by L. R. Wright
He didn’t look for anything in particular. He simply opened all his senses and let the place and its occupants flood into him, and in the course of the interview he would usually find little soft spots, small areas of rottenness, places that hurt when he touched them. A failed marriage. A failed business. A personal humiliation. A dead child. He would, of course, back away at first, with delicacy and tact, when he found these life blotches, these hurtful patches of inadequacy. Sometimes, however, he was wordlessly encouraged to go on probing.
He and today’s candidate, a woman named Aileen Churley, had been well into the interview by the time Hamilton got what he’d been patiently waiting for. She had given him a tour of her prize-winning rose garden, which was the subject of his piece, and then she made coffee and he continued the interview in the living room, taking copious notes, turning the pages in his notebook impatiently, his pen flying, laughing appreciatively at her jokes, and leaning forward in a demonstration of eager interest every time he asked a new question. He was in his late forties, pleasing to look at, but not handsome enough to titillate or threaten.
Every so often the interview took a rest and real conversation bubbled through, and after three or four of these leisurely interludes she made an apparently casual reference to her husband, and Hamilton realized it was the first time she’d mentioned him. He saw in her, then, a physical tension that was most obvious in her face but was probably also present in the rest of her: she’d be as rigid as a tree trunk, he thought, sweeping his gaze up and down her body.
“Does he share your love of roses?” said Hamilton of the absent spouse, whose presence he now felt, sullen and brooding. His notebook and pen were resting harmlessly on the coffee table, and he was sitting back, relaxed, his body language assuring her of his sympathy and understanding.
She shook her head. Her suffering was palpable. He almost felt sorry for her.
“You’re unhappy,” he said, soft and tentative. “I can come back, if you like, another time.”
She gave a little wave of her hand, holding her face averted from him until she had it under control. “No,” she said, swallowing a sob. “I’m fine.” She flickered a glance at him, wiped the palms of her hands firmly on her jeans. “I just found out,” she said, “that he’s having an affair.”
Hamilton had let his eyes widen, and assumed an expression of disapproval, and leaned forward slightly, to listen to her tale.
Like a fastidious collector of butterflies, Hamilton now pinned her into his notebook with the phrases that would resurrect her and her shame when he needed them. And then he drove home to write his story.
***
The next morning, a Wednesday morning in late April, a small event occurred that would change the course of Hamilton Gleitman’s life.
He took the elevator down to the parking garage in his apartment building and stepped out, his sneakers silent upon the concrete floor, and started walking toward his car, which was one of only three in the whole garage: most people were at work in the middle of a weekday.
Suddenly the door to the stairs flew open and a young woman hurried out. She didn’t see Hamilton, who was behind her. She raced toward a blue Honda and started fumbling at the lock.
Hamilton didn’t know why he did what he did then. He slipped behind a pillar, detached his keyring from his waistband, and let it fall. He remained perfectly still as the flat, grating sound reverberated throughout the garage. Then there was absolute silence.
Hamilton was intent upon this silence. He sniffed it, he was almost trembling, as he waited for it to be broken. She will call out, he thought. But no—she’s afraid of a quiver in her voice. How do I know this? he wondered. Finally her key scraped against the lock—and once more—and then it found the opening. Hamilton tasted the relief that flooded her mouth and felt the urgency with which she stuffed herself behind the wheel and locked the door. The Honda roared out of the garage.
Hamilton leaned against the pillar, thinking. Finally he picked up his keys, loped over to his car, and drove downtown to deliver his story to the magazine.
That evening he wrote a poem that followed the woman out of the garage. It echoed with the self-deprecating laughter of relief; there had been nobody there after all, no danger after all...except, of course, there had been. Danger on soft, silent feet had crept close, dark and pungent, had persisted, briefly, in the murky shadows: Hamilton, invisible yet perceived, had created an acrid stink of terror.
He considered, lying that night in bed, in the dark, that there was a wide spectrum of fright. Like an alphabet, or the vocabulary of music, once you knew the basics you could probably make it sing for you forever, you could create an endless variety of tunes, of moments.
He would revise the program of work he’d do when he got the Canada Council grant. He would write a collection of poems about fear. They would be streaks of moonlight—rivulets of blood—bursts of thunder.
Each would re-create a moment of terror.
Hamilton smiled in the dark and felt his eyes gleam.
Chapter 13
AGATHA HAD ADMITTED to Maria, privately, that she was ill and that her illness was terminal. She had made Maria promise not to tell anyone else. Agatha would do that herself, when she thought the time was right.
It was the Easter weekend now, and she hadn’t yet done so. Richard and Belinda knew that she was ill, but they didn’t know she was dying. She was still at home and wanted to stay there. She wouldn’t let Maria look after her. She preferred to have this done by home care nurses.
On Saturday afternoon Maria took a walk down the lane behind her house. It was a very neat lane, bordered on either side by back fences and the bland closed faces of one-car garages. A dog made noises at her from behind one of the fences, an unusually tall fence, much taller than Maria, made of wide wooden planks with half-inch spaces between them. The dog snorted and snuffled, trying to stick his nose between two of the planks. He sounded friendly, Maria decided...
She stopped in the middle of the alley and hunched into herself, her hands over her face, unable to breathe. She was panicked by the extent of her pain. It was an apocalyptic moment: remorseless. Was the world ending? Was she dying? Were these the same thing? Maria remained unmoving, eyes closed behind the palms of her hands, feeling their ineffectual defense. And like a tongue imprudently probing an aching tooth, her mind returned to the dog, scrabbling and whining behind the fence, fearless and impatient.
The moment passed.
***
That evening she tapped on Belinda’s door, waited a moment, pushed the door open. “Belinda.”
Belinda lay on her back on the bed, her hands behind her head, ankles crossed. Maria wished she could talk to her about Agatha.
“You were very quiet at dinner. What’s wrong?” said Maria.
“Nothing.”
“May I come in?”
“I don’t care.”
Maria entered and closed the door. “I hate to see you unhappy.”
Belinda’s gaze focused on her mother’s face, and Maria felt her guard go up—an involuntary response, but necessary. “Do you?” said Belinda.
Maria nodded.
Belinda looked away. “He won’t let me take the job at McDonald’s.”
“Did he say why?”
“He says I’m too young. Too young!”
“Fourteen is pretty young, though.”
Belinda glared at her.
“Is that all he said?”
“He says I get a big enough allowance. He says if I had a job, I wouldn’t have time to do my chores. He says he doesn’t want me”—she put this next into quotation marks—“ ‘wandering around town on my own at night.’”
Maria leaned against the door and looked around her daughter’s room. Lots of books. But dolls from childhood sat in a line on the top shelf of her bookcase. A desk, piled with school stuff. Posters of musicians and other entertainers on the walls; the only one familiar to Maria was James Dean. There was a dressi
ng table, littered with makeup. Flouncy white curtains edged the windows, which were open, admitting cool breezes, the fragrance of roses, and the sound of rain. It was growing dark outside. Belinda had turned on her bedside lamp, and in its glow sat an alarm clock, a diary, and a charm bracelet.
Maria’s daughter had thick brown hair threaded with gold and a firm, square jaw. Her eyes were blue, but a different blue from Richard’s. Belinda’s eyes were the color of the sea on a sunny day, warm and dark and glowing. They did not reveal her soul. They coaxed others to reveal theirs. Belinda had not yet begun to know this.
“I’ll talk to him,” said Maria.
***
Later, in the bathroom, she brushed her long black hair, glinting now with silver. It accumulated more silver every month, saving up, thought Maria, for her old age. And she tied her pink robe around her. Turned out the light and went into the bedroom.
Richard was in bed, reading, as usual.
Maria climbed in next to him and picked up a library book from the stack on the floor next to her night table.
She said, “I would like us to give Belinda permission to take that job.”
Richard didn’t say anything for a minute. It was up to him to decide which way they went from here, and he was thinking about this, she knew.
Maria learned quickly. She had clashed early and often with her husband, and although these encounters had left her feeling bruised and as if her ears were ringing, they’d been exhilarating, too. She had to admit that she’d rather enjoyed them. But later, when they had Belinda, it was different. She would do no ineffectual flailing around when it came to her daughter. A compromise, of sorts, was reached. Richard usually had his way in decisions about the raising of Belinda. But when Maria absolutely disagreed, she was implacable. She had acquired the kind of flexibility that was necessary in order to prevail. She developed many strategies and, most important, a continuing capability to create more.
Really, then, when she spoke, she had already won. She knew this. Richard knew it. But the conventions had to be observed.
“Why?” said Richard finally. It was debate he wanted, then.
Maria talked about money earning, of the lessons it would offer Belinda in budgeting, saving, making wise spending decisions. Working would teach her responsibility, accountability. She would have to be on time, reliable, she would have to serve customers politely even when she didn’t feel like it. If Richard was seriously worried about his daughter’s safety, Maria would pick her up whenever she had an evening shift. Although, she pointed out, Belinda used buses and the sky train almost every day and frequently at night.
They discussed the matter courteously for fifteen minutes or so. Then:
“All right, Maria. We’ll allow it for a three-month probation period.”
“Good,” said Maria. She opened her library book and closed it again. She got out of bed to phone her mother. But it was late, after eleven. Better not disturb her.
***
At breakfast the next morning, Richard gave Belinda the good news. She beamed, hugged him, hugged Maria, and rushed out of the house to stop by McDonald’s on her way to school. Richard left soon afterward.
Maria took the breakfast dishes to the sink and started to wash them. The kitchen was flooded with sunlight. From the window she could glimpse the house next door through the lilac hedge on the other side of the fence. On this side, rosebushes presented themselves to the morning sun.
Maria tried to hum something but couldn’t think of a single tune. It was almost a relief when her hands, swathed in soapsuds, began to shake. “It’s all right,” she said to herself—or to her mother—out loud, soothingly, and she stood at the sink in a strange state of docility as she was shaken, violently, by a familiar rage.
Chapter 14
TWO MONTHS LATER, on a wet and gloomy day in June, Harry was prowling around his father’s living room, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting paintings and sculptures. He had made himself thoroughly familiar with his father’s extensive collection, some of which was on display, with the rest stored in boxes in the attic. Harry was a regular visitor to the Vancouver galleries, keeping up with who was hot and who was not and what their stuff was worth. He had a notebook, four inches by six, in which he had surreptitiously listed every artwork the old man owned—or at least every one that Harry knew about. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out when his father kicked the bucket that there were still more, stashed away in safety-deposit boxes or someplace.
This was as close as Harry could get to his father’s wealth, which was actually mostly his mother’s. When she died she’d left a little bit to Harry and all the rest to his father, which had made Harry tremendously angry. And still did, when he allowed himself to think about it. He’d sure as hell like to rummage around in his old man’s investment portfolio, but his father reacted with hostility every time Harry suggested that it might be a good idea for him to become familiar with these things.
But it was worth another try, he thought now.
“What if you start going gaga?” he said to his father, who was sitting across the room, watching him suspiciously. “You’re an old man, for chrissake—these things happen.”
His dad hugged his chest and stared mutinously at the floor.
“Be realistic,” said Harry, exasperated.
“Everything’s taken care of,” said his dad sullenly. “Go away. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“What am I doing here? You invited me for supper.”
“I did not.”
“See, Dad, now that’s the kind of thing I mean,” said Harry. “You’ve forgotten.”
“I have not forgotten. I did not invite you.”
“Okay, okay,” said Harry. Well, next time it might work. “I’m just trying to help out.”
“I don’t need your help.”
Harry was still circling the room. He had put the notebook away, but his interest in the paintings and the sculptures was as bright as ever. “I made my will recently,” he told his father.
“Did you, now?”
“Yeah. Everything goes to you, Dad, if something happens and I crap out first.” He could see his dad’s eyes wanting to roll around in their sockets. “I admit it’s not very likely, but stranger things have happened.” He was stroking one of the Inuit carvings, made of soapstone, a large walrus, soft and warm, as if there were real flesh there, frozen in time, frozen in an instant of introspection, a walrus contemplating mortality, unaware that in that instant he’d become immortal. Harry looked around at the paintings, many of which were of wildlife, of wilderness, as if his father gave two hoots about the damn environment. He stared at his father. He felt cheated and reproachful. Obviously the old man hadn’t cared a hell of a lot about Harry’s mother. Her death ought to have resulted in his rapid decline, but no, oh no, life went on like business as usual as soon as he’d gotten her planted.
***
Maria backed out of her mother’s ideas room, turned, and walked in a daze down the hall to Agatha’s bedroom. She stood in the doorway, looking with a stranger’s eyes into a room full of familiar things, including an old four-poster bed with a heavy chenille bedspread that was worn almost through in places. It had been a wedding gift to Agatha and Thomas from Thomas’s parents. But what does that mean to me now? thought Maria. She thought about the boxes of slides stored in a downstairs closet, pictures of family and friends spanning decades, the photographic record of her personal history. A counterfeit history.
Maria sat sideways on her mother’s dressing table stool. Upon the glass top was a silver-backed hand mirror, a gift from Maria on Agatha’s last birthday. She opened drawers containing jumbles of cosmetics, and brushes and combs, and makeup remover, and various bottles of perfume and cologne. Then she lifted her head and saw her reflection in the swing mirror attached to the dressing table.
Maria leaned closer. She touched her face with her fingertips, feeling the cheekbones, the jawbone, the bones beneath her
eyebrows. She stroked the hair back from her face, this stranger’s face; she was immersed in scrutiny. Her heartbeat had become a thick, heavy, urgent pounding. Her mouth was dry, but the palms of her hands were sweating. Terror tried to consume her.
Maria stood and walked swiftly from the room, down the steps, out of the house, and quickly around to the backyard, where she stood beneath the cherry tree, her back pressed to the trunk, hugging herself tightly.
Rain was falling, listless but steady, from a sky painted battleship gray. Maria stood beneath the bare branches of the cherry tree until she was drenched and shivering but herself again, aware of things outside herself again, until her heart had steadied and terror had waned.
Her mother’s illness had spanned four months. Maria could see those months in the garden that surrounded her, in the weed-ridden vegetable patch; in the overgrown lawn; in the aphids on the rosebushes. Maria had no responsibility here. The house and its front and backyards now belonged to the bank. She lifted her face, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth: the rain tasted like silver.
Soaked and trembling with cold, she hurried across the sodden lawn to the back door and went inside. She took off her shoes in the kitchen and got a towel from the linen closet with which to dry herself. Then she lit a fire in the fireplace and made a cup of instant coffee, and sat cross-legged on the floor close to the fire, getting warm, getting dry. She was still there an hour later when Richard arrived to pick her up.
He came in the front door and called her name. She heard him go down the hall to the kitchen. She heard him approach the living room. She felt him standing in the doorway, but she didn’t turn around.
“Maria?”
Right, she thought.
He walked over to her, hesitated, then sat down next to her. She was leaning back on her hands, legs straight out. The fire was threatening to die. Maria reached for another piece of wood.
“Don’t you think you’d better let it burn out?” said Richard.
Maria tossed the wood on the fire. They watched it for a while. She knew his mind was busy. She thought about getting up and closing the curtains, but it seemed like too much effort—and she would need all of her strength, couldn’t afford to waste any of it.