The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (3 page)

Upon reaching the patient's bed, I stepped inside the curtain. Victoria's bowl of warm water still sat on the metal bedside table riveted
to the wall. Dimitri, meanwhile, looked like a child who'd been caught
lying. "I'm sorry," he said, "I could not help..."

I nodded as though I understood, even though I didn't, the
upshot being his apology didn't relax me in the least, if in fact that's
what it'd been meant to do. "Good morning, Mr. Aganosticus," I said
all professional. Then I pulled back the bedsheet and took my first look
at the body of my future first husband. Or at least I would've, had he
not been furry from neck to spindly ankles and all points in between.
On top of it all floated his crucifix, chain lost in the underbrush. Rooted
and awestruck, I marvelled at how the hair swirled over his body, like a
curlicued forest, growing lighter in some spots and heavier in others,
the centre of the jungle falling in the exact vicinity of his privates. If he
had a penis and testicles, they were lost under the jungle canopy, a fact
that caused me to breathe a sigh of relief. My plan was: when I got to
the critical part of the bath, I'd reach beneath the upper branches, give
him a quick once-over and call him abluted.

I started on his neck, where gaminess can occur in the folds of
skin. Dimitri closed his eyes. When I wiped his chest he sighed, which I
took as a sign of encouragement. I moved my sponge over the area
directly below the rib cage, where you can feel breath being drawn.
Dimitri sighed again, and I felt encouraged again, and I proceeded to
steer my hand a little lower, dampening the area where, on a less furry
speciman, the stomach would've ended and the hair would've begun. I
heard a gasp. I looked up and saw he had the same sheepish expression
he'd been wearing when the sponge bath had begun. A second later, I
saw what he had to be sheepish about, for there it was, his manly levitation, slow but unstoppable, rising through the jungle folds, like a totem
pole being hefted by natives. I could practically hear the drumming.
Though my heart was pounding and my insides felt airy, I couldn't
bring myself to look away: long and log-like it was, with a gnarling of
grey-green veins that seemed to funnel skyward and provide sustenance to a bulbous, maroon headpiece.

I swallowed hard, and found there was nowhere to look; every
time my eyes settled on a spot it happened to be that spot, a phenomenon making it hard to think or get things done. Finally I whispered,
"Now you look here, Mr. Aganosticus. My instructions are to give you
as good a washing as I'm able, and while I'm not particularly pleased
about it I don't have much choice in the matter. At the same time, I'm
keen those on the other side of this curtain don't know what's going on
in here. So if you make one peep, if you make one unnatural noise,
party's over. You understand?"

He nodded, and I proceeded, lathering my hands until they were
barely recognizable as hands. Breathe, I told myself, breathe regular, for
I was starting to feel a little faint, society having a way of preserving
eighteen-year-old girls in a sort of virginal aspic back then. After a bit,
I reached out and made contact in the way you make contact when contact's a thing you're not sure you really want. Suppose gingerly's the
word. Or tentative. Problem was, I was so young I didn't even know
when it comes to certain parts of the body a lightness of touch is the
very thing that causes the most sensation. So I went ahead, not enjoying myself exactly but not hating it either: I remember feeling worldly
for getting to know the contours involved and that particular way
thickness can feel. After a moment, I looked up at Dimitri's face and
saw he'd clamped one hand over his mouth and that tears had welled up
like jelly in the corners of each eye-trembling he was, and red as a fire
engine. His facial contortions so fascinated me, in fact, I neglected to
put an end to what I was doing to cause them in the first place, the
upshot being that seconds later I discovered what a grown man will do
when treated to an excess of soapy rubbing.

I stood there, shocked. I was seriously considering giving the
patient a whack across his sheepish-looking face, and surely would've
were it not for the fact it was my whacking hand that'd gotten soiled.
Then, I heard it. Shoes, comfortable ones, coming to a squeaky stop outside the curtain. I froze, which was a mistake, for the sudden lack of
movement tipped her off. She whipped open the curtain and caught me,
still as a figurine, right hand held out and messy with seed.

For the longest time she just stood there, not talking, arms folded
across her stomach, one hip jutted, smiling like a crocodile.

Home for the next week was the hostel for Christian women on
Portland Street. That weekend Dimitri and I married at the Greek
Orthodox church on the corner of Seventh and Main, Dimitri insisting
we had to, my honour now being his to protect and my being his sweet
angel of mercy besides. It was a warm day, flowers blooming, air perfumed with honeysuckle, everything perfect.

After my folks died, I'd spent five years with my aunt in her terrier-filled apartment in downtown Louisville, an experience bad
enough I'm in no particular rush to recount it. Still, blood's blood, and
she did keep me from starving, so I swallowed my pride and sent her
an invitation. She didn't answer, and later I heard I'd been disowned
for marrying down, which sounded like something that auntie of mine
would do. Dimitri was without family too, they being all in Greece,
though the occasion was far from lonely. Seemed all of Seventh Street
turned out: the fishmonger, the butcher, the neighbourhood cantor,
both bakers, a half-dozen washerwomen, a letter writer, the gypsy
tarot card reader, a tanner, a milliner, a sausage maker, that damn Arab
(who had a shop where he sold carpets and, if you knew to ask, risque
Parisian photos), a hat blocker, a cobbler, a confectioner, the man who
ran the numbers game, the ice man and Mr. Wong the Chinese herbalist, who at one point got me alone and, grinning and bowing, passed
me a potion marked "For Marital Impediments." Rounding out the
guest list was little Mr. Billetti, who looked dapper and taller than usual
in a donkey jacket and high-hemmed pants (Dimitri having made the
suit as a way of saying thank-you). They all brought their families,
and after the vows every man, woman and caterwauling child crammed into the three-room apartment Dimitri kept over his shop.
There were mountains of food and chatter in a half-dozen languages
and as much dancing as was possible in the space provided.

The last guest left around three in the morning. The apartment
fell quiet, like a person grown tired of talking. Dimitri approached me,
looking solemn as a priest. With a grunt he picked me up and carried
me over the threshold into our boudoir, his spindly arm muscles tightening like rope against my backside. I could tell some of the wives had
been there, for candles had been lit and windows opened and flowers
placed. After letting me take it in for a second, he lowered me to the bed
as gently as he was able and whispered, "You can get ready now...."

He turned and walked out while I, eighteen-year-old Mary
Haynie of Princeton, Kentucky, lay on the bed struggling not to cry.
Lord, how I was mad at my mother, it being her job to take me aside
and tell me how moments like this worked. (Course, it was an anger
tinged with sadness, for even if she had been alive I probably couldn't've
counted on her for this sort of information seeing as heart-to-heart
talks weren't exactly something she enjoyed putting up with.) My
throat swelled, I felt so sorrowfully ignorant, and what followed was
my getting furious at myself for turning what was supposed to be the
most glorious moment of my life into one of the saddest. I suppose I
wasn't yet old enough to know this is a trick human beings are famous
for playing on themselves.

Just then, it occurred to me that maybe taking off my wedding
getup was what he meant by readying myself, so I wriggled out of my
gown and pulled back the sheet, finding a dark towel where my pelvis
would go; at least I knew what this was for, my being an ex-nurse and
therefore knowledgeable of things physical. Outside the room, I heard
the sound of a buckle undoing and pants being dropped.

Dimitri hummed softly as he opened the door. The light from the
living room showed me the natives had already hefted his totem pole
into place. I pulled the sheets up to my chin while trying to make my eyes look at least somewhat bedroomish.

Now, I don't have to tell you some things fit inside other things
and some things just plain don't. If they're too big they're too big and
that's all there is to it. By the same token, there's a fever comes over a
man on his wedding night that robs him of the sense necessary to
understand this simplest of mechanics. Dimitri sauntered over and
slipped into bed. He kissed me on the lips and chin before moving onto
places normally covered by clothing, though this didn't last particularly long as my new husband seemed unduly eager to get to the rubbing
and coaxing and prodding part of the program.

Was no use. I suppose if I'd been at all interested it would've
helped, the simple fact being I'd married Dimitri because it'd seemed to
solve so many problems in one fell swoop. Unfortunately, I'd picked my
wedding night to figure this out, instead of a day earlier, which
would've been in time to do something about it. I could feel my cheeks
burn I felt so stupid, my only hope being that Dimitri would mistake
my flushing for wifely desire. To add to the awkwardness, I kept saying things like "Yes, darling, a little bit more, a little bit more," which
ignored the fact those little-bit-mores were so little we could've been
there all night and still had a ways to go come dawn.

Finally, he sat up and tried to look understanding. He stroked his
chin and said, "Hmmmmmmmm." Yet his body language was all pou-
tiness, every vestige of hope gone out of him. I was about to go sleep
on the sofa when his face lightened.

"Wait!" he said. "Mr. Wong-he has give you something for this
sort of problem?"

"Yes," I said, "he did."

The possibility there might be a way out of this logjam enthused me
considerably, so I leapt from bed and fetched the little brown glass bottle
I'd left on the windowsill in the living room. After unplugging the stopper I upended the contents into my mouth. It tasted bitter but not awful.

As I hadn't eaten much during the party (nerves) the potion took effect quickly, turning my lower body numb and my head giddy in a
matter of minutes. When Dimitri plopped me back on the bed, in the
middle of the towel, I had to fight the temptation to giggle like a
schoolgirl, for it suddenly seemed so ridiculous what we women put up
with. Plus I was hallucinating. This was new for me, and what helped
take my mind off Dimitri being on top of me, eyes shut and mouth
gone loose and rubbery like a cow's, was our bedroom ceiling coming
alive with marching red-and-black toy soldiers. Gleeful and shimmering with light they were, and not prone to exhaustion: they marched
and marched while my new husband finally managed to gain entry, all
of which seemed like a tremendous amount of effort for the four or five
seconds of pistoning that followed.

Next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes and could tell by the
quality of daylight sneaking through the break in the curtains I'd slept
somewhere close to noon. After waking totally, which took some time,
I pulled back the cover; someone had removed the towel and put me in
a white flannel nightie. I lifted the hem and inspected myself, half surprised and half not that everything looked like it had the day before.
When I took my first step I most keenly recalled last night's deflowering, on account of I was tender as a hammered thumb. I stumbled
toward the bedroom door. On the way I discovered no amount of
favouring one side over the other helps when the soreness is coming
from smack-dab in the middle.

To be truthful, all I wanted was a cup of hot tea and maybe a
good cry, none of which happened because a woman I recognized in
only the faintest sort of way was sitting on the living room sofa, knitting. I thought I recognized her from the night before, but with my
head so fogged up I couldn't be sure.

"Oh!" she cried, "she is awake! You look so beautiful last night!
You look so beautiful it make me want to cry!" As she said this, she put
aside the knitting and ran toward me so she could hug me and kiss me
and express all the emotion apparently caused by my radiance of the night previous. When finished, she took me by the hand and led me
toward the sofa. She sat me down. Wiping away her tears, she said,
"Oh, my child. Dimitri told me you are orphan? That your mother and
father they die when you are just young girl?"

I nodded.

"Oh ... such tragedy. Such sadness we have. But you don't to
worry. Dimitri he ask me to show you how to look after a home. Is all
right I help you?"

I nodded again, which triggered another attack of tears and hugs
and kisses on the part of this strangly comported woman. "Oh, is such
a happy time. Soon you will have little ones, and I know it not sound
possible but you will be even the more happier."

It wasn't till later, when we were in the market, and she was
showing me how to thump an eggplant, that Mr. Billetti called goodmorning to her and I realized how I knew her; she was married to Mr.
Nickolokaukus, the baker from down the street, which explained why
she smelled so warm and yeasty. Five minutes later and two stalls over,
with her showing me the difference between good spinach and spinach
readying to wilt, I asked, "Do you use the stems in cooking, Mrs.
Nickolokaukus?" just so I could show I knew who in the hell she was.

"Oh please," she answered, "why so the Mrs. Nickolokaukus?
Georgina. Please. My name is Georgina."

Over the next few days, Georgina decided I was pretty strong in
the cleaning department, having done more than I ever cared to do at
St. Mary's, and next to hopeless in things kitchen related, my having
only the dimmest memory of watching my father prepare tortiere and
nettleberry torte. (Have I mentioned he was Canadian French? That
my mother was English? That they were an odd mixture, she being
stony and capable of the darkest moods, he being passionate and on the
speak-your-mind end of things? That basically I'm a mixture of the
two of them, personality-wise?) That week, Georgina showed me how
to braise fiddleheads, how to roast potatoes in garlic and drippings, how to take home a baby lamb bound at the hooves and hold it down,
panicked and bleating, before slicing its throat in a way the flow
doesn't get on your clothing. ("You see, Mary? You must hold knife dis
way....") She watched as I struggled through my first moussaka, as I
charred my first piklikia, as I over-garlicked my first bowl of tsatsiki, as
I put way too much onion in my first batch of spanakopita, and throughout she showed a patience that wasn't merited as I was still suffering
from the gloominess that'd gotten a firm grip on my wedding night.