The Fire-Dwellers

  That evening, when Mac has gone out again after dinner, Stacey puts Jen to bed and approaches Katie, who is doing her homework in her bedroom.

  Katie – you remember Rosalind Ackerman? I met her at the Ancient Greek Drama course last winter, remember? She was over here a few times. Well, she phoned today and asked me to go over tonight – she’s having a few women in for bridge. Would that be okay? You wouldn’t mind? I wouldn’t be late.

  Katie looks up and smiles.

  Sure, that’s okay. You run along. Can you get the boys in bed first, though?

  — Oh Katie, you’re stabbing me to the heart.

  Yes, of course. I’ll get them tucked in before I go. Thanks, honey.

  That’s okay.

  As Stacey is saying good night to Ian, he props himself up in bed on one elbow and looks at her, frowningly.

  Mum – I don’t feel very well.

  Stacey’s heart turns over. She puts a hand on his forehead.

  Where don’t you feel well, Ian? I don’t think you’ve got a fever.

  It’s my stomach, like. I got this sort of an ache, right here.

  — Could it be a reverberation from the car thing, the other day? Yeh, you think psychosomatic, and one day it turns out to be appendix, burst before anybody can do anything. They don’t die of it any more. There’s antibiotics. But I’m never convinced.

  Show me where.

  Right here.

  Well, that’s your stomach all right. It wouldn’t be your appendix that high up. Did you eat anything different from anybody else today?

  No, I don’t think so. Grant and me had some salted peanuts. He bought them with his money.

  Maybe that was it. Gee, I don’t know, honey. I wonder if I should stay home? It isn’t a sharp pain?

  More like a dull ache, kind of. But then it comes in twinges, you know, and gets sharper.

  — The old question. How serious? I never know.

  Well, it doesn’t seem all that serious to me, Ian. Listen, if it gets worse, you tell Katie, eh? If it got really bad, she could phone Doctor Spender. I won’t be late. You settle down now, and try to sleep.

  Okay. G’night, Mum.

  Good night, honey.

  Stacey calls good-bye to Katie and goes outside and into the Chev. The drive out to Luke’s is interminable tonight.

  — Blasted traffic. And I’ve got to be home by eleven at the latest. It isn’t fair to put that responsibility on Katie. Would she know when to phone the doctor? It’s hard enough even for me to know. But I don’t think it was anything much. He didn’t have a fever. What if someone’s there, at Luke’s? What if he isn’t there? What if some other woman is there? What’ll I say? I’ll approach quietly, and if I hear voices, I’ll just go away, that’s all. If only he had a phone. He’s really bushed out there. I guess that’s the best way for him to be able to write. I wish I could be there to make meals for him. To sleep with him all night.

  Luke is home and alone. He stands in the doorway of the A-frame, still wearing the Indian sweater with the bear mask design, his beard now recognizable as such.

  — Too good to be true. Thanks, God. Travel now, pay later. Send me the bill at the end of the month. No – don’t. Is he smiling? Or is he only trying to smile? I wish I hadn’t come. It was madness. He’s never yet asked me to come out. I’ve just arrived. What a situation to put him in. What can he do, short of ordering me off the premises? Luke, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.

  — Worse. That makes it even worse. How can I humiliate myself and yet not stop doing it? Luke – please – just once more.

  Hi, merwoman. How’s life?

  Life? Oh, not bad, I guess.

  Nice dress – bronze, like those chrysanthemums in fall.

  That’s because I’m at a bridge party.

  Luke laughs, but a little wryly.

  Yeh. I guess that’s necessary. Well, come in.

  Thanks. How’s your work?

  Luke leads here into the main room and shows her a pile of typed pages.

  It’s coming on. Only I’m beginning to see a lot of flaws in the structure. And I’m not sure the inventions are sharp enough – you know, like the perambulating statues of African statesmen in the Residence garden, in lieu of trees. Well, the hell with it. I wish I could take you out fishing. Would you like to go out in the cockleshell that we jokingly refer to as a boat?

  — No. I’d like to go to bed with you, if you really want to know.

  I’d love to, but honestly I can’t stay very long

  Well, let’s have some coffee, then.

  Luke puts the coffee on the stove, and she goes and stands beside him, putting an arm tentatively around him. He laughs, turns the stove low, and at last holds her tightly, his sex hard against her.

  Who wants tea and sympathy? Let’s have coffee and sex, Stacey, eh?

  They make love on the rough wool rug, as before. Stacey’s hands knead his shoulders, his ribs. She reaches a climax almost as soon as he is inside her, and again when he comes. When it is over, he outlines her face with his hands and kisses her eyelids.

  Luke

  Mm? I’m feeling no pain

  Me neither. Or is it – I’m not, either?

  Who cares?

  I’m illiterate, Luke.

  Who cares? You’re pretty good, you know?

  I didn’t know. Tell me again.

  You’re great. I like it with you.

  Oh Luke I like it with you too I love it

  That’s good the coffee’s boiling over

  Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re a romantic at heart.

  Well, sure. But have you ever wiped up scorched coffee from a stove?

  They have the coffee without getting dressed, but the evening has an edge of chill, so Luke drags in a blanket and drapes it over them both. Stacey touches his chin.

  Your beard is coming along nicely.

  Yeh, well it’s only because I’m too lazy to shave, that’s all. I won’t need to shave where I’m going this summer anyhow.

  Where you going?

  I was going to sign on with a fish boat, but I think maybe I’ll just hitch and see what happens. If I can finish this book for better or worse in a couple of weeks, I’d like to go north again. That’s a great country, Stacey. Ever seen it? Up the Skeena River – Kispiox, Kitwanga, crazy names like that. In some parts, nearer the coast, you drive along the edge of a mountain and the trees are like a jungle, only it’s mostly evergreen, but all this fantastic growth, bushes and ferns and moss and jack pine, all crowding each other, dark and light greens, northern jungle, rain forest, and the damn road’s so narrow you swear any minute you’re going to plummet over into some canyon or other.

  I’ve never seen it.

  There’s this place where there’s a ferry. Is it Kitwanga? Yeh, maybe. Anyway, this beat-up old raft crawls across the Skeena and it’s attached to some kind of cable, and you think – man, if that cable goes, that’s it – the river is wild as hell. But the old guy who runs it is calm as anything, probably been there forever. Charon. He talks very easy and slow, and you think – maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad death, after all. And there’s this village near there somewhere, Indian village, a bunch of rundown huts and everything dusty, even the kids and the dogs covered with dust like they were all hundreds of years old which maybe they are and dying which they almost certainly are. And they look at you with these dark slanted eyes they’ve got, all the people there. They come out and look at you with a sort of inchoate hatred and who could be surprised at it? Because lots of people visit the place every summer, for maybe half an hour. The attraction is the totem poles. And there they are – high, thin, beaked, bleached in the sun, cracking and splintering, the totems of the dead. And of the living dead. If I were one of them, the nominally living, I’d sure as hell hate people like me, coming in from the outside. You want to ask them if they know any longer what the poles mean, or if it’s a language which has got lost and now there isn’t anything to replace
it except silence and sometimes the howling of men who’ve been separated from themselves for so long that it’s only a dim memory, a kind of violent mourning, only a reason to stay as drunk as they can for as long as they can. You don’t ask anybody anything. You haven’t suffered enough. You don’t know what they know. You don’t have the right to pry. So you look, and then you go away.

  Is it really like that?

  Luke turns to her, sharply, unexpectedly.

  I don’t know. That’s the way it looked to me. Why don’t you come along and see, Stacey?

  What?

  Come with me. See what you make of it.

  I’d like to, more than I could ever say. But I can’t.

  Why not, merwoman? You want to get away, don’t you? I thought that was the whole point with you.

  I’ve imagined myself getting away more times than I can tell you

  Then do it.

  Stacey looks at him, appalled and shaken by the suggestion of choice. Then she turns away again.

  If I had two lives, I would. You think I don’t want to?

  I don’t know what you want. That’s what interests me. What do you want? The most, I mean.

  I want to go with you.

  Okay. Then it’s settled.

  No. Luke – I can’t leave.

  What can’t you leave.

  My kids and and

  Luke nods and hands her her clothes. They dress without speaking. Then she lights two cigarettes and gives him one. He puts an arm around her.

  It’s okay, merwoman. I didn’t really think you’d come along.

  He withdraws from her, a little, and smiles. His voice has an undercurrent of mockery, but his fingers reassure her shoulder.

  Ladybird, ladybird,

  Fly away home;

  Your house is on fire,

  Your children are gone.

  Stacey becomes tense, examining his face to discover his meaning, but not discovering it.

  Luke – why did you say that?

  He shrugs.

  I don’t know. It just came into my mind. Hey – how about that? I’ve scared you, haven’t I? I’m sorry, Stacey. I didn’t mean to.

  I have to go home

  Right now? You haven’t been here long.

  It’s just that

  — It’s something I can’t tell you. Sure, you level with him, Stacey, you just go ahead and do that little thing. You thought you could.

  You don’t have to explain, Stacey.

  Luke, I want to come out again.

  I know, baby. It’s a pity that you can’t.

  How do you know I can’t?

  My horoscope told me. Or else I’ve got second sight. That must be it. You wonder if there’s a third or fourth sight, and how that’ll work out, in a thousand or so years. Merwoman

  What?

  I’m not twenty-nine. I’m twenty-four.

  In Stacey’s bones the sword turns with slowness and pain. Her hand circles his wrist, but she does not look at him.

  Luke why

  Let it be. Just let it be, eh? Ease up on yourself, merwoman. You going to be okay?

  Me? Sure – I guess so. Well

  Well

  But neither of them can say anything more. Then she goes. The car responds to her tension, and she drives fast, hardly seeing where she is going, her inner automatic pilot having taken over.

  Luke, his Indian sweater bulking around him, recounting something. She was once blessed by the Pope – it was just before she and my dad came to this country, and I was about two months old – she had me when she was fifteen, great for her, eh?

  — I’m not old enough to be every twenty-four-year-old’s mother. But I’m old enough to be his mother. She’s the same age as I am. I can’t bear it. You have to, Stacey. There isn’t anything else you can do. And in the end, he said what was so, but I didn’t. I didn’t say I lied about my age, too, but in the opposite direction. But he knew.

  Ladybird, ladybird

  — It’s all right. He didn’t have a fever, Ian. But what if anything developed? What if it did turn out to be appendix, this time? Would Katie call the doctor or would she just wait, hoping everything would be all right and I’d get home soon? Look, it’s all right, Stacey. Don’t panic. Why did Luke have to say that idiotic rhyme?

  Ladybird, ladybird

  — Luke. I can’t not see you again. I have to. I didn’t even ask you exactly when you were going away. It isn’t so easy for me to organize, getting out to your place. Don’t you see? Stacey, have you forgotten what he told you? Let me tell you one simple fact, doll. He’s only ten years older than Katie. Lots of girls marry men who are ten years older than themselves. Okay, God. That’s enough. That’s enough for the bill. Aren’t you ever satisfied? Ease up on me, eh? Why did he ask me to go north with him? Why? What if I’d said yes? Would he have backed down? He knew I wouldn’t say yes.

  Bluejay Crescent. Stacey pulls the Chev to a jarring halt and climbs out. Mac is coming down the steps out of the house.

  Mac? I thought you

  Mac runs one hand through his brush-cut hair. His tall lank frame communicates tiredness and something else which she cannot guess.

  Mac? Is everything okay?

  He looks at her then, and his voice is drab, drained, dry.

  Stacey, he’s dead

  Stacey crumples, and he grabs for her, pulling her up. Her eyes see nothing, not even Mac’s face, and she does not know she is speaking the one mourning word.

  Ian Ian Ian

  Mac takes her by the shoulders, to steady her, and she suddenly can feel him trembling, trying to control it and not succeeding.

  Stacey – it’s not Ian. Christ, why should you have thought that? Ian’s asleep. He’s quite okay. It’s Buckle.

  EIGHT

  Buckle? It’s Buckle?

  Stacey cannot take in the reality of Mac’s words, or quite believe yet that Ian is safe and she herself essentially unpunished after all. She pulls away from Mac and looks at him as though suspecting she may read in his eyes some insane and subtle deception. But Mac’s face reveals only his open hurt.

  Yes. They’ve just phoned me.

  They?

  The police. They want me to go to the the to identify

  — He can’t say morgue. Oh my God – Buckle is dead. And my first thought was only relief that Ian was okay. Buckle can’t be dead. He can’t be. But he is. I never cared for him, but I wouldn’t have wished him any harm.

  Stacey, seeing Buckle approach her, feeling him already inside her although they were still apart. Stacey wanting him, even there even in that room under the sightless eyes of the she-whale. Then the words he spoke, and the flung coins. Stacey, running down the linoleum-covered stairs, hating hating hating

  — He won’t be able to tell Mac any more lies about me. That’s over. Serves him right. No – I’m not thinking that. I can’t. That’s terrible. I’m not like that. I’m not like that at all.

  Mac, who never touches her in public in case somebody might see, suddenly puts his arms around her again and holds her cruelly tight, blind to the streetlights, blind to Bluejay Crescent, holding her not for her need now but for his own.

  Stacey – he had an identification card on him and he had he had put me down as his next of kin.

  She can feel his enormous effort not to break down. This one thing, the contrived kinship with its implications, he can bear less, almost, than Buckle’s death.

  Mac oh Mac I’m sorry

  — Now he can’t ever settle it with Buckle. They were friends for a long time and then they weren’t and that was my fault. I can’t bear that. No – yes, I can. I didn’t do it all – it was Buckle, too, and for reasons further back than mine. Why did Buckle say that to Mac about me? Now Mac won’t ever know, or be able to say he’s sorry he told Buckle to go to hell. If he is sorry. He is sorry. But he wouldn’t have been if Buckle hadn’t got killed. Got killed? I don’t even know what happened. Yes, I do, though.

  Mac – how
did it happen? It was on the road?

  Oh sure. What else? Head-on collision. Both killed. At least Buckle was driving alone on that run.

  Collision with another truck?

  Yes.

  With another truck like his? One of the big diesels? I mean I mean

  I know. Yes. It was one like his.

  I guess it would have had to be. He never played chicken except with

  The highway shivering past, honking, obstacle-laden. Buckle riding the truck like a jockey. Buckle, for God’s sake, watch the road. His laughter, as he looked at the wheeling metallic ballet ahead. I’ve never yet met a guy who didn’t give way.

  — I thought it was pure ego, superconfidence, when he said that. But maybe after all it was only disappointment.

  Mac turns to go.

  I told them I’d be right down.

  Mac – why do you have to go tonight? Wouldn’t tomorrow be

  I’d rather go now and get it over with.

  I’m coming with you.

  For a moment, she thinks he is going to refuse. Then he nods, and it is almost like a need-admitting sigh.

  Okay, Stacey. Would you would you drive?

  Sure. Of course.

  They take the Chev instead of the Buick because Stacey is more familiar with it. They drive in silence. Stacey is on the point of speaking, several times, but she is afraid she may say the one wrong or fuselike word which may make something explode in his head or heart and break the control which he will need, which he would never forgive himself for not having in this final encounter.