Fire Sermon Read online

  Also by Jamie Quatro

  I Want to Show You More

  FIRE SERMON

  A NOVEL

  JAMIE QUATRO

  Copyright © 2018 by Jamie Quatro

  Cover design by Gretchen Mergenthaler

  Cover photograph © Jackie Robinson/Arcangel

  Portions of this novel have appeared previously, in different form, in the Oxford American, Ecotone, Forty Stories: New Writing from Harper Perennial, and The Sewanee Review. Poetry in Section Two first appeared in Blackbird (“The Withholding”), Oxford American (“Protestant Worshipper”), the Mississippi Review (“Foreknowledge”), and in BOMB’s Word Choice poetry series (“Prayer”).

  Passages from Bluets used with permission by Maggie Nelson. Excerpts from “The Spirit and the Soul” from Collected Poems by Jack Gilbert, copyright © 2012 by Jack Gilbert. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved; Excerpts from “The Talkers” from Blood, Tin, Straw: Poems by Sharon Olds, copyright © 1999 by Sharon Olds. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved; Linda Gregg, excerpts from “Ravenous” and “Asking for Directions” from Chosen by the Lion. Copyright © 1994 by Linda Gregg. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc. on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, graywolfpress.org. Excerpt from “The Waste Land” from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T. S. Eliot. Copyright 1936 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. Copyright © renewed 1964 by Thomas Steams Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved. Excerpt from Selected Essays by T. S. Eliot. Copyright 1950 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. Copyright © renewed 1978 by Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between these fictional characters and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: January 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2704-4

  eISBN 978-0-8021-6555-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for this title.

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In loving memory of my grandmother, Naomi V. Utz

  Bhikkhus, all is burning.

  And what is the all that is burning?

  -Buddha,

  The Fire Sermon

  To Carthage then I came

  Burning burning burning burning

  O Lord Thou pluckest me out

  O Lord Thou pluckest

  burning

  -T. S. Eliot,

  The Waste Land

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Jamie Quatro

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Acknowledgments

  Back Cover

  ONE

  Shall we walk back? James asked outside the theater.

  Chicago, April 2017. The air chilly, the sky cleared off after an evening of rain. We’d left the film a half hour after it began, a poorly written, poorly acted farce. Now the sidewalk was empty. Tiny lights strung between gas lamps and storefronts created a glittery canopy above us. Charming, he’d said when we arrived earlier, a part of the city neither of us had seen. I was still in my clothes from that morning: white sweater, pencil skirt, suede ankle boots with zippers, high-heeled.

  I’ll call a car, I said. Your hotel’s on the way to mine.

  We rode in silence, the wet asphalt glowing red and green at stoplights. When we pulled up to his hotel, James turned to face me, adjusting his glasses. Okay, he said. Text me when you’re safely back. He leaned over to brush my cheek with his lips, but when the bellhop opened the rear door he didn’t get out. He sat looking ahead, rubbing a hand up and down, up and down his thigh.

  Both of us forty-five, born in the same year, four months apart; both married to our spouses for twenty-three years. Two similarities in what had come to seem, in the three years we’d known one another, a cosmically ordained accumulation: born and raised in the desert Southwest, allergic to peanuts, students of the Christian mystics and quantum theory and Moby Dick. Children the same ages and genders—older girl, younger boy—and ninety-six-year-old grandmothers who still lived independently. In the end it was this last fact that undid me, the longevity in our respective genes.

  The safe way to let yourself fall in love with someone who isn’t your spouse: imagine the life you might have together after both your spouses have passed away.

  (What I mean is, darling: when I made love with you that night, I was making love with the magnificent old man I knew you would become.)

  Can I help with any bags? the bellhop finally said.

  You’re at the Hyatt? James said to me.

  Yes.

  Take us to the Hyatt, he said to the driver, and pulled the door shut.

  But this story begins where others end: a boy and a girl in love, a wedding, a happily-ever-after.

  Malibu, June. A bride and four attendants on a grassy bluff above the Pacific. The morning is overcast, typical along the coast, the diffuse light ideal for photographs. The bride’s dress is raw silk in antique ivory and appears backlit against the slate of ocean. Sweetheart neckline, cap sleeves, full skirt with a train that will later gather into a bustle. She cradles her bouquet like an infant, six dozen roses in various stages of bloom, blush pink. The groomsmen, fraternity brothers, have already been photographed. They wait inside the chapel, where in half an hour the ceremony will begin. They wear gray tuxedos with ascot ties and slick black shoes. Three, including the groom, have the same round tortoiseshell glasses.

  Down the coast, at the country club in Pacific Palisades, the caterers are assembling the cake: five tiers frosted in a basket-weave pattern, with real ivy and roses trailing down one side. The bride has selected a different flavor for each tier: butter cream, chocolate, spice, red velvet. The top layer—which will be placed in the couple’s freezer for their first anniversary, until one night while they’re out, the bride’s younger brother, stoned and knowing nothing about such traditions, eats the whole thing—is white chocolate with raspberry-creme filling. The centerpieces are fishbowls with ivy and roses identical to those on the cake. They sit in a refrigerated van on Pacific Coast Highway, north of Sunset. The driver is stuck in beach traffic.

  But there is plenty of time.

  The bride
’s brother, age fifteen, is tasked with decorating the limo. Just married, he writes over and over in soap paint. How many times is too many? He draws a wedding bell but it comes out looking like a top hat so he wipes it away. He reaches into his pocket to feel the rings. Today is the first time he’s heard himself introduced to other people as a man. Margaret’s little brother, the Best Man.

  The bride’s sister is a senior in high school and bewildered by her role. The other bridesmaids seem to know what to talk about, how to look and act. She wonders why her sister didn’t ask one of them to be the maid of honor. She hardly knows her sister now. When she’d left home she wore frosty pink lipstick and bleached her naturally auburn hair; now she wears no makeup and has let her hair go dark. She talks of fellowships and stipends and moving to Princeton, where in the fall she’ll start graduate school. Her fiancé—husband—will work in Manhattan.

  You’ll have to come visit us, her sister said. It’s student housing, converted army barracks, nothing fancy. But we’ll have a spare room.

  The bride’s mother is forty-four, her father forty-six; both look young enough to be the ones getting married. Delight, pride, tears. Their oldest daughter, graduated summa cum laude in three years, marrying the first boy she ever seriously dated. So mature for her age, so self-possessed! And now this presidential fellowship. She’ll be one of the youngest PhDs in the country when she’s finished. An expert in something called postcolonial theory.

  And what will her husband do? guests ask.

  A job in New York City, her parents tell them. Consulting firm, financial services.

  Inside the chapel the wedding guests gather. Shuffle of programs, subdued talk, the organ playing Handel and Mozart, sotto voce. The ushers—also fraternity brothers—lead the three widowed grandmothers (two on the bride’s side, one on the groom’s), and then the mothers, down the aisle. The groom’s mother uses a cane, the stepfather walking just behind. The groom’s parents divorced when he was three, and his father was not invited to the wedding. The groom is an only child. An orphan, for all intents and purposes, he’s told the bride over the years.

  Today he will get a new family: lawyer father-in-law, middle school principal mother-in-law. Two siblings, two hale grandmothers.

  He’s a good listener, the bride told her parents. You should see him with children. You should hear him play the guitar.

  I realize you’re getting the raw end of this deal, he’d said to the bride, the day of their engagement.

  I’m getting you, she said.

  The groom is agnostic but it doesn’t bother her, when it comes to his actions he’s a better Christian than most Christians she knows; in fact he is—she can think of no better word—malleable. Alters his demeanor to meet the needs of others. His voice acquires a tenderness when he speaks to his mother on the phone, as if he’s tucking her in. His thick hair, the way his lips part and his tongue presses against his bottom teeth before he speaks—a deep thoughtfulness about him.

  Thomas knows how to handle Margaret, her mother has said to close friends, a few relatives. He respects our beliefs. And he knows how to put up with … well, a certain volatility in her temperament. She’ll go hard after something and once she gets it no longer care. A hammered gold necklace she pestered me to buy for a year … she wore it twice and gave it away.

  The groomsmen are lined up, the minister front and center. The bridesmaids come in too fast, but the flower girl—three-year-old daughter of the bride’s cousin—takes her time. From her basket she removes petals singly, squats to place each onto the fabric runner as if affixing stickers. No one hurries her, she is precious, cameras flash. Finally the pause, hush. The silence grows uncomfortable until the groom’s mother grabs her cane and pushes herself up. The organ notes blast and, with a great creaking and rustling, the guests rise and turn. Only then does the bride’s mother realize she forgot to stand first, the one thing required of her this day.

  When the bride appears the groom staggers. He reaches a hand to steady himself against the best man, who doesn’t notice. (He’s thinking about the rings: Does the bride give the groom the ring first? Or is it the reverse?) The father smiles to the audience, looking right, left, white teeth flashing against his smooth, darkly tanned skin, the bride’s face misty in an iridescent veil. Who gives this woman? In his practiced courtroom voice, the father makes a practiced speech: This is a moment of great honor and pride in the life of any father, but it is a particular moment of honor and pride for me, and for her mother, to give our firstborn daughter in marriage today, in the sight of the Lord and these many witnesses. He lifts the veil and kisses a bright cheek. The bride turns and hands the bouquet to her sister, who until this moment didn’t know that holding the flowers for the duration of the ceremony would be her responsibility. She doesn’t know what to do with her own bouquet. She mashes the two together and clutches them against her chest.

  A short homily, traditional vows, the exchange of rings (brother produces from pocket, feels immediately hungry, starving in fact, wonders if there will be actual meat or just chicken at the reception), lighting of the Unity Candle, two flames becoming one. Leave and cleave. The groom surprises the bride and sings to her, a groomsman handing him a ukulele. Laughter, tears, the kiss—a short one—and the organ charges out the recessional triplets. The couple exits, arm in arm, waving to guests.

  But the bride has forgotten her bouquet. The sister must walk down the aisle with it. Outside the chapel she discovers the bride and groom have been whisked off for photos. She puts the bouquet beneath a stone bench to keep it safe, but in the flurry of hugs and kisses and photographs, the confused clambering into limousines, the flowers are left behind. An hour into the reception the bride realizes her mistake. She asks a friend to go back and look, but by the time the friend gets to the chapel, the bouquet is gone.

  Tucked into the de-thorned roses was a linen handkerchief from the bride’s paternal grandmother, the color of a robin’s egg—something old, borrowed, and blue—hand-embroidered in white: DTH.

  Whose initials, Gran? she’d asked.

  Oh, just someone I used to know, her grandmother said.

  Twenty-five years later, when the grandmother dies of congestive heart failure (three months on an oxygen tank, How it hurts her last words) the forty-six-year-old granddaughter will receive a padded envelope in the mail. Inside will be eleven handkerchiefs, each identical to the one she lost on her wedding day, and a letter in her grandmother’s wavering cursive.

  June 13, 1993

  My darling Mags,

  I’ve just returned from your wedding. What a lovely ceremony! And I adore Thomas. We all do. He’ll be a wonderful husband. Your mother says you lost the hankie. No matter. As you see, I have more. His name was Donald Trent Harper. I met him the summer I stayed at Ruth’s lake house. Do you remember Auntie Ruth, from Michigan? The one who always wore jeweled cords on her spectacles? Don was a horseman. He was twenty-seven, ten years older than I was. That summer we fell in love and decided to get married. When I got back to Cleveland we had an argument over the telephone. Something silly, I don’t remember what. But I was rude. I insulted him and hung up. I was too proud to be the one to call back and apologize; I wanted him to call first. I waited a year but he never called. I married your grandpa Jack to spite Don, and when Jack died so young, I didn’t remarry—not because, as I always told your father, I could never love anyone as much as I loved Jack, but because I hoped Donald and I might someday find one another again. Which of course we never did.

  Well, my darling, now you know. I embroidered one hankie a month the year I waited for the telephone to ring. I should like it very much if you kept them. Perhaps they’ll remind you to always be the one to call back first.

  Loving you,

  Gran

  P.S. I trust you won’t share this with your father. There’s no harm in his believing I only ever loved your grandfather. I did love him, in my own way.

  Cosmically ordained. Foolish,
the way lovers scaffold passion with symbology, constructing a joint past which seems, even after a few hours, immemorial. Let us sing the litany of events that transpired before the moment we met. Love’s Old Testament. They recur to it often—remember this, remember that. Israelites in the desert, telling one another the old, old stories.

  How foolish we were, I tell myself now, hoping someday the word will sound true.

  James saw me first, the first time we met in person. July 2014, the conference in Nashville. We’d been writing to one another for almost a year. I was wearing a scoop-neck blouse, long skirt, flip-flops. My hair pulled back, no makeup. In the reception room a table was laid out with fruit and pastries, coffee and sweet tea. From across the room I heard him say my name. Maggie. There you are, I thought. Here you are, in my home state. He was wearing a navy button-down, khaki shorts, loafers with no socks. My traveling shoes, he said later, when he took them off.

  I tripped over the table leg to get to him. He stood waiting, one hand on his hip, the other holding a folder with his agenda inside. I felt he wanted to watch me approach, to study the way I moved; I imagined he felt that any movement on his end would dull his pleasure in watching. The look on his face was one I would become familiar with, whenever we were together: amusement on the surface, admiration beneath. A kind of ease, something already understood. We belong to one another.

  I shook his hand. Tattooed on his wrist: the word sight. Later, at lunch, I’d notice the other wrist: vision.

  I’ve been looking for you everywhere, he said. His bottom teeth were crooked, pleasingly so.

  I’ve been around, I said. It’s nice to meet you in person, finally.

  Likewise. Though a bit surreal. Are you coming to my talk?

  Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.

  And after?

  I’m free all afternoon, I said. What’s on your agenda?