by Mary Gordon
Nora knew enough of the world not to overvalue the position that the Foleys had invented for her. She knew her place; it was a good place, near the top. And yet she knew that she would never be precisely at the top. She saw in the hallway of the office building where she worked a hundred girls like her. She was not the best of them; her bad leg meant she could not make the picture whole. She could not stride off, her high heels making that exciting sound of purpose on the wooden floors. She could not rise purposefully from her typewriter and move to the file cabinet, closing the drawers like a prime minister conferring an ambassadorship, as Flo Ziegler or Celie Kane, the partners’ secretaries, did. To really play the part she coveted required speed and line, like a good sailboat. Nora knew that her high shoe, her skirts cut full and long to hide it, detracted from her appearance of efficiency. Her work, the quickness of her mind, might earn the highest place for her, but she would always be encumbered and slowed down by what John Riordan, a kind man, called her “affliction.” Even so, even though she would never be at the very top, she knew herself above Eileen and her brother; there was no place for them in her new life, except the place forced free by charity.
She tried to joke Eileen out of her subservience, reminding her of when they had shared Eileen's secret trove of almonds, nougat, crystallized ginger. But perhaps she didn't try wholeheartedly; her daily striving to achieve her dream of herself exhausted her; there was a kind of ease in lying back against the bolster of Eileen's adoration. Eileen had an idea of the game Nora was playing, even if she was mistaken about the nature of the stakes. Nora's parents and Aunt Nettie had no knowledge of the game. But Bridget did; she was contemptuous and mocking; when she saw Nora ironing, with passionate devotion, her blouses, handkerchiefs, or skirt; when she came upon Nora polishing her nails, she sniffed and walked by, loose and ill-defined in her practical nurse's uniform, trailing the scorn of her belief in the futility of every effort Nora made.
Eileen kept hinting that Nora should be on the lookout for a place in Mr. Riordan's office that Tommy could fill. She'd heard about boys who started in law offices as messengers and worked their way up till eventually they studied on their own, sat for the bar exam, and became lawyers.
“Well, I've heard of it. I've never seen a case myself,” said Nora, smoking cynically. “You'd have to have an awful lot of push.”
And this was what Tom Foley lacked completely: push. Pale, with hair that would never look manly and blue eyes that hid expression or else were supplicating, he was nearly silent except when he and Eileen talked about home. He could go then from silence to a frightening ebullience about some detail of their childhood: a cow with one horn only, a dog that barked when anybody sang, pears that fell from a tree once as they sat below it, soft, heavy as footballs, damaging themselves before they hit the ground. Then he would grow embarrassed at his outburst, would blush and look more childish than ever. It was quite impossible; she didn't understand why Eileen couldn't see it, he was not the office type and never would be. Right off the boat Eileen had put him with the Christian Brothers; he lived there while Eileen lived with the nuns. In the summer on her week's vacation they went to a boardinghouse three hours from the city in the mountains, a house run by an Irishwoman they had known from home. But Tom had never spoken to a soul outside his school except in Eileen's company, and Nora doubted that he could. She'd never mentioned him to Mr. Riordan, it would not work out and in the end would just make everyone look bad.
She suspected Eileen resented her for not doing anything for Tom. They stopped seeing one another; when the family got the news of Eileen they hadn't heard a word from her in longer than a year. She phoned to tell them Tommy had died. He'd got a job working for Western Union, as a messenger to start, but his bosses had said he'd shown great promise. He was delivering a wire and had walked by a saloon. There was a fight inside, and a wild gunshot had come through the window. The bullet landed in his heart.
Eileen said this in the kitchen drinking tea with Nora and her mother and her father and her aunts. As she spoke, her cup did not tremble. They had no way of knowing what she felt about the terrible thing that had happened; she would give no sign. She met no one's eye; her voice, which had been musical, was flat and tired. What they could see was that the life had gone out of her flesh. What had been her richness had turned itself to stone; her body life, which once had given her and all around her pleasure, had poured itself into a mold of dreadful bitter piety. She talked about the will of God and punishment for her ambitions. It was this country, she said, the breath of God had left it if it ever had been here. Money was God here, and success, and she had bent the knee. Her brother had died of it.
So she was going home, she said. She cursed the day she ever left, she cursed the day she'd listened to the lying tongues, the gold-in-the-street stories, the palaver about starting over, making good. It was the worst day of her life, she said, the day she'd come here. But she wanted them to know that she was grateful for the way they'd helped her when she first was over; she would not forget. She told them she was going back to her old job at the orphanage in Limerick. She said that she would write them, but they all knew she would not.
When she walked out the door, they felt one of the dead had left them, and they looked among themselves like murderers and could find no relief. When Bridget tried to blame Eileen or blame the Foleys, no one listened. They could hardly bear each other's company.
Nora went upstairs to her room and lay down on her bed, still in her work skirt. It would be terribly wrinkled; before the night was over she would have to press it. But not now. Now she lay back on her bed and knew what would be her life: to rise from it each morning and to make her way to work. Each morning she would join the others on the train, and in the evening, tired out but not exhausted, and with no real prospects that could lead to pleasure, with the others she would make her way back home.
Now I Am Married
I am the second wife, which means that, for the most part, I am spoken to. This is the first visit of my marriage, and I am introduced around, to everyone's slight embarrassment. There is an unspoken agreement among people not to mention her, except in some clear context where my advantage is obvious. It would be generous of me to say that I wish it were otherwise, but I appreciate the genteel silences, and, even more, the slurs upon her which I recognize to be just. I cannot attempt to be fair to her: justice is not the issue. I have married, and this is an act of irrational and unjust loyalty. I married for this: for the pleasure of one-sidedness, the thrill of the bias, the luxury of saying, “But he is my husband, you see,” thereby putting to an end whatever discussion involves us.
My husband is English, and we are staying in the house of his family. We do not make love here as we do at my mother's. She thinks sex is wicked, which is, of course, highly aphrodisiac, but here it is considered merely in bad taste. And as I lie, looking at the slope of my husband's shoulder, I think perhaps they are right. They seem to need much less sleep than I do, to be able to move more quickly, to keep their commitments with less fuss. I wish I found the English more passionate; surely there is nothing so boring as the reenforcement of a stereotype. But it is helpful to be considered southern here: I am not afraid to go out on the street as I am in Paris or Rome, because all the beautiful women make me want to stay under the sharp linen of my hotel. No, here I feel somehow I have a great deal of color, which has, after all, to do with sex. I can see the young girls already turning into lumpish women in raincoats with cigarettes drooping from their lips. This, of course, makes it much easier. Even my sister-in-law's beauty is so different that it cannot really hurt me; it is the ease of centuries of her race's history that gave it to her, and to this I cannot hope to aspire.
Yesterday we went to a charity bazaar. One of the games entailed scooping up marbles with a plastic spoon and putting them through the hole of an overturned flower pot. My sister-in-law went first. Her technique was to take each marble, one at a time, and put it through the
hole. Each one went neatly in. When it was my turn, I perceived the vanity of her discretion and my strategy was to take as many marbles as I could on the spoon and shovel them into the hole as quickly as possible. A great number of the marbles scattered on the lawn, but quite a few went into the hole, and, because I had lifted so many, my score was twelve; my sister-in-law's five. Both of us were pleased with our own performance and admiring of the rival technique.
I am very happy here. Yesterday in the market I found an eggplant, a rare and definite miracle for this part of the world. Today for dinner I made ratatouille. This morning I took my sister-in-law's basket and went out, married, to the market. I don't think that marriage has changed me, but for the first time, the salespeople appreciated, rather than resented, the time I took choosing only the most heartwarming tomatoes, the most earnest and forthright meat. I was no longer a fussy bachelorette who cooked only sometimes and at her whim. I was a young matron in stockings and high heels. My selections, to them, had something to do with the history they were used to. They were important; they were not for myself.
I had wanted to write this morning, but I had the responsibility of dinner, served at one. I do not say this in complaint. I was quite purely happy with my basket and my ring, basking in the approval of the shopkeepers and the pedestrians. I am never so happy writing. It is not that the housewife's tasks are in themselves repugnant: many of them involve good smells and colors, satisfying shapes, and the achievement of dexterity. They kill because they are not final. They must be redone although they have just been finished. And so I am shopping rather than polishing the beautiful Jacobean furniture with the sweet-smelling lavender wax. I am doing this because I am dying, so that I will not die.
1. MARJORIE
Bring her in for a cup of coffee, I said to him. I saw you on the street, and you were so happy-looking. Not me and my husband. Dead fifteen years, and a bloodier hypocrite never walked. I pretended I was sorry when he died, but believe me, I was delighted. He was a real pervert. All those public-school boys won't do anything for you till they're beaten; don't let them tell you anything about the French, my dear.
I was just in France. I was kind of like an au pair girl to this communist bloke, only he was a millionaire. Well, they had a great house with a river behind it, and every day I'd meet the mayor of the town there, both of us throwing our bottles from the night before into the river. They had men go round with nets to gather up the bottles and sell them. They know how to live there. The stores are all empty here. Not that I'm much of a cook. We start our sherry here as soon as we get up. Your coffee all right? Have a biscuit. I'll have one too. I shouldn't… look at me around the middle. I'm getting to look quite middle-aged, but there's some life in me yet, I think, don't you?
Look at your husband sitting there with his blue eyes just as handsome. Fancied him once myself, but he hadn't time for me. Keep an eye on him, dear, he's got young girls in front of him all day. Oh, I don't envy you that job. They must chase after him all the time, dear, don't they? Cheer up, a little jealousy puts spice in a marriage, don't you think?
Well, there's a real witch hunt out for me in this building. I've taken in all the boys around the town that've got nowhere to go. Just motherly. All of them on drugs, sleeping out every night. Well, my policy is not to chivvy and badger them. Tried marijuana myself once but I didn't get anything out of it because I didn't smoke it properly. But they all have a home here, and I do them heaps more good than some virginal social worker with a poker you know where. Of course the old ladies around here don't like it. Mrs. Peters won't forgive me since I was so drunk that night and I broke into her house and started dancing with her. A poor formless girl she's got for a daughter, afraid of her own shadow. Starts to shake if you as much as say good morning to her. Thirty-five, she is, if she's a day. Pious, that one. I've seen her chatting up the vicar every evening. You know what she needs. My husband was a parson. He was plagued with old maids. I'd'uv been delighted if he'd rolled one down in my own bedroom just so's he'd leave me alone. Bloody great pervert, he was. And sanctimonious! My God! He looked like a stained-glass window to the outsiders. And all the old biddies in the town following him around calling him Father. Not me. I'd like to tell you what I called him.
Anyway, all the old bitches here think they can get me thrown out, but they're very much mistaken. This building happens to be owned by the Church of England, of which my husband happened to be a pillar. My pension comes from there, you know. Well, my dear, of course they can't throw one of the widows of the clergy out on her sanctified arse, so I'm really quite safe for the moment.
That's why I wouldn't get married again. I wouldn't give up that bloody pension for the life of me. I'll see they pay it to me till I die, the bloody hypocrites. “Yes, Mrs. Pierce, if you'd conduct your life in a manner suitable to a woman of your position.” Bugger ‘em, I say. They're all dust, same as me.
No, I'm quitting Charlie. I've been with him five years, but I must say the rigamarole is becoming trying. His wife sits home with their dachshunds, Wallace and Willoughby, their names are— did you ever hear anything so ridiculous— and occasionally she'll ring up and say, “Is Charlie Waring there?” and I'll say, “Who? You must have the wrong number.” Five years. It's getting ridiculous.
I think I'll take myself down to the marriage bureau. Thirty quid it costs for a year, and they supply you with names till you're satisfied. Of course at my age what d'ye have left? And I'd want somebody respectable, you know, not just anybody. Of course, you meet men in pubs, but never the right sort, are they? My dear, you wouldn't believe what I come home with some nights, I'm that hard up.
Anyway, Lucinda's sixteen, and she's already on her second abortion. How she gets that way I don't know. She simply walked out of school. Told one of the teachers off when she ordered her to take off her makeup. She said to her, “My mother doesn't pay you to shout at me.”
Dried-up old bitches those teachers were. Of course, in point of fact it's not me or her that's paying, it's the Church, but just the same, I see her point. You're only young once, so why not look your best. They'll never want her more than they want her now, right. Isn't it true, they won't let us near a man till we're practically too old to enjoy one. Well, I've got her a Dutch cap now, though I don't suppose she'll use it. I never did. That's why I've got five offspring. I'm sure I don't know what to do with them. Anyway, she's answering telephones for some lawyer three hours a day, and I'm sure he's got her flat on her back on his leather couch half the time. Smashing-looking Indian chap. But it's pocket money for her. And we don't get along badly, the way some do. I give her her own way, and if she gets into trouble we sort it out somehow. I suppose she'll get married in a year or so, only I hope it's not an ass or a hypocrite. Bloody little fool I was at her age. My dear, on my wedding night I didn't know what went where or why. Don't ask how I was so stupid. Of course my mother was a parson's wife, too, and I think she thought if she said the word “sex” the congregation would burn her house down. Dead right she was.
Well, you certainly are an improvement over the other one he was married to. My dear, she thought she could run everyone's life for them. Knew me a week, and she came over one morning and said, uninvited, “Marjorie, you should get up earlier. Why don't you watch the educational programs on the telly?” “Bugger off,” I said, and she never came near me again.
Well, I have to go off and see one of my old ladies. This one keeps me in clothes, so I've got to be attentive. Let me tell you, if you could see how respectable I am in front of her, my dear, you wouldn't believe. Well, I take her cashmere sweaters and hope the constable won't see me on the way out. One visit keeps Lucinda and me in clothes for a year. I don't care, it cheers her up, the poor old bugger. Hope someone'll be as good to me when I'm that age. But I'll probably be a cross old drunk, and I bloody well won't have any spare Dior gowns in my closet, that's sure.
You don't mind if I give your husband a kiss goodbye. Lovely. Oh, perhaps
I'll just take another one. Fancied him myself at one time. Well, you're the lucky one, aren't you? Come over again, perhaps you could come for a meal, though what I could cook nowadays I'm sure I don't know. I don't suppose that would set well with the family. Can't say that I blame them, they have to live here. Well, slip in some time on the Q.T and I'll dig you out some tea. Make it afternoon though, dear, I don't like mornings, though I'm ever so glad of your company.
2. DORIS
I don't go anywhere by myself now. Three weeks ago I got a car but I took it back. I was so lonely driving. That was the worst. I think I'm afraid of everybody and everything now. I'm always afraid there's men walking behind me. I won't even go to post a letter in the evening. I was always afraid of the dark. My mother knew I was afraid of the dark, so she made me sleep with the light off. She said if I kept on being afraid of the dark, God wouldn't love me.
Of course, it's all so different now George is gone. People are like things, d'ye know what I mean? They're very nice, of course, and they do care for me and call, but it's all, I don't know, shallow like. Of course I do prefer the company of men. Not that I run down my own sex, but men are gentler, somehow, don't you think? The first month after George was gone all I could think about was who could I marry now. But now I look back on it I shudder, d'ye know what I mean. George bein’ so so sick and all that we didn't have a physical relationship for many years. And men like to be naughty. Sometimes, though, I do enjoy a man's companionship. After George lost his leg, he said, “I can't give you much in the way of the physical, Mother.” But we were terribly close, really. Talked about everything. He would insist on having his chair here by the door so's he could see everybody coming in. I used to kid him a lot about it. Winter and summer, never come close to the fire. He'd sit right there by the door, winter and summer. And Gwen would sit on the settee at night and never go out. I used to say to her, “Gwen, you must go out. Go to the cinema.” But she was afraid, like, to leave her father. Even though I was here. She was afraid if she went out he'd be gone when she got back.