The Betrothal
One of the most common misconceptions is to think of people as simply good or evil, foolish or wise. A man is fluid, and within him lie all possibilities: he was foolish, then became wise; he was cruel, then turned kind, and so the wheel turns. That is the greatness of man. And for this reason, we must never judge too hastily. The man you condemn today may be someone else entirely tomorrowso wrote Leo Tolstoy in his diaries long ago.
To argue with the great is difficult, at times near impossible. Life proves him right again and again, if one only looks closely, sifting the wheat from the chaff, till the heart of truth becomes clear and tangible
But today, such weighty thoughts feel distant, for the morning is already sweltering. The heat of July presses down, as though the very air, rebounding from sun-baked walls, has settled upon the pavement, hotter still, and bowed its head before the sun pouring summer from the sky.
Yet inside young Emily, it is winter. A bitter frost. This summer passes without her
School is barely behind her. University should be her next concern, as is only proper for a girl just graduated. But Emily is with child. What university now? And Jamesoh, James proved himself a coward. When she told him of the baby, he only bit his lip, turned to the window, and said:
“I was the first, I suppose But whos to say I was the only?”
Emily didnt even weep then. She stood, staring at his backjust a back, calm and unfeeling, his breath steady. She wanted to speak more, for she herself didnt know what to do. But then the doorbell rangher mother had returned from work. James went to answer, exchanged a quiet greeting in the hall, and left.
Her mother strode straight into Emilys room and demanded to know what was wrong. Lost for words, Emily blurted it out:
“Nothings wrong. Only that Im with child.”
Her mother stared, eyes locked onto hers. Then she cried outthough what, Emily could not hear, for the sound was drowned by the sharp slap her mother struck across her cheek.
And then the winter began inside Emily. As if snow had fallen all at once, burying her to the crown of her head. Cold. Hollow. Within and without.
Her mother kept shouting. But snow muffles sound. So Emily sank onto the edge of her bed and began to weepexcept the tears did not fall. They stayed inside, freezing in her heart, turning to little crystal beads that rattled in the emptiness.
Her mother stormed out. The front door slammed. Silence. And there sat Emily alone with her frozen tears in the midst of a sweltering July evening.
She curled into a ball upon the bed and wept then, truly, like a girl undonesniffling, hiccuping. And oh, how she pitiednot herself, no, but the child unborn, already unwanted. Not by its father, not by its grandmother, not even by her, its foolish mother. No one would welcome it
She slept, though daylight still lingered. Dreamt something vague. Woke when someone sat beside her and stroked her hair.
Her mother had returned. It was she who soothed her now, murmuring:
“Emily, my darling, forgive me. Fool that I am, though not yet old. We should be gladmy girls grown now. Soon to be a mother herself. And I”
She wept, smearing tears with her palms as she spoke on:
“Only one thought gnaws at mepray it isnt a boy! Not a boy. Men, the lot of themwell, never mind. The point is, not a one ever truly understood or pitied a womannot your father, nor mine before him!”
Now Emily wailedloud, unladylike. She clutched her mother, held her close, this dearest of souls. And so they wept together, each mourning her own sorrow, yet warm in their shared embrace. Summer still reigned outside
Thenthe doorbell again. Her mother sniffed hard, composing herself, and pressed Emily back as she made to rise:
“Stay, love. Ill answer.”
She smoothed her hair as she wentfor even in grief, one mustnt greet a man looking a fright.
She opened the door. And there stood a man. Two, in fact. Jamesand before him, his father. The elder spoke first:
“Good evening, Mrs. Whitmore. Forgive the lateness. But my fool of a son has told me everythingor so I hope.” He turned to James. “Or was there more, future grandfather?”
James hung his head. His father pressed on:
“Well then, weve come, the pair of us, to ask for your daughters handif Emily can find it in her heart to forgive the words he spoke in parting.” He cuffed James smartly behind the ear. “Go on, you wretch, beg the girls pardon! And if she wont have you, youre no son of mine!”
…Ah, how changeable man is. We blunder, blind to how we might mend our mistakes. James fell to his knees beside the bed, trembling, tears streaming down his face as he grasped Emilys hand and pressed it to his forehead. “Im sorry,” he whispered, over and over, “I was afraid, I was stupidI didnt mean it, not a word.” The old man stood in the doorway, hands clasped tight, eyes glistening. Emily looked from her mothers weary, hopeful face to the boy she once loved, now broken and pleading. The ice within her cracked, just slightly, letting in a sliver of warmth. She did not speak, not yetbut she did not pull her hand away. Outside, the summer night deepened, stars pricking through the heat, as if the world held its breath. And in that silence, something fragile, something new, began to grow.
