The Invention of Wings(130)

            It will always be a quirk of fate that Israel arrived at this particular moment. I was folding the letter into my pocket when I looked up and saw him coming toward me without his coat or hat. It was the middle of the afternoon.

            He’d never mentioned the episode with Jane Bettleman. He undoubtedly knew of it. Everyone at Arch Street knew of it. It had divided the members into those who thought I was haughty and brazen and those who thought I merely impassioned and precipitate. I assumed he was among the latter.

            As he took a seat beside me, his knee pressed against my leg and a tiny heat moved across my chest. He still had his beard. It was well-clipped, but longer with more silver. I hadn’t seen him in weeks except at Meeting. There’d been no explanation for his absence. I’d told myself it was the inevitable way of things.

            I removed my glasses. “. . . Israel . . . this is unexpected.”

            There was an exigency about him. I felt it like a disturbance in the air.

            “I’ve wanted to speak to you for some time, but I’ve resisted. I worried how you might receive what I have to say.”

            Surely this wasn’t about the hubbub with Mrs. Bettleman. That had been months ago.

            “. . . Is there some difficult news?” I asked.

            “I imagine this will seem abrupt, Sarah, but I’ve come determined to speak and let things fall or stand as they will. For five years now, I’ve struggled with my feelings concerning you.”

            I felt my breath suddenly leave me. He looked off toward the bare-bone trees at the perimeter of the yard. “I’ve grieved Rebecca, perhaps too long. It became a habit, grieving her. I’ve been enthralled to her memory to the exclusion of too many things.”

            He bowed his head. I wanted to reassure him it was all right, but it had never been all right, and I remained quiet.

            “I’ve come to say I’m sorry,” he said. “It seemed unfair to ask you to be my wife when I felt so tied to her.”

            It was an apology then, not a proposal. “. . . You don’t need to apologize.”

            He went on as if I’d said nothing. “Some weeks ago, I dreamed of her. She came to me, holding the locket, the one Becky insisted you wear that time. She placed it in my hand. When I woke, it felt as if she’d released me.”

            I’d been staring miserably at my hands, but I gazed up at him, aware of how palpable the word released had been in his voice, how the moment was rearranging itself.

            “You must know I care deeply for you,” he said. “A man is not meant to be alone. The children are growing, but the younger ones still need a mother, and Green Hill is in need of a mistress. Catherine has expressed a wish to move back to her house in town. I’m saying it poorly. I’m asking—I’m hoping you’ll be my wife.”

            I’d imagined this moment: I would feel an outpouring of joy. I would close my eyes and know that my life had truly begun. I would say, Dearest Israel, yes. Everything in the world would be yes.

            It was not like that. What I felt was quiet and strange. It was happiness defiled by fear. For an imperishable minute I couldn’t speak.

            My silence distressed him. “Sarah?” he said.

            “. . . I want to say yes . . . and yet, as you know, I’ve set my course for a vocation. The ministry . . . What I mean to say is . . . could I be your wife and a minister?”

            His eyes widened. “I hadn’t imagined you would want to continue with your ambition after we married. Would you really want that?”

            “I would. With all my heart.”