Bodies and Souls (49 page)

She rose, stretched again, and went upstairs. Mandy was just coming out of the bathroom, and she looked shining and elaborate, with makeup painstakingly applied and her hair brushed to a sheen. She was wearing only a white slip.

“Flowerface,” Leigh said, and moved to kiss her daughter on the cheek.

Mandy flinched back a bit from her mother’s kiss. “Mom!” she said. “You’ll streak my makeup! And look at you. It’s after nine-thirty and you’re still in
jeans
.”

“Ah,” Leigh said, “but you should see the church! Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be ready.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Mandy wandered into her bedroom and stood in the center of it, looking around. She was completely ready except for putting on the wedding gown and veil, and she had forty-five minutes to wait before it was time to go to the church. She knew that any moment now her father and his wife would arrive, and so would her two best friends from college and her best friend from high school, who were going to be bridesmaids. They would all go to the church together. In a minute or two, the house would be filled with noise and movement. But for this one moment it was silent, except for the noise of her mother’s shower, and time retreated from her politely, like a docile servant bowing and backing out of the room, leaving her to her privacy.

This was what she had wanted, this vivid honest moment of separation, when she could stand in the middle of her childhood room as if still in the middle of her childhood, and wholeheartedly give it up with open hands. She had been happy here, in this house, in her childhood; but she had been a
child;
she would always be a child here. She was grateful for the ritual of marriage for providing that necessary sense that something was being officially and irrevocably renounced, and something else taken up. She needed the ritual of marriage.

She sank down on her bed and began drawing her hose up her legs. She moved slowly, smoothing the delicate silken material against her. She had only recently bought a garter belt, since she had grown up in a panty-hose world, and she liked the way she looked in just her bra and panties and garter belt and hose—erotic, exotic, a bit tarty, in fact. She had read enough propaganda in the literature her mother and female teachers foisted off on her to understand that in this particular culture and time women were raised to be self-critical, even self-deprecating, to think of themselves as fat. In one feminist article she had read that in a survey taken of hundreds of women of all ages, weights, and body-types, 98 percent of them thought of their bodies as badly flawed in some way.
They all need a lover like Michael
, Mandy had thought, for over the past year she had lived with Michael she had developed a new appreciation of her own body, so that when she looked in the mirror she smiled and thought: Well, I’m not half bad.

So much in the world depended on vision. In fact, it seemed to Mandy that one’s whole life depended on three things: luck, courage, and vision. She could still remember how it was when she was a small child, when her ignorance of the simplest things made
the world seem blurry at the edges. It was as if she had always moved through a fog. The people she knew well and trusted were seen and felt as
people:
her mother, father, best friends, her teachers after a few weeks. But all other people appeared to her as objects, startling physical masses, who loomed up suddenly next to her in that fog, exuding their own personalities in the same way chairs exuded wood.

She could remember one boy in the third grade especially. His name was Billy, and he was handsome and smart and sophisticated and popular. Of course he must have worn clothes which had colors, but Mandy could never think of him as, say, a boy in a brown sweater. He was so bright and significant that he frightened Mandy, and when he approached her she saw him as a shiny metallic object, very cold and definite, like a spoon. It seemed to her that when he was near her he curved away from her, like a turned spoon curving naturally away; she could feel glitter, polish, and chill emanate from him.

Much later she met his younger sister, who said, “Oh,
you’re
Mandy Findly! My brother Bill had a crush on you all through third grade. He used to come home and be
sick
because you would never speak to him.” Billy and his family moved away shortly after that, so Mandy never got to know him, and while she was pleased to hear from his sister that Billy had liked her, she was also disturbed that her vision of him had been so wrong, that he had liked her, when she had felt he hadn’t. But that was how it was when you were young, people just rose up in front of you, or came at you, like cars or dogs or walls or trees, and there was nothing you could do about it: you were held helpless in your vision, a prisoner of sensation.

She wanted to sculpt this, in fact had begun a piece, her biggest attempt yet, a blunted figure rising up, towering, a faceless apparition in heavy clay, which tilted treacherously forward. How could she shape it so that others seeing it would know that if you tried to touch this figure, if you threatened it, it would vanish? Her mother, and most older people, Mandy thought, led such elaborate and complicated lives, as peopled by their fears of possible problems as her childhood had been peopled by ghosts. They seemed to believe that if a person did the right things—went to high school, college, got the right job, married the right person at the right time—you could escape dark hazards, like a carefully driven car keeping cautiously to a path, not touching the barriers which edged the way. But then, it was true, few people had had the luck she had—and luck was as important, more important, perhaps, than vision. It was sheer, beautiful, generous luck, as bountiful as the sun, which had brought her so early to her choice of work. She had her
visions. Her mind was filled with them, a bizarre, demanding muddle of reality and dream, voices and fragrances which transformed themselves into shapes and colors, emotions which metamorphosed into objects. She could re-create her visions with her sculpting. And she could do this because of Michael, because of Michael.

She thought of him as being as necessary as the air she breathed or the ground which held her up, as comforting as a bed of tousled blankets, as refreshing as night rain on bare skin—if she wanted to, she could envision Michael as many things. But she knew that what he really was, was simply Michael: a tall handsome young man who for some mysterious reason needed her as much as she needed him.

They had lived together for almost a year now and she had become familiar with all the intimate details of his living, as he had with hers. He was a kind, gentle creature, who had long ago refused the powers of his intelligence in the way a person might refuse a dubious gift from a wizard. Michael liked the real stuff of every day; it had much more meaning, more reality to him than it did to Mandy. He made the coffee and breakfast in the morning, because it mattered to him that the coffee be brewed just right. For her part, Mandy would have made do with tepid tea or even a Diet Pepsi. He had bought a pickup truck to carry his tools in—he had gotten a job with a painter—and he liked his tools. He liked walking slowly through a hardware store, comparing saws and drills and blades. He washed and waxed his truck often. Sometimes Mandy would come back late at night from working at the college studio to find him sitting in front of the television, drinking beer, eating pretzels. “You’re a stereotype, you know that, don’t you?” she asked, teasing. “You’re really nothing but a beer advertisement!” She only criticized him because she thought she should; she had been raised to think that sitting around watching TV and drinking beer was bad.

“If you’ve got the time, I’ve got the beer,” Michael would say, and pull her down on the couch with him, and she would be engulfed in his slow, aromatic, masculine presence, as in a fragrance. Michael always lived in the present. He was not plagued or blessed by visions or memories which took him away from the here and now, and so when he focused on her, she was overpowered by his intensity, his unhurried concentration.

For his part, he did not seem awed by her art or intelligence, only pleased. He loved her, therefore he believed in her and would do everything in his power to help her, to sustain her while she worked. It didn’t bother him to clean house or do the dishes or
the cooking; these were tasks which satisfied him in the same way that mowing a lawn satisfied him. They were deeds that could be completed within a short period of time, so that he could see the results, and he liked the easy movements required of his hands and body. He did not seem interested in analyzing their love for each other or in exploring the cause of their lucky happiness. Their love simply existed for him as steadfastly as a tree or a building; it just
was
. Mandy knew that if she stopped working at her sculpting, that would be okay with him, and if she worked at it obsessively and became rich and famous, that would be okay, too, and if she dropped out or became a nurse, that would be okay. She supposed she could worry if she wanted to, about the future—was their marriage, their love, based entirely on sex? Would he, in ten or twenty years, grow tired of her? She of him? She did not think so. It seemed to her they had mated for life, in that mute, absolute way of animals; it was not just sex, but it was an even more physical thing that had happened to them. They were two masses fused together and held there by the force of the world, shuddering into each other, irrevocably locked.

That was luck. Mandy saw herself as a woman who had been given unusual vision, unusual luck, and she felt sure that she only needed courage now, to grab hold of all she had, to say: I love him, and I can do these things. She was grateful to her parents and to Michael’s parents for allowing them to make this choice.

She knew this must be hard for them. Her own mother was one of the most intelligent, perceptive women she knew. Yet several days ago, when Mandy had been getting ready for a wedding shower, Leigh had walked into the room while Mandy was fastening her hose onto her new white garter belt.

“Hi, Mom,” Mandy said. “Don’t I look quaint?” For she thought she did, in that lacy old-fashioned contraption.

Leigh had stared at her daughter, who was wearing only a bra, panties, hose, and the garter belt. “I would hardly call your appearance
quaint
,” she said, and walked out of the room without telling Mandy what she had come in for.

Mandy had crossed her room to look at herself in the mirror, then grinned. No she did not look quaint. She did not look childish. She looked like a woman who had been caressed and loved by a man until her flesh shone. Without meaning to, she had embarrassed her mother with her sensuality. Yet she was glad, after all, for her mother’s having seen her this way; it would make things even more definite between them. Mandy was no longer a child. She was a woman.

She was almost a married woman. Mandy trembled, and forced herself into the present. It was after ten o’clock. People would be gathering at the church. Michael was at his house, putting on his tux. She could hear people coming into the house downstairs, voices, laughter, calls. Suddenly she burst into tears—why was it said that way, that she burst into tears? It was rather that suddenly the tears burst from her, out of her eyes, down her face, streaking her perfect makeup. The morning sun poured through the windows, shaped by her frilly curtains, and made her childhood room seem a vessel of light.
She had been happy here
. Mandy walked around the room, touching the bed, her stuffed animals, her dresser, her desk, even each one of the walls, weeping and touching. If she could have, she would have taken that entire childhood room into her arms. Marriage was irrevocable, it was different from just living together, it was a shining sword which cut her off from her childhood and her mother, it was an act which rent every bit as much as it joined.

“Oh, Mandy, little honey,” Leigh said. She came into the room and put her arms around her daughter and pulled her to her, not minding that Mandy might get makeup all over her silk dress.

“Mom,” Mandy said, “I really do love you. I really do love this house.”

“I really love you,” Leigh said. “I always will. Come on, let’s put your dress on and go in the bathroom. I’ve brought some flowers up. I’ll weave them into your hair. We’ve got to leave for the church pretty soon.”

Mandy got a handkerchief and blew her nose, then smiled at her mother. But as Leigh helped slide the heavy white lace and satin wedding gown over her, and fussed around fastening and fixing it, Mandy began to cry again, softly. This is the last time, she was thinking, that my mother, who has tended to me all my life, will dress me and take care of me.

Leigh led Mandy into the bathroom and waited while she repaired her makeup. She brushed her daughter’s long hair and carefully wound tiny yellow roses in it. “Hold your head still!” she snapped. But she smiled. She was envisioning the future. Someday, not soon, but someday years away, Mandy and Michael would have children. Then Leigh would come back into her daughter’s life, to help, to plump up the pillows and rub her back and brush her hair so she’d look pretty for Michael, to take the baby from its crib and change its diaper and bring it to Mandy to feed.

The church was beginning to fill with wedding guests. People were, in fact, crammed into the pews. Everyone in Londonton, it seemed, knew Mandy and Leigh or Michael and the Taylors. And everyone was in the mood for a celebration.

The women wore hats adorned with ribbons or flowers and dresses with lace or ruffles or some sort of frill, and the men had gotten out their best suits or blazers. The September sun blazed bright and hot. It was a ripe day, life and time at a glorious peak. As soon as a cluster of people entered the sanctuary, they stopped and looked around, startled, amazed at the abundance of flowers. Their spirits lifted and they laughed, as if they had been somehow pleasantly tricked. When they finally settled into pews, they were too happy to keep still; they turned their heads and waved and nodded at friends and whispered among themselves so that their hushed laughter and conversation drifted through the sanctuary air like streamers, airy banners, spirits in effervescence.