Abram Skinner had taken two out of the river, one a fat female, puffy with roe. Abram had killed this fish by beating her against a rock until she was lifeless, and then he’d carved out her egg-sac and fixed it to his hook. As he did this, Abram felt vaguely angry, and somewhere in his mind he remembered Abigal’s stillborn babies.
George Quinton hadn’t caught anything. The pole felt awkward and fragile in his hands, making him nervous. George wished he could throw it away. He wanted to strip off his clothes and dance into the water, to feel the cold freedom kissing his body. He would catch fish then, gather them up like apples.
Adam De-la-Noy, his rod balanced across a foot, lay on the ground and studied the clouds above. He saw a bird slice through them. It was a goshawk, but Adam poetically took it for a swan, and quoted, “ ‘So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,/Keeping them prisoners underneath her wings.’ ”
George Quinton was baffled.
This was all how a fishing day usually was, all except for Opdycke’s unprecedented fortune. Opdycke seemed hardly aware of how well he was doing. Instead, he wanted to discuss certain tenets of Perfectionist theory.
“Exclusiveness,” Mr. Opdycke paraphrased the infamous “Boston Letter,” “has no place when the will of God is done on earth. Amn’t I right, Reverend?”
Hope nodded.
“It just seems to me,” said Opdycke, pulling in another fish, “that some of us are being mighty exclusive.”
“How can you say that?” demanded Hope testily. (Opdycke’s catch was at least three pounds. Mr. Opdycke dispatched it dispassionately, sinking a knife into the small brain.) “What exclusivity exists?”
“The normal exclusivity,” said Mr. Opdycke, “vis-à-vis the state of matrimony.” Mr. Opdycke realized almost giddily that he was much better educated than he’d previously suspected.
“Nonsense,” said Hope. “My wife is in almost every sense your wife.”
“Almost,” Opdycke echoed, putting another minnow on his hook.
“Ho, there!” said Hope suddenly. “What are you doing?”
Opdycke looked to where Hope was pointing, that is, Mr. Opdycke looked down into his own hands. Opdycke’s thick thumbnail was imbedded into the minnow’s side, splitting the flesh and cracking the backbone. “Oh.” Mr. Opdycke threw the minnow into the water, where it jerked in a desperate, dying way. “I’ve found that helps. I don’t know why.”
Eagerly Hope stabbed his own minnow and then returned him to the water. Almost immediately he felt an enormous tug, and he flipped out a large brownie, landing the creature gently behind him.
George Quinton took a minnow and poked his finger at its side. He squashed the little fishy, rendering it to mush.
Abram Skinner didn’t bother. He was thinking about what Opdycke had said. His corporal relations with Abigal were decidedly uninspired. For one thing, Abigal’s body reminded him of pudding, all puckered and jellied, pale, pale flesh. More than that, though, whenever they had amorous congress Abram felt called upon to perform a duty, to plant a seed above all else. It was a duty, Abram felt, that he’d been performing inadequately; in his mind, Abigal’s miscarriages and stillbirths were all his fault, the result of flawed making matter. What Skinner wanted to do was play at pickle-me-tickle-me, Adamize and zig-zag, rut with and otherwise splice a female, and, truth to be told, he wanted to do it to Mary De-la-Noy. Mary had a way of staring vacantly into space, her mouth half-open and her eyes half-shut, that drove Abram Skinner to distraction. That is, if Abram Skinner were the sort of man who could be driven to distraction, and he wasn’t, this look of Mary’s is what would do it. So Abram Skinner said, “I see what Opdycke is saying, Reverend Hope.”
“I see what he’s saying, as well,” remarked Hope. “And in theory he makes a valid point. But the thing of it is, we are trying to exist within the constructs of a society.”
“But,” said George Quinton, delighted to be able to make this point, even though he couldn’t see what Mr. Opdycke was saying, “we must live accohding to God’s law, not accohding to the laws of man.” George knew that some fish had stolen his minnow, but he didn’t bother rebaiting.
“True, George,” said Hope. “At the same time, it is our spiritual life that is of uppermost import. What we are discussing is not a spiritual matter.” Indeed, thought Joseph, it was perhaps the hardest work he’d ever done in his life. Making love to Martha (which he’d done exactly once) was like conquering the Matterhorn (Hope meant no irony in this reflection) except that the mountain didn’t sweat, tremble or try to swallow one into oddly smelling crooks and crannies.
“Perhaps,” said Adam De-la-Noy, “we should examine more closely the word ‘exclusivity.’ ”
No one knew what Adam meant by that; the word was not examined more closely.
“I wonder why this works,” muttered Joseph. He was referring to the trick of stabbing the live minnows. He’d just taken another fish, and now had six to Mr. Opdycke’s eight. Opdycke was bogging down, chewing on a stalk of grass, staring at Abram Skinner. “Skinner,” said Mr. Opdycke, “what do you think?”
Abram shrugged and turned to De-la-Noy. “Adam?”
Adam stared at the water. Then he glanced up at J. B. Hope.
Suddenly the end of Hope’s pole bent, and began to point straight down at the surface of the water. The river seemed to boil around the line. “I’ve got him!” shouted Hope, and it was obvious from his tone that this was the monster. The men all leapt to their feet.
Then the knots slipped where George had tied the two sections of the pole together. In an instant the separate sections were floating on the Merrimack, the horsehair line twisted loosely in the ripples.
“Quinton!” bellowed Hope, enraged. “You great oaf!”
As Joseph Hope stormed away, George Quinton began softly to weep.
That night, while the others slept and dreamed their dreams, George Quinton tore apart most of the plumbing in the house. In the morning, Martha would give him hell for it, would even give him a good old-fashioned roundhouse that blackened George’s left eye, but he would be unrepentant. He had found what he was looking for, namely two sections of pipe that differed in size by only a fraction of an inch. George cut an inch-long segment from each (chewing up his mammoth fingers in the process) and then fitted them on to the pieces of Reverend Hope’s fishing pole. George found to his great delight that the pole could now be speedily assembled, and that the jointed rod was as strong as a single length of cane.
Swallow Love
Lowell, Massachusetts, 1852
Regarding the female followers of Hope, we know the following: that they were much interested in Nature.
The women had their own ideas.
Cairine McDiarmid fancied herself a naturalist, and every so often she’d decide it was time for one of her expeditions. Cairine would rally the other women, and out they would go. One might imagine that an expedition was little more than a stroll through some gentle greenery, the women all petticoated and parasoled, armed with only pencils and sketchbooks. One would be wrong. The three other women (Abigal Skinner, Mary De-la-Noy and Martha Q. Hope) hated Cairine’s expeditions because they were really wilderness safaris, and they’d have to wear men’s clothing. Mary De-la-Noy especially hated this. While they did indeed carry sketchbooks, they also toted nets, jars, bottles, knives, spyglasses and one or two firearms. Being a self-styled naturalist was hard work in those days, because nature itself was different—wild and living outside of libraries and encyclopedias. It was still possible, back then, to turn over a rock and find some furry, winged, and grinning lizard.
The women each had different functions. Cairine was the leader, and she’d decide where they should go, whether they should mount hills or descend into valleys, whether they should strike inland or head for the sea. She would also, many times during the course of their trek, halt and silence them with a tiny upright forefinger and an urgent “Ssh!”
If Cairine had stopped them because, f
or instance, she’d seen a rabbit, Abigal Skinner had seen it long before. Abigal was often amazed at how unobservant the other women were, even Cairine McDiarmid. Abigal knew that, if these expeditions were to amount to anything, if they were to contribute to the scientific knowledge of mankind, it would be better if she led. But Abigal didn’t want to make trouble, and she enjoyed the exercise, the company of the other women. So, rather than leading, her function on the naturalist expedition was to climb trees. As a young girl she’d learned to climb trees, could even shinny up old monsters whose lowermost branches were yards away from the ground. When a bird’s nest was spotted, Abigal Skinner would spit on her palms and go up after it. Then she’d bring it back to the earth, where Mary Carter De-la-Noy would render its likeness with pen and pencil.
Mary certainly had artistic talent, although she often wasn’t as faithful to reality as Cairine might have liked. Once, for example, Abigal Skinner had fetched down a sparrow’s nest in which there was a dead bird. The tiny thing was mostly reduced to bone, its skeleton covered with an evil-looking papery hide. Mary De-la-Noy had drawn it with fluff, cute as a chick, the eyes gently closed instead of popped open by death.
And Martha Quinton Hope was there to do whatever everyone else was unwilling or unable to do. If Cairine was interested in some specimen from the middle of a swamp, Martha would be dispatched into the bog. If a creek needed to be forded, Martha would roll up her trouserlegs and ferry the others across. Once, Cairine found some droppings and decided they warranted study. Martha Q. Hope was instructed to pick them up.
One day, on an expedition through a meadow, the women noticed that all around them animals were copulating. Coupled dragonflies buzzed everywhere. The women startled no end of rutting rabbits, skunks and groundhogs. And the air was full of mating cries, lonely and urgent howls, musical hoots, wild and woolly. Cairine McDiarmid shuddered, felt fingers up her backbone. She touched her left breast and then, realizing that she had, she took her hand away and pointed to the sky. Two birds flew, turning circles around each other, drawing near and then soaring apart, two swallows in swallow love.
Cairine McDiarmid said, “It was an aspecially adifying talk that Himself give us lost night.”
The other women nodded.
“My husband,” said Martha Q. Hope, “is a saint.”
Cairine McDiarmid decided that it was time to sit down. She fell on her little backside, taking a blade of grass and putting it into her mouth. Abigal Skinner hunkered down on her haunches whilst Mary Carter De-la-Noy reclined. Martha Quinton Hope remained standing.
“Now,” said Cairine, “isn’t that the very thing he was after sayin?”
“That he is a saint?” asked Abigal, confused.
“No,” explained Cairine. “That we should be aver watchful of possassiveness.”
“He is my husband,” explained Mrs. Hope.
“We air all wed t’gather,” said Cairine. “So says Himself.”
“Then,” giggled Mary De-la-Noy, “we should all sleep in one big bed.”
None of the other women thought the remark especially humorous, although Abigal Skinner pretended to laugh. Her own wedding bed was getting to be an exceedingly uncomfortable place; Abram would sometimes enter it sweating and snorting like some prize stud bull, and before she even knew what was taking place the act would be over. Then Abram would climb out of bed and cross to the window where he would stare at the moon. Abigal knew that his intentions were good, that Abram thought that only in this industrious and coldly efficient way could babies be made, but what Abigal longed for was some tenderness. Abigal often imagined that her nipple was being kissed, the whole of her body explored with childlike curiosity. Surprisingly, when Abigal Skinner opened her eyes (in her imagination) it was the gentle Adam De-la-Noy who was doing all this caressing.
Mary De-la-Noy didn’t know herself what to make of the quip she had authored. Although she giggled, she realized it wasn’t very funny, and she hadn’t really meant it to be. Mary Carter De-la-Noy was one of nine children, and she and her four sisters had all slept together until well into their teens. They’d tangled limbs and scratched each other’s backs, and sleep had been swift and soft. Nowadays Mary slept alone more often than not, Adam always inventing excuses to sleep in their adjoining room. And when Adam left their bed, Mary would imagine other people in it, and sometimes she imagined having amorous congress with them, not that she lusted or was in heat, more that after amorous congress people felt obligated to scratch her back.
For some reason she often imagined that Mr. Opdycke was in her bed. Opdycke was an unsightly man, his face lined with life, all of his features crooked and strange from misadventure. But Mary De-la-Noy knew that on Thursdays Mr. Opdycke hid behind the door in the kitchen and watched the women bathe. She hadn’t told the others, probably never would. When Mary stepped out of her robe on Thursdays she could feel Mr. Opdycke’s eyes upon her body, feeding on its perfect loveliness. Mr. Opdycke, Mary felt, after having been granted admission to her golden patch, would scratch at her back until Doomsday.
Mary Carter De-la-Noy rolled over on to her stomach, unmindful of the dirt; she enjoyed the sensation as her breasts flattened against the earth. Mary was in no way indifferent to the joys of amorous congress, but, if the truth be told, Adam De-la-Noy was. Mary knew why, had known ever since she first met the beautiful young man, although she had sincerely believed that her pink-nippled body would effect a change. She wasn’t angry that it hadn’t, and she loved Adam very much, but often her body ached for physical communion. And if, as the Reverend Hope said, exclusivity had no place in the Perfectionist scheme of things, why couldn’t she have amorous congress with the poetical Abram Skinner, or even with Joseph Benton Hope himself? The simplicity of this logic delighted Mary Carter De-la-Noy.
Caririne McDiarmid was, as ever, pragmatic. The whole issue of amorous congress (getting hulled between wind and water, getting a shove in your blind eye, whatever; Cairine found the term amorous congress distasteful) was blown out of proportion. Simply, Cairine had a natural desire for it; she had bodily mechanisms that functioned monthly, and quite often she felt a need to do the naughty. “And J. B. Hope,” she often told herself, “he’s the lad far me.” Cairine would even acknowledge being in love with Hope, if by love one meant an enormous respect and fraternal concern.
Martha Q. Hope eyed her companions suspiciously. All three were lost in thought. “My husband,” she repeated, “is a saint.”
The Fish
Hope, Ontario, 1983
Wherein our Biographer hears a “Tale” to End All “Tails.”
The Hope Public Library was situated on Skinner Road, Skinner being a fairly major street, perpendicular to Joseph Avenue and containing not only the library but the municipal buildings and the Hope Art Gallery and Boutique. The Library was housed in a tiny white bungalow with a goldfish pond on the lawn. I arrived first thing in the morning, armed with four pencils and a spanking new notebook.
I like libraries. When your heart is twisted there’s nothing like going into a library and hunkering down studiously, pretending to be a rabbinical student. In Toronto, Elspeth and I lived practically next door to a library, and in the weeks before my departure the staff had seen a great deal of me. In their eyes, I was a very serious young man, probably verging on holiness. I liked to give the impression of having lived most of my life in a Tibetan monastery.
That was going to be hard in this library. For one thing, there were no desks or carrels. Instead, there was an assortment of sofas, rocking chairs and settees like you’d find in someone’s living room. That was because, having walked through the front door, you were in someone’s living room. Granted, the walls were lined with books, but that was the only library-like touch. The Head Librarian (at least, the only human being in sight) sat on a chesterfield watching television.
It was a game show. The quizmaster demanded, “Who described television as ‘chewing gum for the eyes?’ ”
T
he Head Librarian screwed up her face. She emitted a series of small spitting noises and then screamed, “Frank Lloyd Wright!!” at the top of her voice.
This was correct.
The living room/library, I noticed, was full of cats. I didn’t see them at first, because they were uniformly huge, fat and furry, about as active as furniture. The cats all deigned to open a single eye in order to stare at me. There were anywhere from fifteen to twenty of the beasts. They all closed the one eye, all of them thinking, Asshole.
Meanwhile, the Head Librarian was batting a thousand. “Who founded the Moravian Church?” “Everybody knows that!” bellowed the Head Librarian. “Jan Hus!”
The game show went to a commercial break, and the Head Librarian lit up a cigarette.
She looked about a hundred years old. I realize that I’ve used that phrase before, in my flip way, but I have to re-employ it, because she looked about a hundred years old, mostly because she was about a hundred years old. She was, I found out subsequently, one hundred and four. The Head Librarian was a tiny, withered thing, seeming to be much smaller than any one of her monstrous cats. She lit her cigarette with a match and then she waved the match in the air in order to kill the flame. The flame didn’t go away; she stepped up the amplitude of her waving, but the flame continued to march determinedly toward her gnarly fingers. Frantically, the old woman began to blow at it —once or twice she caused the flame to flicker, but it was not extinguished. Finally the flame touched her hand. “Fizzle!” she said, dropping the match into the thick pile carpet, where it died a natural death. I saw that the rug was covered with burn marks.
“Hello,” I said.
She turned around to look at me. Most of her trembled slightly, and her mouth and eyes worked all the time, opening, closing, doing strenuous facial exercise. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”
I introduced myself.
The Life of Hope Page 17
