A Serious Widow

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  Wittgenstein here strolls in, waving his tail in a lordly fashion. Marion frowns at him. “Does that cat live here now?” she demands.

  “Well, yes, he does,” I admit.

  “Honestly, Mother. You know he’s probably full of fleas – come spring you’ll find your whole house infested.”

  A somewhat uncomfortable silence follows while I control myself. Then Cuthbert leans forward, raising his glass. “Well, everybody,” he says, “I’d like to propose a toast. To our wonderful hostess. And while I’m at it, I’d like to make an –”

  “Cuthbert,” I cut in desperately, “would you please check in the kitchen for me – I think I’ve left the oven on.” Catching my eye, he goes obediently. My headache is steadily increasing.

  “What’s this you’re reading, then, Rowena?” Tom asks, picking up my library copy of Herself Surprised. “A novel, eh? Don’t know how you can be bothered. Fiction is so frivolous … I mean anybody can write the stuff.”

  “You think there’s no art or skill involved?” I ask, nettled on Ethel’s behalf.

  “Nothing to it. Same romantic formula every time.”

  “But the trick is to make it seem new, Tom. If it’s so easy, why don’t you give us an outline for a novel in two or three sentences – one we’d all like to read.”

  Tom hitches up his gown and throws one leg across the other in a businesslike fashion. “Once upon a time,” he says rapidly, “there was a plain girl with glasses. Her boss whips off the glasses one day and discovers she is a raving beauty; they get married and live boringly ever after. You see – anyone can do it.”

  Cuthbert gives an impolite kind of snort. He has come back from the kitchen looking disgruntled, having of course found the oven off. “That’s hackneyed junk,” he says. “It’s real life that has the best plots. How about this: a pretty girl marries a man who loves her, and they have a baby. Then he leaves her and for extra kicks claims half of the condo and the furniture she paid for out of a legacy. They are now going to court and she is living miserably ever after.”

  “Elaine,” I say.

  “Yes, poor kid. Broke down and cried in the office the other day. I had to send her home in a cab. It was her kid’s second birthday.”

  “Well, you never know. There may be a happy ending in there yet. After all, she’s only –”

  “No, Tom’s right,” says Marion. “Fiction is nothing but lies. Cinderella stories for people who want to dance with the Prince. In fact, the good old fairy godmother never shows up, and Cinderella is washing dishes to this day. And speaking of dishes, Mother, we’d better get at that mess out there, or you’ll be at the sink dealing with it all day tomorrow.” She gets up with decision and marches out to the kitchen, leaving behind, as she so often does, an unspoken rebuke in the air. Damn you, Miss Watson, I think crossly. Because of you, to this day all Marion’s white horses are rats. The two men, perhaps conscious how far short they come of princeliness, look silently depressed. Cuthbert studies his fingernails gloomily. I sigh.

  “And where’s your capsule novel, my dear?” Tom asks me, putting down his empty glass with reluctance.

  “Oh, I could never in the world write a novel. Not when life’s so complicated.” My head throbs. I think of Sebastian next door with his indigestion, and wonder whether he will be as glad as I will when this season of peace and goodwill is over.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Cuthbert?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Rowena. Just thought I’d call to wish you a Happy New Year, and also –”

  “Nice of you. The same to –”

  “We haven’t talked since Christmas, and we need to.”

  “Well, things at the office have been –”

  “I think we should – I don’t want bad feelings between us, dear. Have you got time now for a bit of a talk? I mean there’s unfinished business, isn’t there … That evening was a bit of a disaster, so we really should –”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Cuthbert, about that ring –”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve tried before to explain why it just isn’t a good idea, but obviously I haven’t done it very well. The thing is we need a civilized, friendly discussion with no sex in it. That’s what telephones are for, after all.”

  “Is it?”

  “I’m so fond of you – I want you to understand that – and it’s not that I don’t appreciate –”

  “Well, Rowena, I just don’t understand how you can accept me in one way – you know what I mean – and still refuse the ring. Talk about plots in fiction – it’s almost like that old chestnut about the heartless lover and the poor girl who trusts him to marry her, only here I’m the maiden, and you can’t expect me to like that, can you?”

  “No, but Cuthbert –”

  “I am simply trying to do the decent thing.”

  “So am I, my dear, if only you knew it.”

  “I do realize it’s rather soon after Edwin’s – but still.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s part of it, but –”

  “Well, I know I’m no great prize, of course, but –”

  “Now stop that, Cuthbert. You’ll be a wonderful husband – to somebody younger – some day. But in the meantime, I think we’d better just be friends. It’s been lovely, but we don’t want complications, do we?” Before he can answer this, I go on. “You’ll understand, I know.”

  He gives a frustrated sigh. “And it would be best from now on,” I continue bravely, “if I manage on my own, financially. As for that ring – it must be worth a lot of money. I think you ought to have it in safekeeping somewhere.”

  “You want me to take it back, then.”

  “I’m not happy about this either, you know.”

  “Oh, Rowena, I can tell you’re not. I’ve been miserable, too, my back’s been sore ever since Christmas Day, it’s completely psychosomatic.”

  “Cuthbert dear, try a deep, hot bath.”

  “I’ve missed you so.”

  “Me, too, but –”

  “Why don’t I come over there right now?”

  “Oh, my dear, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all. I’m trying to be fair to you. And to myself, come to that.”

  “But at least you’ll keep the ring and think about it. Say you will.”

  “Well, I’ll lock it up in my desk drawer. How’s that? Till later – much later. Then maybe we can talk about it. All right?”

  He sighs heavily. “If you say so.”

  On my next morning off, after shopping, I turn up McKenzie Street instead of going straight home with my groceries. Allowing myself no time to think about the consequences, I march up Sebastian’s front path and ring the bell.

  After an interval, the squat form of Mrs. Blot appears. Her black eyes inspect me with no recognition and even less cordiality.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. – Mrs. Blovantasakis.”

  “What you want?” she asks with suspicion. Still, her manner is just a shade less truculent than it used to be. Perhaps my struggle to come up with her right name has softened her. It even occurs to me to wonder whether this time she is a little afraid of me. Preposterous to imagine anybody could find me, of all people, intimidating; but it crosses my mind she might possibly be one of Toronto’s thousands of illegal immigrants who live with fear. Her thick mouth and heavy chin are as hostile as ever; but for whatever reason she looks tired and there is a stain of darkness around her pouched eyes.

  “I was just passing by and I’d like to say hello to Mr. Long, if I could. Of course you remember me – I’m a friend of Mrs. Wright’s.”

  “He sick. He sleeping.” And she begins to close the door.

  “Oh. I see. Well, will you please tell him that Mrs. Hill called.”

  “Miss Hell. Okay.”

  “Or tell him Rowena.”

  “Ravenna.”

  “Oh, never mind. Thanks anyway. I’ll phone him.”

  But when I do that, a fe
w hours later, the results are even more frustrating. “Hello, Sebastian,” I say. “How are you?”

  “Eh? Who’s that?”

  “It’s Rowena.”

  “Who?”

  “Rowena.”

  “I can’t hear. Bloody telephones.”

  “It’s Rowena, Seb. Mrs. Blot says you’re sick. Are you?”

  “Well, you can’t speak to her. Call her lawyer. It’s none of my affair. What’s her private life got to do with me, or, come to that, with you, Rowena?”

  “I don’t want to speak to Mrs. Blot, Seb! I’m calling to ask how you are.”

  “Then why the devil did you ask for her? I’m bloody awful, thanks. But that’s nothing new.”

  “Have you had the flu or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d like to see you some time when you feel up to a visitor.”

  “Don’t bother coming to see me out of pity.”

  “Next week, maybe. Say Monday? I’ll call first. All right?”

  There is a silence conveying irritability, then he says, “Can’t hear a damn word,” and hangs up. This conversation – if that is the right term for it – leaves me feeling depressed. When the phone rings a minute or two later, I snatch it up, hoping Sebastian might be calling back in a better frame of mind. Instead a familiar, incisive voice says, “Mother.”

  “Hello, dear.”

  “Have you paid the property tax bill this month?”

  “Um – well – that’s that long bill, is it, that folds in three? It isn’t due for a couple of weeks yet.”

  “Well, will you check it?”

  “All right. Hold on.” I fumble among the papers on my desk and unearth the bill. “Yes, here it is. February first is when it’s due.”

  “And how much is it?”

  “Four hundred and seven dollars.”

  “Of course you haven’t got enough to meet it.”

  “Well, no. I meant to talk to you about it tonight, actually. Because I agree with you that Cuthbert shouldn’t –”

  “Well, I’ve said all along it’s not right for him to be giving you money. If necessary I can borrow from the bank. As it is, I can manage this tax thing. Be sure you put it in a safe place; I’ll pick it up next time I’m over there.”

  “Thanks, dear. Sorry it has to fall on you.”

  “Somebody has to pay it. And Cuthbert certainly shouldn’t –”

  I am not eager to discuss this topic any further. “Well, how are things with you?” I ask, trying to sound cheerful. “Any news about that commissioner’s job?”

  “Oh, Harrington got it, of course.”

  “Oh, dear. I am sorry.”

  “I wonder when, if ever, Cuthbert is going to get your case moving, Mother. I didn’t like to mention it on Christmas Day, but the whole thing could drag on forever, if someone doesn’t get after him. Meanwhile how are you managing for daily expenses?”

  “Well, as you know, I’m still working at Dream Pies –”

  “Yes, Mother. What I mean is, your standard of living seems to have gone up lately, just when it should be doing nothing of the kind. All that wine at dinner, for instance – Dad never –”

  “Cuthbert brought that. And it was Christmas, after all.”

  “And I saw a new nightgown on the back of the bathroom door – slipper satin, no less – where on earth did that come from? Don’t tell me Cuthbert gave you that, too. No, there’s no doubt about it, since Dad went, you’ve been not just disorganized and vague – that I can understand – delayed shock does that kind of thing – but extravagance is something else again, and I must say it worries me. Even little things like the quince jelly from England you had on the table instead of cranberry sauce made at home … And the mohair wool it took to make that dress for me – I just wish you’d think, Mother, before you spend money on expensive things like that.”

  No answer to this occurs to me. I could not have made one in any case, because my voice will not work. She is perfectly right. I am not managing well. In fact, I’m not managing at all. By the time she rings off, tears are rolling down and dropping in wet blots on the property tax bill.

  To make up for a brief mild spell, winter returns the next Sunday with a vengeance. Daggers of ice hang from the gutterspouts, and a fresh snowfall swaddles our front yard evergreen in white. While he was home on holiday, young Max kept the Wrights’ front path cleared, and mine as well; but now as I peer through the frosted parlour window I can see Pam out there digging. Her lips are moving, and it is not hard to imagine that she is telling God her opinion of snow. I hurry to bundle up, seize a shovel and join her.

  “Morning, Pam.”

  “Morning. Filthy stuff, isn’t it?” She kicks a clot of snow fretfully. “And it would choose to come down just when John’s away. Bless him, he believes women should never shovel snow – he thinks it damages our delicate insides, and I’ve done my best all these years to keep him fast to that opinion.”

  “Not sure he’s wrong,” I say, puffing. “Incredible, how heavy it is.”

  “I am just making a tiny channel here for the postman and anybody who wants to come in for drinks. John will be home in a day or two – he had to rush off to Hamilton – poor old Ma had a heart attack, and they thought she might be going to pop off; but no, tiresomely enough, she didn’t. I do feel that at ninety-plus she’s had her fair share of everything, good and bad, and she must find survival a frightful anticlimax, but there it is.”

  “Tell me, how’s Sebastian?”

  “Oh, not in good shape. He had a fall in the bathroom the other day – didn’t break anything, the quack says – but it shook him up rather badly and he’s all over bruises, which does nothing for his disposition, as you can well imagine. Thank God Mrs. Blot can stay with him nights now, because it’s obvious he can’t be left alone any more.”

  “Hasn’t she got a family of her own?”

  “Oh, yes, tons of relatives, but her husband’s turned rather moody lately and started beating her up, so she’s getting a divorce, and till all that gets sorted out, which may take years, she doesn’t mind living in. Why should she, after all? I’ve fixed up a nice room for her down the hall from his, with a TV to herself (he never watches), and she can rule the roost over there and keep an eye on him while at the same time keeping out of the husband’s clutches. Perfect arrangement all round.”

  “I suppose it is,” I say, trying to sound convinced.

  “You know, before we found Mrs. B., he had a housekeeper who seemed to be the absolute in ladylike refinement and all that, and it was over a year before we realized that she was drunk just about ninety per cent of the time. We might never have known, but she set fire to herself one day with a cigarette. And after that we had a sweet, chuckly old dear, all smiles and affability, and she walked out one day with all the silver. So you see Mrs. B. is not without her good points. Do let’s stop this now, while our insides are still in place. Come in and have some coffee.”

  I plunge my shovel into the heaped snow on the lawn and follow her inside.

  “Do you loathe instant, I hope not, but I have to help at the shop in an hour. We’re having a big sale tomorrow.” She fills the kettle with a gush, and the kitten, now much larger and possessing a lush, plumed tail, turns its head to frown at the noise.

  “Instant is fine. Liking your job, are you? Does it pay well?”

  “No, but the commissions are nice.”

  “I wonder whether I could do that kind of thing.”

  “Well, it’s better than being stuck at home with afternoon TV. It can be quite amusing, in fact, persuading tall, skinny ladies not to wear skinny clothes, and keeping the fat ones out of frills. Actually you’d be quite good at it, so gentle and tactful.” She eyes me briefly and adds, “Of course, you’d have to invest in a few outfits yourself before … They do expect you to be with it clotheswise yourself. Anyhow, you’re still with Steve’s pie shop, aren’t you? Are you still hard up? Don’t min
d me asking, will you, it’s curiosity of course, but friendly.” With a disarming smile she hands me a mug and pushes towards me a carton of cream.

  “I doubt if I’d ever have the gumption to sell anybody anything,” I say, evading the question. “Don’t you often have to tell someone they look great in a dress just because you want to sell it?”

  “Well, but if they think they look great, everybody’s happy, or does that sound too Jesuit? Actually, though, I think telling the absolute truth about almost anything is a great mistake, all it creates is ulcers and hostility, life is tough enough without total honesty to complicate things, don’t you feel?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say, trying not to grin. Pam swings her long leg over the stool next to mine. She smells richly of Shalimar, and her black stretch trousers and red jersey make her look young and zestful. I glance down sadly at my old beige skirt and repress a sigh.

  “Forgive me for mentioning it, Rowena,” she says, looking at me with candour, “but I can’t help noticing that you have company quite often lately, which is surely a good thing, so deadly to be alone all the time, and the other day I heard a bit of a crash next door and then something that sounded like laughing, though sometimes this aid thing makes odd noises of its own. Anyhow I say splendid, if we couldn’t laugh we’d all simply sink into the ground with misery, if not our own then other people’s, look at Ethiopia – come to that, look at my wretched parent, he hasn’t laughed once since 1952, it’s too dismal. Anyhow do tell me what was so funny.”

  “Well, recently everybody’s been trying to frighten me with talk about rapes and muggings, which is pointless, really, because I was born scared to begin with. Well, a friend – he used to wrestle at college – offered to teach me a way of throwing an attacker to the ground. He’s not young, but very robust …” Here a vivid mental picture of Tom demonstrating a hold presents itself. “And as he was showing me how it worked, we lost our balance and fell down with a crash, and we laughed so much we literally couldn’t get up.” And here an even more vivid picture intervenes of what ensued before we did get up. Glancing at Pam I find her face wreathed in a broad grin. Hastily I put down my coffee mug and slip off the stool.