“You don’t think it was just crossed wires or wishful thinking, do you? It would be awful to go all the way over there and then find out he only wanted to show us Niagara Falls.”
Billie gave a snuffling little laugh. “What a funny, middle-aged sort of kid you are, ducky. But what do you think of the idea? You like him, don’t you?”
“Would you marry him, then?” I asked, hardly daring to believe it. “I mean, if he asks, would you accept?”
“Of course I would. That is a very special man, and I know it. He’s about a hundred times brainier and nicer than I am, but if he doesn’t mind that, why should I? No, I think it would work out very well, mostly because of the way Max is. Good without being dull. So rare, that, when you think about it. As for his being Jewish, I like that too. It’s part of him, maybe the nicest part. He knows how to laugh, anyhow, better than any Christian I know.”
I listened in some surprise to these tributes. Billie stopped talking for a minute as if she were a little surprised herself. Then she added briskly, “So you approve, then? I thought you would. And of course it’s lovely for both of us that he’s quite rich into the bargain.”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s Toronto. I like the sound of it. Right on that huge lake, and everything so new and busy.”
“Yes. And if I get my A levels, I could go to the university there, couldn’t I?”
“Of course, if you’re really bent on it.”
Billie poured us more tea. There was a sudden rather awkward little silence between us. I glanced at her to find that all the gaiety had faded abruptly out of her face, leaving it with a rather pinched look that had nothing to do with her cold.
“What’s the matter, Bill?”
“Oh, nothing really. Only I’m forty, you know, sweetie, and he’s over fifty. We’re both pretty wise birds, in our different ways … you get to a point in life when you know more than you want to know … I mean when there are absolutely no starry-eyed delusions about anything. Marriages, for instance. They are deals. Max and I both know that. A sort of trade-off on both sides. Nothing soppy and romantic about it at all. I get security and companionship. He gets … well.” She pushed away her tea without finishing it.
“Of course, you realize he’s marrying both of us,” she went on. “He thinks the world of you – admiration, respect – the lot. Me he will keep as a pet.”
“Billie!” I said, shocked by what I recognized as the naked truth. It alarmed me considerably, because I thought no one having such thoughts could possibly marry in spite of them. In this, as in so many other things, I was, of course, wrong.
The timer buzzed, jerking me back to the present, where my own bed was made – i.e., my cake baked, my silver polished, and my bloody mother-in-law due for tea. How queer that Ross’s stable past and my rootless one had twisted together like this to produce today, with all its possessions, its ironies, its insoluble problems. With a great sigh I stooped and lifted the cake from the oven as Martha called to me from upstairs. Christ, it was nearly four o’clock and I still had the kids to dress and the house to tidy.…
Promptly on schedule, Mother emerged from her taxi and minced daintily up the path, crocodile handbag in one hand, bulging plastic carrier in the other. A face flashed at Junie’s bay window. Intermittent gusts of dry snow spat at Mother’s mink. “Why does she walk as if her sodding legs were nailed together?” I wondered as I went to the door.
We exchanged the light ritual kiss she had taught me to receive and give. The kids watched with large, surprised eyes while the fur coat was taken off and hung up. Most of our callers wore duffle coats, so I think as she first approached they’d seen Mother as some kind of fur-bearing animal, a bison for instance, which God knows wasn’t far from the truth. For various reasons (flu, Florida), she hadn’t paid us her usual monthly visit since Ross left, and they had forgotten her.
“Well, and here are the dear little … children!” she said, exposing for their benefit the full expanse of her newly mended bridge. They both backed off, looking hunted.
“Haven’t you got a kiss for your old Granny, then?” she asked.
“No,” returned Martha bleakly.
“At least say hello, can’t you?” I urged, mortified.
Just the same, as they stood shoulder to shoulder looking up at us, I was proud of them. Hugh was balanced firmly on widespread legs. His Ogilvy tartan shorts and white shirt hadn’t been on long enough to be more than slightly crumpled. And although his nose was running, he took his favourite three fingers out of his mouth long enough to give Edwina a wide, wet smile.
Martha’s black hair was brushed smooth and pinned back with a silver clasp, and she was smugly conscious of her pink smocked dress (kindly ironed the week before by Ross). She had actually stood still willingly while I forced little silk loops over twelve small buttons down her back. I just hoped she wouldn’t repeat to Mother any of the words I’d mentioned at the time.
“Do come in and sit down, Mother, and I’ll get us some tea.”
“Is there presents in that bag?” demanded Martha.
“There might be, for a good girl,” declared Mother coyly. “Come and let’s see. My, how they’ve grown, Anne. Hugh has changed so I’d hardly know him. He’s the perfect image of my father. How has he … been lately?” she added rather less cordially when he toddled over to lay a wet hand on her knee.
“Well, this winter he’s had one long cold, or about sixteen short ones. Still, that bad go of croup he had in December was the last – he hasn’t been to hospital since, thank God.”
“What does Dr. Marshall say about all these colds?”
“Mother, we left Dr. Marshall years ago. The kids’ doctor now is Jeff Reilly, an old pal of Ross’s. He’s young but awfully good.”
“And why do I say ‘but,’ ” I thought crossly. Why did I ever endure the austere régime of her old buddy, Dr. Marshall, who had no lips and no compassion – likewise no interest in Martha’s five-month colic.
“Hm,” said Edwina, exercising restraint.
Hugh listened to this exchange pensively. In his sixteen months of life, he’d learned more than some people ever know about the frailties of the flesh. In that short span, recurrent ear infections and bouts of croup had fetched us running into Sick Kids’ Emergency several times, and he’d been in for six days in the fall, having a hernia repaired. Neither he nor I would ever forget the suffering of that separation, the twice-daily agony of the visits when we met and parted and tried to control our tears. Poor old Hugh had a naturally cautious and pessimistic nature, and his experience of life so far tended to confirm his worst misgivings. That was why I so loved his patience and gentleness. Now he looked with speculation at the carrier bag; but he would never, as Martha did, lay bold hands on it and shout, “Open up!”
“Now just a minute, dear,” murmured Edwina, meaning “What foul manners your child has.” I escaped to the kitchen to boil water and cut lemons, but out there I could hear amicable sounds of mutual approval as she doled out the gifts. Martha actually said a gruff “Thank you!” and ran out to show me a Lego set. On Mother’s large, bland face when I returned was a faint, gratified smile, although she said, “I really meant it for Hugh; but the tea-set seems to be what he likes.”
“Yes, I think Martha’s going to be an engineer, she’s such a Lego nut. As for Hugh, he may well wind up as a nurse.”
Mother chose to regard these remarks as jokes, and attempted to smile. A balloon over her head said in large letters, “They’re queer youngsters. But what can you expect?”
“Let me see,” she said. “Martha will be three next month, won’t she? I must say she has a very large … vocabulary, for such a little girl.”
“Well, it’s my guess that she’s got a higher IQ than either Ross or me. They say you should never do this, it makes problems later on at school – but she is forcing me to teach her to read. Already she does quite well with things like Dr. Seuss.”
“G
o, dog, go,” said Martha complacently.
“Now, Mother, come and sit at the table, there’s less chance of spills that way with the kids. Come on, you two.”
The table with its bright silver and best china looked orderly and gracious. The children’s faces shone over their clean white bibs. Gently I removed Martha’s hand from the cake knife and gave her a marmite sandwich. The tea ritual unfolded with propriety to the tinkle of spoons and inane remarks about distant relatives and the weather. By Mother’s standards, it was all going extremely well. But just as I thought this, the napkin slid off my lap and, as I bent to retrieve it, I spotted on the carpet, close to Mother’s foot, a large human turd. Martha, of course. It even had a cheeky little curl on the top of it.
Swiftly I dropped a Kleenex and with a scoop and a twist recovered this deposit before beating a swift retreat to the kitchen to dispose of it. Once safely out there, I leaned against the counter to let a wild, silent fit of giggles come and go.
“And now do tell me all about Ross. How is my boy these days? It seems so long since I saw him last. He’s still working up to all hours, I suppose.”
“Well, we knew setting up his own practice would mean a rough year or two, even with partners as good as Tim and Randy. Luckily, though, the business is rolling in. No trouble about that side of it.” (And just how lucky, Mother dear, I hope you never know.)
“So he’s still getting home late every night, I suppose, and working every weekend? Well, it’s a mercy you live downtown – at least he’s not commuting at all hours. But when does he ever see the children? I must say, it’s rather … hard on you, specially with this new one coming. Well, he’ll simply have to take a little time off then. Pity there’s no such thing as paternity leave.” And she gave her little tittering laugh.
I stared into my half-empty cup. Then I wiped Hugh’s nose. “Do have some more cake, Mother.”
“No, thank you, dear. I’m glad to hear the practice is thriving. But what about that girl Larine?”
By a superhuman effort I kept astonishment off my face, and resentment. It’s cheating when predictable people say something totally unpredictable.
“Why, she’s all right, I guess.” But my voice was high with surprise. Was it possible that good old Mother had resources of insight, or sheer, blind guts, that in these four years I hadn’t yet recognized?
“I did so feel,” she went on, smoothing a hand over her large bosom in the complacent, preening way she had, “and I still do, that Ross was taking a quite unnecessary risk, hiring a girl with that kind of … background. I mean drugs – a police record – in a law office? With all the … decent girls looking for work, I really can’t understand it.”
“Yes. Well,” I mumbled.
“After all, Ross is just at the beginning of his career. It’s not as if he could afford to take risks at this point, do you think?”
“Maybe not.”
“But perhaps he hasn’t asked what you think.”
My heart was pushing up into my throat. Did the bloody old trout know about the whole thing after all? If so, why was she sidling around the point like this? And if she didn’t know, what hell-sent hunch had made her start discussing Larine? My palms were damp with sweat and the table seemed to swing loosely under my elbow. But I kept my voice calm and level. Nothing like rage, terror, and hate, aimed like ray-guns in several different directions at once, to produce the old fighting spirit.
“Well, I think Ross felt a bit protective after he got her off that pushing charge. The drug laws are pretty silly, as you know. And the poor kid has a lurid history … did Ross ever tell you the story? Her mum was a lush and her dad a religious nut. Or was it the other way round? Anyhow, one of her uncles when she was twelve – um, I guess you get the picture. So Ross thought it was time somebody gave her a break. And so far she’s done the routine typing and filing at the office quite well, so he’s probably right.”
There was a brief silence. Then she said, “Ross’s father was a very difficult man, you know.”
I looked at her. “Was he?”
“Yes. He’d make a decision like that, on impulse, and then, right or wrong, he’d stick to it, stubborn as –” She shook her blue-rinsed head. “He insisted my mother must come and live with us, when my father … Passed On. Before six months were over, he knew as well as I did that it was a mistake. She didn’t mean to interfere, but – well, he died at sixty-one, while she lived to be ninety. You see, he never would admit … never. Yes. A really … difficult man.”
I waited, hoping for more, but she only smoothed her bosom again as if to placate it. Then, after a long pause, she muttered, “Better say no more. I tend to say … the wrong thing so often.”
For the first time in our acquaintance, I caught sight of a life’s disappointment, frustration, bewilderment, in the pale blue of her foolish eyes. It amazed me to find she knew herself so well. Poor woman. What a fate, to be trapped like that for all those years, between two egos. It was a surprise – almost a shock – to find myself feeling real pity for her; even a flicker of genuine loving-kindness. But what a rathole life is, I thought angrily, if it can actually make you love an ass like Edwina Graham.
But like most moments of its kind, in our house at least, this one was promptly attacked by the forces of chaos. Our Siamese cat, who loved Ross, liked me, and tolerated the kids, had little or no use for the rest of the human race. He now decided that Mother had stayed quite long enough. With a lightning dart, he pounced out of ambush and bit her in the calf. She gave a thin little shriek. The children, who had been quietly stuffing down cake, shrieked too, wildly excited. I got up and flapped a napkin at Chairman Mao, who fled, pretending to be terrified. Then I inspected the wound. Only one small, restrained drop of blood, like her confession.
“I’m so sorry, Mother. He’s terrible, that cat. It’s a warped sense of humour or something. Let me get you a Band-Aid.”
With my head bowed over her stout leg, I fiercely ordered myself not to cry. Or laugh. But Edwina victimized was once more comfortably armoured in her invincible rightness – the perfect guest, grandmother, mother-in-law; the Christian soldier marching as to war. She said, “It’s nothing, Anne; nothing at all – it barely … penetrated. Now I really must be going or I’ll miss the ten after six. Just let me call a taxi. You sit down, my dear, you look a little tired. Thank you so much for the … tea. I do hope Hugh’s cold improves. You’ll be sure to give Ross my love, won’t you. Ask him to ring me up some time, if he ever has a minute to spare. And by the way, I have a little something here for you both … I’m sure you could use it.”
“Thanks, Mother,” I said meekly. And I thought almost with relief how much more comfortable it would be if we could just keep on wearing our old attitudes.
Energetically I cleared up the tea débris and settled the kids with paper and crayons before going upstairs for a peaceful bowel movement, an event harder to fit in than people without small children would ever believe. Behind the blessed privacy of the bathroom door I managed to read several pages of Oscar Browning’s Life of George Eliot, savouring particularly the words, “She talked to me solemnly about the duties of life, about the shallow immorality of believing that all things would turn out for the best.…” Ah, the wonderful toughness of women. What a comfortable inheritance. Nothing else could possibly have kept me in one piece (more or less) in the disaster area of today. The girl I was when Ross and I first met was a stranger I could view from this distance with compassion and forgiveness. She was somebody not yet initiated. Somebody who hoped for the best, and believed in happiness as a real commodity.
He was asleep on my bed when I first saw him – flaked totally out. Lying on his back, arms tossed out recklessly, but legs pressed almost primly together. He was snoring softly. Down the hall in the sitting-room, my roommates Karen and Bonnie with various boys were sort of listening to Janis Joplin while they laughed and popped open beer cans and argued about their karmas. Ross must have adjourned t
o my room to get away from all that; but I needed my bed. I’d just come home from a long session at the library, because I had a final exam coming up in zoology, and I intended to get the provincial gold medal.
I leaned over him, my mouth opened to say “Hey,” and then it happened. In books I’d often read about this emotion without ever feeling it myself, or even believing it really existed. Now here it was, like a punch under the heart. I mean, I’d seen Ross before, plenty of times. For some time now he’d been Karen’s steady. She was even beginning to talk about getting engaged after he graduated. Now I looked at him while a westerly wind blew the light rain of a March thaw against the window. His black eyelashes made stiff crescents on his thin cheeks. The inside of his lower lip was a bright coral colour. His head was big, but the neck looked childishly frail. Something made his hands twitch as I watched him, and maybe the same something made me sit down on the edge of the bed, pushing him over slightly to make room.
“Wake up,” I said.
He did, instantly. His blue eyes snapped open; he drew in his long arms and folded them defensively across his chest.
“You’ve been sleeping in my bed.”
“Sorry. Just goofed completely off.”
“It’s this thaw. And exams looming up.” A breeze smelling of wet earth and lake water stirred the curtains. After the winter’s long austerity, there was something disturbing and delicious about this mild, moist air. It made the blood slow and the sex organs heavy. Doubtless that was one reason why I couldn’t take my eyes off his bearded face, and also why he didn’t move away from contact with my hip.
We said nothing for a minute. Beyond the door, Joplin’s meandering, sorrowful, self-pitying ballad went on, and we listened, loving it. Then I leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. He co-operated with a warm, trusting friendliness that made my whole body ache with tenderness. I leaned on him and traced the line of his bearded jaw with my fingertips.
“What the hell’s your other name, Anne?”
“Forrest.”
The Marriage Bed Page 5