Vytas stood at the altar, steadfastly facing forward. Catching sight of his bride out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small woman in white. Lidia would understand, he thought. Surely she would understand and forgive. And waiting beside this unknown girl, he remembered a love that would never be replaced.
Danguole stood at the altar, resolutely facing forward. Wearing a plain-necked white dress she had made herself, she ignored her groom. She had been expecting a wedding necklace. None had come. And waiting tight-lipped at the altar, she gripped the bouquet of calla lilies to her waist.
The wedding luncheon took place at home, a long row of tables running from front window to back. Women nodded with approval at the thrift of tablecloths with edges overlapping, the mismatch of borrowed dishes, cutlery and glasses. The men noted the bottles of rye placed every few feet along the table. And dining on beef birds, chicken in mushroom sauce, poppy seed cake and the coveted Napoleonas, a wedding cake of twenty thin layers held together with custard and apricots, they praised food worthy of its reputation.
They toasted the bride, the groom, the bride’s parents, the groom’s parents, the bridesmaids and the ushers. Clinking spoons against glasses, they demanded a kiss from the bridal couple. They ate, drank and laughed. They gave speeches amid the wedding sparkle. And singing old songs about swains coming on steeds to woo maidens at the garden gate, they felt the stirring of tears.
If the well-wishers noticed the groom’s stunned look, they attributed it to the momentous occasion. If he reached under the table for his bride’s hand, they nodded at a newly married man’s ardour. If the bride pulled her hand away, they approved her shyness. And attributing her pleased smile to the satisfaction of a woman well-married, his lost look to an excess of love, they sighed in contentment.
No one noticed the looks exchanged by the two mothers, one of triumphant contentment, the other of stolid resolve.
After the wedding, Danguole wanted to move into Vytas’ room upstairs. Playing with her baby, she would wait for her husband to come home. They would go downstairs for a dinner which her mother would have prepared. She might offer to clean up. And climbing back upstairs with husband and baby, she would go to bed.
“Vytas is moving downstairs,” Ona said.
“No, he’s not,” Juze said. “We are all moving to the rooms above his office.”
“My daughter is not going anywhere. She’s pregnant. Who will take care of her? You? You’ll be working as your son’s secretary. If you and Brunius want to leave, I can’t stop you but the newlyweds stay here.”
“Then we stay, too.”
“As you wish,” Ona said. “Of course, now that you and Brunius are family, you will not be charged rent but we need the money from Vytas’ room.”
“They are a newly married couple. They need their privacy.”
“Privacy? There’ll be no privacy when the baby comes.”
“It’s the custom for the bride to move to the home of the groom,” Juze said, exasperated beyond patience. “Danguole should move upstairs, it’s only right.”
“Never mind what’s right. We’ll do what’s practical especially with a baby on the way. That shouldn’t be too hard for a smart teacher woman to understand,” Ona said, also exasperated beyond patience. Free lodging for two people. Did the woman have no head for practicalities? Could she not see the generosity of the gesture?
“So it’ll be Vytas, Danguole and the baby in the same room as Jonas and you?”
“What‘s wrong with that? And who’s going to look after the child while you are at work? Do you think my emptyheaded daughter will be able to manage by herself? No. I’ll have to help her. And on top of everything else I have to do. Be practical, Juze. There’s no other way.”
Juze glared at the floor, thwarted once again by this peasant woman.
“Oh don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to your precious son,” Ona said. “We’ll take good care of him.”
Vytas moved downstairs to keep the peace. His room was rented to a dark-haired man they rarely saw. The household now numbered seven. With the baby coming, it would soon be eight.
Ona took care of them all. She had meals ready on the table when they came home. She handed out lunches as they left in the mornings. Take it, she said, thrusting it into Juze’s hands. Juze accepted. And a truce settled upon the household.
Every morning before leaving for the hospital, Vytas would go upstairs. Bending over his mother as she lay in bed, groggy with sleep, he would kiss her goodbye. She would roll over. She would touch his face. And tucking the blanket along the length of her spine as she fell back into the instant sweetness of sleep, he would think of his future child.
He would arrive at St. Joseph’s, a brown brick building on the lake. Coming down Sunnyside Avenue, a narrow treed street along which visitors parked their cars, he would enter through Emergency. So much suffering, he would think, passing through the low-ceilinged waiting room filled with anxious relatives. And hurrying down the narrow tiled corridor, he would move towards work.
His patients were young and old, injured, unwell or simply fearful. Wearing his white coat, his stethoscope lying like two arms around his neck, he would attend. He would listen to their chests. He would soothe anguished faces. And sensing their fears abating, his pain would lessen, too.
At home, Danguole grumbled. As the pregnancy progressed, she grumbled that she didn’t feel well. She grumbled that her husband spent too much time with his parents and not enough time with hers. She grumbled that he didn’t like them. She accused him of not loving her. Calling him high and mighty, her reproaches were never ending.
He reasoned and reassured. Trying to mollify, he would cup her chin and turn her to face him. He would will his eyes to fill with the love she wanted to see. She would look back, cold and appraising. And knowing he could not make his wife happy, he would drop his hand and look away.
He found that it wasn’t hard to spend all of his time working. Turning his mind away from his wife, her presence receded to the background, her voice no more bothersome than a distant radio. He spent little time at home. No one questioned him. And climbing the stairs to the darkened house late at night, anticipating the stiff chill of her back awaiting him in bed, his pang of guilt evaporated.
He would lift the covers, climbing in next to a woman who pretended that she hadn’t heard him come home. Placing his arm around her, he would rest a hand on her burgeoning belly. He would try to believe that he might come to love her. He knew he could not. And lying in the dark, wishing that the woman next to him were Lidia, he dreamt of the life that should have been theirs.
On Christmas Eve Vytas arranged to be off duty. Wishing to atone for his shortcomings, he planned to spend the entire evening with his family. He would be attentive to his in-laws. He would show kindness to his unloved wife. And sitting amid family at the kitchen table, he took her unhappy hand in his.
Ona had prepared Kūčias, a meal served once a year. Cooking for two weeks, she had made herring in onions, herring in tomato sauce, herring in mushrooms, white fish balls, vinegretas and potato salad. She had baked a honey cake, a marble cake and ausutes, deep-fried twists of pastry dusted with icing sugar. She had spooned brandy over the Christmas cake in the basement. And going to the church, she brought home a communion wafer blessed by the priest.