That afternoon, the neighbourhood children, returning from school, milled about on the sidewalk, looking at the hollow formed in the snow by Katherine’s body, at the big footprints in the driveway made by the ambulance workers, the policemen.
Katherine wasn’t buried, of course, until spring, when the earth softened. As we couldn’t afford a headstone, the grave was marked with a simple brass plaque set in the ground. I didn’t attend the interment or ever see her grave. I couldn’t make myself go and look at it. That summer, however, William, passing by the cemetery, parked his pickup truck outside the iron gates and went in to pay his respects. He climbed up the gentle knoll and went down the other side, past the old knotted willow trunks to where the sloping land gave a view of factories, railway tracks, working-class homes blackened with soot. He discovered a beautiful headstone standing on Katherine’s grave. Who could have put it there but the lover?
William came directly home, returning to the cemetery with a sledgehammer. He knocked the headstone down and shattered it into a hundred pieces. The earth around Katherine’s coffin must surely have shaken with his blows, so that even in death she couldn’t escape his fury. Why did William destroy the stone? What was his anger all about? Did it have to do with the weight swinging in his balls? Was it the rage of his own unsown seed? For don’t all men want to have these seeds pouring out of them continuously, like a viscous river? Don’t they long for the supreme, the unsurpassable happiness of shooting their milk into a woman’s body? Nothing in life, no other joy, seems to compare with this. And doesn’t all moral outrage, when it comes to sex, have to do with envy, with one’s own hunger for the same forbidden fruit? But William could have emptied all the seed he’d ever sown — and more — onto Katherine’s grave, and still he couldn’t have brought her back.
Lawyers are tenacious people, bent on winning. Comfortable in his great stone house with the bright red door and the long black shutters and the row of dormers pushing through the steep black roof, all the wealthy lover needed to do was lift the telephone receiver from its cradle, give instructions to the carver, to the engraver of headstones, and another monument would be erected. After William knocked the first headstone to pieces, the lawyer put another up and another, each more elaborate than the one before, with Greek urns and flowing stone drapery and elaborate crosses and finally a kneeling angel, life-size, praying under a marble arch. William didn’t bother to strike the fourth one down. Did he understand at last that the lawyer had more money than he, her father, had energy to undo these tributes to Katherine? And that he — William — could beat every last one of these gravestones to a fine powder and still he couldn’t destroy the idea that his daughter had slept with a married man?
The past! How much more of it can I bear?
Dear girls,
…I’ve been to the cemetery to visit Katherine’s grave. I hung a small homemade Christmas wreath around the neck of the crouching angel. When I came away, I couldn’t help asking myself one question: Why have we women made men the custodians of our bodies?…
December 19
Dear girls,
…All these months I’ve watched your father weep over his useless legs and his speechlessness, naively believing that he wanted to return home to me. Only now does it cross my mind that, if words began suddenly to pour like a river from his mouth and his limbs to operate again, he’d walk out of the hospital and turn, not in the direction of our humble crescent, but toward the prairie. Because I, his wife, Morgan Hazzard, have never acknowledged the West, have I? Or wanted to understand the passion in your father’s loins or the anger in his fists? And thinking now of the night I rushed him to the hospital, I do wonder if he was indeed knocked down by a stroke or if in fact it was all about escape and your father’s lifelong desire to be free of me…
December 20
Dear Mother,
… I thought we agreed that we’d take turns calling. It seems to me I made the last call and even though it’s nearly Christmas, I simply will not call again until I’ve heard from you. I don’t suppose you’ve thought of writing instead? Yes, I know you once told me that whenever you try to write a letter, you feel so exposed. I have to wonder: Exactly what is it you want to hide, Mother? In any case, the ball’s in your court. Life is a two-way street. So unless you’ve gone blind or something, for God’s sake, put pen to paper…
Your daughter,
Marie
December 23
Dear girls,
…Yesterday afternoon I returned again to the cemetery wanting to look at my wreath hanging like a necklace on Katherine’s kneeling angel, hoping to share with her a moment of Christmas cheer. But when I descended the difficult slope to her grave, the wreath was gone. I searched in the snow, thinking the wind must have blown it off, but it was nowhere to be found and now I’m convinced that Goodie Hodnet, who seems to be monitoring all my movements, stalking me up and down the streets of Simplicity, stole into the cemetery after I departed and lifted the wreath from the angel’s shoulders…
Last night it began to rain heavily and when I awoke this morning it was still coming down in sheets. I got up and went into the kitchen to make breakfast, only to discover that the stove wouldn’t work, nor would the lights. Soon I realized that the house was growing very cold, that the comforting hum of the furnace and its gentle vibration weren’t rising as usual through the floorboards. If only we still had the reliable coal-driven furnace William so cleverly replaced with an electrical one, I thought. Pulling a sweater and thick wool socks out of my bureau drawers, I layered them on. Throughout the morning, I padded from window to window watching the silent falling of the rain. I saw no children journeying to school, their figures usually like dark pilgrims against the sagging snowbanks, on this, the last day before Christmas break. Not a single car passed on the glassy road. For all I knew the world had ended, myself its only survivor. I picked up the phone, listened to dead air.
The house grew colder. I wrapped scarves around my neck, pulled on wool gloves, my mohair tam, my breath hanging like fog in the air. Outside, the trees, turned to glass, their branches swelling with the freezing rain to six times their thickness, bent over and touched the earth as though in homage to the storm. Between the hydro poles, wires sagged with the burden of ice. The brittle crust on the snowy lawns grew thicker.
Around three o’clock there came a pounding on the door. Who could it be? A neighbour? A vandal? A stray soul looking for shelter? I went to answer it, surprised, grateful, cautious.
“Who is it?” I called through the door.
“Open up, Mom,” came a voice. “It’s Morris.”
I lifted the letter slot and looked out. It was indeed Morris. I hadn’t seen him since he walked in on Conte and me entwined in each other’s arms. He’d called me cheap. A betrayer. I hadn’t forgotten that.
“I heard about the storm on the news. I drove down here to evacuate you to a shelter while the roads are still passable. Let me in, Mom.”
“Evacuate or evict?” I asked. “I’m not going anywhere, Morris. This is my home. I’m staying put.”
“You can’t do that, Mom. You don’t understand what’s going on out here. They’re calling it the storm of the century. Electrical wires are down everywhere. Hydro poles have snapped in two. The wind is coming straight out of the west.”
The West, I thought ironically. Another disaster from the West.
“I’m dry and safe in here. I’ll manage.”
“It’s getting dark, Mom.”
“I have candles.”
“The house temperature will drop. You could get hypothermia. You could die.”
“If I die, I don’t expect you to weep. Think of it, Morris. You’d get your inheritance, as you call it, all the sooner. There’d be no obstacle to your laying your hands on the money you want. Olive would have that dining room.”
“That’s not fair, Mom.”
“Maybe you’re here just to prey on your mother again. I know you, Morris
. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“I’m no wolf, Mom.”
“From the shelter, you’d be free to cart me straight to a nursing home. I can see it coming. I understand your tricks. Yours and Olive’s. You’ve been looking for a way to get me out of here. Get me out of here to a shelter, change the door locks and I’ll never get back in. Force a power of attorney on me. Take my money. Abandon me to the State.”
“You’re paranoid, Mom. You’ve lost perspective. It’s time to let your children take care of you.”
“My children buried me long ago,” I said.
I heard him sigh wearily. He leaned forward, pressing his head against the door frame. “Mom,” he begged. “Please. Let me help you.” For a moment he sounded sincere. But I wouldn’t be duped. I brought my mouth close to the letter slot.
“I’m fine, Morris,” I reassured him. “I’m fine. Go home to Olive. Don’t worry.”
Just then a police officer appeared on the porch. He’d crept silently up the driveway without our notice.
“Is something wrong?” he asked Morris. “Are you locked out? I noticed your car. You can’t abandon it like that in the middle of the street. You’ve got to move it off to the side. We need to keep the roads clear in case of emergencies.”
“I don’t even live in Simplicity,” Morris told him irritably. “This is my mother’s house. I just came down here to help her get to a shelter. But she refuses to leave.”
“We always encounter a few old people in these situations who won’t abandon their homes. They have the pioneering spirit.”
“Talk to her.”
“With all due respect, Ma’am,” said the officer, tipping his hat courteously, peering in at me, “your son has some valid concerns. This is a serious storm. The authorities have ordered us to evacuate the most vulnerable citizens. People who are alone and helpless are our first target. Maybe you should give yourself up.” Turning to Morris, he said, “I can’t stay long. Five minutes in this rain and my cruiser door will be frozen shut.”
Through the slot I could see his dark blue uniform, the icy rain falling behind him, solid as a waterfall. I thought I recognized his voice: the apology, the bewilderment, the melancholy.
“I’m not helpless,” I said. “Don’t you remember me? I’m the woman who threw the paperweight.”
“What paperweight?” said Morris. “Threw it where?”
A look of acknowledgement came over the officer’s face. “I do recognize you,” he said, somewhat cheered. Turning to Morris, he said, “This is a different kettle of fish. Your mother’s an impressive woman. Don’t underestimate her. She’s not a weakling. She looks the truth in the eye. We had a long talk just a few weeks ago and I assure you she’s saner than anyone I’ve met in a long time. It was one of the most useful conversations of my life. This is her home and her decision.” Turning to me, he asked, “Would you like me to remove your son?” I heard Morris gasp with indignation. “If he’s being a nuisance, I can haul him down to the station and have him detained until the storm’s over.”
I considered the offer. The picture of Morris cooling his heels in a jail cell had its appeal. Give him a taste of life in a nursing home. Morris’s face swung my way in disbelief.
“It’s tempting —” I said, pausing long enough to alarm Morris, “— but I think I can handle him. Thank you for your help.”
“You’d better start considering your own safety,” the policeman advised Morris before going away, “because you’re here in Simplicity for the duration. You’re not going anywhere. We’re stormbound. All the arteries out of town have been blockaded to keep people off the highways and out of harm’s way. Simplicity is officially sealed. If you bunk here with your mother, be sure to pull that car tight up against the snowbank. Otherwise, I suggest you get moving and find yourself a spot in a shelter before they’re all filled up.” He skated away down the drive.
“You’re going to let me in now, aren’t you, Mom?” Morris said meekly. “To sleep, I mean? For a few nights, anyway?” I could see his face reddening with anger, compromise, wounded dignity.
“I don’t think so, Morris,” I said quietly.
“Mom!”
“I wish I could let you in, but I can’t trust you, Morris. I don’t weigh much more than a sack of twigs. You could come in here and pick me up and carry me out the door with little effort.”
“It’s December twenty-third, Mom. I won’t make it home to be with Olive and the boys. You and I could spend Christmas together.”
“Up until this moment, I was facing Christmas alone. Where were your offers of companionship then? Anyway, you pray too much at Christmas, Morris. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Have you forgotten about God altogether? Christmas is about the baby Jesus, Mom. Isn’t that what I grew up hearing from you?”
“I’m smarter now than I was then, Morris. I’ve given up on the fantasy of God. I’ve pitched him out of the house. There’s finally space for me here. I can breathe again. Life is much more manageable without him. My rosary beads went into the garbage a month ago. So did my Sunday missal. I’ve ripped Christ off the walls.”
Morris gripped the doorknob and shook hard. “Mom!” he shouted, his voice full of panic. “Open up!”
He left the porch then and struck out awkwardly across the front yard, his feet breaking through the heavy crust to the dry light snow beneath. He tried the back door, unsuccessfully, then went for the bedroom window, which of course I hadn’t locked since he slithered in through it during the autumn, with Olive pushing from behind. Fortunately, a thick layer of ice had formed on the sill. I heard him striking the frame with the heel of his hand to break the seal, the window glass rattling. No success. Soon he was back on the front porch.
“Where will I go, Mom?”
“You heard the police officer, Morris. Get to a shelter. That’s your best bet. Take your bible with you. There’ll be plenty of souls there to save, I’m sure, ripe for the picking in a crisis like this. It’ll keep you busy. You won’t even notice Christmas.” I let the letter slot snap shut.
He began to hammer on the door then, until I thought he’d come right through the thin wood, and in his fists I heard not the finite need for a night’s shelter but the rage of a lifetime, the desire to destroy me, his mother. He beat at the door until the whole front hall shook. Pictures swung on their nails. My own legs trembled.
“I’m freezing out here, Mom!”
“All the pounding in the world won’t make me open up, Morris,” I shouted to him now, through the door. “I need to be by myself. It’s absolutely vital. Don’t you understand? Leave me to my own resources. Don’t worry about me. If I can get through this storm in solitude, I’ll be able to weather anything alone.”
Eventually he stopped. I heard him mumbling quietly, trying to calm down. It reminded me of when as a child, a brotherless boy, he talked to himself for companionship. Now I heard his voice penetrate the door, quivering with spiritual zeal.
“When the Lord saw how great was man’s wickedness on earth, and how no desire that his heart conceived was ever anything but evil, he regretted that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was grieved.”
“Oh, Morris,” I said tiredly.
“So the Lord said, ‘I will wipe out from the earth the men whom I have created, and not only the men, but also the beasts and the creeping things and the birds of the air, for I am sorry that I made them’…”
It was four-thirty now and dark. I lit candles, paced the flickering rooms, my long shadow cast like a monster against the walls, the ceilings. I returned to the door and pressed my ear against it.
“All the fountains of the great abyss burst forth, and the floodgates of the sky were opened. For forty days and forty nights heavy rain poured down on the earth…”
“Morris,” I called as kindly as I could. “Morris, I can’t undo the past.”
He continued to read from the Scriptures but finally his voice faded and he went away.
In my corner chair, I sat very still and heard the world shut down. I listened to the silence and to the soft falling of the celestial rain.
Are the hospitals without hydro tonight? I wondered. Are the old bodies on Second East shivering beneath their meagre blankets? How was William faring at The Cedars, where they had supplies in abundance, an excess of cheerful paint, stacks of thick blankets, an embarrassment of riches? But all the bright blankets in the world couldn’t stave off the cold I’d felt creeping recently into William’s bones.
Sleep came dearly tonight. Overhead, the roof beams moaned with the weight of ice. I did wonder. I did begin to wonder if perhaps Morris was right, if this might be a catastrophe of biblical proportions.
Though I piled every spare blanket in the house onto my bed, still I couldn’t shake off the deep freeze. It crept into my fingers and toes, up through my wrists, my ankles. My knees began to ache with it. Since my trip to the library some months ago, I’d longed daily to flee to the foreign climates of my daughters. I’d dreamed of naked nights beneath mosquito netting, of rising each morning to a fiery sun, of moving through the drugged midday heat dressed in loose-fitting Asian cottons, my bronzed limbs glistening with a tropical sweat, overhead the broad tough palm leaves clattering high up in the hot equatorial winds. But tonight I found I no longer desired such an escape. I’ve grown accustomed, haven’t I, to this frigid country? Aren’t its temperatures locked deep in my marrow? If I die this evening of the cold, I thought, if this storm wants to kill me, I’m prepared to go.
The Wife Tree Page 22