The Passion of Mary-Margaret (24 page)

Mr. and Mrs. Bray. I knew they'd take me in. And maybe they'd understand what had been happening, because the Lord knew nobody else really did, least of all myself.

Suitcase in my grip, I clipped down Main Street, past the school, the drugstore, and negotiated the tree-lined gravel lane that led to the Brays' cottage. As I write this, Mercy House is painted the palest, creamiest of yellows, but back then the Brays' chose an eager blue that reflected the emotions of the sky and the Bay. The lacy trim has always been painted white as far as I can remember. It's always a relief when what to do with something is that evident.

Regina Bray opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of me with a suitcase. “Mary-Margaret? What are you doing here, child?”

“I'm on a mission of mercy.”

“With that suitcase? Come on in.”

I followed her yellow-chiffon-clad form, so thin and lithe and golden brown despite bearing all those children, into their parlor. Mr. Bray made his wife the most beautiful clothing. She was by far the smartest dresser on the island. And she had her hair done every week at the beauty parlor for black women. Its soft waves flowed into a turned-under curl around her shoulders that bounced with each footstep. She'd slid her feet into matching, kitten-heeled pumps. Perfect.

I made a mental note to ask Mr. Bray if he'd give me a few sewing lessons, something to keep me occupied.

And then it hit me. How were Jude and I going to support ourselves? He was a drug-dealing prostitute and I a former religious school sister. Perhaps the local elementary school needed an art teacher. But I doubted it.

I mentally pictured myself crossing my fingers in blind hope. And, after being in the shadow of the Church's wings all my life, the thought of “getting out into the world” like everybody else scared me silly. Is that what my faith had become, a place to hide from society, from possible pain, from vulnerability?

Nah.

Even if I was doing that, who could blame me? I was handed a raw deal from the get-go.

“Don't beat yourself up for that,” Jesus whispered in my ear. “You were right where I wanted you, my dear.”

Thank you, Friend.

Mrs. Bray gestured toward her brown, crushed velvet sofa that had clearly just been vacuumed judging by the satiny, then suedelike streaks. Regina Bray's house was perfect all the time—pillows placed just so, the fringe on her area rug combed, the walls washed and nary a cobweb (even in the attic, I suspected)—I do believe she cleaned it every day. And in such beautiful clothing too. Truly a modern housewife, such as they were at the time. At least in the advertisements.

Somehow Regina achieved what most women only hoped for.

I had to stifle a laugh at the thought of the house I was going to keep. Art supplies everywhere, sandwiches for dinner, ironing on-demand,laundry only when the undergarments ran out, an overgrown lawn.

This whole thing is destined to be a nightmare, Lord, an absolute nightmare.

He didn't answer back, but I did get a quick vision of colorful flower gardens.

“Would you like some iced tea or lemonade?” she asked. “Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“Are you thirsty?” I asked.

“Not really. I just had a cup of tea.”

“I'm fine then.” I set down my suitcase, then sat on the couch.

“You look like you've got a story to tell.” Mrs. Bray sat on a mustard-gold occasional chair with a rattan back. She crossed one leg delicately over the other, the top leg dangling down close to the other, the top foot not so very far off the floor. I've noticed that thin people's legs always do this and it looks so elegant. Her spine supported the entire effect like a pillar.

I sat with my left foot crossed behind my right ankle, like the nuns taught us to sit, so proper, and I folded my hands in my lap. “I left the order.”

Her hand slapped against her heart. “Mary-Margaret, no! That was the last thing I expected to hear! Are you sure about this?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is this God's doing?”

“Fortunately, yes.”

“Oh dear. Oh, my my my. You need to tell me about this. But first of all, do you need a place to stay?”

I nodded. “I'm sorry.”

“You came to the right house. Now, our spare bedroom is tiny, but I think you religious are used to small rooms, aren't you?”

“Indeed we are.”

“Of course. So then this might actually seem downright spacious!” She chuckled, a warm breeze of a chuckle, the final “hmph” upswept in the same curl as her lips.

“Thank you.”

She stood up. “So tell me the rest of your story and I'll help you unpack.”

I've always found the Methodists to be good listeners.

Two hours later, a cup of tea and some fresh-baked cookies down the hatch, Mrs. Bray wiped her eyes, then neatly folded her hankie and placed it in a hidden pocket in her dress. “Oh, sweet pea, I don't know how you know God wants you to do this, but I know you wouldn't be doing it for any other reason. It's too crazy to consider something like this all on your own.” She reached out where we were sitting next to one another on the sofa and grabbed my hand.

“I just have no idea where we'll live. I realized that on the bus here.”

“Let me just tell you about my sister's little place over near the wharf. It's a cute little two-room apartment above the bait
and tackle shop, you know, that touristy place?”

I nodded. “Ron Purnell's?”

“She owns the building. Her renter's due to be moving out next month. I can talk her into giving you all a good price.”

“I'm going to need to find a job too. I was hoping the elementary school might hire me.”

“Art?” She tapped her finger against the spot between her mouth and nose. “I don't know. Now, at the Negro school, we could use an English teacher in the fall. You think you might be interested in that?”

A dream fulfilled? “Of course! You know I would be.”

I quickly filled her in on what happened in Bainbridge.

“Lord have mercy!” she cried. “God restoring what the locusts have eaten. We can go by and talk to the principal tomorrow.”

Mr. Bray was full of love and encouragement, mystified, truly, like most people, but trusting. “Mary-Margaret, I never known you to do anything stupid or rash. I believe you mean what you say. But I do wonder this. What if Jude turns you down?”

“What?” I set my fork on my plate and reached for my water glass. “I guess I haven't imagined that.”

“Oh, you should! The man has been around the block a time or ten, so he's obviously feeling worthless and ready to pack it all in if he's back at the light. He may not want to drag you into his sorry life. I imagine it feels pretty complicated to him. If he truly loves you like you say he does, he'll turn you down flat.”

“My goodness,” I breathed. “I hadn't even considered it. But, well, you may be right.”

“Oh, I'm sure he is.” Regina handed her husband the platter of fried soft crabs. “Johnson has a sixth sense about people. He really does.”

That night I walked to Bethlehem Point and sat beneath my mother's tree. I prayed—well, talked to God would describe it better even though, yes, that's technically prayer. I whispered words of fear, of trust, of anguish, of anger too, and finally Jesus came and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the light.

“I am the light of the world, T—.”

“Yes, Lord, you are.”

“The way will be clearly marked for you. We don't do that for everyone, as you well know. But this is something you can count on. You'll know what you need to know
when
you need to know it. Don't be afraid.”

And then he spread wide his hands and showed me a portion of his glory, his skin glowing like molten steel, his eyes like white-hot coals. He pulled aside his robe and revealed his flaming heart and I gasped at the beauty and fell on my face before him, reveling that One so full of majesty and power and love loved me so completely. I worshipped his holiness, feeling small, but altogether safe in the light of his grace.

I must have fallen asleep, or Jesus himself ushered me to a state of unconsciousness, because I awakened around eleven p.m. and headed back to the Brays' with my chair tucked under my arm and Jesus tucked even more firmly in my heart than before. A light glowed in the window and a note on the dining room table said, “Feel free to warm up some milk. We're glad you're here.”

The next morning Mr. Cinquefoil (the father of Shrubby—the man whose boat I used to spirit Gerald out to the lighthouse) said upon my request, “Well, now, Mary, I don't have time to be takin' you out to the lighthouse today. I got oysters to catch.” He pronounced it
ersters
.

“Please! I'll pay you.”

I thought about all I had in the world. Fifty dollars.

“I don't need yer money. I just don't have much time.” Mr. Cinquefoil's wiry hair stood up on end and blew in the island breeze like sea grass. His hands were as calloused as the shells of the oysters from which he made his living. He was a loner, but would say hello if you spoke first. In the evenings, he sat on his porch and smoked a pipe while his wife chatted inside on her telephone.

“How about if you take me out on your way to the oyster beds?”

I pulled my sweater around me. Five a.m. in May can still be a little cool on the Chesapeake.

He ran a hand over his head. “I can't pick you back up until I'm on my way back in.”

“I'll just have Gerald bring me back.”

“All right. Hop aboard. Hattie know you're comin'?”

“No, unfortunately.”

I looked at the light swinging round and round in the darkness and wondered if I was doing the wrong thing.

No. I just had to get it over with.

“It's a mite early to be visiting folk, ain't it?”

“A little.”

“Well, it's your funeral.”

If I could be so lucky.