Bluebeard's Egg

  This girl has reddish hair, parted in the middle and drawn back. She's crouched over her noodles, pretending to be absorbed in a large but paperbacked book that's propped open beside her plate. Joel goes through the openers: "Hi, good to see you again. Mind if I join you?"

  She glances up, with that little frown he's seen on their faces so often, that coming-out-of-the-trance face, Oh, you startled me, as if she hasn't been aware of his approach. She's been aware. She recognizes him, hesitates, deciding; then she smiles. She's grateful, he sees, for the company: it must be all over with what's-his-name. Relieved, he sits down. Even though he knows no one is really watching him, it still makes him feel like an idiot to be sent away, like a puppy that's made a mess.

  Now for the book: that's always a good way in. He turns it so he can see the title. Quilt-Making Through History. That's a hard one: he knows nothing and cares less about quilt-making. He guesses that she's the kind of girl who would read about it but would never actually do it; though opening up with a statement to this effect would be far too aggressive. It's a mistake to begin by putting them down.

  "Like a beer," he says, "or are you a vegetarian?"

  "As a matter of fact I am," she says, with that superior tight mini-smile they give you. She hasn't got the joke. Joel sighs; they're off to a roaring start.

  "Then I guess you mind if I smoke?" he says.

  She relents; evidently she doesn't want to drive him away. "You go ahead," she says. "It's a big room." She doesn't add that it's full of smoke already, and he likes her better.

  He thinks of saying, "Live around here?" but he can't, not again. "Tell me about yourself" is out too. Instead he finds himself shifting almost immediately, much sooner than he usually does, into social realism. "This day has been total shit," he says. He feels this, it's not fake, the day has been total shit; but on another level he knows he wants sympathy, and on yet another one he's aware it's a useful ploy: if they feel sorry for you, how can they turn you down?

  Becka used to accuse him of having a detachable prick. In her version, he unscrewed it, put it on a leash, and took it out for walks, like a dachshund without legs or a kind of truffle-hunting pig (her metaphor). According to her, it would stick itself into any hole or crevice it could find, anything vaguely funnel-shaped, remotely female. In her more surrealistic inventions (when she was still trying to live with what she called this habit of his, before she switched to compulsion, when she was still trying to be humorous about it), he'd find himself stuck somewhere, in a mouse-hole or a dead tree or an outside faucet, unable to get loose, because his prick had made a mistake. What could you expect, she said, from a primitive animal with no eyes?

  "If I got you a sheep and a pair of rubber boots, would you stay home more?" she said. "We could keep it in the garage. If we had a garage. If it wasn't too boor-joo-ice to have a garage."

  But she was wrong, it isn't the sex he's after. It isn't only the sex. Sometimes he thinks, in the middle of it, that really he'd rather be jogging around the block or watching a movie or playing Ping-Pong. Sex is merely a social preliminary, the way a handshake used to be; it's the first step in getting to know someone. Once it's out of the way, you can concentrate on the real things; though without it, somehow you can't. He likes women, he likes just talking with them sometimes. The ones he likes talking with, having a laugh with, these are the ones that become what he refers to privately as "repeaters."

  "How come I'm not enough for you?" Becka said, soon after the first two or three, when she'd figured it out. He wasn't a very good liar; he resented having to conceal things.

  "It's not important," he said, trying to comfort her; she was crying. He still loved her in a simple way then. "It's no more important than sneezing. It's not an emotional commitment. You're an emotional commitment."

  "If it's not important, why do you do it?" she said.

  He wasn't able to answer that. "This is just the way I am," he said finally. "It's part of me. Can't you accept it?"

  "But this is just the way I am," she said, crying even more. "You make me feel like nothing. You make me feel I'm worth nothing to you. I'm not even worth any more than a sneeze."

  "That's blackmail," he said, pulling away. He couldn't stand to have love and fidelity extracted from him, like orange juice or teeth. No squeezers. No pliers. She should have known she was the central relationship: he'd told her often enough.

  This girl's name, which he's forgotten but which he digs out of her by pretending to almost remember it, is Amelia. She works, of course, in a bookstore. Looking more closely, he can see she's not quite as young as he first thought. There are tiny shrivellings beginning around her eyes, a line forming from the nostril to the corner of her mouth; later it will extend down to her chin, which is small and pointed, and she will develop that peevish, starved look. Redheads have delicate skin, they age early. She has a chain around her neck, with a glass pendant on it containing dried flowers. He guesses she'll be the kind of girl who has prisms hanging in her window and a poster of a whale over the bed, and when they get to her place, she does.

  Amelia turns out to be one of the vocal kind, which he likes: it's a tribute, in a way. He's surprised, too: you couldn't have told it by looking at her, that almost prissy restraint and decorum, the way she tightened her little bum, moved it away when he put his hand on it as she was unlocking the door. Joel doesn't know why he always expects girls with pierced ears and miniature gold stars in them, high cheekbones and frail rib cages, to be quiet in bed. It's some antiquated notion he has about good taste, though he should know by now that the thin ones have more nerve-endings per square inch.

  Afterwards she goes back to being subdued, as if she's faintly ashamed of herself for those groans, for having clutched him like that, as if he's not a semi-stranger after all. He wonders how many times she's gone home with someone she barely knows; he's curious, he'd like to ask, "You do this often?" But he knows from past experience they're likely to find this insulting, some kind of obscure slur on their moral standards; even if, like himself, they do. Sometimes, especially when they're younger, he feels he ought to tell them they shouldn't behave like this. Not all men are good risks, even the ones who eat at the Blue Danube. They could be violent, into whips or safety pins, perverts, murderers; not like him. But any interference from him could be interpreted as patriarchal paternalism: he knows that from experience too. It's their own lookout; anyway, why should he complain?

  Amelia lies against him, head on his biceps, red hair spilling across his arm, her mouth relaxed; he's grateful for her simple physical presence, the animal warmth. Women don't like the term "muff," he knows that; but for him it's both descriptive and affectionate: something furry that keeps you warm. This is the kind of thing he needs to get him through November. She's even being friendly, in a detached sort of way. He can't always depend on them to be friendly afterwards. They've been known to hold it against him, as if it's something he's done all by himself, to them instead of with them; as if they've had nothing to do with it.

  He likes this one well enough to suggest that maybe they could watch the late show on TV, which isn't an experience he'd want to share with just anyone. Sex yes, late movies no. He wonders if she's got any food in the house, some cake maybe, which they could eat right off the plate while watching, licking the icing from each other's fingers. He's hungry again, but more than that, he wants the feeling of comfort this would bring. There's something about lemon icing in a dark room. But when she says without any undertones that, no, she'd like some sleep, she needs to get up early to go to her fitness class before work, that's all right with him too. He puts on his clothes, lighthearted; this whole thing has cheered him up a lot. He has that secret feeling of having gotten away with it again, in the bedroom window and out again without being caught: no sticky flypaper here. He remembers, briefly, the day he figured out his mother was hiding the cookies, not so he wouldn't find them, but so he would, and how enraged, how betrayed he'd been. He'd seen the
edge of her green chenille bathrobe whisking back around the corner; she'd been standing in the hall outside the kitchen, listening to him eat. She must have known what a rotten cook she was, and this was her backhanded way of making sure he got at least some food into him. That's what he thinks now, but at the time he merely felt he'd been controlled, manipulated by her all along. Maybe that was when he started to have his first doubts about free will.

  Amelia has turned on her side and is almost asleep. He kisses her, says he'll let himself out. He wonders if he likes her well enough to see her again, decides he probably doesn't. Nevertheless he makes a note of her phone number, memorizing it off the bedside phone; he'll jot it down later, out in the kitchen, where she won't notice. He never knows when a thing like that will come in handy. Any port in a storm, and when he's at a low point, a trough in the graph, he needs to be with someone and it doesn't much matter who, within limits.

  He pisses into her toilet, flushes it, noting the anti-nuke sticker on the mirror, the pots of herbs struggling for existence on the windowsill. Then he goes into the kitchenette and turns on the light, taking a quick peek into the refrigerator in passing, on the off-chance she's got something unhealthy and delicious in there. But she's a tofu girl, and reluctantly he's out the door.

  He's not thinking about Becka. He doesn't remember her till his key's in the lock, when he has a sudden image of her, waiting on the other side, black hair falling around her face like something in a Lorca play, large wounded eyes regarding him, some deadly instrument in her hand: a corkscrew, a potato peeler, or, more historically, an ice-pick, though he doesn't own one. Cautiously he opens the door, eases through, is relieved when nothing happens. Maybe it's finally over, after all. It occurs to him that he's forgotten to buy cat food.

  His relief lasts until he hits the living room. She's been here, all right. He gazes at the innards of his Lay-Zee-Boy, strewn across the floor, its wiry guts protruding from what's left of the frame, at the hunks of soft foam from the sofa washing against the fireplace as if it's a shore, as if Becka has been a storm, a hurricane. In another corner he finds all his Ping-Pong balls, lined up in a row and stomped on; they look like hatched-out turtle eggs. Some of his underwear is lying in the fireplace, charred around the edges, still smouldering.

  He shrugs. Histrionic bitch, he thinks. So he'll replace it: there's nothing here that can't be duplicated. She won't get to him that easily. She hasn't touched the typewriter, though: she knows exactly how far she can go.

  Then he sees the note. Want Uglypuss back? It's in a garbage can. Start looking. The note is pinned to the big orange art-shop candle on the mantlepiece, one of the first things she gave him. It's as if he's finally had a visit from Santa Claus, who has turned out to be the monster his mother was always warning him against when he showed symptoms of wanting a Christmas like some of the other kids on the block. Santa Claus brings you lumps of coal and rotten potatoes. What do you need it for?

  But this was no Santa Claus, it was Becka, who knows just where to slide in the knife. Dead or alive, she doesn't say. She's never exactly loved Uglypuss, but surely she wouldn't murder. He fears the worst, but he can't assume it. He'll have to go and see. He hears the claws scrabbling on metal, the plaintive wails, the mounting panic, as he does up his zipper again. Finally he knows she'll stop at nothing.

  He walks in a widening circle through the streets around his house, opening every can, digging through the bags, listening for faint meows. He shouldn't be spending time on something this trivial, this personal; he should be conserving his energy for the important things. What he needs is perspective. This is Becka controlling him again. Maybe she was lying, maybe Uglypuss is safe and sound at her new place, purring beside the hot-air register. Maybe Becka is making him go through all this for nothing, hoping he'll arrive on her doorstep and she can torture him or reward him, whichever she feels like at the moment.

  "Uglypuss!" he calls. He tells himself he's in a state of shock, it will hit him tomorrow, when the full implications of a future without Uglypuss will sink in. At the moment though he's thinking: Why did I have to give it that dumb name?

  Becka walks along the street. She has often walked along this particular street. She tells herself there is nothing unusual about it.

  Both of her hands are bare, and there's blood on the right one and four thin lines of it across her cheek. In her right hand she's carrying an axe. Actually it's smaller than an axe, it's a hatchet, the one Joel keeps beside the fireplace to split the kindling when he lights the fire. Once she liked to make love with him on the rug in front of the fireplace, in the orange glow from the candle. That was until he said there was always a draft and he'd rather be in bed, where it was warmer. After a while she figured out that he didn't really like being looked at; he had an odd sort of modesty, as if he felt his body belonged to him alone. Once she tried flattering him about it, but this was a bad move, you weren't supposed to compare. So then it was under the covers, like a married couple. Before that she used to bug him about keeping the axe in the living room, she wanted him to leave it on the back porch and split the kindling out there instead; she told him she didn't like getting splinters.

  It was looking at the axe that finally did it. Joel was gone when he said he'd be there. She didn't know exactly where he'd gone but she knew in general. He was always doing that to her. She waited for an hour and a half, pacing, reading his magazines, surrounded by a space that used to be hers and still felt like it. The heat was off, which meant Joel had been antagonizing the landlord again. She thought about lighting a fire. Uglypuss came and rubbed against her legs and complained, and when she went into the kitchen to put out some food, there was the yoghurt she'd bought herself, opened on the floor.

  She asked herself how long she was going to wait. Even if he came back soon, he'd have that smug look and the smell of it still on him. She'd have the choice of ignoring it, in which case he won, or saying something, in which case he won also, because then he could accuse her of intruding on his privacy. It would be just another example, he'd say, of why things couldn't work out. That would make her angry - they could, they could work out if he'd only try - and then he would criticize her for being angry. Her anger would be a demonstration of the power he still holds over her. She knows it, but she can't control it. This time was once too often. It was always once too often.

  Becka walks quickly, head a little down and forward, as if she has to push to make her way through the air. Her hair blows back in the wind. It's beginning to drizzle. In her left hand she's carrying a green plastic garbage bag, screwed shut and knotted at the top. The street she's on is Spadina, a street she remembers from childhood as the place where she would be taken by her grandfather when he wanted to pay visits to some of his old cronies. She'd be shown off by him, and given things to eat. That was before the Chinese mostly took over. It's well enough lighted, even at this time of night, bamboo furniture, wholesale clothing, restaurants, ethnic as they say; but she's not buying or eating, she's just looking, thanks, for a garbage can, someplace to dump the bag. An ordinary garbage can is all she asks; why can't she find one?

  She can't believe she's done what she's just done. What horrifies her is that she enjoyed it, the axe biting into the black naugahyde of that ratty chair of his, into the sofa, the stuffing she'd pulled out and thrown around, it might as well have been Joel. Though if he'd been there he would have stopped her. Just by being there, by looking at her as if to say, You mean you really can't think of anything more important to do?

  This is what he's turned me into, she thinks. I was never this mean before, I used to be a nice person, a nice girl. Didn't I?

  Today, before calling him, she'd been sick of the taste of the inside of her own mouth. She'd had enough of solitude, enough freedom. A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. Brave words, she'd said them once herself. That was before she figured out she wasn't a fish. Today she thought she still loved him, and love conquers all, doesn't it?
Where there's love there's hope. Maybe they could get it back, together. Now, she doesn't know.

  She thinks about stuffing the garbage bag into a mailbox, the parcel kind, or a newspaper stand. She could put in the quarter, open the box, take out the newspaper, leave the bag. Someone would find it quicker that way. She is not heartless.

  But suddenly there's a garbage can, not a plastic one but old-style metal, in front of a Chinese fruit-and-vegetable store. She goes over to it, leans the hatchet against it, sets down the bag, tries to lift the lid. Either it's stuck or her hands are numb. She bangs it against a telephone pole; several people look at her. At last the lid comes loose. Luckily the can is half empty. She drops the bag in. Not a sound: she sprayed in some boot water-proofer, which was about the only thing she could think of: breathing the fumes makes you dizzy. Kids at high school used to get high on it. The stupid cat clawed its way through the first two garbage bags, before she thought of tying it up in one of Joel's shirts and spraying it with boot water-proofer to quiet it down. She doesn't know if it went unconscious; maybe it just couldn't get through Joel's shirt and decided not to fight a losing battle. Maybe it's catatonic. To coin a phrase. She hopes she hasn't killed it. She pokes the bag a little: there's a wiggle. She's relieved, but she doesn't relent and let it loose. Why should she have all the grief? Let him have some, for a change.

  This is what will really get to him, she knows: this theft. His kidnapped child, the one he wouldn't let her have. We're not ready yet and all that crap. Crap! He'd always thought more of the cat than he did of her. It used to make her sick, to watch the way he'd pick it up by the tail and run it through his hands, like sand, and the cat loved it, like the nauseating masochist it was. It was the kind of cat that drooled when you stroked it. It fawned all over him. Maybe the real reason she couldn't stand it was that it was a grotesque and stunted furry little parody of herself. Maybe this was what she looked like, to other people, when she was with him. Maybe this was what she looked like to him. She thinks of herself lying with her eyes closed and her mouth slack and open. Did he remember what she looked like at those moments, when he was with others?