— Was it like that? If it was, how come we’ve got a window left? But how do I know? Mac, I’m a rotten guesser.
Okay, Mrs. MacAindra – you can go in now.
Oh – thanks.
Doctor Spender is youngish, overworked, soft-spoken, perpetually tired-looking. He looks up from the file card on his desk and smiles.
Hello, Mrs. MacAindra. What seems to be the trouble?
Well, it’s these headaches I’ve been getting. And there’s this place right at the back of my head, and it sort of goes kaboom-kaboom when I’m trying to get to sleep. Not really an ache – just a dull throbbing, but it bothers me. Then I get neurotic and start thinking I’ve got a tumor of the brain.
— That’s right, clown. Make yourself sound like a nut case. Yes, but what if it is a tumor? These things happen. Oh God, dead at thirty-nine. What kind of a death would that be? You’d be incoherent long before it happened; the kids would see you mindless, dribbling, maybe shouting all the four-letter words you’ve decorously never said in front of them. No, I wouldn’t let them see me. If I was incompetent, Mac wouldn’t let them see, I hope. What would happen to the kids? Who’d bring them up? My sister? But she doesn’t know them, what they’re like. I don’t want anybody else to bring them up.
We’ll see, now. Show me exactly where the throbbing comes, Mrs. MacAindra. That’s fine.
The examination goes on. Heart and lungs. Blood pressure. Any other symptoms? Finally the doctor looks at her, mildly inquiring.
Can’t find anything wrong, superficially. Not worried about anything, are you?
Oh no. Everything’s all right. I mean, at home.
— How can I say anything else, without making it sound foolish? I can’t put my finger on it, anyway. Too many threads. I can’t say it, and who would believe me if I did? It’s like being inside a balloon made out of some kind of glue, and when you try to get out, you only get tangled and stuck.
Well, I think I’ll send you for an X-ray, just to make sure there’s nothing wrong.
I’m sure there isn’t. It’s probably just my imagination. I probably need to have my head examined.
Doctor Spender smiles.
That’s exactly what you’re going to have.
The X-ray results are negative. Stacey does not have tumor of the brain. She thanks Doctor Spender and puts down the phone. It is early afternoon, and Jen is asleep. Stacey moves around the house without knowing in advance what she is going to do. She goes upstairs to the bedroom and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. She is wearing a blue-and-pink-print dress, bought on sale last autumn. The pink is in the form of small clocks, all of whose hands indicate five minutes before either noon or midnight. She removes the dress and her slip, and puts on a pair of tight-fitting green velvet slacks and a purple overblouse which has been hanging in the cupboard for some months, as yet unworn. She then rummages at the back of the cupboard, on the floor, and comes up with a pair of high-heeled gold-strapped sandals.
— Okay, so of course I know you shouldn’t wear high heels with sandals. But I love high heels. I just do. All right, Mac, I know these are vulgar, especially with slacks. But I like them, see? And I can do with the extra height.
She listens at Jen’s door. No sound. Let sleeping kids lie. Stacey in golden high-heel sandals tiptoes downstairs to the kitchen, collects the gin bottle and two bottles of tonic, and goes down to the basement room, leaving the door between the kitchen and basement open in case Jen calls.
— This calls for some slight celebration. Reprieve. I’m not a goner yet. Did I really think I was? Well, it’s in the middle of the night I start thinking about it, and then it seems pretty certain. Really, it’s only what would happen to the kids. Yeh? It doesn’t matter about you, Stacey? Well, it shouldn’t matter. Why not? Because I’m thirty-nine and I can’t complain. But they haven’t begun yet. That’s not how you feel about yourself, though. It matters. Okay, but so what? I think of Katie – maybe Ian, now, too – thinking of me like I’m prehistoric, and it bugs me. I’m sorry, but it does. I’m not a good mother. I’m not a good wife. I don’t want to be. I’m Stacey Cameron and I still love to dance.
The floor is dark-red linoleum tiles. Stacey kicks aside the numdah scatter rugs with their rough embroidery of magic trees, trees of life flowering unexpectedly into azure birds, green unlikely leaves. She pours a gin and tonic, drinks half of it and tops it up. The records are kept in a mock wrought-iron stand. Stacey shuffles impatiently through them and finally finds what she is looking for. She changes the record player to seventy-eight and puts the old disc on. The needle skids a little, complaining at the scratches on the surface.
Tommy Dorsey Boogie. The clear beat announces itself. Stacey finishes her drink, fixes another one, drinks half of it quickly and sets the glass down on top of the TV. She looks at her gold sandals, her green-velvet thighs. She puts her arms out, stretching them in front of her, her fingers moving slightly, feeling the music as though it were tangibly there to be touched in the air. Slowly, she begins to dance. Then faster and faster.
Stacey Cameron in her yellow dress with pleats all around the full skirt. Knowing by instinct how to move, loving the boy’s closeness, whoever he was. Stacey twirling out onto the floor, flung by the hand that would catch her when she came jazzily flying back. Tommy Dorsey Boogie. Stacey spinning like light, whirling laughter across a polished floor. Every muscle knowing what to do by itself. Every bone knowing. Dance hope, girl, dance hurt. Dance the fucking you’ve never yet done.
— Once it seemed almost violent, this music. Now it seems incredibly gentle. Sentimental, self-indulgent? Yeh, probably. But I love it. It’s my beat. I can still do it. I can still move without knowing where, beforehand. Yes. Yes. Yes. Like this. Like this. I can. My hips may not be so hot but my ankles are pretty good, and my legs. Damn good in fact. My feet still know what to do without being told. I love to dance. I love it. I love it. It can’t be over. I can still do it. I don’t do it badly. See? Like this. Like this.
— I love it. The hell with what the kids say. In fifteen years their music will be just as corny. Naturally they don’t know that. I love this music. It’s mine. Buzz off, you little buggers, you don’t understand. No – I didn’t mean that. I meant it. I was myself before any of you were born. (Don’t listen in, God – this is none of your business.)
The music crests, subsides, crests again, blue-green sound, saltwater with the incoming tide, the blues of the night freight trains across snow deserts, the green beckoning voices, the men still unheld and the children yet unborn, the voices cautioning no caution no caution only dance what happens to come along until
The record player switches off.
— Was I hearing what was there, or what? How many times have I played it? God it’s three thirty in the afternoon and I’m stoned. The kids will be home in one hour. Okay, pick up the pieces. Why did I do it? Yours not to reason why, Stacey baby, yours but to go and make nineteen cups of Nescafé before the kids get home. Quickly. Jen? Lord, she must’ve been awake for hours. Oh Stacey.
The black coffee washes around in her stomach like a tidal wave. She gets Jen up, murmuring carefully, and then goes to her own bedroom and Mac’s and changes into her blue silk suit. She puts on a pair of medium-heel navy-blue shoes. She holds the gold sandals for a moment in her hands, then delves into the clothes cupboard and buries them under a pile of tennis shoes and snow boots. She brushes her hair, backcombing it slightly, then slicking it down into neatness and spraying it so it will hold. She applies lipstick and powder. She examines herself in the full-length mirror.
— Am I okay? No lurching hemlines, protruding slip straps, off-base lipstick or any other sign of disrepair? I think I’m okay, but how’s my appraisal power? Shaken, no doubt. Remorse – overdose of same. I’m not fit to be in charge of kids, that’s the plain truth. God, accept my apologies herewith. He won’t. Would you, in His place? No. Come on, be practical. Dinner. Mac won’t be here. Dinner downtown for
him, the lucky bastard. When did I last have dinner downtown? Precious lot he cares. Goddam him, some night when he comes bowling in at ten o’clock expecting me to have kept dinner hot in the oven since six, I’m gonna say Now listen here, sweetheart, want me to tell you something? There isn’t any bloody dinner and if you want any, why don’t you just go along and scramble yourself an ostrich egg? Why don’t you just do that little thing? Oh Stacey, this is madness. Get a grip on yourself. Yeh, well let’s see now – pork chops, cauliflower with cheese sauce, mashed potatoes, and what for dessert? It’ll have to be ice cream. Got half a carton in the freezer. Maybe I should make apple Betty. What a slut I am, not a cooked dessert for those kids. No, I can’t. I’m incapable of peeling an apple. Sometimes I want to say – listen, if all of you never had another dessert for the rest of your lives, would that kill you? Answering chorus of It sure would, spoken with conviction. Come on, bitch. Another cup of coffee.
Stacey prepares dinner primly and with caution. When the children arrive home, she talks as little as possible. The meal is finally over and the noise begins to subside. The mist is beginning to clear. Stacey washes the dishes and then bathes Jen, reads two Little Golden Books to her, and puts her to bed. After some considerable time, Duncan and Ian are also in bed. Only Katie remains. Katie has finished her homework and is down in the TV room. Stacey goes down but does not go in. She stands near the doorway, looking, unnoticed.
Katie has put on one of her own records. Something with a strong and simple beat, slow, almost languid, and yet with an excitement underneath, the lyrics deliberately ambiguous.
Katie is dancing. In a green dress Katie MacAindra simple and intricate as grass is dancing by herself. Her auburn hair, long and straight, touches her shoulders and sways a little when she moves. She wears no make-up. Her bones and flesh are thin, plain-moving, unfrenetic, knowing their idiom.
Stacey MacAindra, thirty-nine, hips ass and face heavier than once, shamrock velvet pants, petunia-purple blouse, cheap gilt sandals high-heeled, prancing squirming jiggling
Stacey turns and goes very quietly up the basement steps and into the living room.
— You won’t be dancing alone for long, Katie. It’s all going for you. I’m glad. Don’t you think I’m glad? Don’t you think I know how beautiful you are? Oh Katie love. I’m glad. I swear it. Strike me dead, God, if I don’t mean it.
At ten thirty, Katie is in bed at last. Stacey is now off duty. Mac is at a conference and will probably not be home until midnight. Stacey has a scalding bath, puts on a nightgown and housecoat, and goes downstairs again.
— What now? I should go to bed. Okay, Stacey, not more than one gin, eh? Well, all right, if it’s going to be only one, let’s make it good and strong. Too much has disappeared from this bottle. I’ll go to the Liquor Commission tomorrow and get another bottle and pour half of it into this one. So Mac won’t think it’s odd. The other half strictly to be stashed away for emergencies. Yeh, I can see it all now. Every other minute is an emergency. Does he know? He must. Mac – listen. Just listen. I have something to tell you. No. It’s not up to him. It’s up to me. Any normal person can cope okay, calmly, soberly. And if you can’t, kid, then there’s something wrong with you. No there isn’t. Everything is okay. Everything is all right, see? Only I’m tired tonight and a little tense. Why not try Ovaltine, then? Oh get lost, you.
Stacey takes her drink into the living room and sits on the chesterfield with the lights off, looking out the window at the city which is both close and far away.
Stacey, naked with Mac three quarters of a year before Katherine Elizabeth was born. The cottage at the lake where they’d gone for the one week holiday they couldn’t afford. The pine and spruce harps in the black ground outside, in the dark wind from the lake that never penetrated the narrow-windowed cabin. Their skins slippery with sweat together, slithering as though with some fine and pleasurable oil. Stacey knowing his moment and her own as both separate and unseparable. Oh my love now
Going into the kitchen, Stacey swings the gin bottle out from the lower cupboard and fills a jug with water from the tap.
— No use wasting tonic water. Of course this will taste like essence of pine needles with a dash of kerosene, but then my mother always used to speak very scornful-like of ladies whose taste was all in their mouths. Couldn’t say that about me. Nope. My taste isn’t anywhere. Between my legs, maybe. Okay, doll, that’s enough. So who wants to know?
Stacey returns to the living room and curls up on the chesterfield once more, her slippered feet underneath her. The big sliding door leads out into the hall and thence up the iron-banistered staircase to the bedrooms. Stacey leans around in the semidarkness to check. The door is closed. Should she put on the radio? She decides against it. If she uses her own voice, she can select the music.
There’s a gold mine in the sky
Faraway –
We will go there, you and I, Some sweet day,
And we’ll say hello to friends who said goodbye,
When we find that long lost gold mine in the sky.
Faraway, faraw-a-ay –
— Oh boy. Jen comes by her operatic tendencies naturally. Where did that song come from? Old man Invergordon used to sing it at local concerts in Manawaka when I was a little kid. Nobody knew how to tell him they’d rather he didn’t. They weren’t so bad, any of them, I now see. How I used to dislike them then, the Ladies’ Aid and mother’s bridge cronies and all of them, never seeing beyond their own spectacles and what will the neighbors think what will they say? But who here or anywhere, now, would put up with old Invergordon? Drop dead, that’s what he’d get here and now. He stank all right but he had a lovely baritone. Only difference between Invergordon and Niall Cameron was that my dad was a private drunk and the old guy was a public one. It isn’t the fact that there’s no gold mine in the sky which bothers me. I mean who wants to say hello to people who are dead even if you happen to be dead yourself? It’s the ones who say good-bye before they’re dead who bug me. I start thinking – it’s Mac. Then I think – hell, no, it’s not Mac it’s me and then I don’t know.
Twelve thirty. Stacey takes the empty bottle into the kitchen and places it behind three bottles of wine and a bottle of vinegar. She takes the frying pan down from its hook and puts it on the stove. She takes the bacon out of the refrigerator and puts two slices in the pan. Cheese. Bread. The fried sandwich is made. She looks at it seriously, considering it. It does not look edible.
— Must eat something absorptive. Can’t. Repulsive. Mac, talk to me. Mac? Katie? Ian? Duncan? Where are you or is it just me I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about well what you should be talking about kid is coffee.
Stacey makes herself a cup of instant coffee. She looks again at the congealing sandwich in the frying pan and decides to heat it up. She switches on an element but does not put the frying pan on until the circular coil is red. She reaches for the frying pan, stumbles, puts out a hand to balance herself. The hand lands on the edge of the electrical scarlet circle.
— It hurts it hurts it hurts what is it
She has without knowing it pulled her hand away. She regards it with curiosity. Two red crescent lines have appeared on the skin of her left palm.
— My brand of stigmata. My western brand. The Double Crescent. It hurts hurts
She takes the frying pan and throws its sandwich into the garbage pail. She switches off the stove, reaches into the cupboard for baking soda, mixes some with water and applies it to her hand. She then applies a light gauze bandage, one which can be removed easily tomorrow morning without anyone noticing. She walks upstairs and gets into bed. Blackness scurries around her in the room but within her head the neon is white and cold like the stars in the prairie winters.
— How to explain this? Anybody can explain anything, if they put their mind to it. It’s not difficult. I put the kettle on, and accidentally put my hand over the boiling spout. Mac – I’m scared. Help me. But it goes a long way back.
Where to begin? What can I possibly say to you that you will take seriously? What would it need, with you, what possible cataclysm, for you to say anything of yourself to me? What should I do? I’m not sure I really want to go on living at all. I can’t cope. I do cope. Not well, though. Not with anyone. Jesus I get tired sometimes. Self-pity. Yeh, I guess. But sometimes I want to abdicate, only that. Quit. Can’t. What would it be like for one of the kids to come into the bedroom, say, one evening when Mac isn’t home yet, any one of them, maybe waking up in the night and calling and me not answering, and coming in here and finding I’d gone away from them for good, overdose? Maybe they’d think it was their fault. I couldn’t come back mysteriously and say Listen, it wasn’t anything to do with you, or not in the way you think, and I love you, see? Even if I left one of those I’m-getting-off-the-world letters, saying I care about you, they wouldn’t believe it. And they’d be right. Goddam you, God. I’m stuck with it. But I’m a mess and I’m scared. What if I had burned myself when one of the kids saw? Mac?
Stacey goes into half sleep, where the sounds of occasional cars and the light wind and the way-off ships can be heard but only in a way which needs no response.
Mac comes in at one o’clock.