The Border of Paradise: A Novel (17 page)

“I was wondering,” I said, God help me, “if I could—I’d like to get in touch with Marianne.”

“Is that right. Well, if you’re looking to scoop her up, you’re barking up the wrong tree. She’s living in a convent now.” She laughed. “Is that all you wanted?”

“I’d still like to talk to her,” I said.

“I don’t think they accept phone calls at the convent, dear. Probably too busy praying, and I haven’t spoken to her since she left. It’s somewhere out in California, out in the middle of nowhere. Near Sacramento. Did you know that Sacramento is the capital of California? Who knew?”

“What sort of convent is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the kind where they pump out nuns like parts on an assembly line. The town is Killington, I just remembered.
What an awful name. Killington. I can’t believe my daughter lives in a place with a name like that, can you? Like a land of murders.”

Killington. She was forty-five minutes away, in the next town over. My heart felt oversized, pumping rushes of blood to bloat my head full. Was this the greatest news of my life, or the most terrible? I vaguely recalled Marianne telling me of some dream to live in Northern California. Had I, without knowing it, steered my family in this direction?

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“Is that all you wanted to know? These calls are expensive. I don’t even know where you are.”

“Nowhere. Good-bye,” I said, and hung up.

I sat on the bed with my hand on my chest. Had I imagined the conversation? Had Caroline Orlich really told me that her daughter lived a short distance from where I sat? Marianne was in a convent, of course, and I was married, with a son, but she was out there: no longer in Chicago, but doing what she’d wanted to do for so long, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that she was now so close to me, but an act of Fate. Because while I’d found a woman to marry, I’d never snuffed out my flame for that girl from the Pawlowskis’ Christmas party. If monogamy is measured in the heart, I must say that I’d never forsaken Marianne, the specter. In the marrow of my bones I’d carried her with me from New York to Taiwan, around the United States, and finally to Polk Valley.

My one regret was this: it was not that I’d lacked the courage to chase Marianne to Chicago, or even that I’d fled to the East and chosen to marry the woman I named Daisy, but that I had but
one life
with which to make such choices—and that damned inflexibility immediately left me greedy and grasping, with my hand still pressed against my sternum as though to hold in the heart beneath.

Within the week I told Daisy that I had business in Sacramento. She didn’t ask what that business was, but nodded, hugged me, and told me to be safe. “Be safe” was a habit of hers, and it makes me wince to think of it now, because I left this morning without saying good-bye to her or to the children, which means that I escaped the plea or superstitious ritual of hers. (Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.) On the drive to Killington I lost myself in dreams. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t drive off the
road; I was busy thinking about Marianne’s body, but it would be too simple to say that my interest was purely sexual. I had no intention of seducing her, because the Marianne I’d known as an adolescent would never allow herself to be seduced, and the Marianne who had chosen to become a nun would be even more impossible to bed. It was the substance of her that I wanted to be near. I loved anticipating the sight of her body, even if it was cloaked and hidden; but I also wanted to just talk to her, to hear her gentle voice, to ask her if she remembered the days on the roof, to remind her of eating cookies in her living room, which felt threadbare to me at the time, but now seems far warmer than my Polk Valley living room, which has a small bookcase, a sofa and easy chair, and the twin uprights, but not much else; I wanted to ask her if she ever thought of me, because I was lost and I often thought of her; I would tell her that I continued to pray, but that I felt as distant from God now as I did when I first lost my mind. Most of all—and here my eyes misted, and I could barely see the road—I wanted to tell her that I missed her.

Right as I crossed the border into Killington, I made my plans. I decided that I’d claim to be Marty. I feared that I wouldn’t be allowed to enter without being a direct relation. And yet I was terrified that Marianne’s disappointment upon discovering my lie would make her angry, and that she’d send me away without a chance to explain. When I arrived at Killington I drove aimlessly, not sure of what to do or where to go until I found a filling station, and asked the attendant if there was a convent in town. He said that there was. I asked him, a tautly muscular young man with a mild overbite, if he knew where the convent was. He asked if he looked like the kind of guy who would know where a convent would be, and I said, “I suppose not.” I asked him if he knew how I could find out where the convent was. He shrugged and looked over my head at the mountains. I reached for my wallet and gave him a five-dollar bill. “And how can I find out,” I said, “where this convent is?”

He put the bill in his pocket and went into the garage, and when he returned he said, “The convent’s the Monastery of the Sacred Heart, on the only hill in Killington.”

As I drove toward the singular hill, I saw a bar on the main road. It, like most buildings of that area, and of Polk Valley, resembled a saloon, complete with swinging doors and a block-font sign, which
read THE MINE SHAFT. I wanted courage. I parked the Buick in the dust, and I entered the open bar, where I sat on a stool and spoke to no one but to order my drinks. I knocked back whiskey till my face went numb. Yet I was in possession of all of my faculties. I didn’t stumble, I didn’t slur. I merely felt more confident when I thought of what was to come. I took care to rinse my mouth with soda, and then I paid my tab and stepped into the light, where the light was so blinding that I felt myself surrounded by angels.

At the convent I said I was Marianne’s brother, Marty, and the abbot directed me to her. I entered the kitchen in a daze. I was aware of a long counter and a long wooden farm table at the center of the room. On the wall closest to the door hung a crucifix and several small paintings in frames, but I only glanced at those; Marianne, standing alone, was all that I truly saw. She was making bread, with her hands and forearms covered in flour. Lumps of dough sat on the counter on wax paper.

Marianne turned, wearing a shapeless brown dress beneath a simple white apron at her front, and her likeness was that of a drab female bird. Her face had matured and thinned—the rounded cheeks were pulled sharply inward, and her nose gave her face a leaner, more beaky profile—but her lips were the same soft shade of blessed pink, her eyes green-blue, and when I say “drab” I mean no insult; only that her looks were more modest than Daisy’s spectacular ones, and simultaneously more angelic. Her face tensed. She said, “David? How did you know where I was? They told me it was Marty. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you,” I said. Her face was as holy as anything in that convent, I thought. Her head was uncovered, which surprised me, and my eyes traveled from her face to her hair, and her hair glowed, the experience of it like opening a window in a stuffy house. But I had to deal with the reality of where I was, and with whom I was speaking. I did try to rein in my heart. I struggled to remember that we were two human beings, each with our own commitments. (At her throat lay a simple cross. On my left ring finger clung a simple band.)

Marianne took a stool from the farm table and dragged it out. Flour dusted the seat. “Sit,” she said. “I need to deal with these
loaves before they turn to stone. I’m not the best baker, but I’m learning.” As she punched the dough, she said, “They told me that Marty was here. I thought you were going to be Marty. You know,” she added, her fists thudding steadily, “they would’ve let you visit me, regardless. Our order isn’t known for being strict. You didn’t have to lie about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Well, it isn’t as bad as all that. I don’t mean to sound cross. I’m glad to see you—it isn’t as though I forgot about you.” These last words disrupted her movements for a second, and then she continued. “You look unhappy.”

“Is that a divinely inspired insight?” I asked, trying to joke, but feeling like death.

“No. I just know you.” She smiled. “Do you still pray?”

“Yes. And with my son, too.”

“Your son,” Marianne said, and paused again. She lifted the loaf and moved it, replacing it with the next ball of dough before resuming her small movements. “So you have a son. Goodness, how time flies. What’s his name?”

“William.”

“William. I’ll add him to my prayers. And your wife?”

“Daisy.”

“I’ll pray for Daisy, too.”

She was polite enough to ignore my uncontrollable twitching. How serene, I thought. Why was it so simple for her? Daisy’s name from her throat had a wretched effect on me. I imagined that the name, which in that moment I found anything but charming, had caused Marianne to feel safer in my presence, but I didn’t want her to feel safe. I wanted her to be on edge and shaking with complicated emotions, the way that I was on edge and shaking because I wanted to throw myself at her and run away all at once. I wanted her to be vulnerable, and even to come over and put her flour-flecked hand on mine. My eyes settled on a vase on the counter by the sink. Coming out of the clear glass was a sprig of something with round green leaves, and a number of bright pink flowers sprang here and there from its branches. From that counter she overlooked a lawn with trees, and I saw women huddled in the dirt outside, digging and planting.

“Well,” she said. “I’m going to be doing this for a while. Then I have prayers at four. Don’t you have somewhere to be? I don’t
expect that you have a job now. Or do you? Where does your wife think you are?”

“I don’t have a job, no. And I told Daisy that I was visiting a friend.”

“Ah. That you are. Funny how quickly things change. You look so grown-up now.”

“And you,” I replied, “said that you would devote your life to God. Here you are.” I wanted to add,
You never wrote,
but I knew that to say so would jeopardize everything.

“Yes. It took some doing. My parents weren’t pleased. But it was God’s will. You know that summer, when I was doing volunteer work with Father Danuta? When I was praying all that time? I was asking. I was searching for guidance.”

“I remember. You came to my house. You were cleaning out that widow’s house, and I barely saw you for months.”

“Well. My father was drinking, which I’ve forgiven him for, and more importantly, I’m not afraid of him now. At the time, though, I was terrified. I would have done anything he told me to. The whole family did.”

We both thought of my broken nose and my black eye. I saw it flicker across her face as it danced through my brain.

She said, “You know, my family never tries to make contact with me these days. That’s why I was so surprised when the abbot told me Marty had come. I haven’t seen him since he left for the navy, do you know that? I hope I didn’t seem angry when you came in. It is truly good to see you. I just miss my family.”

“I wasn’t offended.”

“This is the life I’m meant to live, but it isn’t without sacrifice.”

I said, “I admire that.”

“In a way,” she said, “it’s easier than you might think. Doing a thing that some people consider difficult—it’s a lot easier when you don’t have options. Or no longer have options.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know,” she said, frowning, and looked away.

“No,” I said, “what
do
you mean?”

She said, “
When
, for a while, it looked like I was going to marry you. Don’t misunderstand. I did…
love
you. I did. Of what I know of love, that
is
what I think it was. I was torn between my spiritual calling and hoping to be a good Catholic as your wife. I must
have spent hours praying over it, asking God what he wanted from me. Then there were my parents, who saw me as their meal ticket. All I had to do was marry you. But that all changed for them when you got sick.”

“I assumed as much.”

“I was glad to get away, but I’ll say this again—my feelings hadn’t
changed
when I left for Chicago. I need you to understand that. I was always very fond of you,” she said. “It just didn’t work out for us. But that’s all right, it seems. You have your family, and I have this. We’ve found our own ways, haven’t we?”

“Yes. You’re right,” I said, but I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“I’m glad to see you, though. You’re looking… well.”

“Am I? Do you mind if I stand next to you?” I drew circles in the flour. I drew a heart without meaning to. Then I turned and kissed her cheek. She didn’t pull away, but I felt her grow rigid as I touched her.

“Please don’t make things difficult.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You have a wife.”

“This and that are not mutually exclusive,” I said. “I’m here as a friend.”

“David,” she said.

“I’d still like to see you as a friend.” I wiped the flour heart onto the floor.