by Joan Barfoot
Sophie stood on the sidewalk contemplating what was intended as a haven of untortured, unimportant, unambiguous, life-saving tasks. The house didn’t immediately strike her as one that would end nightmares; it actually looked more the sort of looming place that could actively promote bad dreams. She opened the gate anyway, and there she was. Now, nearly four years on, here she is.
Philip was a few minutes late picking Beth up at the bus depot. She’d never been on a bus before and hadn’t found it very nice: crowded and smelly and not her kind of people. Waiting for Philip, she noticed nobody particularly noticing her, which was unsatisfactory and reassuring, both. Once outside here, seeing the size of the place, she imagined many small, safe, closed rooms behind brick. Philip was polite but remote, apparently considering her Nora’s project, not his own.
As he did till his dying day.
Night.
The harder part? Yes, no doubt. Starting now.
Beth is first inside, flying up the steps as soon as Max has hauled himself out of the car and released her. She is across the porch and through the door ahead of them all, and by the time they’re in the front hall, they can hear her already upstairs. Shortly there’s the sound of the shower. Well, she can’t stay there for ever, can she?
If Philip were here, this would be the time for a few stiff drinks and a grim-and-gleeful blow-by-blow account of the funeral’s mishaps and very odd moments. Bluffing, betrayal, fresh alliances and affections of various sorts. Lynn, of course; Lynn most of all—oh, what fun! In his absence Sophie silently pours wine, then joins Nora on the living-room sofa. Max is in Sophie’s usual chair, upright in deference to his arthritis and whatever else may ail him these days—a certain grey cast of skin at the moment. “I will just have this one glass,” he says, “and then if you don’t mind I’ll lie down for a few moments before going back.”
He is old, he is old, what will Nora do when he is gone too? “Why don’t you stay overnight? It would be lovely to have you, and you shouldn’t drive both ways in one day. You could have my room and get a good rest. And it would be nice for us.”
“No, thank you, that’s kind, but I will be fine and I prefer my own bed. You must come to town soon, though. I still owe you lunch and a conversation whenever you’re ready.”
About futures. What comes next. “Yes, all right, I will. Thanks for hauling Beth out of there, Max. What the hell was her problem? Do you know, Sophie?”
“Not a clue. Not grief, I’m sure, so maybe it was just Beth being Beth—trying to grab the spotlight, even from Phil.”
Phil. All right. What people are called means something. Sophie is a hearty sort of name, whereas Soph, say, would be someone more marginal, less significant in a room. And no one would call Beth Elizabeth, or Betty. Elizabeth is too rigorous, Betty too plain, but Beth is perfectly drifty.
Although Beth has not been exactly drifty today. Her mood swings have been unexpected and dire, her frantic hopes are unendurable—everything connected with her has been fraught and embarrassing. “What will you do about her?” Max asks; which is the question, isn’t it?
“Send her on her way as soon as I figure out how to, I guess. Only I don’t want to cause any more harm.” More harm? What harm has Nora done Beth? All she has done is transform her from a merely beautiful, fortunately boned, blessedly fine-skinned young woman into something approaching an icon. That’s a rare kind of gift; not that Beth has ever said thank you. “If I do it wrong, it feels as if it’ll bring more bad luck, that’s all.”
“Your view of the rules of the universe?” Max’s eyebrows rise in amusement. He does not, Nora knows, believe the universe has particular rules when it comes to moral balancing acts.
“Nothing,” she replies dryly, “seems out of the question right now.”
“That is true, nothing human is ever out of the question. You know, I meant what I said about the hard part coming next. The duty is only to be strong enough to endure it.” Duty? Perhaps. He sets down his glass. “On the subject of being strong and enduring, however, I believe that short nap now will restore me.”
“All right, but remember you’re more than welcome to stay over if you change your mind. Use my room. The drapes are closed. If Beth is racketing around, shoo her downstairs, okay?”
Beth is not racketing around, Beth is in her room working quietly and just as fast as she can. Again no one is calling up to her, no one is tapping on her door, not even Max, whose slow, heavy footsteps she hears on the stairs and then entering Nora’s room and closing the door. No one here cares for her. No one here even feels they should care for her. She learns things too late.
How narrow she has become in two years in this house! After her shower she puts on the same plain blue linen pants she arrived in, with the same tucked-in plain yellow blouse, the sort of bus-passenger outfit she’s hardly worn since she came here and took to the romantic camouflages of those floaty dresses. It’s obvious in the mirror how loosely the pants hang at the waist, how her collarbones jut under the fall of the blouse. No wonder she was so hungry last night! A person could starve to death in this house.
She has pinned back her wet hair rather than brushing it out. She doesn’t bother with make-up. Her eyes look smaller, the left one wonkier. There are things that have come undone inside her today. Of course she is beautiful anyway.
Her heart’s beating too fast, it feels as if it could batter its way through its thin skin-and-bone walls.
People go on and on about love like it’s the most important as well as the most common thing in the world. But maybe it’s not either one. Maybe that’s sad, or maybe not.
Hearts downstairs beat more slowly. “I think,” Nora is saying as Sophie tops up their glasses and takes back her usual place in the chair Max has vacated, “I think I’d like to spend the rest of the day getting pissed.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sophie raises her glass. “Tell me about his first wife. Lynn? Was she always so awful?”
“I don’t know much about her, except I really thought she was nicely settled into a better life than she ever would have had with Philip. I mean, if it hadn’t been me, there’d have been somebody else, he always said that even though they were fond of each other, it was a mistake to get married. Of course she was upset when he left, but making that scene was really something, after so long.”
“The drive home with her husband will be interesting.”
“Yeah, I bet.” They grin at each other. How strange that they each think, This is nice. Just for the moment, This is nice.
“Phil?” Nora queries after a silence.
Sophie considers the levels and layers of her possible answers. “Phil,” she says finally.
There. Let the chips fall.
“I see. Oh well.”
Not exactly predictable, Nora. Or predictable only in her unpredictability. Or are they both just getting drunk extra-fast? In some unpredictable moods, that happens to people. Altered energy levels, Sophie imagines. Quicker into the bloodstream and up to the brain. She touches her head. She does enjoy the wiriness of her hair. Phil said he did, too. Nora’s, while shiny, has nothing in particular to recommend it. “Beth,” Sophie says aloud, “really thought the two of you could move away and live happily ever after together?”
“Yes, and very wound up she was. Happy Philip’s gone, and of the opinion I should be as well. No sex, she was clear on that score, that it wasn’t about sex at all, just some weird kind of love. At least she called it love. I’d say it was an insane few minutes. You were right, there is something wrong with her.”
“I wouldn’t have imagined that, though. Should I be offended she picked you and not me? Do you think it’s my size or my personality that put her off?”
Wine and brief laughter—that’s a pretty good deal for the third day. “Still,” Nora says finally, “I ought to go do something with her. Not that I have a clue how, but at least I’ve had enough to drink that I don’t care as much. Although I guess it’d be good to co
me up with suggestions for what she might do once I’ve gotten her out.”
“Pass on the burden?”
“The responsibility anyway. Same thing maybe. Pour me a little more, would you, Sophie? Then I’d better stagger upstairs and give it a shot.”
In the event, Beth pre-empts her. They hear her thumping, unusually gracelessly, down the stairs, followed by the heavier, slower, clump-clump of Max. When she appears in the living-room doorway she is dressed in plain blue pants and yellow tucked-in blouse, with her hair pinned back and no make-up, so that she looks surprisingly pinched, fan-shapes of tiny lines visible at her mouth, a patchwork of dry skin formed up at her hairline—once these things start they travel fast in thin skin. “I’m packed,” she announces. “I’m leaving.”
What?
From behind Beth, Max signals, palms up towards Nora and Sophie. “Yes, Beth has asked to come with me, and she is welcome. She will be company on my drive back. We should go now, I think. It will be getting dark, and I would like to be on the highway.”
“But what about all your things, Beth? And where will you go?”
“I have what I want. Max can drop me at the subway.” For all they know, she’s going to throw herself under a train. Or sleep on the streets. She has lived with them for nearly two years, day in and day out, but is suddenly capable of springing one surprise after another. Then again, strays are bound to be affected by their scrappy, mysterious histories. They flinch from an extended hand, or wrap themselves ingratiatingly around ankles, or bite for no earthly reason. And sometimes they just wander off.
Like Philip.
Now that Beth’s going—isn’t this often the way?—Nora feels a twinge of concern and even affection for the waif she was, until moments ago, gearing up to be rid of. Two years, all that work, those many hours spent in the studio scrutinizing and shifting Beth’s skin and posed bones, not much conversation because Nora was concentrating and anyway Beth never had much to say for herself, but still, there they were—and now it’s perfectly possible she’ll never see Beth again. That strikes Nora as sad, another loss; although probably only because this has already been such a big, bad week for abrupt and irreversible absences. It’s not as if she’s going to ask Beth to change her mind and stay on. “If you’re sure. But take good care, okay?” A stupid thing to say; at least Beth must think so, since she doesn’t reply.
Sophie frowns. Beth is so thin, if not necessarily frail, and appears to be wobblier in her emotions than anyone has supposed. What happens to someone so unprotected and apparently prone to misjudgment when she goes into the world? But fortunately this is not Sophie’s house, and she cannot invite Beth to stay. Guilt and relief trip over each other, not for the first time. “Yes,” she says, “you take care. Call if you need anything. Let me know where you are and I can send on anything you’ve forgotten.” Beth doesn’t dignify that remark either.
From the porch, Nora and Sophie watch her sling two fat suitcases into the small storage space of Max’s car. Max opens the passenger door for her, a courteous gesture, before stepping back up the walk. “You will be all right here, you two?”
“Sure, don’t worry. But you be careful, Max. On the drive back.” Nora doesn’t just mean highway hazards and traffic.
“I shall be very careful, but I am happy to take her. As to where, that will be up to her. She is an unusual young woman, but I believe competent enough. Perhaps we will talk on the way and I’ll learn her intentions. The important thing is that she leaves by her own choice. That saves you difficulties, I think.”
“I think so, too. Thanks, Max. For everything. We’ll talk.” Nora leans forward, kisses his cheek. As he turns, he and Sophie touch hands, exchange glances. That’s new. Nora and Sophie wave as Max’s car grinds and clatters away. He waves, too, but Beth does not even look back.
Her absence, considering she’s such a slight person, feels like a great weight lifted. Out of sight, out of mind? That’s awfully cold. Still, there it is. Sophie says, “Thank God that’s over,” and they turn back to the house, two women still wearing black and due to a good deal of wine, not entirely steady on their feet.
A very few nights ago four people lived in this house. Now there are two. The living room feels enormous, the sofa and chairs and tables all outsized. Nora resumes her corner of the sofa where Philip should be close enough to touch with her toes; or he could reach out to her shoulder. Sophie is back in her wing chair observatory. It’s hard to absorb all the sway and tilt of the past couple of days. Nora’s voice is mellow and slurred when she says finally, “Philip’s ashes.”
“What about them?”
“There ought to be something fantastic to do with them, don’t you think?”
“You mean put them someplace he liked? That’s a good idea. How about the river? Except that’s probably against the law. Under a tree, then? In his shop somehow?” Or across a significant patch of yard behind his shop, that would mean something, too.
“No, no, I don’t mean scattering them or burying them, I mean using them.”
What the hell is she talking about?
“Listen.” A great bubble of fresh grief rises up into Nora’s throat; followed by a familiar bubble of something more comforting. “How about Portrait in Ash, don’t you think Philip would like that? Or just Husband. Isn’t that an odd word? Husband. So old-fashioned, like shepherd, something there’s no real call for any more. A profession whose time has come and gone.” Sophie is gaping. “Don’t look like that. For heaven’s sake, how long have you lived here?”
As if Sophie, with her hand over her mouth, is the offending one. “Not so long you can’t still surprise me, that’s for sure. You’re talking about using him in your work?”
“Exactly. I’ll have to be careful, though. I wonder where I could find out about working with ash? Especially that kind of ash. Because if I screwed up, I couldn’t exactly run out for more, could I?”
“Is this a joke?” Nora’s version of all that You’re kidding Sophie has already had to put up with?
“Not at all. It’d be like a tribute, sort of. A monument. Why, don’t you think Philip would approve?”
Sophie has, come to think of it, no idea. He might be affronted, enraged, he might be amused, he might, for all she knows, be honoured and touched. He grows less tangible. His image wavers. Sophie keeps a good grip on his hands, although even if they’re nothing like cheap department store sculptures of hands raised in prayer, cast in fake plaster or bronze, they’re banal enough compared with what Nora’s suggesting.
And there is Nora, yes, growing shiny with purpose, intention, drunkenness. How lucky she is, seeing no need, apparently, to be even a nice person, much less a good one. As if she’s entitled to these antagonistic, angry, frivolous, enthusiastic, freakish outbursts. Put her in a refugee camp and only the figures and shapes might appeal. The lumps and bumps of impromptu graveyards would form tapestries, and reaching arms would be slips of fabric, wonderfully embroidered. How chilly, eerie and enviable.
No wonder she gets into trouble.
“I can see you don’t approve, Sophie, but most people only have headstones. Don’t you think Philip would like the idea of a different sort of memorial? Something unique? I can’t think he’d appreciate sitting in a closet or up on a mantel, or for that matter being buried. He liked being the centre of attention.”
So he did. But Nora seems to think there is a good use for what remains of a human. Whereas there is not. There may have to be ends, but there are no good uses. Well, except for organ transplants, but that’s different.
Nora straightens, as best she can. “I guess it sounds strange, but everyone who cared is bereft in their own way, and this would be mine.” Sophie likes the sound of bereft, even from Nora, who may or may not know how deep and hard a word it can be. It’s better than bereaved, anyway. That’s a sort of collective, a group: The Bereaved. Not personal, not individual.
“Have you made plans yet, Sophie? Have you thought wh
at you might want to do?” If Beth hadn’t got a jump on events, this is how Nora might have approached her: easing into the subject while inexorably easing her out of the house. It’s more than a hint that Sophie had better get a move on. She has more life to pack up than Beth did, and even if she’d thought of it, wouldn’t have been able just to toss a couple of suitcases into the back of a car. Obviously time’s up, but Sophie wishes her head were clearer—Nora’s a hard one to keep up with, she’s just full of surprises.
“I don’t know. I’ll leave as fast as I can, but I haven’t had time to think where I’ll go. Can you give me a couple of days?”
Nora’s eyebrows go up, her mouth down. “Sophie! I didn’t mean you should leave, I was just wondering if you have anything in particular you want to do. Because if you don’t, I have a suggestion. There’s lots of reasons you might hate the idea, but let me pull a Beth and spring it on you anyway.”
Was Nora’s mind not the first to leap ahead of the others’ two mornings ago, when she woke up to find Philip dead beside her? Even drunk, and as she says bereft, she is light-footed as she vaults across chasms of dread and sorrow and loss. So Sophie imagines. “What idea?”
“That you’d stay on. If I’m going to do this, it seems to me I’ll have to stay where he always said he belonged in his bones. Which does not, let me say, cheer me up one little bit. But there it is. And I don’t want to be here on my own. So if you don’t have immediate plans, what would you think about staying, too?”
Sophie has two economics degrees. She used to have huge, world-saving ambitions, massive, hopeless desires. She is more fit than she once was, thanks to Phil and, to be honest, Nora as well, but the question remains, fit for what?
She also thinks Nora sounds oddly pleading. Well, Sophie can see why she wouldn’t want to stay here alone. “If you’re sure. Maybe. For a while. You’re right, otherwise there’s a lot to think through all at once.” She remembers to add, “Thank you.” But how will they co-exist, even with plenty of extra room in this newly spacious house, when Sophie has only half her previous duties and an awful shortage of recognizable joys, while Nora’s busy playing about with Phil’s ashes?