The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [204]
It was on one of these walks that Mitchell discovered the Friends Meeting House. He’d stopped on the battlefield to read the historical marker beside its only remaining tree. Halfway through the text, Mitchell realized that the “Liberty Oak” the marker commemorated had died of blight years ago, and that the tree growing there now was a mere replacement, a variety more resistant to insect infestation but less beautiful or big. Which was a history lesson in itself. It applied to so many American things. He started walking again, finally following the gravel road into the wooded parking lot of the Quaker compound.
Various fuel-sipping vehicles—two Honda Civics, two VW Rabbits, and a Ford Fiesta—were nosed up against the wall of the cemetery. Aside from the pristine Meeting House, which was set next to the woods, the grounds contained a scruffy playground and a long, many-winged, aluminum-sided building with an asphalt roof that housed the preschool, office, and reception rooms. The bumper stickers on the cars pictured Planet Earth next to the slogan save your mother, or simply, peace. The Prettybrook Friends had their share of crunchy, sandal-wearing members, but as Mitchell got to know them better that summer, he saw that the stereotype only went so far. There were older Quakers, like the Pettengills, who were formal in bearing and given to plain dress. There was a gray-bearded, suspenders-wearing man who resembled Burl Ives. Joe Yamamoto, a chemical engineering professor from Rutgers, and his wife, June, were faithful attendees of the eleven o’clock Meeting. Claire Ruth, a bank manager in town, had gone to Quaker schools; her daughter, Nell, worked with disabled children in Philadelphia. Bob and Eustacia Tavern were retired, Bob an amateur astronomer, Eustacia a former elementary school teacher who now penned fiery letters to the Prettybrook Packet and The Trentonian about pesticide runoff in the Delaware region water system. There were usually a few visitors, too, American-born Buddhists in town for a conference, or a student from the theological seminary.
Even Voltaire had approved of the Quakers. Goethe counted himself as an admirer. Emerson said, “I am more of a Quaker than anything else. I believe in the still, small voice.” Sitting on the back bench, Mitchell tried to do the same. But it was difficult. His mind was too preoccupied with daydreams. The reason he hadn’t left Prettybrook yet was because Madeleine didn’t want him to. She told him she felt better when he was around. She looked up at him, furrowing her brow adorably, and said, “Don’t go. You have to save me from my parents.” They spent nearly every minute of every day together. They sat on the deck, reading, or walked into town for coffee or ice cream. With Bankhead gone and Mitchell at least physically taking his place, his chronic credulity began flaring up. In the silence of Quaker Meeting, Mitchell wondered, for instance, if Madeleine’s having gotten married to Bankhead might be all part of the plan, a plan that was more complex than he’d originally anticipated. Maybe he had arrived in New York at just the right time.
Every week, when the elders shook hands, signaling that Meeting was over, Mitchell opened his eyes to realize that he hadn’t stilled his mind or been moved to speak. He went outside to the picnic table where Claire Ruth was setting out juice and fruit and, after chatting awhile, made his way back to the ongoing drama at the Hannas’.
For the first few days after Leonard had taken off, they’d concentrated on trying to find him. Alton contacted the New York City police and the New York State police, only to be told both times that a husband’s abandoning his wife was considered a personal matter and didn