CHAPTER 14
C HAPTER 14
I VAN ’ S MOTHER, B ARBIE, WAS HAVING A MELTDOWN OF HER OWN . She had gotten him to go online and order two swivel rattan rocking chairs for her new pergola on the flagstone patio, but when they arrived via FedEx, they were small and cheaply constructed.
Ivan was getting dressed to go out with Margaret when he heard his mother’s footsteps on the stairs, muttering to herself, which was not good, not good at all.
“Ivan,” she shouted, banging on the door.
“What?”
“Those chairs. I could just cry. They’re all wrong.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Tell me how to send them back.”
“Not tonight.”
“I know. But Monday. You know Dat won’t bother with them. I can’t have those chairs on my porch, and it’s your fault, I hope you know.”
This was all spoken through the closed door as Ivan combed and styled his dark hair and pulled on an expensive leather belt. He felt the burning sensation in his collarbone, that bundle of nerve endings she lit with her strident demands. He rubbed it with the palm of his hand, grimaced.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do Monday night.”
He heard her turn away, heard the receding footsteps. He didn’t allow the resentment to get a toehold, but stuffed it in the airtight box marked: Caution. Flammable. Keep closed at all times.
As he left the house he skirted the back patio, her thin frame bent over a potted plant, pruning, fertilizing, achieving perfection, her mouth drawn in a thin line of concentration.
He used the front porch, avoiding her as he walked to his car.
“Ivan!”
He gritted his teeth, turned to answer, the set of his shoulders giving away his resignation.
“What?”
“Come here. I want you to look at these chairs.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
And so he endured her tirade about the inappropriate chairs, and the fact his father didn’t care, wouldn’t look at them or listen to her. What was she supposed to do without his support? The old feeling of helplessness enveloped him, the same thing he’d experienced growing up when he was expected to fix a situation beyond his means. It was always his job to step up to the plate and take responsibility when his father refused to satisfy her demands. Chicken wire for pea vines, a lost water hose, a broken screen, a hornet’s nest under the eaves, the list went on and on.
Ivan tried to shrug it off, but the feeling lodged in his chest like a festering sore he could never escape, so when he picked up Margaret he appeared preoccupied, a certain part of him not present.
“How was your week?” Margaret asked, settling herself in the passenger seat as she smiled at him.
“Great. I had a good week at work. Helped my mom in the garden.”
“I bet she appreciates you a lot.”
“She does. We’re pretty close. Couldn’t ask for a better mother.”
Margaret smiled to herself. What was the old saying? “As a young man treats his mother, so he will treat his wife.”
She asked when she could meet his family.
“Soon.”
But one weekend turned into another, the beautiful spring days turning into the heat of summer, and she was still in the dark about where he lived, and had yet to meet his parents. Then one Sunday evening, when they sat on the back patio, he told her church was at his parents’ house the following Sunday and did she want to come Saturday night and attend services in his district the following morning?
She smiled to herself on the darkened patio, but asked if he was sure she wasn’t a bother to his mother. He assured her that his mother would love to meet her, but then he left earlier than usual, leaving her standing by the screen door and wondering.
Mary sensed an air of anxiety about her daughter and asked what was making her so jittery.
“If you have to know, church is at Ivan’s place on Sunday, and he wants me there Saturday night. I haven’t met his parents yet. He only has good things to say about them, but sometimes I wonder. I mean, who only has good things to say about their parents?”
“Not you, I’m sure.”
Margaret looked at her mother, wide-eyed. “How did you know?”
“Oh, you’re my daughter, and every word out of your mouth is unfiltered. You speak the truth, no matter where it lands.”
“Absolutely.”
“I know I get on your nerves.”
“Absolutely, but I love you, Mom.” She draped an arm over Mary’s shoulders, and said, “You’re the best.”
Mary closed her eyes and soaked up the unusual display of affection like a dry sponge.
“I love you, too.”
O N S ATURDAY EVENING , the air was sultry, heavy with thunderclouds, the trees so still a bird flitting from the tips of branches was the only movement. In the distance, heat lightning quivered.
Margaret walked up the road beside Ivan, clutching her overnight bag, anxiously searching her mind for anything she might have forgotten. White cape and apron rolled precisely, dress folded, new covering. Black shoes, pantyhose. She had agonized over dress color, not wanting too bold, or too plain, too mousy. Rebecca had finally chosen the green, and Margaret agreed.
They neared the formidable brick structure, the groomed lawn, the edging so precise it seemed to have been done by a laser, the garden a portrait of perfection. There were no lights in the windows, but string lights shone from the flagstone patio.
She touched Ivan’s hand, needing assurance, but he drew away quickly. His father sat on a wicker chair, his bare feet on an ottoman.
He looked up, watched their approach, then got to his feet. Tall, like Ivan, with dark hair and a graying beard, he extended his hand. Margaret took it and said hello when he did.
Ivan said quietly, “My dad. Dad, Margaret.”
“Nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“And you. Ivan speaks of you often.”
He smiled, and somehow Margaret felt the air of defeat.
“Good things, I hope.”
“Of course.”
The screen on the French doors was pushed back, and a thin middle-aged woman stepped into the dim lighting.
“Amos. How . . . oh, here you are, Ivan. And this is Margaret?”
Ivan stepped forward, a hand on Margaret’s back.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Margaret, my mother. Mom, Margaret.”
“Hello. Where did your parents find such a name?”
But she took her hand, shook it, then turned to her husband.
“Amos, you have to do something about this screen door yet. I told you a hundred times it needs some WD-40. It pushes too hard. Do you have any? And did you turn the clock back? Where’s Jake?”
Margaret had opened her mouth to answer about her name, but closed it again, waiting to see what his father would do. He did nothing, just eased himself back into his chair, without answering.
Ivan took her elbow lightly in his hand and steered her through the sliding screen door, saying nothing. He led the way upstairs, then turned to her at the top.
“I . . . we aren’t allowed to be in my room.”
“Oh.”
Perplexed, she searched his face in the dim light, but his dark eyes slid away.
“So, you’ll have to sleep in the guest room. If we want to spend time together, we’ll have to be downstairs. Or you can hang out with my sisters.”
“But I don’t know them.”
“I’ll introduce you.”
The wind rose, sending a curtain at the end of the hallway billowing in, a potted plant rustling beneath. Lightning flickered, followed by a faraway rumble of thunder.
“Storm coming,” Ivan remarked, as if he was making small talk with a stranger at the grocery store. “I think they’re calling for hail and high winds.”
He seemed ill at ease, antsy, watching the opened doors of the hallways, as if waiting for an appearance.
“Here. This door is the guest room.”
He led her to a dim room, the bed high and wide, made up as if being photographed for a magazine. She took in the plush comforter with matching shams, fronted by an array of gray and beige pillows, an expensive throw positioned at just the right angle. A beautiful wooden rocking chair, elaborate mirrors, paintings on the wall, an Indian rug on the flawless floorboards.
Lightning flashed again.
“There’s a closet for your church clothes. The bathroom is across the hallway.”
Bewildered, she looked up at him. “But where are you going?”
“Downstairs. You can join me.”
Glad to be invited, she slipped a hand in his. Gently, he shook hers loose and walked ahead of her. Rejection slammed her chest, but she said nothing, wondering how he had turned into a different person in an hour’s time.
They met his three sisters, all teenagers, each one tall, willowy, and dark-haired. They were dressed in immaculate dresses, bib aprons, and white coverings. Ivan introduced them as Anna Mae, Suzanne, and Emma Sue.
She felt herself being scrutinized as they extended hands politely. Margaret found their handshakes weak, limp.
“We finally get to meet you,” Emma Sue remarked, but Anna Mae and Suzanne merely said softly, “Hey.”
The sky was filled with a blinding flash of lightning, immediately followed with a deep, hard clap of thunder. A high shriek sounded from another room, followed by a shout for Amos. Footsteps reverberated. Another flash of lightning.
“The windows!”
Ivan and his sisters turned, shoving down on windows, closing doors. The wind increased as rain battered the sides of the house.
Lightning snaked across the sky, illuminating the downstairs rooms. Thunder crashed, and Ivan’s mother let out another high shriek, a sound of pure terror mixed with despair. Then there was the unmistakable sound of ice, hail pinging against the windowpanes.
“Oh boy,” Ivan muttered.
“Let’s go out on the porch,” Margaret suggested. “Watch the storm go by.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ivan asked.
“Why not? I love watching a storm.”
Before he could answer, they heard a high keening noise, and Ivan told her to go upstairs, that he’d be up soon. She asked why, but he shook his head, so she went, stumbling a bit on the dark steps, with the door below shut firmly into place. She didn’t know what else to do, so she sat on the rocker, hoping she wouldn’t displace the cashmere throw on the back of it.
She became aware of muffled sounds from below, feet scurrying along, voices raised, then lowered. She rocked and watched the storm through the windows, the willow trees along the creek moving like hula dancers as the storm lashed.
She lifted her overnight bag and unzipped it, hung her dress and white cape and apron in the closet reeking of mothballs and lavender.
Where was Ivan? Why did he banish her to the guest room? Her eyes felt heavy after a hard day at market, and soon she dozed off. She woke to a completely dark room, shivers of heat lightning dancing in the distance, the sky clearing its throat with weak rumbles, the rain diminished to a few weary drizzles. She became aware of light thrown across the ceiling, flashes interrupted by movement, scissored shadows, followed by loud voices.
Quietly, she got to her feet, peered down on the scene below.
Everywhere, battery lamps floated like enormous fireflies as Ivan and his sisters held brooms, rakes, and garbage bags, dashing from one area to another, the movements punctuated by the loud shrieks she now perceived to come from the mother, who was obviously frantic.
Incredulous, she watched the activity below, the garden hose unwound, jets of water aimed at patio furniture, the flagstone floor. Plants were being shaken, fluffed up, wiped and polished, while rakes were dragged through the precisely cut grass.
Blinking her eyes, she finally covered her mouth to hide the smile threatening to turn into a laugh. Another shriek. Slowly, Margaret slipped her fingers beneath the window, raised it a few inches, intent on hearing what was actually going on.
“Amos, I told you we didn’t want to hondle (switch) with Ephraims. Whoever heard of going on vacation and not being able to take church? I wouldn’t have done it, but oh no, of course you have no backbone, had to say yes, and here we are.”
The tirade was stopped by a rumbling injection of unintelligible words from the accused father, resulting in a hysterical comeback.
Below the window, Ivan stopped raking.
“Hush, Mam. We have company.”
“Company? You call her company? She’s as mental as her mother. You can see it in her eyes. Emma Sue, I told you to keep that rake off the porch. This is the worst mess I have ever seen, and I kid you not. The evening before church. Amos, you better check the driveway, where it washes out there beside the barn. You never did a thing to fix that like I told you to.”
“I fixed it,” the father yelled.
“Whatever. Probably not right.”
Ivan ran off, the battery lamp bobbing in the direction of the barn.
Margaret turned away and sat down weakly, the chair still. “Please tell me it isn’t true,” she said to no one in particular. The hurt was like a burn, a searing pain.
Mental. She’d said her eyes were “mental.” Surely she didn’t mean it, she was just upset on account of the severe storm before services at their house. For a long time, she sat alone, her mind doubling down, playing tricks with her imagination.
But Ivan said his mother was the best. She must have caught her at a bad time. She was fine, likely. And as if to reassure her, she heard his footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on her door.
“Yes?”
“You okay? I’m sorry about all this.”
“I could have helped.”
She got to her feet, went to him, needing reassurance. She lifted her arms to put them around his shoulders, but was met by his hands removing them firmly. They fell by her sides, leaving her as awkward as a child on the first day of school.
“Not here. Not now.”
She swallowed her disappointment but searched his eyes. His slid away. He cleared his throat.
“Look, I’m going to bed. We get up at four when church is at our house. I’ll wake you.”
Margaret swallowed, nodded.
“Goodnight,” he said, in a small voice.
“Goodnight.”
It was a long night punctuated by distant heat lightning, water dripping, old eaves popping and snapping. She played the scene on the patio over and over, incredulous, thinking of her own mother. Her mom would have laughed and said no one would notice a few leaves around the yard. She seemed dear, close to her heart now.
Well, everyone had their low moments when stress got the best of them. Things would be better in the morning.
I T WAS DARK at four o’clock, but she sprang out of bed, went to the bathroom before the sisters, and tried her best with her hair, using liberal amounts of hairspray. She dabbed on a bit of makeup, the beige colored foundation hiding flaws.
“Good morning,” a girl’s voice came from the shadows of the hallway.
“Oh, good morning to you,” Margaret returned. “Hey, can someone help me with my cape this morning? I’m okay with my apron, but my mom puts my cape on.”
“Really? I’m surprised.”
With a sniff, Suzanne pushed past her into the bathroom.
Miss Better-than-thou , Margaret thought bitterly.
She resisted going downstairs, but finally found the courage, dressed in the green Sunday dress without the white cape and apron, her covering pinned neatly on her head, her hair rolled expertly.
Everywhere she looked, there was frantic activity, windows being polished, floors swept, rugs shaken. Hurried greetings were mumbled in her direction, the mother like a whirling dust storm in summer, shouting instructions, slamming doors, carrying folding chairs.
“Cereal. We have cereal for breakfast. Help yourself,” she said quickly while passing in the kitchen.
“Can I do something to help?” she asked politely.
“You probably don’t know how we clean our sinks, so no, you don’t need to. Just eat your cereal so that’s done. Cornflakes in the cabinet on top of the fridge.”
Margaret stood, her hands at her sides, and looked at the door she had pointed out. How was anyone supposed to reach the cabinet without standing on a chair? And she had the distinct feeling that standing on a chair would be severely frowned upon in this home. There was no sign of coffee anywhere. She felt ridiculous standing in the middle of the kitchen with no coffee cup, no food, and no job to do, so she decided to go back upstairs.
She resolved to pin her own cape into place, no matter what. The three sisters couldn’t be bothered, and she certainly wasn’t about to ask Ivan’s mom to help.
But when she met Ivan coming from his room, dressed in the traditional white shirt, black vest, and trousers, he was undeniably the best-looking man she had ever seen. Her knees turned weak with the pure happiness of being his girlfriend, obliterating every frightening thing she had witnessed.
Why then, that night, in the darkness of his car, when he turned to grab her roughly into his arms, holding her tightly in the August heat, did she feel herself shrinking away? She couldn’t push away the thought of not being good enough for him when he was with his family. Yet alone in the dark, it was okay to let his desire rule him?
No, no.
And yet she didn’t push him away.
H ER MOTHER, SENSING something amiss when Margaret returned, gently questioned. But it was well into the week before Margaret admitted there was anything out of the ordinary. She described his home, his family, even going so far as telling her how he refused to allow her to put her arms around him. She stopped herself before revealing the evening in his car.
“Hm. Well, perhaps, like you said, you caught them all at a bad time. I suppose a storm like that just before services could be stressful.”
“Huh,” was Margaret’s reply.
“How do you feel about Ivan?” Mary asked, pressing on.
“I definitely love him. He’s the best-looking guy ever. He treats me really well.”
“Does he?”
“Well, yeah. Would I lie to you?”
“I’m not saying that. I just . . . well, those good looks have very little to do with a good marriage. That’s all I want for you, Margaret.”
“How could it be anything but good if I love him the way I do?”
Mary nodded, knowing now was not the time to push her daughter. The next day, she gave her a book on Christian marriage, which Margaret looked at suspiciously, but later read late into the night.
I VAN AND M ARGARET were dating seriously, the hot winds of summer turning into the brilliance of autumn. Fields were dotted by orange pumpkins and an October moon created haunting shadows at night. Ivan’s black car left Margaret’s house later and later as time went on.
It was Steve who brought up the subject to Mary, smiling sheepishly as he spoke.
“I don’t know, Mary, but I lie awake when Ivan’s here. You can tell me I’m overprotective, but it seems to me, there’s very little communication between those two. I mean, shouldn’t we hear low voices? I strain to hear, and this is to my shame, but all I hear is, well . . .” He stopped.
“The couch creaking?” Mary supplied.
Steve burst out laughing, and Mary put a protective hand over her own mouth, pointing to the ceiling toward Margaret’s room.
“It isn’t funny,” she said.
“But it is. It explains her moods. I’m not convinced she’s happy. And what is a parent to do?”
“You mean with a daughter like her?”
“We can’t tell her anything.”
“We have a power far beyond our own strength, you know.”
“Absolutely. God be praised forever.”
They went to bed after kneeling together, their prayers reaching the throne of Grace, while Margaret lay awake with her own set of doubts, hashing and rehashing the troubling events of a chilly Sunday evening in October.