This was a lie, for I knew she was down at Fisher’s. I prayed for forgiveness. I also thanked Mim for her foresight in my heart. I thanked her, though I’d been angry with her all summer for her deceit and for the humiliation I’d suffered in front of the elders. Even now, to tell the truth—even now it hurts me when I think of sitting at the table with Sam, in those happy late-winter days when we were courting. It hurts me to think that as we whispered there, Mim was whispering with Mary. She would sneak into our springhouse and sit with Mary in the dark. It was then that she taught her the phrase “Jephthah’s daughter.” Worse, when I presented my letter to the elders in April, my letter defending Hard Mary, I found Mim had beaten me to it.
Now, however, I was glad of Mim’s scheming. I hung up another shirt, ignoring the doctor, but he stayed quiet so long, I got wary again. I risked a glance at him between the shirts. He had his hands behind his back and he was looking at the sky.
“Do you ever think of the planes?” he asked, gazing up.
This didn’t seem worth answering, so I didn’t.
He looked at me and smiled. “The planes that pass overhead. How very different things must look from there. I suppose you have never traveled this way. Never had the bird’s-eye view.”
I shrugged and dragged my basket a little away from him.
“It’s a very pleasant place, your Jericho. Utterly old-world.”
He waved his arm at the hill where dandelions grew and yellowjackets sailed over the grass. “It is most healthful-looking. Practically eighteenth-century. Like stepping through a looking glass into the past. Of course, you still suffer from ancient diseases—but then, you don’t have the modern ones!” He laughed, his modest little paunch quivering under the expensive, creamy shirt. “You’ve even preserved the nuclear family! I almost envy you—indeed, I do envy you when I think of my own workplace, where my young assistants nest like bats. The mess, Mrs. Esh! The state of the laundry! Even the Formica suffers.” He stuck a finger under his glasses, wiping away a bit of moisture. Then he looked at me sharply. “But to return to the subject at hand—I should think that your people, given their views, would not appreciate my equipment, that is, Mary’s type of intelligence.”
“We appreciate stuff that works,” I said, hating his radio voice.
“So do I!” he said eagerly, taking a step toward me. “So you see, we have something in common. Indeed, I am most intrigued by this point of convergence. I would like to understand how Mary came to be accepted in your community. It is a fascinating piece of data. Anecdotal, of course, but still fascinating.” He fished with two fingers in his breast pocket. “Allow me to give you my card.” He held out a square of white paper, and when I didn’t take it, he tucked it away again with a sad look.
“How disappointing! I made this card just for you. Knowing you’d appreciate ink and paper.”
He gave a sudden bark of laughter. He had changed from sadness to laughing so quick, it sent a shiver of warning down my legs. I felt hot and faint. Things buzzed loudly in the grass.
“Of course, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” said the doctor. “We could have such a productive conversation. I am particularly interested in your perspective, as I know that wherever Mary is now, she has spent a significant amount of time in your possession. How I know, you would not understand—you lack the bird’s-eye view. The point is, I know. And, Mrs. Esh, having . . . perhaps not committed theft, exactly, but having accepted stolen goods, you would not like to lie to me too. What would Jesus do?”
I thumped the basket on the ground and flared up at him. “Don’t talk to me about Jesus! You don’t even believe in God!”
“Oh, no,” he said, with an almost sorrowful look on his face. “On the contrary, I think it most likely God exists.”
I stared at him, his expression was so strange. Shirts billowed beside his face, framing him in white. “I am not sure,” he said, “but I think it highly probable. Indeed, Mary represents an attempt to deal with precisely this problem.”
His great melancholy eyes, dark and watchful behind his glasses. “Your attachment to her is most instructive. Do you not find it intriguing yourself—our need for simulations? By which I mean—how can I explain it—our need for characters. Characters in stories, or those personalities children give their toys. The feeling one sometimes has for animals.”
I didn’t answer. My heart ached. I remembered the day, the plan. My engagement had been published the previous week. I was going to take her to church that day. I went to the springhouse. I brushed her dress. A warbler chanted from the cherry tree.
“I have a pet cat, for example. At times I would swear she could speak. I find her totally unique among her species. In the same way, I become passionately attached to the characters in films. You will not be familiar with film; it is a story in pictures. But you will have heard of—well, of Jesus. An excellent example, really. It is the characters who must be made to suffer. They stimulate our most protective and our most aggressive impulses. A potent elixir! As far as we know, human beings have never lived without it.”
I told them I would meet them at the church. I wanted to walk, the day was so fine. Mother smiled, thinking I was shy of meeting Sam. She thought I wanted to slip in quietly, but I wanted everyone to see the gleaming lady on my arm. For she couldn’t stay in the springhouse. I thought she’d come to live with Sam and me, all clear and in the open, at our new place. She’d help me keep house, like an unmarried sister. I took her down the lane. In my pocket, a letter for the elders. She is a thinking creature.
“I admit I am not always pleasant to my little cat. She bears my frustration sometimes. And yet I would never willingly let her go. A character becomes almost part of oneself. Almost, you understand. As much as your people appreciate Mary, I imagine they’re also drawn to test her compliance. Little boys throwing stones, or asking dirty questions to mock her—that sort of thing. Oh, I understand perfectly. A character occupies the magical space between subject and object. How delicious! Out of sheer love, one squeezes it to death.”
I walked with her. I told her, “This is the lower pasture, Mary. This is the road. This is our Jericho.” The day was still bright, but clouds had gathered black over Front Mountain. They would break that afternoon. The air smelled richly of clover. All the carriages were drawn up for the service, and Father, standing there with the other elders, looked at me without surprise. “So,” he said, “this is the new gadget.” Behind him, Mim. She stood against the wall, a dark look on her face.
Dr. Stoll had drawn close to me. He had a terrible foreign smell—an odor like violets, vinegar, and burning. I felt I was going to be sick. At that moment Mary was down at Fisher’s, husking corn. She moved from one shock to another down the field. She would work all night, moonlight or no, unless her heart gave out. Then they’d find her slumped over in the morning. Once I walked by a field where she was lying facedown in the mud, her dress open in back. Two men talked over her. One was eating an onion.
Dr. Stoll gripped the clothesline above us with one hand, peering earnestly into my face between the shirts. “It is my conviction, Mrs. Esh, that any sufficiently advanced intelligence will create simulations of the greatest possible complexity. Perhaps even as complex as ourselves. What I am attempting to develop with Mary is a simulation that can comprehend its maker. But I believe she can do more. Her capacity is far beyond ours. She may eventually perceive her maker’s maker. She may give us news of God.”