Page 9 of Bartholomew
Running a home did not worry me; I had been running this home since I was ten years old. Mother’s teachings ran through my head. Adapt, be quiet, be seen and not heard. Goodness, I could be invisible if I needed to be. If my sisters were right, and Bartholomew Temple would come to take issue with my body, then I would learn to accommodate that as well. However I could. Maybe, after I had given him a few children, he would come to see that my body was more than just something pretty to be looked at.
Perhaps after bearing him children, that freedom that my sisters spoke of would give me time to do things that actually interested me. Perhaps.
I put away the cleaning supplies. As I made my way to the staircase, I overheard my parents talking in Father’s study.
“Tomorrow will be such a joyous day for our family, Bertram,” my mother sighed happily.
“Don’t put all of your eggs in one basket, Claudia. A wedding day does not a marriage make.” My father’s stern words served as a warning.
“Whatever could you mean by that?” my mother tittered.
“I mean that Delilah is not a woman wanted in Zion. While having a daughter set for the schoolrooms was not anything I had ever dreamed of, this — this whole Delilah marrying Bartholomew, may be worse.” I could hear the clattering of the ice cubes in my father’s drink as he sloshed the liquid around the glass.
“How could one of our daughters marrying a Temple son be anything but good?” my mother protested.
“Because of just that. It’s not just one of our daughters marrying a Temple son. It’s Delilah marrying Bartholomew, who is easily the most eligible of the brothers after Leviticus. If she doesn’t play her cards right —” His words cut off, as though voicing those fears aloud would have caused even more harm.
“Once they are wed before God and before church, nothing can pull them asunder, Bertrand.” Mother may have been protesting, but I could hear that even she did not fully believe the words coming from her lips.
“You’re telling me that you don’t believe Titus Temple has the power to change damn near anything he wishes? If his son is unhappy in his marriage to Delilah, it could mean the worst for our family.” My father’s harshly whispered words sent a spike of dread through the pit of my stomach.
I did not wait to hear what Mother had to say. Instead, I quietly tiptoed up to my room and focused on what I could control. All of my belongings, what few there were, were packed into the small suitcase and set beside the door. My wedding dress hung on the door of my closet, pressed and ready to be donned tomorrow afternoon.
I readied myself for bed, making quick work of my general hygiene, and snuggled beneath the covers. I looked around the room, noting the pale-yellow walls, the dilapidated wallpaper that was beginning to peel in places.
This place may not have been much, but it had been home for me for my entire life. Leaving it felt bittersweet. Bitter in the fact that I would not have the comforts I had grown accustomed to. The way the lights danced through my window as cars passed by on the quiet streets of Zion in the evenings.
The faded curtain: the yellowed mini blinds–It was home. At least for one more night. Tomorrow, I would wed a man I had never spoken to, travel to his home, and pretend with every ounce of conviction in my body that I was happy and fulfilled there. I would do everything in my power to not be a burden to my family any longer. I would do everything in my power to honor Bartholomew and give him a happy life.
Even if that meant taking the parts of me I loved and squishing them down a little tighter into the boxes I kept them hidden in.
* * *
The next morning…
“If you don’t finish up in that shower, Delilah Rose Christian, I swear, we will be late to your own wedding and that Temple boy will leave you crying at the altar!” My mother’s shrill shrieks invaded the safe place I had made here in the bathroom.
I had allowed myself fifteen minutes, undisturbed. I sat in the tub of our shower, the water pelting down harsh and hot against my skin. Moving the curtain to the side, I saw the timer had six more minutes left on it. Six minutes I had every intention of taking advantage of.
I pulled my knees in as tight as my belly would allow, wrapping my arms around my knees and losing myself in the sensation of hot water raindrops and being enveloped by steam hugs. I needed just a few minutes to myself. Lord knew that nothing else actually belonged to me. Not my wants. Not my desires. Certainly not my person and definitely not my time.
“Delilah! I mean it!” My mother pounded on the door, and I woefully succumbed to it. There were only two minutes left on the timer, anyway. What good would two minutes do me?
“Coming, Mother,” I answered, drying off my body and looking into the steamy mirror. I took the towel and wiped the condensation off of the mirror, for once not caring that it would leave streaks. Letting the towel drop onto the floor, I looked at my body. I was no small woman. Voluptuous was the word my sisters had teased me with. My breasts were heavy, hanging down just a little further than I would have liked. My stomach below them wasn’t huge. It was not flat either, like my sisters’ bodies were. There were lumps, rolls, and a soft pooch of a stomach, just below my navel, that partially hid my womanhood from my own view.
I knew it was not right for a woman of God to look at herself as such, but I just could not understand why my body, this body that God gave me, was so offensive to so many people.
My father’s words from last night rang loudly in my memory. It did not matter if I understood it or not. I needed to be a good wife for my new husband, and I needed to remember the lessons Mother had taught me. Our home would be immaculate. The food on our table would be delicious. I would be quiet and courteous. I would be whatever he needed.
Resigning myself to my thoughts, I quickly dressed and made my way back to my room to prepare for the wedding. Passing the kitchen, I saw my mother setting out small sandwiches for my father, my brothers-in-law, and my sisters. A small lunch would be just right before all the chaos the rest of the day would bring.
I spied a chicken salad sandwich, one of my favorites, and reached for it.
Immediately, the chatter in the room ceased.
“Delilah, perhaps waiting until the feast would be best for you. Much to do, and all,” Mother ventured hesitantly, albeit kindly.
“Yes, nerves can make you all jittery before a wedding. Come, let us get you into your dress!” Hannah’s attempt at kindness was not lost on me, not by a long shot; however, it did not address the root issue. Heaven forbid that heavy Delilah eat a modest lunch before her wedding. Thankfully, I had snuck in more breakfast than normal this morning. It was not worth the fight.
