A Circle on the Surface

by Carol Bruneau

  “Nothing—Kit had nothing to do with it. Hannah could’ve been killed by a right group of savages, if you must know. I set her up in the kitchen, thanks but no thanks. Our lesson went quite nicely. More nicely than whatever you’ve been up to, I’ll bet.”

  “Killed? You should’ve called Clint.”

  “I’ll entertain whomever I like.”

  She flounced up the stairs and he went after her. It was like ascending into a boiler room it was so stuffy on the landing; no wonder she was hot under the collar. Going into their room, which was hot as Hades, he banged his head on the low part of the ceiling. He thought, for no reason, of the room where they had spent their wedding night, in the Waverley hotel where Oscar Wilde had slept—a fact which had impressed Una, him not so much. She had brought the book up here with her, and flung it on the rumpled sheet. He imagined Greeley looking at it and teasing, “Did the navy damage you that much that you need instructions?”

  “Desire,” as Una had called it, was, in his books, for film stars, women with million-dollar legs and men with pomaded hair, people on movie screens.

  He undressed in silence, stooping to skirt the kneewall as he flung his clothes on the chair. They might have smelled a bit, he would allow that. His head had stopped hurting, but the upset of their dispute made his gut like a well with a fish inside.

  He wanted to go downstairs and lie on the couch, have Tippy curl up on his chest and be done with the night. But then Una closed the book and turned to him, rubbed her fingers over the bump not quite hidden by his hair. She kissed him, her anger suddenly gone.

  “Now what did you do to deserve that? I was worried something had happened, that you weren’t coming back.”

  “You’ve got an odd way of showing your feelings. But I’m glad to hear it. I missed you too.”

  Then she got up and he heard her snap on the bathroom light, busy making herself pretty. Or planning a new maneouvre. The doctor had certainly given her some strange—well, Enman found them strange, strange and unnecessary—ideas. “There’s no need to doll yourself up, my darling—I like you the way you are.” His voice echoed unsteadily in the dimness. Right now, relieved of remorse, he would have traded a year’s worth of ration coupons, even ones for gasoline, to buy her a single pair of stockings. No price was too great when it came to pleasing Una, he was lucky to have her—especially given what some men ended up with, some women like taxis without decent wheels. Una had her quirks, but who didn’t?

  Then he remembered Snow, whose hair matched the stuff that fell on the ground, sizing up the scars from his wounds, saying not to let himself get overheated. Overheated sperm made lousy swimmers, Enman had read someplace, maybe in that stupid book.

  Was that why Una kept the thermometer by the bed? Of course it wasn’t. But he worried about her temperature diving, taking those ocean dips of hers, that she’d catch hypothermia.

  She came in and slid close, smelling of cold cream and White Shoulders perfume. His brain felt suddenly too big for his skull, weary, but he laced her fingers through his and brought them to his lips. Between his and Una’s sticky selves and the room being so stuffy, it was hard to tell where flesh ended and the air’s closeness began, the bed like a bowl of hodgepodge. Butter, cream, and boiled veg from the garden—it wasn’t a difficult treat to prepare, so surely Una could try to make it, if the drought didn’t stunt the summer’s harvest too badly. He thought of the well, pushed it quickly from his mind. Una sighed exuberantly, working at him. He thought of a torpedo sweating in its chamber. “In all respects ready,” the merchant marine’s slogan drifted back. He thought how, with its spare, lean curves, Una’s body had a typography like that of low, rocky land meeting the ocean’s. Beautiful. It did not help that they were doing this in the bed Ma had shared with his father, where Enman had probably been conceived. He managed to get the pillow under her bottom, then felt himself wilt. A pair of maracas had started up in his head. Delerium tremens, he thought, because thinking the words helped contain them.

  Una sighed, disappointed. She rolled heavily onto her side. He stroked her arm softly, apologetically. He almost said something about Olympian swimmers, wanting to joke that even they sometimes failed, missed their mark. “A deleterious effect on functioning” was how Snow labelled alcohol’s interference with sex. The man had a knack for vocabulary.

  Enman only meant to be funny. “I’m not a circus seal, dear, trained to balance a ball on its snout.”

  But Una turned and studied him. “What ball, what snout? Is that what you think, that I want you to ‘perform’? So, what about your job? You asked them?”

  “Just have to be patient, now. It’s a matter of patience, dear Una. Everything’s a matter of patience. We’ll wait and see.”

  10

  Trudging out to the privy, Una tossed Enman’s pork steak to the Meades’ pooch. It was a nicer breakfast than the poor flea-bitten thing was surely used to.

  Back in the house, choosing a spot on the wall above the kitchen table, she drove a nail and hung Kit’s tugboat picture to cheer herself up. It would only hang there for a little while, she was determined, until they found a place in town. Meanwhile, she would show Enman she was just as handy with a hammer as he could be, taking matters into her own hands. She had to be, with a man who, for someone so well-meaning, wasn’t around when needed.

  Grabbing the pail to go to Isla’s, she spotted her ring awash in the dregs of Hannah’s cup. Wiping it off, she went to push it over her knuckle—force of habit—but on second thought popped it into a fruit nappy which she slid up on to the top shelf.

  Would he even notice she wasn’t wearing it?

  Perusing the calendar, she hesitated, waiting for sounds of life—God, was the man even alive? Her heart thumped. Calm down, calm down right now, she told herself. Her temperature was up ever so slightly, and so if yesterday had not been, today might be prime? His job was one thing. But why squander an opportunity—to pull herself out of this present limbo—out of pride and anger, just to press a point? Last night wasn’t the first time Enman had overindulged and it wouldn’t be the last, she felt glumly certain. But more importantly, why should she pay the price for it?

  A nice cup of tea would have tempered her feelings. But then she heard him tramping downstairs. Slipping into the hallway to meet him, she whisked Hannah’s paper from where he had stuck it atop the spindly table there. In spite of everything it made her smile, Hannah’s name drawn like a string of objects—bookended ladders each with one rung, clothes irons, humps like a Bactrian camel’s, two hills. Shiza, shiza, she suddenly remembered Hubley Hill’s rambling message.

  Maybe Enman had already heard and been drowning some disappointment about the cancelled gig? Or had something gone amiss at the bank?

  The bump on his head was the size of a child’s doughboy marble. His face was the colour of raw scallops. He eyed Hannah’s work. “I suppose you’ll have Kit frame that too? And what’s with the kitchen? If you’d waited, I’d have painted it for you.”

  “I’d sooner wait for Marriott’s moving truck.”

  “Now, it’s not so simple. You know in town we’d end up bunking down with a crowd. I’m not about to stick you in some fleabag rooming house, not when we’ve got a fine place here.”

  “Fine if you don’t like having water, and other things. Have you, have we looked for a place in town? No. And you said, ‘Once Ma’s gone.’”

  “Una. Things change. If I’d known about the water I’d have got back sooner.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. I agreed to come help with your mother, not to stay. Think what I—we—gave up!”

  “Well, and you did help, a lot, more or less. I appreciate that, I appreciate you. But this is where I want to hang my hat, this is my home.”

  “And the flat wasn’t my home?”

  “It was, it was. But things are different now, aren’t they? As
I recall, New Year’s Eve there was no talk of babies. None I’m aware of.”

  “Things change, you just said.”

  “Fine, then. Now we’ve got a whole house, room for two babies.”

  She looked away, glimpsed herself in the cloudy hall mirror. Through her tan, the tops of her cheeks looked almost white with anger. “A place with no amenities is no place to have or raise a baby.”

  “Well. Maybe you don’t need to have one. You’ve got Twomey’s niece you can fuss over, I see.”

  The smug way he said it made Una stop and catch her breath. “The sooner we get back to town, the sooner you can start at your job.”

  He drew a long breath and shook his head at her, as if she was simple-minded. Then he edged past her, headed for the privy. A lucky thing we didn’t knock it down, she imagined him saying just as smugly. Mrs. Greene was probably somewhere grinning down, satisfied. If you believed in such tripe.

  Una collected herself. Oh, but she didn’t want to fight. Fighting was no way to get him to see the light.

  Let him relieve himself, then she’d fry an egg, and—after he trooped next door with the bucket—they would talk, and make up.

  He returned a good while later, the pail brimming. His pallor was no longer sickly, but he still smelled a bit unpleasant. He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s stupid, arguing, isn’t it. I never mean to upset you.”

  “People never do.” People never meant to. She thought now of Kit.

  “But here’s another thing. Not to be nasty. But, about Hannah Twomey. Poor thing hasn’t the sense God gave horseflies.” Enman smiled then, sort of, as if he had pulled off a fine joke. Perhaps he and Kit weren’t so different, neither meant their remarks to be cruel.

  Any cruelty of theirs wasn’t worth the trouble it could cause, taking it up with them. Una changed tack.

  “Those little devils, those boys, were complete savages, tormenting her something awful.”

  “I don’t suppose they have names.”

  “Of course they do. Win could tell you.”

  “But you can’t.” He sighed, looking sheepish. It was clear he was dancing around something else. “Ah, Una. I know you mean well”—he was brushing her off, the gall!—“but next she’ll be following you like a puppy.”

  “Excuse me?” She paused, eyeing him. “What did the bank tell you?”

  “I know you’re only trying to help—”

  Forgetting, momentarily, more pressing concerns, she waved Hannah’s paper at him. “They were throwing rocks! I’ve never seen such behaviour.” Though her anger had worn itself out, her cheeks burned. “And by the way, you’ll be happy to know,” she let a snicker escape, “you’ve been shaved from Hill’s roster.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. His face needed a shave. “You’ll be pleased, spared another dance-hall bore. Can’t say I blame you.” His tone was infuriatingly even.

  It took every ounce of energy she had not to shout. “Where were you, anyway?” Because she didn’t want to anger him, she only wanted to know. Then they could make up, there was time before work, before he disappeared into his all-important day. Shouting only raised the blood pressure, wasn’t good for anyone.

  “Look, it’s not the girl I’m worried about, it’s Twomey. You don’t want to tangle with him.”

  “Because she’s simple, I suppose? All the more reason not to go on about her. What is it you’re not saying?”

  Now his cheeks turned a pasty pink. “She’s as simple as the fellows at the bank. I’m telling you, that new bunch in charge—they’re the ones playing with half a deck, I like to think. If you’d been there—” He raised his eyebrows, almost quizzically. Cautiously. So she had caught him out. He had not asked about the job, after all. He gave a whistling sigh. “There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid.” Swatting a fly, he bumped one of his mother’s cups, made it dance in the saucer. “I didn’t ask because I’m not going back there. They’ve got a new man and, well, things aren’t what they were.”

  Tea. She needed tea. She was thirsty again, so thirsty. The pinkness had moved to his neck and he loosened his collar. His eyes and mouth looked ashen. Proper thing, she thought: he should be good and sorry, not just for last night but for lying, for leading her on, making her think—

  She studied Hannah’s work. There was something calming about it, enlightening. She had heard someone say that Miss Rooney deemed the girl unteachable. Hannah had shaped these letters before. People learned through repetition, despite what Al-Anon said about repeating certain behaviours. She remembered the fellowship’s pleas for candour tempered with advice not against confronting but against baiting loved ones.

  “This isn’t about Hannah, is it,” she waded in, “and I suppose it’s not really about your job. It’s about liquor. Have you always had this fondness for it?”

  She gazed at him, and he blanched, and then he smiled with such a shy, beseeching weakness that she wanted to hit him. Because his look was humbling, it weakened her, it made her want to admit, confess, what had happened in the principal’s office, how Sarty’s stare had reduced her to almost nothing.

  And yet he dodged her, as if he hadn’t heard a word. He ran his finger over Hannah’s work. “Hard to believe, isn’t it, that he’s her uncle. She’s such a shy thing.”

  “Pardon?” Una had never confronted her mother over her problem. Her mother’s private nature, her charitable works had made it impossible to do so. Enman’s gentle words and manner softened her more. They usually did. Una forced a smile, the chance for further talk eluding her. “Hannah, shy? I’m not sure that’s quite it.”

  As he put the water he’d fetched on to heat, she touched his arm. “There will be other jobs, won’t there.” Then, “Is it too much to ask, to make up? For last night, I mean. And just now.”

  But it was late and not exactly his fault that work started at eight.

  “I’m off the booze—for good, I mean. This evening, sweetpea. After supper we’ll have a cuddle. Then, we’ll give’r, all right?” Now he sounded like the cretins at the boatyard, though she knew he was just teasing. Still.

  “You didn’t used to talk like that.”

  Ignoring her, he carried the water upstairs, filled the sink, and let her wash first while it was just the right warmth. Then she went and lay on top of the quilt and waited, thinking he might change his mind. But, washed and shaved, he put on his second-best suit, having hung his finer one to air.

  “You’re not off to town again?” Another faint hope leapt inside her.

  “Thank God, no.”

  “Then where’s the funeral? Or are you off to church, to see that crazy priest—confess to him down in his mouldy glebe? ‘Lord have mercy, I never meant to get pissed.’” It wasn’t a kind joke. But Enman laughed.

  “The one man who never goes on a toot.” His grin was like a boy’s. “Well, except for schoolteachers and such, other fellows who have to stay on their best behaviour.”

  “Teachers, yes. That’s right.” She spoke lightly. She stood on tiptoe to straighten his tie, made him bend so she could kiss his goose egg. He smelled strongly of Old Spice.

  “And don’t you fuss over Hannah, she’s survived this long. Happy enough in her cocoon. Like a pupa.” He reddened slightly, and his voice cracked as she touched his cheek—cracked with relief? She pressed herself to him, put both arms around his neck but not so tightly as to ensnare him. Because wasn’t he like a butterfly that regretted spreading its wings? A bulky one in a baggy-kneed suit, though she had to admit she loved his hands—and the reliable set of his hips and waist, which helped her overlook his sloped shoulders and his limp, which others might not notice. You couldn’t have everything, she realized. He kissed her cheek and, never late a day in his life, promising to look into the water situation later, left without even stopping to inspect the garden.

  He wasn’
t gone ten minutes when Kit phoned. She offered to visit again when they had water and maybe even stay over.

  Kit made Enman nervous and fumblingly accommodating. Men hardly knew what to make of Kit, the way she made fellows feel like geniuses one minute, nincompoops the next. And not just fellows. The way she would point out animal shapes in a cumulous cloud, then turn around and say your green sweater resembled snot. Kit was direct like that, pulled no punches. She had made the science teacher squirm after he mocked her ignorance of his field.

  Except for his drinking, Enman was a good boy, so his mother had said at every opportunity. His goodness came with a price, Una realized, the price was being left to feel at his goodness’s mercy. This she found mildly depressing, though not as depressing as being at life’s mercy. Well, she had learned not to take things lying down, so to speak, even things beyond a person’s control.

  And then there were the things that were not beyond a person’s control.

  In the cellar, rummaging among Enman’s father’s rusted tools, she found a pair of wire cutters. She almost wished Mrs. Greene was up there somewhere looking down.

  One quick snip through two tiny chainlinks—“Fight superstition with superstition!” she mouthed to herself—and the rosary slipped free of the clothesline. It was a feat Mrs. Greene’s embroidery scissors might have accomplished. Landing in a clump, the beads resembled a swarm of beetles stopped in their dusty tracks.

  “Let each portend a halt to cloudless days, and bring on rain!” She said this aloud, and could not help smiling. It was like casting a spell. But now what? Bad luck, perhaps, to simply toss them, so she plopped the beads into an empty flowerpot and, emboldened, remembered the silly ornament. As with the beads, Enman probably wouldn’t notice it missing, not so long as she was the one charged with dusting.