The Whipping Club (5 page)

Marian, I have information. Something you need to know about the boy. Do not tell Sister Paulinas I came by. Can be reached there – Castleboro Mother Baby Home. Nurse

The front door slammed and Marian threw the piece of paper in the trash bin, digging underneath the coffee grinds, her stomach rumbling. She washed up under a stream of water and then got busy scrubbing the dirt off the potatoes. She opened the oven and heat rolled over her body, little demons raced around her chest. Ben walked into the kitchen, his trench coat dripping. He gave her a wink, and immense gratitude that Ben loved her sprang through her clouding mood.
             
“
Níl aon leigheas ar an ngrá ach pósadh,
”
her da used to tell her. “The only cure for love is marriage.” She would pass that one along tonight if she could muster up any humor.
             
Marian smiled and then hugged him. Ben’s face brightened as he surveyed the kitchen and all her fitful cooking. There was nothing Marian wanted except for a cigarette in the garden. She urged herself to focus hard on the present. “How was your day?” She asked and immediately wished she hadn’t spoken. He looked through her, put his hand on her shoulder.
             
“Wet,” he said, and Marian forced a faux frown his way and turned back to the washing.
             
Ben hung his coat to drip-dry on the far kitchen door, called something to Johanna and left for the dining room. Marian put the large mixing bowl underneath the hem of his trench coat to catch the droplets of rain and listened to the drip in the quiet of the kitchen, remembering the soft flip of a Bible page turned by some bored girl, a Nat King Cole number playing so low on the Victrola that it had sounded like a musical version of the mush they’d eaten in the refectory.
             
Marian stood straight and still now, listening to Johanna and Ben’s familiar banter. Their voices were everything she had ever wanted to hear and she scrubbed the soiled earth from the potatoes she had forgotten to bake. Whatever it was that Nurse thought was important, it wasn’t worth allowing the past to spread like syphilis onto Johanna and Ben. Nurse could never come back. Sister Paulinas shall never come back. None of them from the underworld would corrupt her and her family now. Marian felt an inescapable heat rise in her stomach. There would be punishing repercussions for Nurse, she must know that, if anyone were to find out that she’d paid them a visit. She stirred the beans around in the boiling pot, wondering how she could squash Nurse from ever being so bold again.
             
“And how was
your
day?” Ben said, opening up the refrigerator.
             
“Oh.” She laughed. “What did you say?” She wondered if she should tell Father Brennan about Nurse’s resurrection. Even
he
would be angry. She remembered his blank face that belied his horror at being mixed up with her mistake in the first place.
             
It would all be sorted out, Marian decided. She opened the oven, realizing at once she’d failed to marinate the meatloaf. The grainy beef looked like a mound of crumbling leather stuck to the bottom of the burnt glass casserole. Marian turned off the stove, defeated, and watched the limp beans dead in the water. She couldn’t move from where she leaned against the kitchen counter. She was worried sick about Johanna; she could never know anything about her mother’s past. She couldn’t imagine a young girl’s reaction to news like that. She figured the boy was almost eleven-and-a-half, having been born on the twenty-second of November. She’d asked Nurse to look after him, yes, she remembered that. She had wanted to do the right thing by him, always, that had been true.
             
“Eh-hem, Ma.” Jo stared hard at her. “I’m starving, Ma. And Da is too.”
             
“Johanna, you scared me. How long have you been standing there?”
             
Marian shook her head as Ben walked in the kitchen, told Jo to clear her books off the table, and then set it for dinner.
             
Marian tried to breathe, tried to stop the numbing sensation inside her.
             
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, taking the blackened meat out of the oven, smoke everywhere. The raw potatoes wobbled as Marian put them back in the veggie drawer, one of the spuds falling to the black-and-white linoleum floor.
             
Ben tried to help, but she pushed him away.
             
“What’s the matter with you?” He seemed worried. “Are you okay, Marian?”
             
“I’m
grand
,” she said, a bit exaggerated. “Let’s just make do tonight. I’m a bit distracted at the moment, that’s all. It happens to the best of us every now and again, doesn’t it?”
             
The two of them, her beautiful Ben and Johanna, sat smiling up at her, quiet and confused.
Is he sick?
Marian worried, as she dutifully served her deflated family.
Is he dead? Had he been asking so many questions about his roots that his parents in America felt compelled to answer and now he’s come here to meet me?
She should never have befriended the half-wit Nurse. It dawned on her that Nurse could return to her home at any time and divulge her shameful secrets. She would have to protect Johanna from such an incident. There was no telling what further damage Nurse could do.

“Wearing your signature style today?” Marian said, pushing her hand through Ben’s wavy hair and the
n loosening his thin, red tie.
             
Ben kissed her on her soft mouth. Marian smiled, one that cracked open her face, the shell of her façade fading. It was a rare moment when she allowed herself to beam like this. He kissed her again, harder this time. Was he hoping the kiss would cement in her mind this moment of real joy between them? She couldn’t bear that horrifying look of his, when his voice would fall into that remote tone, as if he were dreaming a different life. She fluffed up the blue-striped hankie decorating his pocket, and he grabbed her tight around the waist as if to stop their distance. She had always been sensitive to Ben’s inner workings, and now, he felt like a stack of antique dishes in her arms. Were they meat or dairy dishes?
             
She noticed he looked tired, too. Exhausted even. Or was it guilt?
             
“Want to walk me to the bus stop, have a coffee?” he asked, but then he laughed.
             
Talk to me; we don’t talk enough. Why don’t I just say it? Do we not talk enough because you’re talking to someone else?
             
“Ben.” She closed her eyes, then let out one of her sarcastic sounding chuckles.
             
He was right, of course, standing there in her robe with the little flowers all over it, her hair a poofy mess, a basket of laundry in her arms, it was an impossible idea, going for coffee. She should be dressed, is what he was thinking.
             
Ben picked up a children’s book and gave her a stern look.
             
“Even though she’s ten, Johanna still loves kid books, not teacher books,” she said. “We read storybooks together.”
             
“I think she’s ready for more than Peter and Jane books, don’t you?”
             
“I know. You were reading the
Torah
at seven.” Marian dropped her shoulders and sighed.
             
“Never mind. You’re doing a bang-up job, honey.”
             
“Yeah, well. You’re going to have to try harder to pitch in,” Marian said, rolling her eyes upward toward Johanna’s bedroom. “Not just with your reporting, and the typewriter clacking to all hours. You’ll have to be hands on,” she said, finally putting down her load.
             
“You’re going to have to show me just how hands on you mean,” he whispered and reached under her robe.
             
“Go on with you.” She chuckled at him again, and pulled his hands away.
Why doesn’t he know I detest this forced affection?
             
“Ah, you can have the car today,” he said then, grabbing his coat. “I have an interview downtown. Easier to take the bus,” he added, giving her another kiss as he opened the front door.
             
Marian gave him a perplexed frown like she always did the few times he mentioned downtown, which they both knew was his way of saying Little Jerusalem. She wondered how he could hold on to so much anger for so long. She wondered about her own mother’s ire and wanted to say aloud:
Enough is enough already!
the way Beva had that horrid night she’d kicked Marian out of their
Yiddishkeit
neighborhood.
Must be a thing he’d learned from his mother,
she guessed,
to remain poised in cat fights.
She couldn’t figure it out at all.
             
“At any rate, I’ll be home regular time,” he said as he opened the front gate. “Give Jo a big kiss for me.”
             
“As if there’s a regular time,” Marian said and gave him her prim smile, which made her uneasy because it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t authentic and was always followed by his trancelike look. They both knew she wasn’t priggish or prudish or straight-laced at all. Why did she want to convey that she
was
? Just last week, she’d let out an unnecessary burst of anger at the television’s constant replaying of the angelus bells instead of her American game show. And she went on and on about it. And yet, in those moments, he felt she was most alive, didn’t he?
             
“Don’t be late,” she called out. “Please. I’ll be making the cholent for us.”
             
He grinned at her, and she met his eyes. “I’ll most definitely come home early for that,” he said, and he walked toward the Leeson Street bus stop.
             
Marian’s stew. It wasn’t cholent, but it was good.
             
“Eat,” Beva had commanded everyone, throwing some mush on Ben’s plate.
             
“I made chopped liver for him. He loves it.” Beva smiled broadly at Marian, putting her arm around Ben as he spread some of the liver on a stick of
matzoh
.
             
“You’d have to
shlep
yourself over to Gold’s to get it, and then push your way into the store during Passover, forget it. It’s better homemade. Who wants a little more gefilte fish? Marian?” She walked towards her with the platter of molded fish.
             
“Not for me, thank you.”
             
“Try a
biselah
,” and Beva shoved a tiny portion onto Marian’s plate. “Benjamin used to come home with homemade honey-dipped apples from his teacher for
Rosh Hashanah
, fruit baskets for
Sukkoth
, the teacher would have a menorah lighting, et cetera, et cetera.”
             
“I know how to light a menorah,” Marian said dryly.
             
“Ah,” Beva said pointing in the air. “But do you know why?”
             
“Of course I know about the victory of the Maccabees. I know about all the holidays, including Passover . . .”
             
Beva threw her hands ups. “I’m sure you’re a very good Catholic and understand the profound implications of your Easter, am I 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 recognize his great achievement. They should be interviewing her, the notable, and to her knowledge, the only Catholic schoolteacher, but no. And then, at noon, he looked forward again to
Pesach
at his old synagogue. But this year, not alone, he’d mentioned, rather offhandedly. His buddy Jerry from the old days who had married Marcia Golden would join him. He had bumped into Marcia and her little sister Penny, too, on one of his recent lunches at Morton’s Restaurant. Did he think Penny was as pretty as she was in high school? Marian had seen his yearbook. Short girl with flowing hair, thick and straight down her back, a headband framing her face. Penny reminded Ben of a pixie doll, no doubt. He’d taken her to the senior prom. Were they all giggling about that? Were they all having lunch after
Shul
? How many years had it been that they’d had lunch at Morton’s? Fifteen? She wondered if he still felt the same way he did back then. Was he tempted? Now that he was married, nothing would happen. He would refuse her if she flirted, Marian was sure. She pictured his hand lingering on her knee and then moving along her smooth thigh, and she stopped this silly thought.
             
Was he aware in upper school how bad a crush these girls had had on him? Why were children so secretive about their crushes? He’d told her he’d lost his virginity to “what’s-her-name”, who he couldn’t even stand to see after that one time. Did he wish he’d done it with Penny Golden? Or Marcia? Did he wonder if his marriage to Marian had noticeably altered him? Did he wonder what it would be like married and living in his old neighborhood? Did he feel different inside now? He was a husband and the father of a child, and she was sure he didn’t exude the lightheartedness that he once did. Penny wasn’t married yet. It was clear to Marian that if Ben wasn’t, pixie Penny would be on the to
p of his list to ask on a date.
Attraction is not something that human beings can hide.
             
By now, Ben would have approached the Rathgar Road and jumped off the bus.
We’re all just animals.
He would be breathing in the smell of the hot bialys and bagels steaming in the bakeries. It had been way too long since he’d had an onion bialy with smoked salmon and cream cheese and raw onion and she was sure he’d invite Jerry and
Marcia
to lunch after service. Did he hope others would be there, too? Marian was pretty sure others would be. For a few seconds, she pictured Ben slow dancing with one of those girls. She put the thought out of her mind, feeling strange that she would fantasize such a thing, and then she pictured him dancing with her. Perhaps they would dance tonight. Ben would turn on the record player after dinner, and the three of them would dance. For now, though, he would eat until he couldn’t eat anymore. He was ravenous. He was starving, yes, but for what?
             
Being alert to his wife’s moods, Ben must think that there was no need to upset her by describing his innocent romps around his old neighborhood, no need to bring up ancient wounds. (He shouldn’t have mentioned it this morning, then.) And he did not need to tell her about Penny certainly. There was something between them, but as long as he didn’t follow through, and she knew he would not, why mention it? But might he have begun to follow through already, she wondered. Wasn’t he getting in too deep, this being his second visit in only one month? And if he was honest, seeing Marcia and Penny wasn’t just a spontaneous visit with friends. Jesus, Ben probably daydreamed about Penny sometimes, maybe more often than sometimes. He thought about these “friends” in a way he shouldn’t. He had better cut it out.