All Saints (17 page)

I wish I had been more appreciative of that privacy and conformity, and the anonymity they granted. I never knew how much I needed that polite mask until it was ripped away.

You see, I never wanted to be famous. To be recognized. Known and talked about. That's just the conclusion everyone jumped to. But they were quite wrong. It all came as a bit of a shock, as a matter of fact. The notoriety. People writing letters to newspapers, saying they hoped I rotted in hell, that this place was too good for me, that hanging would be too good for me, that skinning alive would be too good for me.

It didn't so much frighten me as make me feel embarrassed. By the vehemence. The sheer energy. The level of attention. Almost as if I'd been given some extravagant compliment, or some huge, inappropriate gift. I felt I should give it back and say, I'm sorry. There must be some mistake. This can't possibly be for me. All of a sudden I had become THAT Alice Vipond. The one whose name people not only recognized but couldn't say without claiming to be sick to their stomachs.

It's odd, you know. I still feel like the person I always was. Before, I mean. The one nobody ever noticed. Or if they did, it was with a kind of guilty start, as if they realized they should have noticed me years ago. And so they would come out with one of those compliments. You know the kind. Isn't Alice marvellous, they would say. Shaking their heads with a rueful, wondering smile. Isn't Alice marvellous. Always there. Willing to do what needs to be done. Pick the costumes up off the floor where the little actresses have flung them. Sew buttons on. Scrub away at make-up stains. Yes. What would we do without Alice?

Oh no. Look what I've done. Used up my pages, talking about myself. Please write back, Simon. Please do not give up on me. I promise to be less self-centered next time.

 

Yours,

Alice Vipond.

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Thank you so much for writing back and giving me a chance to redeem myself as a correspondent.

It is indeed, as you so kindly suggest, difficult to reach out to another, after years of being entirely self-referential. Almost like stretching cramped muscles, or trying to walk on bones grown fragile from disuse. Which may explain why it didn't even occur to me that the reference I made at the end of my last letter to picking costumes up off the floor for little actresses would be puzzling to you. Let me start by clearing that up.

But how does one clear something up? And where does one start? Everything is so intricately connected with everything else. I'm sure you'll agree with me there, Simon. You've no doubt given some thought to such things. Cause and effect. Crime and punishment. Sin and damnation.

Over the years, the minders who come with their clipboards have tried so hard to find out just exactly what it is about Alice Vipond. The key. The explanation for it all. Frankly, if there were such a thing, if I myself had been able to point to it and say, there—that's why—I'd have done it years ago. If only to stop them asking.

One or two of them seemed to think they had found the answer (and for a time I almost agreed with them) when I told them about a dream I used to have. It was a dream about being lost. Classic child's dream, or so I understand from my reading. I haven't had it for years—not since my mother's death, interestingly enough.

In the dream, I am, again, lost. Or at least, my mother is. I'm desperately looking for her. Through some fault of my own, we have become separated. I'm walking along a street that is a maddening combination of familiar and strange. My desperation grows, worsened by the knowledge that I am somehow to blame for my own plight. And then, all at once, there she is. My mother. Right in front of me. Not that she has been looking for me. Oh no. In fact, I seem to sense that until that moment, she hadn't noticed that I was missing. She is dressed for church. (In my memory, my mother is always dressed for church.) She looks at me—dishevelled and distraught as I am—and says, rather pettishly, “Oh, Alice!” Then she turns and starts walking quickly on her way, and it's up to me to catch up and make sure I don't lose her again.

Now, I assure you that nothing like that ever in fact happened to me. Still, it was all I had to tell the clipboard-wielding minders when they asked about unpleasant or frightening experiences I might have had as a child.

The truth is, nothing worthy of note ever happened to me. No uncle ever felt up under my party dress. Neither of my parents ever held my hands flat to the stove burner to teach me to be a lady. And I was never remarkable. In any way. At school, though I usually knew the answer to the teacher's question, I seldom raised my hand. If I excelled, it was in the areas of punctuality and deportment and neatness. When captains were choosing teams, they would pick me neither first nor last. And in the school play, I would be a face in the crowd. Or be given a couple of lines to say, just something to advance the plot. No stirring speeches. Nothing that would draw tears or laughter.

The one bit of applause I ever got—and this will explain my reference to picking up costumes—happened in junior high school. The play that year was
The Mikado
. Ambitious project. Lots of singing. Interesting characters. Naturally, it did not even occur to me to try out for a part. But the teacher who was directing the play insisted on including me, giving me a job. So she had me organize the costumes—make sure they were clean and in good repair and hung up on hangers, ready for the next performance. Costume Mistress, I suppose my title was. Or would have been, if whoever was drawing up the program hadn't forgotten to put me in it. Honestly, it was nothing. I didn't mind. Was hardly surprised, in fact. Kind of thing that happened all the time. And I certainly didn't complain. But on closing night, the director noticed. And I suppose she meant well. She was new, you see, and young. At any rate, once the applause had died down and people were starting to put on their coats, she stepped out from the wings and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen? There was an omission in the program. Alice Vipond organized the costumes backstage.” Well. There was a silence. And then one of those ghastly little trickles of applause. The kind that happen when people aren't sure whether or not they should clap, but then seem to decide, Oh well. What harm can it do?

So now you know what I was going on about, Simon. And once again, I have filled up my allotted pages with self-indulgence. What a bore I must be to you, for all your patience!

The next letter you send (if, that is, you have not entirely given up on me) must be about yourself, and only yourself. I want to hear about your life. What you do all day as Rector of All Saints. Who your friends are. What you think about.

Not—I assure you—that I mean to intrude. But anything you could tell me—the smallest detail—would have the effect of an open window. Fresh, clean air. And would be so very much appreciated.

 

Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Alice Vipond.

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Thank you for that delicious treat of a letter! You kept apologizing for the “boring” details of your life. Not so! For me, it was like a trip to the theatre to see the most intricate and fascinating of plays. How I enjoyed the little jokes you exchange in the morning with your secretary, Gail. How I commiserated with you when one of the “old guard” threatened to phone the Bishop and complain because the candles on the altar weren't lit. And how my heart beat like a girl's when you hinted at your growing affection for Kelly. Thank you for confiding that last detail, Simon. Of course, I understand that these things are delicate, she being a parishioner. But your decision to wait two years until you are retired to declare yourself to her gives me pause, if I may say so. Forgive my presumption, but I think you should tell her now. After all, anything can happen in two years. Even our own actions can surprise us. I assure you that I never envisioned the single act that would shape my life forever.

I never envisioned much of anything, truth to tell. At least, I can't remember a moment such as you describe experiencing as a young man, when it came to you that the central fact of your existence, the most significant thing about you, was your relationship with God. Nor did I ever have to struggle with such knowledge, as you depict yourself struggling with the notion of being a priest.

I don't even remember deciding to teach school. Choices were rather limited then, for young women. If you were nearing the end of high school with no engagement ring on your finger and no prospect of one, it was time to take stock and decide between teaching, nursing or being a secretary. Yes, young women sometimes did go to university. But though I had always been a solid student, I was not scholarship material, and my father could not afford to send me.

I didn't even actively decide to teach Grade Two. In normal school, I was told that Grade Two was the level on which I would be most effective. It was never spelled out, but I knew what they meant. I wasn't skilled enough to teach the basics to the Grade Ones, and I wasn't authoritative enough for the Grade Threes, who can be a bit of a handful. Grade Two it was, then. Ages six and seven. Edges rubbed off. Still inclined to obedience. Easy, in other words. Easy enough for such as me.

So I'm afraid you're not going to get the kind of answer I assume you may have been expecting or even hoping for, Simon, to your question about what is paramount in my own life. Though you will get an answer. As you can imagine, I've had some time to think about these things.

I would say the most significant thing about me is the fact of my having crossed a certain line. And I think you must know what I'm talking about. You mentioned that you still occasionally hear confessions. Most of them, I suspect, are about either crossing that particular line or wanting to.

The strange thing is, when we do finally cross the line, what we find on the other side of it is not strange at all. Everything that led up to that final step—all those years of doing exactly what everyone expected us to—that is what's strange. And we can't help wondering what took us so long. It's all so ordinary. Like coming home. Others think it must be extraordinary. But those of us who have crossed the line know better.

I have heard the words “unnatural” and “inhuman” and “monstrous” applied to me so often they have become all but meaningless. If I wish to give them meaning, I simply have to apply them to this place. No, we are not mistreated here. Far from it. Still, no torture chamber could possibly be worse. Pain, terror—they at least are events. Something on which to focus the mind. Something to anticipate, then remember. Make the time pass. But when the passage of time IS the event, the only event, and when all the mind has on which to focus is itself—

But people don't understand that. No one possibly could, unless they had been in a place like this for as long as I have. And so, in the eyes of the world, I have gone unpunished. Gotten off scot-free, as they say. But had I been publicly burned at the stake, which I'm told takes half an hour or so, would that have been better? True, those who wanted me to feel pain would have been satisfied; the monster within us all would have had a chance to howl; and I would be dead. But to what advantage?

Oh dear. I have once more come to the end of my allotted sheets. Simon, I know you will appreciate the fact that I have confided in you the way my minders have begged me to do for decades. And I know you will respect my confidence.

 

Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Alice Vipond.

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Thank you for assuring me that I am indeed human. A creature of God, no less. Therefore loved by God. Therefore loved by you. “My Beloved's beloved,” as you put it. Your own beloved once-removed, in other words.

I confess, Simon, that for the first time in our correspondence, I was tempted to tear your letter in two, hand the pieces to my watching minder and request not to receive anything further you might send. I do have that power—just about the only power I possess in this place—to end our correspondence.

Well. As this letter attests, I did not exercise that power. And I have gotten over the little fit of pique occasioned by your words. After all, what would I expect a clergyman to say?

On reflection, I have decided that it was not your reference to God that irritated me so much. I immunized myself years ago to such references, given that they usually portray me as God's deserving victim, subject to His torments for eternity. Sometimes I've wished I could debate those writers of letters to newspapers, who are so confident of God's attitude toward such as me. Would it not be reasonable, I would like to suggest to them, to see me more as God's partner than His victim? How do I differ from their God, after all? How do I differ from the One who does nothing while children starve to death in the millions, or are violated by men who wear the kind of collar you do, Simon, or are recruited as soldiers of war and forced to kill their own families? Is what I did more or less horrible than any of that?

But I digress. I was about to say that what in fact irritated me about your latest letter was your reference to love. Forgive me if I suggest that it is relatively easy for someone in your position to make casual use of that word. And you are, after all, a man in love, aren't you? And not just with God, either. Which means you may be everything I am not, have never been and never shall be. (I was tempted to add, “World without end. Amen.” Yes, I do remember my
Book of Common Prayer
.)

You see, I was never in love. Nor, to my knowledge, did anyone ever feel that way about me. I did get a bit of attention now and then—there were what we used to call tea dances, and I didn't always have to sit out the whole time. It could even be said that, in my way, I was attractive. To a certain kind of young man. This would be the young man who—how shall I put this—needed a disguise. He had some slight physical weakness, some deficiency of character, that, if detected by the other young men, would cause him to be torn apart. Figuratively speaking, of course. Sometimes there would be some outward sign of this insufficiency—fingernails bitten down to bloody rims. Or a slight stammer. Or an unwillingness to meet one's eyes. Usually, it wasn't as blatant as that. He would seek me out—almost as if he had detected me across the dance floor—because he knew I would politely ignore whatever his outward flaw was, and be grateful to him, as he was to me, for the camouflage.