A Song for Issy Bradley (30 page)

“You will. You know you will. You’re …”

“What? What am I?”

“Hot to trot.”

“What?”

“You went from zero to sixty in—”

“I didn’t do anything. I just stood—”

“Aw, come on, don’t pretend you weren’t into it.”

“I should’ve said something and I shouldn’t have been by myself with you in the dark. It’s my fault about the dress too.” She crosses her arms over her chest, just to make sure. “If I die and I haven’t repented, I won’t be with Issy again.”

“Course. Sorry.” He rubs his hands along his thighs. “I didn’t think. Can you just not mention me?”

She nods. She will be extremely careful. And it’s mostly her fault anyway, for tempting him with her chest.

“What’re these?” He lifts the papers out of her hands, leaving the photograph in her lap. “ 
‘Beware of the naughty B’s—never show your breasts, back, bottom, or belly
’—this is awful.” He laughs and nudges her. “They forgot to include balls.”

She glances at the photograph and remembers what he said in the classroom—
“I like you in that”
—and while he leafs through the handouts, chuckling quietly, she drops it into his bag.

W
HEN THE OFFICE
door opens, Dad and President Carmichael step out and Adam passes the papers back.

“Ah, Zipporah, just the young lady,” President Carmichael says. “Can I have a word? You don’t mind if I just borrow your office and your daughter for a moment, do you, Bishop?”

Dad shakes his head. He looks rumpled and tired. Zippy leaves the handouts on the seat next to Adam and crosses the corridor to the office. It must be the Holy Ghost that has made President Carmichael ask to speak to her at this precise moment while she is wrestling with right and wrong. Priesthood leaders have the spirit of discernment, they can see right into people’s souls and they know when people have sinned and whether or not they are lying. She
flattens the dress and squeezes through the door. President Carmichael follows her and points to the empty chair opposite the desk. He waits for her to sit down. His suit isn’t shiny at the elbows like Dad’s and his shoes are those expensive ones with little holes and patterns all over them. He’s still sort of handsome, even though he’s middle-aged. And he looks a lot like Adam sometimes, especially when he smiles.

“How are you?” he asks as he sits.

“I’m OK, thanks.”

She can’t decide whether to confess. It might be easier to tell him than Dad, but what will he think of her when he finds out? Will he remember what she has done, forever? Will he hold it against her and make sure Adam never marries her?

“It’s been a difficult time. How are you coping?”

“OK, yeah.”

He looks at her and it’s like he’s switched on his discernment; she knows she needs to confess before the Holy Ghost tells him what she has done.

“Zipporah, I’m getting a sense that …”

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve done something. With a boy.” As soon as the words leave her mouth she feels like she’s going to throw up.

President Carmichael doesn’t flinch. “Ah,” he says, as calmly as if he suspected as much. “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Can you tell me what happened, so I know how serious it is?”

She tries to think of a way to say it that doesn’t involve the words “chest,” “breasts,” or “boobs,” but she can’t, so she just sits there, lips pursed, like an enormous toilet-roll-cover doll.

“I’ll ask you some questions and you can answer yes or no,” President Carmichael offers. Something inside her shrinks, but Zippy nods her head and tries not to look embarrassed.

“So, um, did you, were all of your clothes on?”

“Yes,” she says.

“And were you dressed modestly?”

“I was, but well, I—then I … no,” she says.

“You girls don’t realize how difficult you make it for young men. Boys miss out on your … loveliness if you show them more than they’re meant to see—good lads will avert their eyes, but boys in the world will look.”

She folds her arms across her chest and stares at the desk.

“Were you lying down?”

“No.”

“Good. Was it something that involved your bottom half?”

Her bottom half
—the shrinking feeling intensifies. “No.”

“Good. Your top half, then?”

“Yes.”

“And the boy’s hands?” She shakes her head.

“Oh, right, I see. Oh, um, his mouth? Yes? That’s it? That’s everything?”

Zippy nods. She feels filthy. She has committed one of the diabolical crimes that Sister Campbell talked about during Standards Night.

“So, I think we can refer to what happened as petting, that’s what they call it in the ‘For Strength of Youth’ pamphlet, isn’t it? It’s a bit of an old-fashioned word, but I’m sure your mum and dad, and Sister Campbell, have explained it to you.”

Zippy hates the word. What happened was not
petting
. She has not been
petted
, like an animal at the zoo or a little dog.

“Zipporah, you need to remember that boys your age—actually it’s an unfortunate fact that applies to males in general—are frequently after only one thing.” President Carmichael leans back in Dad’s chair and makes himself comfortable. He seems perfectly at ease, as if he has said what he is about to say lots and lots of times. “Girls need to be careful—
you like him; you love him; you let him; you lose him
—that’s what happens. It’d be such a shame to throw away an Eternity of happiness for five or ten minutes of pleasure. I like to think of chastity as a race. Runners spend a lot of time preparing. They train to make sure they’re absolutely ready. You’re
preparing now, aren’t you? You’re getting ready for the blessings of marriage, in that pretty dress. Sometimes, despite all their training, runners do a false start. They jump the gun and take off before they’re ready. It’s such a shame when that happens because all their preparations have gone to waste. Don’t jump the gun. Your family would be so disappointed. You won’t, will you?”

She shakes her head.

“You’re very sorry?”

“Yes.”

“I suggest you explain it to the Lord in your prayers tonight and ask for His forgiveness.” President Carmichael starts to stand up.

“But, aren’t you going to tell me I can’t take the sacrament, or—”

He sits down in Dad’s chair again. “Your mum and dad would notice if you didn’t take the sacrament. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to upset them, especially at the moment. You’re a good girl, I’m sure you can work this out with the Lord. The boy, is he your boyfriend?”

“No, he isn’t … I think he—we might, one day—”

“Well, there’s no point, is there? You won’t be getting married until you’re, oh, eighteen at the earliest, so having a boyfriend now would be dangerous, especially a nonmember—it could never go anywhere except the places where these things aren’t supposed to go.” He digs around in his suit pocket. “I’ve got some missionary pass-along cards—here, give him this.”

Zippy accepts the card; there’s a picture of a Temple on it and a link to the Church’s website.

“Eternal marriage, that’s what you want. Associate with worthy priesthood holders. I always thought that maybe, one day, you and Adam …” He winks as he pushes himself up out of Dad’s chair.

She stands and bustles to the door, anxious to get out, get home, and shed Mum’s ridiculous dress.

“Oh, and Zipporah?”

She pauses, hand poised on the handle.

“How’s your mum?”

He is determinedly casual and she suddenly realizes he didn’t suspect a thing.
This
is the question he has been waiting to ask, the reason he brought her into the office to begin with.

“She’s not feeling very well.”

He stares at her for a moment, as if he is trying to see past her pupils and read the truth of the thoughts behind.

“Do you think she would like a visit?”

“No.”

“That’s what your dad said. Is there anything you want to share with me? Anything I can help you or anyone else in the family with?”

“No.”

“If you think of something, you can speak to me. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Grieving affects people in different ways.”

“I know.” She opens the door, even though he looks like he hasn’t finished talking.

Dad is waiting in the corridor where she and Adam were sitting earlier, leaning forward with his head in his hands. She taps him on the shoulder and he sits up quickly.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll go and tell Alma and Adam to wrap it up and we can get going.”

I
N THE CAR
on the way home Dad tells her off. “You shouldn’t have written that letter for Mum, Zipporah. She wouldn’t have said any of those things. You can’t presume to speak for someone like that.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“You shouldn’t have written it.”

Dad’s failure to answer the question makes her angry.

“I don’t know why she won’t just get up. She’s got responsibilities. She’s got
children
.”

“What did President Carmichael want to talk to you about?”

“He just wanted to ask if we’re all OK.”

“And you said?”

“I said we’re fine.”

“Good girl.”

Dad doesn’t pretend to be Brigham Young as he pulls into the driveway. He doesn’t say, “This is the place.” He just yawns and sighs.

Mum’s dress swishes as Zippy walks up the stairs. When she reaches her room she kneels next to her bed beside the prayer rock and
Persuasion
and she closes her eyes, folds her arms, and explains. She uses Sister Campbell’s “walking pornography” defense to excuse Adam and she also apologizes on his behalf, in case something bad occurs before he gets round to it. What happened between them was lovely, but it was
wrong
. The whole point of coming to Earth is to take the test of life and she has made a great big mistake in her test—a filthy, diabolical mistake. A tear lands on the bodice of the dress and another few slip down its front. The tears are mascara-stained—she will ruin Mum’s dress. Good, none of this would have happened if Mum had been there tonight. Serves Mum right.

The morning noises are late, the front door hasn’t slammed shut, and the house is full, even though it’s after nine. Claire can’t get up, she won’t have her grief trampled by their busyness and chat and occasional laughter. Yesterday was Sunday—they left for church around 9:30 and didn’t get home until 3:30—so today is Monday, and they shouldn’t be here.

Slam. The front door shuts finally but the sound is followed by Ian’s feet on the stairs. He has taken to saying goodbye in the mornings and goodnight in the evenings. He is very solicitous, addressing her as he would an elderly relative.

“I’m just going across to the park with Jacob. Alma’s gone to play football with Matty, and Zipporah’s meeting Lauren in town.” He’s wearing ordinary clothes, jeans and a T-shirt; it’s unusual to see him dressed normally—even on Saturdays there are meetings to attend and people to visit and he must wear a suit. Then it dawns on her—half-term. They are going to be here all week, stomping over her sorrow with their noisy feet and loud voices.

“I’ll be back in about an hour.”

She listens for the final slam of the front door. After it bangs shut she slides her legs out of the bed and stands. The room wobbles and she holds onto the bunk and closes her eyes for a moment. When everything is straight again she steps out onto the landing.

There are wet towels on the bathroom floor, the window is shut, streaked by condensation, and the windowsill is puddled. She doesn’t address the mess. She sits on the toilet and afterward, when
she is washing her hands, allows herself a look in the mirror. She is wearing her grief honestly. It has spread all over her face; unwashed skin and hair, unplucked eyebrows, unbleached upper lip—she is coming undone.

She wanders along the hall to her own room. The bed is unmade and Jacob’s pajamas are on the floor. One curtain is open, the other is closed, and the single-glazed window is soaked. Ian promised the windows would be done first when they moved in, he said he’d find a company that could do them on the cheap, but he’s never got round to it and the house is cold in the autumn and winter. Wind squeezes through the gaps in the wooden frames. Last year she used to turn the heating on for an hour at lunchtime. It meant she and Issy didn’t get too chilly in the afternoons and it also ensured that the radiators were cool again by the time Ian got home from work. He moaned about the energy bill but never asked whether she had been helping herself to extra heat, and she didn’t feel obliged to confess. It was just a small, harmless deception. The thought puts her in mind of something else Ian doesn’t know and she walks to her side of the bed, bends down, and opens the bottom drawer. Her Temple garments are jumbled—Zipporah has been doing the washing; Ian popped into Jacob and Issy’s room one night to tell her this, as if he expected it to rouse her and make her feel guilty. It didn’t, and she doesn’t.

Her grief has grown so big it has ballooned past every other feeling. She rummages through the white, silky pile. Garments must be treated with respect at all times—they aren’t supposed to touch the floor—but she drags them out of the drawer until it is emptied and she is blindly patting its bareness. She shakes each item in the heap; floaty camisole tops and knee-length bottoms, symbols of the covenants that bind her to Ian and the children forever, absolutely nothing concealed in their silky folds.

Someone has taken her money. She opens the top drawer and pulls out bras, socks, and flesh-colored tights. Nothing. She empties Ian’s drawers next: garments, socks, handkerchiefs. No money. One
of the handkerchiefs is bunched and lumpy. She unfolds it and discovers Issy’s broken glasses. The bridge is snapped, both lenses are cracked, and there is a scrape on the outside of one of the stems.

She remembers an afternoon during the summer holiday. Ian was at the hospital with the Andersons and she’d taken the children for a walk up the pier to play on the Victorian arcade machines. The children had all won something—a lollipop, a long chew, a packet of Refreshers. On the walk back down the pier they noticed donkeys being led out of a horse trailer on the beach below. Issy jumped up and down, begging and bartering, desperate to have a go. “It’s
only
three pounds and I’ve wanted to go on a horse my
whole life,
” she pleaded as they approached the steps down to the parking lot. Alma laughed and said they were just donkeys and he would buy her a real horse one day, when he was rich. Issy stamped her foot, tore off her glasses, and threw them to the ground. They made a cracking sound as they hit the concrete at the top of the steps and she looked surprised, as if she couldn’t quite believe her own daring. Claire retrieved them. There was a scrape on the outside of one of the stems. Zipporah picked Issy up, even though she was getting too big to be carried. If Claire had known, she’d have paid for Issy to ride the donkeys all day. She wraps the glasses in the handkerchief, stuffs the rest of Ian’s things back into his drawers, and wonders where to look next.