Lady Oracle

by Margaret Atwood

  Fraser Buchanan's face fell like a section of badly engineered land fill: if Arthur already knew, he could gain nothing by threatening to tell him.

  "How did you get in?" I asked conversationally, to smooth over his confusion. I was interested, too: I'd met a lot of amateur con-men but never a professional. "It couldn't have been the window over the fire escape."

  "No," he said, "it was the one next to it. I swung myself across."

  "Really?" I said. "That's quite a distance. And I suppose that was you phoning me and then not saying anything."

  "Well, I had to make sure you weren't there, so I could get in."

  "Sort of backfired though," I said.

  "Yes, but you would've found out sooner or later."

  He explained how he'd tracked down my maiden name, which had never appeared in an interview, by combing the records of marriages. "Were you really married by someone called Eunice P. Revele?" he said. Then he'd searched through high-school yearbooks until he'd found me. Matching me with Louisa K. Delacourt had been a guess, which he'd needed to substantiate by finding evidence. The Royal Porcupine had been the easiest; he'd also thought that was his ace in the hole, but to my relief he conceded it wasn't. "Marriage isn't what it used to be," he said with disgust. "A few years ago that would've been worth a bundle. Now everybody tells everything, you'd think it was a competition."

  I asked him about the dead animals, also about the notes. "Why would I do a thing like that?" he asked with genuine surprise. "There's no percentage in that. I'm a businessman."

  "Well, if you've been following me around, you might have seen who left them. The woodchucks and things."

  "I don't work in the mornings, love," he said. "Only at night, I'm a night person."

  We had another drink and then got down to brass tacks. "What do you want out of all this?" I asked.

  "Simple," he said. "Money and power."

  "Well, I don't have much money," I said, "and I don't have any power at all."

  But this he refused to believe. He hated celebrities, he felt they diminished him. All of them, however ephemeral, had money and power, according to him. Not only that, none of them had any talent really, at least not any more than the next fellow. Therefore they had got where they had through chicanery and fraud and they deserved to be relieved of some of their cash. He was especially contemptuous of Lady Oracle and of my publisher, and he was convinced that I'd got the book published by using my feminine wiles. "He's always launching young unknown ladies, that man," he said, during his fourth drink. "With big pictures of them on the back of the book, just the face and neck and down to the tits. Flash in the bedpan, most of them. No talent."

  "You should take up literary criticism," I said.

  "What," he said, "and give up my practice? Doesn't pay enough." He never used the word "blackmail," and he referred to the others he had the goodies on, as he put it, as his clients.

  "Who else?" I said, my eyes wide and appreciative. I was letting him bask.

  It was here that he made his mistake. He took out his black notebook, thereby letting me know of its existence. "Of course, I can't tell you those things they'd rather people didn't know," he said, "same as I'll never tell yours. But just to give you an idea -" He read out seven or eight names, and I was suitably impressed. "Here's one, now," he said. "Clean as a whistle, you'd think. It took me six months on him. But it was worth it. Little boys' bottoms, that was his. All right if you like that sort of thing, I suppose. You can always find something if you keep at it long enough. Now, back to business."

  I had to have that notebook. My only hope was to keep him in the bar long enough to get him drunk and snitch it out of his jacket pocket. I'd noted which one it was in. Unfortunately, I was getting a little drunk myself.

  After a long involved conversation, which got slower and more circuitous with every drink, we sawed off at twenty percent of my income. I'd have to send him duplicates of my royalty statements, he said, so he'd know I wasn't cheating. "Think of me as a sort of agent," he said. He had the same arrangement with several other authors.

  As we got up to leave, he placed his hand discreetly on my ass.

  "Your place or mine?" he said, lurching.

  "Yours, by all means," I said. "I'm married, remember?"

  It was a lot easier than I'd thought. I tripped him going up the steps to his fancy apartment building, and got the book while helping him up. I got into the elevator with him and waited till the door was closing. Then I slipped out and ran from the building. I fell down myself, once, ripping my hem, but it wasn't serious. I hopped into a taxi and that was that. Slick as television, almost.

  Arthur was home when I got back. I could hear him typing away in his study, rat-a-tat-tat. I locked myself in the bathroom, took off my velvet dress, and went through Fraser Buchanan's notebook. Black leather binding, no name or title, gilt edges. The writing inside was tiny, like cockroach tracks. I scarcely bothered with the quite astonishing revelations he'd put down; I was looking, compulsively, for myself.

  The book was organized like a diary, by dates. Useful items were starred; the rest was Buchanan's somewhat rambling notation. Most of the time he used only initials.

  J. F. - "celebrated" authoress of Lady Oracle. Met at party, pretentious artists. Built like a brick nuthouse. Red hair, dyed no doubt, big tits; kept pointing them at me. Played stupid, inane laugh, looked over her shoulder a lot. Underneath it a ball-stomper, could tell at once. Evasive about the book, should look into it. Married to Arthur Foster, writes for Resurgence. Pompous bugger.

  And later:

  Estimated income: ?? Not that much, but she can get some from Foster.*

  Check maiden name.

  And later:

  She's having it off with C. B. That's the most expensive fuck she'll ever have. The wages of sin is monthly installments to yours truly. *Hotel records. Get pictures if possible.

  And even later:

  He was systematic, all right. What did I ever say to offend him? I wondered. Was it hatred I was reading, or just hardheaded mercenary cynicism? Did I point my tits at him that night, or not? I supposed a short man would experience it that way. Was my laugh inane? He did hate me, I felt. I was a little hurt, as we'd just had a pleasant evening.

  But it didn't matter, since I had the book and I intended to keep it. No doubt he would try to get it back; he'd be desperate, it was his living. It was also incriminating evidence: it was in his handwriting, it had his name on it, the address was inside the cover, it was undeniable. I was surprised no one had tried to steal it before. But then, he may not have told anyone else about it.

  I tore out a choice page and sealed it into an envelope. I would send it to him in the morning, like the ear of a kidnap victim, just to let him know I had the book. I enclosed a note as well: If anything happens to me the book is in good hands. One word from you and it goes to the police. Stalemate, I felt.

  I went to bed before Arthur did, but I lay awake long after he went to sleep, trying to undo the tangle that my life had become. At any moment Paul might swoop down on me, figurative sword in hand, and perpetrate some disastrous rescue that would ruin my life. Now Fraser Buchanan would be trying to get his book back. I'd have to think of a good place to hide it; a locker in the subway station, or maybe I could keep mailing it back and forth to myself ... no, that wouldn't do. I might get a safe-deposit box in a bank.

  Malevolence was flowing towards me, around me, someone was sending me absurd but threatening notes, phoning me up and breathing; Fraser Buchanan accounted for only some of those calls. Someone was leaving dead animals on the doorstep, and if it wasn't the Royal Porcupine it was someone who knew about him. Who could possibly have found out? Perhaps one person was doing the animals, another the notes, a third the phone calls ... but I couldn't believe that. It had to be a single person, with a plan, a plot that had some end in view....

  Then all at once I knew. It was Arthur. The whole thing was Arthur. He'd found out about the Ro
yal Porcupine, he must've known for some time. He'd been watching me all along, not saying anything; it would be like him not to say anything. But he'd made a decision about me finally, a pronouncement, thumbs down. I was unworthy, I would have to go, and this was his plan to get rid of me.

  I thought about how he could have done it all. The anonymous letters would be easy. I could check our Yellow Pages to see if anything had been cut out, but he wouldn't be that careless. Most of the phone calls had been made when he wasn't home, though it was true that for some of them he'd been there. But he could have got a friend to help him. (Who?) The animals, anyone could find dead animals. Planting them on the doorstep would be more difficult, especially since I'd made a point of getting up first lately. But he could have put them there at night.

  He was the one, he must be; he was working up to something and I didn't at all want to know what it was. The easy explanation would be that he'd gone crazy, in some very deep and undetectable way. But it didn't have to be that at all. Every man I'd ever been involved with, I realized, had had two selves: my father, healer and killer; the man in the tweed coat, my rescuer and possibly also a pervert; the Royal Porcupine and his double, Chuck Brewer; even Paul, who I'd always believed had a sinister other life I couldn't penetrate. Why should Arthur be any exception? I'd known he had phases, but I hadn't suspected this completely different side to his personality; not until now. The fact that I'd taken so long to discover it made it all the more threatening.

  Arthur was someone I didn't know at all. And he was right in the bed beside me. I was afraid now, almost afraid to move; what if he woke up, eyes glittering, and reached for me ...? For the rest of the night I listened to him breathe. He sounded so peaceful.

  I had to get away, as quickly as possible. If I simply went to the airport and got on a plane, anyone at all would be able to trace me. My life was a snarl, a rat's nest of dangling threads and loose ends. I couldn't possibly have a happy ending, but I wanted a neat one. Something terminal, like scissors. I would have to die. But for this I needed help. Who could be trusted?

  *Louisa K. Delacourt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  In the morning I waited till Arthur was out of the house. Then I phoned Sam.

  "I have to see you," I said, "it's important."

  "What's up?" he said. Marlene had answered the phone, and Sam sounded as if he was still asleep.

  "I can't talk about it over the phone." It was an article of faith with Sam that his phone was bugged by the CIA, or at the very least the Mounties, and he was probably right. Also, I wanted to sound paranoid enough from the very beginning to convince him.

  "Should I come over?" he said, perking up.

  "No," I said. "I'll meet you in front of Tie City on Bloor Street in half an hour." Sam lived in the Annex, I knew he could make it if he rushed. I wanted him to rush; it would make him feel more urgent. Then I hung up, mysteriously.

  I'd thought very carefully about the story I was going to tell them, for of course it would be both of them; there was no chance that Marlene wouldn't come along too. The truth was out of the question, as usual. If I told them the truth they'd feel they couldn't help me, since according to the ideology merely personal problems weren't supposed to be very significant. If I could get each of them alone it would be different, but together they were each other's witnesses and potential accusers. I needed the right villains, persecuting me for a cause they'd consider important. I felt a little cheap about this. Sam, like most of the group members, was essentially honest, in a devious sort of way; whereas I was essentially devious, with a patina of honesty. But I was desperate.

  I waited nervously in front of Tie City, looking at the ties in the window and glancing from time to time over my shoulder, until Sam and Marlene appeared. They'd actually taken a taxi, which gave me hope: ordinarily they never took taxis.

  "Look normal," I told them in a low, furtive voice. "Pretend you're walking along the street." We walked along the street, heading west, and I told them the place and time of the real meeting. "I thought I saw one of them at the corner," I said. "Don't let yourself be followed." Then we separated.

  That afternoon at three-thirty we met in the Roy Rogers, the one on Bloor west of Yonge. I ordered a vanilla milk shake. Sam had a Roy with the works. Marlene ordered a Dale Evans.

  We carried our trays to a round table beside a plate-glass window, through which we could see a small backyard with an enormous Coca-Cola billboard in it, boy and girl linking healthy eyes and swilling.

  "You picked a great place," Sam said. "They'd never suspect this joint."

  "Did you know you can get authentic Trigger Shit by sending away for it?" Marlene asked.

  "Authentic, balls," Sam snorted. "There's more of that around than pieces of the True Cross. Besides, the real Trigger was stuffed and mounted years ago." Marlene looked put down.

  I checked the underside of the table, as if for hidden mikes. Then I leaned toward them. "They've found out about the dynamite," I said.

  Sam didn't say anything. Marlene rolled a cigarette. She'd taken to rolling them lately; the tobacco ends stuck out and flamed when she lit up, but she held the cigarette gamely in the corner of her mouth while she talked. "Who has?" she said. "How do you know?"

  "I'm not sure," I said. "It could be the Ontario Provincial Police or the Mounties; maybe even the CIA. Anyway it's someone like that. When I went to move the car the day before yesterday I saw two men watching it. I didn't go near it, I just walked right by as though I had nothing to do with it. When I went back yesterday they were still there, or maybe it was two other men. That time I didn't even go down the street, I crossed over and went down a side street."

  "That means they haven't traced it to you yet," Marlene said. "Otherwise they wouldn't bother watching the car, they'd watch you instead."

  "They haven't yet" I said. "But they're going to. They'll trace me to the apartment; I gave that address when I bought the car. They'll get a description from the landlord. If they pick me up, they'll find out my real name and they'll get Arthur, and then they'll get you."

  Sam was shaken. His escape fantasy had come to life at last, and he didn't like it. Marlene, however, was very cool. Her eyes narrowed, partly because of the smoke. "You think it's the Mounties?" she said.

  "If we're lucky," I said. "If it is, they might never find me, and if they do at least we'd get a trial. But if it's the others, the CIA or maybe someone worse, they might just, you know, get rid of us. They always make it look like a suicide, or an accident."

  "Holy shit," Sam said. "I'm sorry we got you into this. But it can't be the CIA, we're small potatoes."

  "I think you're wrong," Marlene said. "They hate nationalist organizations, they want to keep this country down."

  "Well, there's one good thing," I said. "Right now they can't trace it any further than that apartment, until they find out who I am."

  "We better get you out of the country," Marlene said.

  "Yes," I said, perhaps a little too quickly. "But I can't simply hop on a plane. If I disappear, they'll keep looking till they find me. I think we should arrange a sort of dead end for them."

  "What did you have in mind?" said Sam.

  I gave it some thought. "Well, I think we should stage my death; that way, when they start nosing around, they'll find out I'm dead and that will be that. There's not really anything to connect the rest of you with that car and the dynamite. We'll just leave it where it is and let them worry about it."

  They were both impressed by this idea, and we began discussing ways and means. Sam came up with a plan for a fake car accident, using a body mangled beyond recognition. He watched a lot of prime-time television.

  "So where do we get the body?" Marlene asked, and that was the end of that.

  Sam's face lit up. "Hey ... what about a vat of lime sprinkled with your teeth? Nothing identifies you positively like your teeth. That's what they use in airplane crashes, to identify the victims. They'd think the res
t of you was eaten away."

  "Where are we going to get my teeth?" I asked.

  "You have them all pulled out, of course," Sam said, a little hurt by my negative reaction. "You can get a set of false ones, they're more hygienic anyway."

  "No," I said. "They'd torture the dentist. He'd tell them everything. I might consider one or two teeth," I conceded.

  Sam sulked. "If you're serious about this, you have to do it right."

  "What I need is something very neat," I said. "What about this?" I pulled a newspaper clipping out of my purse. It was about a woman who had drowned in Lake Ontario, very simply, no frills. She had merely sunk like a stone, and her body had never been recovered. She'd made no attempt to catch the life preserver thrown to her. It was one of the first times, said the paper, that an inquest had been held and a death certificate issued with no corpse present. I sometimes clipped items like this out of the newspaper, thinking they might come in handy as plot elements. Luckily I'd saved this one.

  "But it's been done already," said Sam.

  "They won't notice," I said. "At least I hope they won't notice. Anyway, it's my only chance."

  "What about Arthur?" Marlene asked. "Shouldn't he know?"

  "Absolutely not," I said. "Arthur can't act, you know that. He'll be interviewed by the police, he's sure to be, and if he knows I'm really alive he'll either be so phony they'll know something's wrong or so calm and collected they'll think he did me in himself. He wouldn't convince anyone. We can tell him later, after it's all over. I know it's cruel, but it's the only way." I went over this point with them several times; the last thing I wanted was Arthur on my trail.

  Finally they agreed. In fact, they were flattered that I thought they'd be able to put on a much more convincing act than Arthur. "Just don't overdo the grief," I told them. "Some guilt, but not too much grief."

  They thought I should have some forged documents to get out of the country with, but I said a friend of mine would take care of that, and the less they knew about it, the better. I was glad I'd kept my Louisa K. Delacourt passport and identification up to date.