My Heart Laid Bare (29 page)

TONIGHT?

Not tonight.

Tomorrow, then.

. . . The day after tomorrow, in the evening. When he comes home.

In retreat, in Muirkirk, the place of his birth; the solace of the marsh (in which one day he will drown himself!—perhaps); the angry comfort of long uninterrupted days and nights; the gratification of Shame. But it is a convalescence. He has had many such.

For, “‘What wound did ever heal but by degrees?'” is Abraham Licht's defiant query. And: “We are not fools, after all, ‘by heavenly compulsion.'”

Thus, he ministers unto himself.

It is a convalescence. There have been many such. The years, the seasons, the balm of quiet, the solitude of the churchyard, the swamp, the locked and shuttered room at the rear of the rectory: with no one as a witness (whether jeering or admiring) Shame will eventually yield to forgetfulness; forgetfulness, to Honor.

For Honor is the subject of Abraham Licht's story.

FIFTY-THREE YEARS OLD!
So quickly!

A life more than half run!

And it cannot be said, can it? that the years have been generous to Abraham Licht; that, despite his love, devotion, industry, and selflessness, he has been provided with a family worthy of his sacrifice.

He requires more children, another son at least, another son very
soon
, for his children have not entirely pleased him.

Of course there is Millicent, who pleases him enormously, and who is bound, he knows, to serve herself by serving
him
; of her absolute fidelity he has no doubt. And there is the incomparable Elisha, the ever-astonishing Elisha, whom Abraham Licht, were he not his stepfather and mentor, might almost envy! . . . a wily young genius, as adept at masquerade and cunning as Abraham Licht himself . . . though a creature of Abraham's, of no worth without his guidance. (And one day, when the time is
ripe, 'Lisha's “color” will greatly advance his career; along precisely what lines, Abraham hasn't yet decided.)

Apart from Millicent and Elisha, however, Fortune has treated Abraham Licht perversely.

For, consider: not one, not two, but three women captivated his heart, and, in time, trampled upon it. No matter the ardor, the depth, the eloquence of his devotion. (For, as time passes, Abraham has come to believe that Sophie's illness and her final, deranged behavior was a repudiation of his love, as of all earthly love.
For which, in my heart, how can I forgive her?
)

As for Thurston, his firstborn—he doesn't wish to think of Thurston.

As for Harwood—he doesn't wish to think of Harwood.

(Yet, only a few days ago, there arrived in Muirkirk, addressed to him, a curious letter postmarked Ouray, Colorado; a single stiff sheet of stationery from the Hotel Ouray; and these lines in Harwood's childlike, labored hand:

        
Ive given thought to my Life Father & am not so angry now with my Brother as I had been. I am not so lonely now. I will be writing again soon Father to seek your advice. I know your angry with me & blame me but
I am not to be blamed
, it was not my fault but Thurstons. I will not return East I swear til my Fortune is made & you will see what a Son I am to you. Or til you bid me come to you Father.

Yr Son Harwood

This letter Abraham hasn't answered, uncertain of the spirit in which it was penned: sober, or drunk; sincere, or mocking; promising well, or ill.
For once a man has spilled human blood he may have a taste for it.
)

Of the younger children, beloved by him, Abraham Licht rarely thinks. For he finds them merely children, who will never mature as the others have matured, lacking a gift for The Game.

Darian may indeed by a musical genius as Woodcock and a few others insist but his talent, in Abraham's unsentimental judgment, is too wayward and capricious to be guided. And Esther, poor dear child—Abraham finds it difficult to listen to the girl's cheerful prattle and to follow with interest her schoolgirl news, her enthusiasm for nursing, or doctoring, “making hurt things well again” as she says. Alone of the family it's plain, good-hearted Esther who seems to have made friends in Muirkirk, quite as normal, ordinary children do; according to Katrina, as bemused as Abraham himself, Esther actually
likes
her classmates and their families and is, in turn,
liked
by them; an unmistakable sign of mediocrity. (Compare this dull child with Millicent at that age, Abraham thinks. Already, aged eleven, Millicent was a practiced coquette, by instinct arousing affection in others without feeling so much as a moment's affection in return. “But then the sensual yet morbidly pious ‘Miss Hirshfield' was Millie's mother, a volatile combination,” Abraham thinks, “ideal for the stage, if not for life.”)

So he muses, broods; through many a long day; too restless to stay in one room, or even inside; hoping to stave off melancholy until it's safely dusk and he can sip bourbon without qualms. How is it possible—he's fifty-three years old, and so quickly?

And my glorious career scarcely begun.

“You ‘love' each other—and you intend to ‘marry,'” Abraham Licht says quietly, looking from Elisha to Millicent, and from Millicent to Elisha, whose gaze shimmers with audacity and guilt. “I'm not certain that I've heard correctly or that I full comprehend the words I have heard. ‘Love'—‘marry'—what precisely can you mean? Elisha?”

Elisha says quickly, “Millie and I love each other, Father. We are in love. We have been in love for a very long—”

“—for too long without daring to speak,” Millie says.

“—and we want, we must—be married,” Elisha says. His voice has
begun to quiver. “As people do. As men and women do who love each other.”

“Yes, it's all very much as people
do,
” Millie says in a bright hopeful voice, “—people who love each other in a—normal manner. There is nothing unusual about it.”

“There is nothing unusual about it.”

Abraham Licht's declaration hovers in the air, the most ironic of questions.

“There is nothing unusual about it!” Elisha says with a nervous laugh.

“If we are in love, and we
are
in love,” Millie says breathlessly, her slender arm tight through Elisha's, holding him fast even as she leans against him, “—and have been so for a very long time, in secret.”

“And why ‘in secret'?” Abraham inquires.

Again looking from one of the timorous young people to the other with an air of detachment and equanimity. Not taking note of the extreme physical attractiveness of this young man and woman, of their fresh, open faces and striking features, but noting instead, with a clinician's eye, how Elisha's lower lip quivers and Millie's normally placid eyes are unnaturally dilated.

“But why ‘in secret'—why the need for secrecy?”

Neither answers; until with an impatient expulsion of breath Millie confesses, “Because we worried, Father, that
you
wouldn't understand; that you'd be unhappy, or object, or—”

“My dear, why would I ‘object'?”

“Because—” Elisha begins.

“—you would not
understand
,” Millie cries.

“Yet what is there, Millie, and Elisha, to understand?” Abraham asks, lifting his hands in a bemused appeal. “You come to me at this odd hour of the night with a whim of yours that might better wait for the clarity and sanity of morning; you stand there like very amateur actors at an
ill-advised audition, yet expect seriousness of
me
, informing me you're ‘in love' and want to ‘marry'—‘as people do'—when the crux of the issue is, you can't be in love, and you can't marry, because you are my children; because you're brother and sister; and, in any case, you can't be ‘as other people' because you are Lichts,
and Lichts are not ‘other people.'
”

Elisha begins to protest but Millie, alarmed, hushes him, saying, “Father, we're
not
brother and sister—surely we're
not.
'Lisha is a foundling, an orphan as you've always told us; he is
not
my brother.”

Revealing none of the mounting rage he feels, Abraham says carefully, “Elisha is your brother, Millicent . . . and you are his sister. It is not possible for brothers and sisters to love each other in the way you claim to love; still less is it possible for them to marry. That is all I have to say.”

“But he is
not
my brother!” Millie cries in exasperation. “Any stranger who glanced at us could tell in an instant!”

“But a stranger cannot know what we Lichts know,” Abraham says. “He would be judging you merely by your appearances; by your superficial selves. As for what is inside, and hidden—only
we
know that. As if Elisha is to be known by way of his skin!”

“But Father—” Millie protests.

“What we know is this: that you and Elisha are linked from childhood by ties of blood that are far deeper than the ‘love' of which you speak,” Abraham says.

“But there is nothing deeper—more beautiful—than the love of which we speak!” Millie says boldly; and Elisha says, “We want only to be allowed to marry—and to leave Muirkirk—because we realize we can't stay here where we'd be misunderstood.”

“‘Misunderstood'!” Abraham laughs. “My boy, you would be ‘understood' only too readily. For shame!”

As if for mutual support the lovers stand close together, Millie's arm still thrust through Elisha's, and her opened hand, in a gesture of supplication, pressed unconsciously against her agitated breast. How strange that
they seem unable to look at each other but only at Abraham, who glowers smiling upon them, baring his teeth.

From somewhere close by in the churchyard a nighthawk cries wanly, a soul in torment.

“There is nothing deeper than the love of which we speak,” Millie repeats, in a chastened voice. “There is nothing deeper than . . . our love.”

Abraham smiles a hard white fleeting smile, but does not condescend to reply.

Elisha mumbles words to the effect that they want to marry, they
will
marry, but want his blessing; and Millie says softly, “Yes, Father, we want your blessing—
please.
”

Yet Abraham will not reply.

He
is
their father, of course. Elisha's no less than Millicent's. They know, they cannot doubt, for, in the beginning, even before their awakening to childish consciousness, was
his
Word,
his
Truth, unassailable. From what reservoir of profane strength might come their capacity to doubt? Already it seems that Millie for all her precocious belligerence is weakening; her lovely eyes are narrowed as if she faces too powerful a light, her smooth forehead is creased with lines of worry and apprehension. And poor Elisha—why does he stare so helplessly at Abraham?

“Oh, Father, we want your blessing—
please!
” Millie whispers.

And now like figures on a brightly lit operatic stage, as if Abraham were empowered with the majesty and cunning of Wagner's Wotan, a role for which, had he only the powerful voice, he might have been born, Abraham takes Millie gently by the wrist, and detaches her from her lover's side, and gazes into her eyes. His large, strong fingers encircle and frame her face; his fingertips stretch the delicate blue-veined skin at her temples; for a long moment father and daughter stare into each other's eyes, as into each other's soul, the fine shivering of Millie's arms the only sign of strain she betrays.

So rapid is their exchange in lowered, urgent voices, like lovers, Elisha might be listening to a foreign language, uncomprehending.

“But you are not yet
his
?”

“Oh no, Father—we're waiting to marry.”

Abraham releases the girl who's gone deathly pale with guilt and terror and turns, brusque and smiling, to Elisha, to say, “You and I, Elisha, will talk now in private.”

MILLIE, HEARTSICK AND
exultant, seeks out Katrina for comfort.

As Abraham leads Elisha to the rear of the house, to shut them together in his study.

Millie, her teeth chattering with excitement, or with fever, presses herself into Katrina's reluctant arms, saying that she and Elisha are in love and will marry, and Father hasn't forbidden it. And Katrina says with a shiver of disgust that of course they can't marry because they are sister and brother—“And because Elisha is not of your race. He is Negro.” Millie says, “'Lisha is not ‘Negro'—but only himself.” Katrina says sternly, “The world sees ‘Negro.'” Millie says fiercely, “The world is blind!—mistaken!” Katrina says, “In some matters, Millie, the world's blindness is not mistaken.”

At that instant in Abraham's study Elisha has fallen to his knees, sobbing. His handsome face contorted in pain, disbelief, mortification. For no sooner were the two inside the door, and the door locked behind them, than Abraham wheeled on the young man and struck him a savage blow across the face with the back of his hand.

Taken by surprise, unresisting, Elisha made no attempt to defend himself; but staggered backward, hurt, dazed, sinking to his knees on the hardwood floor.

“You!—and my daughter! My Millie,” Abraham Licht says, in a voice out of the whirlwind and his eyes flashing fire.
“It is not to be borne.”

Accusing the young man of treachery, betrayal and wickedness; forbidding him ever to approach Millie again; even to speak with her again; not because they're brother and sister (though they
are
brother and sister)
and not because Elisha's skin is black (though as any fool can see, Elisha's skin
is
black) but because
it is Abraham Licht's command.
And Elisha protests he can't help it, he had not intended this to happen, he loves Millie, he would die for Millie, and Millie loves him, and they must be married, for they're already lovers, man and wife; and at this point Abraham Licht flies into a greater rage, saliva frothing at his lips, beating Elisha now with both his fists as Elisha, head bowed, cringes before him.