Hour of the Witch(63)
“We are but rats skulking in corners. And yet we do our best, because that is what we must. A few thoughts.” He directed his gaze firmly on her father. “James, thy daughter’s petition has nothing to do with thy business. There is no law against importing three-tined forks. But, as might be expected, no good has come from thy presumption. Our hope is that we hear no more about them ever again in this Town House.” He raised a single eyebrow and, despite his words, looked more bemused than angry. Her father nodded sheepishly.
“We have discussed the petitioner’s request for a divorce and weighed carefully what everyone had to say. We thank everyone for their candor,” he continued, and then the register of his tone once more grew somber. “Here is what we know. A saint is wedded to God in a marriage that is divine. Our covenant with God is spiritual. When a man weds a wife, there is a parallel. In this case, of course, it is a civil covenant. But consider the similarities. God loves a mortal, despite his foolishness and sin, just as a man should love his wife—despite her foolishness and sin. God loves a mortal, despite his weaknesses and craven impulses, just as a man should love his wife—despite her weaknesses and craven impulses. Though a woman may be willful and passionate and show behavior that is rife with pride, that does not demand the forfeiture of the marriage. She is a helpmeet, yes, but she is the weaker of the two vessels and must be cared for.”
Mary looked to her father, angered by this lecture, because she was beginning to fear where it might be going. But her father didn’t seem alarmed; he was actually nodding as if in agreement during a sermon.
“Was a man’s wife unfaithful? That may be a reason for him to divorce her; likewise, if a man was unfaithful, that certainly is grounds for her to divorce him. But it seems there was no adultery in this marriage. There may have been a temptation, but that was all—and Henry Simmons will be appropriately punished. So, let us gathered here focus on the petition and only on the petition, and not lose sight of the wisdom of God’s carefully wrought hierarchy: He rules over man and man rules over animals. Likewise, parents rule over children—and a man rules over his wife.”
Was Thomas smirking? He was, and Mary felt acutely the pain in her back and in her hand. She thought she might cry right there in the Town House.
“We in this court will never know the truth of what transpired the night when Mary Deerfield’s hand was broken and Thomas Deerfield’s servant ran off. There has been much hearsay and many accusations. Only Thomas and Mary and our God know all that occurred and all that was in their hearts. Was there cruelty?” He paused and stared intently at Thomas. “There may have been. There may even have been a pattern of misbehavior. I have my opinion. Others on this bench have theirs. As many a great pastor has observed, we see in this world with a vision obscured by transgression.”
Then he turned back to the crowd, continuing, “Just as man comes to God awash in whorishness and shame, so do a man and his wife come to marriage. Which brings us all to the Apostle Paul and his admonition: we must strive to cleanse ourselves from the filthiness of the flesh and the spirit. We must. We will fail, but there are degrees of failure. Now, this petition for divorce is founded neither on criminal uncleanliness nor fornication. There has been no desertion: I see both man and wife present in this room. And despite the lack of a child, there is no reason to suppose a conjugal insufficiency.” He shook his head. “This petition has been requested on one cause and one cause only: severe cruelty. But, alas, we have no witnesses to that cruelty and we have no proof of that cruelty. We have competing stories, that is all. And so we are denying Mary Deerfield’s petition for divorce. She is being ordered by this court to return today—this afternoon—to her husband, Thomas Deerfield. That is all.”
And that was it. It was done. Mary was aware that Thomas was vigorously shaking his lawyer’s hand and of how smug the two men seemed. Caleb Adams looked pleased in a way that caused her contempt for him to solidify into something solid and hard: dough into bread. Slaked lime and sand into brick. His condescension toward her—toward all women—rankled her. She felt her mother rubbing her back, and then Priscilla whispered into her ear that this was good, all would be well, and she was safe. But the word safe galled her. Safe? How did returning to a man who would try to skewer her hand to a table with a fork keep her safe? And then Thomas was approaching, and she saw the constable leading a jury into the room to weigh in on the afternoon’s petitions, but she stood there mute. She was forlorn, yes, she knew this was her outward visage; but she felt something inside her moving from a simmer to a boil. There was within her a great magazine of emotions, a warehouse her father’s size, and among them was her knowledge that the rot of her marriage was not worthy food for pigs, and the verdict of the court was an injustice that would not stand. Thomas’s violence would only escalate with this vindication, of this she was sure. And as he reached her side and took her right hand gently in his, she looked into his eyes—he was so very pleased with himself—and saw in the lines of his deep brown irises a pair of three-tined forks. Whether this was a vision or her imagination she couldn’t say. But she didn’t care. Yes, vengeance belonged to the Lord. But this decree was wrong. Perhaps those forks were a sign, after all: a sign for her. An idea, inchoate as the wisps of clouds that precede a great storm, began to form. Thomas was saying something to her. Her father was, too. But the words were lost in the burble of the Town House and the pelf of her memory, because one thought was lodging itself as firmly in her mind as yew roots in the ground. Yes, she thought, revenge belongs to God. But justice? That will be mine.