cloths and started wiping the screen, and that’s when I got the idea.”
“The idea?”
“More like a voice, really, speaking to me.”
“A voice? You mean—?”
“Who,
Him?
I doubt it. It didn’t seem like one of His.” Vera grins darkly. “But I did what it said. I took out the screen.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. I pried out the moulding, and then I could see the screws. I had a butter knife for scraping grease from tight places, so I used that. It took a while, but I got every last one of them out.”
“But,” Mathilda stammers, “but it’s there. You put it back.”
Vera holds up a finger. “It
looks
like I put it back. The moulding comes free with a fingernail. The screen’s held in with two screws, not even twisted all the way.”
“But why?”
“Why?” Vera shrugs. “So I could take it out whenever I wanted.” She turns her face to the window’s sharp light. “So I could sit in there and look through the frame. And imagine his lips coming through.”
Mathilda’s heart throws itself about in her chest. “Did he ever—” she asks. “I mean, I know he was a priest, but didn’t you ever wonder if he felt the same?”
“Wonder? I know he did.” Vera’s shrunken hand fights its way under the quilt, fumbles with the sheet and emerges with the smallest of books. It’s no larger than a matchbox, well thumbed, bound in leather that used to be red. Though untitled, the front cover bears a golden design—the busts of a doe and buck, simplified and stylized, gracefully entwined.
“My twenty-first birthday.” She hands Mathilda thetiny book. “He made me a cake, believe it or not, fresh strawberries and cream. We ate the whole thing, too, just the two of us. Mother kept her bed.”
“And he gave you this?” Mathilda measures it against her pinkie. “For a present?”
“He left it in the pocket of my apron.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Look inside.”
On the fly-leaf Mathilda finds two cramped handwritten words.
For Veronica
. She strokes the first yellowed page, not daring to open it further.
“It’s from the Bible,” Vera says. Mathilda moves to hand it back, but her aunt’s fingers spring up like a wall. “You read it,” she cries. “Read it and tell me he didn’t feel the same!”
While Vera dozes fitfully, Mathilda fondles the little book. She averts her face before finally opening it, as though something might leap at her from the page. And leap it does, the moment she takes courage and turns her eyes to the diminutive text.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled—
Mathilda gasps, her eyes skipping down.
My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door—
She flicks to a previous page.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice
.
“Awooooo—” Vera wails like a ghost in her sleep.
Mathilda claps the little book shut and shoves it frantically down the front of her dress.
SED TANTUM DIC VERBO
(
say but the word
)
Away down the inching Communion queue, August catches glimpse after shifting glimpse of the flowery hilltop that is Mathilda’s Sunday hat. Unlike most, it’s actually pretty—tiny violets between dark cloth leaves. She moves closer. Nectar and velvety petals. He can smell them now, artificial though they are.
Defrocked
. The word rises unbidden, unaccompanied by the dreadful image it normally evokes—a great dark bird with its magnificent wings cut away. Suddenly a frock is something whispery in the fingers, perhaps that pale blue one she often wears.
Her husband steps up to the rail, extending a disturbingly wide tongue. He takes the host the way a child takes a cookie—grinning stupidly and munching it down—then draws aside like a thick curtain to reveal his young wife.
Not the blue after all, but a green one
“The idea?”
“More like a voice, really, speaking to me.”
“A voice? You mean—?”
“Who,
Him?
I doubt it. It didn’t seem like one of His.” Vera grins darkly. “But I did what it said. I took out the screen.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. I pried out the moulding, and then I could see the screws. I had a butter knife for scraping grease from tight places, so I used that. It took a while, but I got every last one of them out.”
“But,” Mathilda stammers, “but it’s there. You put it back.”
Vera holds up a finger. “It
looks
like I put it back. The moulding comes free with a fingernail. The screen’s held in with two screws, not even twisted all the way.”
“But why?”
“Why?” Vera shrugs. “So I could take it out whenever I wanted.” She turns her face to the window’s sharp light. “So I could sit in there and look through the frame. And imagine his lips coming through.”
Mathilda’s heart throws itself about in her chest. “Did he ever—” she asks. “I mean, I know he was a priest, but didn’t you ever wonder if he felt the same?”
“Wonder? I know he did.” Vera’s shrunken hand fights its way under the quilt, fumbles with the sheet and emerges with the smallest of books. It’s no larger than a matchbox, well thumbed, bound in leather that used to be red. Though untitled, the front cover bears a golden design—the busts of a doe and buck, simplified and stylized, gracefully entwined.
“My twenty-first birthday.” She hands Mathilda thetiny book. “He made me a cake, believe it or not, fresh strawberries and cream. We ate the whole thing, too, just the two of us. Mother kept her bed.”
“And he gave you this?” Mathilda measures it against her pinkie. “For a present?”
“He left it in the pocket of my apron.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Look inside.”
On the fly-leaf Mathilda finds two cramped handwritten words.
For Veronica
. She strokes the first yellowed page, not daring to open it further.
“It’s from the Bible,” Vera says. Mathilda moves to hand it back, but her aunt’s fingers spring up like a wall. “You read it,” she cries. “Read it and tell me he didn’t feel the same!”
While Vera dozes fitfully, Mathilda fondles the little book. She averts her face before finally opening it, as though something might leap at her from the page. And leap it does, the moment she takes courage and turns her eyes to the diminutive text.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled—
Mathilda gasps, her eyes skipping down.
My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door—
She flicks to a previous page.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice
.
“Awooooo—” Vera wails like a ghost in her sleep.
Mathilda claps the little book shut and shoves it frantically down the front of her dress.
SED TANTUM DIC VERBO
(
say but the word
)
Away down the inching Communion queue, August catches glimpse after shifting glimpse of the flowery hilltop that is Mathilda’s Sunday hat. Unlike most, it’s actually pretty—tiny violets between dark cloth leaves. She moves closer. Nectar and velvety petals. He can smell them now, artificial though they are.
Defrocked
. The word rises unbidden, unaccompanied by the dreadful image it normally evokes—a great dark bird with its magnificent wings cut away. Suddenly a frock is something whispery in the fingers, perhaps that pale blue one she often wears.
Her husband steps up to the rail, extending a disturbingly wide tongue. He takes the host the way a child takes a cookie—grinning stupidly and munching it down—then draws aside like a thick curtain to reveal his young wife.
Not the blue after all, but a green one
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