Lace
by Jeanne-Marie Fleming
My father, in his leisure suit, rose from the couch and belted out the wedding march—don, don, da don, don, don, da don as I paraded my fancy dress around the living room finishing with a curtsy like I learned in ballet. He clapped. So pretty Bronagh. Just like Mommy, he said.
Glancing at the wedding photo of my mother, so luminous, on the wall, my cheeks went hot. To think of my small, six-year-old body one day morphing into a woman’s figure was both alluring and terrifying. My father’s eyes glistened, so I looked at my white-gloved hands holding My Little Prayer Book and opened to a page I’d viewed many times: a girl on her knees praying to a crucifix above her bed.
Mom handed our baby, Daniel, to Dad, and ushered me into the kitchen. Let me do your hair, she said, ripping through my tangles. My shoulders lifted in defense. Ow. Ow. Also, the patent leather shoes, I shouldn’t have lied and said they fit, because now my toes were killing me. Pain. Pain. Pain. But I had to keep my mouth shut about it. Practice time:
Hail Mary, Mother of Grace.
No. No. No.
Hail Mary, full of grace. Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Last night, my mother finished sewing in the zipper and removed the pins from the hem of this white dress. I loved it, except one problem—the elastic on the lace sleeves scored a red ring around my forearms, and the only way to relieve the sting was by stealing ice from the coolers and sliding it under the elastic.
I received the sacrament of the Lord Jesus, God, into my soul. We took pictures and went home to party. That’s how we did it in Levittown. A few months ago, everyone came over for Daniel’s Christening; now it was my turn. Sealed tablecloths, cups, and plates were opened; napkin-lined baskets were filled with potato chips. My younger sister, Nora and younger brother, Kevin helped me set them around the backyard. My mother spread sauce and mozzarella over pans of ziti, while my father arranged coals in a grill and filled coolers with ice and Rhinegolds.
The pink tissue box served as the altar, and the narrow-figured, blue ceramic Virgin Mary stood in the center cut-out, over the Holy Communion cards. I could read most of the words. Dear. Bronagh. God. Bless. You. Love.
Sitting on a blanket on the, I pulled my veil across my eyes and peered through the threads, up at the clouds. Somewhere up there was God and his mother. There was no money in heaven. What about food? What about electricity? Hopscotch? The beach? I wished I could see the angel in the sky who planted the seed of Jesus in Mary. The lace separated from the headband, and I folded it into a little triangle. Best day ever, easily, I decided, tucking the lace around the feet of beautiful Mary.
I was eating cake when Aunt Lucy, my mother’s twin, although they look nothing alike, handed me an envelope. I waved a twenty in the air, and my mother, who was feeding Daniel at the time, put down his spoon and grimaced like she had swallowed sour milk.
How ‘bout you read the card? she said. Then she asked if I’d said thank you, which I had, but she said she hadn’t heard me and made me say it again.
Give your aunt a kiss, Mom said.
I couldn’t ignore my mother; I just had to do it. Aunt Lucy, so sweet, bent down and turned her cheek to me. What a pretty dress, she said, touching the lace. Then, turning to Mom, she said, Nice work.
Mom grinned and pointed out Uncle John. I had to thank him, too.
Both Uncle John and my father drank beer, smoked, and wore tan slacks with wide belts and I thought they should be twins. I said what I had to say to Uncle John, and next thing I knew, he swooped me up and wanted a kiss next.
What about Daddy? he said and pivoted me in his arms. A dressed-up girl is not a pet monkey doing tricks for fun, I thought. But to be let down, I had to kiss my father, too.
I scrambled away from the cigarette and beer breath for fresh air and joined the growing crowd of kids. We ran like crazy beasts along the perimeter of the yard, yelling after one another. I followed a few of the cousins to the front. Jimmy boBimmy, with the red hair, climbed the pink dogwood and dared me to do the same.
I knew I could probably reach my leg up as high as the branch, but I’d never actually climbed that tree before. Excited, my heart pounded as I kicked a foot against the trunk and swung myself to a sitting position. We were barely up there a minute, and Jimmy hoisted his butt off the branch, hitting the ground on his knees. He stood up with stains on his pants. I didn’t want to move right away: my older cousin, Erin, was walking over, and I wanted her to notice me up there. Also, I thought she might give me a hand in getting down, but she ran toward the street to stop a ball. Jimmy boBimmy waited below teasing, saying he saw my underpants. That was not right, I froze and wanted to cry.
The praying girl in the prayer book with her head bowed popped into my brain. And I thought about how God was everywhere. He was in the backyard, he was on the roof, he was in my classroom desk, and he was on this branch with me.
I was confused, and it had something to do with trying to figure out if boys were better than girls because of pants. The girls in my class (we all wore dresses) had to run away from the boys who chased us every day on the playground. It was silly and fun, but it was a little scary, too.
Suddenly, I wished I had the power to break a branch off the tree and throw it at Jimmy, or leap down and crush him into dust. Suck an egg boBimmy, I said.
II
One parent was shaved and spiffy, ready to go, while my mother, in a bathrobe, holding a can of hairspray, pulling curlers from her hair, shouted in five directions. She was on my father’s last nerve. And he, taking the Lord thy God’s name in vain, without any care, yelled, Jesus, getta move on. Which was easy for him to say. Someone still had to find a little brother’s shoe and comb a little brother’s hair.
My parents were into the old-fashioned Mass. Strict. Latin. No guitar. And women couldn’t come if they didn’t cover their heads. Veils, I remember Mom saying, had something to do with women receiving life within them.
I didn’t hate church; I followed the translation in the missal, stood, knelt, sat, and my eyes jumped from family to family, looking at the other kids forced to be there.
What I hated was the madness of getting ready.
Our cousins had slept over: we couldn’t find a lace veil for Erin, and I didn’t want to be the one having to wear a ridiculous knit hat in a heat wave. At the last minute, we decided that Nana’s Irish crocheted doily, a delicate web from under the living room lamp, did the job. I stood on my toes and bobby pinned it to Erin’s long, flowy hair.
Church was packed and scorching like the fiery hell we’d be sent to if we broke God’s commandments. Erin and I, in our sleeveless dresses, stood against the sidewall with our fathers. The thick wooden doors were propped open, and I begged God to send in a breeze.
I could hear my stomach growling—we never ate before church, and I told myself to hang on. I tapped Erin—she wasn’t used to this kind of torture and fanned my face with my hand. She laughed. Then I held in my laughter until I blew out air that sounded like a fart. My father poked me in the side. My mother shot me a look, and her eyes traveled to the life-size figure of the Blessed Mother in blue wraps, signaling me to behave. Kyrie Eleison, I said, thumping my fist on my chest.
Erin’s legs swayed in her knee socks, and she smelled of B O. Lord, have mercy. Her face was white as a ghost. The Holy Ghost. Christe Eleison. Erin’s legs buckled. Christ, have mercy.
And down she went.
My father lifted Erin by the armpits, and my uncle held her ankles. I never saw anything like it except in Looney Tunes or Popeye cartoons. She wasn’t dead, clearly, but seeing her plaid dress ride up her thighs showing a triangle of her blue Sunday underpants was mortifying. I swear I heard a communal sigh in the pews around me. I wanted to go with them, but I had to stay back.
As I leaned to retrieve the doily that had fallen from Erin’s unconscious head my stomach did a flip. At the exact moment Erin’s long, stretched limbs were being carried under the arched doorframe, her eyes popped open, and her body convulsed. I brought my hands together and sent her a telepathic message: I’m praying for you, girl.
III
Before my interview in the mall, my mother stopped peeling potatoes and gave me a once-over. Always strive to look your best, dear.
You’d be surprised. It goes a long way, she added, as if it were new knowledge, as if I wasn’t trying to do exactly just that. And for goodness’ sake, a slip, she said.
Nora and I shared a room, a dresser, and even a community drawer for stockings and slips. The largest pair of pantyhose still tugged at my crotch and drove me crazy. On Mom’s nudge, I pulled on a thin slip and smoothed my peasant skirt over my thighs.
Dom was the manager of Record Wave, handsome, early twenties. We sat on a bench in front of a fountain as I overplayed my limited work experience. Erin would’ve called me a kiss ass. While describing my park rec job, I noticed the scalloped edge of my slip showing from under my skirt, and nervously tucked it back under. Notes were written on a clipboard, and a few days later, he called and offered me the job.
Me—who didn’t own a record player—selling albums. I was shy at first working the floor, nervous, too, especially on the cash register, but after learning the words, or at least the choruses, of the albums being pushed for the holiday season —Prince, Madonna, Tina Turner, Phil Collins, and Tears for Fears, I began to feel more at ease in the role.
Sangita, whom I knew from the study hall, and I usually ended up working nights together with Willy. He’d often corner us and talk nonstop about the antics of taking the train to the city to do comedy gigs. Some nights, he said, he’d try his act on the subways. He was mediocre funny, but I admired his confidence when it came to strangers. Tears for Fears played after closing, and Willy handspringed backwards between the record aisles to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” That song got stuck in my head for weeks.
When Sangita and I arrived at Dom’s house for a Christmas party, “Dark Side of the Moon” blasted on Yamaha speakers. Candles in water glasses lined up on the living room mantel casting eerie shadows on bare wall.
Dom introduced us to his girlfriend, and we said hello to some others from work. Willy, wearing a green Grinch cap over his curls, hugged me and pulled me outside, where I recognized a few employees from the food court standing by the keg. Willy poured us both a beer and said, Come see Dom’s baby pig.
A pig—that’s insane, I said.
The heels of my pumps punched holes in the packed snow as I followed Willy to a dilapidated barn. It was freezing; I wrapped my arms over my shimmery blouse and had a growing sense of misplaced glamour. Willy stood close and reached in his pocket. Tonight, you try, he said, dropping his chin in earnest. I’d never smoked pot; he knew it, and at work, he kidded that I was a “good Catholic girl,” which, albeit true, was by now an annoying cliché. Thank you, Billy Joel.
The piglet scampered by on stubby legs and squealed. The air was frigid. I leaned close to Willy’s Irish Spring neck, inhaled a toke, and he clamped his fingers over my lips, telling me to hold it. After a third hit, something in my chest unclenched, and the acrid, musty scented smoke transformed the unpleasantness of the pigsty.
You feel it? he asked, his hand pressing the small of my back. A finger traveled inside the waistband of my jeans. He said something about me looking like Molly Ringwald.
I laughed softly, unstoppably.
Welcome to your life; there’s no turning back. Willie wasn’t singing. He was professing. I told him I wanted to return to the house, check on Sangita.
In the kitchen, the sandwich tray had all but been devoured. Willy palmed a slice of ham and some bread into his fist. Do you like wine? he asked, lifting a bottle.
I’d only ever had a sip in church. The blood of Christ.
Later, I woke on a mattress feeling as if I was trapped under the weight of partygoers’ heavy coats. Sangita stood over me, squeezing my shoulder. The room was cold, my breasts were exposed, and there weren’t any coats. I felt the elastic on my knee-highs pinching and Sangita pulled a sheet over me. I rubbed my eyes and struggled to lift my head. Where were my clothes? I reached between my legs and shuddered.
What have I done?
Sangita swept matted hair off my face and spoke in motherese, Let me help you.
A glow light from a reptile tank on a dresser lit the room. Music thumped downstairs. Downstairs—where Willy and I had danced and kissed. But what kind of creature was Willy?
This couldn’t be real. What had I done? I needed an act of God to lift me up. Sangita’s hand resting on my forehead connected me to my heart, where a wellspring of shame was rising. Please wait outside, I said.
My mind’s eye held a wispy blue statue, Mother Mary, so pure. Lord, increase my knowing. It was the only thing to do. Pray. Pray that no one would find out, pray that I wasn’t pregnant, pray for forgiveness.
I found my panties, choked back a sob at the torn pink lace, and resolved to leave the party as if nothing disturbing had occurred in that room.
I cried in the shower that night, but my sister was too young to confide in and I didn’t want my mother to know something so horrifying about me. She’d be disappointed about the drinking and smoking pot. I didn’t imagine she’d offer compassion, only that she’d hold me accountable for my poor decisions, and it would be years before I recognized or could label what transpired as an assault.
IV
I overslept the morning of graduation day and rose in a panic, plugged in my curling iron, gathered up mugs—unwashed since the start of finals—and dropped them in a garbage bag, feeling a surge at the sound of breakage. Time to move on from this mediocre college. Missing those last two scheduled campus interviews was a mistake; I had no job lined up, and no prospects, and I’d need to stop meandering along as if on a river raft for the ride. I threw away an ashtray filled with butts, a putrid habit I had to end immediately. My parents wouldn’t tolerate it. Now what? I’d have to step it up in many areas, get serious; they’d be all over me. I sniffed a damp towel, tossed it into the bag, and bid goodbye to a spider baby in a dry, white, mineral-lined glass. I packed clean clothes into a laundry basket, notebooks, folders, and texts into crates, and left my room.
In the sunlit quad below, black robes already scurried. I had worn this cornflower blue dress at Easter, but here in this shambolic room, the saccharinity of the raised petal lace, like baby’s breath, felt like icing on a rotten cake.
Mother of God. A putrid odor caught in my throat. The curling iron was burning my hair. I yanked the cord and stepped into high heels.
Downstairs in the lobby, someone grabbed the back of my arm. Morgan. Turning to face him, his hand reached for my lace collar. Morgan was honest and easy, and I felt safe with him, but wasn’t sure about us in the long term. Since high school, there had been no one who made my heart skip a beat. Look at you, fancy pants, he said with a good-natured grin. I took his hand from my neck and he beckoned me to follow him.
There was little time, but his insistence made me think perhaps I’d left something behind last night when I had, against my better judgment, fallen asleep in his bed last night.
He kissed me and took a tiny pipe from his desk. A hit, he said, flicking his lighter. I furrowed my brows. Notwithstanding the Hawaiian shorts, Morgan was uncharacteristically suave in his pressed shirt and tie. His open face pleaded, and here, on my last day, why could I still not discern my feelings about him? He had his job lined up; he’d be a terrific chemistry teacher, patient and funny. Somehow, though, I couldn’t picture integrating him into a steady routine, and I’d never given any thought to the qualifications of a legitimate partner.
Morgan’s roommate pushed through the door and joked that he was glad to see us dressed this morning.
My face flushed, and I exhaled smoke as Morgan nuzzled my neck. This is it. I guess we made it, I said, centering his tie over his chest.
He winked, goofily, and I gestured a fist to his gut and rolled my eyes. Morgan brought the bowl to my lips, but I was done. Thinking of my family, then; they’d be garbed in their Sunday best, anxious with flowers and a camera, expecting big smiles and even bigger gratitude.
My psych professor would be there, too, and I hoped to catch her before leaving. After a class discussion about date-rape, I had gone to her office hours, ready finally, to share the details of that dark night with Willy in the room with the iguana. She spoke softly, her concern evident, saying I was a good person. Her words emptied the air from my chest cavity; I caved in on myself and wept. That’s all I ever endeavored to be. Good. When she said the story of shame is one I tell myself, she opened me up to the possibility of self-forgiveness, and in that moment, my slow healing process began. During our last class, she said something that had never occurred to me before: what a huge deal it was to be a first-generation college graduate; I could change generations to come.
I whirled away from the boys. Je t’aime, mes amis.
V
The crowd had gotten slanty.
We finished our tour around the ballroom, embracing and thanking each guest when Carl’s best man passed me a shot of tequila. I raised it and wove my way into the ring of dancers. A torch. Ironic Lady Liberty. Cheers and claps rang out. Our band teed up “Love Shack.” I pitched my head back and swallowed. Everyone went berserk.
When a slow song came on, my father took my elbow, insisting on one last dance. My eyes searched for Carl, a rescue, but he was across the room leaning heavily on the bar. My father drew me in, a hand on my shoulder, the other on my back. One, two, three, together as he had taught me. I held back from resting my head, which by now felt heavy as a box of bolts, on his shoulder not wanting that intimacy with him.
My daughter, a stunning bride… You make me so proud, he said, grasping my chin.
Humid air thick with whiskey, perspiration, and Old Spice hung like a cloud over us. I understood how much it meant to him to escort me down the aisle, and how glad he was that I received the sacrament of marriage before God. He loved me—the obedient me, the pleasing daughter—but I had an aching, regretful feeling that his expectations could never be met, and if he knew the real me, he would be let down.
A few hours later, we newlyweds elevated to an over-air-conditioned room. Under extreme bulbs, I pushed my palm inside the silk lace neckline of my princess gown. This recital of beauty and costume, along with the heaps of preparation leading up to it, was behind us, and this poof, once removed, would never be worn again. With a wad of tissue, I blotted the black that had bled from my eyes.
The appliqué on the back of my dress caught, and I called Carl. Babe, can you unzip…?
Envelopes spilled from my new husband’s limp hand and his pants and belt lay twisted on the floor. I took the cards and sat on a plush chair.
Congratulations. Blessed by the Lord. Much Happiness. Aunt Lucy had scrawled Always kiss goodnight in blue ink.
I tugged and freed the nuptial lace from the zipper. The dress descended, I destockinged and reached for Carl. He moved his arm and grumbled, Gra, gra, grahh. Animal sounds.
Phrases from the ceremony echoed in my head as I lay stripped under the sheets. To have and to hold. Love is patient. Keeps no records of wrongs. I wanted Carl to be awake. My head was reeling from the day’s excitement.
I wanted my goodnight kiss.
With tented fingers I raised a cathedral of over my eyes and considered the next days, weeks and years as a married woman. When I felt myself drifting toward melancholy, I thought of my reverent and resilient mother; when in doubt, she would tell me to pray. God would give me the strength.
VI
Counting the daffodils that had sprouted from my planting last fall, I flipped the bottles onto a rack to drip dry. Scalding water over rubber nipples reddened my fingertips.
Ellie slept like a cherub caressed by clouds. Carl was playing golf; he’d return late, buzzing, with barely an appetite. Opening the kitchen door for a breath of spring, I stepped out for a quick second. The baby’s nap was a gift, yet the quiet pounded a nervous drum. When Ellie wasn’t in my arms, I was a seabird flitting here and there with no landing in sight.
Patrice, my mother-in-law, would be arriving withing the hour. She was bringing the Christening gown worn by Carl and his siblings even though I told her I’d already purchased one. Nonsense, she said. Return it.
I held a dishtowel under the faucet, dropped to the floor to rub out a smudge by the oven. In the living room, baseboards and radiators needed wiping. When the bell rang, the soiled towel went over my shoulder like a burp cloth. Patrice was already pushing through the door as I reached for the knob. I kissed her hello and she immediately asked if I was tired.
What? No. I’m good.
We sat at the kitchen table, which is what we did together. Tea, Mom? I asked. She said she wasn’t staying long. The monitor peeped; I tossed the towel from my shoulder, missed the sink entirely, and hit a plant in the windowsill.
Ellie held her hands in tight fists and shrieked excitedly. Arching her back, she pushed her exquisite toes against the crib bars. Look at you. All your muscles at work! I whispered and caressed the top of her head.
Patrice appeared in the doorframe holding a dry-cleaning bag over a miniature white gown. Lifting the plastic, she shook out its lace-trimmed layers, and in a high-pitched voice said, This will be so darling on her.
The Christening dress I chose for my daughter would sit in my closet; not a big deal, I told myself. Snapping up Ellie’s onesie, I sighed loudly as if releasing a constriction in my throat.
Patrice hung the dress on the curtain rod and stooped to pick a blanket and a castoff onesie off the floor. How ‘bout I put on a wash for you? she said.
It’s okay, Mom, I got it.
She yammered out a list of projects she was working on and had to go before even holding the baby a second.
Later in bed, I’d be thinking of Patrice, how effortlessly I had concealed my disappointment. I’d relay the story to Carl, sharing my feelings and his response would be, For fucks sake, Bronagh, it’s just a dress.
Outside on the front steps, Ellie’s energy thronged against my chest as we watched her grandmother drive away. A sudden wind shook the branches above us, and Ellie’s hand rose against the force. Together we lifted our faces toward the sky.
VII
I sat on the toilet lid with Ellie nestled between my knees, pulling a comb through her snarls.
Mommy, stop it! You’re hurting me, Ellie said and reached for the comb.
We need to hurry, I said. My mind was on getting to the church, making a call to the caterer, and running a vacuum.
Use the spray. The spray, Mommy.
I released the tug on her hair and jabbed the comb’s plastic teeth into my palm.
Turning my eyes to the marks on my hand, I took a breath and then said, I don’t want to hurt you, Ellie. Another inhale. Other mothers were more naturally in tune with their children, forever patient, ready to pivot when necessary. Forcing is not loving. I remembered my toes jammed in patent leather shoes. The detangler spray worked, and I switched to a softer brush. Gentle, gentle, I told myself. Better? I asked.
Ellie rotated a purple loom bracelet on her wrist and nodded. I clipped her hair into barrettes with ribbons and straightened the tiny Blessed Mother medal on her chain.
Can I see, Mommy?
I lifted her onto the granite counter. She slid her fingers down the length of the ribbons and examined her white dress in the wide mirror. I asked her what she was thinking. With a slight sashay of her shoulders, and a tap of her shoes, she gave me a thumbs up.
I mimicked her thumbs-up and folded the lace trim over her anklets. “Do you like these socks?”
Ellie gripped my neck for balance as she scratched long tracks on her calves and said, Too itchy.
The reflection in the mirror held the two of us with the same nut-brown hair and the same thin lips. For a moment, it is me in the mirror, in my Communion dress, and blink hard, as if I can feel the pinch of a bobby pin my mother is sticking in my head to attach the veil..
Opening the vanity drawer, I whispered an idea. Rummaging through hair ties, barrettes, and Band-Aids, I found a pair of scissors and held them up.
Ellie’s eyes brightened. Cut the itchy off!
Scissors clipped the curly lace from one sock and then the next while Ellie tried on expressions in the mirror.
After removing the loose threads, I balled the lace in my hand and wrapped my arms around her legs to lift her from the counter. Mom, I can do it myself, she said.
Mother Mary, I prayed. Help me do right by my courageous child. My eyes found hers; I let go.
With her chest out and hands reaching forward, she leapt from her perch. Her feet hit the ground, she slapped the wallpaper hard, shook her arms, and darted away.
The comb and scissors were placed in the drawer. The nest of thread and lace went into the galvanized can. I paused before the sink.
The doorbell rang.
There was something, what was it? I wanted to tell Ellie before she ran off, before church and the party, before this day ballooned away. When she was a tiny baby lying in her crib, feverishly kicking those thick legs, I couldn’t put it into words, but I felt something reaching deep within her; I knew, I sensed Ellie would possess a different sort of attitude, an attitude of belonging more to her own self. I touched my pale, diaphanous blouse; more than anything, I wanted that for the two of us, to grow up strong together, and it was on me now to start pursuing life more courageously, unapologetically.
The grandparents charged through the front door below; their voices soaring. Gorgeous! Look at you. So pretty.
Sweeping the remaining threads into the sink, I stared forward, letting my hand linger under icy water to steady myself for all that was to come.
Jeanne-Marie Fleming writes across genres. A lifelong public-school teacher, she recently returned to school to earn an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her prose is published or forthcoming at Flash Fiction Magazine, trampset, JMWW, The Los Angeles Review, BULL, Black Fork Review, MER Literary, Pangyrus, The Chronogram, and elsewhere. She is working on a collection of stories and poems about the heartache of a mother. She lives in the Hudson Valley with her family but maintains fond memories of her few short years in Brooklyn. Connect on Insta or Twitter @jmlgsf. You can find more of her work at www.jeannemariefleming.com