Kathy Little Bird (29 page)

I dreamed our wedding plans over and over to myself. I wanted to devote myself entirely to Abram, to wonderful Abram, who had come to my rescue from Mennonite Canada to save my life and my sanity.

I thought it touching that his heart was now set on a honeymoon as much as mine, although I think he considered it in the category of minor miracles. “A honeymoon,” he’d told me, “when I married Laura, was out of the question. At that time I had nothing saved. And even now,” he said, by way of apologizing for his not very substantial contribution. “Still, a honeymoon is a fine old tradition; it’s served a lot of folks well for a very long time.”

“I suppose it gives people a chance to know each other,” I chimed in. “After all, most of them haven’t been in love since they were eight.”

“Do you think you loved me then?” He was deliciously serious.

This time I was too. “I know I did.”

T
HINGS
I had paid no attention to, or shrugged off as not important, now loomed large. For instance, what about the
Mennonite church? Would I be able to take my place on the women’s side of the aisle?

What if Abram’s brethren in Christ didn’t approve of his choice? What if John Wertheimer and sister Lucinda didn’t? What if they expected another Laura? I remembered how eager I had been to defend Abram against insults and disparagements. What if the only person I had to defend him against was myself?

That night I had a nightmare.

I saw myself in a wedding gown, marching along a street that I knew was in Montreal. Church bells were ringing, and to either side parishioners made way for the bride and groom. But I kept my eyes averted. I couldn’t meet their glances. I tried to loosen the grip Abram had on my arm and run. He held me tight, and together we came to the white wooden church of my childhood. I had never entered it, and I knew I would not enter it now. I made an effort to communicate this to Abram. He didn’t hear me. He mounted the stairs, pulling me with him.

A group of elders stood before the doors, blocking the entrance. Abram confronted them. “Good day, brothers,” he said. “Will you stand aside? We are the bridal couple, here to be married before God and this assemblage, and we wish to enter.”

The answer pelted me like stones, knocking me to my knees. “There is no place for that woman in God’s tabernacle. We deny her entry.”

Abram stood his ground. “This church is not your house. It is God’s house.”

Oracular mouths opened to denounce me. I woke myself up to escape the nightmare. I was afraid to sleep the rest of the night, but kept my eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.

To erase the dream, tear it out of my mind, I brought the subject up with Abram as we breakfasted in the hotel dining room. I made it casual, as though it had just occurred to me. “Are you sure the Mennonite church will recognize a marriage with a divorced woman?”

“I checked that out before I came.”

“You mean you came with the idea of marrying me?”

“If you’d have me—yes. But to answer your question—until quite recently the church was intractable on the subject. But even the Mennonites have to give a little.”

I knew why I had dreamed that ghastly dream. There were things I needed to tell him that I still hadn’t. If I hoped to start my life in that murky little bookshop I had to make a clean breast of everything.

As he reached for a piece of toast, just for a second I saw him on the steps of the Mennonite church facing the elders.

“Abram, I was wondering. What do you think they’ll make of me at church?”

“They’ll love you, of course.”

“What if they don’t?” I leaned toward him across the table. “Oh Abram, I don’t think I’ll fit in.”

“You’ll fit in. Don’t worry about it.”

“But shouldn’t we have talked things out? I don’t think we talked things out enough, Abram.”

“What things?”

“How many children should we have?” I said desperately. “Two, three, four?”

“Kathy, do we have to settle that right now? Can’t we finish breakfast? By the way,” he added, “I want to phone John Wertheimer at three. Will you remind me?”

“Three. That’s prophetic. You said three, that’s a good number. We’ll have three.”

“Fine.” And by his expression I was quite sure he hadn’t any idea what he had agreed to.

I watched him butter his toast and add jam. I started to tell him—and couldn’t.

“You were going to say something?”

“I was wondering what it would be like to have a home. Home is just a word to me.”

“Home,” Abram said, “is something you make. We’ll make ours together.”

“I want so much to start my life in Montreal. I want to take long walks with you, go down to the docks, watch the fishermen unload the day’s catch. I want to skate in the winter on the little pond near the bookstore. I want you to teach me chess and read to me while I drowse into different times and different places. I want to do all the things you’ve been telling me of.”

He smiled, and I plunged on. “I want to sit on that stepstool that runs along one entire side, and slide back and forth looking
at the volumes that make up your life. I want to start being Mrs. Willems.”

I received a kiss on each of my fingers for these sentiments.

I had come up to it again, and this time got it out. “I’ve something to tell you, Abram. I didn’t tell you before because, well, it’s difficult.”

“Spinoza said, ‘All things excellent are difficult as they are rare.’”

I knew that was right. Because what I had to tell him now was in the difficult category.

I moved my chair back so I could look into his face. “In the beginning I didn’t tell you because there were so many things coming at you right and left. Jim Gentle was my lover.”

Abram continued to look at me, and his expression did not alter. “I rather thought that was the case,” he said. “I’m glad you told me. But that’s in the past, before you agreed to become my wife.”

I marveled at this remarkable, brilliant, knowledgeable man, who was as trusting as a child. My hand found his across the table. “Did you miss me all these long years?” I asked.

“No,” was the surprising answer.

“No?”

“The reason,” Abram soothed, “has to do with photons.”

“What are they?”

He pushed back his chair. “Let’s take a walk and I’ll tell you. They’re the fundamental particles of light. Physicists have discovered a fascinating phenomenon: nonlocality. Which, in the case of photons, means if they’ve ever been together,
even though they are separated by millions of light years, they communicate. Stimulate one and the other will react.”

“Really? Is that true?”

“It’s true.”

“And it doesn’t matter how far apart they are?” I thought that over and began pummeling his chest, right there for the passing world to see. It was a titmouse attacking an oak. “You’ve been holding out on me, hugging the greatest scientific breakthrough of the century to yourself all this time.”

He caught my fists, straightened and kissed them. Abram didn’t care either about the cars and trucks and traffic going by.

This made me unaccountably happy.

A
BRAM
looked up from a tourist brochure. He had decided on Tomahawk, a resort on Vancouver Island, with the Strait of Georgia lapping at its shore. I leaned over him studying the picture showing cabins at the edge of a wood, hiking trails and moonlight horseback rides. It resembled dozens of other colorful pamphlets promoting summer hideaways, but Abram saw something special in this one, and I left it to him.

The INS agent who escorted us to Immigration at the airport shook hands, wished us well, and before turning us over to his Canadian counterpart, asked for my autograph.

I
STRAINED
for a look at my new home—Montreal.

“A city of dichotomies,” Abram said, as the cab took us through it. “French and English, saintly and crime ridden.”

“Why crime ridden?”

“Its location. Europe has always been hungry for anything American: jeans, tape cassettes, cars, you name it. The St. Lawrence river flows west to east out of the Great Lakes connecting Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo with Montreal, Quebec, and Toronto, which invites smuggling. And there’s always been a brisk traffic.”

“Okay.” That question was settled. Now I wanted to know about the French influence.

“You mean the English influence. The French were here first. There was a French trading post in Montreal before the
Mayflower
landed.”

It was an island city of bridges and waterways dominated by a cresting hill, graduated and terraced. As I craned from the window of the cab to keep it in view, Abram explained to the driver and me how it came about. “Montreal sits on a glacial moraine blanketed over by a volcanic flow. The lava hardened and trapped the debris in sheets of ice.”

Like me, the city was ice and fire.

“The main feature you see in front of you, Mont Royal, was named by Jacques Cartier, the French explorer. I’ll take you there for a picnic. From a number of vantage points you can look down on skyscrapers.”

But I was more interested in a great cross that seemed to bless the city. It was planted partway to the summit, as though, like Jesus, someone got tired of carrying it.

Our decrepit taxi struggled a bit on a hill. “We’re in what’s known as Old Montreal.” Abram felt for my hand as we turned into a cobbled street. “Rue St. Paul. We’re almost home.”

Once again I hung out of the window, straining for a look at my new home.

“There. There!” Abram pointed to a narrow building with larger ones leaning on it from either side. It had a curved window that faced the street, filled with books. I tried to take it in all at once, from its fieldstone facade to its dormer window. How familiar it was bound to become.

Abram bent his head and whispered, “I’m going to carry you over the threshold.” It did seem appropriate, as this was the first time I would enter the home Abram had brought me to.

There was a bell on top of the door that tinkled as he unlocked and opened it. The door itself had a large oval glass panel at its center, with a frosted design of leaf sprays. Abram flicked the sign from CLOSED and we were open for business. The main business being to scoop me up and set me down inside the shop. “Here it is.” He gestured broadly. “This is it. Pretty much as I told you, isn’t it?”

A pleasant little shop with rows of books, and tables with special books on display. He tugged at my hand; I’d only time to observe that past the books, by the cash register, there was a small display of stationery and a rack of postcards with scenes of the city and its bridges.

Abram didn’t pause, but took me through the rear door into the parlor of the living quarters. A warm, friendly room, with a fire crackling in the fireplace. The furnishings gave it an old-fashioned appearance. The pieces were mahogany, dark and heavy. A few bright pillows would do wonders. The floor was covered by a somewhat threadbare carpet, but chances were underneath they were hardwood.

“What do you think, Kathy?” Abram asked anxiously. “It’s nothing fancy, but…”

I cut him short. “I love my home. I love it, Abram.”

“I very much suspect John and Lucinda have been here. I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but look, a fire blazing away, the house is warm and cozy. And do you smell something?”