by Joan Barfoot
Books by Joan Barfoot
Abra
Duet for Three
Dancing in the Dark
Family News
Plain Jane
Charlotte and Claudia Keeping in Touch
Some Things about Flying
Getting over Edgar
Critical Injuries
Luck
1
I bind my wounds with paper; with this blue notebook, a garish shade not eggshell nor sky nor water, but a colour too blunt and striking. There are spaces on the cover labelled, in black print, Name ________; and below that, Subject ________. The date is August 17. I asked the nurse.
In tiny print in the bottom left-hand corner it says the book is printed with recycled paper. And that, I think, is good. I have always approved of that sort of thing, when I have thought about it.
Inside, the notebook is lined thinly with grey, a pink stripe marking a margin at the side of each page, three holes cut into each margin, round and precise, not at all like the holes, irregular and unspaced, made by a knife in a body. There is a comforting neatness about this book, so one feels compelled either to leave it blank or to write in it carefully, perfectly, and with a certain pain in the perfection.
I appreciate things that are careful, complete, and perfect. This day, for instance. I am fortunate to have a place beside the big window, so that I can look out without obstruction.
Here, of course, there is an unchanging temperature, an untouchability in the atmosphere. So I cannot tell if outside it is uncomfortably hot, but I think not; I think it is a day in which heat soaks the body like a liniment and heals.
Yesterday it rained. But since I am safe inside here, that too was fine, and I watched the greyness falling mist-like. The result of the rain is that in today’s sunshine there is an extra greenness, an almost-too-shrill brightness. It is all quite clearly defined; there are perceptible boundaries between the green of the grass and the tree-trunk-grey and the deep green leaves, no blending to confuse.
On such a day the mind should also be distinct.
It is the details with which I may occupy myself, nothing larger than this room, this body. I shall attempt neatness and keep removed from passion.
The bed is narrow, sheeted with white, coarse. The bed I used to have was wide, the sheets were blue and in the winter covered by the deep down quilt made far back in my mother’s family, in aging rags of blue, soft yellow, checkered red and white. That bed did not have buttons to be pushed that raise shiny steel bars at the sides, an extra bulk that spoils the simplicity of the lines. And it was softer too, while this one is hard and tightly wrapped.
There are two such beds in this room. One is mine, and I am careful to stay in it, or near it, never stray too far, for although it may be strange and ugly, it is also mine.
I can reach out and touch it from where I sit in the easy chair, the blue-and-purple-patterned chair that fills the space between the narrow bed and the wide, heavy-glass window. I sit with my legs crossed at the ankles, back pressed firmly against the chair, blue notebook opened squarely on my lap, my knees touching the base of the window ledge while still in my line of vision on the other side is the glimpse of unwrinkled sheet-whiteness. Three feet, perhaps, between bed and window.
It is precisely the right amount of space. This much I can manage, most days.
At the foot of my bed, a narrow pathway distant, is a dresser, a double one that extends the width of my bed and beyond into the other half of the room, a double dresser with mirror, drawers of underwear shared, split into mine and other. Over the centre of my half is a cheap framed landscape, autumn trees with unreal red and gold leaves, a too-blue stream running past steel-grey rocks. Not the sort of painting I would choose, and yet it is oddly right for this room.
Overhead there is a fluorescent light, switched on at dusk and on dull days. Attached to the headboard of the bed is a reading lamp, which must not be used after a certain hour. When it gets dark, cream-coloured curtains are drawn across the windows and there is no more to see.
It is a puzzling half-room, clumsily warm, but not personal. Some things I like about it though: that it is arranged in straight lines; that it is always in order; that I am responsible for none of it.
The days are slow, events are rare. No one makes me move. The farthest I go from my narrow half-room is to the dining area three times a day; the second farthest when I again pass the other bed, the other half of the double dresser, the second and near-identical landscape on the wall, the closet, to go to the washroom. There are two of us in this room, with a washroom connecting with two others in the next room. To be sure of privacy in the bathroom, it is necessary to lock two doors: the one from Room 201, which is mine, and the one from Room 203, which is next door. Sometimes when I sit on the toilet and do not care to move, for it is white and bright in there, a door handle may move and there may be a muffled remark, but I pay no attention. To move, even if I wanted to, is an effort of will, and I am somewhat short of will these days.
And too, consumed as I am by the trivialities of my own existence, a piece of lint on my housecoat, the glint of a straight pin on the carpet by my chair—and how would such a thing get there if not through me, and I have no use for straight pins, a puzzle to occupy some moments—how should I then have attention for those others? I am careful not to see them. I want to know nothing about them. I take special care in my own half-room never to glance beyond my bed, never to acknowledge the mutters and rustlings from the other bed, never to meet eyes. If it were possible, I would roll my eyes inward and stare only at myself.
When I am to be dressed, someone does it for me. They get me up and seat me; sometimes even brush my teeth. I would have my food, too, spooned into me except that that would make a contact, it would be difficult to avoid the eyes and too much trouble, and so I feed myself. I wait, though, until the meat has been cut for me. Otherwise I would have to take it in my hands to gnaw, for I cannot imagine myself carving it up.
On the good days, it can be restful. On the bad days, it does not matter how still I try to be: the heartbeat is fierce, the sweat pours, the trembling begins. I don’t quite know where it comes from, but I can always feel it waiting. Which is why I have to consider so carefully the lint on the housecoat, the pin in the carpet, why the back must be straight and the ankles crossed just so, why this notebook must be set squarely on the lap and the handwriting school-taught and correct. I do not permit erasures, no blots or irregularities are allowed.
I am afraid. I am afraid of changes and things that are not precise. I make vast efforts at perfection, because I fear what may come of flaws. Disaster waits for mistakes. I want everything to be right. There are places for all things, and proper ways of thinking about them. There must be order in salvation. But it’s so hard; it is not easy to maintain precision and perfection. It is a constant labour, and it is necessary always to be on guard. The long fall, a great chasm, waits for a tiny slip.
2
I don’t see him whole, only bits and pieces. And of those bits and pieces, his hands most clearly. I cannot imagine having married a different shape of hands. Never the short, squat, broad, fur-knuckled kind that one pictures oily from, say, engine parts, crude and threatening. Not that Harry’s hands lacked power, but it was of another sort. Long slender fingers, deft and agile, never clumsy, attached to the fine bones of his hand, tanned flesh over blue veins, colours that blend delicately and well. And ending at the wrists, the prominent, sticking-out bones of the wrists, a dusting of pale hair. Discreet hands. Protecting and capable hands. Hands that knew and saw and did. Hands that would know me and take care. Hands that, put to other uses, would provide for us. It seemed to me that what was in his mind flowed into them, an
d they expressed his knowledge. They were the instruments of who he was. And of who we were, too.
Sometimes in the evenings I picked them up, just to gaze. Simply look. Wonder at their lines, which deepened, and their length and grace, at what they did in the hours that I did not see, at their authority and sureness. Harry lay in his hands for me.
(But the other places his hands went, that I did not know. Betraying hands.)
My own hands I look at with some astonishment. They are small and somewhat plump, pale, not stretched or taut like his. These hands, which have done so many small things and one large, great thing. A mystery, the history of these hands.
They have washed so many dishes and pushed a vacuum cleaner so many times. They have wiped so many cloths over so many windows, and their fingernails have scratched at so many small stains. They have scrubbed vegetables and peeled them, and they have carried hot things from the stove to the counter to the table. They have picked flowers from the garden, and tins from grocery shelves. They have stitched torn seams and pressed irons over crumpled cloth. They have lifted pillows to make them plump again, and heavy bags of groceries. They have turned pages and mattresses. I know they must be strong, but they are also docile, dutiful. They have almost always done what they were supposed to.
All those little things these hands did, I know each task wasn’t so important. But I thought that taken together they must be. I thought they would protect us, build a perfect wall. Pictures I have seen of old cities: built inside great high impenetrable walls, so that no enemies could invade, and the citizens inside could go about their lives without the burden of fear. The walls that made them safe, as long as they stayed inside.
Outside the walls, of course, where the men went, danger. Wild animals, wild enemies, leaping to claw and kill. But then safe again inside, the letting out of breath, the loosening of tense muscles, the putting up of feet. Those walls, impractical in our day, could be re-created, the sense of them, in clean floors and dishes and well-cooked meals and vacuumed carpets, gleaming windows. Or so my hands believed.
So his hands went out and mine stayed in, and together, only four hands necessary for this, two of his, two of mine, we played ring-around-a-rosy in a closed circle, just the two of us.
(Except that one of his hands was busy elsewhere, and we had only three.)
It should have worked. There was a flaw there somewhere, but I can’t tell what it was.
Maybe that my hands, for all I tried, did not go far enough. Things must be kept in order. A single small thing out of order must throw the whole structure faintly off its balance, and these things pile up.
If I see a pin on this floor, for instance, and fail to pick it up, what then? The next day, or the next hour, suddenly there is another pin, perhaps some fluff fallen from the blanket, God knows what else. If again I fail to pick up these things, more gather, and more, and they grow and grow until there is too much to pick up, and I am trapped in them. The thing must be to learn that when the pin is spotted, right then it must be taken and put in a place.
My failure before must surely have been in not going far enough. I took care of what I thought was small enough, but it was not. The chairs sat in the right places, the tables were dusted and polished, the drapes hung as they should, and behind them the hidden windowsills were wiped and white. There were no secret dirty places.
And still that wasn’t enough. I was wrong to think the details could get no tinier. There must have been pins in the carpet that I did not see, and bits of lint on my dresses. There must have been a small stain on one of his ties that became blood.
My mother, unlikely for her, gave me wise advice. “Keep on top of things,” she said, “never let them get ahead of you, it just makes extra work eventually.” That made sense, and confirmed my instinct. But she did not warn me how far I would have to go. Did she not know? If she did not know, surely all the tiny unseen things would have had to rise together to trap her finally too? But they did not, apparently. Or did she know? If she did, it was unfair not to tell me. Her warnings did not go far enough.
All these tiny things. Is it necessary, then, to live with the head down, watching?
So it would seem. And if I’d realized, I would have been quite happy to comply. I wanted badly to do the right thing. I wanted so badly to be good.
His hands did much broader jobs than mine. In his office, I imagine, they moved swiftly and competently over sheets of paper, his strong, dark, large, powerful handwriting scratching out his commands. So assured, those hands; knowing what must be done, doing it.
Hands gripped at home to the handles of the lawn mower; holding firm the vibrations of the roto-tiller as he prepared for flowers; wrapped sternly around the slippery green of plastic garbage bags; turning the pages of newspapers with a crackle, quick and precise, so that they folded as they ought, no fumbling or shuffling. Hands deftly manipulating corkscrews, opening wine bottles swiftly, cleanly, all these things done naturally, without great effort or concentration, part of his hands’ skills.
Graceful hands that rolled paint in broad strokes and did not tremble around window edges. Hands that applauded for special meals, a smiling mouth above, appreciating my work with generosity.
(But I do not want to see his mouth. Or his eyes. Nothing more than his hands, which should say everything. But do not, any more.)
The hands, they do not change in memory. The rest much altered.
Hands (this is hard) that held my shoulders so that I was straight; and that folded themselves around my back so that I was safe. Hands that touched freely places in me hidden to every other person, hands I trusted to do that.
Oh, the lying hands. That they could do so many things so well and never tell. “Let not your right hand know what your left hand is doing,” the Bible says, more or less. And I was Harry’s right hand. He even told me that. He said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t know what I might have been. You are my right hand.” Also, at various times, his heart and his support. I could only show love; he could tell it, too, that was a power he had, dim lights and darkness, strong hands and whispered words. If I’d had words, what could I have said? Enough to hold his hands, to hold the circle closed and tight? But in my labour in the small things, surely my devotion spoke?
He said, “You take such good care of me.” I know he was busy; people told me how hard he worked, how efficiently, how well, they said he was spectacular and tough. His promotions were a sign. He came home tense and vivid, and we shared a drink before dinner, and he looked around our perfect living room, all shined and cleaned and plumped and neat, and said, “God, it’s good to be home.” He made a second drink and read his newspaper. We had dinner. I wanted perfect textures in the food, and perfect colours. He noticed and said, “It’s so pretty I hate to eat it.” I did more than cook and serve, much more. I arranged. I was an artist. I created his home. I sketched each moment of the day with care, so that the portrait of his desires was precise when he arrived.
And his hands went around me.
I thought there were no spaces through which any of our care could dart or seep away, but some hole must have come uncovered, there was a leak.
Oh, that is some lesson. Hands or walls, not to be given faith. A hole will develop somewhere in a wall, and a searching, tempted hand poke through. With mere curiosity? Whatever. Hands lie, words lie. A little lie is like a little silver pin, it too adds up and expands.
But I believed. My faith was real, no lie.
Harry, though—his hands did not move independently of him. Oh no, he knew what his hands were up to.
Did he look at them sometimes and wonder at what they were capable of? I look at mine that way sometimes. They seem so innocent and placid now; difficult to believe what they have done. Yes, I can see Harry looking at his and feeling that way sometimes too.
3
Does this mean I thought it out and knew what I was doing? I’d like to think so, but it’s past lies now. It tur
ns out I spent twenty years unwittingly. Who taught me what to do, so that I thought it was my own idea?
And then I did a lifetime’s thinking in a mere twelve hours, almost precisely twelve hours. The time between the phone call from that woman—what was her name, Dottie something?—and Harry coming home. An abrupt change of gears, a wrenching out of order in my life.
And Harry coming home. And a single clarifying moment.
I was upstairs vacuuming; twice a week I did each room. I have read of ground-in dirt, deep in carpet fibres, causing rot. Heard the phone, shut off the vacuum to be sure, dropped it, ran down the stairs, fit, quite fit for running, work and exercise have kept the body firm, to catch the fourth, maybe the fifth ring.
“Edna?” Not an unfamiliar voice, but also not one that could be placed exactly. “It’s Dottie. Dottie Franklin.” Yes, that’s her name. What kind of person can she be?
“Are you busy? Have I called at a bad time?” She was just the wife, known casually, socially, of a man with whom Harry worked, whom Harry had beaten for the most recent promotion. She never called. Drinking? Perhaps; some lonely women did. Not I. I had no reason.
“Edna, this is difficult.” Not drunk; tension, not liquor, in the voice.
“It’s something Jack saw this morning on his way to work. Just by accident because our car wouldn’t go and he had to get a ride with some man at the garage and the guy took a different route.”
So?
I saw my knuckles, holding the receiver, turn white. I felt my body tighten and my mind turn cold. Ice in my warm and perfect home.
“It was only eight o’clock in the morning. There couldn’t be any other explanation. I’m sorry, Edna, but I thought you ought to know. It’s only fair.”
Fair? What the hell is fair? Is knowledge more fair than faith? More valuable? Oh, God would have done better to make me Eve than the Eve He made. I would not have chosen knowledge over peace.
I don’t think I would have.
