The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (30 page)

One night as we were preparing for bed, Marie was so forward as to ask if I had ever done something very bad. “I mean,” she said, “something so bad that it could never be undone. Something that hurt the ones you love.”

Such a thing to ask. And of me, in particular, for what hadn’t I done to hurt those I love? On another day, I might have found a way to avoid the question, but just then it seemed easier to answer. “Yes,” I said. “If you must know, I have.”

Marie arranged herself on the bed. “I’m strangely comforted.”

I gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m glad my sins can do good for someone.”

“Perhaps even more if I knew what it was that you did. Does anyone here know?”

“No, Marie, they don’t,” I said, annoyed that she was ignoring our rules. “And what about you? You would know my greatest sin and not even tell me your real name?”

That did it. She buttoned up. Seeing how things were, I picked up my book and began to read. A minute later Marie asked the name of the book. I let out a breath. It had been on the table for the past two days, so I knew full well that she knew, but I told her it was
Silas Marner
, by George Eliot whose real name was Mary-something. I think she knew all about George Eliot, but she was playing the child, so she just nodded, and I went back to the book. A minute later she spoke again, now asking if I would read to her. I paused as though considering, but I already knew that I didn’t want to—my reading was my world. But I couldn’t think of a good way to say this. Finally, I gave up and turned back to page one.

Despite my misgivings, I liked the reading almost right away, and from then on, we didn’t miss a night. Soon we took turns, I one night, Marie the next. To keep our voices low we pushed our beds together. And I didn’t mind revisiting the first part of
Marner
. Despite the dreary landscape, the book now took on the qualities of adventure, as though Marie and I were out on the moor together with the evils of the world hiding in the weeds.

Once done with
Marner
, we decided to go back to
Jane Eyre
to have the fun of reading it together. But the book didn’t capture either of us the way it had before. Rochester, who, in the first reading, had come galloping in on a huge stallion, appeared the second time almost a bumbler—never able to say what he needed to say and always sighing,
Jane, Jane.
I began to imitate his moaning and soon it became our private joke. And the foolery didn’t stop with just Rochester. We made fun of Jane too, though we both still loved her.

Sharing stories at night reminded me of when I was a girl in Westerlo where we would begin our peas and beans in boxes set inside the window. There they could grow safe from the cold, and when it was time, we would take them out and put them in the ground. Reading books with Marie was a little like that. It was safe. We could laugh at the vanities of others. We could speak with certainty about what this one should have done, or how foolish he had been. We could judge harshly and be mean to no one.

One night as we were getting into bed, Marie broke our rule about questions and asked if I belonged to a church. I looked away from her as I tried to sort it all out. I hadn’t prayed to God since I had been out in Minnesota. And as far as I could tell, God had forsaken me and I Him, and who had acted badly first I couldn’t say. And that was no short story, so I gave a short answer in its place. “Not anymore.”

“But you did?”

I put my pillow up to the wall and leaned against it. “I was a Methodist, Marie. But I was cast out of that church. Twice, in fact.”

“Whatever for?”

“Once for daring to speak at a meeting. The other because my minister feared I was something of a God-in-nature philosopher.”

“Were you?”

“I didn’t think of it that way, but maybe I was. And now you.”

Marie stood and pulled the curtain over the window and then sat again on the bed. “Our family belonged to the Church of New Jerusalem.”

I shook my head. “Never heard of it.”

“It was founded upon the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg. He lived in Sweden, two hundred years ago.”

“So you haven’t met him?”

“What do you think, Joseph? Did you ever meet Jesus?” I had to laugh, but Marie was not in a joking mood. She wanted to tell me about this Swedenborg. She called him “extraordinary,” which right away made me not like him. According to Marie, the man had studied medicine, philosophy, minerals, and other things I can’t remember. She said he engraved maps, constructed musical instruments, and designed a machine to fly through the air—and another that would go under the sea to attack boats from below.

“And he is your spiritual leader?” I asked. “This man who designed machines of war?”

Marie ignored me. “Swedenborg had a dream where an angel of God told him to bring the truth to the people. He was a changed man. He had conversations with spirits. The queen of Sweden summoned him and asked him to speak to her dead brother, the prince of Denmark, I think. He came back with a message, and she near fainted away, for it contained a secret that only she and her brother had known.”

“We have people who do similar things here,” I said, trying to act more respectful. “The Poughkeepsie Seer comes to mind, though many thought it was just parlor tricks. But what did Mr. Swedenborg preach that you find so remarkable?”

“Many things,” said Marie. “He denounced the churches for being rich when so many people were poor. He said the kingdom of heaven is open to any and all and not just those who have read the Bible or been blessed by a priest.”

“Did they nail him to a cross? That’s what they do to people like that.” Marie smiled. “I think I see, Joseph, why you were thrown out of church. But you’re right. When he was eighty and could barely walk, he was put on trial and branded a heretic. My church began after his death.”

“And is it still your church?”

Marie shook her head. “No. I abandoned it and everyone I cared for, for what I thought was love and freedom. I have only one thing left.”

Marie reached down for her bag while I thought about what she had said—abandoned all for love and freedom. A moment later she handed me a small book:
The Teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg.
On the inside was the inscription:
To our dearest Marie Louise, with love, Mother and Father. December 25, Year of Our Lord, 1863
.

I opened it and read, letting fate decide the passage:

Priests ought not to claim to themselves any power over the souls of men, because they do not know what the interiors of a man are. Still less they ought to claim the power of opening and shutting Heaven, since that power belongs to the Lord Himself.

I closed the book and looked up. “My, my,” I said. “Who do we have here?”

Marie smiled. She thought I was speaking about Mr. Swedenborg, but I was wondering about her.

W
E HAD TOLD each other something of our former lives. I was a cast-off Methodist, and Marie was a follower of a man named Swedenborg. Not our darkest secrets, but even so, we didn’t revisit them. We went back to where we had been, reading to each other but not speaking about the past. She wasn’t ready, and as for me, I had built a safe place at the almshouse, and much of it had to do with not telling. I wasn’t afraid of being judged. I wanted to forget.

But now, the quiet me who had lived secure was being confronted by another me, a me who wanted things—things I could only dimly remember, like laughter. Marie had poked holes in the walls I had built, and light was finding its way in, enough so that I suspected I would tell about myself if she asked. And soon enough she did ask, though it was more like barter. I would tell her; she would tell me. After months of not speaking about anything prior to the almshouse, Marie was now excited by the idea. Before I had a chance to say anything, she had the candle in front of my face, demanding that I swear before the flame that I would forever guard her secrets. She then brought the candle to herself and made the same vow in reverse.

The next day Marie was as cheerful as toast with jam. I felt like cold soup. And why was I to be the first one to tell? How had that been decided? My dark mood followed me into the office where none of the columns in the ledger would agree.

But when evening came, I did my best to rise to the occasion. I helped Marie smuggle tea and sweet bread to our room. With these as our blood-and-flesh communion, we again boldly took our oaths before the candle. I thought Marie would blow it out—I had imagined a dark room—but instead she set it on the table, still lit. She then made a nest for herself in the corner where the walls met. I did the same at the end of the bed, feeling awkward.

“One more thing,” I said. “Swear that you are not St. Peter and this is not my final interview.”

Marie smiled. “No, Joseph, it’s just me. Now stop trying to wiggle away.”

“How should I begin?”

“Tell me your earliest memory.”

I thought for a moment. “I remember being behind our house when I was very little. There were people about. It was a picnic, I think. And there was rope around my waist that was tied to a tree.”

Marie laughed. “Like a dog?”

“Yes. Apparently I liked to wander.”

I told Marie about our farm in Westerlo. About my sisters and brother. About how Father taught me to ride a horse and play the violin. How he took me out behind the barn and taught me to shoot a rifle. I bragged about being a good student, but Marie wanted to know about the boys. I told her about William Smith who took to walking with me after school. About how Father saw us and forbade it.

“Soon, we were hiding notes for each other,” I said, enjoying the memory. “Innocent notes, but they seemed daring to us.”

“And your father found them.”

“No. You should let me tell the story. My sister Sarah did. I wanted to strangle her but couldn’t, because she would tell. So she teased me until I lost interest in Mr. Smith.”

I told Marie about Henry St. John. About how he had fallen sick and died. I think the story affected her more than me in the retelling, the years gone by having erased the pain. After Henry, of course, came George Washington Slater.

“He was a handsome, wild boy,” I said, feeling yet a little pride in his good looks. “And disturbed, a quality that I somehow found attractive. I was drawn to him but still mourned my Henry, so I couldn’t really give my heart to George. Father didn’t like him, and I was unsure myself, so when Father said I should go away to school, I agreed.”

I then told about my years at the academy in Coxsackie, where I had lived with my aunt. And about how Father had moved the family to Basket Creek, where I had joined them. And how, a year later, George Slater had knocked on our door.

Marie liked this part. “You must have been excited to see him.”

“I was,” I confessed. “Imagine, his coming all that way. So when George asked me to marry, I said yes.” I stopped as it came rushing back.

“It did not go well with him?”

“You could say,” I said, not able to meet her eye. “After our wedding, there wasn’t a single day that we were both happy at the end of it.”

I described George’s suspicions and wild accusations. How I had to run back to my father’s house and how George had left. I told her about the birth of Helen, adding quickly that she was grown now and living in Pennsylvania, hoping to head off questions and not giving pause for any. I told of my hunting along Basket Creek, housekeeping for Raspy Winthrop, and his crude offer of marriage. And that was as much as I could do for the night. I didn’t want to talk further about any of it, particularly about Helen.

The next day the floors in the almshouse had an odd slope—not the feeling I had hoped for. Digging up the past was a bad idea. I was done with it and would tell Marie after dinner. But when we got to our room, I saw her expectant face and lost my resolve. I went on with my story, telling her about my decision to change my clothes and run away as a man—perhaps not a complete surprise, considering my appearance. But the dancing school
was
a surprise. Marie had many questions, and she couldn’t stop asking about Lydia. It took me all night to get through Honesdale, and it would have gone longer if I hadn’t put an end to it.

The following night Marie was with me every step through Minnesota—the winter in Kandiyohi, the attack by Willie McAllister, the trial, Noah’s proposal, and finding my cabin in ruins. “Oh, Joseph!” she cried, scarcely able to believe it. “They burned your house! Where did you go?”

“Back to Forest City.”

“But wasn’t that where they had the trial?”

“Yes, but that’s where I ended up. I think most people were decent to me, or maybe they weren’t. I couldn’t really tell. I was sick. But it wasn’t the normal kind of sick. I just couldn’t make sense of anything. People looked strange—I would shout at them. They didn’t know what to do with me. Finally, they raised some money and sent me east.”

“Back to New York?”

“Yes. Father met the train. A letter from Dr. Blanchard said I was to arrive and not well. Father took me home, but I had no fever, so in a day or two everyone thought I’d gotten better. And, of course, they had questions. Dr. Blanchard had told them about the trial.”

“But you were found innocent!”

“Not in their eyes. I think Mother blamed me for what Willie did. And I was too sick to say anything that made much sense. Someone might be in the room, but it felt as though they were shouting down a well. They turned on me. My brother John was harsh, and so was Sarah, who was getting ready for her wedding. I was spoiling everything.”

“And Helen?”

“She wasn’t happy to see me either. I was just this strange person who made everyone upset. She was seven then and didn’t look like the child I had left behind. God knows how much I had changed in her eyes. When there was shouting, she would run to Mary. It became impossible. I had to leave, though I was still not well. I took my rifle and went into the woods to join Gelerama, an old Lenape woman I knew who had a stone hut at the head of the valley.”

“You went to live with an Indian woman?”