by Yiyun Li
The marriage with Milt surprised me. Ah yes, Milt and I, we had both learned a few things from life. Of my three husbands, he was the funniest. He wasn’t that hilarious when he was married to Maggie. He never bothered to make her laugh, and my theory is that he saved that special talent for the last eight years of his life, for someone special like me.
A visitor said to me in the elevator the other day, “If only someone could be a grandmother first before she’s a mother.” I didn’t have time to find out whose daughter the woman is. But yes, if only a man could be a widower first before marrying.
3 JULY 1940.
Mr. Ogden had decided to go to North America. I was able to convince him that Canada would be easier than the U.S.
Graham Harris from Canada House told me that their office was crammed with people wanting to send their children or themselves to Canada. I just received word from Alexander Bain, asking if I could help him find a way to enlist in the RAF. People rushing in both directions seeking safety, or glory, equally unreal.
If Mr. Ogden and Sidelle leave, should I follow them, too? Just as I have begun to like this job? I have a serviceable brain for public relations slogans. The skill of writing deceptive words is a highly sought one, in times of war and in times of peace. In that sense I am as indispensable as a barber, who will never be out of business unless the war wipes out the entirety of mankind. The only difference: A barber could do little with a bald head; with a few words I can make the head appear as though it sports an enviable haircut. Long live the propagandists.
* * *
WHAT IF ROLAND HAD persuaded Sidelle to leave with her husband? What if Roland had followed them onto that boat? There would’ve been no Roland in my life. No Lucy, either.
I’m ahead of the diary. It’s hard not to rush when you’ve lived the years and reread his entries.
24 AUGUST 1940.
Sirens again this morning. But the bombing of Shanghai preempted everything I could feel about the bombing of London.
So it’s settled that Mr. Ogden will sail to Canada, along with two of his Hungarian contacts.
Sidelle said she saw no reason to be rash.
Leaving a war zone doesn’t seem rash at all, I said.
One should not be driven by external forces—that’s what Sidelle meant, Mr. Ogden said to me. He has a habit of explaining Sidelle to me. How can she stand such a humourless husband? I tried to contain my frustration. What is Mr. Ogden but a verb in its past perfect tense?
And in case you haven’t noticed, he continued, a war doesn’t register as an emergency for Sidelle.
I do not deceive myself that, aside from Mr. Ogden, I am the only man in her life. I have not any solid proof, but I have suspected that she is developing a special fondness for that smooth-faced Eddie Legg. He writes poetry for her, and he has weak lungs. This is all Sidelle has told me. I asked to see his poems once, but she did not show even the slightest sign of having heard me.
Mr. Ogden rambled on a little longer about Sidelle’s wilfulness and need for independence. But I think mostly to convince himself that he was not hurt by Sidelle’s decision to stay.
* * *
WHEN LUCY WAS BORN, Gilbert’s parents came to visit. His father took Gilbert out to a pub for a father-son talk, leaving his mother to explain to me about baby-tending. Now that you and Gilbert have a child, she said, you must get prepared for the next earthquake.
I said, What?
Sooner or later there’s going to be another big one, she told me. She was five when the big earthquake hit San Francisco, and she and her siblings became separated from their parents. Eventually they found six of us, she said, but we never saw our littlest sister, Katie, again.
Oh my god, I said. Gilbert never told me. That’s awful.
It was awful, she said. Gilbert didn’t know.
You didn’t tell him?
I didn’t tell Jack, either, she said.
How odd that she’s sharing that with me, I thought. She and I were never close. Maybe Katie was adopted by someone nice? I said.
Or maybe she died, Gilbert’s mother replied. She was not two yet. You can’t expect a tiny person like her to fend for herself.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think it was right that Gilbert’s mother had marched in with this horror story when Lucy was just a few days old.
When Jack and I started a family, she continued, I insisted on having a plan ready in the event of another earthquake. I sewed a tag with our names and address on the children’s undershirts and underpants. And I kept doing this right up until Mike and Moe went into the army. Has Gilbert ever told you that?
No, I said.
Yes, I did, she said. Also, in the case of an earthquake, Jack was to get out of the house right away, whether he had time or not to help us. I wouldn’t have been able to make enough money to raise the children.
What if you died because Jack didn’t stay to save you?
We didn’t die, did we? she said. We drilled the children and ourselves so we all knew what to do.
And you never told them about Katie?
Why make people sad when I don’t have to?
So that’s it, I thought. My mother-in-law wants me to promise to let her son live, even if everyone else will be crushed in the rubble. I’ll talk about it with Gilbert, I said.
Just don’t tell him about Katie, she said, then added that she had told her two daughters and Gilbert’s two sisters-in-law when they had their firstborns. It’s up to us women to be prepared.
Gilbert and I never got around to making that plan. But now that I think about Mr. Ogden, he must surely have been raised by a mother like Gilbert’s. And in the house Mr. Ogden grew up in there was probably a sign on every door: GENTLEMEN FIRST.
18 SEPTEMBER 1940.
The news of the sinking of SS City of Benares arrived at midday. I went straightaway to Canada House. Rushing up the stairs I nearly knocked over the little secretary. Sorry, I yelled, and said a friend had gone down with the ship.
But there was not much more to learn there. Everyone was waiting for news, and parents and relatives had begun to arrive.
Mrs. Baker, Sidelle’s cook, opened the door before I knocked. Mrs. Ogden told me to take the rest of the day off, she said. No, we haven’t heard anything about Mr. Ogden.
I watched Mrs. Baker leave and hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Other men would have rushed up. Sidelle had been tossed into a void of waiting, just as those unfortunate passengers onboard were dumped into the sea. To lower a lifeboat, to battle the cold water, to hold out a firm hand: Is it a disgrace that I resent being called upon to act? I am not a brave man. My only decency is that I never pose as one.
Sidelle was magnificently calm. The moment I entered the sitting room she said she had already spoken to Harry’s solicitor and his two daughters.
I’ve never met Mr. Ogden’s daughters, I said.
They don’t often visit, Sidelle said.
Are they not close to Mr. Ogden? (I hate to pry. No, that’s a lie. I don’t hate to pry. I hate not knowing.)
Oh, they’re close to him, but they have their own lives.
I went on asking about the two daughters, and their marriages, all the while seeing too clearly that Sidelle had no interest in discussing them. The problem was, I did not know what else to say.
Why are you fretting so? Sidelle asked.
My hands and my feet did not look any different from their usual wringing or tapping selves. I replied that I had not yet known a person in my life who died on me unexpectedly.
Your parents? Sidelle said. But you were spared the shock.
I suppose I have plenty to learn in this war, I said.
I don’t know what there is to learn, Sidelle said. People make such a big ado about death.
&nbs
p; One has only one life—you can’t argue with that?
One has only one fate, Sidelle corrected me. But before we are granted certainty, don’t please let us subject ourselves to useless imaginings.
I would be hurt by her coolness if I were Mr. Ogden. Not having much to say in reply, I went to fetch a drink for her and for myself.
You don’t have to stay here, she said. I’ll ring if I hear anything.
I couldn’t decide which would be better, to leave her alone or to insist on my rights to be next to her when—if—the news of Mr. Ogden’s death arrives.
I think it is better that you go, she said.
On the tube I could not shake off two thoughts: How relieved I am that Sidelle did not decide to accompany Mr. Ogden; and how, if Mr. Ogden died, I would have in effect acted like a murderer, or at least an accomplice.
But Mr. Ogden is not dead yet. Some people survived after almost going down with the Titanic. Other people choke to death on a morsel of toast.
There is nothing good in any decent man’s death. Mr. Ogden is a friend, not an enemy. He does not deserve to die. Between you and him, Roland, it is you who are of lesser use to the world.
* * *
I DON’T OFTEN COME to Roland’s defense but for once I shall do so. Apples don’t blossom in winter. Daffodils don’t come out in July. There is an order of things. That’s my definition of heaven. I would believe in a god if he lined up all the people in the world like a domino set, so the older ones always fell before the younger ones.
Roland was a young man and Harry Ogden was an older man. Let us not question why Harry Ogden died in the war, while Roland survived.
After Lucy died, a woman said to me, It doesn’t feel right that a child should go before a parent. The world may never feel right to you again.
I didn’t know if she thought she was doing me a favor, giving me a fair warning. People said all sorts of things when Lucy died. Most were kind, some less empty than others. But others were hilarious—oh, they were so horrible they made me laugh. A teacher from Molly’s old nursery school ran into me one day. You don’t always have to wear black, you know? she said. Women these days don’t have to wear black for long even when their husbands die. And one neighbor, Sally, a lovely lady, insisted on having me over for tea. I had a thousand tasks then, but I did stop by, thinking I would have a quick cup of tea with her. She baked scones and raspberry tarts and a lemon cake, plus a basket of chocolate chip cookies to send home with me. And for two hours she talked about a baby she and her husband lost to a drowning accident. It was almost fifty years ago, but how poor Sally wept.
You’re not crying now but that’s because you’re in shock, she said. Just wait and see. She then told me that when her children, the ones they had after the first child died, asked for a puppy, her husband brought home a turtle, because a turtle lives forever!
The world would be a better place if we were lined up like dominoes in front of a giant turtle. What’s your wish, my child? the turtle would whisper to me. (I imagine that’s how a turtle talks. A turtle has all the patience god doesn’t. God only rages.) I want all my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren alive when it’s time for me to go, I would say. I’ll grant you this wish, he would whisper, and nudge me with his giant turtle toe. Down goes Lilia, knocking over the next person in line.
21 SEPTEMBER 1940.
The horror stories of survivors have begun to surface. It is almost a comfort to know that Mr. Ogden and his friends were lost immediately.
It’s odd to think that with each war I lost a husband, Sidelle said to me this morning.
I have stayed over for the past two days. Surprisingly no sirens and no bombings at night. And both mornings I woke up with a feeling of euphoria. If only it took just one meaningful death for the war to end.
This is going to be a long war, I said emptily.
They both died early in the war, Sidelle said. Later these losses would feel more normal. Less conspicuous.
No death could be inconspicuous, but I was not in a mood to argue these days. I cannot say I’m grieving for Mr. Ogden.
Does Sidelle miss him? Can one mourn what one does not mind not having in life? She is blessed—or doomed—with a certain hardness. Deep down I suspect I am a sentimental man. Last night I even went into Mr. Ogden’s study to remind myself what his handwriting was like.
* * *
WHAT ROLAND DIDN’T UNDERSTAND is that Sidelle needed that hardness. How else could you live on after losing your only child?
Every girl in my family, in every generation, was taught this saying passed down from my great-grandmother Lucille: Pioneers are men, but pioneering is a woman’s job.
My family came from a pioneering background. Roland’s family, too. How many generations do you think it takes for that hardness in settler and pioneer genes to disappear?
26 SEPTEMBER 1940.
I met Mr. Ogden’s daughters at his funeral. They struck me as outlandishly beautiful. Their mother must have been an uncommon woman. How odd that a raging bore like Mr. Ogden twice married covetable women.
Now that Sidelle is a widow, what change will it entail between us? Or, is there no point pondering the future?
* * *
I’VE NEVER SEEN A photograph of Mr. Ogden nor spent time picturing him, but I can tell you something I learned last week. Clark used to keep three mistresses—at the same time!—while he was married to his wife. Clark, that raisin of a man! “A retired actuary, a man loving his wife and mistresses equally, a good keeper of secrets”—if it were up to me, I would put that in his obituary.
Nancy was the one to find out, through her cousin’s friend’s cousin. The mistresses didn’t know about each other but they knew about the wife, who knew about all three.
I’ve never had much interest in Clark, but now I feel tempted to tap him on his shoulder and say, Is it true about all those mistresses of yours? What did they see in you?
I think I know the answer. I’ve noticed that a man’s ears don’t change a lot when he gets older. Ears don’t go bald, grow wrinkled, bend from osteoporosis. Sure, ears may go deaf, but I’m talking about the look of things. All that glitters is not gold, but all that glitters gets an idiom.
So, the look of things. Clark’s ears are too large, too pointed, too out of place on his head. Imagine a man in a decent suit carrying a decent briefcase, with a decent wife in a decent house, yet all the while his ears look suspicious, as if mocking the man and his life. Wouldn’t you find those ears fascinating? Besides, that pair of ears makes him look ugly. When an ugly man has the boldness to chase after women, they may make the mistake of thinking more highly of him.
Harry Ogden must have had something about him. Roland didn’t know what Sidelle saw in Harry Ogden, or what any woman saw in any man.
What did you see in Roland, you may want to ask me.
Last night I wondered: Would I have forgotten Roland if we had not produced a daughter?
I don’t know. But I do know that you can’t take Lucy out of this story.
* * *
[My war diaries: too many words, too little meaning. A consultation of any news clips or any other diarist’s record from this period would reveal the same old story: bombs, fires, maimed bodies, the sound of glass being swept away in the early morning, a nation’s courage, et cetera, et cetera. The selection here is a relevant account of what would change several people’s lives in the long run. Though from where I sit now, across the bay from Elmsey, which has exchanged owners, a block from the house in which Hetty grew up, and a short walk to her grave, with Sidelle buried on the other shore of the Atlantic, all I can say is that relevance is but a fool’s fortune.—RB, 2 February 1990]
* * *
ROLAND WAS BURIED NEXT to Hetty. Milt next to my friend Maggie. Norman next to his first wife, Christine. Gil
bert near his parents. Lucy near my parents. A while ago we watched a documentary about water bugs. During the daytime they live in a giant group, thousands of them, milling around, exchanging gossip. But at night they slip away, floating alone. Then the day returns, and they do, too. It doesn’t bother them whether they live among millions or float by themselves.
When we’re alive we cannot exist without one another. Once we die, we are alone. But we’re not as lucky as those water bugs. They would learn a few things about death each night and they would reconvene to compare notes in the morning. That kind of buggy loyalty is why war never breaks out among them.
Do we see people who’ve died before us when we die? I don’t believe so, but how do I know either way, when I’m not dead yet. Someone’s granddaughter visited the other day, and she told everyone that it was her seventh birthday. Seven! Elaine said. It’s the best age, and you’ll have a great year. The girl replied, I just turned seven so I can’t tell you if it’s going to be a great year. I roared with laughter. What a sensible seven-year-old.
I wouldn’t mind not seeing Milt or Norman in the other world, or my folks. I would trust that they’ve all settled comfortably there. Lucy? I would like to catch a glimpse of her, but only from a distance. If we ran into each other I would ask if she regretted that she killed herself. The most useless question.
Roland? Even if I could find him, I’d be a stranger to him now. But perhaps I could play a trick on him. I could talk about his mistresses, a few details here and there. Who are you, he would ask. Someone who’s known you better than yourself, I would say. Someone who’s watched you all your life. Wouldn’t it be funny if he said, Mother, is that you?