by K. D. Miller
Do you see, Eliot? It’s been weeks! Not just a little while, as you keep saying. Weeks since we made love. You were so affectionate. And then suddenly, for no reason—
He deleted all their long email strings. Removed Jill from his contacts. All he has left is that letter. Why did he even pack it?
By the time Eliot met Jill, he had retired from his job, put his wife into an institution, alienated his daughter, sold his house, and moved into his first condominium. It all happened in the course of one summer, leaving him too exhausted to unpack.
He lived in a domestic landscape of sealed cardboard boxes and blank walls, waking each morning to drink his coffee and eat his cereal out of the same cup and bowl, which he then rinsed and set to dry on a single tea towel draped over an otherwise bare kitchen counter. For lunch and dinner, he either ordered in or ate out, until his stomach rebelled and he realized to his embarrassment that he had a nodding acquaintance with every waiter in the neighbourhood.
So one day he forced himself to unpack his kitchen stuff. Bathroom the next day—he had been getting by with one towel, a bar of soap, his stick of deodorant, and a razor. Bedroom and living room followed, until finally only the boxes containing framed art and photo albums were left. He hung the art, mostly posters for plays and concerts, in the living room and bedroom. Then he got the idea of decorating the kitchen with framed photographs of his parents and grandparents. He even had a few daguerreotypes of his great-grandparents.
It didn’t occur to him until he was on his way to Macklin’s Framing on James Street that all the photographs in the zippered leather case tucked under his arm were of dead people. Not one was of Caroline or Mary. He felt a small, cold thrill, as if he were getting away with something.
In the frame shop, he allowed himself to enjoy watching Jill Macklin work. Her small hands lining each photograph up so deftly on the work table. Her greying bob of hair that swung forward whenever she brought a mat sample flush to a corner. And that girlish biting of her lower lip—This one? No, maybe this one?—when she was teaming frame with mat.
It was so pleasant to be in the company of a woman who looked at him with clear, gentle eyes. Who seemed—who was interested in what he had to say about retiring and moving and wanting to hang old family pictures in his kitchen.
The store was empty. Jill’s assistant was off that day. It was just the two of them. “I’m a widower,” Eliot heard himself say. And as soon as he said it, as soon as the expression in Jill Macklin’s eyes softened, became concerned and caring—for him—what he had just said became true. And so he asked her out to dinner.
Eliot goes back into the living room with his coffee. Settles into his chair. Picks up Octopus Heart. Tries to read. Can’t concentrate. Puts the book aside.
When was the last time he drove to Hamilton to see Caroline? He should try to keep track somehow. Or make a decision—say, second Tuesday of the month. Then stick to it. For some reason.
Soon after they got home from visiting Mary in Sackville, Caroline’s symptoms began to show. It took a while for them to become alarming. It was a running joke in their marriage that her job was to forget where her car keys were so he could do his job, which was to remind her of where she always put them. But the day came when she seemed not to know what the keys were for. He found her sitting behind the wheel, looking back and forth from the objects in her hand to the dash. He knew then that he could no longer dismiss her confusion as flakiness. She must have known too. When he gently suggested she put the key in the ignition, she snapped, “I can do it!” Then got out of the car and wandered back into the house.
“I can do it” became her mantra. She growled it at him when he tried to brush the tangles out of her hair or apply deodorant to her armpits. Only by lying, telling her that Mary was coming for a visit, could he persuade her to put on clean clothes. When their daughter actually did arrive from Sackville during the school holidays, Caroline would soften and smile, holding her arms out to her, making something resembling conversation.
“Did she say anything about me?” Eliot asked Mary once when he had left her and her mother alone together for a while.
“No. Why?”
“Well, early on, she was convinced I was having an affair with Ceely Thomas.” A woman in Caroline’s book club. Which she had joined at his suggestion, then abruptly quit, about the time she forgot what to do with her car keys. She claimed it was because she couldn’t stand the sight of Ceely any more. Couldn’t stand having to imagine what she and Eliot had been up to.
“Well? Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Having an affair.”
“Mary!”
What Mary saw when she visited was a mother tender and victimized. She never saw Caroline fighting Eliot in the shower when he tried to wash her hair, going at his eyes with fingernails crooked like talons. Things came to a head when he refused to trundle Caroline down to the States for some treatment Mary had read about on the internet. Some doctor the AMA was denouncing as a fraud had posted before-and-after videos of people whose dementia he had miraculously cured. For a fee that would have beggared Eliot.
“Mary. Honey. You have an education. Consider the source, for God’s sake. Those are actors in those videos. This man should be in jail.”
She looked at him then the way Caroline had been looking at him for almost a year.
Early on, there had still been good days, when Caroline was her old, reasonable self. But these had become so rare that when they occurred he couldn’t trust them. Couldn’t relax. It was almost a relief when a good day would end, and the next morning he would wake to an empty bed. Come downstairs to find his wife staring out the kitchen window, a bitter twist to her mouth. Turning eyes on him that were cold and accusing.
“You don’t love my mother, do you?” Mary finally said.
“Of course I do.” The lie rang like a bell between them.
“This isn’t Ella.”
The octopus in the tank is smaller, and has a rougher, darker hide. And when it opens one eye there is no recognition in its gaze.
“That’s right, sir. Good for you. This is Oscar.” It’s the same young female guide who was there on his first visit, when he first saw Ella over the heads of all those kids.
“Where’s Ella?”
“Ella’s just taking a little break. But Oscar’s a real ham. If you’ll—”
“Is she all right?” He shouldn’t have interrupted. Or sounded so gruff. The girl has stopped smiling. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just kind of—got to know Ella.” And she got to know me. “I’ve been reading up about octopuses. They interest me.”
The girl’s face relaxes. “Oh. Well. Then I guess I can tell you that Ella showed signs of being ready to spawn. So we—”
“Oh no!”
“She’s fine. Nothing to worry about. We just moved her—”
“Has she laid eggs yet?”
“Well, yes she has. And she’s just great with them. She—”
“No, she’s not just great. She can’t be. She’s going to die. And you know that. They lay eggs and then they starve to death.”
“Sir, could I ask you to lower your voice, please?” Heads are turning. Parents are starting to pull at their children’s hands.
“Look, I don’t want to give you any trouble. But I’m not a kid. And I’m not some ignoramus. So don’t tell me Ella’s fine and she’s just great when we both know she’s—”
“Hi. Everything okay here?”
Oh, Christ. The security guard. The girl must have signalled to him. They must think he’s some kind of nut.
“Would you like to take a seat over here, sir? I could get you some water if you like. Sir? Sir?”
He has turned and headed for the men’s room. Once inside, he locks himself in a cubicle and leans his fists against the wall. Leans his forehead against his
fists.
“Everything okay?” Bill. In the Rendezvous. Pausing in the middle of cutting his steak.
Eliot jerks his head up from where he’s been staring at his untouched mussels. He knows what the natural, normal thing to say is. Sorry, Bill. Guess I didn’t sleep so well last night. Hey, did you catch that game—
“I had something wrong with me. A few months ago. Turned out to be nothing. But for a while there I thought I was going to die.”
He stops talking. Waits for Bill to say, Sorry to hear that so they can safely change the subject. The silence tightens between them.
He’s not going to cry, damn it. He does enough of that at home. He’ll be doing dishes or watching TV, and the tears will just start to leak. As if he’s filled to the brim with them and they have to spill over. Today he squeezed half a bottle of drops into his eyes to get rid of the red before setting out to have lunch with Bill.
Is he having some kind of a breakdown? He can’t stop thinking about Ella tending to her eggs. Slowly starving to death. Maybe that’s why he’s doing a few strange things of his own.
Last week he drove to Hamilton to see Caroline. Kissed the cheek she tried to turn away from him. Smiled into her glare. Sat beside her for an hour, resting his hand palm up on the armrest of her chair. Just so she could see it. Know it was there for the taking.
Yesterday he started yet another reply to Jill’s letter.
… what I did to you, Jill. It was not so much a matter of changing as reverting to type. It’s hard to explain, but …
That’s as far as he got. But for once he didn’t crumple up the attempt and toss it.
And this morning he scrolled down a list of public schools in Sackville. Recognized the name of Mary’s. Clicked on FACULTY. And there she was. His girl. Still teaching kindergarten.
He hasn’t broken the silence yet. Finally, Bill says, “Sorry to hear that. Had a bit of a scare myself. Couple of years ago.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“Prostate.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m okay now. Just not the man I was.”
“Who is?”
Should he tell Bill what else he did this morning? How he bought a plane ticket to Moncton and booked a cab from there to Sackville? How he’s planning to be in Mary’s classroom when she arrives fresh from her walk through the waterfowl park? Looking up at her from one of those tiny chairs?
HIGGS BOSON
Is it the way they walk? That deliberate placing of each hoof. Like printing. Or planting. Marion could stand and watch horses walking all day. Circling round and round in the paddock. These last few minutes after her lesson. It’s almost as good as riding, watching others ride.
“Had enough?” Steve. Wanting to go.
In the car she says, “I think I’m starting to get the hang of the rising trot.”
“Yeah, you weren’t bouncing around so much this time.”
“It’s funny. I get it. Then I lose it. Soon as I start to think about it.”
“So don’t think about it.”
She smiles, looking at his profile. His hands on the wheel. Don’t think about it is his mantra.
“Patrick’s coming for lunch tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah? Is he bringing—”
“No,” she says quickly. “Ranald’s away on a job.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees his shoulders relax. He doesn’t like their son’s husband. Has trouble even saying his name. It probably doesn’t help, her jumping in and saying it for him.
They’re home. Steve keeps the engine running as she unbuckles her seat belt. “You okay if I go in to work for a couple of hours?”
She lets out a sigh. She could say, No. I’m not okay with that. It’s a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. We could sit out in the back with iced tea and talk, for God’s sake. Or she could say, That’ll reduce your stress and lower your blood pressure the way you’ve been told to do, won’t it? But she just opens the passenger door and says, “Supper at six.”
“How about I pick up some wine?”
“You do that. Something good and expensive.”
She goes in the side door, humming I will hold the world together in my arms. She wrote folk songs when she was in university. Sang them in her wavering soprano, accompanying herself on the guitar. She only knew about four chords, but that kept her tunes within her limited range. Now all that remains is this one musical phrase, one bit of lyric that she breathes to herself now and then. I will hold the world together in my arms.
Marion is almost afraid of how important her horseback-riding lesson has become. It reminds her of when she was a child and Christmas just days away. She would torment herself, imagining her disappointment if she woke up on the morning and discovered there was no such thing as Christmas, never had been, that it was all a dream. Silly. But she’ll be getting groceries and suddenly the cart she’s pushing will be a long, mane-tufted neck. A bobbing head. Two alert ears swivelling to every sound. And she’ll feel that big, warm body under her again, sway to that rhythm of working muscle and bone, smell that smell of leather and sweat.
Patrick and Ranald gave her a package of ten lessons for her sixtieth birthday. Basic Equitation for Beginners. They had tucked the pamphlet inside her card. Students will learn to saddle and bridle their mount, to command a walk, sitting trot, rising trot, and canter. At the instructor’s discretion, their final lesson will be an independent solo trail ride. “Come on, Mom,” Patrick said when she protested. “You’ve been wanting to do this forever.” All right. She guessed she had, even though she’d never actually said so. But whenever she caught sight of mounted police or horses in a field, she would say, “Oh, look at those lovely big boys!” Patrick must have heard the yearning in her voice. Seen it in her eyes.
Up till then, her first and only ride had been ten years ago, in Bermuda, of all places. She and Steve had finally made the trip because they’d run out of excuses not to. Patrick had his master’s in education and was through his teacher training. He had moved in with Ranald and had a job lined up for the fall. Her and Steve’s twenty-fifth anniversary was looming. So there was no more avoiding that Bermuda honeymoon they had promised themselves back when they were students and believed nothing could stop them. Before she got pregnant and he went to work in his father’s construction company to support his all-of-a-sudden family.
They stayed at a resort consisting of a string of little housekeeping cottages. The ceramic plaque mounted beside the door identified theirs as Spindrift. It had a date palm growing on its tiny front lawn, and a patio where the two of them had their breakfasts, Marion turned to face the turquoise water and perfect sky, Steve focussed on his Blackberry.
Every morning, while Steve slept on, Marion slipped out of bed and took a walk by herself to the ferry dock and back. She would stay a few minutes leaning on the railing, looking down into the water and, if nobody else was around, crying. Grieving for her twenty-five-years-ago self. How that girl would have cherished Spindrift. She would have been so proud of the tiny kitchenette, heating up soup for them both, making grilled-cheese sandwiches, daring to broil bacon one morning in the grubby toaster oven.
Now, everything was a mockery. The chameleon on the wall she would have delighted in pointing out to Steve. The raven at low tide she would have told him about—the way it anchored a periwinkle with one foot while spearing out the meat with its beak. Worst was the king-sized bed that dominated Spindrift’s main room. It was big enough to let Steve keep his distance, turned on his side with his back to her. One cold night—Bermuda surprised them with how chilly it could get—she whispered, “Steve. Please. Hold me. I’m freezing.” There was a long pause. She knew he was awake. Then, when he turned wordlessly in the dark and put his arms around her, his hands were curled into fists.
They had been warned to bring umbrellas and waterproof jackets, but day after
day was sunny and clear. Another mockery, like the light conversation they managed to keep up. Marion let Steve choose what they were going to do each day, listening while he read aloud from pamphlets about crystal caves and pink-sand beaches. And horseback riding.
“Hey. There’s a Morning Splash ride. On the beach. You get to take the horse into the water.”
“Sounds like fun,” Marion said brightly, her mouth dry. She had never been on a horse in her life, and the thought scared her. But she was trying to be a good sport by day, in hopes that the nights might turn into something less awful. So maybe if she made this effort. Took this risk.
The awfulness had started long before Bermuda. Since Patrick had moved out, the house had been echoing between the two of them. They hadn’t touched each other in—weeks? Almost two months. The more delicately and tenderly she tried to get him to talk about it, the more he dodged her. It was just the job, he said. Stressing him out. Construction always tanked when there was a recession. She knew that. So why couldn’t she just remember it? And why did their scrambled eggs always have to be so wet? And why couldn’t she learn to do stuff on the computer without always having to ask him for help? And would she please stop worrying? Her worrying was driving him nuts.
The riding stable they went to in Bermuda was called Spicelands. The young woman in charge introduced herself as Trace. Her skin was the colour of café au lait and her accent that strange Bermudian mix—somewhere between Caribbean and Cockney.
Marion heard the horse she was going to ride before she saw him. A hollow clopping on wood. Then there he was, nodding his big head in time with his steps as Trace led him out.
“This is Frank.”
“Hello, Frank,” she said to the wall-eyed gaze. The lids blinked slowly, like blinds going down, then up. She raised a hand. Dropped it.
“Go ahead. Pat his nose. Get to know him.”
A nose more than a foot long. Hard under the hair. Another blink from eyes eight inches apart. “You have freckles,” she said, feeling foolish but needing to say something. “Like a Dalmatian.”