Slights

by Kaaron Warren

  Only Auntie Jessie was proud of me. She called and asked me to stay, said she missed me. I said yes, I'll come. I was a nobody in the family as far as everyone else was concerned; I had seen Peter and Maria just days earlier, and they had an exciting announcement which overrode any news I might have had.

  I put my hand on Maria's belly. I liked the activity. I said, "It's like I can read the creature's feelings. It's trapped in there, in the cold, dark womb, all alone. It must be so very dark, no chink of light."

  Maria stepped away from me. "You should have your tubes tied," she hissed. If I told anyone she said that? They'd never believe me. Peter said nothing about me being a nurse.

  Auntie Jessie said, "It's a matter of urgency," so I grabbed a taxi to her place, jumping in front of a slow woman with three kids. I must have annoyed Auntie Jessie with my fractious stamping, because she showed me the room where she kept all her boxed books and told me to help myself. She said it was a room of old bones, skeletons, but she didn't keep them in the cupboard. She told me a secret. "You can't tell people about all these. I bring them home from the library when no one's borrowed them for a while. I brought a lot of them home, the ones I scribbled in. But there's too many. I can't remember them all. Every now and then I'll find another and bring it home."

  "I don't know why you're taking them out of circulation. Didn't you write the notes for an audience?" I'd recognised her writing in the margins. She confessed when I asked her.

  "I'm getting scared in my old age," she said.

  "Old!" I said. "Stop fishing for compliments."

  There were hundreds of books there. "And no one's ever noticed what you've done?" I said.

  "Who would notice?"

  "What about Lesley?" Lesley was her assistant, a quiet, crabby young woman.

  "I told you about Lesley," she said.

  "No, what about her? She's a bitch in the library. She always blames me for damaged books even if they're really old."

  I could hear my voice becoming childish, my clothes loose, too big for a child.

  "Lesley knows a lot about me most other people don't. I didn't know if I could keep the secret anymore," she said.

  "What secret?"

  She nodded at me. Smiled. "Clever, like your father. I often wondered if I'd said something earlier, what would have happened."

  "Come on, Jessie. Don't talk shit. It's me. Steve. What secret?"

  "You know very well. His secret is your secret; thank God the accident stopped you having children." She was mad; old and mad. There had never been anyone more fertile than I was.

  "What are you saying?" I said. My voice felt too loud.

  Auntie Jessie looked coldly at me. "Don't pretend," she said.

  It wasn't a dream. That was no dream. She took me to her bedroom and showed me a box of books.

  "I always meant to give this to you. But I didn't have the courage. Read them later. When I'm not around." There was a note on top. It said: "It breaks my heart to say it. Thank God Alex is gone, and Heather. But the children remain, and no one to care for them. Why was I so tempted to write it down? Why that need? This is my reason. There is no excuse." It was a weird note. It made no sense. I wanted it to make no sense.

  "Read them," she said. She started passing me the books.

  "What, right now?" I said.

  "No, Steve. But some time. These books are very important." She passed me Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier.

  "Terrifying," she said. She passed me a romantic historical thing, I hate them, but she said, "Read it." She passed me The Devil's Dictionaryby Ambrose Bierce, In the Wet by Nevil Shute and a really old Guinness Book of World Records.

  "I'll look at the rest later," I said. "Thanks."

  "This is the key. I thought this would be enough, but it wasn't," she said, handing me Vendetta by MS Murdoch. There were strange sentences, some in the sort of simple code we learned how to crack in Primary School.

  She had circled letters in the book, but I was no puzzler. I didn't have the patience to find out her message. There were a few letters per page. And it was no message I could have used to save her. That's what upsets me. Why didn't she let me save her?

  Auntie Jessie. I know all about her. She told me so much, so much I didn't need to know. Jessie, the one who read books and would never be an influence on anybody. Though this was not true, as the future told. Jessie, who gained all her knowledge from books and none from school, who pronounced her words as she read them, because she didn't ever hear them. It was never known, because it was rarely reported (because all library users have a fear of being blamed for damage, even if the book was damaged when they borrowed it) that Jessie marginalised almost every book which fell into her hands.

  On page 85, Of Mice and Men, that little something from Steinbeck, so well borrowed from the library for the bit about Curly's glove and the Vaseline within it, to which the book always falls open, Auntie Jessie wrote in fine letters down the side: "It is clear the wife is no more than an unintelligent, bad puppy, who would have become a 'dog' had she lived. She visits the men out of loneliness, uses her sexuality as a form of friendship, just wants to be treated with gentleness, kindness, for all Curly's soft hand. There's no doubt the woman 'asked for it', asked for death because she wore sexy clothes, she wasn't content to sit and wait in the kitchen for her insecure, smelly husband to return."

  She never tired of marginalia, and would scour her books searching for a reply. Sometimes she found one; perhaps just a question mark, or an exclamation. Once or twice she found abuse, but that, at least, proved her words were read.

  This confidence, and a feeling of dissatisfaction, led her to embark on her great work; a novel, written in lead pencil on the blank end papers of the novels she shelved.

  It was slow work; she only felt the words coming when she was at work. When she took novels home, all she saw were typed words and blank pages. She rested her coffee mug on these pages, though she weekly destroyed people with her laser stare for just the same thing.

  She completed thirty-four chapters by the time she died, and could never see the novel ending. This was thirty years' work; barely a book in the library did not have her neat hand within it.

  She never read the novel over; she wrote her piece and filed each book without numbering it. There was no sequence to follow; she always imagined her story could be read in any order. This stood in the face of popular opinion, that each word must lead to the next, each sentence, each paragraph, each chapter.

  Auntie Jessie did not write this way.

  Only one person read it from start to finish, but she never asked for his opinion. Mr Bell, her old school teacher, was a long-time customer. He loved to watch, sit with a book in his hands and watch. He saw everything Jessie did. He read her novel in order; he plucked out books after Jessie replaced them. He told me this, though I didn't want to know.

  He kept a list of his favourite pieces.

  1. Rebecca – Daphne du Maurier

  2. Kirkland Revels – Victoria Holt

  3. The Devil's Dictionary – Ambrose Bierce

  4. In the Wet – Nevil Shute

  5. Guinness Book of Records, 1960 – Ross & Norris McWhirter

  6. The Growth of the Central Bank – LF Giblin

  7. Random Harvest – James Hilton

  8. Bless this House – Norah Lofts

  9. The Deer Park – Norman Mailer

  10. The Day it Rained Forever – Ray Bradbury

  Though of course the Guinness Book of Records was replaced when the new edition came out, leaving a gap in the middle.

  Written inside In the Wet by Nevil Shute was this:

  In the beginning, there was a woman alone. Only she knew what passions lay within, what heat-filled dreams. She stitched silk smalls to wear near her skin, because no one could know her true desire. No one but one. A man who, too, was alone. He came so quietly only the woman noticed. Only she saw the perfection of his skin, the seduction of his scent. Only she contrived to b
e held in his arms.

  She was not experienced in the art of seduction. She had been kissed but once, and lovelessly. She read books by the score, was surrounded by them, and from them she received inspiration.

  He opened the note. "Meet your love where the good bell rings." He had been lonely since arriving at the town. The people feared his cleverness. They did not see his kindness, his tenderness. He went to the place.

  There she waited, alone. Her gown covered her naked body. As he watched, she unbuttoned herself until the swell of her breasts was visible, then he went to her.

  Their kiss showed her how right she had been. She felt her body turn to liquid as he pressed against her. His hands were not still. They cupped and rolled her breasts, they unbuttoned her gown until she stood wanton, naked. He fell to his knees in worship, and wept for wanting her.

  She threw her gown upon the ground and they lay upon it. His clothes concealed a body more delightful than she had dreamed. She touched him and laughed as he shivered.

  Inside Kirkland Revels by Victoria Holt:

  There were problems. There were always problems. She had secrets she did not wish him to know. Her life had not always been so quiet and horribly predictable.

  When she was younger, she had travelled into the city on a weekly basis to visit an elderly, ailing aunt. This aunt had sharp wit and, of all her relatives, could tolerate only the young woman. The young woman was intelligent, too intelligent for many of the inhabitants of the small country town.

  The young woman began to spend longer in the city after each visit. The elderly aunt slept earlier and earlier and gave the young woman money to spend on herself. The young woman bought new clothes, sharp, smart, expensive items, which accentuated her slim figure. She lingered in bookshops, breathing in the fresh paper smell.

  There was a certain kind of man who was also in bookshops. They were respectable, intelligent men who admired her. They smiled, then they made comments on the book she held in her hand. She always smiled and if the man was handsome, or exciting in some way, she would go with him for a meal. If the man was very forward, and very insistent, the meal was passed over and entrance gained to a hotel room, where the young woman learnt how to make love.

  In The Devil's Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce:

  See page 81: Love; n:

  She spent many nights home, alone. Her sisters were married and very happy, although their lives were filled with nappies and other people's events.

  She discovered the taste of Whisky. Her brother-in-law drank it in moderation and she joined him sometimes, the two of them talking like men while his wife, her sister, cooked dinner for them.

  More often she drank alone, out of a tall glass. She turned her comfortable chair to the wall and tuned the radio to a male voice who talked just to her. He told her about the world and how it worked. He played music, beautiful to match her soul. As the night grew colder and older, the man's voice changed, but each man loved her as much as the first.

  The ice melted in her drink but she no longer required it. Shadows from the trees and the clouds enacted a moon play for her and she laughed aloud at the antics.

  Sometimes she warmed over and when her cat awakened her at dawn for his morning milk she found she had been bathing naked in the moonlight.

  She would wash and dress in her disguise, her maidenly, woollen, drab clothes, brush her hair down so it sat like a cap and go out to her fake life. She would live that life then go home to her comfortable chair again.

  From Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier:

  All the clamour cannot distract them from their rapt examination of one another. Chimes, klaxons, the holiday summoned with all the music the town could muster. Under cover of that hysteria he slipped to her side. His charges were happy to be let run wild. Soon their parents would find them and he would remind them he had asked for extra help that day and no one had volunteered.

  She had refused the family invitations, the chance to sit as an outsider and watch the family. She waited instead, with strong drink and good food. She again wore her gown. It was a magical cloak.

  And so he came to her. He carried the flowers and wine, so he cared somewhat. They were shy at first. Each remembered their first encounter as a dream. But as she bent to stir the unlit fire, the circle of her bottom was too perfect, and he walked to her, fell to his knees, sank his nose into her flesh. She gasped. He dragged away her gown and she was naked beneath. She had no pretences as to why he was there. She faced him, leaned against the wall, bent her knees to frame his face. She knew her curls were springy, fresh, sweet. She had washed, powdered, perfumed. He kissed her thighs, the skin above the hair. He kissed the hair. Then, to her horror, to her delight, he steered his tongue between those lips, and he lapped with its roughness against her tender skin. His tongue sank further inside her and she gave herself completely to it.

  Written inside the Guinness Book of World Records, McWhirter:

  Such things you can learn if only you listen. His voice was gentle, yet so clear she could hear each word from across the park. She was there walking her dog and hoping to see him. He was there as a stranger, to forget he ever knew her. She was wearing a soft, thin, woollen dress, its slightly scratchy material rubbing against her naked breasts. She felt her nipples harden against the wool, and she wished he would look up and see how sweet and ready she was. He was wearing many layers – as many as he could bear on this Autumn day. He felt the sweat at the base of his neck and he wondered how to free himself from the torment of loving her. He too walked his dog – he spoke to it, words she could hear in her heart. "Who needs 'em?" he said. "Women, they're all alike. But her voice, don't you think? You miss her voice, don't you, fella? And the smell of her, so sweet, so exciting. And her hair, like silk, and the way it looked, all messed and free in the morning, after, after…" The dogs were pups of the same litter. They had taken one each. Her cat was still getting used to another pet. She heard every word, steering her dog closer, closer. She spoke to her dog. "Oh, but we can live without him. Who needs those strong, tender hands, those gentle lips, who needs such fulfilment as we've never known, such filling, such swelling." He heard, too, and loosened his tie, then removed it and tucked it into his coat pocket. Then he removed his coat. Their dogs, from afar, spotted soul mates, dragged owners (slaves) inexorably, fatefully, lovingly, sensuously, eternally, towards the face of love.

  Inside The Growth of the Central Bank, Giblin:

  He would wait in queues for the rest of his life, if a glimpse of her each day would be his reward. He became adept at dropping coins, if she wasn't the free teller when he reached the head of the line. "Please, go ahead," to an angry businessman, "I don't mind waiting," to a young woman glancing often at her watch. He earned smiles (a bonus), and he reached the desk of his love. He touched her hand when she passed him his money, slid his thumbs over her fingers, an intimate action. He touched her flesh like that. Both thumbs sliding over her, holding her apart. She asked him every day not to visit her in the bank, but his heart ached after a whole day without her. She waited for him every night, on the steps of his office, because she finished earlier and didn't mind waiting. If she didn't have a book to read she spent the time imagining lascivious things to say to him, words to make him shiver, because she could not quite believe it was she he found exciting, the sound of her voice a thrill.

  She had no interest in marriage, though it was expected of her. She wanted his love forever, and enjoyed the feeling of escape she experienced when they left the city limits and travelled to some unknown place.

  They didn't have to worry about pregnancy because she was infertile. This discovered during an early, ugly marriage. He was both pleased and repelled. It meant that all love was for pleasure, but that the choice of producing offspring had been taken from him.

  In Random Harvest, James Hilton:

  They went orange picking, two anonymous workers there for the sun, the money, the change. And for each other. No one asked questions. No one
cared. There were plenty of huts to sleep in and plenty of food. Like a pack of feral cats, when there was no dearth of comfort, they were generous with one another, kind, and they didn't judge. They arrived together, a bus load of chattering people, getting to know you, making the most of it. She sat next to him, her shoulder, arm, thigh all glued through their clothes in anticipation of what would come. It was a long drive, and that night was feast night, a party. They placed their bags in the smallest hut, the furthest away, hoping to avoid sharing with anyone else, but they need not have worried. They had never spent the whole night together before, but they were not nervous. They left the campfire early, while the voices were still loud, and they laughed. He held the door open for her but did not offer to carry her over the threshold. They laughed at that. There were no candles, but the electric light was dim. Their mouths tasted of cheap port. He reached out his hand and, with lust rather than tenderness, squeezed her breast like he was testing it for ripeness. His other hand grasped her neck and drew her to him. They kissed. She cupped her hands around his buttocks and drew him closer, closer, and he groaned at her attack. Their bed was low to the floor and thrown about. It had not been made since the last inhabitant. She noticed this but didn't care. "I'm dirty," she said. He smiled. "Let me wash you clean," he said.