Stir-Fry

by Emma Donoghue

  “Isn’t it the only thing for your mother’s arthritis,” put in her father. The boys had legged it out straight after dessert to watch the circus on TV. What a boring little house.

  Maria withdrew to her room, slid under the quilt, and put the most soporific pop music she could find on her Walkman. It did no good. She could neither drift into sleep nor wake out of this cotton-wool numbness. The savour of something cooking drifted in from the kitchen: mince tarts? Cursing under her breath, she sat up and changed the tape to Handel’s Messiah. Hallayloo, hallay, hallaylooya … After ten minutes Maria staggered up, stretched, and went into the kitchen for a mince tart. She passed her mother in the hall; even after shutting the kitchen door, she could hear the high-pitched phone voice.

  “And what in Heaven’s name is she going to do with it?” A hush. “Would she not think of adoption, for the good of … no, of course, Thelma, it’s her own decision. It was just a suggestion. And what about …” A stifled sigh. “Not much help from that quarter, I imagine. Well, Alexandra has always gone her own way. I suppose we should be grateful. Thousands of Irish girls going over on the night boat every year, they say. Terrible.”

  Her tone brightened. “My own lassie? Came down early, this morning. Oh, the hair, yes indeed.” And a cackle of laughter as she listened. “No word yet, but maybe she’s shy of mentioning names. Oh, I’m sure. The studies seem to be going all right, though she’s not killing herself with work. Is that the truth? Aren’t they all. Still, so long as she keeps well and passes her exams. The laddibucks can wait!” Her voice spiralled up into laughter again.

  The tart was dry in Maria’s throat. For a moment she wanted to walk into the hall, take the receiver from her mother’s hand, and batter her across the forehead with it. Instead, she went out the back door into the garden. The crooked bird table was still standing, half hidden by rhododendrons. Laddibucks, what a word; they were the least of her problems. Maria kicked a mildewed tennis ball down the side of the lawn.

  Between mass and dinner on Christmas morning, while the uncles were discussing tax, Maria was handed a baby cousin to keep entertained. She quite enjoyed making obscene faces to disconcert it. She wondered idly, as she handed it back to its mother, what it would be like to be in Alexandra’s situation, her body swelling with a creature of her own that she couldn’t hand back to anyone. A quick shiver; she dropped the baby’s rattle on the carpet and reached for the choked magazine rack.

  Two quizzes for her in Femme: “Are You a Witch or a Wimp?” and “Know Your Passion I.Q.” Turning to an article on fantasies, Maria read that, according to the latest survey, 10 percent of women imagined (“occasionally or frequently”) having sex with animals, and 70 percent imagined it with other women. She slapped the magazine shut; why did she always happen across this kind of statistic? Sliding her eyelids down, she leaned her head back on the sofa, trying to conjure up the memory of that one wretched little kiss. It had happened so fast, she didn’t have time to enjoy it or not. Well, yes, there had been a certain electric shock, like when a friend’s hand might brush against hers by mistake. But it could by no stretch of the imagination be called a big deal. So why was she worrying herself sick about it?

  She nodded abstractedly at an uncle who had turned to the women for confirmation of one of his more biting statements on V.A.T. The smell of dinner, heavy with sage, was seeping from the kitchen.

  And if she did turn out to be that way inclined, Maria asked herself, for the sake of argument, what would she do then? She looked round at her family and relations, their plump indifferent faces, and imagined clearing her throat and beginning (in a rather Southside Dublin accent), “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you …” How their ruddy cheeks would cave in. It might be a perverse kind of fun, so long as she could spirit herself away on a magic carpet afterward.

  Or was she underestimating them? Auntie Bronagh would probably be sharp enough to guess. Perhaps, Maria thought, with a chill settling into her stomach, even a kiss showed, no matter what your motivation had been. The kiss of a woman might leave some kind of mark, a twist in the curve of the mouth.

  “Are you dreaming on us?”

  Maria looked up guiltily. Her mother had come in from the kitchen with floury hands for a brief sit-down. “Read us out the horoscope there, pet.”

  She flicked through the pages and found it. “This one’s yours, Mam: ‘A financial bonanza in the near future, if you act cautiously.’” She turned to her own. “Aquarius, here’s me. ‘Your usually calm heart is invaded by a whirlwind romance this week. Let it happen.’” Her brothers sniggered, but Maria looked uneasily at the tiny sketch of the water-bearer, straining under the precarious load of two buckets. Then she turned to check the date: It was the July issue.

  The steam rose in blue clouds, gleaming on the window. Maria let her shoulders sink into the scalding water, eased herself down until cold enamel touched the nape of her neck and made her jerk forward. The water stung her thighs. Maria liked her baths sinfully hot and with the light off.

  Well, she had behaved like a normal, healthy young woman for four days now, and the strain was beginning to tell. Asking for second helpings of plum pudding, watching a repeat of The Two Ronnies Christmas Special even going for a six-mile tramp in the coldest bloody fields in Ireland just to please her father. He liked birds. Maria herself could never tell the difference between a swallow and a sea gull, but mumbled “Look over there” and “Could be” convincingly enough. They had got back stiff and numb when tea was nearly over, and her mother had announced that Maria had a grand colour on her. Now she was thawing out in the bath, trying to plan her life.

  One, find a new flatshare, staying with Thelma in the meantime. No doubt about it. The questions, the embarrassments of returning would be too much. She paused to imagine a flat without Ruth and Jael and shrank from the thought. Maybe she could loiter in the library sometimes to say hello. On with the list. Two, get seriously involved in theatre or something next term so she’d be too busy to mope. Three … she couldn’t really think of a third resolution, but they had to go in threes. Work very hard to get honours in the exams, and go waitressing in London next summer? Not the most exciting New Year’s resolutions, but practical. Oh, and cut down on the chocolate, of course.

  The water streamed off Maria in rivulets as she stood up and clambered out of the bath. She dried herself slowly, wanting to delay the moment when she would have to turn on the light and emerge. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror; how very unlike the average “Nude Bathing” canvas. Well, maybe a bony Cézanne. Maria let her palm linger on her stomach. It looked strange, a hand on a belly. A bit purposeless. What if it wasn’t her hand, but somebody else’s? Her face caught only a few wavelets of light from the street outside, just on the sharp tip of her nose and the bulge of her chin. It seemed completely blank; pleasant enough, but forgettable. She tried to imagine someone wanting it, memorising its lines, watching out for it in a crowd, rushing down a busy street after her like the nerd in the perfume ad. Someone putting a hand on her shoulder, then realising with embarrassment that she was the wrong girl. And she would accept the apology so graciously; “I am afraid,” she mouthed in a French way at her foggy reflection, “we do not know each other.”

  “Maria,” her youngest brother bawled indistinctly from the kitchen.

  She opened the door a crack. The draught raised goose pimples all down her arms.

  “Mam says did you know there’s a pair of letters for you and they’ve been sitting under the teapot all day.”

  She was into her dressing gown and down the stairs in half a minute. Dublin postmarks under the brown stains.

  In case you haven’t glanced to the end yet, this is me, Ruth. Hello, my dear Maria.

  This is a letter because face-to-face I’d get too emotional. And also because your fluffy scalp is hundreds of miles away in some godforsaken village I can’t even visualise.

  None of this is likely to make much s
ense as I haven’t slept since the night before last.

  It’s sort of like a stir-fry, that’s the only way I can think of to describe it, don’t laugh. I thought you could chop up lots of different vegetables and mix them in and raise the heat, and they’d all make each other taste better. It never occurred to me that ginger and fennel might clash.

  Here I am waffling on, and this was meant to be a brief note.

  You see, I had this theory that among women, possessiveness and jealousy needn’t exist, that women could sort of share themselves out and, to use my awkward analogy, make each other taste better. Like, for example, a flat of three friends, two of whom happened to be lovers.

  Well, you must admit it was a good idea, if a little naive.

  I overestimated my capacity not to mind. I overestimated all of us. Jael means no harm—well, not much—but she’s like a kid, you know, she has to have a little bit of whatever’s going. The pull between us two is still there, but I think it might be going to smash us right through each other. Not that I’m blaming you, Maria. I realise now that you had no idea where we were heading. I should probably have done something at the start, offered some kind of earthquake warning, but what could I have said? I was afraid of seeming paranoid, one of these ghastly wifey types who goes into fits if her girlfriend even glances at anyone else.

  Much the same kind of thing as I’m afraid of seeming in this letter! But things are a bit different now. Let’s just say that I want to do the right thing—for everyone—it’s just that I’m not sure what that is yet.

  Will you be coming back to the flat? It’s entirely up to you. I’m just so tired I couldn’t give a shit.

  What I mean is, Happy Christmas Maria.

  Love (if you want it)

  Ruth

  Maria had sped through it too fast to take it all in; she was about to start again from the top when she remembered the second letter. It had no envelope, just a page folded up and stapled, postmarked the day after Ruth’s.

  M.

  Apologies for ungentlemanlike behaviour. Stop. Have learned how to make Baked Alaska. Stop. Get your ass back here. Stop.

  J.

  The Dublin train was frantic on New Year’s Eve; the burly man who sat beside Maria, gripping a bottle of champagne between his knees, had let it smash all over the floor of the carriage. He kept asking her did she think he’d have any chance of compensation because the driver had stopped the train so jerkily, or were they the crowd of crooks he’d always suspected?

  Maria was noncommittal. She lifted her runners out of the fizzing puddle and turned her face into the corner of her seat. A sojourn in Sea View Villa would be a wonderful rest; Yvonne’s animated invitation over the crackling phone line had been exactly what she needed to hear. They could go clubbing tonight, then take it easy for a few days; stroll on the pebbled beach, bus into town for a look at the January sales. Her glam rags were all in the flat. Maybe she could slip in, to collect some clothes and books? Ruth would probably be over at her mother’s, and Jael most likely out boozing. And if they were by any chance at home, well, she could manage a civil conversation, just “Happy New Year, see you round college next term, bye.”

  Maria couldn’t have stuck another day at home, it was making her claustrophobic. Her mother had offered to teach her how to make choux pastry; she had to get away. At least Dublin was anonymous. She could avoid maudlin New Year’s Eve thoughts by dancing herself numb in a strobe-lit nightclub.

  “What would you say, carnations or chrysanthemums?”

  She turned her head reluctantly.

  The fretful man went on. “See, sorry to bother you, but I just wanted a female opinion. The blasted champagne was for proposing to her, my girlfriend, Frieda. I meant to do it tonight. But I don’t have time now to get to an off-licence so I was thinking I could pick up some flowers at the station instead. They’re not as romantic as champagne, but then, Frieda’s not much of a drinker.”

  Maria was softened by his idiocy. “I’d go for white roses, if I were you. Just a few. That’s if they have them.”

  The man was impressed. “I didn’t even know they made white ones. Grew, I mean. So you think she’d prefer white to red?”

  “I’m no expert,” Maria assured him. She could just imagine some pragmatic Frieda turning up her nose at white roses. “I’ve never proposed to anyone.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have—or only in a leap year,” he said with a snigger. “It’s us poor blokes who have to do the asking.”

  She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on her plans again but lapsed into daydreams. Just imagine if somebody was waiting for her on the platform in Dublin with a bunch of white roses and a sheepish smile. “Name the day”—what a thrilling phrase, as if you could somehow stop time and tie a white satin bow around it, one day out of all the days in your life when a crowd of shiny faces would remind you how wonderful you were.

  Maria shivered, wrapping her scarf more tightly round her throat. Even if she were happily married in five years’ time, she thought, she still wouldn’t feel a hundred percent normal. The flat’s strangeness had rubbed off on her. She was branded.

  Toiling up the last flight of stairs—Maria had forgotten how steep they were—she heard raucous laughter in the flat. A good sign; things must be patched up between them. Come on now, no chickening out. But as she slid her key into the front door and pushed it open, she heard a distinct “Oh, shit” from the kitchen. Jael hurried out, but when she saw who it was, her face lightened. “And it’s the Virgin Maria in a rare appearance by public demand,” she yelped.

  Deciding not to be embarrassed, Maria carried her bag into the kitchen. The visitor, leaning against the table, was a thin woman with short black spiky hair; her tanned face warmed into a slight smile as she held up one hand in a gesture of welcome.

  “Aren’t you meant to say you’ve heard so much about her?” prompted Jael.

  Making a face, “Must I?”

  Jael, flurried, suddenly remembered her duties. “Oh, I forgot, Maria, this is Silk. She’s just back from Greece.”

  “Are you the one who sent the postcard on Jael’s birthday?”

  “I didn’t know my communications were such big events,” said Silk, looking up ironically at Jael, “but it’s gratifying.”

  “Well, look,” Jael began, and Silk moved toward the door, stretching her arms above her head as she pulled on her shabby black dinner jacket.

  “Yes, I must be off,” she said. “Mustn’t risk running into her ladyship on the stairs. Listen, are you people partying tonight? ZZ’s?”

  “All depends on how persuadable Ruth is,” said Jael doubtfully. “Keep an eye out for us anyway. It was good to see you.”

  “Been a while,” Silk commented, and let herself out.

  Left alone, they were suddenly awkward again. Maria launched into an apology: “I’m just picking up my stuff, I’m not actually staying. Yvonne’s expecting me.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Well, I’d better—”

  “Listen, about Silk,” interrupted Jael.

  “Yes, by the way, where did she get her name?”

  “I belive it was the pseudonym for a highly erotic haiku she got published in The Pink Paper.”

  “Mmm, that figures.”

  “What, that she’s a dyke?”

  “Well, not necessarily. Just that kind of person.”

  “What kind of person?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake,” snapped Maria, “you know what I mean. I’m not labelling anybody, so don’t get hot under the collar.”

  “I’m not getting hot under the collar.” Jael stalked to the window and stared down at the street. “By the way, it might be as well if you didn’t mention to Ruth that we had a visitor. They don’t really get on.”

  “Why?” Maria was surprised at her own daring.

  “Because I’m asking you not to. It would annoy her.”

  “No, but why don’t they get on?”

  “Be
cause I’ve slept with them both.” Jael turned, her voice iron. “OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? The prurient curiosity satisfied yet, Maria?”

  She felt her face cave in. “I just wondered.”

  “You’ve been just wondering since you came into this flat three months ago,” said Jael. “Do you think we haven’t noticed the kind of games you’ve been playing? What do you think this is, feeding time at the zoo?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Maria’s voice was shaking. “I think I’d better go,” she added, moving toward the door.

  Jael caught her by the elbow: “Don’t act the fucking innocent.” Her face was livid, six inches from Maria’s. “If you want to know, ask.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  The grey crystal eyes were on the point of splintering. “Then why did you come back?”

  “Not to take this kind of crap from you.” Her own snarl astonished her.

  Jael dropped her elbow.

  “I came back to get my clothes. And to see Ruth. And to tell her I’m sorry if I’ve made her life any more difficult than you’ve already made it.”

  She let out a long breath. “I knew it. I had a feeling you’d overreact.”

  “What?”

  “It was only a wee kiss. It’s not like I raped you on the kitchen table, Maria. Mistletoe, you know? It’s a tradition.”

  Maria’s cheeks were scalding. “My reaction isn’t the point.”

  “Well, Ruth’s fine about it now, you know. She just panicked a little at the time. It’s been a sore spot, ever since Silk.”

  Anything to shift the spotlight from her own pinched lips. “How did that happen?”

  “We’d been friends for years; we just got a little carried away one night in the summer when Ruth was in Majorca with her mother.”

  “How did she find out?”

  “I told her, of course,” said Jael scornfully. “I may not be the model monogamist, but I’m honest. And there was a major brouhaha. And Silk told Patricia, who she’d been with for five years, and they broke up.”