out. ‘Better me than a young wife. Better me than one who might tell them something. I dealt with them.’
‘Dealt with them? We don’t “deal” with the police. Know that you are watched, wife.’
‘We are all watched, by you and God.’ And by Sorrow and by other wives, she thought.
‘Know that you are first and will be last.’ He stood before her, ramming her into the altar, and she could see, through the window, how the sun set on the clump of wives around his van, welcoming, no doubt, some new young woman, another reason for his delayed return.
‘First, I am. Not last.’
‘No one replaces you.’ He put his hands about her waist and leaned into her, so she could feel him. He pulled her apron strings open and she caught the garment, setting it aside lest she lose what she kept in its pocket, what Hope left her.
‘It was a long summer, husband,’ she told him.
He felt up the front of her, her bodice, her breasts. He felt her belly and cupped her crotch. ‘Not so long,’ he said. ‘You are much the same.’
She nodded. She took care not to become pregnant after Hope left. Not all wives were as careful, but who would pull their babies free now? Amaranth knew the work would fall to her and she did not feel prepared for it, did not feel sufficiently trained. She never thought that Hope would leave them – Hope, a name none of them dared utter now.
His hands worked their way up into her skirts. They pulled at her shift, worming their way between her legs, and her body welcomed him home – Jezebel – as it always did, betraying her year after year.
The girl he brought back, a shy and pockmarked girl, would become his fiftieth wife once the vines were lacy with hoarfrost. She would be the last to wear a veil over the black roots of her bleached hair, last to slip the ring onto her finger, last to watch it slip up and down the finger of every wife before her. As with every wife before her, she married them one and all; each took her salty kiss.
Across the temple, he called, ‘The end of time will come with the marriage of the Lamb!’
Sorrow called back, ‘Worthy is the Lamb who is slain for power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!’
‘The end of the world will come with fire!’
‘Hallelujah!’ wives called and spun. They spun about the room and took the fiftieth wife. Each wife took her as her own. They spun her hand to hand, and then he spun her into bindings. He spun her around the temple, clothing her as he would any wife, as wives wrapped her, embraced her. Then he spun her back to remove the bindings, making her nude as Eve. Amaranth watched her husband take the pink plums of her breasts into his hands, watched him nuzzle the woman, consecrating and anointing her skin with his mouth and his words. Wives spun, unmindful, unheeding. She remembered when his wives could have fit in one bed, then one room, then one house. Now women stretched across the temple.
He held his hand out last for Amaranth, calling her to the fiftieth wife. But she was watching Sorrow; Sorrow, who sulked and stroked her china bowl, stroked her belly.
Her eyes met her daughter’s across the winding sweep of women and the new bride, her new mother, and there was something in her face that she couldn’t define. Something like regret tinged with hope, or anger mixed with triumph. Something like love and betrayal. It was a look she had never seen on her child, after all that happened, and she wondered what her own face showed, what Sorrow could see were she looking.
Could she see that it was still hard to watch it, though she had had years to get used to her husband’s hands on other women?
But then, she thought, so had Sorrow.
11
The Gas Station Oracle
T wo sisters stand, strapped together on either side of a bathroom door.
Sorrow stands inside the dark room, the strap stretching through the doorknob hole to Amity at its other end, outside and sweating in the sun. She watches
‘Dealt with them? We don’t “deal” with the police. Know that you are watched, wife.’
‘We are all watched, by you and God.’ And by Sorrow and by other wives, she thought.
‘Know that you are first and will be last.’ He stood before her, ramming her into the altar, and she could see, through the window, how the sun set on the clump of wives around his van, welcoming, no doubt, some new young woman, another reason for his delayed return.
‘First, I am. Not last.’
‘No one replaces you.’ He put his hands about her waist and leaned into her, so she could feel him. He pulled her apron strings open and she caught the garment, setting it aside lest she lose what she kept in its pocket, what Hope left her.
‘It was a long summer, husband,’ she told him.
He felt up the front of her, her bodice, her breasts. He felt her belly and cupped her crotch. ‘Not so long,’ he said. ‘You are much the same.’
She nodded. She took care not to become pregnant after Hope left. Not all wives were as careful, but who would pull their babies free now? Amaranth knew the work would fall to her and she did not feel prepared for it, did not feel sufficiently trained. She never thought that Hope would leave them – Hope, a name none of them dared utter now.
His hands worked their way up into her skirts. They pulled at her shift, worming their way between her legs, and her body welcomed him home – Jezebel – as it always did, betraying her year after year.
The girl he brought back, a shy and pockmarked girl, would become his fiftieth wife once the vines were lacy with hoarfrost. She would be the last to wear a veil over the black roots of her bleached hair, last to slip the ring onto her finger, last to watch it slip up and down the finger of every wife before her. As with every wife before her, she married them one and all; each took her salty kiss.
Across the temple, he called, ‘The end of time will come with the marriage of the Lamb!’
Sorrow called back, ‘Worthy is the Lamb who is slain for power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!’
‘The end of the world will come with fire!’
‘Hallelujah!’ wives called and spun. They spun about the room and took the fiftieth wife. Each wife took her as her own. They spun her hand to hand, and then he spun her into bindings. He spun her around the temple, clothing her as he would any wife, as wives wrapped her, embraced her. Then he spun her back to remove the bindings, making her nude as Eve. Amaranth watched her husband take the pink plums of her breasts into his hands, watched him nuzzle the woman, consecrating and anointing her skin with his mouth and his words. Wives spun, unmindful, unheeding. She remembered when his wives could have fit in one bed, then one room, then one house. Now women stretched across the temple.
He held his hand out last for Amaranth, calling her to the fiftieth wife. But she was watching Sorrow; Sorrow, who sulked and stroked her china bowl, stroked her belly.
Her eyes met her daughter’s across the winding sweep of women and the new bride, her new mother, and there was something in her face that she couldn’t define. Something like regret tinged with hope, or anger mixed with triumph. Something like love and betrayal. It was a look she had never seen on her child, after all that happened, and she wondered what her own face showed, what Sorrow could see were she looking.
Could she see that it was still hard to watch it, though she had had years to get used to her husband’s hands on other women?
But then, she thought, so had Sorrow.
11
The Gas Station Oracle
T wo sisters stand, strapped together on either side of a bathroom door.
Sorrow stands inside the dark room, the strap stretching through the doorknob hole to Amity at its other end, outside and sweating in the sun. She watches
Similar Books
