Full of Life (12 page)

P
EACE IN
my house, quiet, a time of great calm. She became another woman again. She was out of the fable now, out of the novels, a tale of motherhood, a woman in waiting. No more breaking of stones or mixing mortar. I never saw her so beautiful. She walked on quiet feet, a different perfume trailing after her. Every morning she went to early Mass. Every afternoon she visited the parish house for instructions. Father Gondalfo was rushing it a little, but it was at her insistence. In the evenings I walked with her to the church. She said the rosary, made the stations of the cross, or simply sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap.

It was a strange time for me. I sat beside her, not able to pray, to articulate a feeling for Christ. But it all came back to me, the memory of the old days when I was a boy and this cool and melancholy place meant so much. From the beginning she had assumed I would return with her. It had seemed the right thing to do. Somehow I would capture the old feeling, the reaching out with the fingers of my soul and grasping the rich fine joy of belief. Somehow I had felt it was always there, that I had but to move toward it with only a murmur of desire and it would cloak me in the vast comfort of God’s womb. There was the scent of
incense, the creaking of pews, the play of sunlight through stained-glass windows, the cool touch of holy water, the laughter of little candles, the stupendous reaching back into antiquity, the baffling realization that countless millions before me had been here and gone, that other billions would come and go through a million tomorrows. These were my thoughts as I sat beside my wife. These and the gradual realization that I had been wrong, that it was not easy to come back to your church, that the Church changeless was always there, but that I had changed. The drift of years had covered me like a mountain of sand. It was not easy to emerge. It was not easy to call out with a small voice and feel that I was being heard. I sat beside her, and I knew it would be very hard. Nay, I knew it would be almost impossible.

I sat beside her and enjoyed the sensation of a new kind of thinking. For one’s thoughts were different here. Outside, beyond the heavy oak doors, you thought of taxes and insurance, of fade-outs and dissolves, you weighed the matter of Manhattans and Martinis, you suspected your agent of treachery, your friend of disloyalty, your neighbor of stupidity. And yet I could sit beside her before the altar, her small hands exquisite in green kid gloves, and I could adore her for the beauty of her effort, the striving of her heart, the mighty force that prompted her to be but a good woman, humble and grateful before God. I could sit beside her, my own lips dry for lack of words, I, the phrasemaker, and the pages of my soul were blank and unlettered, and I turned them one after another, seeking a rhyme, a few scattered words to articulate the fact that in this place I thought not of taxes and insurance, and my agent, my neighbor and friend were somehow disembodied, they
assumed a spirituality, a beauty; they were entities and not beings, they were souls and not swine.

Yet, in spite of it all, I was not ready. Born a Catholic, I could not bring myself to return. Perhaps I expected too much; a shudder of joyful recognition, the dazzling splendor of faith reborn. Whatever it was, I could not return. There before me was the road, the signposts clearly marking the direction to peace of soul. I could not take the road. I could not believe that it was so easy. I was sure that beyond the next hill lay trouble.

Four days before the baby was born, Joyce entered the Church. She was christened Joyce Elizabeth. The ceremony took place in the evening at the baptismal font in the Church of St. Boniface. Her sponsor in baptism was our neighbor from across the street, Mrs. Sandoval. She was a tall serene woman in her sixties. Father Gondalfo had selected her because she lived near us, and because we knew no Catholics in town.

Joyce’s happiness was almost terrifying. As Father Gondalfo read the ritual, first in Latin, then in English, the tears ran freely down her cheeks and crashed on her bump. Hers was a shattering kind of happiness. She was almost grief-stricken with it. I stood with my father in the background, watching, listening to her sobs as they echoed through the empty church like the flapping of wings.

All of us were badly shaken. Papa dabbed his cheeks with a large blue bandanna. Mrs. Sandoval smiled bravely, unashamed of her tears. The ceremony was long, for the priest gave her absolute baptism. This cleansed her not
only of original sin, but of all the sins of her life. She wept steadily, until Father Gondalfo became choked up too, his eyes blinded as he broke off the ceremony to dig a handkerchief from under his cassock and wipe his eyes.

“We shouldn’t cry,” he whispered. “This is a time for happiness.”

It provoked a fresh outburst from Joyce. Papa and I led her to one of the pews, where she knelt heavily, her face a smear of make-up, mascara and tears.

“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t help it. I’m so happy.”

“Your face is a mess,” I said.

She stopped crying instantly. She opened her compact and fixed her face. Without a word she returned to the baptismal font and the ceremony continued. Quietly, her eyes cast down, her hands folded, she experienced the purification of her soul. Then it was over. It was over for Joyce, but not for me.

Afterward, we gathered outside the church. Mrs. Sandoval had a baptismal gift for Joyce—a silver Saint Christopher’s medal. Joyce was delighted with her godmother. They walked arm in arm to Mrs. Sandoval’s car. We waved good-by as the older woman drove away.

The moment I had dreaded now arrived. I looked at my wife. There were stars in her hair, stars in her eyes that, bathed in tears a moment ago, shone now with high happiness. It seemed absurd that her conversion should make a great difference, and yet it was so. She was not the old Joyce. She was not the Joyce of even an hour ago. There was no solving the chemistry of this change, I only felt it, knew it, saw it. The thing I felt was a maturity, a quality of womanhood not associated with her pregnancy; a
tradition, rather an identification with Mother Church, with the Church’s high reverence for women, an elevation of her to that state I felt for the Virgin Mary as a boy. We looked at one another, and in that moment she too knew that I had sensed the change, the all-pervading transformation of her personality. We looked at one another, and in that moment each of us knew that this night was a milestone in our lives, and that our lives together were terribly important, terribly serious. But it was a sad moment too, because I cherished the nonsense of living, the trivia, the fooling around, and that we had put behind us.

The big hand of Father Gondalfo, the heavy arm, came down around my shoulder. “Well, you ready?”

He meant: Was I ready to go to confession?

I wanted to say: No, Father.

I said: “Yes, Father.”

“Good. Tomorrow you can receive holy communion together. The Mass will be for you. Afterward, I’ll marry you at the main altar.”

“That’s fine, Father.”

We walked back into the church. The priest genuflected and went down the side aisle to one of the three confession booths. Heavy purple curtains draped each entrance. Father Gondalfo disappeared inside the center booth. He turned on a light. Joyce, Papa and I walked down the center aisle and entered a pew directly across from the confessional.

I knelt down to examine my conscience. After fifteen years, I was going to confession again. What were the sins I had committed in a decade and one half? The task before me was enormous. It was so vast that I could not take it seriously. Worse, I felt no contrition. I regretted nothing.
Good and evil, I had enjoyed it all. The laying on of the priest’s hands in absolution seemed meaningless. I could not, I would not enter the confessional. In the old days my very blood sang in answer to the call of absolution. Gladly I used to fall on my knees and pour out my troubles and become cleansed and walk away with the mighty muscles of a pure heart. I clutched at the past. I found nothing.

Time passed, fifteen minutes, a half hour, with the priest waiting patiently. The tussle with my conscience left me exhausted. How could I confess that for which I had no remorse? Wearily I sat down beside Papa and Joyce.

“
I can’t do it,” I whispered.

Papa looked startled.

“Please try,” Joyce smiled.

“I can’t. It’s hypocrisy.”

Papa consulted hurriedly with Joyce.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He doesn’t want to go,” Joyce whispered.

“He’s
got
to go.” His voice was loud.

I shook my head.

“Can’t, Papa.”

“Get in there!”

“I tell you I can’t.”

“You been a bad boy. Go in, get in there!”

He grabbed me by the nape of the neck and tried to push me toward the confessional. I clung to the pew and refused to budge. His face reddened with effort. Suddenly he was on his feet and moving quickly toward the confessional. We watched him in surprise. He turned to look back at us, his eyes desperate. Then he entered the confession booth.

I learned later that it was his first confession in fifty-five
years. He never explained why he had done it. I was certain he had not planned to go, had never dreamed of going. But in his own fashion he had done this thing for me, for his grandchild, because it had to be done.

His confession was in the nature of an argument. It was given in Italian—a rumbling discussion, indistinct and intense. Whenever Father Gondalfo said anything, Papa answered sharply. The priest in turn raised his voice. They talked with their hands too, for you could see the curtains flapping. Finally the confessor’s voice prevailed. No word came from Papa. The priest spoke gently, persuasively, a soothing whisper. When they emerged, both men were tired and perspiring. Papa dropped on his knees in the nearest pew. Father Gondalfo smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Papa covered his face with two hands, crushing out all distraction as he said his penance. The priest shot me a disheartening glance. I got up and walked outside. He was waiting for me on the steps.

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t make it.”

“Would you like another confessor? I could call Father Shaw. Would that help?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m bitterly disappointed. You know, of course, what this means?”

I knew: It meant that I was not in the state of grace. It meant I could not go to communion with Joyce the next morning. It meant that I could not receive the sacraments, and marriage was a sacrament.

“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll keep trying.”

He turned to Joyce and Papa as they came out of the church. We said good night. Papa refused to look at me.
We walked to the car. I took Joyce’s hand.

“You’re disgusted with me.”

“I’m disappointed, of course.”

“Give me a little time. I’ll do it some day.”

“That’s what I can’t understand. If you’re coming back to the Church some day, why not now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either.”

“I’m gonna take a little walk,” Papa said.

We watched him move toward the corner. He had a quick bouncy step. He paused under the street lamp to light a cigar. The smoke drifted back toward us, fragrant in the night air. We didn’t speak as we drove home. I locked the garage and we walked into the house. In silence we went upstairs. I hesitated before my door, hoping she would speak. She entered her room without turning around. I pulled off my coat and threw myself on the bed. I could feel no grief for what I had done, no remorse. It exasperated me that there was not so much as a quiver of regret. It left me lacerated and miserable.

Then she came through the door, the white balloon floating under her nightgown, a book in her hand. Smiling, she looked down at me.

“I want to read something,” she said.

And she read: “O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no law less than the eternal law…I appeal to your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot I will seek to deserve that you should.
I will not hide my tastes or aversions.”

“Emerson,” I said. “Oh, sweet man!”

She bent down and kissed me.

“Good night,” she whispered.

Blessed be the womb that bears my son!

I cried with happiness.

W
E WERE
playing chess the night it happened. We had been expecting it at any moment, our lives had stopped still to wait for the coming of the child, and this was the night. Papa had finished the fireplace. He had rushed the work, for it was most important to have it completed and ready for the new Fante, like a gift wrapped and tied with pink bows. The very house breathed with anticipation. The new one was coming, and a kind of loneliness held us because he was not already there. The hard work of that day had tired Papa and he had gone to bed.

“Call me if anything happens,” he had said.

At ten o’clock we sat at the chessboard, and it was my move.

“Your queen is in danger,” she said.

I interposed a bishop and the queen was safe. Now it was her move. She was a fast player, but she made no move for a long time; too long, it seemed, and I looked up from the board to her face, wondering what delayed her.

“Your move.”

She was not listening, only staring into my eyes, her face flushed, her breathing hard, until her cheeks became
very red, and I saw that she was intent on some curious activity inside her.

“Something popped,” she whispered.

“Popped? What popped? I didn’t hear anything.”

“I don’t know. But I distinctly heard a pop.”

We listened. She covered her mouth.

“Oh, dear. It’s the bag of waters.”

“Let’s go to the hospital.”

She hesitated before rising.

“Please,” she smiled. “Don’t look. Hide your eyes.”

I covered my eyes as she stood up and started across the room. I heard her scampering up the stairs, breathless, saying, “Oh, dear,” and “Dear me,” and “Oh, my goodness.” When I knew she was out of sight I called the doctor. Upstairs I heard Joyce in the bedroom, her heels clicking on the floor. I ran up there. She was sitting on the bed, reading a book called
The Coming Child.

“We ought to get started. I called the doctor.”

“I want to be sure this time. Absolutely sure.”

“It’s real. I know it’s real.”

“Listen.” She read: “At the beginning of labor, the pain generally begins in the small of the back. It begins in the manner of a slight pinch or backache, rising in crescendo fashion until it reaches a peak of intensity which persists for several seconds, and then it gradually diminishes…”

The very thing she read happened at that precise moment. The book fell from her hands and she sat perfectly still, looking down at the bump. Her hands moved to touch it, feel it.

“Contracting uterus,” she said. “Page 158. Read it.”

I got the book off the floor, but I had too many
hands, too many fingers. I couldn’t even hold the book. It fell to the floor. The pain sharpened, then eased off. She whistled softly.

“I’m ready to go now.”

This time it was easy. We had rehearsed the whole thing before. Quietly we stepped into the hall, listening to Papa’s whistling snores, and then down the stairs. Without saying it, we both understood that it was best not to waken Papa. Under the mock orange tree in the back yard she stopped and put her arms around me.

“You’ve been wonderful,” she said. “I’ll never complain again.”

“Let’s get going, honey.”

“There’s time. I want you to know that I’ve behaved very badly for nine months. I’ve been a complete idiot. Really, it’s nothing to have a baby. It’s very easy.”

“You haven’t had it, dear. Let’s go.”

I pulled her toward the garage. She got into the car and sat far away from me, against the opposite door. She fumbled through her purse for a pack of cigarettes, offering me one too.

“Shall I light it for you?” she asked.

“Please.”

“Some men prefer to light their own.”

It seemed a curious remark, but I didn’t answer. We drove leisurely, for we were old hands at this business. There was really no hurry. The night was warm and you could smell the big white magnolias along Normandie. At a boulevard stop she had more pain. It was worse. I watched her grab the door latch and hang on.

“Rough,” I said.

Sweat stood out on her forehead. Her eyes rolled
with the pain. Her great paunch seemed to crush her into the corner. It was like a big hive of bees, seething with the dimensions of pain. When the seizure subsided she gave a faint whistle of relief.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Of course, it hurts a little, but it’s nothing like what my mother said.”

“We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“I’m so glad. Then you’ll be rid of me. I hate burdening you with all this.”

“It’s not a burden.”

“All my life I’ve been a burden. It’s the fate of women. We’re not very nice, really, we’re not.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense. Look at me, I’m a cow, that’s what I am. Grotesque and uninteresting. Nobody could possibly love me. And you mustn’t ever tell me you love me again. Because I know you can’t. And I don’t deserve your love. How good you’ve been! How patient! I’m terribly grateful. Forgive me for everything.”

She began to cry, her tight bloated face too round to gather the tears that slid into her lap. Another pain took hold of her, and her teeth came together and her fists tightened until it subsided.

“I’m not very brave,” she panted. “But I don’t want to be brave. I just want to crawl into some hole somewhere, out of your sight, and suffer and suffer, because I don’t deserve you. I’m glad I’m suffering. I’ve been a fool. I deserve it.”

She made me very unhappy. She sat with her legs spread apart, her pouch bouncing, her face like a tear-stained basketball, and for a moment I forgot that it was only a temporary thing, and the theme of her misery got
hold of me too, and I began to think I was indeed a most unfortunate man to ever have attached myself forever to this quivering mass of gurgling flesh. I drove along with wet eyes, weeping for myself, fascinated by my courage and undiminished loyalty. How right she was! How noble, how long-suffering I had been. It was fated that she should suffer, it was good that she should experience pain, to atone for the frightful manner she had treated me through her pregnancy. And how perceptive she was now that her day of atonement had arrived! How attenuated the delicate balance of her sense of morality. Thank God she at last saw the wickedness of her ways!

When we reached the hospital, I followed the curving driveway that led to a stone canopy where ambulances disembarked their patients. She stayed in the car while I went inside. At the reception desk I filled out papers freeing the hospital of all responsibility for whatever might happen to my wife, and while this was going on the woman in charge telephoned for nurses and a wheel chair. By the time I got back to the car, two nurses had already helped Joyce into a wheel chair and wrapped blankets around her. I watched them wheel her into the elevator. Then I parked the car and came back to the hospital with Joyce’s suitcase. I got into the elevator and rode to the twelfth floor.

By now I was very familiar with the twelfth floor. I almost swaggered in easy recognition as the elevator doors slid open and I stepped out. Far down the clean rubber-carpeted hall I saw the two nurses wheel my wife through a door. Joyce tossed her head back and caught a glimpse of me coming forward. The wheel chair stopped and the nurses paused in the doorway. They swung the wheel chair around so that Joyce faced me. She held out her arms, smiling.

I swallowed back my sudden joy. How could there be so much beauty in all the world? Those hands of hers, out to me, those gentle fingers, out to me; her eyes, out to me; her mouth, her lips, out to me, pouring love and mysterious heartbreaking beauty out to me, so that I seemed to run now, the suitcase in my hand, as if I had not seen her in ten thousand years, had remembered her every second, and at last we were together forever, my desolation at long last relieved, and all the things in my life, all my possessions, my ambitions, my friends, my country, my world, like nothing, less than grains of sand before the beauty and joy of that exquisite and painful moment. I put my arms around her and began to cry. I slid down on my knees, happy with a vile and crushing happiness that nearly killed me with its terrible power. I could have spilled out my life then and there, so fierce was my joy for my woman.

“Now, now,” one of the nurses said. “No more of that.”

I got to my feet and kissed Joyce.

“He’s my husband,” she smiled. “Isn’t he a darling?”

The nurses were not impressed. They fussed over her, tucked the blankets around her, and wheeled her inside.

The door closed before me. The room was number 1237. That was a good omen, for it contained my lucky number. I looked at my watch. It was 11:05. I went down the hall, passing many doors. Suddenly there was a hair-raising shriek. It came from a room up near the elevator, the cry of a woman in pain. A moment later I passed the room from whence the scream had come. Behind the door I heard a whimpering and crying, as if someone wept with her face buried in a pillow. It was a plaintive, pitiful
lament, and it kept me worried, for I knew that this could happen to Joyce too.

There were two other fathers in the waiting room. They were exhausted men, their collars open, their ties hanging loosely. They looked like two men who had been in a bloodless, interminable barroom brawl. Sprawled out in leather chairs, their hair disheveled, cigarettes dangling from their hands, they paid no attention to me. I picked up a magazine and sat down. One of the fathers got to his feet and began pacing up and down. He smoked the tiniest of cigarettes, so small it burned his lips as he kissed rather than sucked it. Now the other father rose and began to pace too. Back and forth they paced, oblivious of one another, in a fury of caged walking, their foreheads wrinkled, each man trapped within the tensions of his own throbbing skull.

Around midnight, the taller of the two nurses who had attended Joyce appeared in the doorway. With the look of beaten dogs, the two fathers set their bloodshot eyes upon her. But it was me she wanted.

“You can see your wife now.”

The two fathers looked at me with open mouths, watched me cross the room and go out the door. It was as if they had seen me for the first time, and were surprised that I had been in the room with them.

I followed the tall nurse.

“You mustn’t stay long,” she said. “Your wife needs rest.”

Joyce lay in a hospital gown that tied up the back. Her hair had been combed in a tight high knot. There were handle bars at the head of her bed. She smiled, her face hot, fear jumping from her eyes. I took her hand.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful. I’ve had a shave and an enema.”

“Are they good barbers?”

“They did a grand job. You’re going to like it.”

I was glad to find her out of the apologetic mood. But there was very little to say. We held hands, smiled foolishly, and looked at one another. The tall nurse opened the door.

“You’ll have to leave now.”

I kissed Joyce and stepped out into the hall.

“How long will it be?”

“A long time,” the nurse said. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

“I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Don’t be silly. The doctor won’t be here until eight o’clock in the morning.”

“You mean—she’ll suffer that long?”

“She isn’t suffering. And there’s nothing you can do here. Absolutely nothing.”

But a man cannot simply walk off and leave his pregnant wife alone in a room. It seemed an unheard-of, a crass and heartless thing. Even if the nurse was right, tradition insisted that I remain.

“I’ll stay right here to the end,” I said.

The nurse shrugged and made her eyebrows flutter.

“Once in a while we get a sensible father, but not often.”

I went back to the waiting room.

The two self-mauled fathers had been joined by a fresh man. He was older, clean-shaven, neat in a brown suit. He gave off sweet vapors of comradeship and understanding. The haggard ones found him a sympathetic listener. Each took the floor to explain his troubles. The
first man said his wife had been in labor thirteen hours. “Thirteen hours and forty-two minutes exactly,” he said, looking at his watch. The older man clucked his tongue sadly. The other man put away his watch, sat down, grabbed his hair and resumed his agony. The second father wet his dry, cracked lips and his bleary eyes floated to the older man, who turned now, all kindness and wisdom, to hear his story. “My missus has been in there sixteen hours and twelve minutes,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. This gave him a three-hour advantage over the first father, who hung his head in shame. But if the second father had a momentary taste of victory, it was quickly snatched away by the calm, older man.

“When Billy was born—he’s our oldest boy—Mrs. Cameron was in labor fifty-three hours.”

Mrs. Cameron’s record time was so crushing that the two haggard fathers quickly lost interest in the kindly older man, who now turned his generous smile on me. But I had heard enough. These men were bragging, finding absurd consolations in their wives’ anguish. The nurse was right. I decided to go home.

It was 1:30 when I got to bed. Out of Papa’s room came the whistling snores. He didn’t know Joyce was at the hospital. It seemed best not to waken him. I smoked a cigarette in the dark, and felt the fingers of guilt prodding me. Had I done the right thing? Maybe the tradition was sound. A man’s wife lay in labor: should he not stay awake and contribute some small measure of self-inflicted pain as a symbol of his willingness to participate in their common heritage? After all, the tall nurse had nothing at stake here. She reasoned like a cold scientist. And in years to come, would it not fill our child with chagrin when he learned that
his own father had slept soundly as he made the perilous passage from the womb to life on the earth? I rolled and fretted, grappling with matters until three o’clock.

Then a fine and noble memory came back to me. I hopped out of bed and pulled my overnight bag out of the closet. In the side pocket I found it, a faded bouquet of sweet basil tied with red ribbon. I could not remember all of Mama’s instructions. I could only recall something about hanging the bouquet from my bed. I fastened it to the crossbar of the headboard so that it fell to my pillow. Then I lay there, breathing its sweet and piquant aroma, and somehow it was the perfume of my mother’s hair and her warm eyes smiled at me, and I began to cry because I didn’t want to be a father, or a husband, or even a man, I wanted to be six or seven again, asleep in my mother’s arms, and then I fell asleep, dreaming of my mother.