She tried to control the shaking in her body with the emotions running through it: pity and love and a tinge of indecentness that she had robbed him of his privacy, even though she could not understand that he had sought to be private in a closet in the basement of his own mansion; she felt she had unsanctified the holiness of his retreat. Whatever was his problem; whatever was his misery; whatever had caused his heavy drinking and his apparent surrender even with a life of such success and wealth; whatever his misery that she had left him; and whatever her good reasons, it was his home, his mansion, his castle, and his dignity that she had ruptured because of her fears caused by fantasy and the reading of recent horrors in the newspaper beaten and slashed and driven into the flesh and psyche of women who live alone in apartments.
“My God, Mr. Moore, I could have kill you!”
“May,” he said. “May.” She could see that he wanted to say more.
“What’re you doing in here, in a closet, Mr. Moore?”
“Oh, May.”
She was holding him now, in an embrace. He had risen to reach her. And she could feel the weight of her body against his; and he could feel the weight of his head against her breasts; and the softness there, and the pulsating blood, such as he had tasted once when he was on holiday in the Bahamas where he had danced in his wildness to the beat of calypso; and could feel, as he felt then, the flesh in her back as his arms had tied the Bahamian woman too close to him, even for a dance; and in his present embrace, she was frantic and affectionate—squeezing him, holding him to her; frightened and faithful—for he was her employer and she was a woman, overcome by her grief and her pity; and pure and unsinning: she could feel her body for the first time in three years answering to the touch of a man’s hands; and knowing, notwithstanding that dirty dream she had had the night before, the thought that rushed to her head like blood itself, and she knew she wanted him. She could feel his desire touch her there: plain, hard, and honest; and she could feel her body give in . . . for the three cardboard boxes marked CONFIDENTIAL, PICTURES & PHOTOS, and TERM PAPERS were large enough for the size and weight of their two bodies; and were soft enough and adequate enough and supple enough to accommodate them; and so, she put him to lie on his back, flat against the ridges and edges of the three boxes, and he had more than space and comfort. So, he closed his eyes, for he could not look at nor witness what was happening to him, after she had eased the tight-fitting custom-made corduroy trousers below his waist, and had pulled them down along his legs so white that she was surprised; you should be in the sun; passed through her mind; seeing that his legs were skinny, she left one trouser leg on, since it was too much trouble in her rush of emotion getting both over his shoes; and she raised the light blue cotton dress—her smock, as she called it, her work dress—and she pulled this up, above her waist, just below her breasts, now full and pointed at the nipples, and sat on him. It was then that he opened his eyes, that he saw the rich brown flesh, her belly with its slight bulge, and her breasts with their black circles round the nipples, stiff as two olives, and the thickness and silk of her hair betwixt her thighs. Such lusciousness he had not seen before. But deep down had always yearned for. It was when his eyes rested on her greatness that the sight was too much for him, and in shame, in surrender, in weakness, he closed his eyes. He closed his eyes also, because in his heart he was praying.
Always before, in the years of his marriage to her, it was fear and doubt and trepidation when they had sex on Friday nights—he was busy with his work at the office; and her with her social calendar—and he always ended it feeling inadequate, for she wanted to do it by the book, and she wanted him to talk, and say precisely how he liked it, and if he liked it this way or that; and she made him, and he had to spell out for her the positions into which she had taken him. This is why now, not being able, at this point, to know if there was going to be any difference, he closed his eyes. The realism was too much for him. It was like closing his eyes, momentarily, when the car approaching him has its high beams on, to avoid temporary blindness and an accident. But he preferred it with his eyes closed. And how was he to know that this would be the experience, the moment he had been waiting all his life to have; and at the same time, the time and the experience he had been running for his life to avoid.
And when it happened, when he reached his manhood and it spilled out inside her, she closed her eyes and said something like a prayer. And he screamed, “Oh Jesus Christ!”
And like a ritual, like a cleaning up after, like the practised taking up of things and putting them back into their correct places, she put back on her brassiere and her light blue smock, and without saying a word, she left the room.
He was too weak to move. He was too enervated to want to move from the three boxes marked CONFIDENTIAL, PICTURES & PHOTOS, and TERM PAPERS on which she had left him. But more than anything, it was the peace in his body which made him listless. And contented to remain lying. And wanting, in that contentment, to take his own life. To die.
She was standing in front of the double sinks in the kitchen. Her hands were moving automatically. Her face was serene. She could feel a new kind of life pump through her body. As if her blood were being taken out and changed and poured back in. She was staring into the backyard . . . and the trees were white and the jewels of snow, brightened by the bright powerless sun, took her wandering, walking, looking into the windows of shops along Bloor Street; and looking into the peaceful waves of the sea near Gravesend Beach, where she had lived in Barbados. Her hands moved over the crystal glass she was washing. And she realized she had been holding it merely, when the light took up the intricate workmanship in the glass, and the sparkles jumped and had a life of their own, like stars in the darkest night of blue. Then, the full force of her act struck her. Her mind was no longer focused on the glass. What had she done? What had been done to her? But what had she done?
When she realized what it was that she had done, she panicked. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she could feel the water and she did not feel her tears were warm, as people said. Her tears were cold. She felt cold all over. Terror gripped her, and she wondered what to do. What had she done? From her Bible it was clear what her act was. And her religion would chastise her; and she knew she would have to atone for it. She knew she could not wish away her act of adultery. And more than that, her sacred vow to herself, and to Gertrude, that no man would ever touch her body—far less violate it—not even if she had, as before, given her body in love, or in a passionate act of lust. When the weight of what she had done landed upon her conscience, she became irrepressibly depressed. The act, and her entire body, became one inexplicable lump, a large ball, some kind of encumbrance that was ugly and bad, blocking the way to her other thoughts about anything else she knew about herself, as if the act encompassed her entire being. She was now nothing more than the adultery itself.
The tears continued to bathe her face. But she also realized and faced the fact of the feeling in her body, and the newness there, and the love she had given. No one could erase that. No one could say it was not love, that it was not her gift, that it was his assault.
When she knew this, when this thought like the spirit she felt many Sunday nights in her church gripped her; when she knew this, and was this, she broke down.
She picked up her winter coat from the chair on which she had placed it, hours before, and threw it over her shoulders. And she rushed through the front door, not really knowing where she was going; ignoring her woollen hat, her scarf, and her gloves; and she ran across the circular driveway, crushing the snow and leaving pointed marks where her speed had destroyed the firmness of her footprints: running in the thick snow without her winter boots; ignoring the treachery of the ice beneath the snow. She bounded into the bookstore, rushed up to Gertrude, who was holding five books in her hand and a pencil in her mouth, talking with three customers standing beside her.
“Come! Come!” she said to Gertrude, and went behind the counter by the cash register
, and grabbed her by the hand, and said, “Come!”
On the way through the door, she told Gertrude, “This is business. Woman talk.”
“What about my job?” Gertrude said. They were in the middle of Yonge Street, with two lines of traffic in either direction, bearing down upon them. May ignored the cars.
“In here!” she said.
“The Pilot Tavern?” Gertrude was aghast.
One week ago, May had scolded women she saw in the Pilot Tavern, drinking liquor so early in the day, calling them sinners. “To drink?”
“Something happened.”
“Wait!” Gertrude screamed. “The traffic!” It was almost too late. Brakes screeched as the two lines of traffic in two directions came to a shouting, abusive, and gesturing halt.
“They have to wait.”
“Danger,” Gertrude said.
They entered the bar. And walked past the line of stools on their right hand, which stretched the length of the bar counter. On their left were small round, black-topped tables, shining and placed into the spaces left by the custom-built leather seats. She guided Gertrude to the rear of the room. It was darker here. She chose a seat near a door over which was marked EXIT, in red.
“Gerts, what have I done?”
“You sure’s hell cost me my job!”
“This is business, man. Woman talking to woman.”
“I’m concerned about my job.”
“I tried to call you.”
“You just cost me my job, May.”
“To tell you.”
“How could you?”
“All morning, beginning last night, I had this feeling, like a burden on my conscience. All the lights was left on. And the radio was on my favourite station.”
“How’m I going to explain this to Mister?”
“It was as if I couldn’t help myself, all morning. I couldn’t help myself. All morning I feeling this presence. And I went down in the basement. And there he was. There he was, Gertrude.”
“God, May, how’m I going to explain this to Mister? What have you done to me, May?”
“And there he was, in a closet in the basement, sitting down on a box. Do you know what was marked on this box he was sitting on?”
“How can you do this to me, of all people?”
“CONFIDENTIAL! CONFIDENTIAL was marked on that damn box, Gertrude. I could have killed him dead, when he surprised me so. Dead, dead, dead, I tell you, this afternoon, Gerts. What you want to drink?”
“Something soft. Perhaps, a soda.”
“A soda? A soda, Gertrude? Do you think I bring you in here to order a soda, in a crisis like this? Gerts, I have done something, and in this hour of my tribulation, you want to drink a soda? How the hell you could understand my transgression if I am drinking something hard, and you drinking something soft, like a blasted soda pop?”
The waiter was standing over them. He could not understand her speech. Her speech, and the accent in which it was embedded, were too strange for his Sicilian ear. He remained standing and waited.
“Bring her a brandy. And bring me one too, please.”
“Coming up,” the waiter said, and left.
“You can’t help me to understand this burden if you’re gonna stay sober, and me walking in the valley of death. Girl, drink something strong.”
“I left my purse in the store.”
“I have money.” And she placed her purse on the table.
“And my job, May. How could you?”
“The CONFIDENTIAL box, Gerts. And I with a iron frying pan in my hand. And I see him there. Like a baby. Like a child. And I don’t know if it was the dream about the woman-lion that I had and told you about, or the dream about the dog. As I stepped through that front door this morning, my spirit wasn’t itself. It was the blanket.”
“What the hell does a blanket, pardon my French, have to do with my job? You compromised me in front of my customers.”
“An Indian blanket, Gerts.”
“Indian from the East?”
“Indian from here! The Indian blanket that I wrapped him in, last night before I left. I told you about the Indian blanket, Gerts. When I could hardly control the thought of murder, remember? Well, I may not be able to explain it like you, but there was something in that blanket. I don’t know anything about the cultures of people, but Gerts, something was living in that blanket. And for me, a Christian-minded person—”
“And drinking this?”
The waiter had placed the drinks before them.
“The cultures of people, native people, don’t mean a damn thing to me, but I feel something was in that blanket. Some-damn-thing. Something living. A spirit.” In one sip, she drank half of her brandy “Now, I am in the basement. He in the closet. Like a little boy. Put in a corner, for disobedience. And when I saw his eyes, and what was happening to him, concerning the wife, her, yuh know? Gerts, I don’t know why I did what I have done. It is terrible, Gerts.” She was crying now.
Gertrude, still pale and wan from the sudden intrusion, sipped her brandy, and then, feeling its power, drank it off in one gulp. She liked brandy.
“All the way up here to you, running like a damn madwoman, Gerts, and the tears pouring down my two cheeks . . .”
“You killed him, at last? You killed the bastard, eventually? That’s the trick you want me to believe, eh, May? After you have gone and got me fired? ’Cause, I sure’s hell can’t go back to the bookstore!” She put her glass to her head. It was already empty. “Is that what you want to make me believe you did? That you killed him?”
“I had him.”
“You what?”
“Had him, Gerts. I had him. Mr. Moore.”
“Waiter!” Gertrude said; and motioned for another brandy. “A double, please.” And she remained silent for a while, while she tried to understand what she had just heard. “Had him? Like, had sex with him?”
“Fooped him, Gerts.”
“You mean . . . You mean, don’t tell me, but do you mean, sex?”
“Fucked him, Gerts!”
“You? And Mr. Moore? Sex?”
“Fooped him. Going and coming.”
“Waiter? Make that another double, please.” She had, in her confusion, forgotten that she had already ordered a double.
For a time, perhaps longer than either of them realized, or could count, the bar remained still, dead, and with a silence that spoke amazement.
And when it was broken, eventually, it was by Gertrude’s laughter that smashed the silence. She leaned back in the straight-backed chair, and laughed, until something like tears came to her eyes. She took a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her brown fitted dress, and passed it over her eyes, and dabbed her cheeks with it.
“And how do you feel about this?”
“Is that all you can ask me?”
“Who initiated it?”
“What you mean, who initiated it?”
“He assaulted you, didn’t he?”
“I, a woman, and at my age, mixed up in fornication with the man I works for, and all you can ask me, after drinking-off two brandies, is how I feel? And who initiated the fornicating?”
“Listen to me. Take it easy. I know you are distressed by this. But who initiated it? You have to tell me. He came at you, didn’t he?”
“How do I feel? How do I feel, Gerts? I feel like shit. I feel dirty. I feel like a sinner. I feel like a whore, and a robber too. A woman who robbed a man. I feel also like a saviour. But in a strange, liberating way, I feel good. Damn good. But scared.”
“I know. I know. In these cases, the woman takes on a terrible guilt, and sees herself the victim.”
“And it is this that’s worrying me, and I run to you, my only living friend in this city, in this country, to seek solace and a word of wisdom from, and all you can tell me, after two drinks, is how I feel?”
“Sexual assault! That’s what it is, May. I know you’re in no condition to see this clearly. I understand that. It is an assault to
your body. The unfair, criminal advances of a man with power, and wealth, over a poor woman like you. You have your rights. And you have to do something about your rights. We have to do something about your rights. And if you don’t, I sure’s hell intend to!”
“Gerts, my life has changed, plain and simple, by this one act. And I never planned it. I never even imagined it. And with the man I work for? In a room? A closet? In a basement? And me, a woman who detests basements? And going to church twice a Sunday, and two more times during the week? I am planning to take a course at George Brown. Planning to buy a house. Planning to buy Canada Savings Bonds. And now look!”
“You have to tell me you don’t love him.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“That you feel hatred for him.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“That you don’t know you do.”
“I can’t answer that, Gerts.”
“Of course, you don’t know! It’s a matter of master and slave.”
“What?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Slave? Did you say slave? Well, Jesus Christ, woman!”
“Please, May.”
“You said master and slave.”
“I mean power imbalance. You know what I mean. We watched it on television together, for nights!”
“What the hell is this power balance, when I talking woman to woman about having sex with a man. I fooped a man, Gerts. Can’t you get that in your damn head?”
“I’m trying.”
“Well, try harder.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I thought you would know.”
“You’re not going back in that house. That’s the first decision.”
“And why not? I have a business lunch to prepare for, tomorrow.”
The Austin Clarke Library Page 54
