keeping you well fed has proven successful.” My face burned at her audacity, and turned a deeper shade of red when I saw her eyes reflect her realization. The women behind her set their gazes on my stomach, and then began to back away from Agnes, as if her rising outrage would engulf them. Pride gave me courage, and I straightened my posture, stepped forward, and reached for the bread, which she placed in my waiting hands as one would feed a caged animal. She snatched back her fingers once they were relieved of their offering and cupped the bottom edge of her clean white pile of hair.
That hair was her main source of vanity. The fifty-eight-year-old woman wore it like a crown and often petted its softness while she spoke, drawing attention to it like a preening bird. When her husband had died five years ago, she had risen to the stature she’d always craved: a blessed widow of the church, an elder, the choir director, entirely independent and free to reign however she chose, well cared for because of her late husband’s frugality and his investments in transportation and real estate. Her money fed the church, so Father Ash was indebted to her in a way that only Catholic priests could experience—the woman who said she loved you like a mother, ruled you with an iron fist, and no doubt fantasized about you like a prostitute.
And here she stood, unable to take her eyes from my stomach. I marveled at her rudeness. It would seem that with all of her genteel upbringing, someone must have taught her not to stare, but she stood transfixed. I turned away and placed the bread on the counter, and returned to my sewing table, where I sat, and finally found my voice.
“Yes,” I said, “your generosity is overwhelming.”
Someone sniggered, but stifled it when Agnes’ head whipped around. The women began to trickle out of the shop, first her sister, Lily, followed by the others, leaving only Agnes and Darcy, who couldn’t seem to tear themselves away. I dared to let my eyes meet Agnes’, and her cruel smile hurt me more than any glare could have, withering any courage I might have summoned. She stood leering at me for so long that fear crept into my heart. This woman looked as if she wished to do me violence, and I thought I might not have the strength to protect myself.
I heard the back door to the kitchen open and Marie entered. She stood up straight when she saw Agnes.
“Good day, Mrs. Dwyer,” said Marie.
She was greeted with the sound of the door slamming as Agnes and Darcy stormed out of the shop.
It was then that I saw silver flashes in my field of vision, and was overcome with fatigue and nausea. Marie was at my side before I fell, and I could hear her voice in a panic just before everything around me went black.
• • •
VINCENT
T he moon is full and round—a harvest moon, a time of new beginnings, of birth.
After my reading at the University of Chicago, I stare in the dressing table mirror and see my husband and the student reflected back on either side of me. My Eugen is more than a decade ahead of me, the student more than a decade behind. He introduces himself in a gentle Southern voice.
“George Dillon.”
At once, I feel the woes of Cressid unearthed as I see my destiny before me, one that will try to make room for both and will fail. This boy will either destroy my marriage or my heart. This I know, but I also understand, in fidelity to my vocation, that I must accept the experience and all of its consequences. I must lay my undoing as a gift on the altar of poetry, and she will snatch it with her bloody fingernails and leave not a scrap for me.
George’s cherubic innocence combined with his ripe curiosity overwhelms me. I reach out my hand and Eugen places the flask in its comfortable resting place before I bring it to my lips and drink, never taking my eyes from George’s eyes in the mirror. I counsel myself that he is just one of the procession—like one of Helen’s
That hair was her main source of vanity. The fifty-eight-year-old woman wore it like a crown and often petted its softness while she spoke, drawing attention to it like a preening bird. When her husband had died five years ago, she had risen to the stature she’d always craved: a blessed widow of the church, an elder, the choir director, entirely independent and free to reign however she chose, well cared for because of her late husband’s frugality and his investments in transportation and real estate. Her money fed the church, so Father Ash was indebted to her in a way that only Catholic priests could experience—the woman who said she loved you like a mother, ruled you with an iron fist, and no doubt fantasized about you like a prostitute.
And here she stood, unable to take her eyes from my stomach. I marveled at her rudeness. It would seem that with all of her genteel upbringing, someone must have taught her not to stare, but she stood transfixed. I turned away and placed the bread on the counter, and returned to my sewing table, where I sat, and finally found my voice.
“Yes,” I said, “your generosity is overwhelming.”
Someone sniggered, but stifled it when Agnes’ head whipped around. The women began to trickle out of the shop, first her sister, Lily, followed by the others, leaving only Agnes and Darcy, who couldn’t seem to tear themselves away. I dared to let my eyes meet Agnes’, and her cruel smile hurt me more than any glare could have, withering any courage I might have summoned. She stood leering at me for so long that fear crept into my heart. This woman looked as if she wished to do me violence, and I thought I might not have the strength to protect myself.
I heard the back door to the kitchen open and Marie entered. She stood up straight when she saw Agnes.
“Good day, Mrs. Dwyer,” said Marie.
She was greeted with the sound of the door slamming as Agnes and Darcy stormed out of the shop.
It was then that I saw silver flashes in my field of vision, and was overcome with fatigue and nausea. Marie was at my side before I fell, and I could hear her voice in a panic just before everything around me went black.
• • •
VINCENT
T he moon is full and round—a harvest moon, a time of new beginnings, of birth.
After my reading at the University of Chicago, I stare in the dressing table mirror and see my husband and the student reflected back on either side of me. My Eugen is more than a decade ahead of me, the student more than a decade behind. He introduces himself in a gentle Southern voice.
“George Dillon.”
At once, I feel the woes of Cressid unearthed as I see my destiny before me, one that will try to make room for both and will fail. This boy will either destroy my marriage or my heart. This I know, but I also understand, in fidelity to my vocation, that I must accept the experience and all of its consequences. I must lay my undoing as a gift on the altar of poetry, and she will snatch it with her bloody fingernails and leave not a scrap for me.
George’s cherubic innocence combined with his ripe curiosity overwhelms me. I reach out my hand and Eugen places the flask in its comfortable resting place before I bring it to my lips and drink, never taking my eyes from George’s eyes in the mirror. I counsel myself that he is just one of the procession—like one of Helen’s
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