cheek. For a moment, just a flickering moment, she remembered the pleasure that had passed briefly between them. Then she turned her face away. She had slipped that night, let herself indulge a low desire, and look where it led her. Never again.
“We’re married now,” he said. “We might as well make the best of it.” He touched her neck. “What do you say?” Sliding his hand down her throat, he felt a thick flannel ruffle at the hollow there. “You’re all covered up.”
He moved his hand farther down, brushing her breasts. Instantly, like a flinch, her arms flew up to protect herself. As they did, she elbowed him in the jaw.
“Damn!”
“Sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t, not entirely.
He reached over and pulled her toward him by the shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just come over here. I won’t hurt you.”
She lay still, staring at the wreath on the table.
“Come on, Myrthen.” He pulled, and she snatched herself back.
John heaved himself up and yanked back the covers and lifted her a few inches to move her to the center of the bed. Then he straddled her and leaned down into her face. She squeezed her eyes against the sight of him, the smell of Prohibition liquor on his breath. Her parents, who never touched it as far as she knew, had procured it for the celebration. Rough andforbidden, it wasn’t something people knew instinctively how to hold.
He fumbled with the thousands of buttons down the front of her warm, dull nightgown, the one she’d worn every night for the past several years, regardless of the season. She pushed at him briefly but realized it was futile, so instead she rolled her face away and looked at the wreath and the veil, and her eyes went blank as a doll’s.
“You liked it before. I know you did,” he said, pressing himself against her.
She knew then that she would never let herself enjoy intimacy with him again. Or let herself slide into some banal form of domestic bliss. No, she would save herself for God.
He reached down behind and between his strong legs and grabbed the hem of her gown, working it up from her ankles to her knees, her dead weight no aid, and then past her white thighs that made him gasp in the moonlight, and up higher. Then he reversed the direction with her undergarments, exposing a triangle of dark against the pale skin. She lay, unmoving, white and cool and passive as a corpse as he pulled her underthings off and tossed them on the hardwood floor with a whispery thud.
His weight on her was like the weight of sin, and she felt the loneliness and sense of abandonment that sin always produces. He bent down and tried to kiss her, but she pressed her face farther into the pillow. Below, something feathery and savage was taking place. It was different now that she didn’t want it. She thought of the roosters her mother kept in the henhouse to defend the flock. How they chased down and violated the hens they were meant to protect.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Back and forth, back and forth, like a ship rocking over unknown seas. Against her will, she began to enjoy the sensation.But she forced herself, as she thereafter would, not to, and to think of God instead, to keep her thoughts, if not her body, pure. She reached out with her left hand and grasped the wreath that lay nearby. John saw her. “What are you doing with that?”
“Just get it over with,” Myrthen muttered.
While her husband chiseled drunkenly at her, she lifted her head and placed the wreath around it, then let her head fall back against the pillow. She pulled the veil down over her face, and closed her eyes.
Thy will be done, God. If this is what you want for me, then I will endure it.
Back and forth, the weight of sin ruthlessly crushed crushed crushed her into the bed and soon the thorns dug into her temples and she began to bleed.
December 12, 1931
Alta paced the bottom floor of her small house with a new gait: a cross between a skip and a
“We’re married now,” he said. “We might as well make the best of it.” He touched her neck. “What do you say?” Sliding his hand down her throat, he felt a thick flannel ruffle at the hollow there. “You’re all covered up.”
He moved his hand farther down, brushing her breasts. Instantly, like a flinch, her arms flew up to protect herself. As they did, she elbowed him in the jaw.
“Damn!”
“Sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t, not entirely.
He reached over and pulled her toward him by the shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just come over here. I won’t hurt you.”
She lay still, staring at the wreath on the table.
“Come on, Myrthen.” He pulled, and she snatched herself back.
John heaved himself up and yanked back the covers and lifted her a few inches to move her to the center of the bed. Then he straddled her and leaned down into her face. She squeezed her eyes against the sight of him, the smell of Prohibition liquor on his breath. Her parents, who never touched it as far as she knew, had procured it for the celebration. Rough andforbidden, it wasn’t something people knew instinctively how to hold.
He fumbled with the thousands of buttons down the front of her warm, dull nightgown, the one she’d worn every night for the past several years, regardless of the season. She pushed at him briefly but realized it was futile, so instead she rolled her face away and looked at the wreath and the veil, and her eyes went blank as a doll’s.
“You liked it before. I know you did,” he said, pressing himself against her.
She knew then that she would never let herself enjoy intimacy with him again. Or let herself slide into some banal form of domestic bliss. No, she would save herself for God.
He reached down behind and between his strong legs and grabbed the hem of her gown, working it up from her ankles to her knees, her dead weight no aid, and then past her white thighs that made him gasp in the moonlight, and up higher. Then he reversed the direction with her undergarments, exposing a triangle of dark against the pale skin. She lay, unmoving, white and cool and passive as a corpse as he pulled her underthings off and tossed them on the hardwood floor with a whispery thud.
His weight on her was like the weight of sin, and she felt the loneliness and sense of abandonment that sin always produces. He bent down and tried to kiss her, but she pressed her face farther into the pillow. Below, something feathery and savage was taking place. It was different now that she didn’t want it. She thought of the roosters her mother kept in the henhouse to defend the flock. How they chased down and violated the hens they were meant to protect.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Back and forth, back and forth, like a ship rocking over unknown seas. Against her will, she began to enjoy the sensation.But she forced herself, as she thereafter would, not to, and to think of God instead, to keep her thoughts, if not her body, pure. She reached out with her left hand and grasped the wreath that lay nearby. John saw her. “What are you doing with that?”
“Just get it over with,” Myrthen muttered.
While her husband chiseled drunkenly at her, she lifted her head and placed the wreath around it, then let her head fall back against the pillow. She pulled the veil down over her face, and closed her eyes.
Thy will be done, God. If this is what you want for me, then I will endure it.
Back and forth, the weight of sin ruthlessly crushed crushed crushed her into the bed and soon the thorns dug into her temples and she began to bleed.
December 12, 1931
Alta paced the bottom floor of her small house with a new gait: a cross between a skip and a
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