right, Marian?”
“No, not really. I’m still trying to put the pieces together.”
Beva looked at her, dumbfounded. “How was the liver, Benjamin?”
“Delish.”
Marian removed Ben’s empty plate from him.
“Let Benjamin do that. He knows where to put them. But come. You can help carry. The salmon’s ready.”
Beva rose and took the plates Marian had been clearing away from her. Ben gave her a look that meant hold on, it’s almost over.
Marian waved goodbye, and then went into the kitchen, sipped her tea. Somehow Beva convinced Ben he was needed at home that night, which was understandable. She wished things were different, that she had been there helping them out, too, but she couldn’t; Beva made it all too clear that she was not welcome. “Marian,” Mrs. Ellis had said, coming out the door, her arms wrapped around her petite waist, as if to keep her from collapse. “I’m sorry, but do you think my husband would be lying on the floor if Benjamin hadn’t invited you over? Think about it. I know you’re a smart girl. Does this seem right to you? You and my son?”
She glanced through the bay window at Ben, holding his dazed father’s head in his hands. Ben’s father was staring at the ceiling, his yalmulke pushed to the back of his scalp baring a balding crown.
“Yes, Mrs. Ellis. I think this is right. Me and Ben.”
Ben had placed the white cap and talith on his father, washed and dressed in white linen, after Samuel Ellis was taken to the mortuary. Earth from Israel was sprinkled three times over his body; the Gabbai covered him in a second sheet, and closed the plain, wooden coffin. His mother threw three shovelfuls of earth onto the coffin, and they remained standing there until the grave was filled. Once home, Marian pictured him lighting a cigarette, his right leg shaking underneath the dining room table. How gruesome was it for him to see the hall mirror covered in black? That first week, he never left the house, never shaved, never bathed. Did he think about her, and guilt attacked her again. Hadn’t she heard the news at the Zion School and up and down Clanbrassil Street? Is that what underlined his anger? She thought this often, but after the Mammy’s contempt, who could have blamed her for staying away?
“Do you think I caused your father’s heart attack, Ben?” Marian whispered one evening after Ben mentioned that Beva was a walking bone, that her black dress hung on her as if she was a wooden hanger.
“No,” he answered quietly. Beva did not speak of Marian since the funeral, she was sure, but did Ben bring up Marian’s name to Beva? Beva must have thought Tatte’s death finally rid him of the inappropriate girlfriend, the derelict schoolteacher. But that was not so.
Marian picked at a scone and then went up to her room, perused her closet. As she selected her brown woolen tunic dress with the patent leather black belt, she remembered dressing in the predawn the day she’d left Dublin for Castleboro, wrestling with all the layering: the oversized bra, the tight blouse, the bulky knit sweater. Slowly, she slipped one leg and then the other into her black nylon stockings, chose her black pumps, recalled her scratchy skirt as she’d grappled with it, left the button undone under her sweater. She felt strangely removed, even now, and found herself eerily going through the motions of getting dressed as if she were watching a film about somebody else’s life.
Ben said his appointment today with the principal of the Zion School would be brief. An interview with the notable alum, the journalist, to
“No, not really. I’m still trying to put the pieces together.”
Beva looked at her, dumbfounded. “How was the liver, Benjamin?”
“Delish.”
Marian removed Ben’s empty plate from him.
“Let Benjamin do that. He knows where to put them. But come. You can help carry. The salmon’s ready.”
Beva rose and took the plates Marian had been clearing away from her. Ben gave her a look that meant hold on, it’s almost over.
Marian waved goodbye, and then went into the kitchen, sipped her tea. Somehow Beva convinced Ben he was needed at home that night, which was understandable. She wished things were different, that she had been there helping them out, too, but she couldn’t; Beva made it all too clear that she was not welcome. “Marian,” Mrs. Ellis had said, coming out the door, her arms wrapped around her petite waist, as if to keep her from collapse. “I’m sorry, but do you think my husband would be lying on the floor if Benjamin hadn’t invited you over? Think about it. I know you’re a smart girl. Does this seem right to you? You and my son?”
She glanced through the bay window at Ben, holding his dazed father’s head in his hands. Ben’s father was staring at the ceiling, his yalmulke pushed to the back of his scalp baring a balding crown.
“Yes, Mrs. Ellis. I think this is right. Me and Ben.”
Ben had placed the white cap and talith on his father, washed and dressed in white linen, after Samuel Ellis was taken to the mortuary. Earth from Israel was sprinkled three times over his body; the Gabbai covered him in a second sheet, and closed the plain, wooden coffin. His mother threw three shovelfuls of earth onto the coffin, and they remained standing there until the grave was filled. Once home, Marian pictured him lighting a cigarette, his right leg shaking underneath the dining room table. How gruesome was it for him to see the hall mirror covered in black? That first week, he never left the house, never shaved, never bathed. Did he think about her, and guilt attacked her again. Hadn’t she heard the news at the Zion School and up and down Clanbrassil Street? Is that what underlined his anger? She thought this often, but after the Mammy’s contempt, who could have blamed her for staying away?
“Do you think I caused your father’s heart attack, Ben?” Marian whispered one evening after Ben mentioned that Beva was a walking bone, that her black dress hung on her as if she was a wooden hanger.
“No,” he answered quietly. Beva did not speak of Marian since the funeral, she was sure, but did Ben bring up Marian’s name to Beva? Beva must have thought Tatte’s death finally rid him of the inappropriate girlfriend, the derelict schoolteacher. But that was not so.
Marian picked at a scone and then went up to her room, perused her closet. As she selected her brown woolen tunic dress with the patent leather black belt, she remembered dressing in the predawn the day she’d left Dublin for Castleboro, wrestling with all the layering: the oversized bra, the tight blouse, the bulky knit sweater. Slowly, she slipped one leg and then the other into her black nylon stockings, chose her black pumps, recalled her scratchy skirt as she’d grappled with it, left the button undone under her sweater. She felt strangely removed, even now, and found herself eerily going through the motions of getting dressed as if she were watching a film about somebody else’s life.
Ben said his appointment today with the principal of the Zion School would be brief. An interview with the notable alum, the journalist, to
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