A grey building, not far from the waterfront, where the cheap-wine and meths drinkers gurgle and cough out intolerable lives. Only one light burning. The courtrooms, coroner’s office, all black, shut, nobody home. Only the chapel of the violent dead holding its eternal hours, crash and stab not knowing nine to five. Stacey parks, and Mac puts a hand on her arm.
You stay here, Stacey.
I’ll come if you want me to. I mean it.
Yeh. I know. I – thanks. But no.
The car door opens and closes; the door of the building opens and closes. Stacey smokes and waits.
— I couldn’t have gone in. Yes, I could have. No, I couldn’t. Well, if I’d had to, I would have. And yet I’m curious as well. How do they stash them away? In grey-metal drawers like outsize filing cabinets, chilled for preservation? I don’t want to know. And yet I think of it, and what it would be like to be lying there, among them, one of them, not in a hospital with fragmentary hope but there with none, everything broken, drained out, gashed. Don’t be ridiculous, Stacey. As if you’d know, if you were. But somehow I always think I would know it, be able to see myself battered and wrecked, extinguished.
Cameron’s Funeral Home was never entered into by children. Stacey and her sister were forbidden. After Niall Cameron’s funeral, when Stacey was grown and had her own children, she went in, forced herself in, to banish the long-ago cold tenants once and for all, send them back to limbo or even heaven, put them under that dutifully flower-prinked earth where they had lain years. Everything was dusty and jumbled, bottles once booze mixed with the jars and potions of a profession old as the pharaohs. Her mother found her there. He would never let me clean here, your father wouldn’t. He’d never let me tidy up. He said it would be a violation – I’ve never understood what he could have meant, but then he was always a little well you know. Yes. And they’d turned and exited, locked up again, and Stacey went to the Liquor Commission and bought a mickey of rye but had to drink it in the bathroom and gargle with mouthwash after, and her mother said You might consider that someone else might like to have a bath dear. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
— Buckle? Buckle – I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone with you that afternoon. It was only because because. I didn’t mean. Did it hurt you that Mac’s wife would? Naturally it did. What do I do about that? One more piece of baggage to lug along. I wish I could get rid of all of it. I wish I could start all over, with things simpler, really simple, none of this mishmash. Luke? I want to see him again. I can’t. I can’t want to. But I do. He’s not fifteen years younger. He is, though. Even if he weren’t, how could I get out? Out of where I am. All I want to do, God, is go away and throw all of this overboard. What about the kids? Yeh. And Mac? I don’t know. Whatever he’s feeling, I don’t want to know. But I do know. And I can’t get rid of that.
Mac opens the door and climbs in. He lights a cigarette and does not look at Stacey. She eases the car into motion as though she has to be careful not to have it jolt. They travel home in silence.
— I can’t say anything. God, don’t let him tell me. I don’t want to know.
Once home, they go to bed without yet speaking. Mac turns off the light on the bedside table. Then, almost immediately, he switches it on again and walks very quickly to the bathroom. Stacey, lying stretched straight and stiff as a brass curtain rail, hears him vomiting, flushing the toilet to mask the sound. Mercifully, no child wakens. Mac returns, crawls into bed, turns to her and puts his arms around her. He is crying now, the lung-wrenching spasms of a man to whom crying is forbidden. Shocked and frightened, she can only hold him, stroke his shoulders. Finally it subsides and he gets up and gropes for Kleenex and cigarettes. His voice is rough with self-condemnation.
Sorry.
Mac – you don’t have to be
Well. It was just that
He returns to bed and lights cigarettes for both of them, something he has not done in a long time. They sit up in bed with the ashtray between them. Stacey cannot say anything to enable him to speak, because she is afraid of what he will say. But after a while he tries again.
Stacey – you don’t mind me saying?
Of course not. How could I?
— I could. I do. But if he doesn’t say, it’ll be the worst thing that ever happened to him. What I lack is strength. Enough strength. Enough calm. Just give me enough to boggle through this one night, God, and I’ll never ask for anything again. Yeh – I know. You’ve heard all of that before.
Mac speaks in an untoned voice, at least to begin with.
His back was broken, so he looked twisted sort of and his head was was
Buckle Fennick, prince of the highway, superstitious as a caveman, Buckle who could swagger standing still, now lying stilled once and for all, Buckle with torn eyes unsocketed, blood wiped boredly away by attendants but smears still on the dark skin of his Indian-like face
Sh sh it’s all right
He hadn’t changed the identification card, Stacey. Not even after he phoned me that time. He left it the way it was. Me as his nearest
I know
Why? How could he? I don’t get it. You know, I never did that well by him.
You did so. You did.
I always kind of resented how much he came around.
You never said. He didn’t know. I didn’t, either.
Well, how could I say? It was something that happened a long time ago
It is a time they have seldom spoken about, Stacey and Mac. Their children will learn it from books.
Preceded by pipers, the men of the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders marched through the streets of Manawaka on their way overseas. Stacey, fifteen, watched them go, the boymen whom she soon might have known, perhaps married one if they had stayed. Nearly all the Manawaka boys of that age joined the same regiment. That was the war, to Stacey. She felt at the time ashamed of her own distance and safety. But after Dieppe, she could never again listen to the pipes playing The March of the Cameron Men. Even twenty years later, it remained a pibroch for them. The rough-fibered music forced mourning on her as though it had perpetually happened only the day before.
You mean in the war?
Yes. I didn’t understand it very well and I thought maybe I was just imagining things
What was it?
In Italy. Quite near the end. At that point we were cleaning up. You know, sweeping all before us, like. And maybe careless. Anyway, there was this bridge – funny, I can see it right now, a little brick bridge, those Roman arches, been there for centuries, I guess. Buckle and I were on supply transport, truck full of rations, spelled each other off. He was driving, and you know how he drives. Bat outa hell isn’t in it with him and how we got separated from the convoy I’ll never know because I hadn’t had any sleep the night before and he hadn’t either but it didn’t seem to affect him so much. I dozed off and when I wakened there we were on this godawful road all by ourselves and he said he had looked at the map and figured a short cut which I thought was lunacy but try to tell him anything. Anyway, there we were at this bridge and I said let’s get out and have a look first and he said – God, Stacey, I can hear the way he said it – he said, Okay, chickadee, you get out and walk because I’m driving across. I was a kid – only just turned twenty, and I didn’t like to be reminded. It made me bloody angry, because he always thought he was so goddam tough and all that, and I guess I thought he was being patronizing, but I wasn’t going back on what I’d said, so I did get out. He went bowling on, not waiting for a check and
Go on – say it.
Well
Say it.
The bridge blew. Mined. It went before Buckle got properly onto it, or there wouldn’t have been much of him left to pick up, but the truck was thrown and flung half into the river, which wasn’t that deep. I hauled him out. He had three broken ribs and concussion – I only learned this later – at the time I thought every bone in his body was broken. He kept bleeding from his mouth and nose. He was unconscious. I th
ought he’d had it. I thought he’d choke with the blood in his throat, so I – but I didn’t really know what the hell to do. After what seemed about a year, I found a farmer with a donkey cart, and finally we got back to the other road and met up with the last of the convoy. I don’t know, Stacey – that trek in the cart, it was weird, like it was only being imagined or some such thing. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen worse things – nothing like that. But Buckle kept coming to, just for a few seconds at a time, and from the way he looked it wasn’t only because he was in pain it was something else entirely
Mac – what bugs you?
Mac stubs out his cigarette and lights another. She can now see him, her eyes having adjusted to the dark. His face shows nothing. His voice is so plain as to be almost casual.
I couldn’t figure it at the time. But later on I thought maybe it was just that I hadn’t done him any favor. I hadn’t done anything he wanted me to do.
So then you had to take him on for life? Because
— Who is this guy? Why did I never know?
It sounds crazy I guess.
It doesn’t sound crazy. Mac – stop beating yourself. You’re not God. You couldn’t save him.
That’s only too obvious.
Not obvious enough, maybe. Mac?
Yeh?
I never went to bed with him.
Mac reaches out and puts a hand tentatively on one of her breasts.
I believe you now. I wish to Christ I had before. I just felt I don’t know
Look – I might have. I guess I actually might have. But that wasn’t what he wanted. I don’t guess he was all that interested in women, Mac. That was why Julie left him. He liked it with himself but with somebody looking on.
Oh Jesus
Would it have been better if I hadn’t told you?
No. It’s better this way. It’s believable
Maybe he wanted you.
Mac involuntarily tenses.
Yeh maybe
Did it scare you, that?
Christ, Stacey, we’re talking a lot of bullshit. We better go to sleep.
Would it have been the end for you if I had gone to bed with him? In a way it wouldn’t have mattered.
Maybe not. But you didn’t.
No. I didn’t.
— But I did with Luke, and you don’t know that and I can’t tell you because would it do any good to tell you? I don’t think so. I want to, but I can’t. Maybe it’ll come out twenty years from now just like this about Buckle has come out now. In the meantime, we carry our own suitcases. How was it I never knew how many you were carrying? Too busy toting my own.
Stacey?
Yeh?
— What now? Whatever it is, I can’t take it.
About Delores
Who?
Delores Appleton. That girl.
Oh yeh. Her. What?
I did.
— What does he expect me to do? Throw a fit? I’m delighted. I’m not the only one
Oh?
Only once, though. And only after I thought you’d gone to bed with Buckle.
— Thanks. Heap coals of fire on my head. I’m made of asbestos.
Oh?
Yeh. But it wasn’t it wasn’t well I could see it wasn’t what she needed and what she needed I couldn’t
How do you mean?
Well I guess she really needs to be cared about by some guy over a long time
— Oh Mac. Like I have been, by you, come hell or high water, in some way or other. Go ahead – stab me to the heart. Maybe I’ll undergo a change of heart. The new one will be plastic and unbreakable. And yet, goddam it, you did want her before, and couldn’t admit it until I’d given you some kind of cause for permission.
Yes. I can see that. I guess she does. Mac – I don’t mind honestly
Don’t you?
Well
— Does he want me to mind?
Mac – we’d better try to go to sleep seven o’clock isn’t that far off
Yeh you’re right
Good night, Mac.
Good night, Stacey.
After a while, he is asleep but Stacey still is not. Something remains to be done. Gingerly, she edges out of bed, so as not to waken him, partly because he needs to sleep and partly because she could not explain. She goes into the boys’ room. Ian is sleeping, on his left side as always, his forehead slightly damp with sweat. Stacey does not touch him. She only listens to hear very definitely his breathing.
EVER-OPEN EYE TROOPS PARACHUTING INTO ANOTHER COUNTRY THE COMMENTING VOICE IS BUSINESSLIKE, INTERPRETING DEATH AS NUMERALS
How come you never take us to the beach, Mum?
I will, Ian.
Yeh, but summer holidays started one week ago – one whole week – and so far we haven’t been down once.
Yeh, that’s right, Mum. Ian’s right. You never take us to the beach. It’s not fair.
Okay, okay, Duncan. We’ll go tomorrow.
EVER-OPEN EYE POLICE TURN HOSES ONTO RIOTING NEGROES IN A CITY’S STREETS CLOSEUP OF A BOY’S FACE ANGER PAIN RAW THE WATER BLAST HITS HIM WITH THE FORCE OF WHIPS HE CRIES OUT AND CRUMPLES AND IS SWEPT ACROSS THE PAVEMENT LIKE A LEAF LIGHTLY DISCARDED FROM SOME TREE
Is that a promise?
Yes. Yes, it is, Ian. I should’ve taken you before. I know. I’m sorry. We’ll go tomorrow. Jen too.
Duncan and Ian last summer at the beach, wrestling and wisecracking, brown skinny legs and arms, the shaggy flames of their hair, their skin smelling of sand and saltwater. Sea-children, as though they should have been crowned with fronds of kelp and ridden dolphins.
— Luke? I could tell you. I could talk. How can I with Mac? He’s got enough to worry about. I can’t upset him any more. I mustn’t. If I could just talk, Luke, nothing else, just talk
The totem poles are high, thin, beaked, bleached in the sun, carvings of monsters that never were, in that far dusty land of wild grasses, where the rivers speed and thunder while the ancient-eyed boatman waits. Luke is walking beside her. Luke, I’m frightened to death of life. It’s okay, baby – you’re not alone – I’m with you there.
Luke in his Indian sweater, his beard brown and beginning to be soft. Merwoman – What? I’m not twenty-nine. I’m twenty-four. Luke, before that, sitting cross-legged (was it?) on the Arabic-patterned rug. She had me when she was fifteen – great for her, eh?
— I can’t see him again. He doesn’t want to. He knew I’d lied about my age. He probably thinks I’m older even than I am. Okay – big deal, Stacey. You’ve done what thousands of other women have done. Don’t I know it? That’s what hurts the most, maybe. Shameless shameful attempt at rejuvenation. Pitiful, really. By Christ, I loathe that thought. The only blessing is at least I don’t have to worry about being pregnant. Sure, count your blessings, kid. Go ahead and do that. I Was Pollyanna’s Mum. A ray of sunshine. Face it – he was only being kind. I asked, and he didn’t say no. Was that all? Wasn’t he lonely out there? Didn’t he need a woman? He probably needed a girl, and that is precisely what he will get and maybe he will tell her about me. There was this middle-aged old doll, see, and No. I won’t think of it.
Katie’s voice shrilling from the kitchen.
Mum! Granddad’s here.
Oh – okay, Katie. I’ll be right there. The dinner’s all ready. Where’s Dad?
How should I know?
Stacey flicks off the TV and gathers Ian and Duncan.
Come on, kids. Go and say hello to Granddad.
Duncan eyes her doubtfully.
What’ll we tell him about Sunday school? He won’t like it.
You don’t need to tell him anything. I’ll tell him.
What’ll you say?
Stacey’s voice is sharper than she intended.
Listen in, then, why don’t you, if you’re so curious?
— That was a hell of a thing to say. I take it out on Duncan, just because he’s quite rightly concerned at how Matthew will feel that the kids have quit going. I told them they could qui
t, because I was sick of that particular sham, and I nearly fainted with surprise when Mac didn’t even argue, but now do I feel good about being honest for once in my life? No. I reproach myself and wonder if I’m denying them something for which they’ll later reproach me. And I don’t know how to tell Matthew, either.
Sorry, Duncan. I didn’t mean it to sound like I was mad. I don’t know how to tell Granddad, either.
Duncan puts his hand in hers.
Well, you’ll think of something.
— Don’t bank on it, boy. I wish I had your confidence in me. I’d be a world-beater. Your temporary confidence, that is. Ian’s outgrown it, nearly, and Katie lost it long ago. And yet in some ways not. Look at how she was that day with Tess. She thought I would have known what to say.
Matthew is Sunday-dressed, immaculate as always, his eyes a little vaguer to Stacey’s view than last week, his straight determined body held that way with a little more difficulty.
Stacey, my dear. How are you?
Just fine, thanks. How’re you?
Oh, pretty well. I can’t complain. The apartment’s very hot these nights and I haven’t been sleeping too well, but apart from that, everything’s fine.
Why don’t you ask Doctor Spender for some sleeping pills?
Matthew shakes his head firmly.
No. I’m sure that it’s not a good idea to rely on external props of that nature.
Yeh. Well, you could be right
— Praise God I finished off the triple-strength gin and tonic in the TV room and didn’t bring the glass up with me. Well, I haven’t been stoned since that time with the stove. I don’t guess Matthew would think that sufficient cause for feeling heartened, though. He’d never be able to get over the fact that it happened at all.
I’m sure everyone sleeps as much as they actually require. I don’t suppose I require quite so much sleep any more. All the same, it’s nice to get away from the apartment. It’s much cooler here.
— He doesn’t get out enough. I know it, and what do I do about it? Bugger all.
I – I’m taking the kids to the beach tomorrow. Why don’t you come along?