“You know what your reasons were for that,” he says loudly. “And how to judge the results.”
“It’s not a crime to be human!” I shout. I am so furious all at once that it is a kind of ecstasy. “How dare you try to make me feel like a criminal because I’m — because I have emotions? You know damn well, or should, that that’s no crime!”
His face darkens with something that is not rage. I have struck home.
“So you’d like to excuse yourself because others are guilty?”
“I’m making no excuses. I only —”
“It’s self-defence, is it, to taunt an old man because his heart is still green?”
“Shame on you for such fourth-rate dialogue,” I think with scorn. I get as far as the door before his voice stops me. It is so hot with anger it stops me in my tracks like a bullet.
“Just one minute, miss. I will have Sherri make an appointment for us to see the Dean as soon as possible. I will be present, because it’s my duty. But I will say as little as possible. If you want to submit any special appeal for Armstrong at that time — and I daresay you will — then it’s your privilege to do so. I shall say nothing whatever about that. Or about your personal … er … reactions.”
“Thank you, Professor Clarke,” I say with extreme politeness. And I close the door between us with exquisite and elaborate care.
Back in my own office, I am still exalted with anger. A hot, powerful, dangerous rage fires my blood. There is no room for any other feeling whatever, thank God. It’s fortunate my classes for the day are over, or the sight of me would literally petrify my luckless students. I have no impulse at all to find Bill and pour out the whole story. For the moment, he seems totally irrelevant. I fling on a coat and boots and set out walking, on long, fast legs, up the mountain slope. The sky has cleared to a pacific blue. Rags of black ice crunch underfoot as I speed along, feeling eight feet tall. Other pedestrians instinctively edge to the side of the pavement as I pass; and well they might. A stiff wind from the west drags my Medusa hair out stiff, and I breathe up the cold air fiercely.
Never again will I speak an unnecessary word to that man. Him and his monastic gown. Poverty, chastity, and obedience, indeed. With his smiles and his winks and his pinches! Shameless old hypocrite; he’s far more venial than Mike.
It’s gradually calming to think with contempt of both of them, the old man and the boy, reduced to equally insignificant stature. My rage cools. I turn toward home. For the first time in many weeks I feel supremely simplified, purged, and calm. Free.
During the next forty-eight hours I sail on this smooth, euphoric wave. I houseclean the apartment. I write to Lou, postponing the Easter visit. I balance my chequebook. I sew on buttons, sort gloves, mend slips, and polish shoes. And then, right in the middle of making a suppertime omelette, serenity wears off like a shot of Novocaine. The silent apartment closes around me threateningly. My heart beats so hard it hurts. The smell of eggs and butter turns me queasy. There is a sudden rumble of thunder from outside and I shiver.
I hurry to the phone. My voice sounds high.
“Bill? Are you doing anything special? Would you by any chance like to come round and share an omelette?”
“Oh thanks, Willy, but I’ve just eaten. Now I’m sitting here getting indigestion over this huge pile of essays. God, how I hate the end of term — everything falls in on you at once, just when you’re most exhausted.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just thought maybe you —”
“I know. We haven’t spent an evening together for ages. But you must have piles of work to get through yourself. Hell, isn’t it? But never mind; it’ll soon be over. Only ten more days to Easter.”
The sound of his pleasant voice is blessedly comforting. I grasp the receiver tightly in my damp hand.
“No, I’ve hardly seen you all week. That’s why I called.… You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not, Willy.”
Must think of something to say. Keep him talking.
“Any news your end?”
“No, not really. I had to see Archie today about a report on that conference up north last fall, and I must say he was about as much fun to be with as a flamethrower. In fact, I’ve never seen him quite so totally, bloody-minded. Gnashing and growling away about taxes and radicals and women. If this is what giving up drink does, lead me to the bottle. What’s the matter with him, anyway — that Armstrong business, is it? How did your meeting with the Dean go?”
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Archie hardly opened his mouth.”
“Well, that makes a change. Ruthie says he’s talking about resigning as Chairman. Has he mentioned it to you at all?”
“Not really.”
“Sherri told me he had an appointment with his doctor this afternoon. Maybe the poor old guy is ailing.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, it’ll be ghastly if he quits on us. Can you imagine Emma in the Chair? She’s a good scholar, but I know for a fact she thinks south is always downhill, and ‘budget’ means the basement floor of Eaton’s. But she’s next in seniority to Archie.”
“Um. Well, maybe we could do worse, even so. At least Emma doesn’t eat people.”
“True. But the Principal will probably bring in somebody from outside. Some American, most likely. He just loves a chance to weigh in with an appointee of his own, you know. Some bastard like himself who’ll be properly grateful, and take orders without any fuss.”
I hook a chair near by with my foot and sit down in it. Bless him, Bill does so love a gossip. That nasty feeling of panic has begun to ease.
“One sure thing, Harry won’t be the new Chairman.”
“No, and that’s good news. Have you heard the rumour going around that he’s been offered $50,000 compensation?”
“Compensation for what?”
“Well, that smart lawyer of his; it seems he can prove that Harry had a perfect legal right to belong to the L.S.A. Something in the constitution. Fraser made a bad tactical mistake giving that as the reason for firing him. So it looks as if Cartier will have to shell out compensation all right. It’s just a question of how much.”
“I’m glad for him and Molly, then. Because it won’t be easy for him to find another post.”
“No, it won’t. Actually, he’s talking about getting right out of the profession. Going into newspaper work or something. But I can’t see that working out. Harry’s such a McLuhanite he can’t write a line in straight English.”
“Is it true they’re moving? Molly said something the other day about them wanting to live among francophones on the other side of town. To be in touch with the new Quebec, she said. Do you think Harry might get on the separatist bandwagon next?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
I sigh. Soon I will have to let him go. The night is waiting for me, long, dark, and solitary. Rain has begun to fall again, hissing against the windows like buckshot. I think of Lucy crouching out on the roof in rainstorms when her Novocaine wore off. But I live twelve floors up, stranded in the twentieth century.
“It’s lovely to talk to you, Bill. I am not feelin’ groovy tonight. But your voice makes me feel … better.” I wonder sadly why it seems so necessary to be careful what I say to him. Surely two people with our plans shouldn’t have to be so cautious, so timid. What am I afraid of, anyway?
“Cheer up, Willy,” he is saying, on exactly the same safe and cheerful note as I have chosen. “You’ve just got the end-of-term blues. This too will pass.”
“I suppose it will.”
“Sure it will. Just think, we’ll soon be on our way south, won’t we? You aren’t going to change your mind, I hope. God, the sun. I can hardly wait.”
“Me too. I’m taking the car in for its checkup tomorrow. Oh, it will be fun, won’t it? I’ve never been farther south than Niagara Falls, have you?”
“Well, I went to California and Mexico last summer, and I didn’t get much out of tha
t except the most awful dysentery. This is sure to be different, and better.” But he is politely holding in a yawn. “Well, have a good night, Willy. If you’re around tomorrow, steer clear of Archie is my advice.”
“No fear.”
“Maybe we can get together for coffee some time.”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
After hanging up, I scrape the omelette into the garbage bin. I drink half a glass of milk and pour the rest away. The old woman next door yells “Go to hell.” To a drum-roll of thunder the rain lashes down harder. There is a faint sound of running feet from the young couple’s apartment on the other side. I resolve to buy a newspaper tomorrow and look at ads for flats or even houses to rent. This place is haunted, though not by any nun. I switch on the TV, and three minutes later switch it off. At last I go into the bedroom and try on the new black baby-doll pyjamas. This has a distinctly cheering effect. They look spectacular. Only ten days to wait. Surely I can hang on for ten days.
Before Bill and I leave, however, one important matter has to be attended to, and it costs me many baffled hours of thought. What am I going to do about contraception? I used vaguely to think that information and supplies would be the easiest things in the world to acquire, in these permissive days; but it begins to appear I was wrong. There is nothing easy about any of it.
The obvious person to ask is Lou; but how can I? That dear sister of mine would immediately ask, “Why do you want to know?” She would then add, “What are you up to, Willy? Who is he?” And the next thing she would do is tell Greg all about it. No, asking Lou is out. For various (though different) reasons, I can’t ask Molly either. I don’t know anybody else well enough … except maybe Bill himself. And that would be quite impossible.
That leaves the printed word. But here the annals of literature, usually so helpful to me, are peculiarly empty of any really concrete help. In my favourite nineteenth century, all I can remember offhand is poor George Eliot’s request to a friend for birth-control information, before she set off for France with Lewes. As for the more unfortunate Charlotte B., she seems to have lacked the wisdom even to ask. I recall Anna Karenina’s dilemma; but when I look up the relevant passage, I’m frustrated again. Dolly whispers her contraceptive advice to Anna. It was all very well for impulsive girls like Juliet or The Fair Yseult, who appear never to have given the problem a single thought. But much more mature and up-to-date heroines like Lady Chatterley seem equally blithe and unconcerned. I get no help from any of them.
Of course there are those women-oriented magazines intended for reading under the drier; but even here there is less help than one might think. They all agree the only reliable methods involve seeing a doctor. And I flinch from that. He (or she) would probably want to investigate me in a personal and uncomfortable way. Then I might well get not a simple prescription for the Pill, but a moral lecture, or some kind of fitted device; and both of these possibilities repel me strongly.
The pharmacy and its products seem to be my only hope. I go along accordingly one morning, choosing not the little neighbourhood drugstore where the fatherly old chemist knows me, but a large downtown place lit by green fluorescent bars. Unluckily the counter here is served by a remarkably handsome blond young man. I flee. Halfway down the next block there is a smaller shop. It seems quite deserted. I edge up to the counter where boxes of sheaths and tubes of spermicidal jelly are cheerfully on display. A white-jacketed man with grey hair and a severe frown pops up from nowhere.
“Madam,” he says forbiddingly.
“Some — toothpaste please,” I manage to ask, blushing down to the soles of my feet.
But time is passing. The next day I try again. One of the big discount places this time, where you serve yourself. Just as I find the relevant products on the shelves and stretch out my hand, an old priest in a long soutane looms up behind me. It is Lucy’s confessor, Père Silas; I recognize him at once. What in the name of all that’s papal is he doing here? I’ve never told anyone my love secrets — here at least I’ve been tougher than Charlotte. In panic I seize a packet and hurry to the checkout counter, where a gum-chewing girl rings up the sale in blessed indifference. Only when I get home do I discover that what I’ve bought is a box of extra-strength condoms.
Well, I don’t feel quite equal to going back there. But I visit a similar establishment and come away, triumphant at last, with a tube of jelly rather coyly labelled Familiplan. I feel greatly relieved with this in my possession. Now, with just a little luck and accurate calculation of my cycle, there should be no problem. It would be grand, I suppose, to be made of the epic stuff that boldly conceives, bears, and brings up a child in single blessedness. But such an enterprise would bring my poor mother stalking out of her grave, more distraught than ever Hamlet’s father was. Then there is the thought of Lou’s face … no. The allure of motherhood fades before these prospects. Far better the Familiplan.
Unfortunately, all this anxious forethought makes me feel tense, apprehensive not so much of disaster as of anticlimax. I wonder whether Bill feels this too? It may turn out that he and I are too much alike for comfort. I’ve seen very little of him lately, and when we do meet, for some reason we are careful to avoid those friendly embraces we used to enjoy so much. We are shyer with each other than we were that first day when we met in Archie’s office. Odd. Oh well, these qualms are all no doubt perfectly normal and common as headcolds. It will be perfectly all right once we get away. I still have the warmest confidence in the sheer black pyjamas.
The night before we’re due to leave, my sleep is crowded with a swarm of anxiety dreams. It must be a mistake to plan things like this such a long time ahead. Builds up too much pressure in the psyche. My mother’s door is locked against me, though I can hear her rocking inside. I knock and call in rising desperation. She needs me, she is weeping, but I can’t reach her. I unpack to find I have forgotten something vitally important. Panic. It must be there. But the suitcase is empty. What is it that is missing? — Anna Karenina? — my alluring new nightclothes? I don’t know, but I wake up gasping, with a sense of calamity. Louis-Philippe is in the kitchen. He is completely naked, though his genitals are blank as a Ken doll’s: my censor evidently never sleeps. He says, stopping the elevator with a sickening jolt, “Be very damn careful about rape, mees.” The police are running after Mike and me with guns. We run and run up the mountainside, desperate for breath. “How silly, at your age,” says Archie. “Embarrassing. And painful.”
These absurd nightmares cling around me even as I drink my coffee and dress. It is a cool, silvery day. The new pantsuit looks fresh and smart. I put the last items into my suitcase — checking with great care to be sure everything is there. At seven-thirty (we’ve agreed on an early start), I put the key into the Porsche, drive over to Bill’s street, and park outside his door. When he comes out, coat over his arm, suitcase in hand, I have a queer feeling of unreality. Is all this really happening, or am I still asleep? How strange that wide-awake I seem to have no emotions at all, of pleasure or fear or anything else, whereas in those dreams —
Bill looks rather pale. I notice with complete detachment that before putting his suitcase into the trunk he darts a quick glance around, as if afraid someone might see us. Does he think that old man with the poodle is a plainclothes morality detective? Or that Molly is hiding somewhere in the bare shrubbery, waiting to jump out and denounce him? I rub my eyes and try to wake up. None of this seems to be actually happening.
“You’re right on time,” says Bill, inserting himself sideways into the seat beside me. The cold breeze has ruffled his hair.
“Yes. Don’t sit on the map.”
“Not going to rain, is it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You had breakfast?”
“Just coffee.”
No, I’m awake, all right. The dialogue in dreams is never so banal. The doors clunk shut. We move off. The engine hums us across the long bridge heading south. “Off the island,” I thi
nk with satisfaction. I have cleaned the car inside, and washed and polished the white chassis so that it looks positively bridal in the pale morning light. A sweet, spicy smell of shaving lotion comes from Bill. He is troubled by a persistent little hacking cough as he studies the map.
“We can get down as far as Albany by lunchtime,” I say. “Then we pick up the freeway southwest … see it?”
He throws me a glance almost of alarm. “I’m pretty hopeless at maps.”
“Not to worry,” I tell him soothingly. His nervousness makes me feel calm and capable. “I hear signposting is very good in the States. Let me know when you’d like to drive.”
“Oh, not till later — much later. I’m a zombie till noon. Maybe we could stop for coffee in a while, that might wake me up.”
“Sure.”
“I might have a little doze now, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit. Go ahead.”
He closes his eyes. The miles slide past in silence. We might have been married for years.
At lunchtime we reach Albany, and Bill, apparently much refreshed, sits up and runs a comb through his curly hair. “Let’s find a nice place and have a good meal,” he says. “I hate those awful highway diners. Half a bottle of wine would do us no harm, right? After all, it’s not every day we — er — elope, is it?”
“No, indeed.” Impossible not to smile back at him as he pats my knee. And the wine he treats us to, a dry, cold hock, does enliven the not-very-interesting seafood that is Our Yo-Heave-Ho Special. Over dessert he makes me laugh with a ridiculous story about how Emma’s husband, in hospital for removal of a mole, nearly got operated on for hernia by mistake. We linger over second cups of coffee. But as soon as we’re back in the car, conversation dries up again: we seem to have nothing to say to each other.
“Would you like me to drive for a while, Willy?”
“Sure, if you’d like to.”
We change places. He finds the gear-changes awkward at first, and he soon proves to be a fast but nervous driver with a tendency to change his mind in the middle of a decision; for example, when passing. My foot keeps pawing for an imaginary brake. My knuckles bleach as we sweep past a truck. Soon I try not to look at the road at all. Is it better to talk to him or not?
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