. My eyes settled on a vase on the counter by the sink. Coming out of the clear glass was a sprig of something with round green leaves, and a number of bright pink flowers sprang here and there from its branches. From that counter she overlooked a lawn with trees, and I saw women huddled in the dirt outside, digging and planting.

“Well,” she said. “I’m going to be doing this for a while. Then I have prayers at four. Don’t you have somewhere to be? I don’t expect that you have a job now. Or do you? Where does your wife think you are?”

“I don’t have a job, no. And I told Daisy that I was visiting a friend.”

“Ah. That you are. Funny how quickly things change. You look so grown-up now.”

“And you,” I replied, “said that you would devote your life to God. Here you are.” I wanted to add, You never wrote, but I knew that to say so would jeopardize everything.

“Yes. It took some doing. My parents weren’t pleased. But it was God’s will. You know that summer, when I was doing volunteer work with Father Danuta? When I was praying all that time? I was asking. I was searching for guidance.”

“I remember. You came to my house. You were cleaning out that widow’s house, and I barely saw you for months.”

“Well. My father was drinking, which I’ve forgiven him for, and more importantly, I’m not afraid of him now. At the time, though, I was terrified. I would have done anything he told me to. The whole family did.”

We both thought of my broken nose and my black eye. I saw it flicker across her face as it danced through my brain.

She said, “You know, my family never tries to make contact with me these days. That’s why I was so surprised when the abbot told me Marty had come. I haven’t seen him since he left for the navy, do you know that? I hope I didn’t seem angry when you came in. It is truly good to see you. I just miss my family.”

“I wasn’t offended.”

“This is the life I’m meant to live, but it isn’t without sacrifice.”

I said, “I admire that.”

“In a way,” she said, “it’s easier than you might think. Doing a thing that some people consider difficult — it’s a lot easier when you don’t have options. Or no longer have options.”