Statue, page 2
No, fantasy was not his style.
In fact, he was best known for his poetry—described by critics as crystalline verses that were as lovely as snowflakes. But now, for some reason, he wanted to tell stories.
He started again:
“One thing I can’t stand,” Lisa said, “is stories that start with a couple in bed together discussing their relationship. Most stories I see in magazines are like that. It really annoys me.”
She was naked, propped up against the pillows, puffing on a cigarette.
Jeremy smiled and kept on writing. He saw Lisa as a seagull, flying high but dipping down to capture her prey; Andrea as a porcupine, keeping other creatures at a distance; Kayla as a dove, gentle but not pliant. And Arthur? The hero whose fatal flaw leads to a violent death. Stabbed repeatedly by a jealous colleague.
STATUE
O
A PHOTOGRAPH OF myself, naked, in front of a church. The church is to my right and behind me is a statue, not of a Christian saint or the Virgin Mary, but of a Greek or Roman goddess. My body is pure white, whiter than the statue, as I lift my arms in imitation of the goddess. I shimmer in the sunlight.
I am home from my tour of Europe, looking through my photographs of the trip. At first, I can’t remember this picture. How did I happen to pose naked in public? I am terribly embarrassed and want to delete the photograph but something stops me.
I try to remember. It is foggy in my mind but the scene is coming back to me. No one was around for those few moments, the threshold of the church and the area around the statue empty, except for me and—I think—my friend Anne. She must have taken the picture. I don’t know why I felt so tempted. I had to do it. It took only a second to throw off my clothes, pose, then quickly pour my dress over my head and surreptitiously slip on my underwear. I succeeded. No one saw me, and Anne (I think) snapped the photo in record time.
I text Anne: I just saw the photo you took in front of the church. I can’t believe I did that. I’m so embarrassed!
Her message back confuses me: What photo? In front of which church?
I look at the picture again. This must have really happened. But why can’t I remember it well? And why doesn’t Anne remember? It must have been a dramatic moment!
I text her back: How could you not remember? I’ll show you later.
I am about to look again at the photo when I hear Craig’s key in the lock. I swipe out of my photos, shut the phone, and set it next to me on the sofa. Craig and I are going to be married in two months and have been finishing preparations. My trip to Europe with a girlfriend was kind of a bachelorette party—though we did nothing wild—except perhaps for my posing naked in front of a church. We were tourists like all the others, visiting churches, temples, museums, monasteries, mountains in France, Italy, and Greece. Maybe I just had to do something a little different, something a bit risqué.
Craig kisses me on the cheek. “What are you doing, hon?”
“Just going through my photos on my phone, selecting some to print.”
“Oooo, let me see what you wild women were up to!”
“Not much. We were just acting like the middle-aged tourists that we are!”
“Let me see.” He glances at the photo now showing on my phone. “Oh, I love this one. Venice. I always liked it there. Any picture you take there looks like a postcard or painting.”
I grab the phone and hold it close to my chest. It buzzes then and I see it is a text from Anne. I don’t respond. “I’ll check later. I think it’s just Anne asking about the alterations for her dress.” I slip the phone into my pocket.
“Well, okay, I’m going to take a shower. Do you want to go out to dinner? Just something simple. Fish and chips? Or Chinese?”
“Love it. Anyplace.”
As soon as he goes into the bedroom, I look at my phone again. Again I consider erasing the photo but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I push the print button and head to my home office to grab it from the printer. What an amazing picture, I think. I stick the printed photo into the file of my phone bills. I look at it on my phone again, but don’t delete it. I want to carry it with me.
I check Anne’s text. Is this something exciting? I want to see that picture. Can I come over?
No, Craig is home. Sometime tomorrow. I’ll text you when the coast is clear.
Since I hardly ever drink alcohol, only an occasional glass of wine, and I take no medications at all except for vitamins, I know I wasn’t drunk or drugged when I posed. It just was so unlike me. I stare at the photo on my phone. It is magnificent! I look so free. Almost like a goddess myself. A statue of a goddess, that is. And this photo is very decorous; I do not look sexy at all. I am standing somewhat sideways, my legs slightly crossed so my private parts don’t show and with one hand draped over my breasts. It really is a lovely picture.
I think back. I remember the church. So elegant and luxurious, with its icons and murals and statues and carvings. Saints and virgins. A tragic statue of the suffering Jesus. Mary holding her baby. Then, the statue outside. Was it Aphrodite? Or Artemis? I cannot remember. Just that startling difference, yet similarity: Mary and Aphrodite; Christian and pagan; suffering and joy. All sacred in their own ways.
I click my phone off and walk to the living room, closing my office door behind me. But I can’t stop thinking about the naked woman in the photograph, the statue in front of the church. I close my eyes so that she will live in my memory.
When Anne comes over the next day, I take her into my office and pull out the photo from the file of phone bills. She is amazed. “Holy moly! I’m sure I didn’t take this. I would certainly remember that!”
“Then who took it? Was I ever away from you, with someone from the tour group?”
“No . . . oh, maybe. I was tired one day and stayed in the room. That must be it. Someone else from the tour group.”
“But I would never let a stranger see me naked!”
“Oh,” she says. “Could this have been photoshopped?”
I show her the photo on my phone. “No, look. No one could have tampered with this.”
“Hey, what are you ladies up to?” I jump when Craig sticks his head in, click my phone closed, and quickly stuff the printed copy in my desk drawer.
“What have you got there? So you did get up to something on that trip.”
“No, not at all,” I say, stammering.
“Let me see.”
I hand him the phone, open it to the photo.
Anne stands up. “I’ll be going. Call me later.” She grabs her purse and quickly leaves the room.
Craig looks at the picture for a long time. “How did you happen to take this? Did people see you?”
“No. I guess not. I don’t remember, and neither does Anne. And I was never drunk or drugged. I do have a vague memory but it seems like a dream. Please don’t be mad. I was well-behaved for the whole trip.”
“Katie, I am not your previous husband. I don’t get mad and hit you. I love you. Don’t worry. But I am confused.”
“So am I.”
“But . . . this is beautiful! I’d love to blow it up and frame it. I could hang it in my home office. Would you mind?”
“Of course, I’d mind! Are you crazy? Having people see me naked?”
“No one would see you. Just me and you, pretty much. I love the picture. I love that you took a risk and did something a bit daring. And I love that you look so beautiful. This photo is a work of art! We should have an artist create a painting modelled on this.”
I start crying. “But I don’t remember clearly. It’s not like me to do something like this. What I remember seems like a dream. But you can’t take a photo of your dreams. Is something wrong with me?”
Craig puts his arms around me and holds me, then grabs a tissue and wipes my eyes. “Okay, put it away now. Let’s forget about it.”
I am stunned by his kindness, his understanding.
My phone buzzes with a text. I check and see a picture of my mother and the words: What do you think? Do I look like the mother of the bride?
She looks beautiful in her silky blue dress, the best she has looked since my father died. She was so pale and thin for more than a year afterwards that I worried that she would die, too. But the preparations for my wedding have given her happy things to think about. Though she has told me that I should be very careful before I marry again, and be very sure. And I am. I love Craig.
“She looks gorgeous,” he says. “Tell her I say so.” So I text her back. She responds with a Wow! Thanks!
I lie in bed that night thinking about the photograph. I wish I recognized the church—and the statue. Though I seem to have memories of the inside of the building, I don’t know the name of the church or the city. I can’t remember a church that has a goddess statue in front of it. I wish I could paint so that I could recreate that scene.
The empty cobblestone courtyard in front of an elegant church—maybe even a cathedral; as you face it, you see to the right a very tall statue of a beautiful woman. She is naked except for a garment draped over her, one that reveals the curves of her breasts, the flowing waves of her body. She is majestic and awe-inspiring. It is not so simple that one is a patriarchal symbol and the other a portrayal of the power of the feminine. Both, so different, inspire the same reverence. Above, the sky is a dark blue, with no clouds. Everything is so still.
Between the church and the statue is a woman. A lowly human between divinities. She wants to touch them both somehow, but to be herself. And she has the opportunity. So she takes it. And someone, the mysterious photographer, helps her. The photograph shows the stillness and also the energy behind the act. It is an act of worship, a moment of recognition.
The next morning my mother and Anne meet me at the bridal shop for my fitting. I look in the mirror while Mom and Anne exclaim at my beauty in this perfect dress. I am thinking that I would look better naked.
Anne has to leave but Mom and I go out for coffee. “Are you sure, Katie?” she asks. “Do you love him?”
“Yes, I do. But sometimes . . .”
“What? If you are not completely sure, just cancel the whole thing, take your time.”
“But everyone would be so disappointed.”
“Who cares?”
“You would be disappointed. We’ve had such fun planning this.”
“I am having fun because you are. I am getting my life back, and I am fine with whatever choice you make.”
I go back home and sit at my desk. On my computer I google any keywords that I can think of. I can’t find any church like the one in the photo. I get up, make coffee, pace the floor. I need to know. I check flights to Europe—France, Italy, Greece. The perks of being a licensed travel agent mean I can get amazing discounts, even when I’m on leave. I book a flight to Paris for tomorrow. From there I can rent a car and explore other countries.
In the morning, after Craig leaves for work, I sit down at my desk with paper and pen, and write a note to him:
Dear Craig, I love you so much. But I need to find that church, that statue. I need to know what that photo is telling me. I will come back and, if you are still waiting, I will marry you. I am so sorry. Love, Katie.
I pack my suitcase, put the photograph, my phone, and my passport in my purse, and head for the airport. I will find that place and stand naked in front of that statue once more.
THE SELKIE’S DAUGHTER
O
I CLOSED MY eyes, caressed the cool stone hearth with my bare feet, then held my breath and plunged my right foot into the flames. I felt sharp needles burning into my flesh, tried to imagine myself someplace else, in cool water, the sea. I could take no more, pulled my foot out and fell to the floor, screaming. My parents came running. I told them it was an accident, that I had stumbled while stoking the fire.
My mother knew that it was not an accident, that I wanted to claim that the burn caused my webbed toes. In fact, I had meant to burn both feet, but had not had the courage. She was angry, whispering that I should be proud of my feet, that the webs were a blessing. Then she held me, soothing me, humming the tune she had sung to me since I was born—wordless sounds and tones that cascaded up and down in a haunting melody that I almost but never quite understood. I tried to grasp the thoughts the song brought but could never hold onto them.
For my entire life I had tried to understand my difference, tracing the webbings, examining my connecting toes, wondering if there was a way to cut them apart. I dared not show my feet to anyone, wore shoes and socks all the time except late at night when no one was around. In the darkness I would wade into the sea, then dive underwater and swim a short distance. I never went too far, fearing that something was out there, something that would hypnotize me into never coming home.
After my injury, I stayed home from school for two weeks, my foot elevated and covered with ointment that my mother kept applying. I still felt the burning—but it was somehow comforting.
My mother was a mystery to me. She rarely spoke and had no friends. On this small island, where you were judged by your attendance at church and your social activities, people were suspicious of a woman who did not participate in the community. They seemed to fear her and perhaps were jealous of her beauty—long dark hair flowing down her back, a graceful slim body, huge eyes that stared without blinking. She was obsessed with the sea, often sitting on a large rock than hovered over the water, gazing longingly at the waves and ripples. I asked her about that once and she just said, “It is home.”
Only one other of my four siblings was born with the webbings—my baby brother Jack. Mother seemed proud of his feet, bathing them softly and often, kissing his toes and caressing the skin stretched across them—just as she had kissed my feet when I was a baby. I did not hate my feet then—they were normal to me—but now that I was fifteen, I was expected to go to the harvest festival, to dance barefoot or in sandals. Our neighbour Andrew smiled at me, asked me if I was going to the festival. I smiled but walked away without answering.
One week after my “accident,” I limped into the living room and saw my father on a ladder, reaching up into a small separation between the wall and the ceiling. When he saw me, his face turned red, and he came down off the ladder.
“I was just about to patch up that hole,” he said. “I don’t want the rain to come in. But I’ll do it tomorrow. Don’t tell your mother—she worries about things like that—the house falling down, expenses.” His voice trailed off. “Here, sit down and rest that foot.”
I obediently made my way to the bench beside the fire. “I’ll just do some homework,” I said. “Go ahead, if you want to fix the hole. It won’t bother me.”
“It’s okay. I’ll go bring you some lunch. Then I have to go back to the store.”
Father owned a small shop down in the harbour that sold fresh fish. He went fishing early in the morning every day, then opened the shop.
“Where’s Mother?” I asked.
“She took Jack and Anne for a walk. She’ll be back by the time the others come home from school.”
When my mother returned with the younger children, her face was flushed and there were tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Nothing. The wind was strong by the sea. Here, would you feed Jack and Anne their lunch?”
As I fed the children in the kitchen, I could hear Mother moving through the house, shifting furniture around, sweeping under the beds. When I took the children into the bedroom for their naps, she was looking behind the dresser.
“What are you looking for?”
“I think I lost my bracelet,” she said. “The one your father gave me when we got married. I can’t find it. Don’t tell him. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
“Mother, it’s right here on top of your jewellery box.” I limped over, picked it up, and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, in a distanced voice. “Here, I’ll rock Jack. Come, Anne, lie down. Mary, you get back to your schoolwork. You’ll be returning to school next week.”
I returned to my bench by the hearth and picked up a book from the table next to me. When Mother came out again, she looked around, then put on her sweater. “I’m going for a walk,” she said.
She stopped for a minute and looked up at the ceiling. She pulled a chair over, stood on it, and reached up but found nothing. When she had climbed down, I said, “Mother, don’t worry, Father said he’s going to patch up the hole.”
“What?” She got back onto the chair and reached up again, moving her fingers around and around, until she found the opening. She reached in and pulled out a bag. She looked inside and smiled.
“What is it?”
“Just what I wanted. Mary, I love you and I’ll always be close by. Take care of the children for me.”
“But Mother.”
“Be proud of your feet.” She took off her shoes and threw them into the corner. She proudly held out her feet, webs connecting the toes. She took off the gloves that she always wore and tossed them onto the floor. Her fingers, like her toes, were webbed together. She ran out the door barefoot, slamming it behind her. “Goodbye, my loves,” she called. I stumbled my way to the doorway and opened it in time to see her take something out of the bag and run toward the sea.
“Mother!” I called but she did not answer. My hands were shaking, a fear of impending loss sweeping over me. Just then Billy and Robert came home. “Run,” I told them. “Run to get Father. Tell him Mother ran off toward the sea.”
