by Heather Burt
“I hope you don’t need to use the loo,” she said, laughing.
Isobel mumbled “No,” but she wasn’t sure. She’d expected something like a doctor’s prodding and poking, but this was different. She rolled her head to one side and fixed her eyes on the pond, where faint waves still rippled, like echoes of the strange new rippling sensation inside of her. In the distance, at the edge of her vision, were the grey-brown shapes of Stanwick’s buildings, low and flat, except for the towers of the town clock and the abbey.
“Is it feeling better?” Margaret said.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“Let me try it this way.”
Margaret slid her fingers down Isobel’s cotton knickers, and the sudden touch of skin on skin was both electric and terrifying. Isobel closed her eyes to shut out the town. The rippling inside radiated throughout her, warming her, like the warm flush she got from Patrick’s whisky. Faint smells of grass and sweat and dog fur hovered in the air, terrible and intoxicating. Vaguely she knew she must put an end to this awful pleasure, but it wasn’t until the unexpected rush between her thighs—was she bleeding? had she wet herself ?—that she bolted up and shoved Margaret’s hands away.
“Jesus, Margaret!” she panted, zipping her jeans. “What were you doing?”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “Helping you with your pains. What’s wrong, Isobel?”
“You can’t—It’s not—” She turned to the pond, where Roddy was wading chest-high in the muck. “You can’t do that.”
“But I didn’t ...” Margaret rubbed her palms down her thighs; the pale freckles on her chin pinched and quivered. “It didn’t mean anything. I was only helping.”
Isobel flung a stone into the pond. Roddy lumbered out and spluttered like an egg beater in the long grass. It didn’t mean anything, she repeated to herself, seeing in her friend’s bewilderment that Margaret hadn’t understood at all, couldn’t see that everything was horribly, inescapably connected. The creature inside her twisted and cramped. She looked past the town and imagined herself at the top of the Empire State Building—not her body, just her essence, by itself.
“I have to go,” she said. “I think the bleeding’s started.”
8
LATE THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Vantwest’s car was again in his driveway. Before she could talk herself out of it, Clare slipped quietly down the stairs. She intended to leave unnoticed, but as she sat on the bench, pulling on her boots, her mother appeared.
“Doesn’t the new carpeting just liven the whole place up?” she said.
Clare glanced up the stairs and into the empty living room at the fresh, rust-coloured floors.
“It looks good.”
“Just wait—it’ll be even better when the new furniture arrives.” Isobel plucked at an edge of floral wallpaper. “This needs to go, too,” she added, almost contemptuously. “The carpet fellow said he could recommend someone who does painting and wallpapering.” As she spoke, she tore away tiny strips of paper, letting them flutter onto the bottom stair. “I’ll have to ring Ted first. That’s the carpet layer. I don’t think he left me the fellow’s phone number.”
Clare rubbed a scuff mark on the toe of her boot and silently urged her mother to go away.
“Are you off anywhere special?” Isobel said.
She wanted to lie, but nothing came to her.
“I noticed the Vantwests are home,” she said flatly. “I thought I’d go across and see how Adam’s doing.”
To her credit, Isobel betrayed no surprise. She tapped her index finger against her lips and leaned backward to look out the living room window.
“I’ve been meaning to make another casserole for them.”
Clare stood and shook out the legs of her jeans. She was a little sore, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. “I don’t think they’ve been home much,” she said. She needed to leave; her resolve was already failing. But her mother held her back.
“I think I’ll go with you, Clare. If you don’t mind. They’ll wonder why I didn’t come. And I do want to let them know I’m thinking about them.”
Clare’s hand dropped from the doorknob.
“Just let me change into a decent pair of slacks,” her mother said, then she dashed up the stairs.
They left the house together under an overcast sky.
“I wish I’d made another casserole,” Isobel said as they started up the Vantwests’ driveway.
Clare hugged her arms across her chest. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Hmm. I suppose they might not eat that sort of thing.”
There were lights on in the house, yet when Clare rang the bell, no one answered. She whispered, “Let’s go,” but her mother pressed her ear to the door and shook her head. “The bell didn’t make much of a noise. It could be broken.” She rapped loudly while Clare stared at the concrete landing. Moments later, hurried footsteps sounded on the other side. The deadbolt jiggled, and the door opened.
It was the aunt. She clutched a tea towel in one hand, and she was dressed in a manner that had more than once prompted Isobel to say she would love to take the woman shopping—shapeless yellow dress, pilled white cardigan, opaque caramel-coloured stockings. The plastic buttons that fastened down the front of her dress were strained across her middle.
For a second or two no one spoke. Then Isobel reached out and touched the aunt’s sleeve.
“Mary. How are you? I hope we’re not intruding.”
The aunt brushed invisible strands of hair away from her forehead. “Ah, Mrs. Fraser. Thank you for the beautiful card. And the chicken. My niece and her daughter enjoyed that very much.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome. We just wanted to see how you’re doing, if there’s anything else we can—”
“It’s very good of you all to visit.” The aunt stepped back, wiping her hands on the tea towel. “Come in. Please.”
Clare followed her mother into the Vantwests’ tiled vestibule, suddenly moved by the significance of the event. She’d been looking across the street at this house her entire life, never entering, never catching more than shadows behind the drapes. And now she was inside. She entered humbly, vaguely expecting to be awed, though at first glance, there was nothing especially awesome about the Vantwests’ private world.
“It’s good this snow is finally melting, isn’t it?” the aunt said.
Clare nodded awkwardly; her mother smiled.
“Oh, yes! Now let’s just hope we don’t get one of those spring storms and have to start all over again. It’s always so discouraging when that happens.”
“Ah, no. That would be too much.” The aunt glanced over her shoulder, down the hall, then waved her tea towel toward the living room. “Come in, sit down.”
Isobel slipped off her black wool jacket. “You’re sure we’re not disturbing you?”
“No, no. Alec will be here soon.” The aunt took the jacket then checked the hall once more. “Come, come. Sit.”
“Should I take off my shoes?” Clare said. As an opening, it was hopelessly inadequate. Adam’s family deserved more from her, and as she met the aunt’s eyes, she tried to convey something of what her words failed to deliver.
“Ah, no. Never mind your shoes. Come, sit.”
She sat beside her mother on the worn burgundy chesterfield. Scanning the photographs on the record player cabinet next to her, she zeroed in on a faded school portrait of Adam. He looked about six or seven years old. He wore a paisley shirt with an enormous collar and a knitted V-neck vest. A curl of black hair jutted out defiantly above his right ear, and two teeth were missing from the cheeky grin he’d flashed the photographer. In the washed-out colours of the portrait, his eyes were a nondescript brown, nothing like the particular shade that Clare remembered.
“Those are the old school pictures,” the aunt said. “Not all the years, but most of them.”
Clare nodded and pretended to examine the other photos. She tried out a question in her head—How is Adam doing, Mary?�
�but the boldness of “Mary” seemed inappropriate, while the question itself suggested that Adam was simply out of touch—living in another city, busy with his studies. Then it struck her, numbingly, that perhaps the reason the Vantwests were home at all that morning was that Adam had died. She braced her clenched fists between her knees and stared at his high school graduation photo—the same cheeky grin. It made perfect, terrible sense: he’d died in the night, his family was in shock, and she and her mother had no business being in their home. There was nothing safe that could be said.
But Isobel managed.
“Mary, we were so shocked to hear about Adam’s accident. How are you and your brother doing?”
Clare held her breath.
“We were shocked also,” said the aunt. “But we are living one day at a time. There’s nothing else to do, isn’t it. The doctor says it’s a miracle he is even alive, so we must thank God for that.”
“Is his condition improving?” Clare said, exhaling, and again her words seemed inadequate.
The aunt lowered herself into an armchair opposite the chesterfield. “Oh yes, little by little. They think he is beginning to respond to their tests, but they still must call it a coma.” She frowned. “We’ll be happy when the doctors stop using that word. Much too serious, no?” With surprising agility, she stood up again. “You’ll have some tea?”
Before they could answer, the aunt disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. As water ran and cups clattered, Clare followed her mother’s quiet survey of the Vantwests’ living room. Isobel’s eyes wandered from the embroidered runner covering the coffee table, across the trampled beige carpet, to the elaborately carved sideboard. Her eyes, and Clare’s, then landed on an astonishing item, butted against a bookcase. It was an upright crocodile, which, like a proverbial party drunkard, had a lampshade on its head. Isobel leaned toward Clare, but whatever remark she intended to whisper was cut off by a knock in the hallway.
“Alec!” Clare heard the aunt say. “Alec, we have guests for tea. Mrs. Fraser and her daughter. Come out and join us.” There was no audible reply, and a few seconds later, the aunt spoke again, but not in English. This time, the hall door opened.
“I’m not available, Mary,” Mr. Vantwest announced, making no attempt to muffle his voice. “I’ll take my tea in here.”
In the kitchen the kettle whistled. Clare’s hands clenched tighter. Suddenly she was relieved beyond measure that her mother had come along. She glanced at Isobel, whose chin was directed toward the hall like an antenna, then she turned back to the outrageous lamp by the bookcase. Something about its imperfections suggested the thing was real. Real or not, though, its outrageousness seemed appropriate, a tangible emblem that all was not right in the Vantwest house. Clare kept her eyes on the creature until the aunt reappeared carrying a silver tray, which she set on the embroidered runner. The tea, strong and steaming, had already been poured into four gold-rimmed cups, and there was a matching plate of yellow cake.
“Alec is taking this hardest of all,” the aunt said heavily. “I told him he should stay home today, and the doctor agreed with me. He said he will call us if there’s any change. I tell Alec he should go outside, take a walk, go to church. His health is not so good anymore.” She added milk to two of the cups, sugar to one, sloshing tea into the saucers as she stirred. “His doctor has told him he has diabetes. It’s only mild, but if he doesn’t look after himself, he’ll have to take the needle.”
Isobel cleared her throat and leaned forward to take one of the remaining cups. “Well, it certainly makes sense, doesn’t it, that your brother would be terribly upset. He’s certainly had more than his share of troubles.” She turned to Clare. “We know what some of those troubles are like, don’t we, pet?”
Clare looked down and reached for the tiny pitcher of milk.
The aunt lifted a cup and saucer from the tray. “I must take this to Alec,” she said. “Please eat some cake.” Then she disappeared down the hall.
Clare plucked the smallest slice of cake from the plate and took a bite. She and her mother didn’t speak, and she worried that the Vantwests would suspect them of eavesdropping. Nevertheless, when a new bout of urgent whispering erupted in the hall, she strained to listen. The aunt’s words were muffled, but it was clear she was distressed. Her brother’s voice, which he’d lowered a little, came in calm fragments.
“This isn’t—time, Mary—not interested—they—appreciate it if you would ask them—”
Clare stared at the crocodile lamp. She tried to imagine the man that Adam Vantwest had described in the depanneur. A complicated, tormented man, he’d suggested. But devoted to his family. The word fierce came to her—fiercely devoted, fierce as a crocodile. It was a word that had no place in the pattern of her own life, yet she repeated it to herself, rhythmically, as her thumb rubbed the rim of her saucer.
When the aunt returned, she stood in the middle of the living room and smoothed the front of her dress with her palms. Isobel rested her cup and saucer on the table.
“Perhaps we should go, Mary. It seems we’ve caught you at a bad time.”
The aunt hesitated just long enough that the answer she couldn’t manage verbally became apparent. Clare set her own cup on the table, and, following her mother’s lead, stood up. For the first time, the aunt addressed her directly.
“You must come back another time. You’re still living with your mother, no?”
“Maybe not for long,” Isobel chirped. “She’s thinking of moving out to Vancouver.”
Clare gave a tight-lipped smile. The aunt cocked her head to one side.
“Ah, so far away. Just like Rudy.”
“How is Rudy?” Isobel then said. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Oh, he is fine. Always working very hard for his pupils.”
“He’s a lovely lad. Give him my best when you speak to him.”
As they filed out of the living room, Clare took a last look at the six-year-old Adam. His face was no longer cheeky but imploring.
Come on, Clare. You were the last person I spoke to that day. Tell them about our ride. Anything. Go on.
The aunt fetched Isobel’s jacket from the closet. While Isobel slipped it on and plucked a bit of fluff from the lapel, Clare stood with her arms crossed and her right hand clenched. The opportunity would last only a few seconds, she knew, and it wasn’t until the last possible instant that she cleared her throat and said, as if it were an afterthought, “I spoke to Adam before his accident. I was on my way to the store and he was cleaning his motorcycle.”
The saying of it was a relief—but a fleeting one. Searching the aunt’s eyes she wondered suddenly if the Vantwests already knew the whole story—if Adam, when he returned to his house for the extra helmet and jacket, had mentioned to his father where he was going, and with whom, and if Mr. Vantwest and his sister were now wondering bitterly how it was that Clare Fraser had managed to escape Adam’s fate. Resenting her.
And yet what she detected in the aunt’s expression was the same eager reassurance she’d seen in Adam.
“Ah, that’s good. You both had a nice talk at that time?”
“Yes ... we did.”
Clare glanced distractedly in the direction of the living room. There was so much more to say—about the ride along the lakeshore, and the conversation by the dairy case, about Adam paying for the eggs, and speaking French, and offering to take her up Mount Royal. More importantly there was her sense that these things had, in some still vague but significant way, affected her. Adam had changed her, she wanted to say. But her mother was watching her as attentively as the aunt. Isobel would notice that these weren’t the kinds of things her daughter ever talked about, and the fact of her noticing would be intolerable.
“We didn’t talk for long,” she finally added. “He was telling me about Sri Lanka.”
The aunt smiled. “Ah yes. He is always talking about Sri Lanka, isn’t it?”
Her words implied a generous assumption
that Clare Fraser was close enough to Adam to know the sorts of things he liked to talk about. Though the remark left her awkwardly nodding and looking down at the floor, she wished it were true. She wished her mother and Mr. Vantwest would leave and that she and the aunt could sit together, like neighbours, and talk about Adam.
Instead, the aunt patted her hair, and Isobel reached for the door latch.
“Please give our best to your brother,” she said. “Tell him we were asking after him. And if there’s anything we can do to help, Mary, don’t hesitate to ring.”
The aunt stretched her cardigan across her middle and shivered. “Alec is taking this very hard,” she whispered. “He’s not himself these days.” She glanced down the hall, and Isobel, in response, reached out and squeezed her neighbour’s hand.
The visit ended. When the door had closed behind them and they were halfway down the Vantwests’ driveway, Isobel exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath.
“Well, that was a strange visit.”
“I guess,” Clare said.
“I just don’t see—Well, I can understand the man being reluctant to socialize. But to send us away altogether?”
Clare took in the familiar lines and angles of her own house. Her mother had yet to make any changes to the exterior, and for the moment Alastair was still there, in the brickwork, the windows, the aluminum siding—still attentive, if nothing else.
