Object of Your Love by Dorothy Speak Page A

I’m disappointed in you.”
    Blanche says, “Floyd, stop her! She can’t do this! How will this look at our church? She’ll bring disgrace on us all.”
    Floyd’s face has gone blank with fear. Faced with this opportunity to preach, he is nearly tongue-tied. “Jean,” he says feebly, “this is a terrible thing.”
    â€œIt’s not terrible,” I say exuberantly. “It’s the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.”
    â€œShe’s gone mad,” Blanche says.
    â€œWhere will you go?” asks Mother. What she means is: will you be warm? will you eat enough? will you have a comfortable bed? When a woman gets old, all she can remember is the advice her mother gave her, passed on by her mother before that. These are the absolutes. Dress for the weather. Don’t stay up late. Wear shoes that fit. Eat green vegetables. Nothing else can be known for sure. Perhaps nothing else is worth knowing.
    â€œYou can’t just walk out on Mother like this,” says Blanche. “It’s not right.”
    â€œFather walked out,” I remind her, “and nobody seems to blame him for it.”
    â€œThat’s different,” Blanche answers. “He’s a man. Men get restless. There are things they have to work out of their systems.”
    â€œOh, rot!” I say. “I’ve spent all my adult life doing the right thing, living here with Mother, supporting her when it was Father’s job.” At my words, Mother blinks rapidly and presses her lips together. “Now I’m going to do something for myself.”
    Reckless with joy, I go upstairs, still wearing my coat. Floyd comes after me, followed soon by Blanche, who lurks on the landing, thinking I haven’t heard her heaving herself moistly up the steps. I sense her bulk on the other side of the door, like that of a large witless animal, her breath whistling through her throat, her small black eyes peering through the crack in the door.
    â€œJean, stop,” Floyd says, his voice stern, though he is trembling with nerves. I realize for the first time that he is frightened of me but is obliged to press on because of his ministry. “Stop and think,” he says. “Look before you leap. You’re walking into the devil’s trap.”
    â€œSpare me your sermons, Floyd,” I say, pulling a suitcase from my closet. I toss it on the bed and snap it open.
    â€œDon’t cheapen yourself by doing this, Jean.”
    â€œCheapen!” I say angrily. “What worth have I ever had to anyone around here?”
    â€œMother loves you” was the best he could do. Ignoring him, I tear my clothes out of the closet. Hangers fly across the room. I pull things out of drawers and fling them violently into the suitcase.
    â€œYou won’t find happiness with this man,” Floyd says. “It won’t last. These things never do. He’ll leave you eventually and all you’ll be left with is your sin and your shame.”
    â€œHe won’t leave me,” I tell him defiantly, “but I welcome the sin and the shame anyway, as they seem to be what makes life worth living.”
    On the other side of the door, Blanche gulps air.
    *   *   *
    I let myself into the apartment with the key Dr. Beveridge gave me, put my suitcases down and walk from room to room, grateful and amazed at this plain space, which is now to become my home. Turning on lights, I observe the furniture, which is sparse and threadbare. This does not bother me. On the contrary, it makes me feel purified, worthy of the simple, love-driven life on which I am embarking. I sit down at the living-room window, which overlooks the road, and for some time I stare out at the dark foreign street with its intermittent evening traffic. After a while, I get up and raise the heat on the thermostat. On another tour of the rooms, I test the taps in the bathroom, browse