The Signature of All Things

boulder, like herself. But such a thing cannot be taught. This was a useless exchange—a mere preamble to humiliation, if anything.
    “I have taken up enough of your evening,” Alma said, standing up. “You have a sick child to attend. Forgive me.”
    For a moment, Prudence hesitated, as though she might reach forward, or ask her sister to stay. The moment passed quickly, though, if it had ever existed at all. She merely said, “I am pleased that you visited.”
    Why do we differ so? Alma wanted to beg. Why can we not be close?
    Instead she asked, “Will you join us at the wedding on Saturday?” although she already suspected the answer would be a demurral.
    “I fear not,” Prudence replied. She did not supply a reason. Both of them knew why: because Prudence would never again set foot at White Acre. Henry would not accept it, and nor would Prudence herself.
    “All good wishes to you, then,” concluded Alma.
    “And to you,” Prudence replied.
    It was only when Alma was halfway up the street that she realized what she had just done: she had not only asked a weary forty-eight-year-old mother—with a sick child in the house!—for advice on the art of copulation,but she had asked the daughter of a whore for advice on the art of copulation. How could Alma have forgotten Prudence’s shameful origins? Prudence could never have forgotten it herself, and was likely living an existence of perfect rigor and righteousness in order to counter the infamous depravities of her natural mother. Yet Alma had barreled into that humble, decent, and constrained household nonetheless, with questions on the tricks and trade of seduction.
    Alma sat down on an abandoned barrel in a posture of dejection. She wished to go back to the Dixon house and apologize, but how could she? What could she say, that would not make the situation even more distressing?
    How could she be such a blundering clod?
    Where on earth had all her good sense gone?
----
    T he afternoon before her wedding, two items of interest arrived in the post for Alma.
    The first item was an envelope postmarked Framingham, Massachusetts, with the name “Pike” written in the corner. Alma immediately assumed this must be a letter for Ambrose, as it was obviously from his family, but the envelope was unmistakably addressed to her, so she opened it.
Dear Miss Whittaker—
I apologize that I shall be unable to attend your wedding to my son, Ambrose, but I am much the invalid, and such a long journey is far outside my capabilities. I was pleased, however, to receive the information that Ambrose is soon to enter into the state of holy matrimony. My son has lived for so many years in seclusion from family and society that I had long ago abandoned the hope of his ever taking a bride. What’s more, his young heart was so deeply injured long ago by the death of a girl whom he had much admired and adored—a girl from a fine Christian family in our own community, whom we had all assumed he would wed—that I feared his sensibilities had been irreparably harmed, such that he could never again know the rewards of natural affection. Perhaps I am speaking too freely, though certainly he has told you all. The news of his engagement, then, was welcome, for it showed evidence of a healed heart.
I have received your wedding portrait. You appear a capable woman. I see no sign of foolery or frivolity in your countenance. I do not hesitate to say that my son needs just such a woman. He is a clever boy—quite my cleverest—and as a child he was my chiefest joy, yet he has spent far too many years idly gazing at clouds and stars and flowers. I fear, too, that he believes he has outwitted Christianity. You may be the woman to correct him of that misconception. One prays that a decent marriage shall cure him of playing the moral truant. In conclusion, I regret that I cannot see my son wed, but I hold high hopes for your union. It would warm this mother’s heart to know that her child was elevating his mind with contemplation of God through the discipline of scriptural study and regular prayer. Please see to it that he does.
His brothers and I welcome you to the family. I suppose that is understood. Notwithstanding, it bears saying.
Yours, Constance Pike.
    The only thing Alma gleaned from this letter was: a girl whom he had much admired and adored. Despite his mother’s certainty that he had told all, Ambrose had told nothing. Who had the girl been? When had she died? Ambrose had left