by André Alexis
– Why don’t we go out?
That was something they hadn’t done forever, go out and look at the stars. And thinking they were going down to the backyard and the wooden lawnchairs her father had just finished, Lillian put on a dirty dress, an old shirt, and running shoes.
It was just as well she put on the shoes, because that night “out” was a long walk through the sleeping town: moonlit, the houses two-dimensional against the sky.
It was the first time Lillian saw the town as almost exotic, though she knew all of the houses by heart and most of the people who lived in them.
They walked a mile from town in the near quiet, giggling past the MacPhersons’ orchard, their crab apples.
– The most vicious dogs to guard the least tempting fruit.
And then they were at the gravel pit, an excavation filled with rainwater, another pool to drown the region’s youth, there being no shore, no gradual decline, only the pool itself, said to be nine feet deep or twenty feet deep or deep as the ocean, unsounded.
It wasn’t Lillian’s idea to swim. She’d known two of the children who’d drowned there. Katarina undressed and dove into the water.
– Come in, she said. It’s warm.
It would have been faithless to stand beside the quarry and watch, so Lillian too undressed. The shore, such as it was, was rock-strewn. She tiptoed to the water and slid in. The water was warm. The air smelled of weeds. The moon was bright.
It was thrilling, and it wasn’t only the warmth, the moon, and the stars that made her ecstatic. It was swimming with Kata, their small bodies engulfed in…
Thomas: You were naked?
Mrs Schwartz: Of course. Your mother was a beautiful young woman. Much more attractive than me.
They swam until they were exhausted, then dragged themselves from the water and put on their clothes.
Arm in arm, for warmth, they walked back, past the same fields and farmhouses, past the barbershop and the bakery, along the tarred streets, along which, in their dark houses, there lived the Lafleurs, the MacDonalds, the Del Monicos, the Smiths, the Smyths, the Howards, the Wilsons…
She was certain no one saw them, though she was so elated she wouldn’t have minded if they had.
The two of them swimming; a moment of pure, innocent pleasure.
* * *
—
Lillian Schwartz never learned how her parents discovered she’d been to the quarry, but they saw the swim in a different light.
For Mrs Martin, it was as if her daughter were on the road to ruin. It was only the lowest who went to the quarry, and this, this skinny-dipping with Kata and God knows who else, it was unspeakable.
The door to their house was closed to Katarina MacMillan.
Mr Martin, though he was genuinely fond of Katarina, nodded sadly at the edict. It wouldn’t do to roughhouse at the quarry.
– But we were only swimming.
– Only swimming? said Mrs Martin. Thank heavens and what’s next? Only drinking? Only kissing? Only…
And that was the last they spoke of Katarina.
At the news of her ostracism, my mother turned to Lillian and said
– So what?
her last words to any of the Martins.
The end of their friendship broke Lillian’s heart.
She felt the injustice of her parents’ behaviour, it’s true, but Katarina’s refusal to speak to her was as painful as if the two had been in love. Besides, it left a question unanswered. Who told on them?
* * *
—
I have considered the question myself.
If the story is true and if no one saw them as they walked through town and if Lillian never spoke of their swim to anyone but Katarina, then the death of their friendship was almost certainly Katarina’s doing.
Mrs Schwartz was too kind to say so, but I know she blamed my mother.
For my part, I do feel my mother’s presence in all this, but I don’t understand whose needs were served.
If she’d meant to sever her ties to the Martins, why bother to go swimming at all? If she’d wanted to blacken Lillian’s reputation, why lead her to the quarry? A lie would have done as well.
There are too many missing pieces. I can’t follow the logic.
3 Mrs Schwartz and the Candle at Night
I find it odd that I have so few memories of Lillian Schwartz herself.
She was a generous woman, and fascinating. From the beginning, I was enthralled by her stories of Katarina. I first heard them when I was six or seven, and in them, through her, I lived in friendship with my mother.
I remember the colour of Lillian Schwartz’s eyes, the colour of her hair…but, if it comes to that, I remember her house, its rooms, in more vivid detail.
Most vividly, I remember the rumours that preceded her.
It was the Goodman girls who taught me the significance of living beside a witch. If Mrs Schwartz was a witch, and most of the children in the neighbourhood agreed she was, then I should look out for the following:
i. Missing Children, Their Cries
Because witches ate children, there were bound to be disappearances. Should I ever have the courage to investigate, I would almost certainly find them in the Schwartzes’ basement. And, if I ever managed to stay up late, when the town was quiet, I would almost certainly hear their snivelling, close as our house was to theirs.
ii. Odours
Well, it would be difficult to hide the smell of missing children, alive or dead. And, because witches were unable to eat a whole child at one go, there were certain to be Mason jars everywhere: jars of fingers, toes, and things. The bigger pieces, hands and feet for instance, would be in Tupperware. Legs and arms would have to be kept in a refrigerator, though that wouldn’t keep them from stinking. So, it followed that she would use exotic perfumes and cans of air freshener, anything to disguise the pickling.
iii. Cats
An essential companion, usually black, though a black dog would do.
iv. Miscellaneous
The following might be proof, but you couldn’t count on them, witches having changed with the times: long noses, big chins, black hats, black clothes, black books, brooms, cauldrons, toadstools, goats, frenzied dancing around an open fire…
* * *
—
It’s difficult to imagine how Mrs Schwartz acquired her reputation among the children on Grove.
She was a hard-oiler, forever belonging because she was born in Petrolia. She’d left town to marry a man from Strathroy, yes, but she hadn’t stayed away long. Her family was well known. Her father was fondly remembered for years after his death. Even her daughter, who should have been tainted by association, was more warmly greeted than she was. No one thought Irene evil, just unfortunate.
It’s true that, if one looked with an eye to witchery, the signs were almost there. There were no children hidden in her house, but there were Mason jars on shelves all over the basement, jars filled with plants and roots that did resemble toes and manikins. The house usually smelled of whatever was cooking, but she herself wore patchouli, a most exotic perfume for the time. (I mean, once she’d named it and encouraged me to breathe the air at her wrist, I never smelled patchouli but in her presence.) She had no conspicuous black books, save for a Bible, but she did have one that included pictures of wolves walking on their hind legs.
For the first months after the Schwartzes moved into the house beside our own, I looked for something to allay my fears. However, fear only briefly troubled my imagination. It didn’t survive our first conversations about Katarina.
I mention all this only to explain why it was I lay awake at night, listening for the sound of children snivelling. And it was on one of those nights I acquired my most vivid memory of Mrs Schwartz herself.
The window in my bedroom looked down on the Schwartzes’ yard. I could see the back of their house, most of the backyard and, window open, I could smell their garden: marjoram, dill, sweet cicely, parsley…
On this night, I was awake long after my bedtime. The house was quiet and stifling. From my vantage, I could see a candle in the Schwartzes’ kitchen window, flickering. It was mesmerizing, if only because I was convinced the lace curtains would catch fire.
I could hear the wind through the trees, a sound I’ve always found soothing. I might even have fallen asleep at my window sill, looking up at the stars, listening to the wind, but, in the way that one does on the edge of sleep, I suddenly realized I’d been listening to voices.
I couldn’t tell how long they’d been speaking or how long I’d been listening, but there they were. One of the voices was that of Mrs Schwartz; the other was familiar, but it wasn’t until she stepped into the moonlight that I recognized Mrs Goodman.
That in itself was peculiar. I don’t think I’d ever seen the two of them together, didn’t realize they were close, but here they were, their voices too low for me to make out anything but the occasional word; the two of them side by side looking down at the garden, shoulders almost touching.
Then there was a loud, dry snap, as of a branch breaking.
As one, the women looked in my direction. They could not have seen me, but in my imagination their faces were contorted in anger. I jumped back from the window and onto my bed, truly frightened.
When my heart stopped racing and I found the courage to tiptoe back to the window, the women were gone.
The wind still sounded and the candle burned.
* * *
—
I don’t know why I should remember such a trivial moment, but it was so precise and unusual, it was as if I’d dreamed.
It was as if I’d dreamed it at the time. It seems even more improbable now, though I distinctly remember Lillian’s face looking up, and I can almost see the candle flame flicker and rise.
4 There was once a man named Smith. Every morning at seven, he would drive to work in Sarnia, and every evening he would return. His life was dull. It was a meek resistance to death until, one night, as he was driving home, his car broke down. It was winter, and he was miles from home. There was a farmhouse half a mile from where he’d stopped, and he trudged through deep snow to get to it. He knocked at the door, and after a very long time an old man answered. The man’s face was round and white as a drum.
– What is it this time? he asked, holding the door open just enough to let his face out.
When Mr Smith explained his predicament, the old man said
– You know damn well I don’t have a phone! and shut the door.
It was a bitterly cold night. The moon was white. Mr Smith’s breath was thick as smoke. He knocked again.
– Well? the old man answered.
– Could I come in for a few minutes, to warm up?
The old man spat on him and closed the door.
Mr Smith walked back to his car, his hands in his pockets, his feet cold, his face burning. He had just decided to trudge back home when he saw a small boy standing by the side of the road. The boy was about five years old, his hair white with snow, and he was dressed in summer clothes. He stood near Mr Smith’s car, shivering.
– Please, take me with you, the boy said.
It was a pathetic sight. Mr Smith took off his coat, wrapped it around the boy, and together they went back to the farmhouse. This time Mr Smith knocked with determination. The old man answered, slowly, as before, but when he saw the child he said
– Get away!
and tried to close the door. Mr Smith grabbed the old man’s nose and squeezed for all he was worth. The old man pleaded
– But I don’t want to go!
He moved backwards to free himself, and Mr Smith and the boy went in.
The next thing happened very quickly. Mr Smith let go of the old man’s nose. The old man fell. The boy turned into a large black dog. The dog pounced on the old man and bit his throat. The old man didn’t even have time to scream. His neck snapped, and he died.
You can imagine the effect all of this had on Mr Smith. He was paralyzed with fear. He shivered as the dog licked its maw and cleaned the blood from its coat.
– I’ll be with you in a minute, the dog said.
– Take your time, said Mr Smith.
Finally, the dog turned to Mr Smith and said
– Didn’t you know you were his death?
– No, said Mr Smith.
– You know, said the dog thoughtfully, there are no bounds to human ignorance…
And it moved like a shadow out of the farmhouse and into the night.
From that moment, Mr Smith was a changed man.
He avoided farmhouses, and he rarely went out in winter.
5 It’s true that the flag of Trinidad is the same red, white, and black as my grandmother’s dresses, but that was a coincidence, I think. The island gained its independence in 1962, long after she’d left it, long after it had ceased to matter to her.
IV
However they were in fact, in my mind the Goodmans are associated with death.
I was at the Goodmans’ when my grandmother died, or, rather, it’s to the Goodmans I went for help, on discovering her cold body.
I was infatuated with Margaret Goodman, but our budding relationship died with Edna and with my mother’s return.
My mother’s return was itself the death of the Katarina MacMillan I’d created from the bits and pieces of Mrs Schwartz’s memory.
And, finally, the Goodmans’ house was the last building I allowed myself to see as we left Petrolia. I stared at their white house from the car, hoping for a glimpse of Margaret, and then, seeing her with her sisters on their way to school, I closed my eyes so that hers would be the last image I took with me.
Death all around, then. From first love to my mother’s return by way of Edna’s exit.
* * *
—
I remember every detail of Margaret Goodman’s face. I remember it exactly, I think, though I imagine it hasn’t looked as I remember it for thirty years.
Even at the time, Margaret’s face wasn’t Margaret’s face. Quite a revelation for a nine-year-old, the idea that Margaret was only really Margaret from the proper angle, or that she was most Margaret when I wasn’t looking at her face. Her voice was constant, as was her smell (orange juice). She had a dependable repertoire of clothes and a particular walk, but her face was unpredictable.
I don’t mean that she made faces, or that she had a tick. I thought the kids who could make strange faces amusing, but they were mostly boys: Nick Jacob, Mark Gould, Peter Corrigan…Nor do I mean that her features were unnaturally mobile. From whatever angle I looked, there were constants: the colour of her irises, the dark of her eyebrows, the length of her lashes. These things (irises, eyebrows, lashes) were common to all of her faces, but when I actually looked at her, it was as if they were perpetually out of context.
I found this traumatic.
By the age of nine, I’d already learned to tell a female from a male grasshopper. I knew males were the ones who stridulated. I also knew where to look for ovipositors, could tell the labrum from the labium, the ocelli from the coxae.
It wasn’t only a point of pride with me. It was a practical matter.
First, to my grandmother, knowledge – even obscure knowledge – justified time spent at the public library. I was allowed to stay at the library as long as I wanted, but only if, on my return, I could give proof I hadn’t spent my time with “sex trash.” So, no matter what I was reading, from Asterix to Ian Fleming, I memorized a little something from Collier’s Encyclopedia before going home. (To this day, I can think of few things as beautiful as Collier’s cut-away diag
rams of the European cabbage butterfly, Pieris brassicae, or the human louse, Pediculus humanus.)
Second, learning to distinguish fore from hind legs or tibiae from tarsi brought me closer to some of the insects I adored.
Yet, when I first convinced myself of this peculiarity of Margaret’s face, it was as if there were something wrong – with me, not her. Not that faces are comparable to insects, but “distinguishing features” were a passion, and it troubled me that Margaret’s face was rarely itself.
I felt no anxiety where other faces were concerned. My grandmother’s face, though it was just as changeable, was my grandmother’s face, whether she was drunk or sober, sitting or tottering, breathing with difficulty or watching television. It wasn’t her face that made me anxious.
This aspect of my feelings for Margaret has had the strongest resonance in time. I mean, I’m convinced that the women to whom I’ve been attracted have all shared certain facial features: eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows. I can trace the similarities from Margaret (the first) to Judita (the last but one). It’s not that they’ve looked alike, but that their faces are the distant echoes of another.
I assume other men are similar, that the faces of the women to whom they’re attracted will, on reflection, be similar to another. I also assume it is their mothers who provide the template for whatever they find attractive in the face of this woman or that.
You’d think, having been abandoned by my mother, that none of the women I’ve admired would look anything like her. Not at all. I’m genuinely alarmed by the resemblance all of the women I’ve loved have had to my mother, even Margaret.
(Yes, even you.)
The face I saw when I closed my eyes was, of all Margaret’s faces, the one closest to Katarina’s. I hadn’t met my mother at that point, so I could not recognize her face in Margaret’s. And yet, somewhere inside of me, I’m sure I did.
* * *
—
Margaret Goodman was exactly my age. From 1957, the year of our birth, to 1967, the year I left Petrolia, we lived next door to each other.
