“Sebastian,” I say loudly.
He mumbles something inaudible and rolls his head away from my voice. I touch his shoulder where the sharpness of his bones startles me.
“Open your eyes,” I tell him. “Do you hear me, Seb? It’s me – Rowena.”
“No,” he mutters. “No point in that.”
“Sit up, Sebastian.” I give him a none-too-gentle shake. “Wake up.”
“Wha’ for?” he mumbles. His head sinks forward again.
There seems no appropriate answer to his question, so I go to the window and draw back the curtains to let in more light. Dust released from the faded fabric spins aimlessly in the bright sunlight. It’s too late, I think; but instead of accepting defeat and simply turning away to go, I stand there with my heart banging faster and louder than ever. Then I go back to his chair and bend over him.
“Sebastian,” I say, quietly this time. Oddly enough, this rouses him. He looks at me vaguely, lips fumbling for words. I take his bony hand in both of mine. It is icy cold.
“Mrs. Blot has gone downtown,” I tell him. “Now sit up. Wake up. I want to talk to you.”
He blinks at me, frowning.
“Listen to me. Are you listening?”
“You look awful. Why have you let yourself get in this state? It’s disgraceful. Have you no pride? Seb, do you hear me? You’ve deliberately let go, haven’t you? It’s true, isn’t it? Just to get attention. Admit it. You don’t have to be in this mess.”
“No.” He closes his eyes again.
“Then why stay in it?”
“Good question. Nobody pays attention. And why should they? I’ll soon be nothing but a bit of atomic garbage in the winds that howl around the universe.”
“Now, Seb, answer me: do you want to go on, or are you really giving up? Come on. I am paying attention.”
“Extendicare,” he says, for the first time looking at me directly. “Bastard term. Bastard concept. I’m on a waiting list – can you think of anything worse than that? What’s to do but give up? That’s where pride comes in. Go with some kind of dignity.”
I take the skeletal hand between mine, trying to warm it. Instead of calming, my heart is drumming more insistently than ever, with something unfamiliar that feels like rage, or resolution. The glass of water by his bed containing dentures is cloudy and bubbled. His breath is bad. The tumbled bedclothes, the stale disorder of the room, the unbuttoned, crumpled pyjamas he wears all fuel this anger.
“Tell me the truth, now, Seb. Do you want to get out of here?”
“Where to – the knacker’s yard?” he mutters.
“What about coming to my place?”
“Your place?”
“Yes. As it happens, I own a house. Come on home with me. We’ll explain to the Wrights later. I’ll look after you – that is if you behave decently. Are you game for it?”
He stares at me. “You’re mad.”
“Yes, I am. Come on then, if you’re coming.”
There is a pause while he deals with his pride. “Get some clothes on,” I urge impatiently. “You can’t go anywhere like this. I’ll call a taxi.”
A flush jumps into his hollow cheeks. After a moment he takes my proffered arm and with its help hauls himself up on unsteady legs. “Got to pee first,” he says breathlessly.
“That’s right. Here we go, then.” We shuffle along to the bathroom. Once he is safely inside I hurry back to the fusty bedroom and snatch up the array of medications there, stuffing them into a couple of carrier bags together with some clothes from the bureau drawers.
“Put these on,” I tell him, handing shirt and trousers through the bathroom door. “And don’t you dare fall in there, or they’ll send me to jail.” Hastily I add slippers and his teeth to the bags, and then call a taxi. My fingers are shaking so much I have to dial three times before getting the right number. When Sebastian creeps back down the hall, bracing himself along the way with one hand on the wall, he is more or less dressed, but he has flushed a rather alarming, mottled colour and is breathing heavily. Prince Charles’s voice inside my head remarks, “This could kill him,” but I tell him fiercely, “So what?”
“Wait,” says Seb. “Can’t do this, you know. The stairs. Can’t manage them.”
I look at him desperately. We have to get out of here somehow, and soon. Mrs Blot might come in at any moment, and that will be the end of it all for him.
“Look – you could get down those stairs on your seat.”
“Eh? My what?”
“Yes – just sit down on the top step and grab the banister. Come on – it’s perfectly simple. You must have done it when you were two. Try, anyhow. Hurry, now, before –”
Wheezing and shaky, he manages to lower himself by degrees until he is sitting perilously on the top step. His skinny legs gawkily rest on the next step down. From that height he peers down at the dim hall below as a mountaineer might look giddily down at a remote valley. “That’s right,” I tell him. “Now just lower your bottom onto the next step. Come on, man, think of England; we’ve got to make it.” The doorbell then rings, making us both start horribly.
“Oh, God, there’s the taxi.”
I scramble past him to answer the door, dragging with me the bags of his clothes. With maddening slowness Sebastian lowers himself down one more step. The cab driver, a swarthy East Indian who takes the bags from me kindly, tries not to look astonished by the sight of an elderly gentleman coming downstairs on his bottom. “Could you please give us a hand out to the car,” I ask him breathlessly. “Just two more to go now, Seb. Take it easy. You’re doing fine.”
By the time he reaches floor level and in stiff instalments gets himself upright, Sebastian’s face is crimson and he is wheezing in long spasms that frighten me. Then I realize that for the first time since the Korean War, the old man is laughing.
“What the hell are you doing here, Rowena? Where are we?”
“I live here, Seb. We came here together this morning – don’t pretend you’ve forgotten that. I certainly never will.”
“Ah, yes. We eloped, didn’t we? So this is your house, is it?”
His eyes travel around the banal little sitting-room, and Wittgenstein, sitting primly on the rug with tail curled around his paws, examines him with the same blend of curiosity and surprise. As soon as we arrived, Sebastian sank into the easy chair, trembling, and minutes later, worn out by exertion and stress, dropped then and there into a deep sleep. My own first act was to phone the Wrights, but though I’ve called repeatedly since then, there is no answer next door. Between calls I sat on the sofa watching my guest sleep, and trying not to think about all the probable consequences of my crazy act of kidnap. Curiously enough, though, now the deed has been done, nearly all my qualms of fear seem to have vanished. I feel, in fact, serene, even amused.
I smile at Seb, who also seems at ease, almost happy, snapping his fingers and trilling at the cat. His long legs are crossed one over the other, revealing the fact that he has put his trousers on over his pyjama bottoms.
“I remember when these semis went up in the late fifties,” he says. “Architecture like this amounts to a criminal offence, wouldn’t you say? Or perhaps you wouldn’t. I’m not famous for tact. After that tomb I’ve been living in, I guess you could call this cosy. Where’s your bathroom? Nature calls. In fact, her voice is getting a tad shrill.”
“It’s upstairs, I’m afraid.”
He frowns. “This is grave news, you realize.”
Instantly my calm vanishes and agitation sets in once more. Here is only the first of what will doubtless be a long chain of unforeseen, small but insurmountable problems.
“Well, Seb, we’ll just have to get you up there somehow.”
“Frankly I don’t see how.”
“Come on, you didn’t think you could get downstairs, either, and you managed it. Let’s go. I’ll help you.”
In a Mutt and Jeff fashion we tackle the stairs. I prop and push fervently while
he hauls himself up, one step at a time, with the help of the banister and occasional profanity. There is a perilous moment near the top when he totters, but that crisis passes, and he shuffles at last into the bathroom, wheezing, “Excelsior!”
While I wait for him to reappear, I put clean linen on the bed for him in my room, and move my own things across the hall into Marion’s old room. With the padded rocker and some of my books about, the big bedroom will make a pleasant enough bed-sitter for him. I open the window a crack to let in the clean-smelling, moist air and the sunlight that lavishly irradiates the deep blue sky. This clear light lies like a blessing on the rough trunk and bare boughs of the back-yard maple tree.
“Now this is going to be your room,” I tell Seb when he shuffles into view. “Try out the rocker. I’m going down to get us a bite of lunch. If you feel like coming down for it, do – on your seat, please. We don’t want any broken bones. Later on, when you get some muscle back in those legs –”
A loud rapping at the front door cuts me off. We exchange a hunted glance. “I’m not here!” he says hoarsely, gripping my wrist in a bony hand.
“Take it easy,” I tell him, and hurry downstairs, my heart rattling noisily inside my rib cage. When I open the door the sight of two large policemen, one fat and one thin, makes me gasp.
“You the lady of the house?” the fat one asks, squinting at the pocket notebook in his meaty hand.
“Yes.”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Mrs. – Mrs. Edwin – I’m a widow.”
“Mrs. Edwin?”
“Yes.”
“This four-seven-six Maple?”
It occurs to me wildly that they are not here to retrieve Sebastian but to claim the house for John Hill. Either way, I don’t mean to give up without a struggle. “This is four-seven-two,” I tell them, doing my best to sound calm. “I’ve lived here for thirty years. What are you – are you looking for someone?”
The fat one eases his leather holster with a menacing creak. “Witness to an accident is who we’re looking for.”
The thin one says, “Not the right address, Joe. We want four-seven-six.” The fat one sighs and puts away the notebook. “Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Good day.” And they thump off down the wet steps.
I close the door and lean against it for a moment. Sebastian’s long face appears over the stair banister.
“Gone?” he asks cautiously.
“Yes.”
“Splendid. Weren’t looking for stolen goods, were they?” His wheezing laugh floats down to me like a pat on the back. “Now how about that bite of lunch, Rowena? For some reason, I feel hungry.”
“Coming right up.” But before getting out the omelette pan, I try the Wrights’ number again. There is still no answer. In a way, this is a relief. As I break eggs into a bowl, I wonder what name the law might have for what I’ve done. Is stealing an old man grand larceny? Rape? Pillage? It must come under the general heading of felony, and I am not looking forward to what Cuthbert will say when he hears the story. Or Marion. Or the Wrights; or, come to that, Prince Charles. What I’ve done is surely going to be far beyond even my ability to excuse or explain. And yet I can’t help feeling proud of myself for committing a misdemeanour on such a grand scale.
In the middle of the night, a muffled crash wakes me. Judgement, I think, still entangled in light sleep, and seizing a bedside torch I scurry across the hall. As I grope towards Sebastian’s bed, my bare feet encounter his overturned bedside lamp with its long, cold snake of cord. Then the narrow ray of my torch reveals Seb himself, standing, a preternaturally tall figure in pyjamas, on the other side of the bed.
“Seb, what happened? Are you all right?”
He turns aside to snatch up his dressing gown and wrap it round himself apron-fashion. “Do you realize it’s three o’clock in the morning?” he asks austerely.
“Yes, I realize that. What got you up?” Fumbling, I set up his lamp on the night table, discovering at the same time he has upset his water glass, which now lies half under the bed, spreading a wet patch shaped like a swan.
“Bad dream,” he mutters. “Bloody pills. Go back to bed.” He avoids my eye; then, after a pause, adds only half audibly, “Thought I was in the loo, actually.”
“Oh, is that all? Can happen to anyone, of course.” I pick up the glass, adding untruthfully, “Happens to me sometimes. Here’s a set of clean p.j.s.”
“Bloody cousins of mine used to beat me every day for wetting the bed.” His voice trails away as he turns the corner into the bathroom. I rapidly check that the bed is dry and straighten the tumbled blankets.
“Sorry to be such a bore,” he says, reappearing at the door.
“I’ll just get some paper towels to mop this water up. Would you like a hot drink while I’m down there?”
“Make it a double,” he says cheerfully.
Ten minutes later I am back with two steaming mugs of cocoa and sit down beside him to share it.
“This is better for you than a pill,” I tell him.
He sniffs his drink pessimistically. “That’s not claiming a hell of a lot for it. But cheers anyway.”
“Next time the doctor pays you a call, let’s ask him to review all your medication. After a point I’m sure all these pills clash with each other, and after that with you. Or maybe we should just review the doctor. Does he really pay attention?”
“Oh, he’s not a bad chap for an existentialist.”
“Anyhow, we’ll see what he says.”
“Before I dozed off, Rowena, I was thinking.”
“Were you, now. What about?”
“About money, among other things. You haven’t got much, have you?”
“Very little – only a small salary from … This house is really my only asset. Why?”
“Whereas, you know, I have my various pensions, plus that mausoleum on McKenzie Street. Satisfactory, isn’t it? King Cophetua. Of course that house of mine is falling to pieces, but given its size, it would probably fetch quite a preposterous sum. Now I was thinking, with the cash from that, we could buy someplace, maybe out of town, if you’d prefer that – or we could enlarge this potty little house, what d’ye think of that idea? Put an extension on at the back – have another bathroom put in downstairs, and a sitting-room with a fireplace. And up here a big sun-room for your sewing things.” He makes an extensive gesture with his long arms. “Well, what do you say to that, eh?”
There is something about his use of pronouns that pleases me so deeply I can make no answer. Over my shoulder I glance at the table with my machine, shears and sewing basket, which have so long occupied a crowded corner of the room. It is strange how unfamiliar everything suddenly appears, now that his long red dressing gown hangs on the door and his leather slippers lie on the rug beside the wet patch, which now looks more like a ship on its way somewhere. Because he is looking at it the room has quite a new presence. Cramped, shabby, nondescript, it nevertheless suddenly seems to have possibilities not before perceived. And when his hooded eyes, alert and astute now, rest with speculation on me, his gaze has a further, curious effect: it makes me feel significant. This sensation is so novel it puts me into something of a fluster and turns my cheeks hot.
“You see, I’ve put insomnia to some practical use for a change,” he says. “Unless,” he goes on, putting down his cup with a tremulous hand, “those red cheeks mean you’re furious with me. I meant no impertinence, you understand. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for your hospitality. But you must agree this place will need some improvements if we stay here. And as for money – you realize what I was paying that slut, the Muse of Don Mills – just to warm up junk food and never dust the furniture? If you look after me, Rowena, I shall insist you accept the same. That way we’ll both have what we need, except that I’m the one who will get the best of the bargain by far. It’s been amusing to lie here planning the house extension. Did you know, by the way, that Wittgenstein designed and built a house for
his sister in Vienna? He also designed a jet-engine propeller, but I know my own limitations.” Here he yawns widely and slides farther down on his pillows.
“You can pay me room and board,” I tell him, not without pride, “but I have a part-time job downtown, you know. Anyhow, you go to sleep now. We’ll talk some more in the morning. I mean later. And if the Wrights ever get home – I can’t think where they’ve got to – we’ll have to discuss all this with them, as well.”
“None of their affair,” he says drowsily.
“Oh, I’m afraid, one way and another, they’re going to think it is.”
But to avoid further discussion, he is officially asleep.
As I creep into my own bed, I think with a kind of defiant satisfaction, “Yes, Seb. You’ll die before long and become an atom in the wind that howls around the universe. But in the meantime you’re here, with me.”
Next afternoon, in an aisle of the supermarket perhaps appropriately labelled Cleansers, I encounter Tom, whose pouched and tired face lights up at the sight of me.
“Ah, my dear Rowena, this is a nice surprise.”
“Hello, Tom. Good to see you – I’ve been trying to get you on the phone but you’re never in lately.”
“It’s high season for funerals, my dear. Actually, I was planning to drop in to see you – so why not now – I could carry your groceries home into the bargain. We haven’t had a get-together for some time, have we?” He beams down at me genially as various impatient shoppers push past us to get at the boxes of detergent.
“Er – no – we haven’t; but you see, Tom –”
A Serious Widow Page 24