I can’t say I sent Marjean Hostetler solely for Ellen’s benefit, but it’s close enough to that. She was the mother of several boys, wife to a nice but unremarkable man, and far too ravishingly beautiful to be a Mennonite. But there she was, dark-haired and knowing-eyed, inviting Marisol to lunch with little Ellen only four years old. The mother, a new churchgoer, occupied much of Marjean’s time with immature chatter. Marjean, as soon as she could, took the child up in her lap and looked deep into her face. She saw me there; I felt a thrill of delight. She saw me.
“Now, what do you like?” she asked Ellen. Not “what would you like,” which is politeness, but “what do you like,” as if the answers were the most important topic in the world.
Ellen smelled the other woman who was not her mother. She smelled Marjean’s sweat, her olive skin, her dry black cascade of hair (even though it was pinned up under the black veil). “I like muffins with butter,” said Ellen and Marjean gave her just that. Then Ellen asked for milk and Marjean gave her some of that.
“What do you like to do?” Marjean asked.
“Draw pictures,” said Ellen. “And sing songs.”
Marjean gave her paper and a package of crayons. Then, while the child coloured, Marjean said, “Have you heard this song? The joy of the Lord is my strength; the joy of the Lord is my strength; the joy of the Lord is my strength; the joy of the Lo-o-o-ord is – my – strength.”
When Ellen heard the song, which she hadn’t heard before, she felt as if it were utterly true. She did not understand how my joy could be her strength, but the tune made her believe that whatever the words meant, it was possible. She tried to colour and forget about smelling Marjean. The smell was the same as if she had walked into another home as a stranger and been adopted there. Familiar, welcoming, and yet oddly discomfiting, like a death foretold. Ellen hated to find herself wishing Marjean could be her mother.
“What are you drawing?” Marjean asked. She had served the mother another cup of tea, and saw that Marisol was about to launch into more talk about herself.
“You and me.”
Ellen had drawn Marjean with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders; down her whole body, in fact, to her feet.
“Do you think my hair is that long?” laughed Marjean.
“Maybe,” Ellen shrugged. She drew herself next to Marjean; they were holding hands. On herself, she drew a little black veil.
“Well, let’s see.” Marjean unpinned her veil and set it on the table. It was made of black lace and the pins had coloured heads on them. She detached a few bobby pins from her bun and with two hands pulled apart the hair which wanted to stay coiled in its daily knot. After some shaking and unravelling, the hair came spilling down around her shoulders.
In some cultures, they say a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. When I saw Marjean’s hair like that, I couldn’t help but think maybe people are onto something with that notion. Her face was radiant, simple and un-made-up. I could see the flame of Christ glowing up from her heart, dancing and illuminating her skin. The lines of her cheeks softened when shrouded by all that black hair; it reminded me of how she looked when she was a little girl. Untouched, but within reach.
Ellen and her mother opened their mouths. Ellen closed hers first and reached up to feel Marjean’s hair. She stretched it out as long as it would go, and it came to the woman’s elbows.
“See! Not even to my waist,” said Marjean, gazing at Ellen’s face.
I gave Marjean the best eyebrows ever; they were capable of appearing utterly concerned and full of compassion without the slightest hint of disapproval. Right now, they were peaked together as she looked at my Ellen.
Ellen went on colouring the picture. “Leave it like that,” she said, as Marjean started to coil up her long locks.
The hair came down around the shoulders once more. Ellen caught whiffs of its dryness again and the remnants of shampoo.
Then Marjean’s boys came in, stomping their feet. With one twist of her hand, the hair was up in a bun. With another twist, the lace veil was pinned on.
“Why do you wear that doily?” said Ellen.
At this, Marisol rolled her eyes and reached out as if to yank Ellen away from the question. There was a lot Marisol didn’t understand about the Mennonites; the wearing of veils was one thing. But she was also still ignorant then of their innate gentleness, their receptivity to bold questions.
“It’s my covering,” said Marjean, ignoring the mother’s furtive attempts to quieten the child.
“What are you covering?” Ellen’s eyes, queer and open, trained toward Marjean’s veil.
“My head, of course!”
“But why? Are you cold?”
“Do I look cold?”
“No! You look warm.”
“My head is like myself, and my veil covers me. It protects me,” said Marjean.
“Protects you from what?”
“From all sorts of things. It’s a symbol. Do you know what a symbol is?”
“Well, the cross is a symbol of Jesus.”
“Right, and my veil is a symbol of God over me, protecting me. And of my husband protecting me.”
“I want one,” decided Ellen. She turned to her mother. “Why don’t you wear one?”
Marisol stuttered.
Marjean said smoothly, “It’s not for everyone, Ellen. And certainly not for little girls.”
The boys, Ned, Moses and Samuel, ran into the kitchen tripping over their goofy smiles. Marjean fed them muffins and milk, patiently, and made them tie their shoes.
Following that visit, Marisol often dropped Ellen at Marjean’s when she had errands to run downtown. Ellen would sit in the kitchen asking Marjean questions about life, friendship, nature and me, which Marjean answered more than satisfactorily. Then Ellen hustled outside with the boys and played in the yard, especially with the youngest, Samuel.
When they were four-and-a-half, Samuel and Ellen crept into the dog house and pretended they were married. Samuel picked up a pretend telephone and said some boisterous words to someone on the other end. He put down the phone and gave his wife a big slobbery kiss on the mouth. Then he showed her the scar above his penis where he’d had a bladder operation. He pulled open his underwear and she couldn’t help but see his penis and anyway, she kind of wanted to.
At Marjean’s house, Ellen felt as though she might actually live there. It was where she would go if anything ever happened to her parents. It was where she would run if she ever ran away. She could really fit in there, she knew, even if she wasn’t a real Mennonite. It was always sad to leave and go home to her own family’s house, which felt wobbly and cold compared to Marjean’s.
But then, Marjean got sick and Ellen could not see her as much anymore. A long period passed during which she almost forgot about Marjean, Samuel, the kitchen, the doghouse. She developed several bladder infections, one of which landed her in the hospital where she’d been born. She met a beautiful nurse there named April, who answered Ellen’s lonely night-time calls and spent time with her whenever she could find an extra moment.
Thank goodness for that nurse – she was a diversion. I did not want Ellen to find out that Marjean was lying in the next wing, undergoing procedures for the treatment of leukemia. Soon the doctors would fly Marjean to Winnipeg Hospital for aggressive radiation therapy, but within several months she would be dead.
Marjean wanted to say something to her little Ellen, but I needed both of them to focus on their own matters right then. So the husband, Travis, was sent to see Ellen following a visit to his wife. He brought her a small stuffed penguin, which Marjean had prayed over. Although Ellen did not know Travis well, she did feel the presence of Marjean inside the penguin and responded by crying and developing a brief, bewildered attachment to the man who’d brought it to her.
Travis invited Ellen’s family to dinner when Marjean got home from Winnipeg. She was very tired; she didn’t cook. When she saw Ellen, she went straight to the girl and lifted her up into her arms. Then she had to sit down in an armchair and wouldn’t let Ellen out of her sight. For her part, Ellen did not want any child’s play this night, as if she knew it would be the last time she saw Marjean. She sat happily in the woman’s arms, vaguely aware of Marisol’s hawking presence and understandable discomfort at the other woman’s complete possession of her child. Ellen buried her face in Marjean’s neck and wondered why everything felt so slow and sad. She sniffed. She smelled Marjean’s skin like old paper and spices and woodsmoke, but something else was different.
She sniffed again, and sat up. She stared at Marjean, who stared back in her quiet, fierce, matter-of-fact way.
Marjean took Ellen by the hand and led her to the washroom. The adults stayed in the sitting room, politely puzzled in the dishonest way adults have of pretending they know what’s going on, when they do not.
In the bathroom, Marjean and Ellen stood in front of the mirror. Marjean gazed at herself; she saw me there, the Is-ness of me hovering like a perfect shadow beneath the Christ light in her. I was already calling her back, then.
“The reason I don’t smell right is because this – ” she pointed to her black swath of hair – “is a wig.”
“Let me see.”
Marjean took off the wig. Ellen gulped at the sight of the bald head, with bits of fuzz here and there. She sensed that she was now becoming part of something important.
Then Marjean placed the wig on top of Ellen’s head. Ellen looked at them in the mirror – beautiful, exotic Marjean without her crowning glory, and little her with a big black Mennonite head of hair. A laugh bubbled up. There was something very wrong with Marjean for her head to be bald. Ellen giggled again. She wasn’t sure if she meant it, or if she was just nervous, or if Marjean needed her to be a happy little child. She kept giggling because she wanted to cry. But Marjean already looked very tight and serious, so Ellen kept laughing until Marjean smiled softly. Then Marjean put on the wig again and they left the bathroom holding hands, like they’d shared a sort of private secret together.
On the way home, she told her mother about what had happened in the bathroom. Marisol said jealously, “She has not even let her own children see her without the wig.”
At the funeral – this was Ellen’s first – there was a black-and-white photo of Marjean, atop the grey coffin. In it, she was not quite smiling, but she looked knowing and healthy and wise. Ellen imagined clutching the photo to her chest and taking Marjean into her heart the same way as she had done with Jesus. She looked up and noticed all the other people were very upset and crying. She thought, Maybe they don’t know how to take Marjean into their hearts. Maybe I have her all to myself. Then she gave a little smile and felt Marjean smile back, right inside her. Suddenly the song came back to her, the first one Marjean had ever sung to her: The joy of the Lo-o-ord is my strength . . . Now she had a better idea of its meaning.