A Population of One

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  She makes a face. “Oh, all right. Go, then.”

  “Thanks anyway, Willy.” He stumps off through the ruck of blue snow, and we turn into my street, where the arc-lamps are just flicking on, their light a pale green in the dusk.

  The overheated apartment feels deliciously warm. We leave our snowy boots on the mat and drop our coats in the kitchen. Molly’s wet mittens hiss cosily on the radiator. I pour the thick, steaming cocoa into mugs, and we clasp them luxuriously. Molly curls like a cat into one corner of the sofa. I take the other end.

  “Nice pad,” she says approvingly.

  “It’s all right, I guess. But there’s something about high-rise living — I don’t know — plastic. A house is different, almost any house.”

  “Ah, houses. They’re always full of other people’s footprints. I hate that.”

  The hot drink glows inside. The silence is compatible. It’s almost easy — at least it sounds natural — to say, “I haven’t laid eyes on Bill Trueblood since the holidays. Has he eloped with somebody or what?”

  “No, he got back late from the Maritimes. But I saw him yesterday.”

  “Not sick again, was he?”

  “Don’t know. Only Archie wasn’t best pleased. It’s a bit much to miss the start of term.”

  “It was probably his sinuses again.”

  “Could be.” She gives a little sniff. “Or his mother’s.”

  “Mm. Perhaps.”

  There is a pause. I am reluctant to say anything about Monday’s demonstration, suspecting it will lead us into disagreement; but it’s an awkward subject to avoid. At last I take the plunge.

  “I saw the doings on Monday. Were there any reactions? From the deans and people, I mean?”

  “Reactions? Are you kidding?” She looks at me almost triumphantly. “More even than we expected. Classical. Harry was summoned to The Presence. Again.”

  “Oh yes; one of the students. — Mike Armstrong — said something about … he said the Principal had actually threatened him — but that can’t be true, can it?”

  “God, Willy, you’re naive aren’t you? Of course he did. That was way back in October, the minute he heard that Harry was elected chairman of the League for Student Action.”

  “But actually threatened him?”

  “Sure. In ancient and modern languages. Conflict of interests. Ex officio. Responsibility. In loco parentis. In statu pupillari. All that shit. ‘A young man with his way to make cannot afford divided loyalties.’ ” She stiffened her face for a moment into a wicked replica of the Principal’s lipless, icy frown. “In other words, Harry baby, you are not yet a tenured member of staff. So watch it, or the axe will drop.”

  “And Harry hasn’t watched it. That took guts.”

  “And more. He likes Cartier. He’s working for it. He believes in this place and its future, the way that old St. James Street bugger never has. All he wants is to prevent any kind of change ever happening, so he can keep the Governors happy.”

  “What happened, then, when the Principal called him in this time?”

  “He made the threat definite. Nothing in writing yet, of course. Not yet. He’s too sly for that. And lots of toothy smiles, to show he doesn’t need to get mad. But it’s right on the line: Harry resigns from the L.S.A., or his appointment won’t be renewed this spring.”

  “Really? Lord, Molly. What will he do?”

  “Go right on, of course. The kids are a hundred per cent behind him; so are lots of people on staff. So is the whole twentieth century, for God’s sake. The old bugger will have to back down.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course. Can you imagine anybody in the year 1969 actually saying to a colleague that the top-level administrative system of his college is none of his business? That’s what Fraser said to Harry, believe it or not. No, the whole department will …”

  All at once her voice trails away and I glance at her, startled to see that her face has suddenly turned a peculiar yellowish-white.

  “Are you all right, Molly?”

  “Yes — sure — it’s just —” She straightens herself, taking two or three deep breaths.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, no.” She smiles wanly, but the pallor lingers. Two sharp little lines, like brackets, have sprung out around her mouth. “I’m pregnant,” she says abruptly.

  I touch her arm in delight. Without thinking I blurt out, “Oh Molly, how wonderful!”

  “Wonderful timing, all right.”

  “Well, yes; but …”

  “I can’t take the Pill, and the damned coil must have slipped. After all the trouble I had even getting fixed up with that. This damned city is still living in the Pope’s shadow in some ways.”

  “Yes, but now …”

  “You know that Harry’s wife in New York won’t give him a divorce. There are two kids. It’s her idea of social maturity to hang on.”

  “Well, but …”

  “Oh, sure, it wouldn’t matter all that much. We’re both agnostics anyhow; and legally, who cares. But the last thing we need right now is a kid. I mean it’s just out of the damn question.”

  “Oh. But …”

  “I would have gone to Kleber’s clinic in the east end. He’s a rational man and his fees are reasonable. But they raided the guy’s office last week, grabbed his records, and put him in jail.”

  I think, ‘She doesn’t use the word abortion, though.’ But my tongue is too clumsy to find any neutral comment.

  “Well, he’s out on bail at the moment, but not practising till the trial comes up. So I’ll have to go down to New York for it.”

  I put my mug down on the end table. There is a sour taste in my throat and I swallow to get rid of it. I can think of nothing to say except, feebly, “I hope you’ll be all right.”

  “Nothing to it. A few hours in bed. The vacuum method. I had it done once before, just before I broke up with John.”

  When I say nothing, she adds tartly, “Don’t tell me you disapprove. A woman has rights over her own body. There can’t be any woman left who doesn’t agree to that.”

  I don’t want to speak, but something pushes the words out of me. “But this is somebody else’s body, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Willy, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m terribly sorry.”

  But it’s too late. Her pale face has twisted into a grimace of tears. She covers them with her two thin hands like a child, and I can’t bear it. I scramble over to put my arms around her and rock her gently, rubbing her narrow back as I would comfort Dougie. “No, you have no discretion, Willy,” my mother’s voice says severely inside my head. But it’s all over in a second or two. Molly finds a crumpled Kleenex and blows her nose. Her colour has come back. She gets up and smooths her hair in one crisp, neat gesture: The moment of truth is over.

  “Sorry about that,” she says briefly. But I am still wrung by all sorts of feelings that surprise and disturb me; I am, in fact, fighting tears myself. My voice trembles. “What can I give you, Molly? A drink, maybe?”

  “No, thanks, not now; I’ve got to be off. Thanks for the cocoa.”

  “I loved the sleigh ride. It was great fun. But Molly — let me know if there’s anything I can do. Please. I mean it.”

  “There’s nothing. But thanks. Cheer up, woman. Forget it.”

  She taps me on the shoulder and goes away with a smile.

  But I can’t forget it. Nor can I cheer up. Awake, asleep, dozing, working, I am haunted by that inch of humanity about to be scientifically, hygienically, rationally, vacuumed into nothingness. That human reject. While I am empty, empty.

  “Bill is avoiding me,” I think as the weekend’s night hours drain away; and it hurts like a low back pain. Not for anything will I phone him, or knock at his office door, or even ask about him. If he chooses to write lies on postcards, that’s his privilege. Of course, he may be ill. Those sinuses of his. Nothing makes you feel so low. It must have bee
n really bad to keep him in Halifax like that.… I wonder if he needs anything.… Actually, I should call him. After all, what are friends for?

  A tinny recording informs me that there-is-no-more-service-at-that-number; so next time I am in the Department building, I go straight to his office. My hand is raised to knock at the half-open door when it is suddenly pulled back and he all but walks into me.

  “Hi, Bill; how are you?”

  “Willy. I’m lousy, thanks.” He is all muffled up for outdoors, but what can be seen of his face looks pale and his brown eyes are bleary under swollen lids.

  “Sinuses again?”

  “And a touch of conjunctivitis thrown in for extra jollies. Look, I’d love to have a chat, Willy, but I’ve got to rush home and unpack all my stuff. The movers dumped it all down this morning at my new place, then I had to go to my noon class with everything left in chaos.”

  “Oh, and you’re feeling so rotten. Bill, let me come too, and give you a hand.”

  He brightens a little in a faint smile. “Would you? Oh you are a dear soul, Willy. Sure you want to? Come on then. It’s not far, thank God; that wind is like a razor.”

  We crunch our icy way up the street, buffeted by a freezing wind that flaps our coattails and burns our eyes. Luckily it’s not long before we reach a rather discouraged-looking brick apartment house crouched in the snow. On the front door a tattered Christmas wreath shivers in the pale sun.

  “It’s a bit of a dump,” he says gloomily, “but at least I won’t be driven out of my skull by all-night riveting. Come on in — never mind your boots, the floors are a mess anyway. Those movers, you never saw such animals. They looked like gorillas in clothes.”

  It is certainly not a very attractive place, even as bachelor apartments go. The windows are small and set high in the walls; the one room is narrow and the floor, especially in the kitchen alcove, is indeed a mess, embossed in dirt that must have fossilized there for years.

  Bill looks around for hangers hopelessly and without success before throwing our coats on the striped sofa-bed. He sighs heavily as we contemplate the cartons of books, china, and bedclothes, the garment bags and suitcases that sit forlornly about on the floor together with stray oddments like shoes, tennis racquets, and a vacuum cleaner.

  “All right — have they put the furniture where you want it? Bookcase going to stay here? Fine; then let’s go. I’ll take out and you shelve.”

  We set to work, Bill groaning faintly from time to time, and sneezing over the books, till I find a duster for them. Once the cartons begin to empty, the missing coat-hangers turn up, and we unpack and hang up his clothes. He has a rather large wardrobe. The afternoon light turns wan and silvery, then dims.

  “Now the kitchen stuff. Nice china you have.” Then I notice the condition of the kitchen shelves.

  “Oh God,” says Bill. “How sordid.”

  “Never mind. Soon fix ’em. Got a scrubbing brush?”

  I roll up my sleeves and tackle the shelves. After a good scrub they shine clean and white, and I run fresh hot water to do the floor.

  “Willy, you’re marvellous. Strong as a horse. My back is killing me just to watch you.”

  Well, it isn’t a romantic tribute, but it has its satisfactions just the same. While he makes up the bed and puts spare linen in the bathroom cupboard, I energetically scrub and scour the kitchen floor until some quite pleasant blue-and-white tiling emerges from under the grime. Bill plugs in a couple of lamps and throws a tartan homespun cloth over the all-purpose table. Eventually we even hang up his red curtains on their brass pole, though they are far too long for the window.

  “Actually, it isn’t going to look too awful,” he says, “thanks to you. But do stop now, Willy, before you kill yourself. I’ll make some coffee, shall I?”

  “Well, if you like. It’s nearly six, though, and I don’t see any food — what are you doing about dinner?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter, I can eat out somewhere. At least have some coffee or a drink.”

  “No, there’s nowhere decent around here to eat, really. Why don’t I run over to that little take-out place? — did you know they make great goulash? You just have to heat it up.… No, I’ll go; you shouldn’t be out in that wind.” Before he can argue the point, I pull on my coat and go. Outside the sky is thick with great, bright stars that look close enough to reach up and touch. The wind has dropped and the still air is sharp and dry.

  In the take-out shop I joke with the red-faced cook in his broad white apron, and choose a chicken cooked in the Basque style, with tomatoes and bay leaf, some poppyseed rolls, and four éclairs, fat with whipped cream. Bill likes desserts. Hurrying back with the big, warm box of food under those crowds of blazing stars, I have time to think, ‘So this is what happiness is like.’

  I find the door on the latch and Bill considerably more cheerful, having decided that a vodka martini would be more restorative than coffee. As I unpack our dinner, he says, “How good it smells. And éclairs! What a clever creature you are. And so am I, because I actually found the cutlery — with my skis, would you believe? — and the table’s all set.”

  “Good, then we can eat right now. I must admit I’m starved.”

  He pours us each a glass of wine and I lift mine. “Here’s to your new house, Bill.”

  “And to you,” he says gallantly.

  “Chicken all right?”

  “Marvellous,” he says with his mouth full.

  “So I gather your Christmas wasn’t very jolly, with all that sinus bother.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just that.… I mean it’s always pretty grim being in the same house with that redneck stepfather of mine, only this time my mother wasn’t well at all. She looked all pale and drained, and then just at New Year’s she had this terrible attack of pain. You never saw anything like it. She went all yellow, couldn’t speak, even — it was terrifying. We got her to hospital somehow, the roads were awful with snow; and they had to give her a shot of morphine before they could even examine her. Then they whizzed her onto the table next morning and took her gall bladder out.”

  “Poor thing. Is she all right now?”

  “Yes, but she was in awful shape for three or four days afterward. Such pain. And she is fifty-six, after all. That’s why I stayed in Halifax and missed the first days of term. It was just out of the question — I couldn’t leave her like that. Even now I’m worried to death. She’s still in hospital, of course; but she’s already itching to get home, and when she does, I know her, she’ll immediately try to do too much.”

  He pours more wine into his glass after holding the bottle over mine with a questioning look. His hand is not quite steady and he pushes away his plate, though he hasn’t finished his chicken.

  “I want her to have a nurse for the first week or two at home; but of course apeman Clive can’t see the point of that at all. ‘I’ll look after her,’ he says. That’s a good one. If you could see the way she waits on him hand and foot.…”

  “Never mind. I’m sure she’s too sensible to overdo things. Besides, your sister lives near by, doesn’t she? — well, she’ll keep an eye open.”

  “Oh, I suppose she might, if it doesn’t interfere with macramé class. Wait — I’ve got to take my Aureomycin. Now tell me about your Christmas — was it fun?”

  “Well. I suppose you could say it was about average.”

  “Harry and Molly got back from Cuba, I see, all refreshed from watching Fidel save the workers. Anything else new? What with moving and everything, I haven’t had a second to talk to anybody.”

  “Well, Harry and his L.S.A. friends broke up a faculty meeting, the first day of term.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. Tell me more.” He puts his elbows cosily on the table and pours himself more wine.

  “Molly says the Principal is threatening to fire him if Harry keeps on fighting for student parity.”

  “I believe it. Fraser’s not a guy to fool around. You don’t get that shark’s grin
he has for nothing. I wonder what Harry will do, actually? Because, you know what he really wants is to be chairman of the department. And after that he wants to be Dean.”

  “No kidding! Join the Establishment?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows what he’s after.”

  “I don’t think the kids do. What about the L.S.A. then?”

  “Oh, that. He’s just using them because student support could be a lever. Or so he thinks. But you wait and see — he’ll dump them and their cause the minute he thinks they’re no longer useful to him.”

  “That’s awful if it’s true,” I say, shocked. I am thinking of Mike.

  “He’s awful, that’s why.”

  “Is he really?” Now I am thinking of Harry laughing in the snow, and Molly clasping him around the waist, and her tight, white little face alone later. But out of some absurd female loyalty, I can’t say anything to Bill about that.

  “I wonder what will happen to Harry, then? He’s apparently going ahead with plans for a student boycott, or sit-in, or some such thing. Or so Mike Armstrong says.”

  “Oh, God knows. But our department meeting next week may be interesting. Looks as if we’re heading for some kind of confrontation, all right. I wonder how Archie will cope. He’s in one of his depressions, I see. But what else is new? Is it true that Fat Emma’s feuding with that little tiny Spaniard in Modern Languages? Hilarious if so — she could kill him with a sneeze.”

  “I don’t know about that. But Molly took me to a Women’s Lib meeting with her and Emma. At that headquarters of theirs downtown, you know, where men actually aren’t even allowed inside the building? I must say that tickled me.”

  “So you got sensitized, did you?”

  “Well yes, why not. Maybe time I got with it. The lecture was called Fifty Ways Men Put Us Down. Molly thinks I’m a perfect freak, you know. She was really shocked when I told her I didn’t feel like a female eunuch, even after reading the book.”

  “Well, try not to let it get to you too much.”

  “I won’t. Couldn’t. I mean if your mother was a woman —”