Truth and Consequences

by Alison Lurie

  The supermarket was more or less empty, but as Jane reached the end of one aisle and hastened up the next, she saw a man in a bright yellow shirt, jeans, and sandals frowning in front of a display of lettuce. Jane noticed first that he was very attractive, and then, less happily, that he was Henry Hull, Delia’s husband.

  “Well, hello,” he greeted her.

  “Oh, hi, how are you?” she replied neutrally.

  “Discouraged. Look at this lettuce, it’s pathetic.” Henry held up a bunch of yellow-green leaves that drooped from his square brown hand in a sickly manner. “And the tomatoes. Hard as rocks and such a peculiar color, like dried tomato soup. Even the carrots are rubbery and withered. I don’t get it. Here we are in the middle of farm country, you’d think they’d have something better.”

  “Yes, but nobody buys vegetables at the grocery, not at this time of year,” Jane said. “If you don’t have a garden yourself, you go to the Farmers’ Market. They have wonderful tomatoes there now.”

  “Oh? I must look into that. Where is this market?”

  “It’s downtown, near the lake.”

  “Downtown?” Henry said in a vague manner.

  “Yes, you take Route 13, that’s just up the road, and then . . .” Jane paused. “I was planning to go there today anyhow, for apples and honey.”

  “They have apples and honey?”

  “Oh yes. They have lots of things. . . . If you can wait until I’m finished shopping, I’ll show you,” Jane was surprised to hear herself say.

  “That’s very kind.” Henry also sounded surprised but pleased. “And I’ll get rid of all this pathetic stuff.” He began to restore the vegetables to a bare space on the slanting counter; then to create a face from them. The lettuce became limp, disheveled green hair, the pale tomatoes two bulging eyes, one of the carrots a nose, and another a mouth.

  “It doesn’t look happy,” Jane said, laughing, though at the same time glancing around uneasily for the produce manager.

  “No, why should it? Ashamed of itself, that’s how it should look.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “He’s unhappy because you don’t love him,” Henry suggested. He replaced the carrot with a limp zucchini, giving the face a mournful, longing expression.

  “He can’t expect me to love him,” Jane said, laughing again, almost giddily.

  “But he does. We all do.” He gave her a quick stare.

  “No, you mustn’t,” she replied awkwardly, and turned away toward the front of the store.

  “I have to drop some things off at my house, it won’t take long,” she said as they left the grocery, with Henry pushing the cart. He would have seen the prunes and prune juice as she went through the checkout, and drawn conclusions, she thought, though she had attempted to muddle the message with a bag of brown sugar and some crackers. It’s my husband who is constipated, not me, she had suddenly wanted to say, though this would have been disloyal and also vulgar.

  As she drove home to deliver Alan’s groceries and enema, and then down to the Farmers’ Market, followed by Henry’s SUV, Jane’s mind was troubled. It was over eighteen months since she’d had the kind of conversation she’d just had in the grocery, and she was out of practice, she told herself. In the past, she’d enjoyed flirting lightly and easily with Alan’s friends. But since his back trouble all that had stopped. You don’t flirt when your husband is seriously ill—nor, if you are a man, do you flirt with the wife of a seriously ill friend.

  Those old encounters weren’t supposed to and didn’t ever go anywhere; they were meant only to prove to both parties that they were amusing and attractive. But Henry wasn’t Alan’s friend, and there was something about the glance he had given her in the grocery—But maybe, no, probably, she was imagining it, because it had been so long.

  An hour later Henry and Jane were sitting at a picnic table between the Farmers’ Market and the lake, under a big willow tree that trailed its bright delicate yellow leaves (which, Jane noticed, exactly matched his shirt) in the water. They were drinking fresh cold apple cider, and beside Henry was a large new split-wood basket full of vegetables and fruit and homemade bread and honey and goat cheese and free-range brown eggs. Jane had prevented him from buying any zucchini or tomatoes, promising to donate some of the excess from her garden. It had turned out, as Lily claimed, that he did most of the shopping and cooking for himself and Delia.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m so lucky I ran into you.”

  “Mm.” Maybe Henry was lucky, Jane thought, but what was she? Why had she volunteered to take him to the Farmers’ Market instead of just giving him directions and going home? Why was she here by the lake at noon instead of making lunch for Alan and finding out if he was feeling better and if there was anything else he needed? Guilty was what she was, and selfish and careless.

  “So how is everything going?” she asked politely, to break the silence and distract herself from these familiar self-accusations.

  “All right. Delia’s having one of her migraines, though.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Jane said, struck by the use of the possessive, as if the migraines were Delia’s personal property. “I’m very sorry,” she added, conscious that she was not especially sorry. The more she saw of Delia Delaney, the less she cared for her. When Delia wasn’t demanding some special service or equipment, she was interfering with things at the Center in other ways. A few days ago, for instance, she had taken, or rather openly stolen, a whole ream of expensive pale-green paper (normally used only for posters and announcements) from the supply cupboard. Also, after Susie had received a polite written apology from Charlie Amir, which should have closed last month’s unfortunate incident, Delia had completely spoiled its effect. She had done this by telling Susie that the bunch of roses that accompanied the note conveyed a message in the Victorian Language of Flowers: dark-red roses, appropriately, meant Bashful Shame, but the ferns that came with them signified Fascination. “He’s ashamed of what he did, but he’s also fascinated by you, Susie,” Delia had said, laughing. “When he kissed you, he couldn’t help himself.”

  When Jane remarked that it was very unlikely that a Bosnian economist would be acquainted with this code, Delia had contradicted her. The Language of Flowers was still known all over Europe, she claimed. Anyhow, she had added, segueing into a vatic Jungian mode, these ancient symbolic meanings were innate. Even if Charlie hadn’t known what the flowers meant, they expressed what he subconsciously wanted to convey. It was meant as a joke, probably, but for the rest of the afternoon Susie had remained in a dreamy, inefficient daze. “Nobody ever sent me so many roses before,” she kept saying.

  “It’s weird, you know,” Henry remarked, as if to himself. “When she’s having a migraine it’s as if Delia’s a different person. Sometimes I almost don’t recognize her.”

  “Yes, it’s—” Jane said involuntarily, then checked herself, hoping she had given nothing away. “Does Delia have migraines often?” she asked, aware that she had allowed a silence to fall.

  “Fairly often.” Henry took a slow drink of cider. “They come on when she’s under stress, or when she doesn’t get what she wants. That’s my theory, anyhow.” He smiled briefly and without mirth.

  “Really. And what does she want?”

  “Oh, the usual things that people want. Fame, love, money.”

  “Really,” Jane repeated. “But doesn’t she already have those things?”

  “Not completely. Reviews often make her ill, for instance. Last night it was a piece in the Times Literary Supplement. It was favorable, mostly, but it called her the American Angela Carter. Delia said the implication was that she was a weak transatlantic copy. And it wasn’t fair either, because Angela’s tales all came out of European folklore, while most of hers are inspired by Southern popular traditions and ghost stories and American Indian legends. ‘The English are so sneaky and devious,’ she kept saying. ‘They destroy you with a thousand little needle-pricks. I can feel them now i
n my head.’ ”

  “And she got a migraine just from that?” Jane asked incredulously. “But she’s had so many, many good reviews, and articles and letters—I know, I’ve seen her folder.”

  “Yeah, but you see, Delia doesn’t feel safe unless the applause is complete. She needs for everyone in the world to love her. And usually they do.”

  “Yes; I’ve noticed,” Jane said. Bill Laird’s prediction had come true, she thought. Both Mrs. Unger and Susie admired Delia immensely now, and all the Fellows except Alan seemed to have a crush on her, including Selma Schmidt.

  “But it’s never enough, you see,” Henry said. “There’s always a few people here and there who don’t love Delia, however hard she tries. However brilliant and charming she is, they just won’t.” He paused to take another swallow of cider. “People like you, for instance.”

  “Oh, I never said—I didn’t mean—” Jane protested.

  “Of course not. But I can always tell. And so can she, usually. ‘Jane Mackenzie doesn’t like me,’ she said, just the other day. ‘How can I get her to like me?’ ”

  No way, Jane thought, but said nothing. She looked at Henry and noticed that he was smiling, almost laughing. It amuses him that I don’t like Delia, she realized. Maybe it even pleases him.

  “It’s not always fun being famous,” Henry said. “But somehow people want it.”

  “I don’t see why,” Jane said with distaste. “All those people looking at you and talking about you all the time and printing your name in the papers.”

  “You might like it,” Henry said. “You never know till you try.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I was sort of famous here in Corinth once, for a week or so, and it was just hateful.”

  “Ah? How did that happen?” He smiled and leaned toward her.

  “Well, it was kind of a mistake. My picture was in the local paper because I was buying a big stack of books at the library book sale. I didn’t even know they’d taken it, but it was on the front page. Everybody in town saw it, and they all said different intrusive things, even people I hardly know. They said how I must read so much I would hardly have time for anything else, or that my hair was untidy. The pharmacist in the drugstore told me I needed a haircut, and this woman in Benefits in Knight Hall said I looked very worried and unhappy; but I wasn’t unhappy at all. I only looked that way because the books were heavy and slipping.” She flushed, embarrassed. Why am I running off at the mouth like this? she thought. I hardly know this person.

  “I think I know what you mean,” Henry said, and waited for her to go on, and for some reason, maybe because he was listening so carefully, she did.

  “You see, if I hadn’t been in the paper nobody would have dared to tell me I looked unhappy or needed a haircut, they would have known it was none of their business. Nobody asked them to have an opinion, but they somehow thought it was their right, because I was in the paper. I don’t know how famous people can stand it. I mean, it’s no wonder Delia gets headaches.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Henry was silent for a moment, looking out over the long, shimmering lake, and then back at Jane. “I wanted to be famous once, you know,” he said. “Before I saw it up close.” He shrugged and turned, glancing around at the group of musicians on the dock who were playing a ragged but cheerful bluegrass number. “This is a great place,” he said finally. “I think I’m going to come here every Saturday.”

  “Why not?” Jane frowned. Before Alan hurt his back, they used to visit the market together. He would carry the basket, and often they would run into friends and acquaintances. Today Jane hadn’t seen anyone she knew well enough to speak to at length, but she had been uncomfortably aware that one of the technicians in her dentist’s office, and an elderly couple who often came to chamber music concerts in Bailey Hall, must have noticed that a strange man was accompanying her.

  “You know, it kind of reminds me of home,” Henry added.

  “Oh? Where is home?”

  “Well. It’s in Ontario. Or was.”

  “In Canada.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re a Canadian.”

  Henry sighed. “God. The way you say that.”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “Oh, it’s not just you. Everyone down here says it that way. With a kind of bored, dying fall.”

  “I didn’t,” Jane protested.

  “Yes, you did. To an American, a Canadian is something like—like this cabbage.” He lifted it from his basket. “Organic, healthy, solid, reliable, boring.”

  In spite of herself, Jane laughed.

  “Why are you laughing? It’s no joke to be Canadian.”

  “I didn’t say all that, you did. Anyhow I don’t think of Canadians as cabbages.”

  “Ah. So what do you think of them as?”

  “I don’t think of them as anything,” Jane said, half amused and half uncomfortable.

  “Exactly. You don’t think of us at all. That’s our tragedy.” Henry grinned and took a final gulp of cider. “You don’t know how it is for us up there. We’re always looking south. Aware that beyond the boundary there’s another world: brighter, richer, full of abundance and adventure. It’s like being poor relations or hired help. We’re stuck up in the cold attic, and you’re all down below where it’s warm and there’s always a party going on.”

  “Is that why you came to America?” Jane asked. The idea of a whole nation—or at least of Henry Hull—longing for her life, and envying it, seemed both childish and cheering.

  “Well.” Henry paused and looked up the lake, where a little breeze was now stirring the water. “I suppose so. At least partly.”

  “And you found what you wanted?”

  “Hell, no.” He laughed. “I should have known. See, back home I was just a guy like other guys, but the minute I got here I was a Canadian. As soon as anyone heard where I came from, the organic cabbage was all they saw.”

  “But you didn’t go back,” Jane said.

  “No. I just stopped telling people where I was from.”

  Jane looked at him, meeting his smile. “You told me,” she said.

  “Yeah, I did. I don’t know,” Henry said. “I guess I feel safe with you.” He put his large square hand on hers in a friendly manner.

  But I don’t feel safe with you, Jane thought. She tried to move her hand, but found it impossible.

  “You’re not like most Americans,” Henry said meditatively. “With most Americans I never feel safe. You’re kind of like a Canadian,” he added, smiling now.

  “Really.” She found the strength to pull her hand away. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

  “What do you think?” Henry continued to smile.

  “I think it’s a bit of both,” Jane said as evenly as she could manage. “I must get back now,” she added, standing up. “Alan—”

  “Yeah. How is Alan?”

  “Not too well today, actually.”

  “It’s rough, back trouble,” Henry said. “Or so I hear.”

  “Yes.” Jane picked up her own basket. “It’s not easy for him.”

  “Or for you either,” Henry suggested. He looked up at her, not smiling now. “It’s no joke, being a caregiver, right?”

  “Well, no, not always,” Jane admitted, a little surprised. “But of course it’s much worse for him. I mean, he’s in terrible pain a lot of the time. I don’t have any right to complain.”

  “Sure you do. And so do I.” Henry stood up. He was not as tall as Alan, but darker and broader, and unmistakably strong and in good health. “It’s what you do that counts, not what you say. Or what you feel.”

  “Well. Maybe.” In spite of herself, Jane smiled; but she also took a step away.

  “I think we should meet often and complain to each other.” Henry put his warm broad hand on her bare arm, pulling her back toward him for a disturbing moment. “What about lunch someday next week?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jane said, shifting from one foot to
another.

  “I’ll call you. We caregivers have got to stick together.”

  EIGHT

  At the Unger Center for the Humanities, Alan lay on a dusty green plush sofa in a position that decreased but did not eliminate the gnawing pain in his back. For a few hours this morning he had been able to work through the pain, but then it had become too exhausting.

  Still, he had accomplished something. He had written three pages on the semiotics of American religious architecture, with representative examples. Catholic churches in this country, he had proposed, tended to have sturdy, even stocky brick or stone bell towers, or at least towers capable of containing bells. It was usually possible, though not always easy, to climb them. The standard Episcopal or Presbyterian church tower was narrower and often taller, and more difficult of ascent. And in the newer and more radical denominations, the steeple tended to become thinner and thinner, so that eventually it was sometimes reduced to a mere symbolic white wood or shiny aluminum spike, a kind of exaggerated lightning rod. Was this development, perhaps, related to a conception of the Holy Spirit as no longer a benevolent dove that might roost on or nest in a tower, but instead more like a bolt of electricity that could and sometimes did strike worshippers down, so that they fell to the ground and babbled in tongues?

  For the last week or so things had been looking up a little. Alan’s back was not well, nothing even approaching well; but at last it was no worse than before his operation. Possibly this had something to do with his new office, with its sofa and the drafting table; possibly he was just managing the drugs better, so that he got some relief without headache, constipation, confusion, and all the other nasty side effects. Or, possibly, his recent attempts to resume an exercise regime were paying off. Encouraged by his friend Bernie, Alan had begun going for walks, and even (with the help of a charity transportation service called Gadabout) visited the YMCA pool, where he swam for twenty minutes and did uncomfortable water exercises.