of the first pew. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean — ”
But Myrthen had already turned back to the altar and gotten back in position, bowing her head toward the Virgin Mary. She shot her right arm out behind her and made a flicking go-away movement with her fingers. Then she turned toward the cross in the center of the sanctuary and said in barely a whisper, “Heavenly Father, if it is Your will, please take this burden away from me before it’s too late.”
Alta retreated quietly, and knelt to complete her work. She wondered with pity about the man who would meet his grieving bride at this same altar only two hours before her ownhusband-elect would meet her. Did the other groom know how unwelcome he was? Had he imagined broadly enough his future with this mournful soul?
As she completed what now seemed like the silly task of decorating the church for her own — and this other unwitting bride’s — wedding ceremony, she wondered:
What would become of them all?
June 7, 1930
By the time Myrthen was forced — by the clock, by her mother, by Father Timothy — to suspend her supplications to the Virgin and the Holy Father, she had run out of tears. Her face was streaked and splotched when Rachel snatched her by the arm and nearly dragged her down the length of the sanctuary, hissing, “
Was ist mit Dir los?
You’re being married in forty-five minutes.” She looked around. “I am glad your new in-laws aren’t yet here to see you behave so badly. Again.”
At the narthex, the girl who’d been decorating the pews, Alta, stood, open-mouthed and carrying her basket of tulle and twine. As Rachel, muttering in German, dabbed a spat-upon handkerchief across Myrthen’s face, she stared back at Alta with shiny, lifeless eyes. Myrthen’s gaze wasn’t searching or curious. It was as though she’d picked Alta at random, a blank spot on a wall, something to anchor herself as she swayed rigidly under her mother’s merciless swabbing.
“Perk up, Myrthen. What will your groom think of seeing you like this? It’s almost time. People will be arriving any minute. Where is your wreath?”
Myrthen, still looking through Alta, raised a finger and pointed to where it lay on the pew closest to the door.
“I’ll get it,” said Rachel.
Myrthen was yanked from her stupor. “No!” she said, jarring them all with the sharp edge of her voice. She released Alta from her immobilizing stare and spun around. In almost no time, Myrthen overtook her mother and lunged toward the wreath.
“Was soll das?”
Rachel’s hands flew up by her shoulders, palms out, as Myrthen passed.
Myrthen quickly bundled the braided myrtle branches inside the attached veil and clutched it to her chest. “Nothing,” she said, bending her head. “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want Rachel to know that the day before, when she’d sent Myrthen to collect the myrtle branches, Myrthen had also picked some roses for her crown. But it wasn’t the blossoms she wanted. She pulled those off, and later, after her mother had gone to bed, she added the thorny stems to the inside of the wreath.
Rachel recovered her composure. “Well, then. You should put it on. It’s nearly time.” She reached out as though to take the wreath from her. “I’ll help you.”
“No,” Myrthen said again, but more quietly this time. She turned away, out of Rachel’s reach. “It’s all right, Mama. I can put it on.”
“Go. Use the mirror in Father Timothy’s lavatory.”
When she had left to do so, Rachel turned to Alta. “Thank you for putting the ivy,” she said, looking at her with the same intensity her daughter had, and only slightly more interest. “I hope you and your husband walk together in the happy ways of love.”
Alta stared back until she recalled her manners. “Thank you.” Then she turned and yanked open the door. “I wish her well, too,” she said. Then she slipped outside and was gone.
The wedding day and evening were
But Myrthen had already turned back to the altar and gotten back in position, bowing her head toward the Virgin Mary. She shot her right arm out behind her and made a flicking go-away movement with her fingers. Then she turned toward the cross in the center of the sanctuary and said in barely a whisper, “Heavenly Father, if it is Your will, please take this burden away from me before it’s too late.”
Alta retreated quietly, and knelt to complete her work. She wondered with pity about the man who would meet his grieving bride at this same altar only two hours before her ownhusband-elect would meet her. Did the other groom know how unwelcome he was? Had he imagined broadly enough his future with this mournful soul?
As she completed what now seemed like the silly task of decorating the church for her own — and this other unwitting bride’s — wedding ceremony, she wondered:
What would become of them all?
June 7, 1930
By the time Myrthen was forced — by the clock, by her mother, by Father Timothy — to suspend her supplications to the Virgin and the Holy Father, she had run out of tears. Her face was streaked and splotched when Rachel snatched her by the arm and nearly dragged her down the length of the sanctuary, hissing, “
Was ist mit Dir los?
You’re being married in forty-five minutes.” She looked around. “I am glad your new in-laws aren’t yet here to see you behave so badly. Again.”
At the narthex, the girl who’d been decorating the pews, Alta, stood, open-mouthed and carrying her basket of tulle and twine. As Rachel, muttering in German, dabbed a spat-upon handkerchief across Myrthen’s face, she stared back at Alta with shiny, lifeless eyes. Myrthen’s gaze wasn’t searching or curious. It was as though she’d picked Alta at random, a blank spot on a wall, something to anchor herself as she swayed rigidly under her mother’s merciless swabbing.
“Perk up, Myrthen. What will your groom think of seeing you like this? It’s almost time. People will be arriving any minute. Where is your wreath?”
Myrthen, still looking through Alta, raised a finger and pointed to where it lay on the pew closest to the door.
“I’ll get it,” said Rachel.
Myrthen was yanked from her stupor. “No!” she said, jarring them all with the sharp edge of her voice. She released Alta from her immobilizing stare and spun around. In almost no time, Myrthen overtook her mother and lunged toward the wreath.
“Was soll das?”
Rachel’s hands flew up by her shoulders, palms out, as Myrthen passed.
Myrthen quickly bundled the braided myrtle branches inside the attached veil and clutched it to her chest. “Nothing,” she said, bending her head. “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want Rachel to know that the day before, when she’d sent Myrthen to collect the myrtle branches, Myrthen had also picked some roses for her crown. But it wasn’t the blossoms she wanted. She pulled those off, and later, after her mother had gone to bed, she added the thorny stems to the inside of the wreath.
Rachel recovered her composure. “Well, then. You should put it on. It’s nearly time.” She reached out as though to take the wreath from her. “I’ll help you.”
“No,” Myrthen said again, but more quietly this time. She turned away, out of Rachel’s reach. “It’s all right, Mama. I can put it on.”
“Go. Use the mirror in Father Timothy’s lavatory.”
When she had left to do so, Rachel turned to Alta. “Thank you for putting the ivy,” she said, looking at her with the same intensity her daughter had, and only slightly more interest. “I hope you and your husband walk together in the happy ways of love.”
Alta stared back until she recalled her manners. “Thank you.” Then she turned and yanked open the door. “I wish her well, too,” she said. Then she slipped outside and was gone.
The wedding day and evening were
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