Behold

by Janine Elias Joukema

From the grand staircase landing of my parents’ house, I can see fragments of things and people I left behind. Remarkably veined white marble, polished silver trays, rare books on mahogany shelves, appropriately suited and aproned servants, accomplished family friends, and notable guests. Nothing has changed.

I stand far enough away from the banister to make sure I’m not easily seen or, at least not seen peering down in judgement. I’ve learned some people consider nuns ghost-like and eerie. It’s interesting how religious reverence and devotion unnerve the privileged.

It’s the assaultive niceties hurled at me during such occasions, not to mention the cautious, ever-so-polite smiles these people etch onto their faces, that I find difficult. My preference is disdain, simmering anger, even open hostility. At least I’m trained to handle any of those.

A bloat of tuxedoed hippos come to mind when I look at the men below, and the women, a flamboyance of turkey-necked flamingos. All of them meandering about, gulping food and drink, jabbing away at each other with small talk.

Mother does stand out among them though, not because she is a rare bird, but because she is a nervous one. After all these years, she still lacks their finesse, fretting about, not eating or drinking, picking lint from dark shoulders and wiping crumbs from laced tables, her eyes flitting from person to person, alert, but not seeing.

My father, a bellowing orangutan with a fondness for scotch, caviar and all things off limits, positions himself only a few feet from the towering wood-carved front doors. He wants to be sure every guest sees him first, greets him first, congratulates him first on another formidable achievement—thirty years of marriage.

“Happy Anniversary George!”

“Quite a milestone, George!”

“Thirty years, you old devil! Who could have predicted this, George?!”

A momentous year on this lifelong sacrament, likely just another notch in his belt. I should be kinder. I must be kinder. God demands that I be kinder.

I turn from the frivolity below and wander to the display of wall-mounted wooden masks. Father’s prized collection has grown. The one in the center, the one that looms so large from below, is not so threatening up close. Its hollow eyes not so haunting, and its grin more playful than menacing.

Before my mother appears at my side, I catch her scent. Roses.

“Why are you up here all alone? You know your father hates it when someone separates themselves from the party.” She rubs her bare, tanned arms, then presses them tight against her chest. “You should be downstairs, with everyone else, with your brother Samuel at least?”

She’s cold. I tilt my head, hold her eyes to mine, and smile—the same open, and godly smile I give the homeless—maybe it’ll warm her.

“Congratulations, mother. Thirty-years. That really is amazing.” 

  “Well, a commitment is a commitment. And if anyone knows anything about commitment, you certainly do.”

“Yes, one might say I do.” My hand goes to the gold crucifix that lays sure and heavy and warm around my neck.

My mother mirrors my action, bringing her hand to her sun-weathered neck, stroking the strand of pearls she wears. “Your father gave these to me. Just this morning. An anniversary gift.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“One perfect pearl for every glorious year of marriage. That’s what he said, perfect and glorious. That means something, doesn’t it?”

I glimpse sadness in her eyes but say nothing. We have somehow migrated into being strangers. No, worse than strangers. We’re estranged, pretending we are not that at all.

“Ah, here comes your father.” The chirpy lilt in her voice tells me she is awkwardly thankful for his arrival. “You know how your father gets if I’m not giving my full attention to the guests. Need to make sure everyone is having a good time. ‘That’s your job, Emily,’ he always says.”

She pecks me nervously on the cheek before she gives way to him and flits down the stairs to the guests below. 

“Have a good chat with your mother?” Even without an audience, my father chooses to use his baritone voice to declare his arrival.

“Yes. It is very good to see her. And you too, of course.”

“See that wooden mask there?” pointing with his glass of scotch in hand. “The one with the yellow dots under the eyes, big green lips, and the flaring nostrils? You gave me that mask. It was a good choice, Blythe.”

“It’s Mary now. Actually, it’s Sister Mary Ju….”

“Hmmm, yes. Your name—Blythe Sinclair Proudman—forsaken, along with everything else, along with all of this.”

I follow his arm as it gestures to all of this, fixing my eyes on the chandelier. Still huge, still sparkling, still inviting my escape. I used to imagine jumping from this very banister, latching onto the silver arms of dangling crystal and swinging my legs until I had enough momentum to crash through the stained-glass window above the front doors. To freedom.

I turn my eyes on him, challenging him to face me, but instead he offers me a view of his hair-filled, burning red, left ear. “Sister Mary Jude Loman is my name, and each part of my name was chosen for a reason. Each with its own meaning and significance. Mary, for example, conveys…”

“Your mother explained it all to me before, and when she ran through the guest list last night, she explained it all over again, your new name, and all.” His ear burns an even brighter red. “I told her it wasn’t exactly catchy enough to remember.”

My gaze returns to the display on the wall, speechless wooden masks preferable to this babble. Be kind.  I must be kind.

“Do you remember when you gave that mask to me?”

“I was eight. It was Father’s Day. A favourite day of yours, next to your birthday.”

“You were so excited,” he chuckles, “practically unwrapping it yourself, before I could even get my hands on it.”

I reach over and touch the tangle of roped yellow strands. “I searched everywhere for a mask like this. You didn’t have one with hair.” The strands aren’t as soft as I remember. They’ve frayed, and grown course over the years. “Do you remember the question I asked you that day?”

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“I wanted to know why you liked collecting masks so much. Do you remember what you told me?”

His eyes flicker, brighten and his chin kicks out with pride from his thick neck. “I probably said what I always say when someone asks me that question, ‘All the world’s a stage and whether we like it or not we must play our part to perfection.’”

“Yes, that is exactly what you said. Then you went on to say that the first part—the all-the-world’s-a-stage part—was from the almighty Shakespeare. I remember because it was my first lesson about Shakespeare.”

“A good thing then, wasn’t it? Never too young to learn about Shakespeare.”

“I have come to despise Shakespeare.”

Father clears his throat and takes a sip of his scotch, then directs his question to the faces staring back at him from the wall, “So, tell me. Are you running the place yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“You must be the head honcho by now. Taking charge of all those San Francisco young girls and old ladies? Any child of mine would be the top dog by now, even of that kind of stuff.”

“It’s the Franciscans. And no, I am not the abbess. The Mother Superior.” 

“Seems like you should be by now. Been a while since you joined the ranks.”

I take a deep breath before I dive into a response. “It has only been six years. I was a postulant for several months, then a novitiate for a year, and…” Oh, there’s no sense in explaining postulant to novitiate, the nuances between sister and that of a nun, let alone abbess. He only listens to what he can use. This, me, he can’t use.

“Nice they let you out, though.” 

  He thinks I’m out on some kind of day pass.

“I had the caterer include all kinds of chocolate desserts for you, and a plate of plain chocolate squares, just in case all the other stuff was too fancy. I heard somewhere that you can’t have chocolate. Not allowed, I understand. Well, you know, if there’s anything left after my party—I mean our anniversary party, I can have it delivered to your… um, place. I’m sure the girls there would appreciate it. Bet it would be a real nice change for them. Lift their spirits a bit too, I bet.”

I respond with my well-honed God-loves-the-ignorant-too grin.

“Letting you come all this way, letting you celebrate something you aren’t even allowed to do. Well, that’s fantastic, really fantastic.” He raises his half empty glass in a toast and takes a sip. “A good thing, too. Your mother would have been disappointed, not devastated, but definitely disappointed. Can you imagine,” he chuckles, “if I had to lawyer up and bail you out? I guess it would have been just like the old days. Remember?”

I run my hands along the side of my tunic, then clutch my crucifix. It reminds me. Kindness.

“Think the old nuns there finally cured you of your sticky fingers? Do they even know about your little habit?” he scoffs. “I would have thought you breaking one of their precious Commandments all over town would have been a deal breaker for them.”

“We have all had our troubles. I do not deny my own.” Hmmm, my own troubles. The last time was the fifth time he had bailed me out. When we got home late that night, Father exploded with, ‘this is four times too many!’ and ‘it’s no longer about those pathetic, no-nothings you hang around with; it’s you, your own stupidity,’ and that he was ‘tired of explaining and fixing and covering up things,’ ‘tired of being the victim’ after all it was his ‘reputation being shredded to pieces.’ ‘And for what?’ he demanded, all the while poking his thick, manicured finger at my face. When he told me to be somebody worth something, to at least get my ‘god-damn act together or get out,’ I got out, right then and there. Used the front door. No chandelier required.

I try to catch his glance, but he slides his eyes too quickly back to the disappearing amber liquid he swirls around in his glass. “Father, as I have come to understand, we are all sinners. Are we not?”

He doesn’t answer.

Focusing once again on the crowd below, I find Samuel. His natural flourish extends through his lithe and nimble frame right to his fingertips. Then there’s his laughter. It’s a laughter that hugs you, even from up here I can feel it wrap around me. I do miss him, my big, bold brother. But he is safer if I stay away from him. This way Father’s indignities and disappointments and explanations are aimed at my absence, not Samuel’s presence.

“Ah, your brother. Always putting on a show.” 

“He is a wonder, without doubt.” The thought of our antics when we were young makes me smile. Feathered frocks and dance numbers, practicing them over and over to make sure everything would be perfect for Father’s latest, and always the most important, dinner party. When Samuel turned ten, Father put a stop to the shows, telling him it was time to be a gentleman, not some glittered up sissy in tights. Father instructed Samuel on how black tuxedos and gold cufflinks were the uniform of real gentlemen, and then had Katherine, our maid, dispose of his other things.

“I like your brother in a tuxedo. Don’t you?” 

“Hmmm.” I wave down to Samuel, blow him a kiss. He blows me two kisses in return. No, I like him better in feathers and sequence and face glitter. He wasn’t trapped back then, like he is now. 

Father side-eyes my rubber-soled shoes and grey tunic before his eyes lock on my head. “Are you not allowed to wear something a bit more… I mean, they might have at least let you leave behind what’s on your head.”

“Wearing this today was my own choice. I am very comfortable, and it is more than suitable for the occasion. Besides, what does it matter?”

“Well, I mean look at that crowd. Everyone so well-dressed, in high style and festive. Take Mrs. Howe for instance. She’s wearing Dior. Real class.” As if on cue, Mrs. Howe looks up, fires a smile at my father and raises her glass of red wine to him. He returns her sparkling acknowledgement with a wink.

Unexpectedly, he leans in close, so close I can smell a distinct, likely expensive, fragrance coming from the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket.  Whatever it is, it isn’t roses. “And look at that son of hers. Jack. Solid name. Solid young man. He turns 18, tomorrow in fact. He’s something to be proud of, something real special, that’s for sure. Off to Harvard in the fall.”

I do look at that son of hers. A long look. The hairline, the brow, the shoulders, those unmistakeable blue eyes, even the way he stands. 

“Does she know?”

My father’s distinctive brow creases and his own broad shoulders wilt, but only for a moment.  

“She knows and she stays. That says something doesn't it?" 

“Yes, about her. It says nothing about you.”

With a hard gulp, he empties his glass, then turns it upside down, as if checking to see if the scotch is truly all gone.

“Well, it’s time I got back to the party. After all, it is in my honour, and your mother’s. Time to top up my drink, too. Can’t expect my favourite scotch to pour itself into my glass.”

As he turns toward the staircase, I step in front of him. He jolts back in surprise, pulls his empty glass to his chest.

“You know, you have never asked me why.”

“Why?” He snorts. “Why what?”

“Why I left this, left Samuel, mother, you and joined them.” I inch closer to him. “And, why I changed my name.”

He pushes his elbows out, a reflex. He wants more space.

“I saw you with her, Mrs. Howe. It was at a party just like this one. At first, I wasn’t sure what I saw. Maybe her red dress did catch on the corner of your desk, and maybe you were just trying to help her get untangled, like you said. But then, there were other times, during other dinner parties, when other dresses, not just Mrs. Howe’s, came out of the library needing attention, needing some adjustment.”

His eyes dislodge from mine, furtively scan the guests below. He catches someone’s attention. “I’ll be right down, Henry,” he shouts. “Don’t you worry, I’ve haven’t forgotten about that Cuban cigar I promised you.”

I move my face in front of his, breaking contact between him and his… his audience. This will not be his pulpit, not this time. 

“You see, Father, it wasn’t because of Mrs. Howe, and the others. It was about the way you kissed mother, barely touching her forehead, while you reached for your coffee. The way you growled at Samuel for eating cereal, instead of a man’s breakfast of bacon and eggs. I saw it all so clearly that morning, every detail as if it were in slow motion, and I…”  

“Blythe, this is ridicu...”

“My name is not Blythe.”  

He lashes back with rage in his eyes, but I hold steady, lifting my chin higher.

“It is Sister. Mary. Jude. Loman. Now, say it. Say. My. Name.”