What It Takes to Be Human

by Marilyn Bowering

  MARILYN BOWERING is an award-winning novelist, poet and playwright whose first novel, To All Appearances a Lady, was a New York Times Notable Book. Her second novel, Visible Worlds, was shortlisted for the prestigious Orange Prize, nominated for the Dublin IMPAC Prize and awarded the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize.

  Bowering was born in Winnipeg and grew up in Victoria, B.C. She has lived in the United States, Greece, Scotland, Spain and Canada, and now makes her home in Sooke, British Columbia.

  Also by Marilyn Bowering

  FICTION

  The Visitors Have All Returned

  To All Appearances a Lady

  Visible Worlds

  Cat’s Pilgrimage

  POETRY

  The Killing Room

  Sleeping with Lambs

  Giving Back Diamonds

  The Sunday Before Winter: New and Selected Poetry

  Grandfather Was a Soldier

  Anyone Can See I Love You

  Calling All the World

  Love As It Is

  Autobiography

  Human Bodies: New and Selected Poems, 1987–1999

  The Alchemy of Happiness

  PENGUIN

  an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited

  Canada • USA • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  First published 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Marilyn Bowering

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Bowering, Marilyn, 1949–

  What it takes to be human / Marilyn Bowering.

  ISBN: 9780143053873 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9780735234338 (electronic)

  I. Title.

  PS8553.O9W53 2006 C813’.54 C2006-902610-6

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Marilyn Bowering

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  In memory of Elnora and Herb Bowering

  “Understand that thou hast within thyself herds of cattle…flocks of sheep and flocks of goats…understand that the fowls of the air are also within thee.

  Understand that thou thyself art another world in little, and hast within thee the sun and the moon, and also the stars. Thou seest that thou hast all those things which the world hath.”

  —Origen, Alchemical Writings

  “I never was a Communist. I never played cards or pool. I never murdered or raped anybody; have never given anyone pornographic literature or drugs and never drowned anyone or put anybody to death. I do not smoke or drink or take drugs.

  Do not black out any of my words or say I am a liar or discredit any sentences lest God cause worms to eat your tongue until you repent.”

  —Alexander (Sandy) Grey

  “For when she passeth by,

  She casteth from the heart all sinfull love,

  Each villain thought she freezes, and lays low:

  And those Love suffers in her presence, lo!

  They are ennobled, or thereof must die:

  And when he finds one worthy to draw nigh,

  Such one full quickly doth her virtue prove,

  Her greeting can his sinfulness remove,

  So humble he becomes all vices fly,

  And God hath lent her grace, e’en greater still

  Who hath had speech with her can ne’er end ill.”

  —Dante, Vita Nuova

  “An ocean without its unnamed monsters would be like a completely dreamless sleep.”

  —John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez

  “Any fool can disbelieve in sea serpents…”

  —Archie Willis (editor, Victoria Daily Times), 1933

  ONE

  September 12, 1939

  The trees whoosh in the wind, their leaves are green and black in the Ford headlights that bounce up and down through the grey dust of the road. Up for heaven, down for hell. Orange circles of light that send signals, maybe, to enemy planes gliding down the dark arm of the inlet to spy on the airport at Patricia Bay. My hand is caught like a flipper in the window strap, my other hand is cuffed to the constable sitting beside me in the back. He is fatter than me. He smells like wet wool. We bump past a small cemetery—the graves are rows of pincushions stuck with white crosses; one tall white cross stands firm against the black glitter of the sea where the fishermen can see it—then the driver puts in the clutch and lets the police car run down the last few ruts of the dirt road to the ferry dock.

  “Hey, Sandy,” the constable says, “maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of Caddy tonight. Heh heh.” He jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. The driver also laughs. They know, everybody who has listened to my father preach knows, that the sea serpent, Cadborosaurus, will rise out of the sea in the Last Days. My father says the Last Days are now, since war was declared on Sunday. He says I’m needed more than ever at home, we must stay together to fight Satan. I do not believe what my father believes, but nobody knows this yet but me.

  The fat constable has released himself and huffed down to the dock to see if the Brentwood is coming. The other policeman, the driver, the young one chewing gum, has opened my door. He pulls me out and locks both my hands together in front of me. When I raise my hands to wipe the sweat from my forehead, he steps back.

  I smell seaweed and smoke.

  “Please take my hat off,” I say to the young policeman. “My head is itchy.”

  “Bugger off,” he says. He takes a drag on his cigarette. His free hand drifts to the gun holstered to his Sam Browne but he lets it fall when we hear the drone of an airplane. We both look up.

  “It’s an Avro 626,” I say. I can see the plane’s double wings against the puffs of clouds. The moon is rising like the bubble in a barometer from behind the hills.

  “Is it, now?” the policeman says.

  “Yes. You can tell from the sound of the Armstrong-Siddeley Lynx engine.”

  “You planning on joining up?” he asks me. “When this”—he gestures to my handcuffs—“is over?” He takes my hat off for me and spins it through the open window of the car so it lands on the back seat.

  “I’m nineteen years old,” I say.

  “You mean your old man won’t let you,” he says.

  “He can’t stop me.”

  “I bet he w
anted to. Say, is that why you tried to…?”

  I turn away to watch the plane begin its lowering circuits over the airport. By the time I’ve lost sight of it, the Brentwood is nearing the dock, pushing the stink of burning diesel across the pier and up the roadway. This will be the last run of the evening.

  “She’s running late,” I say.

  “Get in quick, the both of you!” says the fat constable who has panted back to the car. “Hurry up!” He looks around anxiously. They had to send to Victoria for the car to get me. They don’t have one of their own. They aren’t used to this. They’re used to the village and one telephone and laughing behind our backs at my father. They’re not used to my father with blood on his face, turning me in.

  I wait for the driver to open my door. He steps in front of me to do so. He’s a slender man, and I’m tall, and every day for the past year, while I was away at college, I exercised with Indian clubs. It would be simple to raise my cuffed fists and bring them down on the back of his neck. I could make my escape, but then what?

  The door is open. I get in beside the constable. We drive up the gangway and onto the car deck, the last of the half-dozen or so cars to load.

  You can tell how people are with boats right away: The driver is fine, he’s made himself comfortable with his cigarettes, over by the wheelhouse, talking to a seaman winding ropes. But even before we’ve reached our full speed the constable sitting beside me has turned green.

  “You’ll feel better outside,” I tell him. “Take deep breaths, go to the bow, away from the exhaust.” Beads of sweat stand on his forehead. “Go on,” I say, “you don’t want to be sick in here.”

  Five minutes later I’m out in the wind, too. They’ve left my door unlocked, because they know me, they know what Sandy Grey will do, so I’ve eased the handle down with my elbow. Salt spray cools my face as I thread through the vehicles to the guardrail. The other passengers have left their cars and climbed the steps to the superstructure, out of the elements. The wheelhouse is dark to protect the steersman’s eyesight. There is only a slit of light seepage from the canvas over the lounge windows. The waves glow where the hull parts them, but the rest of the water as far as I can see, north towards the inlet opening, and southeast to Brentwood pier, where we’ll land in half an hour, is black, trembling, shining.

  “You wouldn’t have a light on you, would you?” A woman slips in beside me to lean against the bulkhead. Her raincoat is open and flaps in the wind. Her long legs shimmer in their silk stockings. A hat with a velvet band holds most of her hair away from her face, but a few blond strands blow across her forehead.

  “No, sorry.” I raise my hands so she can see the cuffs on them.

  “Oh my, you’re worse off than I am.” She fumbles through her handbag and comes up with a single match. She has to turn her back to me to light the cigarette. When she’s done, and the tip is red and glowing, she bends towards me and places it between my lips. Her breath is sweet and astringent with gin. “Any last words from the condemned man?” she says. She has perfect skin and deep shadows below made-up eyes.

  “No, none,” I say through the cigarette.

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping for some excitement. Isn’t it too goddamn boring here?”

  “What? Not for me.” The cigarette wobbles on my lips.

  She laughs. “I don’t suppose.” She takes the cigarette. “What’s your name?” she asks, scrunching her eyes up against the smoke.

  “I’m Sandy. Sandy Grey.”

  “Well, Sandy Grey, my name is Georgina, and you know what? You’re the only man worth talking to on this bolt-bucket.” She flicks the cigarette butt over the side. The spark as it arcs to the water sends a tremor through my knees. “What did you do, Sandy Grey, to get yourself into this mess, whatever it is? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  “I know. I wanted to enlist but my father wouldn’t let me.”

  “Wouldn’t let you? Hey, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen! You’re younger than my son! Well, you know what, Mr. Sandy Grey, you’re old enough to do what you want.”

  She’s noticed that I’m shaking, so she puts her arm through mine. “It’s going to be all right. I know it.” She squeezes my elbow. “Just pretend I’m your mother…. Talk to me, and I’ll give you some advice.”

  “I don’t have a mother anymore.”

  “Well, pretend, anyway, and I’ll pretend you’re my son. Tell me what happened.”

  So I tell her, and she doesn’t make me feel ashamed or guilty and she doesn’t say anything about my crying.

  “I’d have done the same in your place, in the circumstances,” she says, “but it does look bad, doesn’t it. What do you think they’ll do with you?”

  “Take me to jail. Put me on trial.”

  “And you’ll tell them what you’ve just told me?”

  “Yes. I’ll have to. I’ll have to tell the truth.”

  “Jesus,” she says. “I really don’t think you should do that, Sandy. A lot of people aren’t going to understand.” Georgina chews at a painted lip.

  “What do you think I should do, Georgina?”

  “Get the hell out of here, of course!” she says sharply. Then she smiles up into my eyes.

  “Thank you, Georgina,” I say. “I’ll always remember you.”

  When you exercise with Indian clubs, you build up your wrists, the chest is expanded, the muscles of the legs and arms are greatly improved. If you persevere in their use you become ambidextrous, the grasp of the hands is made firmer. I step close to her and slowly, so that she can move away if she wants to, I place my lips on hers. I can taste her lipstick. Her mouth moves like soft pillows under mine.

  “Goodbye,” I say. I place my joined hands on the rail and I swing myself up and over. In the air I find my form and dive like an angel.

  When I strike the surface of the water I cut straight through; the cold strips me of breath, and I plummet towards the bottomless trench of the inlet. Green and yellow eyes track me in the blackness—“The great dragon which deceiveth the whole world; she was cast out into the sea.”

  —

  By the time I surface I have kicked off my shoes. I can do nothing about the jacket that drags at my shoulders, but although I’m not a good swimmer, I can float and I have endurance. The inlet is sheltered and it has warmed all summer. Perhaps I could stay here for hours. The stern of the Brentwood is a considerable distance away. There are no spotlights, no whistles, no shouts of “Man overboard!”

  Soon the ferry vanishes into the mist as it passes a small island. I turn on my back and kick my feet and head back the way we’ve come.

  —

  The biggest tides in the world flow in and out of the Bay of Fundy. As a girl, my mother stood on the dikes and watched them. The tides here are not great ones like those, but I’m no fool, not me, Sandy Grey, and I know what has happened. I can no longer make progress towards the shore. No matter how hard I try, the tide and currents take me where they will. Now, when I twist my head to check, the dock lights are not closer, as they should be, but more distant, and falling behind. A cool ripple slides beneath me, water splashes in my mouth, then there’s a sweep of warmth along my back and the water turns to black oil. I glide effortlessly farther and farther towards the mouth of the inlet.

  —

  If you look on a map, you’ll see that the coastline of the peninsula on the inlet’s eastern shore takes the shape of a crow. Low on its breast is the dock to where the Brentwood crosses. Tucked under its chin is Patricia Bay, and reaching inland, from the beak towards the eye, is the airport runway. Its end lights are brilliant now as I rise and fall on the smoothly rolling waters. I am so near the point of land where the airstrip begins that I’m sure I can swim to it. It is less than fifty yards away. I turn on my side and sweep my arms up and down, as if pumping a speed car, and I scissor with my legs: I won’t have to cross mountains and return to the prairie, I won’t have
to run away, I’ll be right here at headquarters, in the thick of things. But the cold water returns just when I start to get somewhere, and tugs me backwards.

  The landing lights fade.

  This time I ride a current down the east side of the inlet in a swirl of white water that frills submerged foothills. To the west are the lights of little towns, and pale scree and gravel beaches, and the occasional thrum of a fishing boat grinding from port into the night towards its catch. On the nearer shore, lights in cabins and in the high windows of large estate houses blink off. I am too tired to swim.

  Call for help, Sandy, whispers the voice of the mother I had lost as a boy, where there’s life, there’s hope. I open my mouth to cry out, and a small wave fills it; then another and another. The sea boils and blackens; something long and humped rises beside me, water streams from its back. It turns its snakelike head and examines me with the flame of its eyes, then it undulates and rolls, the muscles of its body ripple, it flips its tail and propels itself forward, and I’m caught and lifted in the surge of its wake.

  My father is right, we are in the Last Days.

  —

  “Jesus, Sandy Grey, you gave me a fright. Take hold of the paddle. I’ll haul you in.” Georgina leans over from a rowboat and slips an oar under the chain linking my hands. “If you hadn’t started splashing, I’d never have found you. Damn you, I’d have blamed myself, too. I should know better than to give advice. Do you always take people so literally?”

  “Sorry, Georgina.”

  My teeth chatter as she grabs me by the belt and does her best to heave me over the stern. “You didn’t give me away?”

  “No, I damn well didn’t, and I’m not going to now, so lie down in the bottom and be quiet. Those goddamn cops are all over the place.”