by Cecelia Frey
“Remember, don’t think.” She paused. Then she spoke quickly, all in a rush. Her face did not move, her lips scarcely opened. “Do you love me? Tell me, yes or no.”
His eyes lowered briefly to her body. They rose again to her face. “Yes,” he said. “You know I adore you.”
She breathed out. “Well, then,” she said, “you may as well know. I’m pregnant.”
It took George’s mind a moment to make the turn. It was as though she had spoken in a foreign language that his brain had to translate word by word, then form the disparate words into a comprehensible whole. But what she was saying was not possible. “This isn’t possible,” he said. “You’ve been taking the pill.”
“I know. I don’t know what happened. They say, the doctor said, that every once in a while it happens.”
“You must have missed a day.”
“No.”
“You’re lying. You’re not pregnant. You’re saying this to get me to stay.”
“In the first place, unlike you, I don’t tell lies. In the second place, I wouldn’t lower myself to that sort of subterfuge to get any man to stay. In the third place, I’ve been to a doctor. I’ve had the tests.”
“You’ve done this on purpose.”
“Actually, I didn’t do it on purpose. But now that it’s happened, maybe it’s fate.”
“Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as fate. Let’s at least keep this on an intelligent level.”
She shrugged a beautiful shoulder. “Suit yourself.”
He stared into her taut face. “This doesn’t change anything.” He hesitated, even in his distraught state, he could not be crudely blunt. “There are procedures for unwanted pregnancies.”
“True. But it just so happens that this one isn’t unwanted. Oh, at first I thought of it. But the idea of killing our child, something we made together, you and me, doesn’t appeal to me. So then it occurred to me, other men support their wives and children. Why can’t you?”
“How can I support you? I have a wife and family. I have a house to keep up. Professors don’t make much money.”
“It’s zero hour, Georgie. Time to grow up. Time to leave your ivory tower. Time to face reality.”
“Why did you do this thing to me? This terrible thing?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. Believe me, I was more than a little surprised when I heard the news. But now I’m thrilled, if you want to know the truth. Just think, I’ll be a mum. When I was a little girl my ambition was to be a mum. I was so lonely, I’d sit in a corner alone and rock my doll and pretend I was a mum. I’m finally realizing my ambition. And you know what? I think I’m going to be a very good mum. There’s no way that I’m going to let anything interfere with the little bugger having a decent life if I have anything to do with it.”
“And how about me?” George found his position totally incomprehensible “I could be a grandfather. How can I be a father? Couldn’t you have had a little consideration for me?”
2. A Morning in Early Spring
V. BENJAMIN
HOW COULD SHE DO IT? She couldn’t do it. But it had taken her so long to get this far. All she had to do now was walk down this street. Towards Ben. She couldn’t do it.
She took a step backward, towards Esther’s car parked at the curb. She looked up at black branches etched across a grey sky and felt the chill of fear shiver down her spine.
Helena didn’t like being afraid of things. Once upon a time, in another lifetime, she had made a point of facing her fears. But back then, as she told herself, she had been strong, and if you’re strong it’s easier to be brave.
What exactly are you afraid of? she asked herself. Ben? But that’s nonsense. What is there about Ben to be afraid of?
What if he knew the truth about her? What if he found out that she had let herself be picked up by pure sleaze, that she had picked up pure sleaze, that she’d gone home with sleazy strangers. It was a wonder she wasn’t murdered. Maybe she had hoped someone would murder her. Sometimes she would meet a nice fellow, one who was kind to her, one who seemed to care for her. She wanted nothing to do with him. She wanted only men who would mistreat her, betray her, cheat, lie and steal from her. And she did her share back. And she learned to drink. Drink took away the pain for a while. Oblivion — that was what she needed. Drugs, drugs helped too. But you had to be careful with drugs. Sometimes they magnified the monsters.
What if he found out that she had always had it in her heart to kill Amanda. That maybe it had not been an accident, that she had deliberately lost control of the car, deliberately skidded and swerved the car into the ocean. When they were children everyone had liked dear little Amanda better than they had the scowling stubborn uncooperative Helena. The injustice of this, for Helena had thought herself at least equally as good as Amanda, had shadowed her into adult life, had had the power to infuriate her and put her in a belligerent mood. Was it that mood that had caused the accident?
Sometimes she remembered her parents bringing the newly born Amanda home from the hospital and placing her carefully in a frilly bassinet. Sometimes she could see the scene so vividly — the quiet nursery, the crib, the baby with rosebud mouth and chubby flushed cheeks sleeping, the older sister stealthily opening the door. Perhaps the adults were sitting chatting on the front porch of a Sunday afternoon and she, the intruder, tiptoed across the carpet, picked up a lace-fringed pillow and placed it squarely over the baby’s face.
She told herself this story over and over again until it became true.
If Ben knew these things, he would hate her. He would despise her, which would be worse. He must already be disgusted with her. For killing her sister. For bringing devastation to so many people, including Reuben and Amanda’s children. How could he not despise her? She despised herself.
She looked at the car and thought about getting back into it and driving away, back to her sister, back to sleeping and moving food around on her plate and being dragged out to shopping and lunches. But, no. She couldn’t do that, either. She couldn’t prolong her own misery or Esther’s. It was time to relieve them both of the burden of her mortality.
She looked down the street. The distance threatened. Something sinister lurked between the trees, behind the fences. She should have parked directly in front of Ben’s. Then she would not have time to waver. But what if he saw her through the window? The thought was unsettling, that he might be watching her, that he might see her before she saw him.
She directed her mind to why she had come. What had she hoped to gain by seeing Ben? To get the blackness out of her mind. To replace it with light. Or some kind of light. Whatever is in your mind when you die will be with you for eternity. She believed that. She had seen a vision of eternity, a dark vision. Ben was the only one who could help her. Amanda through Ben.
Helena saw Amanda’s face, she heard Amanda’s voice: “Ben came to see me last summer.” During her travels, her disastrous wanderings and seekings, Helena kept thinking about that visit until it had taken on immense proportions. In her mind, Ben’s journey became a pilgrimage. There was something about it. There must be something about it. As some people when dying reach out to God, Helena reached out to an idea. The idea had brought her here, to this place, to this point. But now doubt imposed itself. What if there was nothing significant about Ben’s journey after all? What if Ben was not a connection between her and Amanda? What if Amanda had not left her a message?
What if she had? She took a step forward. You have to face him, she told herself. Unless you do, you’ll never know. You have to know, one way or another. Before you can die, you have to know.
She started walking. The trick was to keep walking and think of something else. Spring is so long in coming here, she thought. It could still snow, the sky looked threatening enough — threatening and grey and uninspiring, offering no help to her own grey mentality.
&n
bsp; The neighbourhood was old and had once been a fashionable district. But fashion had moved west, leaving this area to be designated the east end, a derelict district of shabby hotels, suspect bars, seedy nightclubs. This was Ben’s terrain, where life had set him down, where he had a mission. This was where he felt he belonged, rather than in the faculty club lounge or at suburban cocktail parties or summer backyard barbecues hosted by colleagues. Because of what had happened to him, he felt at home with the lonely confused sinners of the world.
I know so much about him, thought Helena.
From time to time, she glanced from a piece of paper in her hand up to the numbers on the houses. The inhabitants of the street seemed to be a mix of old couples hanging on to the family home — trimming lawns, planting flower borders, repainting and reroofing — and renters whose landlords had no other interest than collecting rent which, more often than not, would be a cheque from social services. These were the houses that invariably had sagging verandahs and curtainless windows and stacks of beer bottles on front porches.
But it would not be a house. The telephone directory had given an apartment number. It must be the building at the end of the street. She hoped he’d be home. She had not been able to bring herself to call him. The thought of doing so had filled her with such nervous agitation, she had actually felt ill. How would she face him, then? She didn’t know.
Driving here, it seemed strange to her that she had never seen where her husband lived. Seven years ago she had left their small apartment near the university, which they had furnished and decorated while in the euphoric and optimistic state of the newly wed. What they lacked in funds and expertise they made up for in enthusiasm and ingenuity. They made expeditions to lumber yards and building supply marts and clearance sales. They eagerly looked forward to each new edition of The Bargain Finder. Off they would go to garage sales and obscure addresses. They painted bricks and boards for book-helves. They restuffed and recovered a friend’s discarded couch. They sewed curtains and cushions. They brought home a ball of tumbleweed and stuck it in a piece of pottery. Helena ransacked Esther’s storage cupboards for suitable items, part of her sister’s overflow wedding gift cache. They had thought their little apartment exceedingly attractive, and it was. They laughed with friends and declared their decor “bargain bohemian.” They had been very happy there for a while, before things, before Ben, started falling apart. That was the place she had walked out of. She had left with one huge suitcase, she had climbed into a taxi, she had gotten onto an airplane. She had done these things alone. She had not wanted even Esther to accompany her. If Esther had been there, she might have changed her mind.
She knew that Ben had lived on this street for quite some time. The Volunteer Centre was only a few blocks away. She couldn’t be sure when he had started at the Centre. She couldn’t map his exact movements during these past years. At first, he used to phone her. Before she changed apartments and told the department and Esther not to give out her new number, he would phone her in the middle of the night when he was out of his mind and couldn’t sleep. She could not deal with those calls. Ben had always been so strong and self-sufficient. She could not deal with a pitiful, vulnerable, needy Ben. She did not want to be drawn in to that. She did not want to be coerced into returning to him. She did not want him to drag her down. Then they would both be doomed. They would both be pulled under the fragile barrier between the ordinary, cheerful world and the dark swampy mental regions of the damned, where she had ended up, anyway. The irony was not lost on her.
Ben’s building was an old apartment block faced with false brick. Various shades of red were patched here and there with yellow. False balcony railings of black iron fronted some of the windows. One end of the structure was sinking into the ground.
She turned in at the broken gate. She tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. She mounted the sagging front steps and reached toward the door. Her hand was trembling.
Would he invite her in? Leave her standing at the door? What was the worst that could happen? He might slam the door in her face. No, he was not likely to do that. But there would be an awkwardness. Is that what she was afraid of? What exactly was she afraid of? That he would not recognize her. Two years of dissipation had added ten years to her face. But he had sat with her in the hospital. At one time they had been lovers. They had been best friends. They were still married, for that matter. As she steadied her hand on the door handle, it occurred to her to wonder what she might do, what she might feel. What part of herself would be recalled by this meeting with her past life, her past self? Her stomach heaved. Why hadn’t she thought to eat something?
She braced herself. She pulled the door open.
A foul odour assailed her. Mould? Rotting vegetation? She looked for an apartment listing but there didn’t seem to be one. She started up a half flight of stairs, changed her mind and started down a half flight, changed her mind again and went up. Four doors, numbered from 5 to 8, were positioned at four corners of a square hall. Number 9 was what the directory had listed. She started up another flight. Now she could smell old smoke and stale beer, or was it rubbing alcohol, along with the rot and decay. She tried not to breathe.
It was a Thursday, just after ten in the morning. The building was quiet. Her steps were quiet. The door to Number 9 was half open. She stepped sideways through.
At first, she could see nothing but light and shadow, then the darker patches became shapes, table, chairs, a bureau of some sort. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that a rectangle of stark white light across the room was causing a glare that interfered with her vision. Then she could see that one of the shapes was Ben.
He was sitting in front of the window, sideways to her, his head bent to a stack of papers on the table before him. The light glinted on the metal rims of his eyeglasses. For a few moments she watched him, this person she had lived with, she had been happy with.
He might have seen a movement, he might have sensed her presence. He looked up. “Helena,” he said, rising from the table. “Helena,” he repeated, his tone surprised and pleased. He came quickly to the door. “I heard you were back.” His voice cracked, as though his throat was parched.
“Who told you? George? It must have been George.” She did not look at him. She let him lead her into the room.
“I hoped you would come.”
“Why didn’t you call then, if you wanted to see me?”
“I didn’t know if you … here, have a chair.” He scooped up an armload of something — books, magazines, laundry — from off a large chair.
She tried to say something in the nature of a joke, something light and amusing, but she was unable to speak. She felt her throat swell and her chest tighten. Tears welled up behind her eyes. In a moment she would break down into uncontrollable sobs. Abruptly, she walked to the window and looked down to the street. She swallowed several times. She blinked her eyes. She set her lips tightly.
He simply stood, giving them both time to recover.
She turned slightly and looked down to the table. “You’re marking papers.”
“So what else is new?” What she took to be an attempt to laugh came out of his mouth as a strangled croak.
“Yes. You were always working. You never knew what to do with yourself when you had a day off….” She became aware that she was babbling. She stopped herself.
He dropped his armload back into the chair. He cleared his throat. “How about a coffee? Instant, I’m afraid.”
“That would be fine.”
What Helena really wanted was a shot of whiskey, but she didn’t want to ask for that. Besides, Ben had never been a whiskey drinker. If he had anything on hand it would likely be beer. She certainly didn’t want beer.
Anyway, the coffee was just an excuse to give them time to reassemble themselves. Ben was very good with things like that, with making situations easier for people. She remembered that about hi
m.
He busied himself at the kitchen counter. She needed to sit down. She sank into the chair he had just vacated. “I suppose I should have let you know I was coming,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her back was to him. She could hear him rattling the kettle lid, turning on the tap. She kept her eyes steadily before her on a student’s paper. Her eyes fastened on the words: By starving people, the government forced them to sign … band members weakened by illness, hunger and the death of their chief … Qu’Appelle Valley … 1907. “You’re teaching this stuff now?” Her voice was lower, steadier. Good. “Your field was American.”
“They needed somebody at the last minute. Hayes, you wouldn’t remember him, but he died suddenly of a heart attack. He was the Canadian man. Actually, I’m enjoying the course very much. A lot of prep, but it expands my knowledge. I’m learning as much as my students. And I am a Canadian now.”
“You are?” She was truly surprised. “You loved your country so much.”
He made a great noise clattering something. “I decided to stop looking backward. The point of life is to move forward.”
“You always talked about going home.”
“Father died a few years ago.”
“I didn’t know.” She turned her head toward him.
He was wearing limp brownish trousers, a colourless shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a shapeless knitted vest. On his feet were down-at-the-heel slippers over grey wool work socks. He seemed smaller than she remembered.
“His death was a consideration in my decision.” He was rummaging around on the counter. His hands were trembling. They always had when he was nervous. As though to steady them, he clutched the edge of the counter with both hands. “To let all that go.”
“You were able to decide to let it go and then do it? That’s amazing. But you always could do what your mind told you to do.”
“Not always.” He paused a moment, then went on. “At some point I realized that I tend to create mythologies about my life, the draft dodger, the radical intellectual, the misunderstood outsider. I had to learn to replace fiction with fact.”
