Slights

by Kaaron Warren

  Written inside The Deer Park, Norman Mailer:

  She had a week off and knew that he did too. She plotted to have him for all that time. She drove into the city to shop, and purchased goods to last them, men's toiletries as well, though she blushed to do so. She purchased cool new bed linen to welcome him, a nightgown for seduction, she planned they would not step out for a week.

  He arrived, expecting dinner. She locked the door after him, should he want to escape. "Come in, Rafe," she said. She wore her nightgown. It clung and revealed, made her desire him because she felt so desirable. "My God," he said. "You are magnificent." She was brazen. She took his jacket from him, his shirt, she put her hands on his chest, tucked her fingers into the hairs, she kissed his throat. She kissed his chest, then knelt and kissed his belly. He sucked in his breath. "Not daring to hope," she thought. It spurred her on. "Not daring to hope." She unbuckled his belt, he kicked off his shoes. She lowered his trousers over his hips, let them drop to his ankles. He kicked them aside. She kissed his shins, his knees, his thighs.

  "No," he said. He kissed her, kissed her hair, sank his face between her breasts.

  "My love," she said, but softly, so he could not hear, because she did not want him to stop for a single moment for the rest of eternity.

  In Bless This House, Norah Lofts:

  She lived at home with her parents, then her mother died, then her father. He no longer lived in the town, he said it was because there was no work, but she knew he was tired of hiding. "There's no need to hide," she said. She didn't care what people said, people were cruel no matter what you did. It mattered to him – he couldn't stand the talk. He said he wanted more of a challenge and she thought that meant her as well. She visited him on weekends, when the library was closed, leaving her country proper self in a cupboard where her mother's clothes hung and letting her city pretty self take over. He had the smallest place to live she had ever seen, but it was private, anonymous, and he had it set up nicely. On her first visit, he opened the door. She saw flowers fill the room and small gifts in nooks and crannies. After they made love he sent her off on a treasure hunt, and she came back with one after another. A fluffy red heart, a book of poetry, a miniature painting, a ticket to the theatre, potted mint, chocolate. The prizes still came, and she loved him for his generosity, but feared him as well.

  She could see the "but" in his eyes. The city was full of women, new people, experiences she only knew about through her books. He didn't say "but". She gave him a tiny crystal heart. They made love for many months, many more gifts to the child in her heart, and she began to suffer his sideways glances, his tiny yawns of boredom, his forgetful heart. She began to die inside.

  In The Day It Rained Forever, by Ray Bradbury:

  Oh God oh God oh God he's gone where why why oh it why you know knew it was you always it was but he was there too life a friend when he hurt me it wasn't deliberate it was a mistake it was too much and I loved him too much like a lover does to lovers love oh A A A A it was all right why did you do this I would have lived he didn't live but he could have oh God oh God oh God how can I go to your home your sweet wife and those little faces oh God oh God oh God why tell me I didn't want to know I didn't need to know what you really are oh God what can I do.

  The box Jessie gave me was labelled "Alex's Books," and it intrigued me, because my father had never been a reader. He despised the concept of fiction. Newspapers, he read, but anything with a cover wasn't of interest. I had read pages, here and there.

  She said to me, "I can't do it anymore." I know she said that. But this is what I heard: "I'm going on a cruise to New Zealand."

  That's what I heard her say.

  This is what happened. I imagine this is really what happened:

  Auntie Jessie saved pills like a squirrel with a tree full of nuts. She sat in her favourite chair, sun pouring in, book on her lap. It was Great Expectations. I don't know if she was being symbolic or she just wanted to die with a smile on her face. She made herself a cup of tea. She read, sipped, swallowed, until she fell asleep. Her gentleman friend found her. Mr Bell, her old teacher. They truly were friends; the two of them were as sexual as a glass of water. The only sparks which flew were the ones from the open fire they loved to sit in front of at his place.

  He had been away; his first holiday in years, and he cursed himself for going.

  "I could have saved her. We saw each other every day," he said.

  If he couldn't see that was the whole point, that she didn't want to be found, she wanted to go to the dark room and meet her people, I wasn't willing to tell him.

  I talked to him, to see what family secrets he was privy to, and it seems: none. Auntie Jessie told him nothing. I left him shaking and weeping, a large lavender hanky blotting tears, alone, and I never saw him again. Did he even know why she did it? That terrible fear of discovery? My only wish was that she had honoured me with the secret. That I had been told.

  In Puffball by Fay Weldon she wrote, "I must take steps. I cannot bear the knowledge." Once I realised what she'd done, the idea of suicide took on a certain magic. An attractiveness. Though perhaps she got the idea from me; she copied me.

  But she was successful.

  No one found her.

  I couldn't speak. I wouldn't cry; felt no tears, but there was thick sludge in my throat; I couldn't breathe. I had missed Dad's funeral. I was left behind, minded by one of our hateful neighbours. Mum's funeral I was still in hospital, waiting for my guts to collapse.

  So Auntie Jessie's was my first funeral, for all the deaths there's been. But it wasn't just that. I realised I had known Auntie Jessie for longer than I knew my parents. I realised there was no one left who forgave like she did.

  God, how could I live without that forgiveness?

  The funeral was a lot bigger than it should have been. People there for Peter, comforting Peter, as if it was his favourite relative who was dead. His mother or something. I hadn't realised until then just how loved he was. It seemed so unlikely.

  I dug for a while, my comfort, and I found ten paper clips together, a margarine tub, some bones and the bluebird ring Auntie Jessie gave me when I was eight. My counsellor said I needed to move on, but how can I? I hate to leave the house. The garden is looking good, and the jasmine is flowering. At night I can smell it, sickly and sweet.

  I read Auntie Jessie's books, and nothing made sense. I decided to visit the library, speak with Lesley, her assistant, to see if she could tell me anything more.

  Lesley was happy to speak to me. She knew about me. "The board hired me when they finally got the funds for a library assistant. They promoted Jessie and hired me to help her." Lesley's face was blotchy. "I feel like it's my fault. They don't. They feel no responsibility for her death. Four months she lasted, now she's killed herself. They say it's a terrible thing, but not caused by any decision made by them.

  "You should have seen the back covering at the meeting. 'We would never have been so cruel as to promote someone over her. She was always so capable,' the chairman said. I could hardly hear him. They would never hold an official meeting regarding Jessie's demise; they were all so busy. The little minute-taker said something about how Jessie couldn't cope and that I, well, they call me little Lesley, was the perfect assistant. Little creep.

  "They would never know. I'll stay on alone, as Acting Chief Librarian. Because I've discovered these hidden works of Jessie. It must be her. The writing style, the sharpness of the pencil used, the penmanship, in all the flyleaves and margins are identical to those notes I noticed a month before Jessie's death. And there was only one person who could have written those.

  "I was updating the library card system, checking long overdue books, removing the cards on the 'deceased' list Jessie had given me, placing those cards to be re-used in the new members file.

  "There had been one new member since I started, but Jessie was sure there'd be more when the school holidays began.

  "I plucked out a pale green
card, coded that way by Jessie to mean 'requires help to choose books'. I erased the name and address in preparation. I said, 'What was this old fella like?' I tried to read the name. I was trying to find something to talk about – I was bored. Jessie only livened up when she talked about the past.

  "Jessie held out her hand to see the card. As I passed it, she saw a word printed at the bottom. Two words. She said to me, 'He was a dear man.' She sucked on her pearls, a childish habit which took years off her age. She tore up the card. 'Loved a bit of a saucy romance but was embarrassed. Used to pretend they were for his wife, but she's been dead for twenty years, now. Some kind of infection. Nothing suspicious, though. No one ever thought he was involved.' Jessie tossed the card in the waste paper bin. Later, when I took the rubbish out, she rescued the card. 'Help me,' the words said.

  "When Jessie wasn't there, I flicked through and found other parts of the message.

  "Step on ants.

  "Help me, a few times.

  "Stop him.

  "I can't.

  "Break me.

  "I love you.

  "Come to me.

  "Smell the flowers.

  "Such a lovely garden, four times.

  "I wrote down each one she found, then I showed them to her. She didn't seem bothered. I said, but someone's been defacing the cards, and she said, said, 'I'm afraid that's human nature. People can't help being destructive. It's inevitable.'"

  Lesley and I sat in silence for a while. She said at last, "I'd better get back to work."

  "Lesley," I said. "You realise if you talk about this people will think you're crazy? I wouldn't mention it, if I were you."

  She nodded. Weak bitch.

  When Auntie Jessie died I was left with Uncle Dom and Ruth as my only family members of the previous generation. Ruth didn't change her behaviour; she didn't suddenly become kind and responsible. I just got more of her wisdom.

  "Never trust a man with a voice higher than your own," was one classic. And she also advised me to keep my shower filth under control.

  As Uncle Mike got older and sicker and unable to defend himself, Ruth set about changing the sort of man he was. She changed his history, told stories no one had heard before.

  She said he chased her half-way around the world because he loved her so desperately and she was so popular it was hard work. Witnesses were dead, and no one listened to Uncle Mike.

  Auntie Jessie had told me that she and Uncle Mike had enjoyed a mild flirtation which he had taken very seriously. Thinking back with adult experience, I can remember Uncle Mike being livelier around Auntie Jessie.

  Poor old Auntie Ruth. She's not very good at reinventing her past. People don't believe her. You need to be subtle, change things gradually. People think, "Why is she lying about that?"

  Ruth somehow made me feel guilty the way no one else ever has. Pity, perhaps, is part of it; she squandered her talents, her looks, and all she was left with was bitterness and jealousy. She wanted me to denigrate my own mother, in order to make herself feel better. She thought of Mum's life as perfect. She muttered under her breath short imprecations whenever anything went wrong, "Heather didn't get this. Heather was safe. Heather was never robbed. Heather got Alex, not an idiot." I felt horribly responsible for no good reason, and I fantasised about Ruth dying, leaving me in peace. She was the last of them, though. Her and Dom. We didn't see much of Auntie Ruth when Dad was around. I had a learned dislike for her; Dad had taught me. Peter had his greatest moment of cheekiness, one which stunned us all, the day Dad was talking to us about caring for each other because we were siblings.

  "But you hate Uncle Dom and Auntie Ruth, and they're siblings of you and Mum," Peter said. It was great.

  "Sometimes things change as you get older. There's no reason for the two of you to hate each other."

  At Auntie Jessie's funeral, Ruth said, "It's about time that old bitch died," she said. Jessie was older by just two years. "She's been nothing but a drain on this family. Spinsters always are." She was making a knife-cut point against my marital status, as if I cared. As if I wanted her life.

  Ruth could never understand why Peter and I liked Jessie so much. Spittle flew when Ruth said, "She's just a silly ditz. How hard is it to work in a library? She couldn't even cope with running it."

  "Maybe she didn't want to run it," I said. I had heard this many times; whenever Jessie's name was mentioned, the vitriol would bubble over.

  "What is it you like about the woman?" Ruth said. "She's nothing. I've never seen her laugh. She's never done anything for anybody."

  "Dad liked her," I said. Ruth's face tightened; perhaps that was it. Dad liked her.

  "Much as I liked your father, I have to say he liked the ladies. I don't like to say, Stevie, but it can't hurt your Mum now. He didn't mind being over-friendly, if you see what I mean. With me. Auntie Jessie liked to think he liked her. But he despised her mousiness. He couldn't stand the sight of her. Drinking alcohol will make you drunk, you know, Stevie, a lesson your Jessie never learned."

  The picture in my mind was of Mum, Dad and Auntie Jessie, sitting at our kitchen table, laughing, wet faces, Peter and I sitting up at the table too, laughing at them laughing. This is what I remember most; the table, laughter, tears. I knew that Ruth had never been part of that.

  People went quiet when she walked into a room; you talked about different things when Ruth was present. You talked about her and her family, because that was the subject of greatest interest and because it could be dangerous to talk about anything else. She had opinions. Perhaps Jessie might talk about a library patron who spent his days watching other people reading, and we might be discussing him with interest, wondering.

  Ruth's comment may be, "That man should be arrested before he hurts somebody," changing the picture. She might attack the man, come up with terrible theories. Anything to give her the final word, make her feel superior.

  I was affected the least by Ruth. She said such strange things I would often just stare at her; I did so until she caught my stare and was quiet. Mum and Dad used to love it. They reminded me it was rude to stare, but smiled at each other. "I've never seen Ruth speechless," Dad said.

  "Only before she learned to talk," Mum said. "And even then she was a good grunter." They laughed, unconcerned that perhaps they were confusing me with conflicting signals.

  I was the one selected to receive Ruth's worldly knowledge, and I received it in a continuous monotone over twenty years. "Napi-san is the best thing for whites," I was told, not that I'd asked. Another one was, "Always drive with both hands on the wheel."

  Ruth said, "Who would have thought your mum would die so close to middle-age? And Jessie would only just fill the half-century. And me, the wild one, who everyone expected to die young, left behind."

  "Mum wasn't middle-aged. She was only thirtyseven."

  Ruth tutted. "You really are an ignorant child, Stephanie," she said. "Forty is middle-aged. Don't you realise that? We're not expected to live past 80, you know." It was just another one of her little bits of vital information. She told me this piece of Walker family history.

  One time when Heather was sick, they came up with a great lark. Ruth would go to school and pretend to be Heather. They were in hysterics, as Ruth tried on outfit after outfit, because Ruth was taller and slimmer. Ruth looked so funny in clothes Heather looked lovely in. Jumpers went up to her elbows. Skirts hung loosely above her knees.

  Ruth headed off, leaving Heather to submerge back into her illness. Ruth imagined they looked quite similar, and came home telling Heather, "They called me Heather all day, and the teacher said what a good day I was having. I got you an A in a maths test. And that guy Freddie, he's really cute. You never told me he liked you."

  Heather laughed at the story, but didn't really understand it. No one called her Heather at school; they called her Hester, as a joke. And Freddie liked all girls; had never shown any particular interest in Heather. Ruth went back to her own class the next day.


  I had heard this story from Mum, too. The other side of it. The stuff Ruth didn't know.

  Mum never told Ruth that, when she was better and back at school, everyone said her sister was a lunatic. She French-kissed Freddie, giving him the shock of his life, then disappeared.

  "She was a witch, I reckon," said Freddie.

  Mum told Dad the story, hoping to make him laugh. He shook his head, though.

  "I don't trust her," he said.

  Ruth said, "Your Dad wasn't quite the innocent," and winked at me. As if I wanted to know her dirty little fantasy.

  As if she had any idea what Dad really did.

  "Anyway, when do you get your licence back? I need someone to drive me to appointments."

  "Twenty-three days," I said.

  Twenty-three days.

  at twenty-four

  The scar across my forehead I got when I was eighteen. I also got the ones all over my arms. And one across my foot, where my spade had slipped, I got that at nineteen.

  Some people like them, though. I don't know what it is. A man came to dig up the dead tree in my front yard and he was neat, good clothes, but there was something in his eyes. He was polite but he didn't mean it. He arrived at seven, both mornings, and I was up and ready to go.