New Mercies (18 page)

Then one afternoon, as we sat in the living room opening wedding presents, David held up a crystal vase and said, “What idiot would think we would want something this ugly in our home?” He set down the vase so hard that the bottom chipped.

“David, you’ve found fault with every gift we’ve opened. You’re acting like a jackass.”

David turned me with a look of rage on his face. “If you think I’m a jackass, why would you want to marry me?” Before I could respond, he added. “We ought to call it a day. I’m sorry, Nora, but this is not going to work. Forgive me, but I can’t go through with it.”

I was too stunned to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and rushed out of the house.

Mother heard the door slam and hurried into the room. “What is it?” she asked, sitting down on the soft beside me and putting her hand on my arm.

“We’ve called off the wedding. I mean, David called off the wedding. He doesn’t want to marry me.” I sat with my hands between my knees, too dejected to cry.

“Oh, I doubt that. It’s just a spat.”

“It’s true. I’ll never show my face in public again.”

“You’ve never cared about the public.” Mother put her arms around me and said it was far better to admit now that we had made a mistake than to do so after the wedding. “Let’s just not say anything for a day or two. He’ll come around. And if he doesn’t, Henry and I will take care of everything.”

But I knew David wouldn’t come around, because he had been unhappy ever since we’d announced our engagement. “No. It’s over. It’s my mistake, and I’ll handle the mess.”

The next day, I began writing notes of explanation and packing up the wedding gifts. Mother helped me, while Henry sat in an armchair with a disheartened look on his face, for he thought of David as a son. From time to time, Henry said encouraging things, such as “He likes her. He’ll be begging back.” And later: “Why, of course he’ll be back. He’s just mulish. David thinks Nora’s the Second Coming of Christ.”

“Oh, Henry, don’t blaspheme,” Mother said as the doorbell rang. In a minute, Hattie ushered David into the room, and Henry shot Mother a triumphant look.

I had not expected David, of course, and looked a mess. My eyes were red, and my face could have used a powder puff. I’d put on a pair of britches and a shirt of Henry’s, because I was going to have my arms in boxes of tissue and barrels of straw. David didn’t look much better. He had not shaved, and his hair was mussed. His face was blotchy from driving about in the wind, or maybe from drinking. He wore a pair of old knickers and a sweater that was unraveled at the cuffs.

When he asked if I would go for a ride with him, Mother said, “David, I think we all ought to sit down and—” But Henry touched her arm, and she was still. They thought David had
come to make amends, but I knew he wanted to bring things to a tidy conclusion, and perhaps that was best for both of us.

“All right.” My voice was unsteady. “I’ll just change into—”

“No, don’t. I’ve some things to say. My machine’s outside. We’ll go for just a short spin.”

So I grabbed my old polo coat, and without even a comb or a compact in my pocket, went off with him.

We drove west on the concrete road to Golden, then into the mountains, the route we usually took on our outings. The roadster’s top was down, and the wind was cold. I wrapped my coat tightly about me, wishing for a scarf to keep my ears from stinging. We did not speak for more than two hours, until we reached Idaho Springs, where David stopped the car in front of a coffee shop. Instead of waiting for him to come around, I opened my door myself and stepped out onto the street. The air was electric, and thunder was ringing in the mountains. I put my hands over my ears to keep out the noise and the cold.

We sat down in a wooden booth in the restaurant, and I would not look at David, just watched drops of water run down the steamy windows, leaving tracks like ski trails. I felt such sadness, not just at the broken engagement but in knowing we would never tramp the hills together again. Our trips to the mountains had been the happiest times in both of our lives.

David ordered coffee for us and asked if I wanted something to eat. “You’re frightfully cold, I know. I should have turned on the heater.”

“Just coffee.” Those were the first words I had said since we’d left the house, and they came out rusty. We were silent again, David so lost in thought that he jumped when the waitress
returned with our mugs. I put my hands around my cup and lifted it, letting the steam warm my face. I still could not look at David, just watched two old men in overalls and heavy boots sit down across from us. One of them ordered two slices of bread fried in grease and covered with Karo syrup, which he pronounced “Kay-row.” Had I been alone, I would have remembered the word to tell David, because I always saved up things to tell him.

“Look at me,” David said then, and I turned away from the men. David’s eyes were red. I had never seen him cry, and I wanted to reach out and comfort him, but I would not do so, and I held on to the cup instead. “Dearest Muggs, do you think you could forgive a jackass?” He looked at me mournfully.

“Not just any jackass.” I had used both hands to lift the heavy white cup to my mouth. By they were shaking so much that I had to put the cup down.

“A foolish, thickheaded, stubborn-as-a-mule jackass?”

“Maybe that one.” And I hoped that in time I could.

He reached across the table and pried my hands off the cup. “I’ve been such a heel. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, because I want us to be married more than anything in the world.”

I jerked up my head, too surprised to say anything.

“I know it’s screwy, but I want you to be my wife right this minute. Can’t we find a preacher and forget about this fancy show of a wedding? Do you love me enough to do that?”

I felt the blood rushing through my body, warming me. “Of course I do.”

David leaned across the table and kissed me—to the delight of the two old-timers in the booth. One gave a low whistle, and
the other stamped his feet and said, “I guess you got something in your coffee we didn’t, young fellow.”

“Must be she’s his lucky piece,” the other said.

“There ain’t but one thing that’s a lucky piece, and that’s money,” the first man said. Nonetheless, he held up his coffee cup in a salute to us.

David and I drove to Georgetown and asked Uncle Billy and Aunt Emma to stand up with us. While Uncle Billy went to find old Reverend Darnell, who had married them so many years before, Aunt Emma cut the last of the daisies and brown-eyed Susans in her garden for a bridal bouquet. “Did Mother tell you that David had called off the wedding? I thought everything was over,” I told her, pinching off a wilted daisy.

Aunt Emma cut off another dead blossom with her scissors, then looked at me a long time, as if debating whether to say something. Then she told me, “The Lord and I were not always on the best of terms. There were things that happened. . . .” She shook her head as if to remove the memory of whatever those things were. “A friend long days ago, a colored man, told me about God’s unending mercies. I didn’t believe him at the time, but then I met Billy. I’ve learned that the Lord never abandons us. Like the Bible says, His mercies are new every morning.” She laughed and searched among the daisies again. “That’s too much gloom for a bride on her wedding day. Billy has always been my greatest mercy. I hope David will be yours.”

So David and I stood up in that little mountain church to become husband and wife. We spent the night in a $2.50 room at the Alpine Lodge, a house that had once belonged to a silver king, and to explain our lack of luggage, we told the proprietor that we
had had motor trouble and couldn’t make it back to Denver, because we were embarrassed to say we were newlyweds.

Instead of a stylish wedding gown from Daniels & Fisher, I was married in the polo coat, which I’d buttoned up to hide my motoring clothes. I preserved the coat in blue tissue, taking it out to wear on our anniversary each year. After I returned from Reno, staying there only long enough to quality for a Nevada divorce, I threw out most of the things associated with David. I forgot about the polo coat until several months later, when it went into the Community Chest clothing drive. By then, David was dead.

R
ETURNING TO
A
MALIA’S BEDROOM, I
sat for a long time in a worn leather chair, staring at the lines of light that came through the slats in the shutters at the side of the house. The shutters had been nailed almost shut, possibly to keep the Shadowland neighbors from looking in. But Amalia might have sat in the chair and spied through the thin openings at the Lotts. I leaned forward and peered out, catching sight of a house that was even more dilapidated than Avoca. Two rickety staircases led up to a second-floor gallery, whose railings had rotted away. As I watched, a tiny woman climbed out of one of the secondstory windows and scrambled down the steps. Her footing seemed sure, but her head jerked as she moved. Magdalene, I thought—Lott’s wife.

When she disappeared, I settled into the chair, whose back was to the open doors. Tufts of horsehair pushed through
cracks in the leather, but the chair was large and roomy, with a high back and wings that curled around me. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I dozed off.

I awoke, checking my wristwatch, but the room was too dark for me to see the time. I did not know what had disturbed my nap until there was a rustle—possibly a goat. But the sound was so slight that it could have been made by rats, and I shivered and drew my legs tight against my body. Rats did not open drawers, however, and the sound was that of a drawer slowly being pulled out. Gripping the arm of the chair, I peeked around the wing.

The odd little creature who had descended the staircase at Shadowland was peering into an open drawer of Amalia’s desk. She was perched on the chair where I had sat earlier, and her feet did not reach the floor.

The woman was so intent on rifling through the desk that she did not see me. From time to time, she glanced out the door, perhaps fearing that Ezra would discover her. She opened the drawers on the right side of the desk and searched through their contents, lifting out the account book, opening it, and running her finger down the page. But that was not what she was looking for, and she returned it.

When she came to the drawer that held Amalia’s jewelry, Magdalene picked up the boxes, turning them over in her hand, looking at them curiously. She opened each one and inspected the contents, then lined up the boxes on the desk. After running her finger over the jewelry, she removed a large gold bow set with precious stones. She rubbed her knuckles over the gems and held the brooch to the outside light, then placed it against
her dress, which was a pitifully worn piece of apparel, its tears held together with safety pins. Aunt Polly was better dressed than Magdalene Lott. I was ready to spring on her if she put the bow into her pocket. But she placed it back in its box and returned the jewelry to the drawer, pushing it shut.

She went through the rest of the drawers but did not find what she was looking for, because she slipped off the chair and crawled under the desk. She touched something that released a hidden drawer on the right side, then sat on the floor and went through the contents. All at once, her hands fluttered up in a gesture of surprise and pleasure, and she lifted out a fat envelope and held it to the light coming in from the French doors. She muttered as she read what was written on the envelope, but I could not hear what she said.

The envelope appeared to contain money, so I stood up and asked, “What have you taken?”

Magdalene stuffed the envelope into the bosom of her dress, then got to her feet as she looked over her shoulder at the open doors, expecting to see Ezra or Aunt Polly. Saying nothing more, I stood beside the chair, waiting, while her eyes scanned the room and eventually came to rest upon me. She was even smaller than she had first appeared, less than five feet tall and as thin as a broom straw. The skin was drawn tightly across her face, and her nose stood out like a beak. Her head made the same uncontrollable jerking motions that I had noticed earlier, although the rest of her body was still. She looked as if she would blow away like a dried leaf, but she was less fragile than she appeared.

If she were frightened, she did not show it. Magdalene’s face had a coy look, and she turned her head slightly, looking at me
out of one eye, like a bird. She took her time before replying. “Why, you nice thing,” she said in a voice that was raw and cracked from disuse. “I am purely looking for my receipt for lady cake. I loaned it to dear Amalia, who adored to eat it, you know, just adored to. Everybody did. I very plainly said she must return the receipt, but Amalia did not do so. I was afraid Ezra or Aunt Polly would toss it to the wind. They are that mean to me.” She touched her breast. “So many grievous sorrows I have had.”

I was not in the least taken in by her. This creaky old woman was out to rob Amalia—which was to say, me. Still, her audacity and quick wit amused me. “Is the recipe in the envelope you put inside your dress?”

“Why, I’m not even about to know what you mean.” She gave me a smile that might have warmed the hearts of men half a century ago but did nothing for me now. Although she was an old crone, Magdalene Lott flirted like a young girl, as if she were unaware of how pathetic she appeared. Perhaps there were no mirrors at Shadowland and she did not know that her yellow face was as pitted and flaky as a corncob. Pickett had mentioned that during the war, mirrors were hidden in hay to keep the Union troops from breaking them. For Magdalene’s sake, I hoped that Shadowland’s mirrors were still tied up in ancient bales.

“Oh course, poor Amalia could never bake a proper cake. Mr. Lott, my husband who was”—she looked down dramatically and patted her breast—“he told me as much. He said my cake was blazing good and that it was surely his privilege to enjoy it, and Amalia’s . . . well, if you must know, he said it tasted like old rags and sulfuric acid. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” She
dipped her head and looked up at me under pale eyebrows to let me to know that Bayard Lott had indeed meant it. I was surprised that with Aunt Polly in the cookhouse, Amalia had ever baked a cake.