The Box Garden

by Carol Shields

  Nothing is simple. After dinner we take a taxi back to Scarborough, sitting in the back seat with our arms around each other. The sky has cleared; there’s a rounded, whited, theatrical moon cleanly cruising along behind us. Eugene’s raincoat is still damp and rather cold against my thighs but I like the feel of his lips on my face, unhurried, soft.

  Coming into my mother’s dimly lit living room with its flickering television screen and its cleanly shabby furniture, my senses play a perceptual trick on me: I see, it seems, not those who are actually there—my mother with her mending, Judith with her book, and Martin with his newspaper—but the ghostly shadowed presence of those who are missing. My father—shy, secretive, stoic, perpetually embarrassed—reading his paper much as Martin does, with hunched concentration as though he were perched temporarily in a doctor’s waiting room. And Judith’s children, Richard and Meredith: their absence is marked by her weary inattentiveness to the novel she’s reading, the way she jerks the pages over; her real life belongs to another place now. And Seth, the grandson my mother has not even inquired about, the grandson for whom she does not knit mittens or mufflers and whose birthdays she does not remember (he is, after all, the extension of a daughter who has twice disgraced her family, first by running away and then by getting divorced); Seth who is the most important person in my world is suddenly briefly visible, filling this little room with his absence.

  “Seth!” I suddenly exclaim.

  “What’s the matter?” Judith says, looking up.

  “I’ve forgotten to phone Seth.”

  “It’s not too late, is it?” Eugene asks, hanging up his raincoat.

  “Do you mean long distance?” my mother asks.

  “I just want to see if he’s all right.”

  “But it’s long distance.”

  “It’s after eleven,” Judith says helpfully. “Don’t the rates go down after eleven?”

  “After twelve, I think,” Martin says.

  “It’s all right,” I tell my mother. “I’ll leave the money for the call.”

  “A waste of money,” she shrugs. “And when you’ve been out to a restaurant and everything.”

  “I really must see how he is.”

  “But you’re going home Friday night. Why would you want to go and run up the phone bill for nothing?”

  “But I have to. I really must,” I insist, knowing I sound unreasonable and shrill. “I simply couldn’t sleep a wink tonight unless I know everything is all right.”

  “But what could go wrong?” my mother says giving one last dying protest.

  “There’s the phone ringing now,” Eugene says. “Maybe it’s Seth calling you.”

  But it isn’t Seth. It’s Doug Savage and he’s phoning from Calgary.

  “Hiya, Char,” he says as breezily as though he were phoning from next door.

  “Doug!” I stumble, a little confused. “Well, hello.”

  There is a short pause—perhaps we have a poor connection—and then I hear Doug saying, “Just wanted to tell you not to worry.”

  “Worry?”

  “Just wanted to let you know everything’s fine.”

  “But ... but what are you doing in Calgary?”

  “Oh, you know me, just a little trip. Always here, there, or somewhere.”

  “And Greta?”

  Another pause. “Has Greta phoned you at all?”

  “No. Was she going to?”

  He hesitates. “Just thought she might give you a buzz.”

  “Well, no she hasn‘t, but as a matter of fact I thought I’d phone her tonight. Have a word or two with Seth.”

  “Oh, God, Char, save your shekels. As a matter of fact, I don’t think they’re home tonight anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Something about the band. A rehearsal, I think.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly let down and disappointed. “I forgot about that.”

  “Well, don’t let it worry you. Everything’s fine. Fine.” His voice trails off.

  “Maybe I’ll try tomorrow night.”

  “Great idea. You do that. Having a good time?”

  “What? Oh, yes, uhuh, a good time.”

  “Take care then. Bye for now.”

  “Bye, Doug. And Doug ...?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for calling. That was really nice of you to think of phoning. But why ... I mean why exactly did you phone me?”

  “Didn’t want you worrying, that’s all. Just thought I’d let you know everything’s fine. Good night then, baby.”

  “Good night,” I say. And stupidly, cheerfully, add, “Sleep tight.”

  Chapter 5

  “She never talks to me anymore,” Judith is saying of her daughter Meredith. “Not the way she used to when she was a little girl.”

  Children. Judith and I lie in bed listening to our mother in the kitchen making breakfast and we talk about our children.

  “I’m always reading those articles about how parents are supposed to keep the lines of communication open,” Judith says. “And now and then out of duty I make a stab at it.”

  “And what happens?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She—Meredith—just smiles. Mona Lisa. At least sometimes she smiles. Other times she cringes. As though the thought that we might have something in common was unspeakable. Everyone’s always telling me how charming she is, and it’s true she’s got this non-McNinn effervescence. And a kind of wild originality too, but to me she doesn’t say one word.”

  “You don’t sound as though you mind all that much,” I say.

  “Mind? Oh, I suppose I should. After all, I’m her mother, she’s my only daughter, why shouldn’t she be able to pour out her heart now and then. But the truth is, Charleen, I couldn’t bear it if she did. All that anguish.”

  “You must be curious though.”

  “In a way. I’m always wondering what she’s thinking about. Or what she does when she’s not home. After all, she’s eighteen. But eighteen is such a ... well ... such a suffering age. Remember? Sometimes I feel I’ve only just recovered from it myself. To listen to her ups and downs would kill me, and I think she knows it too. She senses it. She’s got a kind of rare psychic radar—she always had but now and then she looks so bedeviled that I’m afraid she’s going to break down and take me into her confidence. She’s come close a couple of times. But then she stops herself. I can almost see her mumbling her vows of silence. And, strangely enough, I’m rather proud of her for it, for going it alone. I admire her for it. And I’m grateful, even though I know I’m failing her somehow, I’m grateful to be left alone.”

  “What about Richard?” I ask her.

  “Richard,” she shrugs. “He’s always kept things to himself. Of course he’s a boy. They’re always more secretive. I suppose that’s what you call a sexist judgment. Does Seth confide in you?”

  I pause for a moment, not really wanting to admit that he doesn’t. “No,” I say slowly, “but I don’t think it means anything.”

  It’s true that most of the time these days Seth and I speak to each other in monosyllables—sure, yeah, okay—but these words are our accepted coinage of familiarity, the sort of shorthand which forms unconsciously between people who are naturally in harmony. It has never occurred to me to think that his lack of explicit communication might be an attempt to hide something from me; his nature has always been exceedingly open, and, if anything, it is this openness that worries me, openness with a suggestion of vacuum, a curious, perhaps dangerous acquiescence.

  “I used to think it was strange,” Judith is saying, “that we never told Mother anything when we were girls. All my friends used to rush home and tell their mothers everything. But we never did. At least I never did.”

  “Neither did I,” I say firmly. “Never once.”

  “You know,” Judith says thoughtfully, “looking back, I don’t think it’s all that strange. I think she must have sent out a kind of warning signa
l, a thought wave, saying ‘Don’t tell me anything because I’ve got enough to cope with as it is.’ ”

  “Perhaps,” I nod.

  “Anyway,” Judith continues, “I’ve come to the place now where I know she and I will never be able to talk. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  Her certainty surprises me; it seems rather shocking to be so final, and I am forced to admit to myself that I have by no means surrendered. Somehow—it is only a question of finding the point of entry—I will break through our terrible familial silence. I came close, very close, yesterday drying the eggbeater.

  Judith springs out of bed and begins to get dressed, but I lie under the blanket a few minutes longer; I am still sleepy, my mind begins to wander, but I am not thinking about Meredith or Judith or about my mother or even about the girl I once was. For some reason I am thinking about Seth. And the small string of worry that plucks away at me.

  After breakfast—toast and coffee in the kitchen—we take up yesterday’s small routines. Eugene goes downtown for his conference, and Martin carries his newspaper into the back yard. It is rather cool outside; a wooly sun struggling through massed clouds, the grass still wet from yesterday’s rain. My mother sets up the ironing board in the kitchen (the smell and sight of its scorched cover pierces me with nostalgia) and she presses, through a clean, damp tea towel, the dress she will wear for her wedding. Cocoa-brown crimpeline with raised ribs, a row of dull, wood-looking buttons down the front, long sleeves and no collar.

  “It came with a scarf,” she says, frowning narrowly, “as if a scarf made up for no collar.” Her lips turn inward thinly, visible, measurable emblem of her complaint. “But I’m certainly not going to wear it, all those bright colours, cheap, of course it was in the March sales; nothing is well made anymore, imagine not even a collar. But it will have to do, that’s all there is to it.”

  I am thinking: the wedding is Friday, tomorrow is Thursday and with luck I’ll be seeing Brother Adam at last. Today is Wednesday; today I am having lunch with Louis. He is coming for me at eleven. When I asked Judith if she enjoyed her lunch yesterday, she smiled somewhat mysteriously. “It was interesting,” she said.

  “Did you find out anything about Louis?” I asked.

  “A little,” she smiled, “and so will you.”

  For a moment I pondered this, and then I asked, “Where did you go?”

  “A little place in the country.”

  “Where exactly?” I pressed her.

  “West of Toronto. Weedham. Just a little spot.”

  “Weedham? Weedham, Ontario? Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she had answered, puzzled. “Weedham. Spelled WEEDHAM. Being literal-minded, I naturally expected it to be full of weeds but it turned out to be a pretty little place. You’ll like it.”

  Weedham. Weedham, Ontario. Watson. I am going to Weedham, Ontario. I am going there today. An arc of anticipation, not unlike sexual desire, brightens inside me. I look at the kitchen clock. Nine-thirty. In an hour and a half I will be sitting in Louis Berceau’s little green Fiat bouncing along the road to Weedham, Ontario.

  I am sick, oh, I am sick with shame, I am in hell. I want to die of it, oh God, such pain, such humiliation, to be so humiliated. Stupid, stupid, I am sick with shame, it won’t go away, it’s done, nothing will take it away, dear God.

  I am lying on my mother’s bed in the middle of the morning, I am rocking from side to side, my fists in my eyes. I want to moan out loud, I want to weep, but no one must hear me, no one must know, oh, the shame of it.

  Martin. Martin knows. Will he tell Judith? I cannot bear the thought of Judith knowing. She would think it was—what?—she would think it was amusing, too amusing for words. It would be awful to hear her laughing over it; I couldn’t stand that.

  Yet, isn’t it her fault, isn’t she the cause of it’s happening ? If I hadn’t been thinking about her and her peculiar baffling indifference to Martin, it would never have happened.

  She had been so busily occupied after breakfast. She had settled down at the dining room table with her portable typewriter and her reference books and her lovely calf-hide attaché case which she snapped open on her lap; inside were bundles of five-by-seven cards, each bundle bound with a rubber band; I thought of the way Mafia men carry their wads of money. Her notes, she explained, and with an air of enormous concentration she had selected one bundle, had whipped off the rubber band with a clean snap, and, one by one, she arranged the cards around her in a large semi-circle, a zombie playing at solitaire. I watched admiringly, such concentration, such independence. Judith explained that she had set herself a deadline for her next book. “It’s odd,” she said to me, “I seem to be getting compulsive in my old age. Writing used to be just a kind of hobby. Now if a single day goes by without working, I feel as though the day’s been lost.”

  Martin, on his way in from the back yard to get his book, had paused and regarded her affectionately. Judith gave him a level look over her circle of cards; she looked at him, but I could tell she didn’t really see him; what she gave him was a wide spatial stare, an empty optic greeting as though he were a smallish portion of the wallpaper; then she broke her gaze abruptly, scratched her head with vigour and, slowly, thoughtfully, inserted a sheet of paper into her typewriter.

  Martin picked up his book and went outside, and out of a kind of pity—I think that’s what it was—I followed him.

  For a few minutes we sat together on the back steps, letting the frail, glassy sunlight fall on our backs. The little lawn looked exceptionally fine. Louis had put some fertilizer on it, my mother had explained with her mixture of shyness and sarcasm, and two pounds of grass seed. Martin seemed rather lonely, rather bored, a little restless, he seemed glad enough of my company. I even dared to tease him a little about how he’d worried about Judith’s outing with Louis; he had laughed at himself in an altogether pleasant way, and then we talked for a few minutes about modern criticism. Yes, we were starting to be friends. We were comfortable sitting there together; the sun was growing stronger; it might be a nice day after all, and I was just about to say so when Martin leaned over and whispered into my ear.

  “Look, Charleen, just between us, what do you think of the archaic sleeping arrangements here?”

  “Pardon?” I said. Our mother had always taught us to say pardon.

  “The sleeping arrangements,” he repeated. “You know, the boys’ dorm and the girls’ dorm.”

  “Well—” I started to say.

  He leaned closer, he put his arm around my shoulder, he whispered in my ear, “How about switching around tonight?”

  “Martin!” I breathed, completely shaken.

  “We could switch back later,” he leered. “No one would ever know.”

  “Martin,” I said again in a dazed whisper, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly.”

  There was a short chilly silence. A dead hole of a silence.

  Then Martin asked, “Why not?”

  I stood up abruptly, choking back rage, “Because Judith happens to be my sister. My own sister. What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “My good Christ, Charleen; don’t go all moral on me.”

  “And what makes you think I would want to sleep with you anyway?”

  Then, then Martin’s expression underwent a profound shocking, nightmarish change. Then suddenly he began to laugh, very softly so that my mother, still ironing in the kitchen, wouldn’t hear. Manic tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes, he rocked back and forth on the step hugging himself, “Oh, Charleen, oh, my God, I can’t stand it, it’s so funny. I didn’t mean you and me. Oh, God.” He broke into another obscene spasm of laughter.

  I stared. What was he laughing about? Had he gone crazy?

  Then quite suddenly I understood. Then I knew.

  “I meant you and Eugene,” Martin gasped. “And Judith and me. After all,” he continued, making an effort at control, “we are joined in holy wedlock and all that.”

  I hard
ly heard him. I dashed away, up the steps and through the back door. I ran past my mother and here I am in the bedroom, rocking and moaning in a suffering parody of Martin rocking and moaning on the back steps. How he laughed. I could die, I could die, I wish I could die.

  Louis will be here any minute. I roll over in bed and look at the clock. I must get changed. I must try to look cheerful and eager and grateful to be taken on an outing.

  I put on my stockings and slip into my new orange dress. Then I brush my hair, trying to turn it under smoothly the way Mr. Mario had done. It doesn’t look too bad. And the dress looks surprisingly becoming. I even hum to myself a jerky little comforting tune while I clean my shoes with a Kleenex. They’re still a little damp from yesterday.

  Too bad about Martin, I say to myself in mock dismissal, peering into the mirror. Just when we were starting to be friends. If only I’d laughed I might have carried it off. Ah well, with my typical faulty reflex I blow it every time, a fatal quarter-step behind the rest of the world. Martin, without a doubt, will have been repelled by my embarrassment; not only that, but I with my gross misinterpretation have left myself vulnerable to a host of other questions: exactly what kind of a woman was I anyway? Just answer that.

  Then I hear the little car pulling up in front, I hear Louis and Martin in the back yard talking about lawn care. One last reassuring grimace in the mirror and I emerge.

  Louis does not embrace me, but he gives me a smile and a cherishing handshake over the kitchen table. My mother, sighing as she puts away the ironing board, says sharply, “Don’t be too late. I’m making my tunafish bake for supper.”

  We walk to the car; Louis is cheerful and nimble and I shorten my steps to match his. The sun is blazing merrily overhead, and Martin and Judith walk with us to the street; Judith’s writing is going well this morning and she seems immoderately happy. “Have a good afternoon,” she sings.

  I don’t dare look at Martin. But after Louis has turned the ignition and we start to slide away from the curb, I turn back and find my eyes looking directly into his. His eyes look funny as though he is squinting into the sun. No, he isn‘t, no he isn’t. He is—yes—he is winking at me.