And so he increased in wisdom and stature—
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And in favor with God and man.
That embarrassed him at the time and gave him a superstitious chill.
As it did yet. But so long as nobody knew, it seemed not unnatural.
He took the book with him, the next time he went to Meadowlake. It was a Wednesday. He went looking for Fiona at the card tables and did not see her.
A woman called out to him, “She ’s not here. She ’s sick.” Her voice sounded self-important and excited—pleased with herself for having recognized him when he knew nothing about her. Perhaps also pleased with all she knew about Fiona, about Fiona’s life here, thinking it was maybe more than he knew.
“He ’s not here either,” she said.
Grant went to find Kristy.
“Nothing, really,” she said, when he asked what was the matter with Fiona. “She ’s just having a day in bed today, just a bit of an upset.”
Fiona was sitting straight up in the bed. He hadn’t noticed, the few times that he had been in this room, that this was a hospital bed and could be cranked up in such a way. She was wearing one of her high-necked maidenly gowns, and her face had a pallor that was not like cherry blossoms but like flour paste.
Aubrey was beside her in his wheelchair, pushed as close to the bed as it could get. Instead of the nondescript open-necked shirts he usually wore, he was wearing a jacket and a tie. His natty-looking tweed hat was resting on the bed. He looked as if he had been out on important business.
To see his lawyer? His banker? To make arrangements with the
funeral director?
Whatever he ’d been doing, he looked worn out by it. He too was
gray in the face.
They both looked up at Grant with a stony, grief-ridden apprehension that turned to relief, if not to welcome, when they saw who he was.
Not who they thought he ’d be.
They were hanging on to each other’s hands and they did not let go.
The hat on the bed. The jacket and tie.
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It wasn’t that Aubrey had been out. It wasn’t a question of where he ’d been or whom he ’d been to see. It was where he was going.
Grant set the book down on the bed beside Fiona’s free hand.
“It ’s about Iceland,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d like to look at it.”
“Why, thank you,” said Fiona. She didn’t look at the book. He put her hand on it.
“Iceland,” he said.
She said, “Ice-land.” The first syllable managed to hold a tinkle of interest, but the second fell flat. Anyway, it was necessary for her to turn her attention back to Aubrey, who was pulling his great thick hand out of hers.
“What is it?” she said. “What is it, dear heart?”
Grant had never heard her use this flowery expression before.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “Oh, here.” And she pulled a handful of tissues from the box beside her bed.
Aubrey’s problem was that he had begun to weep. His nose had
started to run, and he was anxious not to turn into a sorry spectacle, especially in front of Grant.
“Here. Here,” said Fiona. She would have tended to his nose herself and wiped his tears—and perhaps if they had been alone he would have let her do it. But with Grant there Aubrey would not permit it. He got hold of the Kleenex as well as he could and made a few awkward but lucky swipes at his face.
While he was occupied, Fiona turned to Grant.
“Do you by any chance have any influence around here?” she said in a whisper. “I’ve seen you talking to them—”
Aubrey made a noise of protest or weariness or disgust. Then his upper body pitched forward as if he wanted to throw himself against her. She scrambled half out of bed and caught him and held on to him. It seemed improper for Grant to help her, though of course he would have done so if he ’d thought Aubrey was about to tumble to the floor.
“Hush,” Fiona was saying. “Oh, honey. Hush. We ’ll get to see each other. We ’ll have to. I’ll go and see you. You’ll come and see me.”
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Aubrey made the same sound again with his face in her chest, and
there was nothing Grant could decently do but get out of the room.
“I just wish his wife would hurry up and get here,” Kristy said. “I wish she ’d get him out of here and cut the agony short. We ’ve got to start serving supper before long and how are we supposed to get her to swallow anything with him still hanging around?”
Grant said, “Should I stay?”
“What for? She ’s not sick, you know.”
“To keep her company,” he said.
Kristy shook her head.
“They have to get over these things on their own. They’ve got short memories usually. That ’s not always so bad.”
Kristy was not hard-hearted. During the time he had known her Grant had found out some things about her life. She had four children. She did not know where her husband was but thought he might be in Alberta. Her younger boy’s asthma was so bad that he would have died one night in January if she had not got him to the emergency ward in time. He was not on any illegal drugs, but she was not so sure about his brother.
To her, Grant and Fiona and Aubrey too must seem lucky. They had
got through life without too much going wrong. What they had to suffer now that they were old hardly counted.
Grant left without going back to Fiona’s room. He noticed that the wind was actually warm that day and the crows were making an uproar.
In the parking lot a woman wearing a tartan pants suit was getting a folded-up wheelchair out of the trunk of her car.
The street he was driving down was called Black Hawks Lane. All the streets around were named for teams in the old National Hockey League.
This was in an outlying section of the town near Meadowlake. He and Fiona had shopped in the town regularly but had not become familiar with any part of it except the main street.
The houses looked to have been built all around the same time,
perhaps thirty or forty years ago. The streets were wide and curving and there were no sidewalks—recalling the time when it was thought unlikely that anybody would do much walking ever again. Friends of
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Grant’s and Fiona’s had moved to places something like this when they began to have their children. They were apologetic about the move at first. They called it “going out to Barbecue Acres.”
Young families still lived here. There were basketball hoops over garage doors and tricycles in the driveways. But some of the houses had gone downhill from the sort of family homes they were surely meant to be. The yards were marked by car tracks, the windows were plastered with tinfoil or hung with faded flags.
Rental housing. Young male tenants—single still, or single again.
A few properties seemed to have been kept up as well as possible
by the people who had moved into them when they were new—people
who hadn’t had the money or perhaps hadn’t felt the need to move on to someplace better. Shrubs had grown to maturity, pastel vinyl siding had done away with the problem of repainting. Neat fences or hedges gave the sign that the children in the houses had all grown up and gone away, and that their parents no longer saw the point of letting the yard be a common run-through for whatever new children were loose in the neighborhood.
The house that was listed in the phone book as belonging to Aubrey and his wife was one of these. The front walk was paved with flagstones and bordered by hyacinths that stood as stiff as china flowers, alternately pink and blue.
Fiona had not got over her sorrow. She did not eat at mealtimes, though she pretended to, hiding food
in her napkin. She was being given a sup-plementary drink twice a day—someone stayed and watched while she swallowed it down. She got out of bed and dressed herself, but all she wanted to do then was sit in her room. She wouldn’t have taken any exercise at all if Kristy or one of the other nurses, and Grant during visiting hours, had not walked her up and down in the corridors or taken her outside.
In the spring sunshine she sat, weeping weakly, on a bench by the wall.
She was still polite—she apologized for her tears, and never argued with a suggestion or refused to answer a question. But she wept. Weeping had left her eyes raw-edged and dim. Her cardigan—if it was hers—would
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be buttoned crookedly. She had not got to the stage of leaving her hair unbrushed or her nails uncleaned, but that might come soon.
Kristy said that her muscles were deteriorating, and that if she didn’t improve soon they would put her on a walker.
“But you know once they get a walker they start to depend on it and they never walk much anymore, just get wherever it is they have to go.”
“You’ll have to work at her harder,” she said to Grant. “Try and
encourage her.”
But Grant had no luck at that. Fiona seemed to have taken a dislike to him, though she tried to cover it up. Perhaps she was reminded, every time she saw him, of her last minutes with Aubrey, when she had asked him for help and he hadn’t helped her.
He didn’t see much point in mentioning their marriage, now.
She wouldn’t go down the hall to where most of the same people
were still playing cards. And she wouldn’t go into the television room or visit the conservatory.
She said that she didn’t like the big screen, it hurt her eyes. And the birds’ noise was irritating and she wished they would turn the fountain off once in a while.
So far as Grant knew, she never looked at the book about Iceland, or at any of the other—surprisingly few—books that she had brought from home. There was a reading room where she would sit down to
rest, choosing it probably because there was seldom anybody there, and if he took a book off the shelves she would allow him to read to her.
He suspected that she did that because it made his company easier for her—she was able to shut her eyes and sink back into her own grief.
Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again. And sometimes he thought she closed her eyes to hide a look of informed despair that it would not be good for him to see.
So he sat and read to her out of one of these old novels about chaste love, and lost-and-regained fortunes, that could have been the discards of some long-ago village or Sunday school library. There had been no attempt, apparently, to keep the contents of the reading room as up-to-date as most things in the rest of the building.
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The covers of the books were soft, almost velvety, with designs
of leaves and flowers pressed into them, so that they resembled jewelry boxes or chocolate boxes. That women—he supposed it would be women—could carry home like treasure.
The supervisor called him into her office. She said that Fiona was not thriving as they had hoped.
“Her weight is going down even with the supplement. We ’re doing
all we can for her.”
Grant said that he realized they were.
“The thing is, I’m sure you know, we don’t do any prolonged bed
care on the first floor. We do it temporarily if someone isn’t feeling well, but if they get too weak to move around and be responsible we have to consider upstairs.”
He said he didn’t think that Fiona had been in bed that often.
“No. But if she can’t keep up her strength, she will be. Right now she ’s borderline.”
He said that he had thought the second floor was for people whose minds were disturbed.
“That too,” she said.
He hadn’t remembered anything about Aubrey’s wife except the tartan suit he had seen her wearing in the parking lot. The tails of the jacket had flared open as she bent into the trunk of the car. He had got the impression of a trim waist and wide buttocks.
She was not wearing the tartan suit today. Brown belted slacks and a pink sweater. He was right about the waist—the tight belt showed she made a point of it. It might have been better if she hadn’t, since she bulged out considerably above and below.
She could be ten or twelve years younger than her husband. Her hair was short, curly, artificially reddened. She had blue eyes—a lighter blue than Fiona’s, a flat robin’s-egg or turquoise blue—slanted by a slight puffiness. And a good many wrinkles made more noticeable by a walnut-stain makeup. Or perhaps that was her Florida tan.
He said that he didn’t quite know how to introduce himself.
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“I used to see your husband at Meadowlake. I’m a regular visitor
there myself.”
“Yes,” said Aubrey’s wife, with an aggressive movement of her chin.
“How is your husband doing?”
The “doing” was added on at the last moment. Normally he would
have said, “How is your husband?”
“He ’s okay,” she said.
“My wife and he struck up quite a close friendship.”
“I heard about that.”
“So. I wanted to talk to you about something if you had a minute.”
“My husband did not try to start anything with your wife, if that ’s what you’re getting at,” she said. “He did not molest her in any way. He isn’t capable of it and he wouldn’t anyway. From what I heard it was the other way round.”
Grant said, “No. That isn’t it at all. I didn’t come here with any complaints about anything.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m sorry. I thought you did.”
That was all she was going to give by way of apology. And she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded disappointed and confused.
“You better come in, then,” she said. “It ’s blowing cold in through the door. It ’s not as warm out today as it looks.”
So it was something of a victory for him even to get inside. He hadn’t realized it would be as hard as this. He had expected a different sort of wife. A flustered homebody, pleased by an unexpected visit and flattered by a confidential tone.
She took him past the entrance to the living room, saying, “We ’ll have to sit in the kitchen where I can hear Aubrey.” Grant caught sight of two layers of front-window curtains, both blue, one sheer and one silky, a matching blue sofa and a daunting pale carpet, various bright mirrors and ornaments.
Fiona had a word for those sort of swooping curtains—she said it like a joke, though the women she ’d picked it up from used it seriously.
Any room that Fiona fixed up was bare and bright—she would have
been astonished to see so much fancy stuff crowded into such a small space. He could not think what that word was.
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From a room off the kitchen—a sort of sunroom, though the blinds were drawn against the afternoon brightness—he could hear the sounds of television.
Aubrey. The answer to Fiona’s prayers sat a few feet away, watching what sounded like a ball game. His wife looked in at him. She said, “You okay?” and partly closed the door.
“You might as well have a cup of coffee,” she said to Grant.
He said, “Thanks.”
“My son got him on the sports channel a year ago Christmas, I don’t know what we ’d do without it.”
On the kitchen counters there were all sorts of contrivances and appliances—coffeemaker, food processor, knife sharpener, and some things Grant didn’t know the names or uses of. All looked new and ex
pensive, as if they had just been taken out of their wrappings, or were polished daily.
He thought it might be a good idea to admire things. He admired the coffeemaker she was using and said that he and Fiona had always meant to get one. This was absolutely untrue—Fiona had been devoted to a European contraption that made only two cups at a time.
“They gave us that,” she said. “Our son and his wife. They live in Kamloops. B.C. They send us more stuff than we can handle. It wouldn’t hurt if they would spend the money to come and see us instead.”
Grant said philosophically, “I suppose they’re busy with their own lives.”
“They weren’t too busy to go to Hawaii last winter. You could
understand it if we had somebody else in the family, closer at hand. But he ’s the only one.”
The coffee being ready, she poured it into two brown-and-green
ceramic mugs that she took from the amputated branches of a ceramic tree trunk that sat on the table.
“People do get lonely,” Grant said. He thought he saw his chance
now. “If they’re deprived of seeing somebody they care about, they do feel sad. Fiona, for instance. My wife.”
“I thought you said you went and visited her.”
“I do,” he said. “That ’s not it.”
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Then he took the plunge, going on to make the request he ’d come to make. Could she consider taking Aubrey back to Meadowlake maybe just one day a week, for a visit? It was only a drive of a few miles, surely it wouldn’t prove too difficult. Or if she ’d like to take the time off—Grant hadn’t thought of this before and was rather dismayed to hear himself suggest it—then he himself could take Aubrey out there, he wouldn’t mind at all. He was sure he could manage it. And she could use a break.
My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, From Chekhov to Munro Page 68