Just last week, in casual conversation, he’d heard Fay pronounce the word “encomium.” She was saying something about Hannah Webb, the director of the folklore center, who was soon to receive an honorary degree. Encomium. It dropped off her tongue, fell off like any other word, like “mosquito” or “wallpaper” or “hangnail,” purposeful syllables socketed into an ordinary sentence. Encomium. It sounded vaguely familiar, but what exactly did it mean? He should have asked her. The other day he overheard her talking on the phone to Beverly Miles. “It’s really the elementary rubric that’s so often misunderstood,” she said. Rubric. Would Peter Knightly be able to define the word “rubric”? Without a doubt.
A week ago she gave a Friday-afternoon colloquium on mermaid lore to her colleagues at the center. Colloquium. Uh-huh.
Tom had suggested – keeping it casual, keeping it very, very laid back – that he might come and hear her speak. “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”
She’d put her arms around him. “You’d be bored to death,” she’d said, or something to that effect. She’d pressed a kiss against his neck.
Warning him, he supposed, that he ran the risk of finding himself adrift in an arcane vocabulary. Hers. Which was different from his. Separate planets.
He isn’t sure how he should respond to these differences. Whether or not they pose a threat. Whether he should rejoice or worry.
DUCK RIVER, where Tom grew up, is a pulp-mill town, two hundred and fifty miles straight north, a five-hour drive. The air over Duck River smells bitterly of sulphur. A chain of lakes surrounds it, and in summer the excellent fishing brings tourists from as far away as Duluth and Minneapolis, but in winter it lies buried in snow, and the highway is frequently shut down. Tom has grown to hate that long monotonous drive.
As a result he makes the trip only three or four times a year, and this means that he has, to a great extent, separated himself from the town and from the life his mother leads. He talks to her almost every week on the telephone, her nickel or else his, but, in fact, he has only a minimal notion of her day-to-day life, and he imagines that she has just as little understanding of his.
Fay’s relationship with her family is entirely different. Her parents, her sister, Bibbi; her brother, Clyde, and his family, Sonya and their two small boys – she talks to one or the other of them almost every day on the telephone and sees them at least once a week. Tom is astonished and also humbled by all this family involvement. “It’s like living in a saga,” he told her one day. “More like a soap opera,” she said.
Recently Matthew and Gordon have been down with prolonged stomach flu, and this has meant extra visits, extra treats wrapped and delivered.
On Wednesday nights Fay meets Bibbi in a restaurant for dinner. This arrangement, Tom is given to understand, is inviolable. “It’s the only chance I really get to see her,” Fay explains.
Then there are her regular Saturday-morning breakfasts with her father at Mister Donut’s. Last Saturday, though, and the one before, she hadn’t gone. Both times her father had called at the last minute to say he was unable to come. He hadn’t explained why – just that he would be unable to meet her as usual.
TOM CAN’T UNDERSTAND why Fay’s suddenly so worried about her parents.
Of course, he doesn’t yet know them very well. On the few occasions when they’ve all been together, he’s felt awkward, wondering if they were still looking him over, turning over in their minds what they know about him, what exactly he represented, and whether he would bring danger into their daughter’s life, interfere with her happiness. Fay’s mother turns her full attention to Tom and inquires brightly, winningly, about the business of broadcasting, what are its tensions, its rewards, what is his audience profile like, how does he handle obstreperous callers, does he plan to stay in broadcasting permanently? Richard McLeod, on the other hand, is quieter, more watchful, and Tom finds himself wondering whether Peter Knightly had been subjected to the same studious paternal appraisal.
Fay claims that she had never seen her father cry before the night of the party.
“A few tears in his eyes,” Tom reminds her. “That’s not really crying.”
“I saw him,” Fay maintains. “I was standing right there. He was crying. He was in some kind of pain.”
“You said yourself it was probably just the shock.”
“I said that then. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Or overwhelmed by the emotional – ”
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought it was supposed to be okay now for men to express their – ”
“You don’t know my father.”
“No.”
“Maybe I don’t, either.”
“And afterward, when he came downstairs, he was fine, wasn’t he?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He made that terrific speech. He toasted all his friends. He drank some champagne. He was smiling, laughing even. Dancing. He cut the cake, he ate a big chunk of it. Remember the pictures we took? He was fine.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Fay says, shaking her head, “but I just don’t.”
EVERY TIME Tom comes into the kitchen he sees the list that Fay has stuck on the refrigerator door: a prewedding list of details to arrange, events to attend, items to buy. There’s the phone number of the woman who is looking after the wedding cake. Under that is the word “flowers” (but that item has now been checked off). A lingerie shower next Thursday (women only) at Iris Jaffe’s. A buffet supper next week at Jeff and Jenny Waring’s (twice postponed, once because Gary Waring was down with stomach flu and once because Jeff was called out of town). Photographer (also checked off).
At the bottom of the list is the word “DRESS.”
Fay’s been spending all her lunch hours dashing from store to store in search of a dress. Twice she’s brought home dresses, beautiful dresses, it seemed to Tom, and both times she’s returned them. One had a yellowish cast, she said, when held up to natural light, and the other had “pompous” sleeves.
“Why don’t you try on my wedding dress?” Peggy McLeod suggested.
“It wouldn’t begin to fit,” said Fay, who is five inches taller than her mother.
But it had fit, almost perfectly, though the hem, instead of falling to the floor, struck Fay at midcalf. It was more ivory colored than white, and simply made for a dress of its period, a smooth silk bodice with a skirt that draped rather than billowed. The material, after so many years, was fragile, and the alterations to the sleeves (a row of gathers removed to yield an extra half-inch) had been done with great care.
Now there’s an exuberant checkmark after the word “DRESS.”
In the last few days Tom’s been feeling uneasy for some reason, but whenever he pauses and looks at Fay’s list, he’s reassured. Each check mark moves him closer to his wedding day and reminds him that his life has turned lucky.
HALLOWEEN NIGHT. And down at CHOL, Tom’s been celebrating.
Between midnight and 1:00 a.m. he played his favorite spook tunes. Creep and plunge. Squeak and groan. Witchy stuff full of wind and wolf cries.
Between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m. he interviewed seventy-year-old Cecily Holmfield, who is a self-proclaimed local witch, and between 2:00 and 3:00 he took a dozen calls on the subject of Halloween vandalism. Kids have to act out once a year, the first caller said; so what if a few porch lights get smashed, big deal. Yeah, someone else said, but what about those razor blades stuck in apples or popcorn balls? Listen, a final caller said, it so happens that putting on a funny costume and being greedy is one of the few authentic folk traditions we bequeath our children, so let’s not get all holy about Halloween, let’s enjoy it for the crazy mixed blessing it is.
Hey, that’s enough Halloween. It’s 3:00 a.m., it’s reggae time. Let’s go with it. How ’bout it, Yellowman. Boot it, Black Uhuru. Give us some shaky snakey ups and doodles, keep it dark and curvy – a little wailing and thrashing and hitting the high notes.
He loves it.
Then wrapping up, closing time, turning the studio over to the graveyard gang, saying good night to Ted Woloschuk. Hey, Ted, have a great weekend. Have a good one yourself.
Home to Fay. Driving down Pembina Highway, then the welter of dark empty side streets. Snow flurries spinning in the headlights. Should he run that red light at Lilac and Corydon? It’s four in the morning, the town’s dead, of course he’s going to run that red light.
Then parking the car in the lot, unlocking the shadowy back door and climbing the stairs slowly, remembering to go easy on his bad ankle, then groping for his key and letting himself in.
Usually Fay leaves the hall light burning, but not tonight. He stops in the bathroom, brushes his teeth, drops his clothes, splashes water on his face, then tiptoes into the bedroom, feeling his way in the darkness, rounding the end of the bed, pulling back the blanket edge. Pale street light leaks around the edges of the window, so that all the tones and tints in the room become grayed velvet. He swears he can smell her sweetness mingled with the smooth sheets. He thinks of a rose, its centered calyx, cup-shaped. Fay. He reaches out to her.
His arm travels through a furrow of sheeting and straight into a void. The bed is flat, empty. Fay?
“Fay?” he says out loud, and reaches over to switch on the lamp.
∼ CHAPTER 31 ∼
Black Holes
FAY HAD LEFT TOM A NOTE. SHE’D WRITTEN IT QUICKLY ON THE BACK of an envelope and attached it with a little mermaid magnet to the refrigerator door.
Tom – something’s come up. I’m staying at my mother’s tonight. I’ll phone in the morning.
Love,
Fay
But the tiny rubberized magnet must have been too weak to hold the envelope in place (she should have known better), and sometime during the night the note had fallen to the floor. Tom, coming home, had picked it up – a return envelope, rather creased, from the Cancer Society – but he’d neglected to turn it over and read the message.
When Fay phoned him at eight o’clock on Friday morning to tell him the news, he reacted wildly. Where had she been? he shouted into the telephone. Why hadn’t she left a message? He was in a rage.
She found herself staring at the receiver, those tiny weak perforations. She’d never heard him in a fit of fury. She had not even imagined it. Tom Avery was a gentle, patient, and quiet-voiced man. Whenever her thoughts strayed to his three bad marriages she pictured them disintegrating softly, pulling apart like fibers of wool. She had not entertained the possibility of arguments or accusations. Or fury.
All night long, he told her, he had been out of his mind with worry. He hadn’t known where to call, what to do. He had envisioned a hundred different scenarios, he had –
He had what?
He had thought something really serious might have happened.
She cut him off. “Tom,” she said, “listen. Something serious has happened. I still can’t believe it, but it’s true. My father has left my mother.”
“Left your mother? Your father’s left your – what do you mean, your father’s left your mother?”
“Just that,” she said, or rather shouted. “He’s left her.”
IT WAS CLYDE who phoned Fay on Halloween night with the news. The bedside clock said 12:30. She had been asleep for only a few minutes, a deep sleep. The telephone rang and rang, blowing through her head and mixing with her dreams. She had felt heavy-bodied and stupid groping for the receiver and pressing it up against her ear. With one hand she rubbed her head, pushing her hair aside. Who on earth could be calling at this hour?
Clyde.
His stammer was terrible. He sounded insane. Their father had left their mother. Left her.
She remembers that her hands were very cold. She felt an urge to blow on them with her warm breath, but she would have to put the telephone down, and how could she do that while Clyde was talking? He talked and talked. A picture came to her of her brother on the other end of the line, a blocky woodcut, highly stylized. Wide front sections of his pale colored hair would have fallen over his right eye. His boyish excited look. Feverish. But what was this he was talking about? All her senses felt muffled. There was something here she wasn’t understanding. And something, too – the thought came later – something she instantly understood, a skewer driven straight to her brain. She hung on to the telephone, swallowing, wishing she had a glass of water. A sliver of absurdity had lodged itself inside her throat. “What?” she said, and reached for the lamp switch. “What did you say, Clyde?”
“You’d better c-c-c-come over right away,” he said. “Can you g-g-g-get a c-cab?”
FAY’S BEEN SLEEPING in Bibbi’s old bedroom in the Ash Avenue house. She sleeps with the door open so she can hear her mother if she calls out during the night.
In the morning Bibbi or else Clyde will come to spend a few hours so that Fay can go to work. She plans to talk to Hannah Webb about taking some vacation time. A couple of weeks, maybe more. The doctor – old Dr. Plette – has told them that their mother cannot under any circumstances be left alone.
Of course, she’s heavily tranquilized. “I don’t like these damn drugs,” Dr. Plette explained, “and I’ll keep a careful eye on the dosage, but she’s got to have something to get her through this. At least until she adjusts.”
Adjusts! Fay can’t believe he’s actually pronounced such a word. She wants to strike Dr. Plette in the middle of his rounded foolish piggy belly. What a ridiculous man. Can he really have lived to the age of sixty-five believing that someone like her mother was going to adjust? Who would expect her to adjust? Her heart’s been cut out of her body. Look at her. There’s nothing left of her but soft, weeping flesh. Her bones have been extracted, and with one hand she picks at the skin of the other. Overnight these hands have acquired a plucked, leathery, spotted look to them. Her eyelids have purpled, and the eyes themselves are dull and childish. Her mouth sags. Her chin hangs on her chest. She refuses to dress herself. Fay has to remind her to brush her teeth. Nevertheless, her breath is rank. She pushes her food away. Despite the drugs, she can’t sleep more than a few minutes at a time. Submissive, she hangs on to Fay’s hand hour after hour. “Let me brush your hair,” Fay pleaded with her this morning, but she shook her head; her scalp is so tender, she couldn’t bear the thought of a hairbrush or even a comb.
A number of things have to be dealt with immediately. Fay sits down with Clyde and Bibbi at her mother’s dining-room table – already she is thinking of it as her mother’s table, not her father’s – and together they make a list.
First, there is the question of Peggy McLeod’s gynecological practice. What should they do? Her receptionist, Melanie Letkemann, will have to be told. Patients who have appointments during the next month must be phoned and given referrals. “Will that be enough time?” Bibbi asks in her soft, bewildered voice. “A month?”
They consider. A month is as far ahead as any of them can think.
The three of them stare down at the walnut dining table. Clyde taps the figured surface with a thumbnail. An heirloom from – but Fay can’t remember which side of the family it comes from. Once, she knew. Probably it is a hundred years old. Substantial, highly polished, the grain unusual and for that reason prized. Most of the evening meals of her childhood took place at this table. Christmas dinners, birthdays, celebrations. At one end their father, irreducible, uxorious, sat and carved. At the other end their mother served mounded vegetables, divided pies and cakes, smiled, presided.
They will need a lawyer. Clearly Hank Lerner, the McLeods’ family lawyer, won’t do. Like Dr. Plette he is too old, too entrenched, too familiar, too thick. Fay mentions Patricia Henney, the lawyer who oversaw her condo purchase. Clyde says he will ask Sonya for some names. As soon as they have decided definitely on someone, Fay says, they can set up a meeting and discuss what should be done. If anything. What can be salvaged.
The word “salvage” seems to clatter on the tabletop. Why has she said it? Bibbi
looks up, frightened. Clyde sets his jaw. Fay puts her hands over her face.
One of them will have to talk to their father. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. Both Fay and Bibbi look at Clyde.
“M-m-maybe we should all g-g-g-go to see him,” Clyde says. “Together.”
“No,” Bibbi says, “no.” She folds her hands tightly on the table. Her eyes are filmed with tears. “We can’t do that. We can’t confront him like that, not all three of us.”
“No,” Clyde agrees. “We can’t.”
This is a bad dream, Fay thinks. She stares for several seconds over the top of Clyde’s head, straight into the fanciful carving of the walnut buffet, another heirloom, and then up at an old gilt-framed watercolor of pale green poplars against a yellow sky. Her parents have owned this painting forever. She’s grown up with those splotched poplars without ever really seeing them – the daubed leaves and unspecified background. Anonymous. Bibbi is biting her nails, and Fay wonders if she is thinking about Jake Greary, wanting to get on a bus this very minute and hurry home to him, to their three shared rooms over the shoe-repair shop in the North End; Fay wonders, too, about Jake Greary. How will he regard this sudden rupture in his lover’s family? With cold triumph? A bourgeois black hole?
Clyde is glancing at his watch, a quick, furtive look, and Fay understands that he’s anxious to be on his way, home to Sonya and his children, his stronghold, away from this nightmare.
“Well,” Fay says at last, “maybe I should go to see him.”
She cringes, hearing her big-sister voice, her vowels full of deadened authority. She looks at her brother and sister, who continue to study the tabletop and say nothing. “But I haven’t the faintest idea what I can say to him.”