Days by moonlight

by André Alexis

  Skennen to leave him alone.

  Which, to spare him further pain, Skennen did.

  If the encounter with Skennen was devastating for Baillie, it

  was something else entirely for Skennen. Having heard Baillie’s

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  story – knowing that it contained a clue for the suitors of Carson

  Michaels – he was astonished to find he now had a very good

  idea about what made Carson weep. He wasn’t certain, of course,

  because any reasonably long story is a wilderness of signs. The

  thing that made Carson cry might be a bat, a pigeon, blood,

  apples, a Citroën …

  And yet, while listening to Baillie speak, Skennen had had

  the impression that someone else was speaking to him – someone

  behind Baillie, speaking through Baillie, as if Baillie were a

  ventriloquist’s dummy. When La Kermesse was mentioned, it was

  as if a bell sounded inside him. La Kermesse was one of the very

  few paintings Skennen knew intimately. He’d lived with a repro-

  duction of it that had hung in the library in Petrolia, the town

  where he’d spent much of his childhood. And although the

  painting was as detailed as a Hieronymus Bosch, a specific part

  of it had come vividly to Skennen’s mind the instant Baillie

  mentioned it: from the painting’s right side, about halfway up,

  the depiction of a woman with a reddish top and white apron

  carrying a porcelain jug up from a cellar. It was the way she

  holds the jug: up before her, both hands beneath it, as if it were

  being presented to someone no longer there. The instant the

  white porcelain jug came to him, Skennen knew that Baillie’s

  story had been meant for him, that a porcelain jug was the thing

  that made Carson Michaels cry.

  The following day, he made his way to Coulson’s Hill and

  Lee’s Garage. He waited until his turn came at the till. As before,

  Carson smiled politely and asked if he knew what made her cry.

  – Yes, answered Skennen, a white porcelain jug.

  There was a moment as Carson Michaels took this in. Then,

  as if to prove his words right, she began to cry. No, she wept,

  overwhelmed that a suitor had discovered her secret. On hearing

  her weep, Lee came over and grabbed Skennen by the throat. He’d

  have done more damage, too, had Carson not prevented him.

  – He answered my question, she said.

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  Carson’s tone, Lee’s dismay, the sudden quiet in the store …

  It occurred to John Skennen that Carson Michaels had not

  expected anyone to answer her question. Perhaps she’d had some

  sort of agreement with Lee. Perhaps the rumours had been true:

  Carson had been promised to one of Lee’s sons. Whatever the

  case, when she recovered her poise, Carson Michaels said

  – I get off at five. I’ll see you then.

  Lee let go of Skennen’s lapels, which – after surrendering his

  hold on Skennen’s throat – he’d been holding on to as if he

  thought John Skennen needed help to stay upright.

  – Hmm, he said.

  Carson Michaels did not immediately love John Skennen.

  As far as she was concerned, “love” – whatever it was – had not

  been part of the compact. She had only promised to pay attention

  to one who’d paid attention to her. Then again, what is love if not

  a particular kind of attention? She liked the way Skennen smiled.

  She found his hands – graceful as a pianist’s – beautiful. It was

  pleasing to listen to his voice, a pleasure doubled by the fact that

  he had interesting things to say.

  And, of course, there was poetry. He read to her from the

  work of Rimbaud and they translated The Drunken Boat together.

  But she introduced him to the work of Anna Akhmatova, a gift

  he carried with him thereafter: memorizing the translations,

  moved by Carson’s love of Russian poetry, grateful to have discov-

  ered such precious work in Coulson’s Hill.

  All of which is to say that, after five months of seeing each

  other, alone and with others, Carson Michaels loved John Sken-

  nen – however one wishes to define “love” – and her feelings

  were returned, their pleasure in each other’s company being

  almost as intense as the physical pleasure they shared in her

  narrow bed above Lee’s Garage.

  In the midst of this happiness, one evening, now confident in

  their love for each other, Skennen asked Carson why porcelain

  jugs upset her as they did. Dismayed, she asked how he could

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  not know the answer, knowing as he did that porcelain jugs had

  an effect on her. Had he only guessed “porcelain jug”? Did he not

  know her at all? In answer, he lied.

  – I’ve heard the story, he said, but I want to hear it from you,

  Carse.

  – It’s too hard to talk about, she said.

  But she told him how much porcelain vessels reminded her

  of her father, a potter, and she reminisced about him. How strong

  he’d been! Handsome and tall, gentle and loving, but terrifying,

  too. He’d once put her mother in the hospital with a single, back-

  handed blow.

  – Do all jugs make you cry? he asked. Or is it just the one?

  A difficult question because what moved her, at the thought

  of porcelain jugs, was knowing that the one from her childhood

  still existed. But, in the end, she supposed it was the one jug that

  made her cry, really, the bone-white pitcher made by her father

  when he’d been a boy in Chatham, the one whose place had been

  on the night table beside her parents’ bed, the one still in the

  house in Schomberg, where she and her siblings grew up, where

  her brother still lived.

  Moved by thoughts of home, of her siblings, of her parents,

  Carson again began to weep, her tears falling on his chest, where

  her head lay.

  There and then, with Carson in his arms, John Skennen felt a

  number of things. He felt guilt for having brought the pitcher to

  her mind. He felt a deepening love and pity for his beloved. He

  longed for a world in which Carson would never cry again. But

  these emotions brought a host of assumptions and misinterpre-

  tations. To begin with, he took Carson’s tears for painful, because

  he himself did not cry, except when in pain. And then, knowing

  Lee had been a close friend of her father’s, he imagined Carson’s

  father had been as hulking and violent as Lee, just the kind to

  put a woman in hospital with the back of his hand. He thought:

  no wonder memories of childhood brought her to tears. He

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  reasoned: he could not wipe out her childhood, but he could

  eradicate its symbol, an act that would liberate Carson and her

  siblings. He resolved: to decimate the jug and surprise Carson

  with its fragments.

  His chance to “put things right” came shortly. Over months of

  pillow talk, Skennen had learned much about Carson’s siblings,

  including the fact that her brother and his family still lived in

  Schomberg, not far from the Scruffy Dog Tavern. The house,

  which faced the road, was mostly hidden by trees. That in it
self

  helped to identify it, as did the faded oranges painted on its post

  box by Carson herself when she was twelve. He found the house

  easily. Not only that but he found what he assumed was the porce-

  lain jug at once. He could not have missed it. It was displayed in

  the home’s front window, as if it were a statue of the Virgin or a

  painting of Jesus with his finger pointing to his own bleeding

  heart. And though he knew it was an offence to Carson’s brother,

  he stole the jug, breaking into the house when no one was home.

  Even while smashing the jug to pieces, taking pure pleasure

  in destroying an object that caused Carson pain, Skennen had

  an inkling that something was wrong. The pleasure itself was too

  intense for such a small act. He broke the jug first with stones,

  then used a crowbar to reduce it to fragments, keeping one small

  piece to show Carson. All the while, he imagined he was obliter-

  ating a living pest, not smashing a delicate thing that had spent

  most of its life on a bedside table. But thoughts of its delicacy

  did creep in, along with fleeting doubts. For instance, why would

  Carson’s brother keep a thing that caused his family pain in the

  front window of his house?

  When he told Carson what he’d done – what he’d done for

  her – she laughed.

  – As if, she said.

  – No, sweetie, I did! he answered.

  And showed her the oddly shaped fragment he’d kept: a small

  trident, its middle tine a stump.

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  Recognizing the whole from a fragment, as one might recog-

  nize a loved one from a mole or a finger, Carson Michaels fainted,

  losing consciousness so quickly she’d have fallen straight to the

  ground if he hadn’t caught her. It took some time to revive her,

  too. When he did, he found that the woman he revived was not

  the woman who’d fainted. Carson could not hate him. It was too

  late for that. She’d taken him into her soul, and though love has

  any number of bad habits, leaving without notice is not one of

  them. But the fact was ineradicable: John had destroyed one of

  the most precious things she and her family had: the last true

  memento of their father, a man they’d all adored. And the destruc-

  tion was her fault.

  – But you said he was violent, said Skennen.

  – To protect his children, yes.

  – But he sent your mother to the hospital.

  – My mother was an alcoholic, John. He came home and

  caught her whipping my brother with a telephone cord. He hit

  her to protect him!

  – But the jug makes you cry!

  – Of course it does! I miss my father terribly. Not a day goes

  by that I don’t remember how much he loved us. If you knew me

  well enough to know the thing that made me cry, how could you

  not know its meaning?

  And so, it finally came to her that she’d fallen in love with a man

  who’d known nothing about her, the very thing she’d tried to avoid!

  But don’t we usually fall in love with strangers?

  Not always, but often enough that her wish to be known

  before letting herself love had been naive. The thought of her

  own naïveté mitigated her devastation. But only slightly, because

  now she blamed herself for the destruction of the jug her father

  had made when he was a boy. The thing was irreplaceable.

  Thoughts of John now brought thoughts of irreparable loss.

  In the weeks that followed, Skennen hoped that Carson would

  see that he’d meant well, that he’d done everything for her. He

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  hoped she would forgive him his mistake. But forgiveness was

  not the problem. She did forgive him. She even chose not to tell

  her siblings what she knew about the jug’s disappearance. And

  yet, it was as if an invisible worm had made its way to the inner

  folds of their love, feeding on it till there was not enough left to

  sustain them. About a month after Skennen had broken the

  porcelain jug, they parted – both humiliated, both banished from

  the garden only two in love can reach.

  Is it any wonder John’s life fell apart after that? Any wonder

  that, drunk out of his mind, he helped Bob Grenville burn down

  the post office in Coulson’s Hill, hoping he himself would die in

  the conflagration? Any wonder that he spread rumours of his

  own death – himself starting the story that he had died in the

  post office – and wandered around the province like a madman?

  Answering his own questions, Mr. Henderson said

  – It’s no wonder at all.

  And then there was a long pause, during which I listened to

  the cicadas humming like a hydro tower outside the window. Mr.

  Henderson had finished his story.

  The professor and I were caught off guard, waiting as we were

  for the rest of the story, wanting to know about John Skennen’s

  fate. But no, the story was through. Mr. Henderson wiped tears

  from his face and wordlessly got up to make tea.

  – What a story, said Professor Bruno.

  – Yes, said Mr. Henderson. And it has so many ins and outs.

  Every time I tell it, I’m struck by something new. Just the other

  day we were talking about this, John and me, and he says, “Don’t

  you think it’s strange Baillie didn’t know what “‘Ego domini fata

  tui” meant?” I said, ‘What do you mean, strange? Who understands

  Latin these days?’ And he said, “Yes, but who remembers words

  they don’t understand? I’m telling you, Henny, “‘I’m the master of

  your fate”” was meant for me. I’m sure this Madame Madeg was

  telling me that she was the master of my fate, not just Baillie’s.

  But I didn’t think about that till too late.”

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  – Oh, said Professor Bruno, what a touching detail! If Sken-

  nen’s right about “Ego domini,’ then this is a most wonderful

  love story you’ve told us. Just think, this Madame Madeg not

  only cursed her beloved but she also cursed the man who took

  her beloved’s first love. She punished Skennen out of love for

  Mr. Baillie!

  – But what if she was just angry in general? I asked.

  Both men looked at me with pity.

  – That’s possible, said Professor Bruno. But it doesn’t feel

  right, Alfie. If Skennen ruined Baillie’s chances with Carson

  Michaels, then he did Madame Madeg a favour, didn’t he? He

  helped her make Baillie feel what she’d felt. So, why punish Sken-

  nen? She might have been angry in general, as you say, but her

  anger was directed at Skennen, a stranger, someone she’d never

  meet. And for no apparent reason! I say she punished him because

  deep in her heart she couldn’t stand to have anyone hurt her

  beloved. If I had to guess, I’d say Madame Madeg must still have

  loved this Baillie fellow completely.

  – It’s a love story, said Mr. Henderson. It’s a hell of a love story.

  Mr. Henderson and Professor Bruno were quiet. They were,

  no doubt, contemplating some aspect of life brought out by the

  story. I was grateful that neither was in tears. As for me, I’d found
>
  the whole story disturbing. What remains of our feelings for

  those we’ve loved when they’ve left us? Of the four people in the

  story – Madame Madeg, Baillie, Skennen, Michaels – I had most

  sympathy for Madame Madeg. In fact, I was comforted by Profes-

  sor Bruno’s idea that her love for Baillie persisted, even as she

  sought revenge. But what a terrible thought: that you can wish

  harm on someone you’ve loved. Was there something in me that

  wanted Anne to suffer? Yes, of course, but not exactly. Even

  though she’d left me, I wanted to know that my absence hurt her

  at least as much as hers hurt me. I wasn’t after revenge or even

  justice. I wanted to know that the feelings I’d had for her had

  been reciprocal, that our despair was mutual.

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  At the thought that our intimacy might have meant nothing to

  Anne, that it had been barren, the tears that were welling up in

  me fell. I tried to hide my emotion, but, seeing my tears, Mr.

  Henderson, too, began to cry. And seeing Mr. Henderson’s tears,

  Professor Bruno also began to cry. Seeing Professor Bruno cry, I

  was overcome by another wave of tears. All of us then tried, I

  think, to hide our emotions. Mr. Henderson turned away from

  me as he wiped his face, and I turned away from Professor Bruno,

  who turned away from Mr. Henderson. Unfortunately, in turning

  away from Mr. Henderson, Professor Bruno saw me and was again

  moved to tears. In turning away from me, Mr. Henderson had

  turned to Professor Bruno and, seeing his tears, was again over-

  whelmed, sniffling as he wiped his nose. And I, having turned

  away from Professor Bruno, was overcome by emotion at the sight

  of Mr. Henderson brusquely wiping the tears from his face. I

  began again to weep, my body shuddering as tears fell. I don’t

  know about the others, how they got hold of themselves, but I

  put a hand over my face and held it there until – after what seemed

  a long time – all my thoughts of Anne faded and I was calm again.

  The stories and breakfast had set us back a few hours, the

  professor and me. I was afraid that we would not get to Feversham

  in time to meet with Reverend Crosbie, the woman to whom

  John Skennen had dedicated his final collection of poetry, the

  very collection I had with me.

  – She’s the one to talk to, said Mr. Henderson. They had a