Island of Saints (18 page)

Once, several years ago, Margaret and Billy had left Danny with a neighbor and traveled to New Orleans for the only vacation either of them had taken since their honeymoon. It was to have been three glorious days and nights at the Fairmont, a ridiculously expensive hotel near the French Quarter, but a hotel, they discovered, without a window fan. The five-bladed wicker fan turning lazily in the ornate hotel room's ceiling was beautiful and did indeed move the air, but left the bedroom as silent as a tomb. After two sleepless nights, the couple checked out of the Fairmont and went home to Foley, Danny, and their noisy window fan.

Margaret turned from her side onto her back and looked into the darkness. After only a moment, she sat up to straighten the sheet, then lay back down. Soon she was again on her side. When a problem weighed on her mind, Margaret was generally unable to drift off, and this night had been no different in that respect. And the fan had not helped.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered to her husband.

In a full voice that startled her and indicated that, no, he was not, Billy answered, “Rip Van Winkle couldn't sleep in this bed. I'm having to hold on to the mattress to keep from being bounced out!”

Margaret chuckled and snuggled close to him. “I'm sorry.”

Billy put his arm around her and said, “That's all right. What's wrong? We gotta get up before too long, so you might as well tell me.”

Margaret sighed. “Has Danny asked you anything about Helen lately?”

“Um-hmm. Three or four times. You know how he is . . .”

“Yeah, he's been after me about it too.”

“The ‘why is Helen mean' thing?”

“That seems to be the subject.” Margaret stuffed her pillow behind her back and sat up. The hall light, left on every night for Danny, mitigated the darkness and allowed Billy to see the concern on his wife's face as she spoke. “Have you talked to him about forgiveness?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because that's what he has been asking me about.” Margaret thought for a bit, then said, “You know, we've talked about this before. Danny feels things other people don't. It's strange, isn't it? Sweet? How he's so concerned about her, I mean?”

“Well, why wouldn't he be?” Billy said as he arranged his own pillow behind his back and sat up to join Margaret. “You're concerned about her, and that shows. I am too. She's a good girl. But, Margaret, you
know . . .
we been through this ourselves . . . forgiveness is a hard deal if you don't understand it. And some people—like me and you were at one time—are so mad about the past that they can't see the future. Forgiveness is letting go of the past.”

Margaret shook her head. “Well, I haven't said anything to her about it in a while.”

“You can't. You don't know what she's upset about, really. I mean, it's all tied up with her husband getting killed . . . but beyond that, what do we really know?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just wish I could grab her and shake her and tell her the truth. If she were a daughter of mine . . .”

“Which she ain't . . .”

“I know, but if she were a daughter of mine, I could talk about this kind of thing with her.”

“Margaret. It'll come in time. Be her friend.”

“I just want to tell her the truth about what her life can be like if she ‘gets' this.”

Billy reached over and grabbed his wife. Pulling her into a hug, he said, “Sweetheart . . . Helen's having a hard time with the pain. She's got a good friend in you, and I know you're all full of ‘the truth shall set you free.' And it will. But sometimes . . . first, it can make you miserable. That's where she's at. Give her time.”

Even though they remained in a sitting position, Billy dozed off in the silence that followed. Margaret was careful not to move, her husband's arm still around her, as she listened to his soft snoring. She smiled. Billy was a wise man, Margaret knew. He was well-read and smart as a whip, though she teased him about his manner of speaking that often, she laughed, kept his intelligence a “secret.” Billy said “ain't,” “me and you,” “anyways,” and made no apology for his speech, but as terrible as Billy's grammar could be, years ago, his “language” was infinitely worse. Margaret lay her head on Billy's shoulder and remembered the day that changed.

Billy had been well-known in Baldwin County for his creative use of oaths, expletives, and the intermittent obscenity. It was said that he could cuss a streak that often displayed many shades of blue. Curiously, however, this never, ever occurred in the presence of a lady. Or Danny.

One afternoon over coffee, Margaret had asked him about that anomaly, and he'd responded with a grin. “First thing I want to know is . . . ,” he said, “how do you even know I swear?” She confessed that she had overheard him with other men on occasion. Billy had nodded apologetically and rationalized, “First of all, my daddy talked that way . . . That ain't no excuse and I know it, but somehow, I guess I feel close to my daddy when I talk like he did.

“I don't talk that way in front of Danny 'cause it's a bad example. He's a child. And also because I don't want ‘sorry language' that he hears in the future to remind him of his daddy the same way ‘sorry language' reminds me of mine. The reason I don't cuss in front of ladies is respect. Respect for them . . . respect for you. Anyhow, that's why I don't swear in front of women and kids.”

At that point, Margaret had taken a sip of her coffee and maintained eye contact with her husband, saying nothing. “You think that's a crock, don't you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Do you want some more coffee?” she said simply.

“You think all I just said is a d-a-m stupid reason for cussing, is that right?”

Margaret ducked her head and averted his gaze. Trying desperately not to laugh out loud, she almost blew coffee through her nose when he spelled the word instead of saying it in front of her—and spelled it incorrectly! Slowly Margaret looked up to find Billy, bug-eyed, veins bulging, leaning across the table as if daring her to disagree.

That had done it. Somehow, it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Like laughing in church or at a funeral, Margaret had known it was a terribly inappropriate response, but she just couldn't help it. Worse, every time she attempted to calm herself, she glanced at Billy, saw his exaggerated expression of patient “hurt feelings,” and dissolved into another fit of laughter. Before too long, it had become funny to Billy as well, and both had laughed until they were exhausted.

Margaret reached to take Billy's hand and gently squeezed it three times. One . . . two . . . three. I . . . love . . . you. She closed her eyes. Over time, spelling the occasional curse word was enough to get them giggling like teenagers, but spelling was as far as it went.

On that day so long ago, she had not challenged him, had not demanded, mocked him, threatened, or pouted. Margaret had asked her husband a question with an honest smile and was prepared to love him no matter the answer. And to everyone's astonishment, Billy Gilbert had never cursed again.

The laughter was a bonus,
Margaret thought as she drifted to sleep in her husband's arms. And it had lasted through the years.

Billy and Margaret seemed ordinary in all respects, but as the seasons in their lives had passed, both had come to understand fully how
extraordinary
they had become together. Margaret possessed a gift of discernment and intuition upon which Billy had come to rely. Billy, for his part, provided logic and wise counsel. Whenever Margaret began to wrap her mind around a concept or a feeling and fully explore its implications, Billy's role was to add comments, ask questions, and organize their conclusions into a clear, larger view.

When they had gotten married, it was a discouraging shock—terrifying, really—to discover how incompatible they seemed, how truly different from each other they were, and they had almost divorced. But slowly they came to respect those differences, even rely upon them, until at last, in a blinding flash of the obvious, Billy and Margaret arrived at an amazing conclusion: If we were just alike . . . one of us would be unnecessary.

When the breaking dawn lightened the bedroom's east window, Billy slipped out of the bed. Soon he was back with coffee and a plate of buttered, toasted biscuits. “Hey, Sugarbear?” He nudged Margaret and presented the spare breakfast to her as she woke up. “Special surprise,” he whispered, “today only . . . I put cinnamon on 'em. You better eat a couple before I get Danny up. We need to get going. It's coming up on six.”

Margaret got out of bed without a word and quickly brushed her hair. Taking a bite of the reheated biscuit that had been baked at the café the day before, she listened to Billy as he awakened their son. “Buddy Boy! Time to roll, Son! Let's go!”

Margaret shook her head as she heard Danny chuckle and gave silent thanks that the young man was like his father in the way he greeted the morning. God knew, she wished she was. Early in their marriage, however, she had thrown a finger in her husband's face one morning and said, “Listen carefully . . . yelling and loud is not the way I want to wake up. Clowns, insane people, and
you
may do it that way, but I don't!” And from that point on, she had never had to.

Billy came back into their bedroom. “More coffee?” he whispered.

“You can talk now,” Margaret said wryly.

“Oh, okay,” Billy said in a normal tone and with a total lack of sarcasm, “you want more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.” She turned around. “Billy, get this middle button, please. I can't ever reach it.” Billy stood behind her and quickly did as she asked. “Thank you.”

As Billy got dressed, Margaret sat at her vanity table and put on her makeup. “Honey?” she asked. “Who said, ‘No man is an island'?”

“You think I don't know?” Billy grinned.

“No . . . So, who said it?”

“John Donne. Sixteenth-century minister.”

She shot him a quizzical expression. “How
do
you know that?”

“My mama used to say it. Why are you thinking about ‘no man is an island'?”

Margaret brushed some color into her cheeks and said, “Because I think it's only partly correct.”

When she didn't continue, Billy finished combing his hair—always the last thing he did before leaving the house—and leaned against the wall beside her. “Explain.”

She frowned. “‘No man is an island' means that we all need each other . . .”

“True . . . ,” Billy prompted.

“But in a way, doesn't that place us at the mercy of someone else's actions? Aren't there some choices we can make that don't require the participation of others—especially if they hate us?”

Billy was trying to follow his wife's reasoning. “For instance?” he said.

She shoved her makeup back into a drawer and turned to face him. “For instance, whatever Helen's going through . . . Granted, this is nothing anyone ever seems to consider, but isn't Helen an island, so to speak, if she chooses to forgive?”

Billy pondered the question, then said deliberately, “If you mean that we are an ‘island' when we choose to forgive because it is not necessary anyone else be involved in the process . . . then, yes, I think you are right.”

Warming to the thought, Margaret asked, “Billy, where is it written that for one person to forgive another, the offender must
ask
for forgiveness? Where is it written—not in the Bible, for sure—that for one person to forgive another, the offender must
deserve
it?” Margaret stood. Eyes narrowed, head cocked, she asked, “How about this . . . where is it written that for one person to forgive another, the offender has to approve it, accept it, or even know about it?

“Look at it this way . . . ‘No man
is
an island' if we choose
not
to forgive.
Not
to forgive means we yield ourselves to another person's control—another person's governing values and
his
attitudes and actions. We are forced by someone else into sequences of act and response, of outrage and revenge, and you know what? It always gets worse. Our present, when we refuse to forgive, is endlessly overwhelmed by the past. But we become an ‘island' when we forgive. The act sets us apart from the burdens of people we generally don't like in the first place! Forgiveness frees the forgiver.

“Sometimes we attach our entire lives to the moment we were hurt and allow it to define and consume our very existence. We travel with that hurt—that offense—and brood over it every time it comes to mind. We sleep with it, eat with it. The ‘wrong' that has been done to us dictates how we speak to our children, our spouses, our friends . . .

“Even when those who have mistreated us, abused us, cheated us, or oppressed us . . . my God, Billy, even when
they
die, our anger and resentment do not have the decency to do the same! Our hurt continues to live.”

“Until we forgive.” Billy nodded. “I see it. There is no such thing as managing one's anger. It simply can't be done. The only answer is to forgive . . . and get rid of it forever.”

CHAPTER 12

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, EVERYONE AT THE CAFÉ WAS talking about the blackout. Finally, though without specifically mentioning why, the Feds had issued a proclamation requiring all coastal structures to cover their windows and doors at night. Black paper or cloth was suggested as best suited for the task. And this was no voluntary exercise—the blackout was mandatory and would be enforced by the local sheriff's department.

“More work for you, ain't it, Wan?” one of the regulars called out to the deputy, who sat at the counter with Billy.

Wan grinned. “Can't work more than twenty-four a day,” he said, “and that's what they got me doing now.” The group laughed as Wan turned back and finished his eggs.