“But poor Bernice. I suppose that man with the Volvo lost interest?”
Her shoulders lift in a contemptuous shrug.
“Is she going to be all right then?”
“Of course. The idea wasn’t to die, just to get everybody in a flap. And it was a terrific success as far as that went. Her roommate Gertie Payne called me at three this morning, she’s a nervous Nellie at the best of times, and much worse since she got engaged … Anyhow she was in such a panic I had to call the ambulance for her. Right now, Gert is the one who needs the hospital bed, if you ask me. They’ll keep Bernice in the psychiatric ward for a week to assess her, and she’ll enjoy the drama of that.”
“You don’t seem very sympathetic,” I venture.
“Why should I be? Imagine getting into a state like that about a potbellied little man with dentures.”
“Well, these things are all in the eye of the beholder.”
She gives a snort. “Then she needs glasses. Imagine at the age of thirty-five not realizing he was just putting in time between divorces. Anyone could have told her. Come to that, I did tell her.”
“Which didn’t help much, I imagine.”
“There’s no cure for stupidity, if that’s what you mean.”
“Had you been in touch with her recently? I mean, you couldn’t have seen this coming, or you’d have –”
“Haven’t laid eyes on her for weeks. I just couldn’t stick it any more. Whining away about why didn’t he call and so forth – enough to drive you dippy. So I just left her alone.”
After an uncomfortable pause I say, “Well, I’m glad you went to see her today. I’m sure she was glad to see you.”
“Oh, yes. In her fashion,” Marion says carelessly. For a moment she looks uncannily like Edwin. I pull my sweater more closely around me. “Anyhow,” she goes on, “we had a long talk. With Gertie moving out this spring, we thought the two of us might share a two-bedroom, if one comes up in my building. Wouldn’t live in hers, it’s got cockroaches. Anyhow, we’ll see. It won’t make any difference to you, if it turns out you need a place; we’ll still have the sofa bed. As a matter of fact, Mother, what I really dropped in for was to ask you over for a meal some time soon. You need to get out more, and I doubt if you’re eating properly. That extra weight on you obviously means too much carbohydrate. Say Friday night.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you, dear, but …” My voice trails away as I wonder what would happen if I were to say, Friday, dear, is Tom’s regular time to call here for various kinds of intercourse.
“Yes, that would be lovely.” I look at her, perplexed. She is adjusting her braids at the back of the neat Guides hat.
“Friday at six,” she says briskly. “I’ll do you a wok dinner.”
“That sounds good. Thanks, dear.”
“Haven’t seen enough of you lately. Been busy, but that’s no excuse. It’s not that I don’t care, you know.” Then, to my surprise, she leans forward and drops a peck of a kiss on my cheek. The next moment she is gone.
“Good heavens, she’s happy. Will wonders never cease,” I say to the empty hall.
“Luckily, no,” Mrs. Wilson answers.
“So it was Bernice after all. Well, I’m glad for her. I just hope it will be a good thing for both of them.”
“It probably will.”
“It’s a bit of a shock just the same. I feel I’m just beginning to know Marion.”
“Maybe till now you haven’t been equipped for it.”
“That could be.”
“Always rather disturbing,” she says calmly, “to recognize the truth. Strains our very limited capacities. No offence meant.”
“None taken.”
A hard, bright winter morning. I’m on my way to work. Blinking in the glare of sun on snow, a few people like walking bundles scurry along our street trying to achieve minimal exposure to the cold. For once I am no more anonymous than anyone else, though only a small segment of my face can be seen between my woolly hat and big muffler. John Wright is a stride past before he recognizes me. Then his red face – what is visible of it between coat collar and fur hat – breaks into a smile.
“Morning, Rowena. Bloody cold, eh?”
“Awful. How was your holiday?”
“Great. Shock getting back to this.”
“It must be. Pam well?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“And how did you find Sebastian?” I had no intention of mentioning Seb, and wonder with annoyance what has made me do it. On his new (or old) footing as a friend, Cuthbert is coming to dinner, I’ve been pleasantly planning the menu, and have no desire to hear anything whatsoever that might prove disturbing. I eye John sidelong, hoping he has not heard the question. But the bit of his face I can see is folded into a frown.
“Not well. Fact is, we’re worried.”
“Oh, dear. That’s too bad. Well, I must be –”
“Nothing specific wrong. Just deteriorating. Hardly bothers getting up now. Stopped grumbling. Bad sign, that.” His breath smokes in the frigid air. I tap my feet together to keep them warm. But he seems to have more to say, little as I want to hear it.
“Problem, really. Nursing home next stop. Pam looking into it. Depressing business.”
“Yes, of course. Well –”
“One of those things. My old ma, too, making life hell for all. What can you do?”
“Nothing. That’s just it.”
“Not much, that’s it. Well, ciao.”
He strides off and I go my way. With a little effort of will, I find it’s not too difficult to put this conversation out of my mind. It’s sad, but it doesn’t concern me. That fact has been firmly established for some time now, and I have no intention of thinking any more about it.
With a contented sigh, Cuthbert pats the little tummy he has recently developed. “That was a lovely meal, Rowena,” he says. “And I thought I was too tired to eat.”
“Basil all right now, is he?”
“Oh, yes, thanks. He’s fine.” Here, for no apparent reason, he sighs.
“Something on your mind, Cuthbert?”
“No, no. Just … rather a lot happening all at once, this last little while.” He sighs again. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks forlornly at the night.
It’s more or less safe for you to tell me about her now, I think. He has settled back in the big chair and put up his short legs on the hassock, but he does not look really at ease or at home; in fact, I feel his separateness, as perhaps he feels mine.
“I daresay that politician they’re investigating is a bit of a problem, is she?” I suggest.
“Oh. No, not really. She’s been very careful. Jack won’t have much trouble getting her off. The ideal client, in a way. She tells a consistent story, it can be corroborated, and he doesn’t need to know any more than that.”
“You mean she’s guilty, but –”
“We don’t look at it that way, you see. She has a case that can be won. That’s our job. The rest is beside the point.”
“Seems pretty cynical, doesn’t it?”
“Not really. It’s just common sense. We don’t arbitrate morals.”
“But surely the law is all about guilt or innocence.”
“The law is about what can be proved, my dear.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Not a bit. It reassures me. I’m not here to pass judgement. That would bother me.”
“Yes. You have a very sensitive conscience.”
“That’s right.”
It occurs to me as curious that intimacy with two lovers – each representing, you might say, a code, whether ethical or moral – has only succeeded in puzzling rather than improving me. Perhaps women by their nature are more or less impervious to codes.
Sharp blades of moonlight shine at the edges of the venetian blind. He draws another brief sigh. Then he says, “What’s the hardest decision you ever made, Rowena?”
I think about that for a minute. “W
ell, the way things used to be here for me, I very seldom got to make any decisions. Any major ones, that is. And not many minor ones. Once, years and years ago, I did get angry enough with Edwin to decide to leave him. There was enough in the housekeeping for three nights in a hotel; after that, I thought I could be somebody’s cleaning woman or something. But the only cheap hotel I knew anything about was way across town. I had no idea what bus to take to get there, and there wasn’t enough cash for a taxi ride that long; so of course I never left. Ludicrous, isn’t it?”
“By the way, Rowena, speaking of money, have you really looked absolutely everywhere for that will? I still can’t believe a careful man like Edwin …”
“I’ve searched everywhere, Cuthbert.”
“Well, don’t give up, will you?” He crosses his legs; then recrosses them. Far away somewhere out in the dark a siren wails its reminder that disaster randomly occurs.
“About decisions,” he says, and I know he would not say even this much if it were not so late at night. “It’s so hard sometimes to know what’s best. Not just for myself, you understand. That part is more or less easy.”
“Someone else is involved,” I say carefully.
“More than one.”
I try not to smile. “That’s complicated, all right.”
“People you care about … you want to protect them, and yet it can be so …”
Yes, I think. And has one of them by any chance got a big vocabulary for a two-year-old?
He sighs once more. “And emotions – I mean, how can you tell whether your judgement’s functioning, or just your glands? It’s all so complicated. And meanwhile, how much, if anything, can you tell anybody?”
There is a longish silence. A diesel train defines distance with a long, flat hoot. Then I say, “Well, it’s been my experience that hardly anything can actually be said, not without the most disastrous consequences. How could I ever tell Marion, for instance, that I didn’t let Edwin know I was pregnant till I was in the fourth month, because I was so afraid he’d insist on an abortion? It would devastate her to know that, about both of us. Come to that, it’s unfair even to tell you this, because in fact Edwin turned out to be a very loving father to her. But the whole experience turned me into that old joke, a silent woman. Otherwise there’s a lot I could say to you about … what’s on your mind. But maybe between you and me, dear, silence can say a lot, right?”
“That’s true. Anyhow, there are moments – and places – where it’s absolutely impossible to say – to say anything.” He rubs his hands over his face and adds, “Well, it’s time I was off. Actually I think I’m starting a cold. You know that sort of burning you get in the back of your throat before it begins to be sore?”
“Mm. Try a salt-water gargle.”
“Everybody in town’s got something. What a winter it’s been. Zero again tonight, and flurries coming tomorrow. Well, thanks again for dinner – I must be on my way. Lord, I meant to be home hours ago – I’m expecting a call –”
At the door he pauses to polish first one lens then the other of his thick glasses. Without them, his round face with its dimpled chin is that of a sorely perplexed baby. While he is pulling on his galoshes, I go swiftly upstairs and bring down the small velvet ring box. Without a word I push it into his coat pocket, and without a word he accepts it. Neither of us says anything more about silence and the many things it can communicate.
Late next afternoon, the doorbell rings – a long, loud peal suggestive of urgency, even desperation. I start up to answer it; then hesitate. How typical of me, I think, to be torn between fear of action and fear of inaction. Householders have recently been warned not to open the door to strangers. On the other hand this is not a time of day when armed robbers are normally active. It’s possible that Tom or Cuthbert might have chosen to make an unscheduled call, and seeing all the lights on, will surely be offended if I fail to answer the door. Still, something tells me that at best, whatever is out there will prove disturbing in one way or another, and I have planned another search through shelves and drawers for that will. However, in the end I recklessly draw back the chain and open the door.
“Rowena, come next door and have a drink with me at once,” Pam says loudly. “It’s urgent. I’m depressed.” She does not look depressed, with her scarlet jersey and silver hoop earrings big enough for a parrot to swing in; but there is a strained note in her voice that suggests she is, for once, not exaggerating as wildly as usual.
“Oh. Well – er – I was – but all right. Hold on while I get my coat.”
In silence we pick our way down my snowy steps and up hers. Once inside she sweeps up the wildly barking Arthur in her arms to silence him, then switches off the TV and picks up some snarled knitting from the floor, where it seems to have been thrown.
“John’s in Montreal on business,” she says, “and Colin’s sleeping over with a friend, so there’s nobody around but LaVerne, who is not a chatty animal; as for Arthur, he’s beautiful but dumb. So frustrating to have nobody to bitch to, so I thought of you.” She gives a sudden giggle. “Scotch and water?”
“Mostly water,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. I do not ask why she is depressed, because that might lead to a subject I hope to avoid. In fact I intend to steer her erratic conversation in some other direction entirely, and this, given her temperament, shouldn’t be difficult, I think cheerfully.
“You know, Pam, I nearly didn’t answer the door. Did you read in the paper about that pair of women going from door to door in this neighbourhood?”
“No, how odd, I thought they cruised the streets downtown.” She hands me a drink and sits down opposite me with a tall glass for herself, murmuring, “Ah. Lovely gin.”
“They ring the bell arm in arm, and one of them says her friend feels faint, could she have a glass of water. While you’re off getting it, they snatch up anything small and valuable you happen to have sitting around. In my case, that would be nothing, but still.”
“But I would love that,” she says, glancing around as if her own sitting-room presents new and interesting possibilities. “Anybody who wants those silly brass bellows is welcome to them, since we have no fireplace anyway; and as for those Doulton figurines on the mantel, they bore me horribly, people give them to you as presents when they don’t really like you and can’t think of anything else, an aunt of John’s gave us that woman selling balloons when we got married and never spoke to us again.”
“I ran into John the day after you got back from your holiday. How did you enjoy it?”
“Oh, my dear, all that sun, it was bliss, but you know day after day lolling on the beach and drinking out of pineapples, it’s heaven at first, but in the end it just seems a bit futile somehow, and furthermore, every time I looked at all those good-looking black people who spend their lives making up our beds and washing our dishes, I felt horribly guilty, it just isn’t fair, in their place instead of smiling all the time and exuding charm the way they do, I’d be whacking off white heads in the most revolutionary way, wouldn’t you?”
“Actually, I daresay I’d be as repressed black as I am white, if not more so.”
“Besides,” she goes on, having abruptly lost interest in the black race, “the whole point of the islands used to be to get a tan so everybody would eat their hearts out with envy, but one doesn’t dare any more because of skin cancer, and John actually got bitten by some kind of very tropical spider and his whole leg got infected, it just shows. One might really be better off to stay home, or just shack up in a local hotel and stay drunk for a couple of weeks, it would cost a lot less.”
“I’m glad I’m not your travel agent.”
“Anyhow,” she continues, lifting her trousered legs straight out in front of her as if to admire them, “it’s not all that bad being home. What do people in the tropics do for something to grumble about weatherwise? Fancy having to rely on hurricanes, because they don’t come round all that often, do they?”
“Yes, that mu
st be rough.” I sip my drink contentedly. So far at least, her conversation has made easy listening.
“Of course we got back just in time for that awful cold snap, you’d think God would have some decency right at the end of February, but no. And to think we rushed back to be here for reading week when Max came home (though the last thing in the world they do is read, of course), and there he was simply brimming over with appalling news.”
“Oh, really?”
“My dear, full of great plans to drop out of university and form a rock group. It sounded at first like one of those vague projects they get in their heads and then forget, but he’s actually going to do it, Rowena. All those music lessons, think of it, just so he can play the trumpet in some awful club smelling of toilet deodorizer. John is so miserable he can’t even get into a rage about it. As for me, while I’m generally in favour of people doing their thing, I do feel this particular thing is pure lunacy. I mean other people’s sons go in for engineering or law, or at worst push off to Kathmandu to find themselves, why does ours want to dye his hair pink and make videos of people who look epileptic, it’s too depressing. He tells us he’ll be rehearsing in a friend’s basement, which is some relief, and Jim’s father is stone deaf, which is a bit of luck for him, but Max will live at home and there’s no use pretending this will not be a severe bind. How’s your drink? Mine’s gone, and no wonder.”
I shake my head, but she replenishes her own glass with generosity. “Yes, one of the least attractive details of this plan is that he’ll have to live here, there being no prospect of making any money at this rock thing, not for a long time anyway, if ever, and that means daily warfare with Colin, they get on each other’s nerves quite horribly and in this little house you can imagine … And that in turn brings me to the problem of Sebastian –”
“Pam, is it really six? – I must go –”
“Well, if I thought things here were fraught with doom, it just shows how wrong you can be, nothing is apparently so bad it can’t get worse, and that certainly goes for Pa. As soon as we got back we found he was rapidly falling to bits one way and another, occasional incontinence now, for instance, and Mrs. Blot can hardly be expected to deal with that, even if she were a lot nicer than she is. So I’m trying to find him accommodation in some kind of nursing home. And Rowena, before John’s mother had to go into one, I never really believed those horror stories, who possibly could until they’ve seen some of these places with their own eyes, not to mention smelled them, and believe me –”
A Serious Widow Page 21
