WITH OUR SECRETS told, our friendship grew. My work in town kept us apart during the day, but at night, Marie and I would talk or share a book to all hours—our consumption of tallow approaching scandalous. And we would always begin by reading a passage from the Bible or one from Swedenborg. It was Marie’s idea, and I came to like it. It reminded me of the times when Mother would read from the Bible as we sat before the fire, John in her lap and Mary in the crib. Soldiers and shepherds came to life, and after a time, there were psalms and parables that I knew by heart. Some of these I recited when it was my turn, though most often, Marie did the Bible reading. It was ointment to her wounds—if God could forgive her, all was not lost. She was younger than I and felt her shame more deeply.
After the evening devotion, our reading went in every direction. There were stories about love found and love lost, all of them taking place in English settings. And stories of inheritance from long-forgotten uncles finding its way to some unsuspecting but goodhearted soul, as though something of the sort was out there for all of us. We liked these stories, but Marie and I were overtaken when we read Woman in the Nineteenth Century, a book that Mrs. Caldwell had finally thought us ready to read. It was by Margaret Fuller, a well-known New England thinker. I had never heard of her, but Marie had, being from that place where those philosophers seemed to grow on trees.
Mrs. Fuller was an advocate for women. She chastised those who “make the lot of the sex such that mothers are sad when daughters are born.” She spoke of the great lack of fairness between what is offered to a young man and a young woman. Most of these thoughts were not new to me, just said better than I could ever have said them. But Mrs. Fuller wrote other things that were new to me—about the nature of the sexes:
Male and female represent the two sides of the great dualism. But, in fact, they are perpetually passing into one another. Fluid hardens to solid, solid rushes to fluid. There is no wholly masculine man, no purely feminine woman.
I had never before heard or read such a thought, though I had been wrestling with this question for many years, always wondering whether I was one thing or another. But here was someone who seemed to say that I could be a woman and still have part of me that felt like a man. And that it was all quite natural. Had she still been living, I would have written to her.
* * *
One Sunday in April, Marie asked if I would take her to church. I put on a clean shirt, and we walked over the bridge to Delhi. We had our pick, but we chose the Baptist church because of the forsythia by its door. We waited till most had gone inside and then entered and sat at the back. There was nothing in the sermon worthy to repeat, but we both liked the singing. On our way home I bought Marie an ice cream with my senior resident wages.
Once over the bridge and away from town, we went for a walk in the meadow along the river, stopping under an apple tree dripping with blossoms. I made fun of the morning’s preacher, who reminded me in no small way of Reverend Albright.
Marie laughed. “I think, Joseph, we should start a new religion. The ones we have are so dreary.”
“If I can be the bishop,” I said.
“No bishops or priests in this religion.”
“Oh?”
“And there’ll be no churches.”
“A religion without churches?”
“Yes. Three or four times a year, we’ll gather in a field like this and have a picnic. Then we’ll form a circle, and those who want to speak about God, or anything else, can.”
“All right, I’ll do that. What else?”
Marie thought for a moment. “Well, God is to be referred to as She.”
“Just to be contrary?”
“Not at all. God gave birth to the world, so I think it’s evident. And in this religion, we’re going to take care of certain things on our own—like God isn’t going to have to worry about whether we covet our neighbor’s wife.”
“That would be all right?”
“No, it wouldn’t be all right; it just wouldn’t be God’s job to worry about it. Joseph, do you really think He keeps track of our every selfish thought? Never mind does He have the time—why would He want to? I rather think that at the end, He picks us up and pings our hearts the way we do with an apple to see if it’s crisp. If He hears a good ring, He’s satisfied.”
I smiled. “You’re saying He, again, my dear.”
As we walked back through the field, Marie took my hand, letting it go when our house came into view. We had spent the entire day together—gone to town, sung hymns, eaten ice cream, and invented a religion. After dinner we sat on the porch swing, drifting in thought as the tree frogs gave a concert, the kind of moment you wish you could keep in a bottle. Marie was entranced. “Joseph, do you think that where we go when we die, there will be sounds as beautiful as this?”
That night, in our room, Marie sat beside me on the bed. “Joseph, I want to know something.”
“Of course. What it is it?”
Marie looked at the floor. “What about Lydia did you love the most?”
Lydia? I was surprised, for Lydia was far from my mind. I thought for a moment, trying to answer her truly. “I think, Marie, what I loved about Lydia was that she didn’t imitate anyone.”
I didn’t know what Marie was looking for, but that wasn’t it. She just nodded and lay down where she was. Three breaths later she propped herself up. “Joseph, do you think you could ever love me the way you loved Lydia?”
“No,” I said without thinking it through. “I loved Lydia the way I loved her. I love you the way I love you. Only with you, it’s better because I’m not hiding anything.”
“Then you do love me?”
There it was. And why hadn't I seen it before? “Oh, my dear Marie. Yes, of course, I love you. I do.”
“In the same way?”
I hesitated, not sure.
“Oh, Joseph. How direct must I be? You would be the man, so be one.” She reached down and pulled her nightshirt over her head. I saw her nakedness and her fear. I took her hand and looked into her eyes. Then I let myself look at her small, uncovered breasts. My lips wanted to go there, and my face wanted to press into her white belly. I wanted to feel it on my cheeks and eyebrows.
“Joseph, please kiss me.”
“In a moment,” I said. I sat up and took off my shirt. I then blew out the candle and lay beside her. She was breathing in short, uneven gulps. I gathered her to me, and we began to breathe together—slower, longer. We kissed and then some more, until our bodies were pressing hard against each other.
Nothing in my marriage bed had even suggested the exquisite pleasure that I found with Marie. It rolled over us again and again, and when one of us would start to drift off, the other would begin, and we would come back to each other, till the window began to show light.
When I returned from town the next day, I saw Marie in the kitchen. She looked a little worn around the eyes, but otherwise present enough for someone who hadn’t slept the night before. The only odd thing was that she wouldn’t look at me. What was this about? Was she feeling uneasy? Was I now another mistake she’d made? At dinner, she sat away from me, and with some worry I stole glances and studied her face. She felt me do it and gave the slightest wave, as if shooing a fly. Then she bit her lip to keep from smiling.
That night I thought we would talk about what had passed between us, but when I got into bed, Marie reached for me. We kissed and gave ourselves to the moment, muffling our sighs. We had found a new world.