terrypetersen

MARILYN’S CHILD

by Terry Petersen 12/7/99

Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. (Mark Twain)

Joy to the World” rose dulcimer sweet and holiday warm from my car radio as I pulled into the church parking lot last December 23. The song’s bright spirit irritated me.  It reminded me of the heat in my ‘85 Buick—hell-fire hot on high or dead cold on any other setting. Turning off the ignition eliminated the carol, but it didn’t solve my problem.

          So why was I going to a Christmas program, advertised as experiential, in a grumpy mood? A place where joyous carols were inevitable? I could convince myself that I was here because some random sign recommended the evening: Be in St. Patrick’s lot at seven. A bus will take you to the program from there. Location will not be announced.  This is a definite don’t-miss!  But my reason was less noble. I had refused to go with Jack and Tara to the airport to pick up my mother. My mother’s plane arrived at seven—I wanted to be almost anywhere else. This sign was the first thing I saw on my escape route.

          Tara had brought a white poinsettia for Grandma Paisley. With her own money. I don’t know where my fifth-grade daughter found such fondness for the old witch. It’s not like Grandma gave her any more than an obligatory birthday gift now and then, usually the wrong color and the wrong size—from the double-mark-down, non-returnable rack.

           Tara hadn’t even seen her grandma in two years. Mother moved to Florida in November on a whim. She didn’t even say goodbye. She just packed a suitcase and moved into an old friend’s apartment in case she decided to move back. She stayed for six months but didn’t pay rent—the friend evicted her.  So much for Mother’s friends. I’m not certain where she went after that.

          I couldn’t understand Jack’s enthusiasm for Mother’s visit either. He had been so supportive of me when I went into counseling, so depressed I grew dehydrated by crying. Not literally, but it felt that way.

          The counselor was only minimally helpful, too confrontational. She had the audacity to suggest that I intentionally put on weight to hide my obvious resemblance to my mother. Yes, we both have eyes the color of weak coffee, slender noses, and square chins. 

           However, I’ve never been drunk in my life. And you can be certain Tara didn’t learn profanity from me. Any resemblance is skin-deep. That monotone-professional-doc-distance that the therapist used made me even more angry.

          “Anna,” Jack said sighing. “Paisley has been sober for five weeks now.”

          “So, you say. She also told you she’s vegetarian,” I said, shuddering because Jack said my name with disdain, yet referred to his mother-in-law by her first name. “She’ll take one look at our Christmas turkey and call us a bunch of carnivores.  Then she’ll spread wheat germ into my cookie dough as if she were disinfecting it.”

          “But nothing like that has happened yet.”

          “Right. The key word is yet.  Have you ever heard Mother say one kind word to me? And has she asked to say one word to me?”

          “Compliments aren’t her way,” he answered.

***

          I locked my old Buick and zipped the keys in my purse, I felt betrayed. Tara was barely ten years old. She didn’t know any better. But where had Jack’s support gone? I knew—to the airport to bring home a woman destined to destroy the happiest season of the year.

          I was the last person in line to get on the bus.

          “Not much of a turn-out for a production that’s supposed to be so incredible,” I mumbled.

          “Oh, people are busy and over-committed this time of year,” the young, pregnant girl in front of me said.  She had thin, stringy hair, washed, yet hastily combed, so it dried in haphazard clumps. She wore a faded wool coat that was the same shade of sweet potato orange as her hair. Two oversized buttons connected with their buttonholes at her neck and across her chest. Successive buttons and buttonholes grew farther and farther apart, exposing bib overalls over a belly ripe for birth.

          I decided she couldn’t possibly be married. “Too bad you couldn’t bring your husband with you tonight,” I said, with only the barest tinge of regret.

          “Oh, but he is here,” she said revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “He’s driving the bus.”

          Two green, bulging trash bags lay on the seat behind the driver. She dropped them next to her husband, in the space between the driver’s seat and the window. He turned around and grinned. I guessed him to be part Mexican, a good ten years older than the girl. He had long, straight, dark hair that looked even straighter jutting out from a tight, brown knit hat. I wasn’t impressed with him either.

          The girl motioned for me to get into the seat first.

          “My name’s Marilyn. What’s yours?” she asked.

          “Anna Barnes,” I answered. I didn’t really want to tell her, but “none of your business” contains three more syllables. I looked out at the pale flurries swirling in the darkness as if I really cared about them.

          “We have an Ann in our famil…,” she said.

          “That’s nice,” I said as free of affect as I could.

          “I’m sorry you need to be so angry,” she said.

          “What makes you think I’m angry?” I turned to face her.

          “It’s thick around you, dipped-in-concrete thick.”

          “If I were angry, could it be any business of yours?”

          “Oh, we’ve had to forgive lots of folks who don’t understand the birth of this child.  Haven’t we, José?”

          José nodded and I felt emotionally naked and stupid in front of these bizarre strangers, despite the fact that my views were probably identical to the views of the forgiven.

          “Nice lofty thought,” I said.  “But some people deserve to be kept at a distance.”

          “Maybe,” she said.  “But keeping them off saps my energy.  Besides, this baby is due any day now!  He’s my first and I have no idea how long my labor is going to be.”

          By now we were thirty miles east of the city, cornfield country.  José turned down a narrow, unpaved road.  The loose rocks made it difficult to drive with any speed.  About one-half mile down, he stopped the bus at a farmhouse.  One light shone from what was probably the living room.  Silently he got out of the bus, walked to the door, and knocked.  No one answered, he knocked again.  The light in the house went out.  José climbed back on the bus.

          “We’ll try farther up the road,” he said to Marilyn.

          He started the bus again and drove ten more minutes until we came to another house.  He got out again and knocked. A man came to the door. Gesturing and pointing, he said something to José we couldn’t hear.  José smiled as he re-entered the bus.

          “Maybe not what we’re looking for, but this is it,” he said to Marilyn.  Then he took the green trash bags to the back of the bus. Most of the people in the bus looked puzzled as the men and women in the last three rows reached into the first bag. Inside were angel costumes, white robes with gossamer wings attached.  The angels sang as they pulled the robes over flannel shirts and faded blue jeans, “Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright…” 

Their voices blended a Capella—bass, alto, and tenor—with simple, unpretentious strength. A man opened the second bag and brought out shepherd costumes. He passed them out to anyone who would take one, then stood carrying a lantern.  Outside the bus he lit the lantern while the angels continued to sing, “Oh, holy night. The stars are brightly shining…”

          José took Marilyn’s arm and led her behind the house to a barn.

          The people inside the bus followed.

          The man with the lantern opened the door of the barn as Marilyn and José went inside. “In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus,” he began, loud and clear without help from a microphone.

          There were no chairs, but I didn’t feel like sitting anyway.

           The singers directed us to join them in “The First Noel.” I don’t have much of a voice, but even I couldn’t disobey angels.

          Marilyn looked at me and smiled. Somehow, from center stage she didn’t look like an ignorant young girl to me anymore. She was smiling into my soul as if she could see all the concrete-angry ugliness I cherished. Yet she chose to care for me anyway. I wasn’t ready to accept or give that kind of love yet. But I was willing to learn—difficult visitor at my house this Christmas or not. 

Merry Christmas

  The illustration was made from a public domain image, color paper, and a piece of an old Christmas card.

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