Pastoral

by André Alexis

  These feelings were in themselves enough to shake him up, but they were accompanied by a coldness, a critical eye on God’s habits. Take the matter of miracles, for instance. Looking back on Heath Lambert’s gypsy moths, Father Pennant – though he did not know what Lambert had done to the insects or how he had got them to fly in a circle – suddenly felt the too-muchness of ‘miracles.’ Not that the thing with moths had been miraculous, but it was just the kind of thing God might do: ostentatiously contravene the laws of Nature. The Lord was showy when called upon to prove himself: He made bushes speak, He parted the seas, He restored sight to the blind. Honestly, making moths do His bidding was very like Him.

  After Barrow Day, Father Pennant began to reconsider the question that had troubled him at the seminary. He did not feel the same dismay, however. He felt apprehensive, but he was also intrigued. Caught up with his journals and his accounts of the natural history of Barrow, he did not mind the idea that the land had once called to him, or that he was on intimate terms with Nature. As a result, Father Pennant began to spend even more time exploring the fields and streams of Lambton County. He performed his priestly duties and performed them well, but he was now distracted. His sermons grew short and to the point. His visits to the sick were efficiently carried out, and his attendance at spiritual gatherings was thoughtful, not enthusiastic.

  Barrow Day done, the town settled into the routines of summer: preparing for vacation and looking forward to weekends up near Goderich.

  Robbie Myers, who believed he was in the clear with both of the women he loved, was happily occupied with work on the farm, with his friends, with the question of whether or not he should invite Jane to his wedding. Barrow Day had been good. He’d spent it with Elizabeth who, though she was not her affectionate self, spoke to him without rancour and even, once or twice, held his hand. It was sad that she would not allow him to touch her in any intimate way and that her kisses were perfunctory. But she still wanted to marry him and she treated him – as far as others were concerned – the way you would expect a woman to treat her fiancé. He was convinced that the Elizabeth he loved would return to him once she realized how much he loved her. But for an argument with Jane over some strange idea she’d got in her head – something to do with him committing public indecency – all was right with the world.

  Then, four days after the 15th, Jane invited him over and coolly gave him an ultimatum: he was to walk naked into Atkinson’s Hair Salon or she would leave town.

  Once he accepted that Jane might really leave, Robbie panicked. The ultimatum was absurd. It made no sense, except as some torment or prank. Why should anyone – let alone Jane – want him to expose himself to a clutch of older women? It was like asking a man afraid of rats to snuggle into a tub full of them. His fear of public nudity was irrational and unmanageable.

  Then again, so were his feelings for Jane. He loved her as much as he said he did. He could have easily done almost anything for her, easily done anything but this.

  – I need to know what you’re going to do, Jane said.

  – Can’t I think about it?

  – No. I want to know right now.

  Robbie was not used to thinking and he was not good at it. Under pressure, what came was confusion: feelings, not thoughts; pictures, not words. He felt humiliation, longing, fear. He saw Jane’s face, the red birth stain on his chest, his mother’s face, the entrance to Atkinson’s Beauty Parlour. No single feeling or picture was distinct. But then, because he was the man he was, one strong thing came out of the confusion: love. ‘Love’ had caused him trouble in the recent past, but he went with it anyway, stubbornly holding to the idea that ‘love’ – whenever and wherever it touched down – was always right.

  – Okay, he said. I’ll do it if I have to.

  It was an acquiescence that surprised them both.

  – Oh, said Jane, her tone very like one of disappointment.

  That’s … great.

  She kissed him, but she was not happy. She had, she realized, been expecting him to say no. She had unconsciously put her faith in Elizabeth’s knowledge of him. Not that her kiss or the emotion behind it registered with Robbie. The man was shocked by his own decision.

  – When do I have to do this? he asked.

  – Do it tomorrow, said Jane. It’s Friday. It’ll be busy.

  But it wasn’t the number of people that mattered to Robbie. He would have been as terrified at the thought of one witness as he was at the thought of thousands.

  – I’m doing this because I love you, he said.

  – You can change your mind, answered Jane.

  He did not, though it felt as if he had agreed to his own execution. For a moment Jane wondered if she weren’t being cruel. But then, the cruelty was Elizabeth’s, wasn’t it? She herself would not have dreamed such a humiliation. It would not have bothered her in the least to walk around town naked, so part of her was unsympathetic to Robbie’s plight. Still, at the thought of Elizabeth’s wager, Jane began to wonder if Liz weren’t more bitter and vindictive than she let on.

  For Robbie, the following morning came after a night of fitful sleep. He’d suffered through countless visions of himself walking naked along the streets of Barrow. Oddly, the one place he did not dream of was Atkinson’s. He dreamed he was naked in church, naked in school, naked in the Blackhawk Tavern. He tried to convince himself that his fear was irrational and, so, ridiculous. He told himself that human beings were born naked, that nudity was not traumatic for him in most situations. Nothing helped. He did not want to walk into Atkinson’s naked. He could not understand why this was important to Jane. He thought about whether or not he loved her enough to do this, but, sadly, the answer was yes. It was always yes, like rolling the dice over and over and coming up snake eyes forever. He also considered avoiding this one thing, making it up to Jane in other ways if he could. But Jane was not a person whose resolve needed testing. She had assured him she would leave if he did not go into Atkinson’s and he knew, knew for certain, that she would keep her word. He was a condemned man.

  Once he’d finished his chores, he ate breakfast as if it were to be his last: porridge and maple syrup followed by a glass of his mother’s dandelion wine.

  Catching him with the wine, his mother was alarmed.

  – What’s the matter with you? she asked. You know I need that for knitting circle.

  Robbie apologized and put the cork back in the bottle. Rather than replace the bottle on its rack in the winter closet, though, he carried it into the barn and finished it off, disturbing a couple of mice in the straw. Dutch courage, people called it, though no one could tell him why the Dutch should be known for such a sensible way of dealing with distress. He thought it sensible, anyway. What else could you do but drink or pray?

  – Father, if it be thy will, let this cup pass from me …

  Drink or pray, however, there was no getting around his anxiety. He resolved to go into Atkinson’s early in the day. The place opened at ten. Waiting for noon or for the end of the day would have driven him squirrelly. So, at ten o’clock in the morning, having downed a bottle of his mother’s sickly sweet wine, Robbie went with a neighbour into Barrow, getting out at Barrow Park.

  There were, naturally, things that Robbie hadn’t considered. Where to undress, for instance? Where to put his clothes once he’d undressed? Too inebriated to drive to town alone, he could not put them in his truck. Could he leave his shoes on or did ‘naked’ mean entirely naked? He supposed he could leave his shoes on until just before he entered the parlour and that is what he did. With no word to anyone around him and as if it were a thing people always did, Robbie stood up when the clock at city hall struck half past ten, took off his shoes, removed his clothes, then put his shoes on again. Being slightly drunk, he undressed deliberately, with exaggerated precision. He then walked, his clothes under one arm, from the park to the beauty parlour, some two minutes away. The walk, the experience of it, was what others might have called ot
herworldly. It was as if his anxiety had taken on a form of its own and was walking with him, a sensation so odd Robbie felt almost relaxed. And perhaps because Robbie appeared to be at ease, few of the half dozen or so people who were about noticed him.

  One woman, just coming home from a shift at Dow Chemical, did notice Robbie was naked, but there was a delay in her perception. She saw Robbie and walked by him. Then, as if out of nowhere, a thought occurred to her:

  – You know, I’ve seen very few penises besides Michael’s.

  It was only then that she realized – to her dismay – that she had just seen Robbie Myers naked. By which time Robbie had entered Atkinson’s.

  Inside the beauty parlour, there were three older women: Emma Cavendish, Leda Preston and Margaret Burke. The three women, all in their late sixties or early seventies, all spry, had their hair done once a month. They inevitably went together, and had been doing so for years. This was their day. They had left their homes early, eaten poached eggs and toast at Boucher’s Diner and presented themselves to Agnes Atkinson at twenty after ten.

  Clouds had been gathering since early morning and Leda said

  – I think it’s going to rain.

  The women instinctively turned to the glass door to look outside.

  – Is there someone trying to get in? Emma asked.

  – I think there is, said Margaret.

  As she spoke, the door opened and Robbie Myers walked in.

  – Goodness, said Margaret. Is it raining already?

  All turned to Robbie. Agnes, who knew him best, though they all knew him, said

  – Robert, put your clothes on. What would your mother think?

  – His clothes! said Leda. I thought there was something missing.

  – The library’s just down the street, said Emma.

  A curiously apposite non sequitur. Emma’s friends mumbled in agreement. At which point Robbie, thrown from his trance, was suddenly aware of his situation. He wanted nothing so much as to flee. It took almost superhuman resolve to put his clothes on carefully and to dress without throwing up. Once he began to dress, the women seemed to lose interest in him. Agnes did ask if everything was all right, but she turned away to devote herself to washing Emma’s hair. The older women, as bewildered by Emma’s comment as Robbie’s behaviour, began a conversation about libraries and modern morals.

  Dressed, Robbie apologized.

  – It’s awfully early to be drinking, said Agnes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell your mother about this.

  As if he were still a boy, Robbie said

  – I’m sorry, Mrs. Atkinson

  and walked out into what was now a light, warm rain.

  For all the attention paid the matter while Robbie was in Atkinson’s, a stranger might have wondered if Barrow’s young men did not habitually go naked into beauty parlours. But as it is with so many unusual moments, the incident grew in the imaginations of those who had lived it. It became more significant the more they were asked about it. What had they seen? (Well, everything!) Did they know why Robbie had come into the parlour like that? (He was drunk!) Was he really drunk, or is it something worse, because, you know, there’s been insanity in the Myers family before? (So true! They hid Robbie’s uncle Mark away for ages, before they put him in a proper home. Robbie’s most likely the same way. Just think what’ll happen if Liz Denny has kids with that boy!)

  The more anyone thought about it, the more peculiar it became: slightly sinister for some, amusing for others. Still, as nothing dangerously wrong had happened and as Robbie’s subsequent attitude – contrite, embarrassed – was not alarming, the incident was blamed on alcohol and forgotten a relatively short time later. (That is, it was never forgotten, but, after a certain time, it was only ever brought up in jest.)

  Jane was angry that Robbie had done what she’d asked.

  Elizabeth was humiliated, or further humiliated, because Robbie’s humiliation was hers too: yet another dose of misery. People began to openly wonder if he was a suitable husband for any self-respecting woman, and they all felt compelled to tell her so. The general consensus was that Elizabeth had good reason to back out of the wedding.

  A few days after Robbie scandalized the women in Atkinson’s, Elizabeth and Jane met in St. Mary’s. They spoke quietly near the front of the church while a handful of sinners waited to confess at the back. The day was dark. The rain came down in a pale, earth-lit shower. Thunder sounded in the distance, as if the land were clearing its throat every so often. It was a relief to enter the church, though the interior was gloomy and the stained-glass saints, their colours darkened, lost much of their charm. The light inside was as thin as if it were shining through khaki cloth.

  Without a hint of triumph, Jane said

  – I told you this would happen.

  – I know that, answered Elizabeth. I’m sorry I asked you to do it.

  – You should have thought about that before you asked.

  – You don’t have to go on about it.

  The wind outside sounded like distant, tuneless whistling. For a moment, the two women sat quietly, staring at the altar while listening to the storm, to the whispers from the confessional, to the crepitations of the church itself as it withstood the weather.

  – I told you, Jane repeated, there isn’t anything I can’t get Robbie to do.

  Above all, Elizabeth hated the sound of the woman’s voice. Jane Richardson was unbearable, but it was she herself who had chosen this road. What could she say? At least the question of her marriage had been decided.

  – There’s nothing else to say, said Elizabeth. I hope you and Robbie are happy together.

  Jane felt guilt and alarm.

  – I told you, she repeated

  then stopped herself. It all suddenly seemed like some kind of joke. But at whose expense?

  Thunder rattled the church and rain now thrummed against the stained glass. It was oppressively humid and, inside, mixed in with the smell of incense, was a strong whiff of rot. Elizabeth rose from the pew and said, with more bitterness than she’d intended

  – I hope I never have to see your face again.

  – That makes two of us, said Jane.

  Elizabeth walked to the back of the church, to the confessional. There was much on her mind. Her wedding, for instance. She should have postponed it, given the circumstances, but she had gone on with the planning and the arrangements. She had chosen a wedding dress. And although they had not had sex for months now, she had gone on seeing Robbie, nursing what was left of her feelings for him.

  How much she wanted Robbie punished, and how much she wanted Jane Richardson hurt! For the first time in her life, she felt hatred, and was upset at how intimate hatred was. She had said that she hoped never to see Jane Richardson again. That was true, but it was also true that a part of her wanted Jane Richardson near her always. She felt a physical longing to damage the woman, to hit, to bite, to grind her into the dust. These feelings, close as they were to desire, were the hardest to bear, and they were the ones for which she felt shame.

  Once its thick velvet curtains were drawn together, the confessional was dark. The sounds of the church and the noise of the storm were muffled to a rumour. When Father Pennant opened the grilled partition between his face and hers she could immediately smell the mint he used for his breath. She hoped her own breath was not sour. She had intended to confess her anger and hatred, but in the confessional she found she could not. However much she wanted to, she could not speak of anything true.

  – Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession. Since then I’ve … been disrespectful to my parents and I’ve …

  She received forgiveness for a handful of petty – or invented – misdemeanours.

  – Go, my child, and sin no more.

  And left feeling as if she had betrayed herself.

  The episode at Atkinson’s was humiliating for Robbie, but not because he’d been naked. The look on Agnes Atkinso
n’s face – embarrassed, peeved, maternal – was a source of pain whenever he remembered it. And then Agnes had complained to his mother and, worse yet, his mother had felt compelled to speak to him about it.

  – I’ve been hearing strange things from Agnes Atkinson, Robbie. Now, you’re old enough for me to speak to you like a man and I shouldn’t have to tell you, you shouldn’t be exposing yourself to women. Don’t interrupt. I understand you might be thinking it’s not as bad, you exposing yourself to older women. Most young men, they think older women don’t have feelings, but we do. And it’s bad enough the women in Atkinson’s have to see you in your birthday suit, but did you even think about what Elizabeth’s going through? How’s she supposed to hold her head up with her fiancé embarrassing himself all over town? Don’t you dare interrupt, Robert. There’s nothing you can say about this. Your father’s convinced this is some stupid dare. One of the Bigland boys dared you, didn’t they? Don’t interrupt. You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t want to hear your explanation. I want you to promise you won’t be doing this kind of thing again. Barrow isn’t the place for these shenanigans. You need to move to Sarnia if you’re going to expose yourself like that. Sarnia’s too big for anyone to know anyone else. No one cares about anything there. You and those damned Bigland boys should move to Sarnia and not ruin things for people in Barrow. Honestly, I don’t know why Elizabeth has stuck with you. You should thank your stars. And that’s the last I’m going to say about all this. You understand? I want you to promise this isn’t going to happen again and then we’ll drop the subject. You understand?