by Yiyun Li
She made an exaggerated sound. Like most of the family, she has to forgive my original sin of being born to an American father. We’re far from the Loyalists, she said. The way she talks sounds as though the American Revolution were still going on outside our windows. History—be it a nation’s or a person’s—does not become the past for my mother’s family.
No, it’s not that we’re for the Empire, Cousin Petra said. Roland, always be grateful to the Fergusons. Without them you’d have grown up a rude and crude American.
Canadians against Americans, yes, but really it is a clan against one man. Thank goodness I have inherited Father’s looks. And like Mother I am drawn to forbidden romance.
Mother would have died from boredom rather than a train crash had she married into a Nova Scotian family as expected of her. Only a girl like Hetty would live in this well-moulded world so uncomplainingly. Mother would have found Hetty an unworthy match for her only son. You must always keep this in mind, Roland. Her blood, reckless and listless, runs in your veins.
[The Fergusons began in the milling business in Nova Scotia, providing timber to the shipbuilding yards. When Grandpa Ferguson foresaw, after a few fatal fires in town, that brick houses would soon replace wooden houses, the family entered brick manufacturing. Later, he purchased a plant that was said to be the first factory to produce ice skates on a large scale in the New World, though his ambition reached beyond skates. By the time Uncle Victor and his brothers entered the business the factory had expanded to become a major manufacturer of nails and vault hinges and an assortment of metal parts for bridges and ships.—RB 6 March 1989]
* * *
ROLAND’S MOTHER, IN THE EYES of her family, was the woman who had married the wrong man and boarded the wrong train, traveling toward death together. But aren’t all marriages like that? Though most of us go at a slower speed.
They were young and in love, so that was the silver lining. Not that I believe in this silver lining business, invented by people who can’t accept that sometimes life is just bad, terrible, hopeless. At Lucy’s funeral, someone said to me, thank god you still have the other children. I thank god for nothing, I said, and the woman only exchanged a knowing look with a man next to her.
We don’t know much about Roland’s mother. He only mentioned her a few times, but she died young. Younger than Lucy. A similar fate met his mother and his daughter, and he was not there for either of them.
But there was one difference. Roland’s mother didn’t choose to die.
Those who spoke the nonsense about his mother—they must have lived and died in the same place, looking at every disaster befalling someone else as a punishment.
One thing my mother often said to us when we fought: No one says you have to like the people you love. I used to think she meant this: We were siblings, and we should love one another even if we didn’t like one another. But maybe she was only telling herself that she didn’t have to like us.
Whatever she meant, I can tell you that people often mess up between liking and loving. Katherine—your grandfather Gilbert believed that global peace was possible once the world’s population found love for one another. He was young then so let us not laugh at his idea, but he was wrong, not because it was impossible for all those people to love one another. It was impossible for them to like one another. It’s so damn hard for anyone to like anyone. But love comes easier. That’s why you hear all these songs talking about loving someone, not liking someone.
Imagine if Roland’s parents had stayed alive. Those uncles and aunts and cousins disliked Roland’s father so much they would’ve extended that dislike to Roland. But bam, the person they disliked died. Now what should they do with Roland? Like him? No way. Love him? Why not. They kept Roland in that house, I think, to remind themselves how much they disliked Roland’s father and how much they had overcome their dislike to love Roland.
People would be more consistent if they lived their lives based on their dislikes. Liking is so fussy. To turn like into dislike you just leave it like fresh milk on a summer day. To make dislike into like? That would beat the miracle of water turning to wine, don’t you think?
6 JULY 1929.
Desmond said yesterday that I spent too much time tackling the undesired self to justify my study of hedonism. I was disheartened, though not by his criticism, which is an honour. One fears his compliments, always cutting and dismissive; even more fearful would be his indifference.
Aunt E informed the family today that she was thinking of taking a journey to the west. West where, Aunt Geraldine asked, but Aunt E was evasive. Why, she was pressed (not by me—in my panic I had to gather all my courage to look nonchalant), but she didn’t answer, saying only that she hadn’t made the final decision. Typical of her to drop one hint and withhold a thousand. What if I offered myself as her travelling companion before the term starts. Would she take me? Would she be willing to loan me the funds to travel as her companion?
Would any woman pay a man to be in love with her?
Later I read a story told—made up?—by Seneca, about a man who killed himself by abstaining from food for three days and then sitting in his bath while his slaves kept refilling the tub so he would not feel cold. But cold he must have turned, as according to Seneca the man’s soul drifted away while he was enjoying his luxurious bath. One wonders if that is what an inappropriate erotic interest is like: pleasurable, timeless, fatal.
Last night I resolved not to dwell upon sex so much. I wonder whether all men make such resolutions, and whether all fail as wretchedly as I do. Does any man ever make a name for himself by being oversexed?
* * *
MANY MEN HAVE DONE just that. Poor Roland, so inexperienced. He was eighteen here. Most people I knew—my siblings, myself, Gilbert—knew more about life at eighteen. But we must forgive him. Sometimes an orphan has a more sheltered life than a child with living parents.
What fascinates me is this: He would become more experienced, but he would never really stop being this young. How many people can be as consistent as that?
9 JULY 1929.
It turns out that of all places, Aunt E is planning a trip to Colorado. She revealed this information (and the date of departure—Tuesday week) after we returned from church. All of a sudden Bessie and Ethel, having not been told of the reason for the change of the atmosphere, served the food with more care. Behind them Lewis took on a claylike appearance.
Orphans and servants are human barometers—once again I am reminded that my lot is not far from that of Bessie, Ethel, and Lewis.
Why Colorado and why so sudden, Aunt Geraldine demanded to know, asking on behalf of Uncle Victor, who will not deign to speak when he feels in any way betrayed. And he is an easily betrayed man, always ready to punish. My cousins Annabel and Dorothy, by defecting in their marriages to places disapproved of by him, have become personae non grata. I too have learned valuable lessons, the earliest dating back to before school age—held responsible, I believe, for my mother’s betrayal.
Colorado? Uncle William said. That’s no place for you.
He sounded pitiful. There is something mysterious about Uncle William’s attitude toward Aunt E, though in a household where everyone’s past is constantly stirred up, this mystery has remained unprobed. I wonder if I alone can sense a secret that Aunt E and Uncle William have agreed to keep safe from familial scrutiny. My hypothesis is that Uncle William once proposed to Aunt E. Before her marriage to Uncle Albert or after Uncle Albert’s death? Either possibility would add a plot twist to the novel I will be writing. If only Uncle William were a character ten times more interesting than he is. As he stands now, he is too minor a character, entirely dispensable.
I do not know much about Uncle Albert, only that he was closest to Mother and he opposed most vehemently her marriage to Father. After the marriage he and Mother never spoke to each other again.
Had Uncle Albert remained alive would I have had a less favourable position in this household? It was a miracle that he had not shipped me back to the Bouleys, care of Canadian National Railway and labelled FRAGILE. In any case those alive have the right to disturb the dead. If I declared my love to Aunt E, I could avenge Uncle Albert’s mistreatment of my parents. Imagine Aunt E shedding Ferguson and taking up Bouley as her new name. Is there a law against one’s marrying one’s widowed aunt? I have never thought of looking into the matter.
To ease the tension Aunt E said that it was only to be a short trip.
It can’t be a short trip if it’s across a continent, Uncle William said. What’s there in any case?
Foolish Americans, Uncle Victor said.
Aunt Geraldine touched her lips with the corner of her napkin. Hetty studied her pudding attentively. Poor Hetty. She does not have to be here all summer long as when we were younger. Jonathan and Thomas and Susie only come for a short visit at the beginning of the summer now. Hetty must have given convincing excuses for her stay. Or else they must have seen some rare qualities in me so as not to put a stop to what is so obvious to everyone.
It surprises me that I did not realise this earlier.
* * *
WHAT IF HETTY’S PARENTS were only being reasonable, because they thought this girlish crush would be over soon? I was being reasonable in thinking that once Lucy and Steve had had enough drama between them, the country-music kind, the head-spinning kind, the special-effect kind—I thought one day when Lucy went through them all she would say, enough is enough.
But no, reasonable parents make mistakes. Hetty’s parents should’ve put their foot down and told her that there were a thousand reasons for her not to marry Roland. They should’ve married her off before her expiration date.
When Lucy married Steve, I wished first for a quick divorce, and then for both of them to calm down. I didn’t keep my expectations high. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what was coming. One of the first thoughts I had, right after Lucy died, was this: Now nobody will ever surprise me again.
Later.
Let me see if I can record everything as precisely as it happened, but with a novelist’s distance and equanimity.
I went off to the stables before Aunt E and Hetty, pretending that I was sent to help get the horses ready. Freddie didn’t mind. He definitely did not look his sober self.
When Aunt E and Hetty arrived, I behaved to Hetty like a lover, full of solicitations. Why, why, why do I have to be this caddish? Sometimes I have an odd feeling that I’m waiting for Hetty to surprise me. What if she would stick a spoon in the fire then press it red-hot to her arm, all the while watching me unblinkingly like one of those impassioned princesses in a Russian novel? What would I do if Hetty proved herself capable of such fervour? I would almost have to marry her for that spoon-shaped scar. Some would think that it was her money I was after. The decent ones would not say this to my face, but there are not many decent people in the world.
Alas, Hetty is not someone one lusts after. She is the kind of girl who uses a spoon as a mirror when distracted by her own thoughts. How tragic for a good-looking girl with a handsome income.
* * *
LUCY ONCE STOLE A safety razor from Gilbert’s box. She was twelve. Back then we still counted everything because we were not wasteful people. Have I ever told you that we had the most detailed record of expense, down to every penny? Once in a while I told Gilbert that we should get rid of the account books that were a few years old, but he said it’d be fun to read them again. Some day when we are old, he said. Gilbert was like Roland that way. Any small thing from now could have ten times more meaning in the future. Forward-looking men, that’s what they both were when young. Roland didn’t change. He looked all the way ahead to his posterity.
We did our accounting every night, after the children went to bed. It was my favorite time of the day. Gilbert had the better penmanship, I did the addition and subtraction faster, and we talked and joked. About nothing special. Sometimes I wish I could go back and teach my mother a few things. Time in a marriage is something to be frittered away. When husband and wife do it well and do it together, that’s happiness enough.
I used to have some wild notions about happiness. Any young girl would get them from movies. But a day in a life is longer than a life in a movie. I was a quick learner.
I didn’t tell Gilbert about the missing razor. He might have broken one and forgotten to mention it to me. That was what I thought, until I was cleaning Lucy’s room and found it, still in its wax wrapping paper, in the dollhouse under her doll’s bed. A good hiding place, except the corner of the wax paper stuck out. I confiscated the razor and never said anything. She didn’t ask me about it. For a while I watched her, trying to see if she knew I knew her secret. She knew. I thought any moment she would confess, but she never did. If I stared at her she simply stared back.
From then on, she must have known to buy the razors with her allowance. I wondered how Mr. Land never suspected anything. She probably lied sweetly and said she was sent by her father to buy them.
It was Regan Stoler’s mother who alerted me. Regan was Lucy’s friend at school. I forget if Mrs. Stoler noticed the scars herself or Regan told her about it. In any case I confronted Lucy and discovered the scars neatly lined up on her inner arm.
Nowadays people make a big fuss about such things, but I only warned her that she would look ugly in a summer dress if she kept doing it. She promised she would stop. No tears of remorse. No explanations. I didn’t ask her why she did it. Nor did I tell Gilbert about it. You can’t live a child’s life for her—I’ve always believed that.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like to slide a razor across Hetty’s pale wrist. She would have had little to bleed but good manners. If you could place Lucy and Hetty next to each other as young girls, they would be like day and night, yin and yang, a pot of bonsai and a field of wildflowers. Lucy had so much in her. She deserved a long life, don’t you think?
Well, it doesn’t really matter now.
I told Aunt E I was here to see if there was an extra horse today. I haven’t been riding for a while, I said. That was not a lie.
And you now expect me to give away my horse, Aunt E said. I wonder if she has seen through my sham interest in Hetty.
As though on cue Hetty developed a headache. She told me to take Sahara, and said she would wait for us on the porch. Freddie, no longer indolent—he never is around Hetty—began a performance of dusting up the rocking chair and sending his boy to Lane’s for cold orangeade.
Aunt E and I rode out toward the creek. After a period of silence I mustered the courage to ask her what she thought of my accompanying her on her trip. She looked sideways at me and said she was not a damsel in need of a knight.
Only I thought it would be a change of air, I said, for me, I mean.
Go to Boston, she said. You’re old enough to make the trip. The Bouleys would be thrilled to see you.
And to don the pauper’s clothes again? I said.
Their situation is not that meagre.
Then where did this reputation of my father being a schemer come from?
Men do worse things than marrying women for money, Aunt E said.
Like what?
Aunt E did not speak.
Like what? I asked again.
I don’t want to disparage your father, she said. My position in this family is not that different from yours.
Except you are a Ferguson, I said. And you have your independence.
I live as one of the Fergusons and that’s my independence, if you can call it that.
But you can leave freely. When you say you want to travel, none of them can stop you.
None of them will open the door if I ever come back, Aunt E said.
; Why? I said.
You don’t have to bite the hand that feeds you to betray it. If you dodge a petting gesture you’ve committed the sin of ingratitude.
I don’t understand, I said.
I must have sounded pathetically young. When Aunt E spoke again it was no longer in her teasing tone. Roland, listen carefully, this is not where your future is.
Of course not, I thought. I’ve been talking about Oxford with my uncles, I said.
Oxford won’t happen for you, Aunt E said.
Why not?
Because there’s no longer the money for that.
What about my mother’s money?
You can ask your uncles about finances. I’m only giving you a warning.
Did they send you as a messenger?
When do I ever do things at their behest, Roland?
Then why are you telling me these things?
(Writing this now, I feel ashamed to recall that I spoke with a hint of tears in my voice.)
I was fond of your parents, Aunt E said. They would be glad that I’ve treated you fairly.
What should I do, then? I said. Can I come with you to Colorado?
What would I do with you if I decided to get married out there? Aunt E asked.
It is a cliché when people say their hearts skipped a beat. But mine did just that. Get married? I asked. To whom?
(What’s there for you in a marriage? What can a man give you that I cannot? Why are you abandoning me? I wish I had said all these things to her aloud.)
There’s bound to be someone if one sets one’s heart to it, Aunt E said.
What would Uncle Victor and Uncle William say?
I don’t expect that you’d run back breaking the news to them?