Fiction
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Ceremony
(So you think you’ve seen it all, eh? Well, what about Catholic family-values porn?)
Laura had suffered long enough. The evening was as hot and damp as the day had been, and she’d labored enough for one day. She rose from her drawing board, stretched as best she could, and waddled across her living room to its sole window. She tried to open it wider, but without success. There was no breeze anyway.
The street below was quiet. The rush hour was long past. Yielding to impulse, she raised the window screen and stepped out onto her fire escape, clutching the loose folds of her maternity dress in her left hand. It was a difficult task; at seven and a half months, she had to maneuver her swollen belly like a heavy bundle when she moved. She sat awkwardly on the fire escape, eyes unfocused, legs dangling over the edge.
There was still no breeze, but the sense of release from the confines of her apartment was refreshing. It made her yearn for further release, release from her gravidity, which at a month and a half’s distance seemed far away.
She knew she was lucky, as single mothers-to-be are reckoned. College educated, equipped with a skill marketed easily even from her home, she had no money worries and would have none. Prudent in all things and desiring only the best for her daughter, she had eliminated every avoidable hazard to her baby’s health from her diet and habits. Her friends were supportive to a fault. Sometimes it took all her forbearance not to scream and drive them from her apartment so she could be alone for a while...especially when one of them mentioned Peter.
The least mention of Peter’s name left her drifting among memories she could not thrust away. Most were memories of good times and good company, but those were not the tormentors. It was the memory of his touch, of his tender yet rugged lovemaking, that brought her to the limits of her endurance. She’d known no man’s touch since the day he left her, more than five months ago, when she’d told him that there would be no abortion.
In the silence of her soul, she had to admit that she wanted him still. Were he to come through her door, she would fling herself at his feet. His merest word of assent would make the past five months as if they had never been. The Earth was more likely to stop rotating.
Now she had done it to herself. Currents of sense memory stroked her skin, ghostly hands in the still air. With her eyes closed, she could imagine him caressing her, feel his lean torso against hers so vividly that he might as well be there. Yet he was not, and never would be.
He had said he’d loved all of her, not merely her glittering exterior but the depths of her. She’d been too reserved for most of the men she’d known, too proper, too Catholic. Not for him. When she’d told him of her determination to remain a virgin until marriage, he had merely nodded. His assent had been so natural as to say but of course, as if the matter hadn’t needed to be voiced.
Bare weeks later she’d taken him into her body. Her Catholic scruples burned to ash in the heat of their embrace. It was the start of a time of unspeakable joy.
It had ended with his departure, but she could not regret it. To regain it was her most fervent desire. She would have prayed for it, were it not blasphemous.
“Come live with me,” he said.
"No, you come live with me. I have the nicer apartment.”
"All right.”
"When should we have the ceremony?”
He shrugged. “Whenever.”
"You really don’t care?” He’d described himself as a casual Catholic, born to the faith but hardly practicing. Yet surely he would want God’s blessing on their joy.
"It doesn’t really matter. We’re already married.”
"Huh?”
"Here.” He put his hand to his heart. “And here.” He moved it to her breast. The tender pressure became a caress as he descended to kiss her.
His words had echoed within her; they’d spoken her own unvoiced conviction through his lips. Even now that the falsity of it stood so plain, she could not regret it.
She ached for his touch. Waves of desire surged in her, urging her to wallow in the memory of his hands and body. She badly needed release. For half a year she’d had none.
She lowered her back onto the floor of the fire escape and pulled up her maternity dress, revealing herself to the sky. At the top of a six-story apartment complex, she was unlikely to be seen even by a passing helicopter. Her hands began to caress her own flesh, stroking and smoothing her belly as a lover’s would. As Peter’s might have, had he not panicked and fled.
Her belly moistened with a fine sheen of sweat. It made the evening’s heat more comfortable, as if it were only an outward expression of the heat within her. Yet she needed more. The waves of tension within her were cresting, urging her toward more direct measures.
Her arms snaked around her belly, and her hands went to her groin. She teased open her labia the way Peter had done, parting the outer lips with one finger, spreading her inner folds with another to expose her clitoris. She stroked the little nubbin gently, and the fires within her blazed high.
Her need was too great and had been too long unwatered. In only seconds, she stiffened and cried out. The force of the orgasm momentarily, blessedly relieved her of consciousness.
When her senses returned, she was suffused with a sense of peace. She lay flat, her belly and groin still exposed, and breathed deeply, gazing into the bottomless sky.
It was not Peter, but it had been good. Very good indeed. At any rate, it would have to do.
When she had regained herself, she clambered to her feet and started to turn toward her window. It was then that she noticed her audience. A tall, slight, fair-haired young man, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, was watching her from one of the few windows along the perpendicular “L” of the apartment block from which her own could be easily seen.
He appeared paralyzed. From his expression, he’d missed nothing of substance.
At an earlier stage in her life, she would have fled in embarrassment. Only a few months ago, she would have gathered her dignity about her and exited as if nothing untoward had happened. Not today. The sensuality that had claimed her had left her incapable of even a blush.
She locked eyes with the young man and smiled at him: a coquette’s smile, inviting, faintly wicked, full of promise. She had no idea who he was. It didn’t matter. He was Man, and she was Woman, and were they to find themselves together, there was no doubt what would occur. Her hands went to the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, to reveal her to him in her glory.
He stared at her perhaps ten seconds longer before hurrying away from his window, leaving her unobserved, unadmired, and strangely empty.
Matt McCloghrie struggled to calm himself. His blood surged through him, swelling and heating his face. It was absurd, considering what he’d been through. After two and a half years as a photographer-for-hire in this city, he shouldn’t even have noticed.
I thought this place had taken all the blood out of me.
Maybe not.
He hadn’t expected a tenth of what his customers had done before his lens. How anyone could bring herself to act in such a fashion under the gaze of a stranger was incomprehensible. How they could want it captured on film was beyond him. Who were these photographs for?
When the first one had shed her clothes and reached for her vibrator, it was all he could do not to scream and run. She had laughed at his naivete. Over time he’d become inured to the bizarreness barrage. Last month he’d shot a scene that included handcuffs, an eggplant and a goat. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow. Yet he hadn’t come to understand.
He certainly didn’t understand how he could photograph such as that all week long, without reaction, but be so shaken by the sight of a young pregnant woman touching herself on her fire escape.
He might have told himself that it was because she hadn’t known he was there, if she hadn’t awarded him that come-hither smile. She’d shown no more inhibitions than any of the ones who paid him to immortalize their cavortings.
He flopped onto his sofa, threw his head back and closed his eyes. He could still see her. She had imprinted herself on his mind’s eye.
He tried to analyze the image on his mental film, as if he were back in school at Trinity, doing it for an assignment. The view angle was enticing and the focus was strong. The foreground figure obliterated all consideration of any other detail within the frame. Despite the softness of the shapes, the figure was definite. Its contrast to its background was intense, as if enhanced by the developer. The pose was superb. The placements of the arms and legs were exquisite, framing the large, rounded belly to perfection. The angle of the neck and the expression of transport on the face were beyond perfection.
It was the work of a master. He could have wished it were his own.
But it is.
His blood resumed its pounding. Accident and perception had combined to create the most beautiful image he had ever seen, of a woman he did not know. He would never forget it.
He wondered who she was.
Laura could have called any of a score of her friends to help her with her Saturday laundry. Whoever she selected would have dropped everything to help. It was remarkable that none of her friends had stopped by yet. Personal pride mandated that she struggle through it alone.
The worst was maneuvering the basket into the elevator. The opening was too narrow for her to carry it on her hip; she had to lean back, balance it on her belly and thrust it before her. For a second or two, she couldn’t see whether there was anyone in her path.
When she’d set the basket down, she confronted a tall, slender young man whose vaguely familiar face burned a deep crimson. He turned away and stared into the corner of the elevator, his shoulders raised about his neck to deny her the sight of his embarrassment. It was a moment before she realized who he had to be.
"Hey.” She kept her voice soft.
He said nothing.
"It’s okay. You were just looking out your window. No law against that.”
"I know.” His voice was low and hoarse with strain.
She started to speak again, and found herself with nothing further to say.
When the elevator reached the basement, he turned toward her. There was enough discomfort in his expression for a spinal tap.
"May I help with those?”
The gambit surprised her. “It’s not necessary, I can manage.”
"No, I’d like to. Really.” He bent and lifted the basket. “It’ll be easier if you step out first.”
She did, and preceded him to the laundry room.
"Weren’t you headed out or something?”
He shrugged.
She rose from the plastic chair, stretched, and went to lean against the spinning dryer. The vibrations were heavenly against her lower back. “Look, it isn’t as if I’m a cripple.”
"I know, Miss. I just want to help, that’s all.”
She grimaced. “Everybody wants to help. You’d think pregnancy was a big deal.”
"Oh? It isn’t?”
Blood rushed to her face.
"It wasn’t that hard to get knocked up...hey, what’s your name?”
"Matt. Yours?”
"Laura. Pleased to meet you. So, Matt, how come you’ve been sitting down here for an hour and a half with a pregnant gal whose name you wouldn’t even ask for?”
He muttered something and looked away.
"No date for tonight, Matt?”
His head whipped around at that. There was a hot anger in his eyes that made her wonder whether she was safe with him. Yet he did not rise from his seat.
"I’m a photographer,” he grated. “I work most Friday and Saturday nights. Would you like to hear about some of my paying customers, Laura? I have a large collection of stories I could tell you, if the telling of them wouldn’t turn my stomach.”
She gaped at him.
"I’ve only been here a short time, but by God I think I’ve seen every perversion known to man, and been paid to capture them all on film. So forgive me, please, for finding the sight of a pretty girl great with child a refreshing change from the usual. I hadn’t known it was an offense against the local mores.”
Great with child.
"You’re not a native-born American, are you, Matt?’
"No.” He looked away again.
"From where, then?”
"About twenty miles north of Dublin.”
"Ah. I see.”
"Do you?” he snorted. “Yes, I’m a Catholic. Has that been outlawed here in the land of the free, too? I shouldn’t wonder.”
"No, it’s not that.” She took a moment to choose her words. “Childbirth’s still something of a miracle there, isn’t it?”
He scowled. “Don’t patronize the poor Third Worlder with his nose pressed against your window, girl.” His brogue became more definite with each word. “Yes, we’re poor back there. Yes, a lot of women lose their babies at the birth, and some lose themselves as well. But the miracle of it is the same here as there.”
He rose to glare down at her. “You’re one with your child now, Laura. It’s God’s greatest blessing, the strongest foretaste we get of His love in this life. You haven’t bothered to learn from it, or to revel in it. Poor benighted chit. It’ll last but a little while longer, and then there’ll only be words. And like as not you’ll never know what you’ve missed, that I can never know at all.”
The dryer chose that moment to stop. He moved toward her.
"Let’s get those up the stairs.”
Instead of standing aside, she reached for his hand and pulled it to her belly.
The gesture paralyzed him. He stood perfectly still, his palm against her, for a timeless interval.
"Do you...go to Mass on Sundays, Matt?”
He nodded.
"Where?”
"Saint Theresa’s, over on Thirty-Seventh.”
"May I go with you tomorrow morning?”
His mouth fell open. “Of course.”
"Are you working tonight?”
"Well, yes, but what are you thinking?”
She smiled. “Dinner. My apartment. I’ll cook.”
He studied her face.
"May I help?”
"Of course.”
For the next seven weeks, they were apart as little as possible.
He came to her apartment every morning at seven and fixed breakfast for the two of them. His days were largely his own, and he spent them with her. She would perch at her drawing board, executing one commission after another without rising for hours at a time. He would read, listen to music, fetch them coffee. His appointments were almost all in the evening hours, and so they usually parted company after dinner.
"This is such a nuisance,” she said one time, unsure what she meant by it.
He grinned. “Perverts have jobs, too.”
Even on those evenings when no customer awaited him, he would take his leave no later than eight. She would not see him again until the following morning. As much as she wanted it, she could not bring herself to ask him to stay the night.
He never deliberately touched her. Yet, now and then, when they sat on her sofa with the television on, she would feel her daughter stir, reach for his hand and put it on her belly. He would leave it there until it was time for him to go.
He was there when her water broke. He went into a frenzy, so agitated that she had to laugh.
"Relax, Matt. I’m packed, and the hospital arrangements were all made months ago. All I need to do is wait for the contractions and call the doctor.”
It stopped him cold. He grinned. “You efficient American wench. I should have known.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Within two hours she was in the waiting room at the hospital, with him clutching her hand and making the most absurd soothing noises ever heard outside a nursery. When she’d been admitted, he followed her to the prenatal room without a word.
When she was wheeled into the delivery room, she half expected him to follow. He stepped forward as if he’d intended to do so, then stopped himself. The doors swung closed on an expression midway between longing and fear.
"Name?” The nurse didn’t look at her.
"Laura DiGennaro.” Post-partum exhaustion made every word a struggle.
The nurse scribbled onto her clipboard. “Picked a name for the baby yet?”
"Annelise.”
The nurse pulled a plastic baby bracelet and a paper insert for it from a pocket of her uniform. She wrote Annelise’s name on the insert, folded the bracelet around it, and held it up for Laura to see. “This makes it official.” She pulled Annelise’s tiny hand from Laura’s breast and clipped the bracelet around her wrist, then strode from the room. The baby never stopped nursing.
"You’re off to a good start, little one,” she whispered, caressing the new life at her bosom. “You have a good appetite. I hope I can keep you fed.”
It was something Matt couldn’t help with.
Matt wheeled her and Annelise down the corridor three days later. As they turned the corner toward Admissions, she saw Peter standing at the desk.
The thick black hair, the sculpted features, the pose of casual grace were lifted from her memories. He was as she remembered him in every respect but one: she had never seen so much pain in his face.
He rushed toward her. Matt moved to interpose himself.
"Laura, they wouldn’t tell me where you were!”
She faced him unspeaking. Matt looked back at her for some indication of what ought to be done.
"They had no reason to, Peter. What are you to me, anyway?”
Peter surged forward. Matt caught and restrained him without apparent effort.
"For God’s sake, Laura, I’m the father of that child you’ve got!”
With Peter’s and Matt’s eyes both fixed upon her, she shook her head.
"No, you’re not, Peter. I don’t know what fantasies you’ve conjured up, but the one thing you’ve never been is the father of my child.” She looked at Matt. “Let’s go.”
Matt wheeled her past her stunned ex-lover to the Admissions desk. As soon as the nurse looked up, Laura blared, “There’s been a mistake.”
The nurse looked up in confusion. “What kind, Miss?”
Laura displayed Annelise’s wrist, the hospital ID bracelet still upon it.
"My daughter’s been mislabeled. No doubt you’ve got her name wrong on the birth certificate as well.”
The nurse shrugged. “Well, it isn’t the end of the world. Just come back in a week or two and file --”
"No. I want it rectified now.”
The nurse wasn’t easy to crack, but Laura had more resources than she usually displayed, and in time a hospital administrator was fetched to see to the creation of a new birth certificate.
"Now, Ma’am, what is your daughter’s name supposed to be?” The administrator was all unctuous solicitude.
"First name, Annelise. Last name, the same as her father’s.” Laura swallowed hard and slipped her hand into Matt’s. “McCloghrie.”
Matt gasped. She clutched at his hand. From behind them came a loud thump as Peter collapsed.
"Why don’t you give him the spelling, Matt?”
He’d gone paler than a newly laundered sheet, but he spelled his last name in a steady voice. The administrator indited two birth certificates, crunched them with the hospital seal, and handed one to her.
"Congratulations, Mrs. McCloghrie. I’ve never seen a more beautiful baby or a happier couple.”
Laura squeezed Matt’s hand. “Will you forgive me for taking you by surprise that way?”
They stood at the curb before the hospital entrance, waiting for their taxi under a brilliant early-autumn sky. Despite the crisp breeze that nipped at their cheeks, Matt’s color had not entirely returned.
"There’s nothing to forgive, love. Thank you, is all.”
"Do you want us, then?”
"More than I’ve ever been able to say, and you know it well, wench.” Matt glanced up at the spire of St. Theresa’s, a block away. “You’ll think him a horrible constipated stickler for details, but if Annelise’s father is going to be sharing her mother’s bed, he’d like to have a ceremony sometime soon.”
Laura smiled, pressed his hand to her cheek, moved it to rest upon Annelise’s back.
"What do you think we just did?”
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