Revive the Archive: Elizabeth Hiatt’s “The Sacred Heart” (2004)

Revive the Archive is a weekly series that brings new eyes to previously published works. This week we look at “The Sacred Heart” by Elizabeth Hiatt. This piece was originally published in volume 10 of The York Review.

She was glancing up at the Eiffel tower t-shirts in the souvenir shops. She smiled at him and pointed to the black ones that spelled out Paris in rhinestones. They definitely weren’t her style. He thought she would pick the silly children’s ones with an Eiffel tower made out of cheese or something. But that’s what he loved so much about her. Eight years after they met, he still worshiped her. They were so different, and he was never bored around her. She still made him laugh and smile every day. They’d only been kids when they met during the freshman fair at the college, riding next to one another on the carousel. After that ride, he couldn’t stay away, and now here they were, heading up the hills of Montmarte. He slipped his hand out of hers and placed it in his pocket, making sure the tiny box was still there.
Maxine turned away from the window and saw Nate feeling around in his jacket pocket. She knew it was coming. She had waited eight years for this day. As soon as Nathan showed her the plane tickets, she was ready.

Of course he took her to Paris to ask; he always wanted things to be perfect. It was as if he had planned out the perfect romance moment by moment for them. While other college students spent spring break in Cancun or Daytona, Nate booked trips for the two of them to go sailing in the Savannah or hiking in Nevada. She felt as if she was a character in some romance novel that Nate had been writing since college.

Falling in love was the last thing she had planned when she started college. She had goals. She was the first person in the family to get an education; she knew she was expected to succeed. No time for boys, or parities, she was going to law school. She would never go back to that tiny chicken-farm town on Maryland’s Eastern shore. Then Nate came along. He was adorable, all blue-eyed and tan skinned. White boys were never attractive before; they were all rednecks who teased her about her hair or her family. Nathan wasn’t some hillbilly from Maryland; he was from New York. His accent was adorable, and when he asked her to dinner the next night, she couldn’t say no. Four years later, when he asked her to move to New York with him, she couldn’t turn him down either.

Rent was expensive, so she had to drop out of law school after her second semester, but she was proud of her job at the women’s shelter. Maybe she’d had the wrong dreams all along, and all that she ever really wanted was to be loved unconditionally, no matter how successful she was.
Nate grabbed onto her arm and led the way up the hill, passing the cafes and porn shops that bombarded the side streets near the Sacred Heart church. It was the perfect place to ask her. He’d decided when he was 17 and went on a trip to Paris with his French class that this was the spot where he would take the woman of his dreams. The enormous white basilica high up on top of the hill was like a god looking over the city. And when he’d met Maxi on the carousel, he knew it was perfect because there is a carousel at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the church.

As they continued up the hill on their way to the carousel, Nate pictured how Maxine would look with the wind blowing through her hair as she smiled and then cried. What song would be playing? Then he realized her hair couldn’t blow in the wind. It was too short, and stuck to the side of her head. He kept thinking back to his fantasy girl, and realized that Maxine would never be her. When he met her, he was blown away. She looked like a statue of Cleopatra he had seen in the Met.
Of course his Irish catholic parents weren’t thrilled about him dating a black Baptist girl from Maryland, but he knew as soon as they met Maxi they would fall in love with her just as he had, and eventually they did. His mother had given him his grandmother’s engagement ring the week before they left for Paris. Everything was falling into place, but nothing felt right.

He thought about their life together: three-bedroom brownstone, their golden retriever “Wallace,” and the two kids they would have. And when he pictured those children, he realized what was wrong. All along he had dreamt of a boy and a girl, two years apart (He’d already picked out the names). Only, They were white. They looked like him and all of his family and his ex-girlfriends. He had never realized that he would be raising black children. Could he raise a black child? How could he, an Irish Catholic stockbroker from Manhattan, teach his son to be proud of his African heritage? Would they celebrate Kwanza? Would he have to listen to rap music and watch Chris Rock movies with them? Would he ever be black enough for them? Would Maxine ever be white enough for him?

And there he stood, frozen in front of the carousel. “This is it,” she thought, “the perfect place.” She stepped onto it, and handed the man a few Euros. Nathan followed her, and grabbed hold his hand. He pulled out his camera and took her picture. Around and around they went. He felt like this ride would never end. She didn’t know why he hadn’t asked yet. She was sweating even though the crisp autumn wind was zipping across her face with every rotation. Round and round.
And then, the ride stopped.

Maxine waited. Nothing happened. Nate stepped down and grabbed her hand. He thanked the .little old man in the operating booth, and looked up at the sun setting behind the church. He nodded his head towards the massive white church, caught Maxine’s eyes and asked, “Shall we?”