An Expectation of Heaven

She lived in a small attic-turned-apartment above the general store, sharing quarters with her parents and sleeping in a closet sized room, feeling suffocated and trapped by morning prayers and nightly scripture readings. Seeing evil and temptation everywhere, her parents watched her like a hawk - after school she donned an apron and worked behind the counter, evenings she studied under their watchful eyes, Sundays she spent in church. It was said that she slipped out and down the outside stairs each night after midnight and that by fourteen, she'd known every young man on the island and the entire scallop fleet, that she could be had for a smile and a compliment. By sixteen, her reputation for what was called easy virtue had spread to the mainland and they came in groups, from as far away as Yarmouth and Church Point - seeking an hour or two with a girl who didn't want to see their faces, just their money. By eighteen she was gone, once the rumors finally reached her parents, they waited til she had gone out, then simply locked the doors and burned her belongings, disowning and denying her with a religious satisfaction that shocked even the preacher. They were never to relent or forgive, never to admit the part they had played, never to speak her name again. There was, they told James, no place for a whore in their faith and it wasn't their fault she'd succumbed to the devil and the sins of the flesh. Harlots belong in hell for all eternity, her mother told the young minister, She's nothing to do with us and will burn alone.

Cast off and condemned but by no means penniless, she made her way through the provinces, eventually settling in Quebec and opening a small but selective and prosperous brothel. She had learned discretion and elegance as well as French, and spent the remainder of her life in comfort, overseeing, protecting and growing her business. She contracted no disease, never spent a night in jail, and was not struck down by her sin. When James wrote of her mother's death, she sent flowers, a showy and somewhat gaudy oversized wreath with an unsigned card - her father immediately had it removed - and several years later she arrived for his funeral, a tall and slim dark haired beauty in expensive and tasteful clothes who stayed only long enough to attend the service before slipping into a long, dark car complete with tinted windows and a driver, and leaving without fanfare. The wages of sin 'pear to be improving, Miss Clara remarked as she put the finishing touches on the gravesite and arranged the final flowers. James just shook his head but that Sunday he preached at length about pride and forgiveness and the obligations we have to each other - there was not a word about hellfire or harlots or sin. Ain't it a pleasure to have a preacher who lives in the real world, Clara added after the service and there were nods of agreement.

The girl who had lived above the store and thought herself unwanted and unloved, who made her way in a cold world and defied the rules not to mention her family and The Good Book, died quietly in Quebec just before her 70th birthday, a wealthy and well known woman of means and influence. Her only repentance was a last letter to James - she had enclosed a substantial check, to be used solely at his discretion, no strings attached - and asked that her ashes, soon to follow, be scattered on the island, at the place of his choosing.

I go to explain myself to God, she had written, and having no expectation of heaven, it seems right to me that the profits of my profession should be left behind.

Just a few weeks later, a package arrived from Quebec and James did as he'd been asked. Most of the island watched in respectful silence as he stood on the edge of the cliffs above St. Mary's Bay and emptied the plain black urn. He had searched for appropriate words for days and finally found a quote from Shakespeare. Some rise by sin, he shouted above the wind, Some by virtue fall. And with that, the wind carried the ashes over the cliff and into the churning ocean. Standing between my grandmother and Miss Clara - still in her apron and gardening gloves with her shears in one hand - I watched this small ceremony in awe. What did he mean, Nana? I finally asked and she and Miss Clara smiled at me. It means, Clara said clearly, that we all do the best we can with what we're given and hope for mercy. Nana took my hand and we navigated through the meadow grass toward the old Lincoln. The air was sweet with the smell of wildflowers and sunshine and a tinge of salt spray. And, she added, that we are all due an expectation of heaven.