The priest is tipsy–Marta got him that way, or he let himself be gotten that way, or however you choose to word it. Her daughters are watching her through the window, which maybe she knows, maybe she doesn’t. Either way, they’re learning at the knee of a master… Herewith, Installment XXII (if you’re wondering where dinner is, it’s coming, it’s coming) of The Will of Venus (Otherwise Known as A Fairy-Tale for Superwomen).
Two of the four characters present in this scene are about to give in to their absolute worst impulses…in a week or two. After a lot more mulberry wine (Pearl makes big batches, and the house is never without it).
So bring a glass, pull up a chair. She’ll pour you some, too. And if you’re recently arrived to the party, or would just like to remind yourself of exactly how we wound up at this sad pass, you can travel effortlessly back to the Beginning of it All by clicking right here
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And Marta was desperate now. Even Livia was old enough to understand that. Marta wasn’t going to marry the lawyer after all. Danae had whispered to Livia earlier that afternoon, as they were washing their hair in the big bathroom upstairs, that the lawyer wouldn’t be knocking at the door anymore; he was moving back to Cincinnati.
Danae had overheard Marta, a furious Marta, as she confided in Pearl over the last of her coffee, in the sitting room. Pearl had gone in there to check on Marta, and Danae had followed her, hiding behind the sitting room door that was always open in case there was a breeze.
The lawyer had lied (all men lie, Pearl said). The lawyer had told Marta he would marry her. Marta had “given herself to him”; Danae added, for Livia’s benefit, that this meant that they had slept in the same bed and, well, who knew what else…maybe even that. Last night, Marta hadn’t had a chance to tell Pearl because she had come in very late from their date, and even Pearl had gone to bed. Last night hadn’t been like most times; they’d gone to his hotel first instead of afterward like they usually did.
There had been a couple of silent seconds; Marta would have been raising her right eyebrow. Danae filled in the gesture even though she hadn’t seen it—Danae was going to be an actress. Livia was astonished, almost as though she had never noticed it before, by how much her sister resembled Marta; she could be Marta if she wanted to. Marta’s voice was full of injury, well, Danae’s voice, but it was so like Marta’s that it could have been hers.
After the hotel, at the very cotillion, right there in front of the bar just like he was talking about the weather or something, Clive had told her that that would be their last date. He had thought Marta would enjoy the cotillion, especially since it was their last date, but she would ruin the whole evening, the oily voice hissed—Danae, imitating Marta, imitating the lawyer; Marta could have been an actress too, if it weren’t for them—if she made a scene right there in front of all of Baton Rouge.
Clive’s case in Baton Rouge was finished (the voice, slow and oily again), and he would be heading back up to Cincinnati and well, Marta knew how those things went, his wife… His wife! Marta’s voice had risen, almost to a shout. Oh, but Marta should have known, he’d argued, pleading with her to keep her voice down; how could she not have known, a man of his age?
Danae put a hand on one newly rounded hip and thrust it out, ashing a make-believe cigarette with the other. All men his age were married, and a woman of her age, a woman of her age with two daughters, well, they just had to take what they could get, didn’t they. Clive had placed his finger over Marta’s lips and left it there a few seconds, in order to assure himself that she would be quiet. Then he’d told her again, slowly, that they wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore. He was leaving day after tomorrow.
Danae-as-Marta drew a deep drag–an imaginary cigarette. Livia could practically smell the smoke. Even there in the salon, with Pearl, with the early afternoon just outside the drawn window shades, waiting to get in and ignite her dull headache into a blazing fire, even there—Livia could just see her mother, practically spitting the words, like Danae was doing right now—she could still taste that cotillion.
All of those people, those men, had seen her, seen her in her silly ignorance.
Hanging on Clive’s arm, just like she was his fiance or something. Those men had known, they had all known. Marta had just systematically eliminated each and every one of her possibilities. Why pay for what you could obviously get for free.
He’d given her a necklace, a cheap thing on a chain, a heart, it wasn’t even gold (Aunt Pearl had promised to try to help Marta pawn it). And he had left her at the end of the path. That was the worst part of the whole thing, Marta’s voice complained bitterly, Danae’s voice.
She’d had to walk all the way up the path in her high heels, with her stockings twisted around her legs, just the way his hands had left them when they had finished with her. There was a halo of cigarette smoke around Marta’s head; that was all Danae could really see, but she could imagine the rest. Marta never smoked in front of Aunt Cornelia, but she was sure smoking then, chain-smoking. But it was okay, it was only Aunt Pearl. Danae wasn’t sure, but she thought that even Aunt Pearl had been smoking.
Danae told Livia that their mother had not cried, not even one tear. If a man did that to her… Her sister’s dark head lowered menacingly.
Livia wondered how Danae could possibly have any idea about the things men did, or what she would do if they did them to her. Nope (Danae’s voice grew harsh, just like Marta’s when she complained about her boss at the diner), not one tear. Maybe because she was embarrassed in front of Aunt Pearl.
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And now Marta was out on the porch with Father Clanning, with that expression on her face, the one she used when a man was present and she wanted to get something out of him. Danae and Livia both knew that that something was money. And they both knew that Marta would get it (Marta always got whatever she wanted, especially in the short run). They both knew that Marta would leave; once she had that money in her hand, nothing would stop her. The priest would extract a wad of bills from within his cassock at some moment during the evening, and he would give it to Marta–of that Livia and Danae had not one doubt–and then nothing would stop Marta, not even if the wad of bills had come from the collection plate itself.
Danae was smiling to herself; she never once took her eyes off Marta. Danae, Livia knew, was imagining herself in their mother’s place, getting money so that she could leave. It was only a matter of time before Danae left, too.
Marta leaned forward in her rocking chair, toward Father Clanning, filled his glass as though she were telling him a secret. She bent down to place the bottle beneath the chair (it wouldn’t do for Cornelia to find Marta and the priest drinking mulberry wine together on the porch; then came Marta’s laugh, low and sure, followed by the priest’s hesitant one). From her position at the window, Livia could see her mother’s breasts when she bent down. She was sure that the priest could see them too.
Father Clanning leaned forward, toward Marta. Livia and Danae could hear their mother telling Father Clanning in a low, confidential voice about how she had to get away from the farm, it was driving her crazy–there was nothing to do, no way for a woman like her to get ahead…Hopeless. Marta’s voice was hopeless as she pronounced the word, almost whispered it. Her lips lingered over the “p”, and her heavy lids drooped.
There was a brief silence while Marta refilled their glasses and Livia could hear the crickets singing. Father Clanning’s tired eyes were wide open, his brows arching up over them, his expression an unconscious mirror of Marta’s.
“Unless…”
Danae and Livia held their breaths, waiting to hear what Marta would say after “unless”. Neither of the sisters was conscious of feeling abandoned by their mother, or angry, or betrayed (she hadn’t left yet, but she would, it was perfectly clear). The fact that Marta would, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, walk down the dusty path toward the bus stop and never come back again was accepted by both (after all, they had Pearl and Cornelia, even if the latter didn’t count for much).
That was how it had always been–their mother pulled along in the wake of events (usually orchestrated by, or having to do with, men), events over which she, after the initial setting-in-motion accomplished by her lips, her breasts, and the mulberry wine, seemed to have no control. And Danae and Livia had always been pulled along behind her.
But not this time. Danae was getting old enough to be considered competition–she, perforce, would be left behind, although there might have been moments during which Marta fleetingly considered taking Livia along to New Orleans. It was almost as though Marta were aware of their shadowy presence, there on the seat behind the open window, there in the darkness (it was finally dark), as though she were taking advantage of the opportunity to explain herself without having to directly confront them.
Another Marta specialty—avoidance.
~
More to come, Bad, Bad Lovers, more to come.
Right here, IN TWO WEEKS’ TIME, same bad channel, same bad, bad place…
Till then, y’all be good. Or if you can’t be good, then please, please, please be very, very bad.
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