by André Alexis
– I’m sorry you see things that way, said Jane, but I wanted you to know I was sorry.
These were the last words she spoke to Elizabeth Denny. In fact, this was the last time she saw her. Elizabeth turned away, went back into the bakery and closed the door behind her. From the moment they parted, Jane was, more or less, done with Barrow. She told her parents she’d had enough. She told her friends she was going to New York – although she actually ended up in Toronto – and she was gone.
A long time coming yet suddenly upon her, her last impression of the land that had given birth to her was vague. The clouds were black and there was thunder. Even in her Greyhound cocoon, Jane felt as if she were being grumbled at. It was dark as the bus pulled away from the post office – her bewildered parents there to watch her go – so she saw very little. Rain the colour of husked rice was as if flung against the bus windows, blurring her vision of the land she knew best.
Of course, she did not escape Barrow entirely. There is not world enough to escape from home. Over the years, what she had thought of as the steely grip of the land loosened and became a light touch until, at times, as she walked along the lakeshore from Springhurst Avenue, where she lived, she would feel Barrow at her elbow, a discreet presence: wordless, soundless, ghostly but there; Barrow, like her own Eurydice, unfading as long as she did not look back, gone when she tried to remember this or that detail.
Though Robbie did not think so, Jane had done him a favour. She had burned the bridges between them once and for all. Also, she had left and he was not going to go to New York – her rumoured destination – to win her back. So, the only thing for him to do was suffer.
He did not suffer as one might have thought he would, though. Yes, he loved Jane and he would continue to do so for the rest of his life, whenever he thought of her. But he did not think of her often. His was not the kind of mind that nursed resentment and hurt. Jane had left him and given him a bloody lip for a souvenir. When the lip was back to its usual state, Jane had gone and she became a sporadic memory. The problem now was Liz. He saw her almost every day. His love had no chance to dissipate. And although it was unusual for him, he began to contemplate his behaviour. Had he, perhaps, done wrong despite doing things for love? Was love not the highest virtue and good?
None of his friends – that is, the Biglands, mostly – thought less of him. None of them could see that he’d done anything wrong. When they spoke of his situation at all, the general feeling was that loving two women at once might be a nuisance, but if so it was a nuisance compensated by variety.
One snippet of conversation went like this:
– A man could be real happy, someone said, if he had two women. You don’t hear any bulls complaining and they’ve got to service way more than two cows.
– Yeah, but a bull doesn’t love a cow. It’s not the same.
– No one knows that for sure. Bulls get jealous, don’t they?
– And no one can say if a man loves a woman for sure, either, ’cept for the man.
– If he even knows. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love, even if I felt like I was now and then.
– I know I haven’t and I don’t want to be.
The friends were talking in the kitchen. From the living room, Mr. Bigland called out
– What the hell’s wrong with you pantywaists. That’s enough talking about love! You boys are embarrassing your mother.
Those words had ended all talk about feelings, but parts of the conversation recurred to Robbie as he went about his life. Was it possible that there was no such thing as love? He tried to think that way, but he could not. It made no sense, because although there were any number of women who could get his engine working, there had only ever been two who could touch something deeper in him. There had only ever been two women he would surrender his happiness to please. It was far from certain there would ever be another. And what would it be like to live a life endlessly fucking but feeling nothing deeper than that an itch had been scratched? He did not care to know. It didn’t matter to him what you called it, but as far as he was concerned he loved Liz Denny and he would not give up trying to make her see that he did, that he always would and that it hurt him to be without her. Not for a moment did it occur to him that his love might not have the significance for Elizabeth that it had for him. The only question Robbie entertained was how to speak what was inside him in such a way that Liz would see past his mistakes (such as they had been) and past his flaws (such as they were) to the solid emotion within him.
He simply had to speak to her again.
He chose a Saturday, a month or so after Jane had gone. He waited for Liz as she left Harrington’s. She had a ride. She didn’t need him, but he asked anyway if he could take her home (‘No’) or if she would meet him at their clearing behind her uncle’s farm.
– Why? she asked.
– You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but there’s things I want to tell you.
Elizabeth thought about it. She thought
– Well, it’s not as if I wasn’t ever going to speak to him again
and said
– Okay
though it had just rained and the ground would be impassable in places.
– I don’t want to hear anything about how much you love me, she added.
The woods had already begun to change colour. Some of the leaves had turned yellow and orange, and the pine trees, encouraged by the rain, spread their scent as if they were in mating season. The ground was muddy in spots. The only practical thing to wear were wellingtons and, of course, stepping in the wrong place made it feel as if your boots wanted to stay behind.
Robbie arrived before Elizabeth. It was not yet dark but he’d brought a flashlight, just in case they talked until darkness. Not that either of them needed light to find their way home, but it occurred to him that it might be gentlemanly to have a flashlight to offer, on the off chance she wanted one.
Elizabeth, when she arrived, was all business.
– What do you want? she asked.
– I just …
he said, suddenly self-conscious.
– I just wanted to say …
he said, unwilling to say much, for fear it be the wrong thing.
– I just wanted to tell you how much I miss you.
– It’s always about you, she said, about how much you love me, how much you miss me. Have you thought for a second about how I feel?
Risking everything, he answered honestly.
– No, he said, I haven’t.
– Why not?
– I’m a little … I’m not smart like you are, Lizzie. I try to think about others, but I don’t always manage to in time. But I do think about you and how you make me feel. I haven’t always done the right thing. I’m sorry.
He meant it and she knew he meant it. After all, knowing someone well means knowing all the signs of genuine emotion, and they had known each other since they were children. She knew that he was struggling to say what she already knew, struggling to say it with the right words, though so little of what anything means comes through words. Here he was, wishing for an eloquence his body and spirit already possessed. What good would it have done for him to go on like some lost troubadour? What was that poem they’d studied in Grade 12?
When I see leaves, flowers and pears
appearing on the branches and hear
the birds in the woods sing,
then Love buds, blooms and bears fruit in me …
Devil-tongued bastards, all of them. Anyway, she already knew that he loved her, missed her and wanted her back. What she didn’t know was if any of that counted.
– You’re sorry, she said. What does that change?
–I don’t know, Lizzie, but it should change something, shouldn’t it?
– Yes, she said, I guess it’s nice to know you’re sorry.
– I’m not saying you have to or anything, but I’d still like to …
– You want me to marry you, after what you put me
through?
– I’m not saying you have to or anything. I’m just saying maybe think about it if you still love me, ’cause none of this is ever going to happen again. I swear it on the Bible.
How little he knew himself. If it was true that he hadn’t sought to be in love with two women at once, how could he possibly know if it would or would not happen again? And now she had a perfectly good idea how he would behave if it did. The next time, however, the next time, if she married him, there might be children involved. Would that stop him? Or was it amor vincit omnia forever and ever? There was no telling, from this side of the divide, just what he might do.
– What if it does happen again? she asked.
– It won’t, he answered. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.
Again his lack of self-knowledge was flagrant. But how little he knew her! It was bad enough that he’d not known how hurt she would be by this Jane Richardson business, but he rarely knew how to reassure her when she needed it most. He had known her for as long as she had known him. How could he not know her feelings?
– What do you think I’m feeling now? she asked.
– I think you’re feeling like I don’t know what you’re feeling, he answered.
She looked at him – his brown hair pasted to his forehead, his eyes looking into hers – and saw that his attention was entirely given to her, as it rarely was except when they were making love. It occurred to her that he did know her somewhat and that at times he did have the right answer. These were thoughts that, despite herself, gave her pleasure.
Well, after all, it took time to fall out of love. She was vulnerable and knew it.
– I’ve got to go home, she said.
– You want me to come with you? I brought a flashlight.
– No, I don’t want you to walk me home. I’ll call you.
In the end, if you could call it winning, she had, she supposed, won. She had Robbie to herself, if she wanted him.
She should have been … if not pleased, then at least satisfied. But it was not so simple. What was there to feel satisfied about, really? She had learned a lesson about her fiancé and it had marred her picture of him. Also, the idea that she had ‘won’ him from Jane Richardson was repulsive. And again: by now, it seemed everyone between Barrow and Sarnia knew her business. One day, she’d gone to Petrolia to see Dr. Reidl and even there it seemed people knew all about her situation. The way they looked at her with sympathy. Christ on a cross! Nowadays, everyone had sympathy for her, and the more sympathy they had the worse it was. She couldn’t give change without feeling the weight of an unstated ‘you poor girl.’ Hard to find satisfaction in any of that.
Then there was the question. Did she still want Robbie? Not did she still love him. She did, she supposed, if only out of long-standing habit. But that did not mean she would do anything for him. So, did she want to marry the man? The answer was yes and no. It had been yes and no for some time. She had not, for instance, cancelled the wedding. She’d meant to, but hadn’t got round to it while her friends and family made ready for the happy day. Had she been hoping for Robbie to come back to her? Not that she was aware. Had she been hoping for another husband? No, not at all. Why then had she not been able to speak the handful of simple words: ‘I can’t marry him, after what he’s put me through’?
Now, unexpectedly, it was a question of keeping the day of her wedding. She could, if she wanted, marry the man she’d been hoping to marry. Perhaps it really was significant that she hadn’t called the wedding off. Perhaps it meant that, deep within, there had been (there was still) an undiminished hope that Robbie would return to her. Maybe the love she’d felt for him would survive its transplant to this new world in which she was not sure what she wanted.
It had been a rainy day, the rain falling slantwise against the stained glass of the church so that Alexis the beggar seemed to be begging underwater.
After a confession during which she’d told the priest everything (all her feelings, all that had happened between her and Robbie), Elizabeth and Father Pennant sat together at the front of the church.
– I think you’re right, he said. Love isn’t the only thing to consider. Love between a man and a woman is perishable because men and women are fallible. There is no perfect love, here below. You love him and he’s shown that he loves you … in his way. You need to decide if that’s enough, but, in my opinion, you’re fortunate. You know the worst of him. You know his selfishness and his thoughtlessness. You’ve had your eyes opened. If you can still love him, under the circumstances, that’s a blessing. And then, too, maybe you’ve gone through the worst.
– You think so?
– I don’t know for sure, he answered, because I don’t know Robbie well. But I know you well enough to guess that you know the answer. I think you have a good idea if worse is to come. It’s a matter of listening to yourself.
Thunder sounded and the rain renewed its onslaught on the saints. Hard to know one’s own mind in the din.
– You’ve been helpful, Elizabeth said.
From that moment she tried to listen to her own feelings. Had she gone through the worst? Was Robbie capable of putting her through unendurable humiliation? Or was he, as he insisted, a man who had been ‘prey to a love he couldn’t fight off’? (Hearing those words made her wonder if he’d been reading, though, of course, he hadn’t finished a book since they were in high school. The words had almost certainly been Jane’s.) Were there other loves out there to prey on him? Could she endure those if she had to? ‘Listening to herself’ brought neither comfort nor certainty. What it brought were questions about herself, about her capacity to forgive, about her ability to imagine the worst and yet to go on in a way that would allow her the self-respect she needed to survive.
Her wedding was a month away. Elizabeth allowed herself this thought: if, on the morning of her wedding, she decided she could not live with Robbie Myers, she would say no at the altar. It would be a costly and cruel no, but she would say it, and the idea she could say no brought with it a yes. On the appointed day there would be a wedding. She could not say if there would be a marriage.
Father Pennant was not at peace with himself either.
To begin with, there was the situation with Lowther. He was no longer annoyed with Lowther. He was worried about him. Lowther had begun to accept that he was in perfect health and that the chances of his dying were slim, but acceptance had brought distance. Lowther executed his tasks and practised his cello, but he no longer followed Father Pennant around, preferring his own company and the comfort of lugubrious music – all of it for the cello, all of it sounding dirge-like.
Then there were his own feelings of anomie. It was taxing to sense one was not part of the community in which one found oneself. He went about his work, comforting the bereaved, marrying happy couples, visiting the sick and infirm. But he was himself in need of a comfort that did not come. What relief he took, he took from the fields around town, drawing pictures of the flora and fauna in his notebooks.
Sometime after speaking to Liz Denny about her marriage, he went for a walk that took him miles out of town to an abandoned farm. The farm had once belonged to George Preston, a farmer who had been well-loved by all in Barrow. Preston had died a year before Father Pennant’s arrival and in that time the farm had been untended, waiting for a buyer, its apple trees and rows of strawberries growing wild. Behind the orchard and the field of strawberries, there was a wooded area through which a shallow creek ran. Father Pennant made for the creek, looking for toads, fish, moss, reeds and cattails.
It had rained only hours before he set off, so the land smelled of greenery and muck. The congeries of smells was intoxicating. How many things he could distinguish by their scent! There was everything from the wet earth itself to the trunks of fallen trees with their tenacious mushrooms, from the sweet smell of rotting apples to the slightly sour odour of the creek bed. And all of it brought solace.
He had followed the creek
for a while when he heard bells and bleating and saw, on the opposite side of the creek, four sheep: a group of three following behind one that did not have a bell and did not bleat. Beautiful creatures: dark-legged, dark-faced, their white fleeces recently shorn, their ears twitching as a cloud of midges pestered them. He was about to move on when, in an odd instant, he had the distinct impression that the lead sheep had spotted him and wished to approach. The sheep stepped into the creek and, almost daintily, forded the shallow stream. It was unnerving to watch.
Father Pennant stood still where he was. The sheep, once it had crossed, shook itself the way dogs do, and a frisson travelled back and forth along its whitish flank. The sheep then approached, until it was a yard or so before him.
– Walk with me, Christopher, said the sheep.
It then turned away and followed the bank of the creek, taking the path Father Pennant himself might have. This, thought Father Pennant, was an excellent illusion, better than the gypsy moths had been and better by far than the ridiculous walk on water the mayor had taken. Having been prepared for the unusual by the previous ‘miracles,’ he was amused, not at all awed or frightened by the sheep. He looked for a speaker or microphone where, no doubt, the bell collar should have been. Was the sheep even real, he wondered, and found himself admiring all the work that must have gone into the illusion.
– Who are you? asked Father Pennant.
– I am He who has no one name, said the sheep.
– Are you? asked Father Pennant. You must prefer one over the others.
The sheep stopped where it was and looked across the creek at the place it had been.
– No, it said. I like them all.
Very clever, thought Father Pennant, recognizing or seeming to recognize both the wit and the voice of Lowther Williams. How wonderful to have Lowther back to his old playful self.
– Don’t you believe in me? asked the sheep.
