CHAPTER A
March noticed that she was looking at him. It was like that: like a fingertip gently stroking his left earlobe ("Never told!"), so has he come to know the contact, even the direction, not having to lift his eyes nor slyly rotate his head nor even cadge a glance - Not even a glance! - he knew she’d be saying that, thinking it, talking to herself, "Suffer!" his whole body yells, screams back at her: he fading into a mist of bar stool smoke, puffing a big, fat log of a cigar, toking it slowly, blowing clouds of smoke, laughing currents through them, swirling, rising high, she ever eager for smoke-signals, so he knows, "(Bitch! Can’t you read?"), knows as the tingling intensifies, her misery, her whelpish whimpering - Shit! - March stands up, slips his drink like a ring, shot-glass, and walks towards her, not to meet her, but to snag her, drag her, like netting fish: others attach to him like seaweed and crabs and other fickle flotsam and jetsam ... out the door: no name, no face - but he knows: not a moment’s hesitation!
Who at "The Chalice" didn’t know March Forbar? Knew him because they couldn’t not see him. Six-six, a thundering clunk of muscular flesh, screaming pure blond hair with stunning glints of red: hair which always glinted, even in the dark - crimson specks which appeared to be pulses: Everyone is fascinated! - he knows that, has lived with it all his life, as he has with being the leader, the champion, the First Team whatever team. His was a world fitted to his body: like dressing in the morning, he put on the day, everyone and everything was adornment to him: Fits! - is not only word of ritual, of the affirmation that what is in the mirror is perfect and as it should be, but it is confirmation of the readiness of the day to meet him: it is the world which fits about him. "Everything in its place," not an exclamation but a requirement; not an expectation, but a demand - "There’s a place for everything," he was fond of asserting, "Everything fits."
Oh, dear God! - This almost her only prayer; praying now for time she did not count - "Oh, dear God!" with hands pressed hard together, as if the fingers were poised to pounce, wrestle the members of the other hand: ohdeargod: for what more had Prissy ever prayed? "Prissy, what do you want to pray for tonight, dear?" - never the nerve to say to her Mother what it was her Mother had told her was the only thing worthwhile to pray for: "A good husband, dear. A good husband." The second, a confirmation of how important the first statement had been. For what else would a good and proper Mormon daughter pray for - tell her mother she’s praying for? - than a good husband? "To become an Eternal Family we must marry a good husband," not she said "good man" or "good male," no, meaning exactly what she said, "husband" - Priscilla knowing at the youngest of ages the nuanced difference between a "good man" - as she later came to titter: "stud!" - and a "good husband." The latter is the one who will seed her with children aplenty, and commit himself to her for eternity: "Sealed marriage," Mother had stopped saying it; it needed not to be said anymore: "Sealed marriage is the only marriage for you, Prissy."
("We?")
For her whole life Priscilla has privately prayed this only prayer - until college. No - she corrects this internal dialogue - You prayed this until... she struggles to move to the next sentence: for she knows the thought, itself, marks the departure: until you met the men from The Chalice!
Could this be her whole defense? She sees herself standing before a jury - a jury of two: Mom and Dad ... but she knows, a jury celestial, here and on other planets - she does not have to lie down to dream this, for she sees it in front of her: here as she has frozen her stroke, knowing that this stroke: to sign her name, knowing that this first stroke, this "P" once formed was the mark, itself a seal - that she was condemning herself: What verdict could the jury bring in but ....?
There had been many clever girls. "Some women," a phrase of wicked chuckle: women popping open their blouses, blowing up skirts, zipping down his fly - Divorcees, mostly, but that widow - ah, the widow! ... a sentence of erotic recall which forms as image, slithers down, sweaty red hot testosterone, searing his thighs: he opens the note as he jiggles his legs, shaking off the memory ... perfumed note, just his name: March - "Bitch, probably doesn’t even know my last name!" - again, not said, just from ear to ear, an echo of an oft sounded sentiment: a bitterness no one but March could taste: more bitter than sucking down cigar-ash afloat all night in a gulp of brandy - How many times?! ... "Forbar, March, it’s French." But he knew there was more. His father averts his eyes as he says it, casting down his words, not proclaiming them: this so unambiguously clear to a young man whose heart and mind was his name: March! - Years later, on his own: freshman, doing some stupid paper on "Your Family History," finding it not just French, but as a French-disguise: a masque ... It came to him more than any printed word: he knew his roots - twenty generations in Skaneateles: streets named for his ancient ones, the library itself: major donors, athletic trophies stamped Forbar: "Mine, too! State Champions. MVP." ... it just came: it ran up to him, he heard its patter: not thudding, not shoe-leather, no, patter: moccasin, fast, speedy - his blood raced as he raced towards the goal-line! - Four Bear: an ancient chief, medicine man - Why the shame?
"March" on the envelope. Single-sheet, invitation card: no frills, no fancy, her name: "Priscilla." Clear, but as clear is feminine: full-strokes, not just readable but vocal: speaking in their delighted stroll across the card: "Innocence!"
He heard. March hears. ("Bitch!")