Pearl (36 page)

45

They have injected her with something new. It is making her sleepy; it is making her forget whatever it is they want her to forget: something Joseph said that took away her understanding of her life. That made her feel her heart in her mouth. Her small, nearly invisible heart.
My heart was in my mouth,
people say, describing fear. If your heart is in your mouth, what do you do with it, swallow it? Spit it out? And then what are you left with? Then you are no longer alive.

He was kneeling beside her whispering in her ear, frantically whispering words that made no sense. He wants to carry her away. How can that be? To a hidden place where she would be his wife. Where her mother would not be allowed. Where the doctor would not be allowed. He wants to take her from the world and keep her to himself? His wife? How could she be his wife? He is Joseph; he has been with her all her life, the one who made her feel all right when she was frightened, when she lost faith and hope, the one to catch her if she fell. And now he wants to carry her away. All this is what they want her to forget, but she cannot forget it. A stone is on her head, trying to press her down to sleep, but she cannot be pressed down; she is floating. She will not be pressed down, but she would like a place of rest.

46

Joseph and Maria are both silent on the cab ride home.

“I just don’t understand,” Maria says yet again, when they get to the hotel.

His own understanding horrifies him. An understanding that is at the same time a failure to understand. How could he have done what he did? What came over him? A drunkenness, a madness, a fever. It is broken now, the fever and his heart and all their lives; he has broken everything. He had wanted to protect Pearl; now she must be protected from him. He wants to turn to Maria and say,
Do you understand what I’ve done?
But the error had happened when he said what he wanted, the thing that could be the ruin of them all. He must not say what he wants to say; he must say what Maria needs.

He thinks of the young man running into the room, calling Pearl by name. Rescuing her from him. From
him:
the man who has always thought of himself as her protector, the man who planned on devoting his whole life to keeping her safe. Does the young man know who he is? Will she tell him everything that happened? Who is he? He’s not a doctor. What can he be doing there? How quick he was to rush into the room, rush to the rescue. A knight in shining armor. Where did he come from? On what white horse?

He can’t think about that now. He must answer Maria.

“Pearl’s very fragile now. We must remember that.”

Neither of them has any inclination to speak. They say goodbye when the elevator reaches Maria’s floor.

For the first time, Maria has lost hope. She had believed something in her daughter had broken but that it could be fixed. Her love would fix it—that was what she’d thought at first; later she began to have faith in the skill of the doctor. But suppose what was wrong with Pearl was beyond either love or science? What if Pearl was damaged beyond repair?

Repair.
What do you repair? A pair of shoes. A washing machine. A bridge. A watch. A road. How was the soul repaired? Reparation. What was it that was needed to be paid back?

She lies in the dark, her eyes over-wide, excruciating, in their hyperalertness. What needs to be paid back? What is her debt? She knows she has never been in literal debt, because of her father. She thinks of her father now. What was broken between them was beyond repair. She had taken her broken heart and turned it to a heart of stone. My father who art in heaven. If he is in heaven, what sort of place is that, and who else is there, and does she want to be there herself? Does she want her daughter there? Not now. Her father may be in heaven but Pearl will not be. Not anytime soon. She will see to it. She can’t get it out of her mind:
My father who art in heaven.
And then, my father who bought us cream puffs in Rumpelmayer’s, who told us we must learn to eat a cream puff comme il faut. She will not think of her father in Rumpelmayer’s; she will not think of Pearl in heaven. She will turn her heart to stone.

Perhaps you have found this stony heart unsympathetic, incomprehensible. To harden your heart to the father who gave you life, your one living parent, to refuse to mourn his death, to invoke the name of justice whenever the temptation to grieve arises?

What happened, you may wonder, when other images of her father, kindly images, loving images, arose? Is the image of her father in Rumpelmayer’s followed immediately by the policeman telling her, “Go home to your father. You have friends in high places”? She convinced herself that the face of her father was the face of surveillance, of a judgment she felt had taken a way of life, everything from her that was colorful and lively, and crushed it, that felt entirely free to say
my treasure
and cut out the rest of the world. When it appeared to be kindly, it was only a face tried on, perfected in front of a mirror, a mask used to achieve ends it always had in mind: surveillance and control. So the tender glance, the loving smile: they were not to be trusted. They were in service of a force to which she would not yield. The force that allowed her father to say, “My treasure. My own.”

She understands the need to say it now:
My treasure. Protect my treasure. My own.

She sees her father’s face, his light-blue eyes behind his rimless glasses sparkling with judgment. Then she sees his face, white, against the pillow, the last time she saw him, the time he pretended to be close to death. What was his face like when he was really close to death? She will never know. And until now she has refused to think about it.

She no longer refuses. She understands herself a thief. Because of her, her father lost a daughter. She understands for the first time what the weight of that loss might be. She turned her heart into a stone and did not count the cost.

What if the stone could be rolled back? The stone was rolled back at the Resurrection. She thinks of Easter—the risen body, vulnerable to light, comes, fragile, back into the world.
Noli me tangere.
Don’t touch me. Don’t.

If you roll back the stone, what is there in the darkness?

I do not believe in the resurrection of the dead. My father died, once and for all, bereft of my forgiveness. And I of his. The dead are dead. Silent. Out of our reach. This is the way the story ended. Ends.

But suppose, she wonders, it is not? Suppose the dead can forgive and be forgiven? How would the story end in that case? And what would that mean about what the story always was? If she is to think about it, she will have to stand—or sit, perhaps—in an unbearable place, the place of unbearable grief and loss. She will have to be in this place for a time if the story isn’t over. To take the next step, she will have to sit, not in the place of stone but in the bog of loss and grieving. Always she was afraid of drowning, of being entirely swallowed up. But is there some ground now, not a place of stone but simply a sliver of dry land, on which she can, for a moment, get her footing? A place where she can stand and say
my father
without feeling she has bent the knee before the tyrant, towering above her with his raised arm?

She asks herself, supposing it was possible to stand on a sliver of dry ground and say “My father,” what will happen if she is wrong? What would constitute wrongness? She is not under surveillance. If she is wrong, no one will blame her, for the very reason that no one will know.

So why not act as if the story weren’t over? As if, somewhere, in a place she has no need either to locate or to name, her father is reachable, on the other side of words. She feels the sliver of dry ground beneath her feet: the place from which she can begin to speak.

Father, forgive me.

Father, I forgive you.

Father, forgive me, but I knew exactly what I did.

I wanted to harm you. And I did.

And there was no repairing it. You died. You did not rise.

Repair us, now, Father; forgive me, keep her safe.

Roll back the stone.

In the dark, she weeps for the lost face of her father, the face of her child, in danger of being lost to her forever. What if there is no end of weeping? Then, she wonders, how will I live my life?

Father, forgive me. Keep her safe. There is nothing I understand; there is nothing I can do.

She lies weeping, helpless, the child she always refused to allow herself to be. Was the refusal based on pride or fear? Who knows? We can know this. She has relinquished what she once held dear: an old refusal.

47

Joseph runs a bath so hot it will scald his skin. This is what he must live with now; he has betrayed the innocent. He hears the words: “I have sinned in betraying innocent blood.” Judas the betrayer said that. Like him, Judas was in charge of the money; he was also the safeguarder of the wealth.

Going over the story of Judas, he tries to understand what might have happened to his fidelity, his devotion, his trustworthiness. Judas had been given the purse; he must have been trusted. When did it come to him that it would be a good idea to betray Jesus? Most likely, he didn’t use the word
betray
at first; perhaps in his mind he called it
handing over
. How did that come about? he wonders. What could it have been like? Did it happen after he’d made a fool of himself over the perfume and Mary Magdalene? When he reproached her for spending money on perfume to wash the feet of Jesus, money that could have been spent on the poor? “You always have the poor with you,” Jesus had said. Did Judas feel then that everything he’d done was useless, that he’d followed this man because he was devoted to the poor and then he said the poor didn’t matter, it was more important that a whore pour perfume on his feet and wash them with her hair? Was that what tipped him over the edge, feeling his whole life had been wrong, a waste? Did he tell himself he was turning Jesus over because Jesus had betrayed his own ideals? Did he convince himself that he was betraying Jesus in the name of the poor?

He imagines Judas, walking as he walked, hour after hour, looking as he had looked into the white sun pressed like a coin into the white sky; convincing himself that he’d come up with a good idea, acting on the idea, and then almost immediately seeing what he’s done. Appalled, he tries to undo it, to give back the money; he throws it at the high priests. The high priests say, “What is that to us? See to it yourself.” The gospel does not record what Judas does between hearing that and going out to hang himself. He can imagine no good idea now but death by his own hand.

Now he, Joseph, can imagine no good idea, either, only to stay away from Pearl. To wait for her accusation. Perhaps to wait for nothing. It is possible she will refuse to see him. He would, of course, deserve that too.

“See to it yourself.” Joseph cannot imagine what it is that he must see to. He takes the thin towel and wraps it around himself to cover his nakedness. Also called his shame, his manhood. “I am a worm, and no man.” The words of the psalmist come to him; was it David or is David’s authorship of the psalms another story too weak to withstand the test of time? The words of scripture, the characters of scripture, dregs at the bottom of his unbelief: “I am a worm, and no man. Can these bones live?”

48

Something has pressed her down to sleep. But she is bobbing up now. And Tom is walking with something that bobs, something so light he is having trouble holding it. They are a strange thing for a tall man to be carrying, too light, too little weight for him to easily transport. How can it be that something’s lightness should make difficulties? Her body is losing its lightness.

Tom unwraps the parcel. Puts it down on the radiator. Has she fallen asleep again? When she wakes, they are no longer flowers on the radiator, they are silver disks, bobbing like insubstantial lollipops on stems of ribbon. Somehow they move but she doesn’t understand how. What are these silver circles bobbing in the air? The stone of sleep is pressing on her head, but she forces herself to bob up. She must focus on those silver disks, somehow attached, moored in their box on the radiator, and the heat from the radiator is making them bob in its generated breeze. But why are they here?

Her throat is very sore. If she whispers, will Tom the watcher hear her? Joseph knelt by her bed and whispered. The words made no sense. She will try to make Tom the watcher hear.

“Why are they here, those silver things?”

“It’s a bouquet of balloons. A present for you.”

A bouquet of balloons. That is a very strange thing. Bouquets are flowers. She asks if she can see them.

Tom carries them over.

There is writing on the silver disks, but the writing is flowers. Sometimes she begins to make letters of the flowers and sometimes she sees only patterns. She must focus. If she can read words, she can begin to understand. Gradually, capitals form,
G . . . W . . . S. W . . . S . . . G. S . . . G . . . W
. And then the small letters become comprehensible:
Get Well Soon.

But I wasn’t sick, she wants to say.

“There’s a card with it,” Tom says. “Shall I read the card?”

“Yes, please.”

“Dear Pearl. I hope you’re fine. I’m fine. I miss you. Wishing you all the best. Let’s get together soon. Love, Breeda.”

She doesn’t understand. This must be a trick, a mistake. The last time she saw Breeda, Breeda said what she’d done was unforgivable. That she was the worst of all of them because she’d made Stevie think she understood him. That it was the thing she said—How could you be so stupid?—that sent him over the edge. His blood was on her hands.

How can it be that Breeda said Stevie’s blood was on Pearl’s hands and now she is sending her balloons and saying
Let’s get together soon
? It is beyond her understanding; she feels as helpless now as when Joseph said the things he did.

There is nothing she understands. If she could understand one thing, she could take one step and then another. Does this mean Breeda has forgiven her? That what she has done is not unforgivable? Is there forgiveness without a forgiver and if Breeda has forgiven her is she no longer unforgivable? And what about what Breeda said before? Her mind is bobbing. Suddenly she remembers the name of the material the balloons are made of—Mylar—and the room is full of bobbing silver disks, too light, flying up, more and more of them: Mylar, yourlar, everybody’s lar. Forgive. Give for what? Writing that is flowers. Get well soon. I hope you’re fine. The disks bob up. Sleep, like a stone, presses down.

She is tied to her bed but she is riding a horse, a silver horse whose name is Princess. He is riding a chestnut horse named Lucy. He says their names, Princess, Lucy. He says, These are the horses in my story. Do you remember my story, the story we wrote together? Yes, she says, I do. They are riding together, and the manes of the horses are light in the wind. The horses’ hooves don’t touch the ground. He rides a little ahead of her; she calls to him; she’s afraid he can’t hear. Forgive me, Stevie, she calls. He slows down his horse so they are right next to each other. Forgive? he says. Forgive? With so much to be forgiven, it would be strange not to forgive. And he smiles and the horses are close together; their heads nearly touch. She hears more horses behind her, and when she turns she sees the others: Miss Alice and Janet Morehouse and John Lennon and Bobby Sands, and Jolene and Sean and Avril, the Omagh dead. Riding together in the air that turns silver as they ride into it and are taken up.

She is on a horse but she is tied to a bed. Silver disks are bobbing; are they heads or faces? No, there is writing on them. Or is the writing flowers? Her mother will keep her safe, and Joseph wants to take her away so he can marry her because only he can keep her safe. Balloons, that kind of silver balloon. Mylar. Why are these in her room and what is the writing that keeps turning into flowers? She wants to weep with the effort to understand.

“Forgive,” he said. What does that mean, forgive? She had said, “How could you be so stupid?” to a boy whose shame was that he felt stupid already because people said he was. And at the moment when he was covered with the greatest shame of his life, she had joined the camp of his accusers: she, who had said to him, “They’re wrong. You’re
not
stupid. “Breeda was right, she was the worst because he believed she understood him. She had thought she did.

And Joseph had said, “I am the one who understands you. I am the only one.” Which meant he wanted to carry her off, keep her for himself, keep her from the world—safe, he said, but what he meant was hidden. Marry her. The man she thought was like her father. So what was his understanding? And if you understood at one time or maybe most of the time, why didn’t that keep you from the error that could undo all the understanding you believed you had, that you might actually have had?

Forgive. Give for what?

Was Breeda saying she forgave her? Did that mean she was forgiven? If you were forgiven, could you still be unforgivable?

How could Breeda have forgiven her? This is what she needs to know. But she is tied to her bed. They will not let people in to see her. Tomorrow, they said. But she can’t wait till tomorrow. She has to know now.

She tells the nurse she must see Dr. Morrisey.

“Dr. Morrisey is off, she’s not at your twenty-four-hour beck and call. She has a family of her own, you know.”

The nurse doesn’t like her. The nurse resents Dr. Morrisey’s attention. Forgive me, she wants to say to the nurse. But for what?

“Please, she said I could call her at home at any time. I’m sorry. Please.”

Tom stands beside the bed. He is tall, very tall, taller than the nurse. He will be a doctor one day. “I was here when Dr. Morrisey said it. She made quite a point of it. She repeated it several times so Ms. Meyers would know she meant it. I hate to think what she’d do if her wishes weren’t respected.”

Tom is on her side. Tom is with her. She would like to say, I am very grateful. Grate-ful. Gratitude. The gratitude has made me full. But I am not full, I am empty. There is no greatness in me.

The nurse disappears down the hall, comes back with another doctor. He concurs: Dr. Morrisey has said Pearl could call her at home. Her throat is very sore; she’s frightened that when they hand her the phone she’ll be inaudible.

They hold the phone for her; her hands aren’t free. “Hazel Morrisey here,” the voice says, and Pearl tries to marshal all her strength to appear reasonable. If she appears reasonable, they are more likely to grant her request. But nothing feels reasonable to her. Joseph is incomprehensible to her, and Breeda, and the silver disks bobbing in the air. But she must appear to be a person who has understood the way of things.

“It’s terribly important that I see someone,” she says to Dr. Morrisey. Her voice sounds like a croak in her own ears. “If I can clear something up, it will make all the difference to me.”

“In my judgment, you’re not ready to be seeing people. I think it was seeing too many people that drove you to this point. I can’t allow it.”

She can’t tell anyone what drove her to this point. She can’t let anyone know what Joseph whispered, kneeling at her bedside, his hand cupping her ear, the side of it pressing into her skull.

Appear reasonable.

“I’d have to know who it is you want to see.”

“The boy who died, Stevie. His mother. We parted on bad terms.”

“And what if you’re still on bad terms after you’ve spoken? The risk is far too great.”

“ I understand your concern,” Pearl says, “but she sent me a bouquet of balloons and a note that said she hoped we’d see each other soon.”

“I’m afraid I can’t go along,” Dr. Morrisey says.

She has said she understands, but she understands nothing. If she can see Breeda, if she can understand what Breeda meant by sending her a bouquet of balloons that are supposed to be flowers, that has writing that is flowers, if Breeda says that the unforgivable thing that she did to Stevie wasn’t unforgivable, that she has in fact been forgiven . . . then there will be something she can understand. But it can only happen if Dr. Morrisey believes her to be reasonable.

“I know what happened won’t happen again.”

“And suppose this visitor of yours doesn’t give you the response you want? You can’t guarantee it, and I can’t take the risk. I’ll allow your mother to come in tomorrow. You’ve been heavily sedated; you’re not up to much in any case. Just try and rest.”

The phone is hung up, taken away from her. She gives over to the wave of confused sleep. She can’t fight anymore; she can no longer pretend to be reasonable.