An Independent Woman (40 page)

Barbara asked him whether he wanted her to read it. She had read all of his sermons since they were going together, and very occasionally, she would make some small suggestion. She felt that the sermons were his, and she had no right to change them in any significant way; but this time he shook his head and said, “No, my dear. In this one I speak about you, and I want you to hear it as the congregation hears it—if you will allow me to speak about you and don't consider it an infringement on our privacy.”

Good heavens, she wondered, does he want me to object—after which he would have to rewrite it again, now, three days before he must deliver it? Does he think I'm that cruel—or is it simply Philip? She decided that it was simply Philip, and she replied, “My dear, dear Philip, nothing you could say about me could hurt me. I've never known you to hurt anyone, much less me.
”

He smiled and kissed her. “Anyway, for better or worse, it's done, and I want to clear my head. We haven't walked in days. Let's walk down to the Embarcadero and breathe some good sea air and eat some crab.”

She was all for it, and they bundled into sweaters and walked down to the Bay. It was not a long walk, nothing that Barbara would normally have thought twice about, but when they arrived at their favorite fish place and sat down at a table, Barbara was relieved. “I don't know why I'm so tired. Do you suppose I'm catching something?”

He reached out and touched her forehead. “Cool and lovely. No, you've just been working so hard.” A few minutes later he said, “Perhaps you ought to see a doctor?”

She laughed. “Philip, my son's a doctor, my brother's a doctor, and my nephew Dan is a doctor. We saw them all just this past Thanksgiving, and none of them said I looked sick. Anyway, in spite of the family penchant for it, I'm not fond of doctors. I don't dare tell them I don't feel well. They'd have me in the hospital in minutes.”

But after dinner, with darkness falling, she said, “Philip, I can't face a walk back up the hill. Let's call a taxi.”

Philip called a taxi, and Barbara thought about the fact that she had never suggested anything to which he objected. His utter devotion to her had often amazed her, and tonight, when they got into bed, she felt a new kind of deep love and concern for him. He put his arms around her, and she folded her body into his and treasured the feel of his strength, the hardness of his muscles. She gave herself to him, not only physically but with all her body and soul, a kind of melding she had never before experienced, telling herself that this was new, different from the passion of youth, literally a different phase of existence.

“If anything should happen to you—,” he whispered.

“Nothing will happen to me, dear man. I promise you.”

B
ARBARA HAD NOT BEEN TO
a Christmas Eve service—not at the Unitarian church, indeed not at any church—since her childhood. Her memories of Grace Cathedral were less than clear, and she wondered how the service would proceed tonight. She was there early, fortunately, since after she had taken her usual seat, on the aisle and halfway down, every seat was filled and there were people standing behind the last row—whites, Asians, and blacks. There were also more children than she had ever seen there before.

Reba Guthri made the opening statement after the organ had played “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and then there were Christmas carols and some responsive readings and the offering. Then the choir sang while Philip sat with his papers in his hands. Then Philip stood up and went to the podium and began without looking at what he had written. Barbara suspected that he had written and rewritten it so many times that he knew the words by heart. He began to speak, but not nervously. Whatever his difficulties were with writing, he spoke well, simply and directly:

“As most of you know, I was once a Jesuit priest. The woman I came to marry had been a nun. We both left the Church, yet the years I had been trained as a priest remained with me. It could not have been otherwise. Five years ago, my wife, Agatha, passed away. For the five years after that, I was a lonely man, and then I met Barbara Lavette. I thought I had lost the will to love another woman, but love is very deep in our nature, and this past September, Barbara and I were married. I not only loved her—as I still do—but I felt that she was one of the most deeply ethical persons, one of the most selfless persons, I had ever known. Yet, as she told me, until she began to attend this church, she had set foot in a church only for funerals and baptisms, and neither did she join this church. She is here tonight, and I speak of her with her explicit permission.

“Together we went first to England and then to Israel and Jerusalem, on what we are pleased to call a honeymoon. For me it was something else, a search. I am not widely traveled, and all my life I dreamed of going to Jerusalem, seeing it with my own eyes and walking through the fourteen stations of the cross to the spot where Jesus was crucified. We were graciously treated by the city of Jerusalem and given an apartment overlooking the old walled city. I am sure you know the reason for this treatment, having read of it in the press, so I will not go into that; nor is it pertinent to this sermon.

“The day after we arrived in Jerusalem, so great was my eagerness that we went directly to the gate of the old walled city that opens to the Via Dolorosa. We walked through the fourteen stations of the cross, and there were placards marking them—‘Here Pilate questioned Jesus… Here his clothes were ripped off… Here he was given a cross to carry to his own crucifixion… Here he fell and Simon of Cyrene took up the cross'—except, in the Gospel of John, Jesus carries the cross the rest of the way—and finally we came to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, wherein the last four stations of the cross are placed. And here, supposedly, under this church, perhaps leveled by now, was the place where Jesus was crucified and the cave where he was buried and rose. But this Church of the Holy Sepulcher, supposedly the holiest place in the Christian world, is owned and governed by the Catholic Church, the Greek Church, the Armenian Church—everyone except the Protestants, who are not allowed to hold services there. It is a dank, dreary, gloomy, and foul-smelling place, poorly lit by candles and crowded with tourists. My wife, Barbara, walked out of it almost immediately.

“I remained in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I was deeply moved at that moment. Barbara was not—and there began a wedge that drove us apart. Remember that Israel has no rights in that church; the Israelis cannot touch anything or change anything. It belongs entirely to the sects that have chapels there.

“Why was Barbara so repelled? Why does everything that has to do with church or religion repel her? She was born and baptized a Christian; where is her faith? For three months I have struggled with this, and I think that now I understand it.

“You may ask, ‘Is this a sermon for Christmas Eve?' I think it is. Two thousand years ago a Jewish child was born, and we celebrate his birth. He lived a life of love and compassion, and because he lived that life and preached that life, and because he preached love and forgiveness, he was crucified. My wife has lived a life of love and compassion. She put her life at risk again and again. She went into Nazi Germany as a spy and almost died there. She went to prison for six months for her belief, for her refusal to implicate others at a time of madness. She went down to El Salvador, where priests and nuns were being murdered; and in the great waterfront strike of the thirties, she used whatever money she had to feed the strikers. There was no time in her life when she separated herself from the struggle for social justice.

“Then I must ask you: Who is the better Christian?—myself, who never put his life at stake, or this woman I am married to? Who is closer to the child born two thousand years ago: myself, with what I call my faith, or my wife, who is indifferent to faith but wholly engrossed in womankind and mankind? She was not thrilled by the stations of the cross. Where was the placard that said, ‘Here his pain began'? Where was the placard that said, ‘Here his pain was beyond human comprehension'? Where was the placard that asked one to think of the suffering that a crucified man must endure? Where was the placard that said, ‘Remember that in this century Christians murdered each other until seventy-five million of them were dead—dead at the hand of Christians'? Where was the placard that said, ‘Here died the Prince of Peace, so come in peace and go in peace, and never again raise a hand against your fellowman'?

“No, my wife said none of these things to me. Her mind doesn't work that way. She does not worship things—stones, crosses, dark churches called houses of God. Her faith is in the human race, in love and forgiveness and compassion; and that is the faith we teach here in this church. We celebrate tonight the birth of a man who influenced nearly the entire human race, and who died pleading with God to forgive his murderers for putting him to death in this terrible manner.

“After I have finished this long sermon, we will light candles and we will sing a hymn to the child whose birth we celebrate. But the candles we light are not only for him—he would not have it so—we light the candles to celebrate the life of every human being who has taken part in the age-old struggle for peace and justice— for they walk in his steps. He does not live in dark places; he lives in our hearts, in the sunlight and fresh air, in the laughter of every child born. No one owns him. No one can say, ‘Here you shall pray as we tell you to pray.' He is in every child delivered through a woman's pain; and to paraphrase William Blake, here, one day, we shall build Jerusalem in our own good and pleasant land. I thank you, and may God bless you all on this Christmas Eve.”

People wiped their eyes and others murmured “Amen” very softly, and Barbara bent her head to hide her tears. Then there was the candle lighting, and then they sang “The First Noel.” And finally the service was over and a hundred or so women kissed Philip and Barbara, and a hundred or so men shook hands with Philip; and then he had to speak to this one and that one; and finally, well after midnight, Philip and, Barbara were able to leave the church and, arm in arm, walk to where their car was parked.

“I saw you crying,” Philip said. “I didn't mean to make anyone cry.”

“I'm an easy cry.”

“I didn't deliver my sermon at all,” Philip said. “I don't know what happened to me. I worked for weeks on that thing, and I had twelve pages, and I never looked at them.”

“Twelve pages would have been too long. The sermon was splendid. I never heard you deliver a better sermon. You're not a writer but a fine orator.”

“It wasn't much of a sermon. I feel it was confused.”

“No one else feels that way.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Are we invited to Highgate for Christmas dinner?”

“Of course, if you can stand to hear Adam read about Scrooge and the spirits. I've heard that damn
Christmas Carol
at least twenty times, but if you don't listen with the kids, he'll never forgive you. Otherwise I'll cook something up and we can watch television.”

“No, I can stand
A Christmas Carol
again.”

“You're putting down my cooking. It's the first time you ever put down anything about me. You're improving, Philip dear.”

“Oh no, not at all. You're a wonderful cook.”

“But Cathrena's better.”

“Different.”

“Oh, the hell with cooking. Let's go home and have sex.”

They were at the car now. Philip looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged and went around the car to open the door for her.

“The trouble with being a gentleman,” Barbara said, “is that you question my ability to open a car door. In England, where they breed gentlemen as thick as flies, a lackey opens the car door for men and women, which is more equality than you're ready to engage in. Trouble is, we're too cheap to employ lackeys.”

Philip sighed. “You're impossible.”

“I think you're wonderful—just to say that. It's the humanization of Philip, twice in one evening: first my cooking, and now I'm impossible. Soon you'll be a perfectly normal husband.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Why not? Of course I'm impossible. I've always been impossible, in spite of all your salutary praise. At least I don't lie.”

“Do I, Barbara?” He was serious now.

“What about the bus?”

“What bus?”

“The bus in Israel, where you sacrificed your beautiful gray hair.”

“I didn't even know what I was doing. How could I speak about that?”

“You knew very well what you were doing. You put your life on the line.”

“I will not argue about that. It's of no importance, and a sensible omission is not a lie.”

“Why not argue? People who love each other argue and scream at each other and claw at each other.”

“Nonsense. Now get into the car and we'll go home and do what you suggested.”

“Say it, Philip. For God's sake, say it out loud: ‘An old man and an old lady are going to crawl into bed naked and make love and fuck each other with the kind of passion kids can't even dream about.' I dare you to say it!”

Philip burst out laughing, helped Barbara into the car, and then went around to the driver's door. As he drove off, saying, “Thank goodness we're alone. I never used that word in my life,” Barbara joined his laughter.

“I don't believe you.” Then she added, “Only four letters, an easy Anglo-Saxon word. Try it sometime.”

“Maybe—who knows?”

“You are the strangest man I ever knew,” Barbara said, “but I've learned to love you a great deal. Bless you, Philip. You've given me more than I ever hoped for.”