Men and Angels (35 page)

When she got to the house the children were waiting for her, holding Jane’s hand, looking up at Anne in fear and confusion and sorrow. She must comfort them; she must show them she was the person she had always been, the person that they knew. She smiled at them and said as gently as she could, “Change out of your wet things, my darlings. We’re going to go out.”

S
HE HAD FAILED. ANNE
did not love her. Anne’s heart had turned to stone. But why had Laura lost heart when God was with her? She was the favorite, the chosen of the Lord. And now her heart was once again within her. For the work of the Lord must be done through her, in violence, in desolation, for Anne’s heart had turned to stone within her and must be plucked out. “I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh,” Ezekiel said, the words of fire. The fire of love, love like a wind of violence, rushing, love the wind of fire. Oh, Anne, how beautiful is the face of the Lord. I will bring you His face, His face shall be before you in my hands.

She had lost heart because she had thought the flesh was going to prevail, it would swallow up the spirit of the one she tried to save. Was she no match against the Prince of Darkness and his heavy cohort, flesh? She knew the heart of Anne. With eyes of love she pierced and saw a heart choked up with lust and anger. Anne had coveted the husband of another. She lay all night on her bed of thorns, lust was her bed, her rest, her solitude. The face of God must sweep it out, must leave behind a bare room stripped and sweet. Swept with the broom of fire. But Laura had lost heart. Because the heart of Anne had turned to stone, turned from her, turned against her. The hard heart became a sword to drive into the flesh of Laura, the Lord’s messenger, the chosen of the Lord. Who loved Anne as no one else could ever love her. Whose hands would bring the white face of the Lord, the shining face, the beautiful before the mountains.

She had been careful, prudent, had not made mistakes as before. For the work of God she had practiced deceit. She read the word of God in private, or if she read in public, read casually; as others read the books they read, she read the Word of God. So there was nothing to alarm, to frighten, to reveal. She had been careful, and she kept the secret in her heart. She had said nothing when she saw that Anne desired the flesh of the man not her husband. Secretly in her room she had written the words she wanted to say, the warnings of the Lord, of blood, of fire. Hosea’s words. The Lord had made the prophet plead with the adulteress:

That she put away her harlotry from her face,

and her adultery from between her breasts;

lest I strip her naked

and make her as in the day she was born

and make her like a wilderness,

and set her like a parched land,

and slay her with thirst.

Upon her children also I will have no pity….

When she first read that, when the Lord led her to read it, she wanted to run in to Anne, to wake her from her sleep, for it was night and dark. Only Laura was awake; the Lord had spoken in that night to Laura, spoke the warning and the truth. She wanted to wake Anne and say the words the Lord had shown her. Do you want this, is this what you want, she imagined herself saying, pulling Anne’s blankets from her, shining the light in her eyes, giving her God’s message in the cold night. This is what awaits you if you follow in the path you want to walk. If you put your flesh beside the flesh of this man who is not your husband, but another’s. Is this what you want, a wilderness, a dry land and your children cursed? Turn away, listen to me. I can keep you from this. I will lead you from the desert to the cooling spring. Your garments will be white as snow. Your face will shine like the sun. Your heart will soar above you. Turn, turn from your sin to me. I will lead you from the path of thorns into the path of righteousness. I am the messenger of the Lord. I will show you his face in my hands.

But she sat silent and was prudent. She said nothing to Anne, although at night she burned with fear for her, with fear for the sin she planned. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But she could see them, man and woman, beast and beast, locked in each other’s bodies. She knew what it was like, for she had done it. She knew what was meant by flesh and why the prophets sickened when they spoke of it and why the wrath of God came down because of it. Of course the wrath of God came down because of it. How could it not? She could see the bodies lock and tear and afterwards the eyes with nothing in them but the blackness which is sin, is death. So she prayed, with the sight of them behind her eyes that this sight would not come into the world, into fulfillment. And her prayers had worked. The man had gone away. The darkness left the house. She waited for the Spirit. But the Spirit did not come. The darkness of the flesh had moved away, but the light of the Spirit did not replace it. Only stone and hardness. Only the heart turned to stone.

But why had she lost heart? The hand of the Lord was in everything. The path she followed had been wrong, the path of prudence and of counsel. She had been frightened; she had feared that she had failed. That was why she had the thought of cleaning everything. Because the house had been defiled.

Just as her mother’s house had been. She thought now of her mother’s house. The house of her birth, the tubes, the red jars, caked black sticks of makeup, the brushes left around, left out, black on the towels, on the sheets, the stains of lipstick left on cups, on glasses, on the cigarettes that multiplied like dead things in gray ashes that flowed onto the tables, on the rugs, the floor. The cigarettes thrown in the toilet, floating with the red scar up, scar of the mother’s mouth, the black ring on the tub, scar of the mother’s filth. Her mother was a filthy woman. She had always known it. She had known it as a child. As a child she had to see the bloody napkins pinned in their harness dropped on the bathroom floor, the bedroom floor. Red blood, brown blood, blood on soft sticks, cotton stubs in garbage cans because the septic system would not take them. Cover them up, cover yourself, hide it from me. As a child she cried in the bed she kept clean herself. Why do you let me see, why must you keep showing me? I am small, I am your child, and there are things you should hide from me. Lovely mother, mother beautiful in clothes, smelling of perfume, of shampoo, keep me from this body life, oh keep it from me. Show me only your light dashing arms, your quick feet in their pointed shoes, the turn of your skirt as you dance somewhere. Keep me from the body life of curses, groans, the blows you deal me. Keep from me your naked body, the black triangle of hair. Hide from me the man who comes in the mornings when you think I sleep, the man I have to find, the door I have to open, and the curses you then have to rain on me for finding what I have to find. I am your daughter; I am a child. Keep things from me.

I will keep the house clean for you, Mother. I will follow you and hide the things you ought to hide, will wash away the foul smells and the food gone bad, will clear away the evidence. Oh, beautiful, quick mother, mother like a shining bird, I will do this for you, do everything, if you will say that you will love me.

Why could they never see, the mothers, that their houses were their sanctuaries? For the children to be safe in, to be happy. So they must be pure as snow; nothing must be permitted of corruption. For the children. It must all be beautiful for them. If defilement entered, then the Lord would curse. Curse everyone, the mothers and the children. The Lord had told Ezekiel: “Wherefore, as I live … because you have defiled my sanctuary with all your detestable things and with all your abominations, therefore I will cut you down; my eye will not spare, and I will have no pity.”

They did not know, they had forgotten because the Lord had kept His wrath disguised, had covered up His face, had kept His dark voice silent. Only a few saw. The rest were as if dead. It said in Revelations: “I know your works; you have the name of being alive, and you are dead.” The Lord gave warnings in those days, but even then the people did not hear. They did not know; they thought the Lord was far away and could not see them, could not hear them. But He was coming; He was coming. And they were unready. Anne, her children, were unready. They saw nothing, heard nothing. Only Laura knew. The Lord would come at night, a thief. And they would not be ready. The Lord’s curse would come on them. They would perish, they would burn alive, they would be swallowed in the cloud of night, they would be blotted out forever from the book of life. All this would happen if she could not make them hear. And yet sometimes the Lord had mercy. Sometimes He kept his chosen ones to shine a light before them. “Yet you have still a few names…, people who have not soiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy. He who conquers shall be in white garments, and I will not blot his name out of the book of life.”

She saw the garments, shining, stiff with majesty. She saw how she would walk in them, her head high in the light of God’s own countenance. For she would conquer. But the others would not conquer if they did not listen to the chosen of the Lord. They must listen. She had been afraid that she would fail to conquer. She had been afraid that the darkness was too strong for her. That Anne’s heart had hardened against her as her mother’s heart had hardened against her. Her mother would have her name forever blotted from the book of life. Since the Spirit came to her, she knew that. But she was afraid for Anne.

She had seen Anne turn against her. She had seen her body stiffen; heard her voice go hard. Your voice is a knife of stone, she wanted to say to Anne, put it away, turn it from me. Anne was saying all the time: “Don’t look, don’t listen, don’t be near me.” When she said, “Thank you,” she meant, If only you were not here. It was her mother’s voice, the knife of stone. Every word her mother said was really saying, If only you were not here. The knife of stone had fallen on her heart until the Lord had sent his word, and she learned that she was the Chosen One. Now her mother’s voice could never hurt her. But when she heard Anne’s voice, the new voice that was always saying, If only you were not here, she felt again the knife of stone. The Lord took his shield from her and exposed her heart. But she had not given in. She had prayed. She had worked to cleanse the house of its defilement. And the Lord had spoken to her now. He had told her the answer. The answer was of blood.

She could do it now. The final thing, the violent thing. No more must she be wise as serpents and as innocent as doves. Now she was the Angel of the Lord. The word of God came in a blazing light, in fire and sword. The Word of Love. She had cleansed the house with water; she would cleanse it now in blood.

First she would write the letter. She would take the paper from her notebook, where she wrote the special messages of God.

Dear Anne:

I am doing this because I love you. The Lord will come as a thief, and you must now repent of your defilement. You hardened your heart to me; now I must speak to you in blood. I am always with you. No one will ever love you as I love you. I will never leave you; you will never be alone. I am the chosen of the Lord. You never knew this for your heart was hard and it was hidden. But now the time has come and it must not be hidden. I am the chosen of the Lord, and I have loved you as the Lord has loved you. I will show you his face in my hands.

She would read Isaiah’s words. She would write them down for Anne.

Can a woman forget her sucking child,

that she should have no compassion on the child of her womb?

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.

Behold, I have graven you on the palms of my hands.

She would take the razor. She would cut her hands just at the wrists. The cut would be in the name of Anne. She would lie down in water and be thinking of her glory. Of her snow-white garments and the radiance of her face. Shining before the mountains of the Lord. She would shed every drop of blood she had for Anne, so Anne would see how much she loved her.

T
HEIR MOOD WAS HIGH
as they drove home from the movies. Jane had done it; she had made them feel courageous, dashing, bold. They hadn’t mentioned Laura, but as soon as they were seated in the diner Jane had said, “There’s only one thing for it. I must be asked to move in and care for these dreadful creatures till the project is complete.”

The children jumped up and down in the red booth, knocking over water glasses, salt and pepper shakers, in their joy. Together, Anne and Jane mopped up the mess with napkins, laughing, handing the sodden paper to the waitress who had sullenly come to take their order. It was such an enchanting idea, so unlikely, so extravagant. It easily replaced the somber news of Laura’s leaving, which the children had listened to in silence, stony-faced. Anne exchanged the bruise of guilt, remorse and anger, the unhealed fear of her children’s danger, for the dry, well-formed white bone of justice. She
had
been just; her anger
had
been justified. She had been extreme, but the situation had been extreme. For once in her life she had been clear and forthright. She had seen what needed to be done and done it. Justice: what a small part it had played in her life. Like most women, she feared it. Justice to her had conjured up the implacable God of Moses, depriving his servant of the promised land because of a rock struck twice. She had believed like Hamlet: “Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?” But Hamlet wasn’t a very good model. He had certainly muddled things. It was better, much better, to act as she had acted with Laura, as she had acted for the first time in her life. The girl had been negligent. She had placed the children in grave danger. They could no longer be left in her charge. She was troubled, that was obvious; Anne supposed that really it had been so from the beginning. But when Laura’s troubles became a danger to the children, she had to be got rid of. It was as simple as that. Anne knew Laura would be upset, was, perhaps at that very moment, in pain. But she had endangered the children. Whatever moral consideration Anne owed to the rest of humankind was dwarfed by her first duty: to keep her children safe. People who didn’t have children could take in people like Laura. She could go to Hélène. That was the perfect place for her to go. She could imagine Laura and Hélène telling each other what a monster she was. She could imagine them sitting on Hélène’s couch, Laura whispering her suspicions about Anne and Ed. Saying that she had kept them apart only through constant vigilance. And then Hélène would feel she had to tell Michael. Well, let her. And if he said anything to her, she could deny it in good conscience. She was innocent. Nothing had happened at all.