All Blanca could think was that Clara must never find out. It was too terrible. They really were freaks, after all. All those years of cruel teasing and name-calling and, now, it turned out the slurs were all true. They were cursed, marked, inbred. If only she could take Clara away, far away from it all. Somewhere they could start again, where they could create a new history. A history uncontaminated by the truth. That is what she would have to do. Run away and protect the weaker twin.
“I have come for the eye.”
Siegfried stood at her kitchen doorway, three large suitcases on the ground beside his feet. He looked a bit tired from the journey, but there he was, as big as life and smiling like an idiot.
“What do you mean, you’ve come for the eye?” Hilda asked him. “What eye?”
“The eye that was stolen from me. The one you are holding hostage.”
“And you need three suitcases to retrieve one small eye?”
“No, I need three suitcases because it is going to take a very long time to get my eye back. Now are you just going to stand there blocking the doorway or are you going to invite me in?”
“Very presumptuous of you.”
“Yes, I know. But you did send a ransom letter.”
Hilda knew that Jack had tampered with the envelope, but had no idea what Siegfried was talking about. Eyes and ransom letters? Madness.
“I know nothing of a ransom letter or a stolen eye, I promise you.”
Hilda was suddenly self-conscious. No warning! The house could be cleaner. There could have been a cake ready for coffee time. She would have bathed, put on a nice summer dress, one that showed off her lovely legs, and maybe even a bit of lipstick. But here he was, unannounced, and she was unprepared in a white T-shirt and pair of loose-fitting jeans. A pair of flat summer slip-ons made out of canvas. She was everything she wasn’t in Germany, where she dressed properly, every day, and presented her best self to the world. His surprise arrival left her bare and vulnerable.
She carried one of his suitcases and told him to follow. Up the old farmhouse stairs, each step creaking underfoot. Past the smaller bedrooms and the washroom, with its old claw-foot soaker tub, to her room. At least the bed was made.
“Put your suitcases there, on the chair, I will clear out the drawers for you.” But they were already cleared out. They had been cleared out a year and a half ago when John left.
“You are putting me in this room?” the ocularist asked her.
“Yes.”
“But it is your room, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would put me in the guest room at first.”
“Did you come here so you could sleep in the guest room?”
“No … I came to retrieve my eye.”
Hilda wrapped her arms around him. Fate had a strange way of unfolding and sometimes it needed a little bit of help. Jack’s interception, his foresight, and his disregard for privacy had brought her a second chance at love. Of course, he would know better than she when it came to her heart. She had carried him high in her pregnancy, and he rested near her heart for those long nine months and somehow rested there still. But there was room for more than one person in the human heart and Hilda knew that the time had come to loosen the grip on motherhood and embrace this new gift.
“Liar! You didn’t come here to retrieve your eye. You came here to retrieve your heart.”
“Perhaps. Yes.”
He popped the top button of her jeans, ran his hand down the rounded curve of her stomach.
“I will have to get used to this North American dressing,” he said, slipping the denim over her hips and down off thighs and calves, till, with a gentle step, she was out of them and yanking her T-shirt over her head.
“Mom!” Jack’s voice came right after the sound of a closing door. “Dad’s here. He wants to talk to you!”
EIGHT
THE NEWS CAME QUICKLY. Gareth sat for a long time with the envelope in front of him. It was thin, a single sheet inside. He knew that the first few words would be one of either two things: “We are pleased to inform you,” or, “We regret to inform you.” What power there was inside that regular 4 1/8 x 9 1/2 white envelope. Gareth knew that the right response was to rip it open, see what fate had in store for him, but he didn’t. Not out of fear. Not out of worry. Not even because he wanted to expand the moment. What was it then? Why did he simply turn it over and over again in his hands?
“I hold my fate in my hands,” he said out loud, knowing full well that he didn’t. His fate had been decided by committee, and not by him. And the truth was that he wasn’t so sure, anymore, that he even cared. He had been through the wringer trying to prove himself. He had been accepted conditionally and then it all came down to one person. A person whose opinion did not matter to him. Why should she have been the one to determine his fate, and not him?
What did he want? Was his lack of excitement due to the time he had to wait? He remembered once ordering some comic books. For one reason or another they never arrived and so his mother contacted the distribution company and had them send another package, but once it arrived, everyone else had moved on to the next series of Spider-Man comics. He was a month behind. Now it was already July. Everyone else had announced where they would be heading to school in September. They all made plans and, during that time, he waited. Now that it was his turn to see if he would be going to his chosen school, it was past the time of announcement and excitement. Everyone had moved on. They were enjoying summer. They were deciding about housing on campus or sharing an apartment with a friend. No matter how he looked at it, the train had come and gone and he was left waiting for the next one on the schedule.
It could have been a joyful time, seeing his acceptance, because already he was feeling confident that it would be an acceptance. His huge painting of himself falling because of his pride had won him top marks and he sat at the head of the art class for achievement. But it should never have come to that. His miniatures should have given him the mark he needed the term before. His acceptance should never have been a question.
“I hold my fate in my hands.”
Gareth had no idea what the future would bring. He had no idea what he wanted to do next. He just knew that he didn’t want to be a last-minute addition. Not in an art school and not in life.
He lit the corner on the gas stove. He held the envelope away from his face, over the sink. He stood there, holding his fate in his hands until it was nothing but ashes.
The eye was a symbol of life in the ancient world. In Egypt, bronze eyes were placed on the closed eyes of the deceased. The Romans and Greeks decorated statues with artificial eyes made of silver. The idea of a figure without eyes, without the eyes of beauty, was something abhorrent, even if the eyes were unseeing and artificial.
Siegfried often thought of Jack’s accusation, that his glass eye creations were deceitful. It pained him. He was an ocularist and the accusation seemed an assault on his very identity. He had been raised in Lauscha, a mountain village five hours from Hamburg, known for its excellence in the art of glass-blowing. Glashütten were established all over the town, producing drinking glasses, vases, and glass beads. The unusually fine sand was harvested from the nearby Steinheid quarry. It was a magical sand. Sand that took on the colour of the human eye’s sclera when heated. In 1835, a glass-blower named Ludwig Müller-Uri invented the first artificial human eye from glass made of that magical sand and it changed the destiny of the whole village. Lauscha soon had a worldwide monopoly on glass eyes.
Siegfried could never go home to Lauscha. At the end of the war, Lauscha became part of East Germany, but the skills he had learned in Lauscha were something he kept with him in the West. He pushed himself beyond what he had learned, adding more pieces of glass to each eye, in order to better capture the complexity each individual carried. He wanted to create each eye to fool the person who gazed at its host; he wanted a truth within his work so that a part of the person was reflected in the glass
he created. Mostly, he wanted his work to mask the injury because, he felt, it lessened the trauma of losing an eye. Now he wondered if the ancients were more honest with their gaudy colours and shiny stones. They never pretended; it was all ornamentation. But for an ocularist, any ocularist worth his grain of salt, the greatest compliment was when an onlooker assumed that the person could see from one of the prosthetic, glass eyes. Mein Gott, he thought, maybe I am no more than a trickster, after all.
Jack now had three eyes he could use. One was his daytime eye, with a slightly smaller pupil than his nighttime eye. And then there was the David Bowie eye. This was his special eye for meeting dates, going to concerts, and showing off. Siegfried noticed that he was wearing it more and more and it saddened him that Jack saw his life’s work in the same way that one might view a jeweller’s craft.
Siegfried missed his workroom with its drawers and Bunsen burners and heavy oak doors. He missed the careful work and the chance to bring relief or confidence to his clients. How he had to comfort and ease them as they sat through the process of creating an imprint with the soft, warm material. He never showed anything but calm, even as he stared at their fleshy, rounded orbs, created from a ball that was covered and wrapped in the muscles and tissues left around their eyes. The best of these connected to the muscles so well that the prosthetic eye could move with the seeing eye, making the deception all the more real. Jack, being so young at the time, and having such an extensive wound, had limited movement, but enough to fool many, provided they did not stare for too long. Yes, he had given him confidence, even though all he really wanted was sight. It was, the ocularist thought, as though the eye, in all its perfection and beauty, was no more than the consolation prize for Jack. The Miss Congeniality award, when indeed, it was the crown that was desired.
He knew that he couldn’t just stay in the country house with Hilda, that at some point he had to resume his work, as flawed as Jack may think it. But how to find that balance? And certainly, leaving now would be a big mistake because her ex-husband was having second thoughts and Jack was about to leave for university. Besides, it would certainly be nice to have some time alone with her, without Jack bursting in or her daughters coming by for weekends. Oh, they all seemed to like him well enough, but there was an underlying resentment because, as long as he existed in Hilda’s life, any notions they had of putting the family back together again were over.
He had listened in that first day, Hilda’s ex-husband having no idea of his arrival. He had heard his words: mistake, return, and sorry. He had not heard a response from Hilda, though. Only a silence. All those miles he had just travelled, the grand romantic gesture of just showing up, the risk he took for love! Within an hour of his arrival it could all be taken away with one word only. Family.
When John had said, “Think about the family,” Siegfried heard the harsh sound of a cup hitting the table, hard. And then more silence, until the sound of the door opening and then the slam that followed. Only then had he heard Hilda’s voice. “Think about the family? You arschloch! I have done nothing but think about the family, while you were chasing skirts! You are the one who threw the family away. For what? For what? For your ego!”
What a woman, Siegfried had thought then. What a temper! He quietly vowed to himself that he would never give her the opportunity to be that angry with him. But there was so much mistrust in her, so much disappointment. He knew that he would still have to win her over.
“I told him it was a bad idea.”
Jack had seated himself down on the top step beside Siegfried, an amused look on his face. His daytime eye was catching a bit of light coming in through the hallway window.
“Hello, Jack. It is so good to see you.”
“I was wondering when you would get here,” Jack had replied confidently.
“I think you are the one who sent the ransom note for my eye. Isn’t that so?” Siegfried had asked him, already knowing the answer. The fine handwriting on the envelope didn’t match the chicken-scratching in the inside.
“I’m not the only one who listens in on private conversations!”
“Well, we both learned from your mother. Do you think there will be a rapprochement now?”
“No, she loves you, you knucklehead.”
“How did you learn so much about love, Jack?”
Jack had then pointed to his glass eye and winked. “Oh, I have an eye for it!’
Perhaps Jack had always been on his side. Or perhaps he had always been on the side of his mother’s happiness. It was the daughters he would have to win over if he were to have a life with Hilda. And he would have to put his old life, with all his familiar comforts, smells, and memories, behind him.
Now, almost two months of staying in the old farmhouse near the Great Lake and Siegfried still could not feel a connection to the vast, strange land. He could see its beauty, its untamed power, but it never felt like home. It was too open for him. The landscape did not wrap around him with soft hills, the buildings and streets did not hold him safely. He felt like a man out of sorts, until nightfall, when the clothes were stripped away, and he climbed into bed beside Hilda. Only then did he no longer feel lost in a vast and unfamiliar land.
The alien watches as John Wayne kisses Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man on a television screen before him. The alien gets excited by what he sees, his little hairless body shaking at the sight. Then the boy, Elliott, who isn’t even there, kisses a pretty girl in his class. He likes the girl but the only reason he kisses her is that he and the alien are somehow emotionally and psychically connected. Whatever the alien experiences, he experiences. They are one, in spirit and experience.
Clara sat beside Gareth, aware of his every movement. He was holding the popcorn, but she was too shy to reach over to grab a handful. It was on his lap, after all. What if her poor vision affected her aim? Best not to eat any popcorn than to make a mistake. Also, popcorn could be a noisy thing to eat. She glanced at Blanca, sitting on her other side. Jack’s arm was over the back of her sister’s chair. Not touching her, though, just poised and ready. All that had to happen would be one really scary or sad thing and that arm would slip around her sister’s shoulders and she would allow it, welcome it. She knew her sister’s thoughts. She was like the boy in the movie.
It bothered Clara that the alien had to be hidden in a closet, that he wasn’t easily accepted just because he was different. And people were laughing at the little guy, like it was a joke or something. Like the movie was a comedy, which was strange to Clara because everything from E.T. being displaced, to the dangerous curiosity of others about him, only proved that the film was actually a tragedy. Clara only saw the injustice of being set apart. She hated that E.T. was kept hidden in order to be kept safe. She wanted to get out of her seat and gather up the little alien and tell him that it would all be fine. That he was lovable, even though he was different.
But the alien did have friends and the kids did love and accept him, without really understanding him. That part was unbelievable to Clara. How often had she and her sister been ignored, treated like pariahs when they were small, as small as E.T.? Yes, she identified with the film’s extraterrestrial. How often had she and Blanca been called aliens, ghosts, or freaks?
By the time the alien was taken for scientific studying, Blanca was quietly weeping and Jack had made his move. A reassuring arm to cradle her. That arm said that he understood her, that he felt her tears. That arm saw an opportunity to get closer to her sister.
Why hadn’t Gareth done the same for Clara? She hadn’t even looked at him during the film. She just sat there, hoping that he, too, would have a reassuring arm for her. But no such luck. Perhaps he didn’t like her. It was a double date and she was just a convenient fourth. If he didn’t like her that way, then why be afraid to look at him? She turned to him, her face coming close to his. Just to see if he thought her as ugly, and as repulsive, as the alien had been on screen.
He was weeping. Quiet tears fell down hi
s cheeks and he quickly wiped them away. Why should the film upset him so much?
“I’m sorry. It’s silly. Just so unfair,” he said to Clara.
Gareth seemed like the kindest person Clara had ever met. She wanted to tell him secrets, just so he would know that it would be safe for him to tell her things, too.
“You don’t like popcorn?” he asked her, changing the topic to cover his sensitivity.
“I do like popcorn.”
“Why didn’t you have any?”
“I was too shy,” she answered honestly.
“Me, too. I’m shy, too.”
In that moment both of them knew that the night would end in a kiss. An awkward kiss where Gareth would first ask permission and Clara would nod with a blush, averting her eyes. Of course, they would have to step away from Blanca and Jack, who both seemed so much more at ease with the game of flirtation.
In the foyer, people moved about, some exiting, some waiting for their friends making a last-minute visit to the washroom, some tossing unfinished drinks and candy wrappers. Clara and Blanca excused themselves.
“Just going up to say hi to Tristan in the projection booth.” Jack said. Gareth thought he should probably also go but then who would wait for the girls?
It was then that he saw her. His ex-girlfriend, out on a date with someone new. She was laughing, a little too loudly, obviously for Gareth’s benefit. She wanted him to know that she was happy, had moved on. Living well is the best revenge and all that.
When the twins came out her laughter stopped abruptly. She stood, staring openly.
“Take a picture, why don’t you?” Blanca shouted over to her.
“She wasn’t staring,” the new boyfriend shouted back.
“It’s okay,” said Gareth. “Let’s just go.”
Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack Page 20