The Fire-Dwellers

by Margaret Laurence

  What’s your name, little girl? Stacey Cameron. That’s a funny name – Stacey. It is not! It is not! It’s my name and don’t you say anything about it, see? Stacey, don’t be rude – this is Reverend McPhail, our new minister. Say you’re sorry. I will not. Go to your room, then. (In the bedroom, an oval mirror, and she put her face very close to it, so she could see deeply into her own eyes – Anastasia, princess of all the Russias; Anastasia, queen of the Hebrides, soon to inherit the ancestral castle in the craggy isles.)

  Come on, opera star. Let’s go and see Aunt Tess. We better put a few presentable clothes on first. Gosh, I wish I had a skin like yours, flower. Not a blemish. All the other kids have got a certain amount of freckles, but you’re like milk. Too pale, maybe. Yeh, you could stand with a little more color. C’mon, this is where you’re supposed to say nuts to you, Mum, I’m absolutely gorgeous the way I am. Okay – you’ve convinced me.

  Newspaper photograph. Some new kind of napalm just invented, a substance which, when it alights burning onto skin, cannot be removed. It adheres. The woman was holding a child about eighteen months old and she was trying to pluck something away from the scorch-spreading area on the child’s face.

  Come on, Jen, let’s get dressed and get out of here.

  Tess is waiting for them with the coffee cups out.

  Gee, that’s a cute outfit, Stacey.

  Like it? I got it for her last summer.

  No, I meant your dress.

  What, mine? Oh – well, thanks, Tess. I can hardly squeeze into it.

  You haven’t put on any weight, surely?

  That’s what you think. I’m on a diet this week.

  Oh? What kind?

  Well, I tried the banana diet, but I get so fed up with bananas that I’m not fit to live with. This one’s high protein, no carbohydrates.

  How do you find it?

  It’s hell. It’s the bread I miss. I’ve got no willpower, that’s my trouble.

  Oh Stacey, you? I always think you’ve got terrific willpower.

  Who, me?

  I mean to say, all those kids and running the house and all.

  That’s not willpower. That’s just elbow grease.

  Well, my heavens, I know I couldn’t do it. I tire so quickly. Sometimes it’s like I can hardly lift a finger without getting all played out. I saw the doctor again about my blood pressure.

  Oh? What did he say?

  The usual. Take it easy. Keep up the pills. Salt-free diet. I didn’t tell Jake I went.

  Why not?

  I don’t know, Stacey. He doesn’t like people not feeling well.

  It’s not your fault.

  I know, but then again – well, I don’t know. You know what men are like.

  No, but I sure wish I did.

  I wish I had your way of laughing at everything, Stacey.

  I don’t really

  Sure you do. It’s a real gift. My dad used to say, Tess, when God gave out the sense of humor, he missed you. I’ve never forgotten that. I guess it’s true. Of course, I mean, I like laughing. But I can never remember jokes and that. Did I show you the goldfish?

  No. You got goldfish?

  Yeh. Jake bought them for me. For company, he said. See, here they are. I like the little wee castle at the bottom of the bowl, there, don’t you? And all those pink and blue pebbles. Kind of sweet, I thought. See, there’s the big goldfish hiding behind that fern or whatever it is. Where’s the smaller one got to? Don’t tell me – no, there it is. There were three when Jake brought them home.

  Did the other one die?

  Well, not exactly. The big one ate it.

  What?

  Apparently it’s a quite common thing among goldfish. Some just do. I saw it happen. It was kind of peculiar. The big goldfish bit it on the back of the neck, sort of, and it had this convulsion, like, and then the big one took it to the bottom of the bowl and just ate it. I saw the whole thing happen. It didn’t even take very long.

  That’s gruesome.

  Yes. It looked really peculiar, like I said. I am keeping my eye on this other one now. To see what happens

  Can’t you take it out? Or do something

  Well, it’s their natural way isn’t it after all

  What’ll you do if it does

  Jake said he would bring home another one tonight just in case

  Expensive fish food

  Oh, they don’t cost very much

  — Dog eat dog and fish eat fish. Don’t tell me any more because I don’t want to know.

  Thanks for the coffee, Tess. My appointment’s for ten. I must get going

  You’ll leave Jen?

  Well, I don’t think I should

  Sure. Leave her, Stacey.

  Okay, if you’re sure it’s no

  Oh, positive. She’s as good as gold. You’re as good as a little goldfish, aren’t you, sweetie? No trouble

  — Jen? You okay, flower? I want to take you along with me, but I don’t know how to say it politely.

  The hair dryer purrs whirringly like a metallic tiger. Stacey turns the magazine page. The article is entitled “Pruning Down with Prunes – New Concept in Dieting.” She sighs, closes the magazine and looks around. The dryer prevents any other sound from reaching her, so everything in front of her eyes is taking place in silence, as though she were observing it through some thick and isolating glass barrier or like TV with the voices turned off.

  The priestesses are clad in pale mauve smocks. They glide and dart, the movements perfectly assured and smooth, no wasted effort. A heavy woman with heavy grey hair sinks down into a chair in front of the grapefruit-yellow basin. With a visible sigh of pleasure, tweed-covered bosom lifting like hills in a minor earthquake, she leans back her head to receive the benediction of the shampoo. The priestess’s plastic-sheathed hands administer to her scalp, the fingers updrawn like yellow talonless claws. In a chair facing the wall-to-wall mirror, a young woman laughs soundlessly up at her priestess, who is twirling the strands of black hair rapidly around yellow rollers. An ammonia whiff and a conglomeration of humid perfumes come to Stacey’s nostrils.

  Not Earth. Somewhere else. Quite a small planet, but with a very advanced technology. The whole process is absolutely painless, here on Zabyul. The silver mechanism is simply fitted over the head, creating an impression of gentle warmth. Soon she will emerge from the Chrysalis. That is what the mechanism is called. One of the butterfly priestesses comes over, checks the controls. All set – the transformation is complete. She steps out. The entire room is made of a substance which reflects softly. She stares. Her? This very young woman has her features, but altered, made finer, the shape of the bones incredibly beautiful under the cream-textured skin. Quick – Jartek will be waiting. And therehe is, strong and supple, his sex discernible under the sleek tight-fitting uniform of a galactic pilot. Then they are in one of the life-domes. He is a senior pilot, so naturally his life-dome is a relatively spacious gracious one, furnished with golden-foam couches that grow organically out of the walls at a flick of the Environator on his steady-boned yet now trembling wrist. He puts his hands on her breasts, then slides his finger down to her willing sex. Now quickly.

  Okay, Mrs. MacAindra? If you’d like to come over here, Lenore will comb you out.

  Thanks.

  — No wonder I’m afraid of having an anaesthetic or undergoing hypnosis. What if I talked? I’m a freak. Or maybe I’m not, but how can you tell? There is only one thing you have to remember, Stacey, doll. Tonight, drink tomato juice.

  Outside the door of the hotel banqueting room, Mac touches Stacey’s arm. Half surprised, she glances at him and finds that he is smiling.

  Now just don’t worry, Stacey. It’ll be all right.

  Gosh, I hope so. I’m kind of nervous.

  There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just don’t argue or

  I won’t I swear it.

  The room is large, old-fashioned, plush, velvet-draped, and full of people. Stacey straightens her blac
k cocktail dress with perspiring hands. At one end of the room there is a long bar, behind which three waiters are being kept busy. Stacey pats at her hair. In the middle of the room is a bandstand, from which members of a small and bored-looking orchestra are dispensing waltzes and slow foxtrots. Stacey resists the desire to look behind her and make sure her waist-slip has not edged disastrously downwards. Across the room, corner to corner, stretches a white banner with one word in cerise, gold-edged.

  RICHALIFE

  Standing with a group of laughing girls, all lissome and blonde with good teeth and no waists, is Thor, dressed in midnight-blue evening suit and drinking tomato juice. His silver hair glimmers phosphorescently. Stacey checks by running one finger along her outer thighs to make sure her panties have not by any chance suddenly lost their elasticity and begun to descend. Thor waves and grins, and Mac lifts a hand in a return salute. Stacey unobtrusively puts one hand behind her and touches a thumb to the small of her back in case her bra has become unhooked. The orchestra goes into the droning circles of a Viennese waltz, and before Stacey and Mac can reach Thor, he is dancing with one of the girls.

  C’mon, then. Let’s get a drink, eh?

  You think we should, Mac?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Stacey. He’s not intolerant. He doesn’t try to foist his opinions on other people.

  Not much, he doesn’t.

  Well, if you’re going to take that line, you better stick to Coke.

  No – I’m not. I mean I won’t.

  — Resolutions, where have you gone? All night on Coke and I will be a raving lunatic. Two, though. Only two. Then stop. Spirits of my dead forefathers, strengthen me. They should strengthen you, nitwit? They probably all died of whiskey. Mac, don’t leave me. I can’t cope with this crew.

  Stacey, this is Mickey Jameson. Mick, I’d like you to meet my wife.

  Pleased to meetcha.

  Hello – glad to meet you

  And this is my wife, Priscilla – dear, this is Mac MacAindra and Stacey.

  Hello there

  Glad to meet you

  What’ll it be, Stacey?

  Oh – Scotch and water, please, with lots of ice.

  — Maybe gin and tonic would be better? Mother’s ruin. No, that’s for home. Mac prefers gin. Scotch for the crises. Up, the clans.

  Mickey Jameson is short, young, blue-eyed, pink-faced. His wife is similar in feminine version. Stacey contemplates the girl, wondering if she really is not perspiring or is only pretending not to. The girl’s dress is short and white but not virginal, and her make-up is a work of abstract art. The long false eyelashes glow diamondly with a touch of what appears to be the instant-snow spray that Stacey associates with Christmas trees.

  — Can’t be. Must be some other gloop. Must ask Katie. If I would only read articles on make-up instead of those epistles telling me all the harm I’m doing, then I’d know. I can’t read them. I look at them from the edge of one eye, at a distance, but they always scare me off. It looks so complicated. Things used to be a hell of a lot simpler, in my day. Cream, lipstick and powder. Finish. In my day. Lovely phrase, that.

  Been with Richalife long?

  Who, Mac? Oh, not so very long. What about your husband?

  Just a month or so. But he loves it. It’s the greatest, isn’t it?

  Yeh. It’s fine.

  Mickey says he was just marking time, before. Just simply marking time. He was in house paints. What was your hubby in, before?

  He was in essence – I mean to say, the essence of his work was kind of educational. Encyclopedias, like.

  Oh, say. Well, think of that, now. What made him switch?

  Oh you know go-ahead firm and that

  Yeh well that’s just exactly what Mickey said, too.

  Mac and Mickey are standing shoulder to shoulder. Stouthearted men.

  Yeh, well, like I said, Mick, I used to do the Okanagan – up and down the whole valley – with my previous firm, so that’s why I wanted to keep the area for the time being. I know it like the palm of my hand.

  Sure, boy, I can see that all right. I would’ve figured you for the city, though.

  You could be right, there. Maybe it’s time I changed territory.

  A change is as good as a rest, I always say.

  Well, you could be right.

  At this point, Thor saunters up and joins the group, or rather, the group re-forms around him.

  Hi, Mac. Hi, Mickey. Good to see you. Well, hello there, Priscilla. You don’t mind if I call you Priscilla, do you?

  Why, certainly not. I’d just love you to, Mr. Thorlakson.

  Thor’s the name sweetheart. Just Thor. And who have we here? Stacey, isn’t it? Well, and how are you, Stacey?

  Just fine, thanks.

  I’m glad to hear it. Have you got all those nice kids of yours on the Younglife Program yet? Oh yes, you have. I remember the charts now. And if I remember correctly, they’re doing just dandy, too. Just great. Well, that’s splendid, Stacey. You have any trouble getting the whole brood to line up for the Program every morning, Mac?

  Nope. None whatsoever.

  — Like fun. He leaves it to me, and sometimes I give them one and mostly I forget, or forget on purpose, thinking the stuff is probably subtly addictive, or will ultimately be found to contain traces of arsenic, and then I flush the baubles down the john when no one’s around, and probably Katie will rat on me one of these days. I don’t know when Mac takes his. It is not a subject which is discussed between us.

  Well, that’s great. Say, you know, Mickey, this guy’s got four children. Brave fellow, eh? You going to try for a baseball team, Mac?

  Not yet a while

  Well, let me know when you think of trying, and we’ll give you an extra ration of Richalife. How about that? Only save enough energy to get the product across, won’t you, Mac? If possible, that is.

  — What’s going on? What are you getting at, you slimy bastard?

  Four kids aren’t many these days

  What’s that? Oh – yes, you’re perfectly right there, Stacey. Yes, indeed. Large families are coming back in, all right. Personally, I’ve got nothing against large families. Provided people can look after them and educate them adequately. No, not adequately – properly. I would say properly.

  We aim to.

  Of course you do, Stacey. I’d never doubt that for an instant. Well, if you good people will excuse me, I see one of the office girls over there and I think I really must go and dance with her.

  Thor skims shiningly off. Stacey goes to the bar and gets another Scotch by herself.

  Mac?

  Yeh?

  What was all that?

  What was all what?

  Oh for heaven’s sake, you know. He was needling

  He was kidding. Can’t you take a joke yet, Stacey?

  Nope. No sense of humor. Me, Tess and Queen Victoria.

  Look, I gotta go and see Stewart Essex for a minute. He mentioned he’d like a country circuit. I think it’s time I got onto a city run. You okay here?

  Sure. You go ahead. I’ll find somebody to talk to.

  The evening grinds along. Stacey discovers several other aimless wives whose husbands are in essential conference together.

  Hello. Mind if I join you?

  Oh, do. I’m Clare Gallagher and this is Joanie Storey.

  Hi. Glad to meet you. I’m Stacey MacAindra.

  Your old man’s talking shop, too, I suppose?

  What else?

  Boy, I really love it. I was saying to Joanie, here, they take you out about once a month and then what do they do? Dance with you? Not on your sweet Nelly they don’t. You got kids?

  Yeh. Four.

  Yeh? How old?

  Daughter fourteen, son ten, son seven, daughter two. You? I got only the two, but believe me, that’s plenty. My little boy just turned five, and my girl is eighteen months. They’re sure a handful.

  I know, but they get easier. It makes a lotta difference when they’re a
t school.

  I suppose. But then again, I think the house’ll seem awfully empty.

  Well, I guess so. My youngest isn’t at school yet, of course, so I don’t know.

  — How to get out of this? They’re thinking the same, maybe. Funny thing – when I’m with those know-everythings in some evening class or other, I think the hell with intellectual pursuits and all I feel like doing is gabbing about my kids. But when I’m with women who are gabbing about kids, I think the hell with it. Powder room – that’s it.

  In the course of the next hour, Stacey visits the Ladies’ twice, on each occasion slipping a small cake of the provided pink soap into her evening bag. She repairs her make-up, stares gloomily at herself in the antiseptic-looking mirror, smiles stiffly at the other women who clank in and out of the toilet cubicles. She then goes back to the bar and obtains another double Scotch. She dances once with a corpulent youngish man who pumps her hand up and down and maneuvers her around the corners by swiveling her on his belly. After that, nobody asks her. She decides to stay within easy reach of the bar.

  — Who would want to dance to that dreary music, anyway? Not me. I used to love dancing. I used to be a good dancer. I said to Katie and Ian once, You may not believe it, but I used to be a good dancer. What kind of music in those days, they wanted to know. Boogie-woogie, I foolishly said. They damn near killed themselves laughing. They went around for days saying it – Boo-oo-gie-woo-oo-gie – and collapsing in mirth. Ha bloody ha.

  Double Scotch, please.

  — Come on, doll, be sociable. Don’t want to be sociable. Don’t know anybody. What did Thor mean, needling Mac like that? He was needling him. And saying like that, Who have wehere? Like I was something that just crawled out from under a stone. The bastard. Who does he think he is? How dare he talk to Mac like that? Listen, you thunder god, you, you double-dyed snake-in-the-grass, you refugee from the discards of Lucifer’s army. Let me tell you one simple thing. Just one. Do you want to know why Mac didn’t reply? Do you want to know why he didn’t wipe the floor verbally with you? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you straight. Because he is a gentleman, that’s why. Because he cannot be bothered to stoop to your paltry jesting, you sick clown, that’s why. Believe me, I’d say it to your face.