You coming or not?
Well, it’s very nice of you
C’mon we don’t live on manners here if you’re coming, come
She follows him up the mud-soft trail to the house. The raw plank steps lead into the kitchen. It is an A-frame, fairly large but as yet unfinished, the boards unpainted, the lumber still yellow-brown and smelling of pinegum. The ceiling of the main room stretches pointedly upwards, and from one rafter is suspended a looped cord from which hangs an exposed bulb, alight. The room is filled with assorted junk – coarse-webbed fishnets in grey piles on the floor, the big smoke-green thick glass bubbles used as weights on nets, suitcases imperfectly closed and half spilling their underwear and shirts, teetering stacks of books in corners, books outspread or dog-eared on a low table made out of a polished pine slab glowing and golden but with roughly tacked-on uneven do-it-yourself wrought-iron legs, somebody having got sick of the job of an artisan. The half-finished greystone fireplace has no mantel and bears deep eyeless cement pits where future hand-selected stones will possibly one day go. Ten-foot-high unhemmed and floor-trailing curtains of moss-green sackcloth veil the huge front window. An open and beautifully illustrated child’s ABC rests on a rumpled loose-weave green and grey wool rug, Arabic-patterned.
— Heavens. A semiclassy pad. If people have to safety-pin up the hems of their curtains – well. Okay, so a bourgeois I may be, but that kind of a slob I’m not. Still, all the books. What right have I to say? The hell with that. They’re trying to intimidate me with the superiority of unhemmed curtains.
The man points out a black canvas chair, and Stacey tensely sits on the edge. Then, seeing his smile, she slopes back. The stove in the outer region is kerosene – she can smell it. He returns in a little while with two mugs of coffee.
Sugar? Cream?
Well, thanks. Both.
He sits down on a hassock and looks at her. He is still smiling, but when he questions her she feels unprepared.
So, okay. What’s the bad news?
Stacey cradles the hot coffee mug between her hands.
What?
He grins now, but whether mockingly or not, she cannot tell.
The bad news. What’s with you? Why are you here?
I it’s nothing I just drove out
Oh. You just drove out? At this time of night? Here? Look, if you don’t want to level with me, don’t level with me. Go home. But don’t sit here and drink my coffee and tell me you were out for a little fresh air. By the way, my name is Luke. Luke Venturi.
Stacey mumbles her own name and he laughs.
Hey, you’re really scared, aren’t you? Whatsamatter? Think I’m gonna strangle you with one of your own nylons? Come on. Why you here?
Stacey does not look at him.
I didn’t want to stay at home any longer. I took off.
Her hand is too unstable to light her own cigarette. Luke takes it from her, lights it, hands it back.
You took off. Well, well. That’s all right. Don’t worry. Sometimes people do.
She can look at him now, but she feels her own eyes apologizing.
They don’t. They don’t. Not where I come from.
Luke laughs again, but it does not strike her as cruel, only removed from her, as though he were looking at things from some very different point of view.
Well, maybe not, where you come from. Wouldn’t know. You know, once I was up in the Cariboo, hitching, and I stopped off at this farmhouse in the middle of, like, nothing, this goddam broken-down old house, huge actually it was, and the usual pump and cows outside and all I wanted was a meal and only this one kid came out, see, kid about twelve he must’ve been, and I asked where was his dad and mum, and he said My dad’s out there he’ll be back at five. Mum, she took off two-three months ago. And you thought, Christ, no wonder she took off. But there he was, though. Hey, Stacey? What did I do? Is that where you live?
She has put her coffee mug on the floor and her head is in her outfolded arms. She does not know where the crying began or when it can end.
I’m sorry I’m sorry
It’s okay, Stacey, you don’t have to be sorry. It hurts?
Yes.
Well go ahead and bawl. No shame in that. You’re not alone.
She lifts her head and looks at him.
That’s where you’re wrong.
Luke picks up her coffee mug and goes to refill it
No, baby, that’s where you’re wrong.
She takes the coffee mug from him.
You’re real? You’re not real. I’m imagining.
He smiles.
You’re not imagining. But maybe I’m not that real, so don’t count on it. You drive far?
Not that far. What do you do?
Luke lights another cigarette for her, and takes one himself from her package.
Do? What do I do? Well, that’s a good question.
I mean, what work do you do?
Yeh, that’s what you have to find out, first thing, eh? Well, I think I’ll get on with a fish boat this summer, go north.
You’re lucky
Lucky?
I always thought I’d like to go somewhere up there. But I’ve got four kids.
Now we come to it, eh? Four kids. Well.
Don’t you do anything else, the rest of the year?
Sure. Work here and there. Sawmills. Sometimes I sign on as cook, lumber camps. Wouldn’t think I’d be a good cook, would you? But I’m not bad, if I do say so myself. Pastry is my downfall, though. I make pastry which is – not to put too fine a point upon it – like porcelain. Well, nobody wins them all. You make good pastry, Stacey?
Not bad.
I thought as much. I said to myself, there is a woman who looks like she makes good pastry.
Stacey has been drawn into his laughter.
It sounds like an insult to me.
What? You give someone a compliment and they interpret it in reverse. It’s a semantic problem we have. I do other things, too, sometimes. I write.
Oh? What?
Luke shrugs and bends his head.
Science fiction. SF. Not space opera with sex. Allegory, more, and all happening on this planet. The bug-eyed monster bit is dead. Don’t get me wrong. Asimov, Bradbury, Blish and all the old brigade don’t have to lie awake nights worrying about competition from me. Not yet, anyhow. I’ve had precisely one story published. Want my autograph? It’s free.
I like SF. I sometimes
Yeh? You sometimes what? You started to say it, then you quit, like I’d think you were way-out for mentioning it. How funny you are, merwoman. Who held you down? Was it for too long?
Stacey examines his face, unable for the moment to believe the easiness of his words.
Maybe. I never thought of it that way. Or – yeh, maybe I did, but I’m not sure any more. I was only going to say I sometimes you know like imagine that kind of situation SF I mean
Luke now cannot withhold his laughter, but it encompasses her as his hand encompasses her wrist.
Like it’s the secret of the confessional? Oh baby. You’re unbelievable. It’s so sensational?
She takes her wrist back and drinks her coffee, saying nothing. Luke accepts it but after a moment comes back again.
I’m sorry. Four kids, eh? What are you trying to be? A good example?
I can’t be.
Well, that’s good. So why try? Why don’t you come out a little?
What?
Come out. From wherever you’re hiding yourself. See – if I look very hard, I can just about make you out in there, but miniature, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
I can see what you mean, sort of. But it’s odd
Everything is odd, merwoman, everything
That’s what I think. Only
Only what?
They don’t think so
Luke’s eyebrows, heavy over the square quizzical face, now lighten purposely.
Well, I’m not them.
Stacey gath
ers her purse, gets out her car keys.
I have to go home. Thanks for the coffee.
That’s okay. And cheer up, eh?
I’ll try. Thanks for noticing I wasn’t so cheerful.
That’s me – perceptive to a degree. It only stood out all over you.
Stacey hesitates in the doorway, not wanting to go, wanting Luke to suggest that she might like to drive out again sometime. But he only smiles at her, so she finally turns.
Well, so long.
So long.
Stacey pulls up the Chev on Bluejay Crescent and goes with extreme quietness into the house. She tiptoes up the stairs. No sound. She creaks the bedroom door open.
Mac is sitting up in bed, smoking. He looks at her.
Great. You’ve decided to come home? Where in the bloody fucking hell have you been, Stacey? I damn near called the police.
I have been out driving.
Out driving? At this hour?
Yes.
All right. Did you go to Buckle’s place?
No.
That’s what you say.
If you don’t believe me, hire detectives. Who cares? I went out driving, that’s all.
If you had stayed out half an hour longer I would have called the
Why?
Because I have some sense of responsibility even if you don’t.
Yeh, well maybe you’re right. But I’m back in time to make breakfast. I’m not totally lacking in a sense of
Look all right I believe you what else can I do for God’s sake get to bed will you please it is two A.M.
Okay right away
Stacey pussyfoots into the bathroom, washes her face, puts on her nightly cold cream and steps back into the silent hall. There, in front of her bedroom door is Katie, in her yellow lace nightie, long red hair along her shoulders, not saying anything, just looking.
Katie –
Katie turns and goes back into her bedroom. Her words are on purpose not loud enough to wake the younger kids.
Just don’t ever bawl me out again, eh?
For three days Stacey housecleans compulsively, lugging the vacuum cleaner savagely from room to room, washing and ironing curtains, turfing out boxloads of broken toys from the boys’ room, straightening her dresser drawers. In the evenings, she goes to bed even before Katie is in bed, and tries to read. She leaves Mac’s dinner in the oven for him, and when she hears his key in the door, about ten, she switches off the light on the bedside table. Their bedroom is at the front of the house and he drives in the back lane to the garage so he cannot see the bedroom light as he approaches. Her eyes are closed by the time he comes upstairs and she does not open them. She listens each night to Mac’s daytime breathing turning into sleep. She lies stiffly, far to her own side of the bed, not moving in case she wakens him and speech becomes unavoidable. In the mornings they are protected from each other by the presence of the children.
On the fourth morning, Stacey phones Tess Fogler and asks her over for coffee. The high-pitched girl-voice comes back at her.
Why thanks Stacey I’d just love to
Stacey replaces the receiver and looks at herself in the hall mirror. She is wearing her dark-green slacks and green pullover. The day is too warm for them. It is only now that Stacey realizes she has been wearing them for the past four days as though they were the one contact with what she now does not believe actually took place.
— How can I get out? Evenings are out of the question. If Mac is home it’s impossible; if he isn’t home it still is impossible. Katie would be okay with the other kids for a few hours in the evening. Sure, but where am I going? Out to see a sick friend? Days. I can’t ask Tess to mind Jen again. I’ve already imposed on her too much. I’m not going to ask her. I simply am not. What you ought to do, Stacey, is ask Tess over more often, no strings. I know, I know. But she never has anything to talk about. Yeh, and you’re such a brilliant conversationalist yourself? Oh shut up. I will ask her over more often. I swear it. And I won’t ever ask her about Jen again. It would be different if it could be reciprocal, but what can I do for her that would be any use? Let her pour out her woes? She never does. Maybe she hasn’t got any, not really to speak of. I look at her, done up like a Christmas present, and I wonder what’s actually inside. Maybe nothing. How can you tell unless people say? He didn’t mind talking, Luke. He took it for granted. What’s the bad news? As though it were to be expected, to mention it. Okay, God, say what you like, but I damn well wish I could get away just sometimes by myself. But no. It’s a criminal offense, nearly. What makes any of them think they’ve got the right to tell me own me have me always there not that they notice when I am only when I’m not.
Katie, four, almost as chunky as Stacey had been as a child, Katie with then-short auburn hair, sitting beside Stacey on the chesterfield, gravely turning the magazine pages, coming to the picture of the ever-alluring Girl in White Lace. Do ladies wear it then, Mum? Wear what when? Their bride dress when they go out to find the husband. Well, no, not just then. I’m going to. Sure, you do that, gorgeous – you’ll be a knockout. And they laughed conspiratorially together. Ten years later, Katie in the upstairs hall outside her room, eyes fully aware, unforgiving. Just don’t ever bawl me out again, eh?
— Katie, wait. Let me explain. No, I guess I can’t. And if I did, it might be worse for you than not trying. Katie, I promise – never again. I won’t leave even for an hour. I swear it. How could I go out there again, anyway? He didn’t ask me to come. What do you imagine he’d do, Stacey? Greet you with a vast shout of joy? Like hell he would. He’d stare at you aloofly, and say Oh, it’s you. No – he’d smile politely but it would be only that, just politeness, And what would you say, dream girl? I need to talk to you please please talk touch me even if it’s only your hands on my shoulders. That would go down wonderfully. Have a little pride, Stacey. Why?
Jen is warbling beside Stacey, running up and down the hall with her short arms extended around a multitude of dolls. She drops them and reaches for Stacey’s arm.
What is it, flower?
Yatter-yatter
You mean your doll carriage? Okay, let’s get it. I’m going to phone Doctor Spender this week and have him have a look at you. No – I’m just impatient, aren’t I? You’re perfectly okay, aren’t you? Daddy’s right – I just get worked up over nothing. Don’t I?
R-r-ring.
Stacey opens the front door and Tess comes in, fawn-graceful in new dull-orange dress, carrying in her hands a number of swan-necked gilt-headed bottles and portly drum-bellied jars, like a collection of princesses and frogs.
Look, Stacey, my new facial stuff. It’s fabulous. Just simply amazing. I’ve only been using it a few days but I can really notice the difference already. You can’t buy it in the drugstores – it’s only sold door-to-door. This awfully nice woman came around and I asked her in more out of politeness than anything you know and then we got talking and well I mean I don’t usually buy cosmetics door-to-door but this sounded so interesting. They’re all natural products.
Tess deposits the bottles and jars on the kitchen table and Stacey picks up a squat translucent jar filled with a green perfumed ointment. The label reads HATSHEPSUT – Avocado Wrinkle Cream.
Natural products?
Yes, I mean, like, they don’t contain any animal substances.
Is that good?
Tess nods.
It’s much better for your skin. All natural vegetable substances.
What’s so unnatural about animals?
Tess laughs trillingly.
Oh Stacey, you’re just like Jake. Well, there’s nothing I guess what you would exactly call unnatural about animals except they are animals aren’t they and creams and that made out of animal fat well there’s something sort of unfresh about it, isn’t there? It never struck me until Mrs. Clovelly – that’s her name – pointed it out and then I could see it right away. You take natural vegetable oils, now, and there’s something sort of, well, nicer about
it, you know? Also, it’s much more compassionate. I mean, you don’t have to have all those animals killed for their fat.
Yeh. Well, you could be right. What all kinds you got, Tess?
Tess displays them one by one, cuddling them between her long smooth fingers.
Well, this one’s Geranium Leaf Skin Astringent, for toning up the skin. This is Pineapple Shampoo, for restoring the natural oils of the hair. And Rose and Rhubarb Night Cream – this pale-pink one – rhubarb may sound a little funny, but it’s so refreshing, really, and just smell it – the roses are for the perfume, and the rhubarb juices are for the skin-cell restoring process. And Violet-Rosemary Hand-Cream – smell – isn’t it lovely? And Strawberry Under-Eye Lotion, and you’ve seen the Avocado Wrinkle Cream.
— My God, does she apply them or eat them? Sh, doll, don’t offend her. Sale on at Eaton’s – remember? No. Don’t. You’re not to ask.
Gosh, they make quite an imposing array, Tess. What does it mean – HATSHEP – whatever it says?
HATSHEPSUT. Pronounced Hat-shep-soot. Mrs. Clovelly said. That’s the name of the whole line. They’re called after an ancient Egyptian queen. Queen Hatshepsut. She was very famous. She ruled as pharaoh in her own right.
Gee. Well. How interesting.
Jake had to look her up, of course, in a book. He came downstairs laughing like crazy and saying she was famous for her cruelty and she dressed as a man and married her stepson or some such relative and he hated her so much he had her name chiseled off all the monuments after she died. But I bet that’s not true. Jake gets a big bang out of jokes, I mean. But anyway, I like the name, don’t you? I think it’s sort of cute to name them after an ancient Egyptian queen.
Yeh it’s very
No sugar or cream for me, thanks Stacey. I just have it black.
Oh sorry. Absent-minded. I don’t see why you diet.
I just feel I mustn’t ever let myself go, that’s all. How’s your diet coming along, Stacey?
Lousy. I haven’t got the perseverance of a grasshopper.
Well, you do so much. You must burn up a lot of energy.
Yeh, I guess. Things get on top of me every so often. I been doing spring cleaning these past couple of days. Haven’t had a minute. I meant to get downtown while the sale’s on at Eaton’s. If I don’t get those kids some new pajamas soon, they’ll be going to bed bare.