“Oh, I think so,” Lorraine said, shaking her head. Flutters of black hair fell off in all directions, outwards in a spray. The bed was littered with strands and locks of hair.
“I have no wife,” he said, able to say it out loud.
“No, the woman you have been living with is not your wife,” she said, seriously.
“I could not rule her, I wouldn’t do it. My choosing not to—I was not what she needed.”
“You need some of the living water.”
She leaned forward, she leaned perilously over the edge of the bed which had run far away into the distance, she reached back and she was Binnie, reaching, or no longer reaching—Binnie turning her head away and floating off along the current of the living water, turning again one last time to say, “Goodbye!”
When Paul woke up he felt a tear running into his ear. Lorraine was sound asleep, her mouth delicately open. Not looking like Binnie at all, Paul was glad to see.
Darwin was sitting on the orange chair, watching him. “Need a ride home, man?”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “I’m okay, really. I’m well.” He had not dreamed of Binnie since she died.
Darwin put his heavy hand on Paul’s knee. Then he stood up to his always-surprising height, and helped Paul stand too.
28. White box, yellow box, gold box
The white box of watercolours was the hospital in a box: compact, functional, the steel brush like a scalpel, the hi-tech waterproof pen. The rolling table’s drawer had become her glove compartment, Lorraine thought, missing the Dart. In the stretches of time where nobody wanted blood or came to change an i.v. bag, she drew, like she had done for the kids. It was calm.
During one of those solitary drawing times a woman came to her room, carrying a big bosom on her slight frame. Her shoulders hunched a little—permanently embarrassed, Lorraine thought. The woman came to the end of the bed and introduced herself as being from Social Services. Her white plastic nametag said Bertrice.
“We were notified by the hospital that you might need a visit,” she said. She had a deeper voice than fit her build; her mouth twisted slightly when she spoke. Nice enough, but Lorraine felt a cold clench in her gut from government, intervention, interference. She found her toque on the bed and covered her bald bird head, to be less vulnerable.
“My kids are with my mother-in-law,” she said. “They’re looked after just fine.”
Bertrice was quick to reassure her. “You’re lucky to have her.”
“I am,” Lorraine said stiffly, substituting Clary for her in her mind.
“But I’m here for financial assistance for you.”
“Welfare?”
“The hospital reported that you might be in need of…since you can’t work right now…” Bertrice pinked up, stumbling over herself not to cause offence.
She should get a thicker skin, in this job, Lorraine thought.
“Do you have any savings, any assets?”
Lorraine did the math in her head, $366 minus the $189 from the bank, that Clayton must have spent by now: $177 minus $23 at the gift shop for the kids’ toys.
“I have a couple hundred dollars in cash, but that’s all I’ve got.” Why up it? Why not just say exactly how much—trying to impress the welfare lady? Lorraine was surprised to feel pride still springing up. But she did need to get some money, here.
“Our car was totalled. We might get paid out for it, but it will take months, they said. We were going to Fort McMurray for work, but we were stretched pretty thin. We’re from Manitoba, can I even qualify here?”
Bertrice nodded. “We’ll be able to get you some assistance, at least enough to help your mother-in-law with the kids.”
Like Mom Pell would ever see a penny, Lorraine thought. Her with her secret bank account. But Clary could use it, that would be good. Only no mentioning Clary, in case Family Services took the kids away from her and put them in foster care. Even thinking the words made Lorraine’s body race, more stress-acid flooding through her veins.
Bertrice sat in the blue chair and fit a big aluminum clipboard on her small lap. “You carry on with your art, and I’ll take some notes and see how we can work it out. I can talk to Manitoba. Your husband—will he be in to sign too?” Receiving no answer, Bertrice went smoothly on to last address, social insurance number. Not bad at this after all, Lorraine saw.
Dolly was bringing Ann Hayter home with her after school. Clary had phoned Ann’s mother, and had said they would drive Ann home after supper because they were too disorganized for sleepovers yet. So Ann sulked all afternoon, until Dolly wanted to say Fine, don’t come. When the bell finally rang, Dolly found her at the coat-hooks, with Todd Bunchley making some drooling kissy noises at her. Dolly gave him a shove, plucked Ann’s jacket off the shelf and stood in front of her while Ann got it on, moving slowly like she did whenever Todd went at her. Trevor wandered up and Dolly decided to take them all out the front door, closer to where Clary always waited for them. It was raining and cold, but Clary would bring the umbrella.
Going through the front hall they ran smack into Mrs. Haywood, who ruled like iron in the school, nice as she might be at church. Her heels made a hole-punch noise on the linoleum. Dolly made herself keep going even though there was a rule that kids were not allowed to go out the front door ever.
“Good afternoon, Dolly, Trevor,” Mrs. Haywood said. “Ann.”
Ann jumped. What a basket case, Dolly thought. Why do I have to be friends with her? She knew why: she couldn’t be friends with anyone real, only with an equal outcast.
Mrs. Haywood opened the front door for them. Clary was holding the umbrella over the stroller, looking to the side door. Trevor ran for the umbrella. Mrs. Haywood followed the girls down the walk. Clary hugged Trevor and gave Dolly the umbrella. She said, “You walk ahead a little—don’t get too far, I’ll run after.” Not wanting to let them hear whatever Mrs. Haywood would say, Dolly could tell. It didn’t take long, whatever it was. Dolly looked back after fifty metres and saw Mrs. Haywood already back at the school door, Clary pushing the stroller fast, loping towards them through the rain like that coyote at Clearwater Lake.
“Oh, children, I should have brought the car! Let’s run for it!” She took the umbrella back from Dolly, and they all belted along as fast as they could, Ann hanging onto Dolly, shrieking faint complaints all the way until Dolly shook off her hand and ran.
The house was warm after the rain. Clary gave them banana bread and a plate of cut-up oranges, proud of the wholesome snack, and sent them to the basement to play. She didn’t like the look of Ann Hayter, didn’t trust her, for Dolly’s sake. She looked too weak to be an easy friend, and her voice was without inflection, almost stifled. Clary thought she should sit on the stairs and listen. But Pearce needed changing, and Trevor’s reading work had to be done before supper or he fell into tears over it. She let them go.
Dolly had nothing Ann wanted to play with, only one Barbie and no computer games. For a while they did a movie Ann had seen about some woman who danced really sexy and some guy wanting to kiss her but Dolly did not want to pretend all that and would have had to be the guy, and she was bored with it. Ann let it drop quickly, knowing her place. After a while of doing semi-cartwheels and other gymnastic tricks, they just sat there.
“Your mom gives good snacks. I mean your—whatever,” Ann said, being mean because Dolly wouldn’t play the kissing movie.
“She’s my aunt.” Nobody could hear her. Nobody knew at school exactly what Clary was, except for Mrs. Haywood, but she didn’t talk to any kids.
“She’s not married. If she’s not married, she can’t have kids. It’s illegal, they won’t let you stay here.”
“She is so married. She’s married. She just doesn’t have a husband anymore.”
Ann shook her head. “Liar,” she said, all smug here in the safe basement. She wouldn’t be talking like that at school.
“I’ll prove it,” Dolly said. She stood up slowly from the carpet.
“But we have to be quiet.”
The room was cold and the light had gone, the sun moving behind clouds. She’d noticed it happening before, everything getting dark because here was Dolly, in trouble. She led the way up the stairs, wishing Ann had not come, wishing she was lying in the cave of her bunk, reading. Clary was making supper, with Pearce in his high chair. She would be busy a long time.
“We’re going to play in my room,” Dolly said. She shut her bedroom door loudly, not letting Ann’s chicken-skin arm out of her fingers’ grasp; then she shoved her into Clary’s bedroom and shut that door too, as silent as a bank vault. Her hands were shaky, because Clary was right there in the house. She dropped Ann’s arm and pulled the armchair over to the closet. “What are you doing? What is it?” Ann kept asking. What a whiner, and a bad spy too.
Leaving Pearce behind in the playpen while she ran to get a diaper, Clary had only barely opened the door to her room when she heard Dolly say, “See?”
She stopped, wondering what Dolly was showing Ann in her closet. Evening dresses?
“Here is the proof,” Dolly was saying in a dramatic, unfamiliar tone. Clary did not want to embarrass Dolly by catching her showing off. She stood still, smiling to herself.
“She is so married. Clara Purdy and Dominic Raskin, June 19, 1982.”
It felt foolish to be still smiling, but nervous horror would not let her stop. She put her fingers to her mouth, hidden by the turn of the wall.
Ann Hayter said, “Let me see it.”
“You don’t have to hold it to see it. I have to put it back. I told you she was married.”
“Where is he then?” Ann’s flat little voice demanding more fodder, more gossip.
“Fern says he was very handsome—but there’s not even one picture left after the fire.”
Fern? Fern told Dolly what? Fire?
“I have to put it back. It makes her go crazy if she sees it.”
Clary could hear Dolly standing up and rustling in the closet. God, she didn’t want them to see her, or know she had been listening. She turned silently and slipped into the bathroom.
She sat on the edge of the tub and ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to work out whether, morally, she had to interrupt Dolly, punish her for snooping, and expose those bald-faced lies.
What was in that yellow box? Whatever she hadn’t wanted her mother to leaf through; her mother did not like to climb. Photos and pathetic mementos from her few sterile romances, maybe a letter or two. None from Dominic. Fingering his name in her mind made her cheeks hot with interior shame. Handsome! For an instant the bridge of his nose came into her mind’s eye, and a faint twinge of the aching love she had felt, which had been murdered by his belligerent, determined, multiple and humiliating adulteries. Of which Fern knew nothing. But of course Fern might not have said anything of the kind—of course she hadn’t, Dolly had made that up—and the fire!
She couldn’t even blame Dolly, remembering that childhood need to seem informed and intimate, and to protect any small stability. It was such a relief to be past that, to be an adult. The last time she’d felt like that she had been married to Dominic. All that—detritus—should have been thrown out years ago, especially the marriage certificate, years ago. The divorce papers were in the safe deposit box at the bank, and that was all she needed. She had spent too long despising herself for being stupid, hating her mother for being accidentally right about him, despairing of regaining her father’s respect. What a dreary little past to have.
Clary scraped at her eyes again and got up off the bathtub rim. No one was in the hall. She told herself not to be short with Dolly. Supper. She should get Trevor to read to her while she cooked.
But before she had hauled him away from the TV, Mrs. Zenko came through the back way with a box of angel cookies. At the sight of her bright little face Clary forgot shame and pride, and remembered her proper worry.
“Iris Haywood says they think Clayton might have been at the school today,” she said, before Mrs. Zenko could even put the cookies down on the counter.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Zenko said. “That will worry you.”
“It’s him skulking around that makes it sinister. He could come here any time,” Clary said, hearing the false note in her voice. “They’re his children, he doesn’t have to be—”
“He may feel a little sheepish,” Mrs. Zenko said.
The word made Clary laugh, and made her see Clayton differently. Sheep, not wolf. Maybe. That night when she leaned down into the cave of the lower bunk to check on Dolly, Clary remembered to be kind, and on an impulse, kissed the top of her head.
Dolly said, “Give me a kiss, please, Miss, I like your nose.”
Clary said, “What?”
Then Dolly was stuck. She wished she hadn’t said anything.
“It’s from my book, the one I bought with my five dollars that you gave me.”
Clary laughed. “Say it again?”
“Give me a kiss, please, Miss, I like your nose. It’s a poem, in their language. I do like your nose,” Dolly said. Then she shut her eyes to prevent any further talk.
They always had to be careful about Clary, to keep the balance between them and someone who was not their mother, who they couldn’t be too nice to; but they couldn’t make her mad either, or be mean to her, because she might give up on them, or because it wouldn’t be fair. They had to be good, and then they got to expect things from her, but there was a set of invisible rules about how much they could be hers. There was almost math in it: pluses and minuses, even brackets like they were learning (Trevor + Pearce + herself), but it all had to come out with an equal sign in the end, you had to get the equation right. Like in Mistress Masham: Maria found those poor little people and took care of them and bought them candies, but then she started bossing the death out of them, and then one of them almost did die, and they told her to back off! So she did, but her heart was broken. But there was more book, maybe they could somehow be able to be friends with her again. She had learned her lesson.
Lorraine lay curled behind her curtains, which the nurse had pulled to get a new patient into the next bed. The curtains and the glazed light made a kind of sanctuary. Noise beyond them turned into waves, like the ambient machine at Clary’s. This was one of the crests of the waves she was becoming accustomed to.
The BMT test had come back. Darwin was a good match, they said, so they would go ahead with a stem cell transfer as soon as they could get her healthy enough. The pretty doctor said, Dr. Cormarie. Dr. Lester with her. Dr. Tatarin, Dr. McCluskey, Dr. Starr. In the creamy twilight Lorraine told over the doctors’ names like rosary beads, but the big bead at the bottom must be Darwin. Because it seemed, they said, that he was her full brother. Which gave her a lot to think about. Her mother, pregnant with her before her father died, before her mother married Dennis Hand: if they were full siblings then it seemed like something had been hidden. Maybe back then there was plenty of reason for hiding, when to have a baby without a husband was disgrace. Somehow there must have been some time in there after Don Berry died, before she could get married to Dennis Hand—Lorraine gave up. Some things you could never find out, because the people were all dead. Whatever her mother had had to do to survive as long as she had done…Not long. Every current flowed to that flat shore of death. Driftwood.
Clayton wouldn’t like it, though, he’d always been glad to say half-brother about Darwin. What made them brush together so badly Lorraine could not say. Clayton was always expecting to be judged, waiting to be put down, not that Darwin ever did. One thing she was sure of, no matter how she rocked upon the waves: she’d been better for her children than Clay’s mom, or than her own. She and Darwin had had Rose. Clayton had nobody, except her. She wondered, before sleeping, where he was.
On Sunday Pearce threw a complete shrieking fit because she would not let him bang the kneeler on the floor, and Clary had to carry him out of church. He writhed under her arm and pounded on her stomach with
his hands, so furious that it made her laugh and clench him tight. She sped down the side aisle, sliding out the rear door before he had time to explode.
Lisanne Tippett was in the vestibule. Pearce stopped yowling to examine her. Clary found it hard to look at her smug, sly-minx face. She’s probably pretending so no one will know how sad she is, Clary told herself, and nodded a greeting, but Lisanne was staring off into some private distance, so that was wasted. She must be waiting to talk to Paul.
The final hymn came swelling through the doors, “…that soul, though all hell should endeavour to shake, I’ll never—no, never—no, never forsake…”
Paul was there, on the church side of the closed doors, turning back to give the congregation the blessing. Clary found it uncomfortable to be near Lisanne, and she moved aside, using Pearce as her excuse, joggling him peaceably and talking to him in a whisper.
At last Paul opened the doors and came through. Seeing Lisanne, his shining face went dull. He smiled, being civilized, but with a feeble mouth that made Clary sad.
Then people were filing out, and his hand was demanded, and he could turn away. Lisanne stood in the brilliance of the outer doors, staring out as light streamed in. She did not move out of the light or give ground for the leaving congregation, so the ebb-tide had to part around her.
Pearce on her hip, Clary went round the line and took her turn too. She shook Paul’s hand and held it for a minute. He must be shrinking from all these eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “Never mind.” As if those two things would help.
She should not be sorry. With his other hand Paul touched a bright spike of sunlight on Pearce’s round cheek, a happy boy again after his tantrum. He felt Lisanne’s gaze behind him, scorning his surplice, the mask of office. Like that year in Dunnett, when she’d stopped going to church: 1989. The Sunday she’d shouted at him in the sacristy that she was leaving. Her turn had come round that morning to play the organ for the service, but nobody had told her of some change—Crimond for the hymn instead of Dunfermline, or some new Alleluia the choir was singing while she played the wrong tune. She was through! When he walked home after the second service, the car was packed (the K-car from Bishop Perry’s mother that they had bought for $2,000), her suitcases and books and the good duvet stacked in the back seat: regimental columns, crimson and black, on the border, and the classical gold box of its burning centre.
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