The Fire-Dwellers

  The doorbell chimes softly in four notes, and Tess opens the door to Bertha Garvey, whose voice rasps anxiously.

  I’m not late, am I?

  Why no. Only Stacey’s here. The Polyglam lady hasn’t even got here yet. I hope she hasn’t got the date wrong.

  Bertha comes into the living room. Pressing sixty, corseted to the point of shallow breathing, grey hair with slightly too true-blue rinse and done in a profusion of springy curls, hands big and capable – telling what her life work has been – eyes always a little worried behind up-curled green-framed glasses.

  I would’ve been here sooner, Tess, but you know what Julian’s like. Any time I’m going out – and goodness knows that’s not often – he thinks of all kinds of things to delay me. Tonight nothing would do but I should get his navy suit laid out ready for him to take to the dry cleaners in the morning. Mercy, I could do it with no trouble at all before breakfast, I told him. But that wouldn’t do. Oh no. Had to have it all ready in a shopping bag right that minute. I guess it’s not his fault, really. He’s getting on. And it’s hard for him to be retired – he’s never got used to it. You girls just wait. You’ll see. Although I’m not saying it’ll hit your hubbies that same way.

  Julian Garvey is twelve years older than Bertha. He used to be an accountant. Now he putters around the house or does a little gardening, which he dislikes. He is small and dignified, meticulous-mannered with everyone else, but crabby with Bertha.

  Bertha Garvey, one New Year’s Eve, brought up a Baptist, only taking a drink on high days and holidays, as she said, and being quickly affected. Strapping efficient Bertha in Stacey’s kitchen, shedding absurd cartoon tears (until Stacey looked again and saw them) into her Bloody Mary. Hardly anyone knows, but I was born and raised in a lumber camp. Stacey saying in amazement, good heavens, what’s so awful about that? Well it was the schooling I missed. My mother wanted me to go and live with my aunt and go to high school but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He was a high-rigger, my dad was, and when he got too heavy for it, he still went on, and then one day he lopped the top off a Douglas fir and lopped himself off with it. Bertha had sworn not to marry a lumberman, so she had married Julian when he was a pay clerk in camp. Julian was my fate, Stacey, but he can’t forget I never went beyond grade school.

  The doorbell croons, and Tess patters excitedly into the front hall.

  Oh – she’s here, girls!

  The plastic lady is petite and emaciated, high frothed-up hair metallic blonde, high thin teetery heels supporting bird-bone ankles, face gay-gay-gay with its haggardness fairly well masked by tan make-up and the scarlet gash of a lipstick smile. Her sleeveless silver dress shimmers like the scanty robe of some new oracle, and on the right breast it bears the iridescent ice-blue letters Polyglam.

  Hello, Mrs. Fogler. Hello, girls. My, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. Now, if I can just find a table.

  Quick as a slickly sleight-of-handing magician, she hauls boxes in from her car and sets up shop in the Foglers’ dining room. The company gathers. Stacey chain-smokes. Bertha knots her hands together, cat’s cradles of broad fingers, and smiles hopefully. Tess sits wide-eyed like a child about to behold marvels. The marvels are there, arranged in heaps and rows on the table, plastic vessels gleaming softly, pearl-pink, mauve, green like the pale underthighs of a mermaid, blue as pastel as angel veins.

  Picnic plates. Beakers. Sandwich cases. Pie containers. Cookie jars. Breadboxes. Buckets and dishpans. Dogs’ feeding bowls. Infants’ cereal bowls. Mixing bowls giant human and elfin. Ice-cube trays. Vats suitable for making wine or drowning enemies. Beach pails. Juice holders. Jugs all sizes from cream to martini. Tumblers and eggcups, plant pots and kid pots. To name only a few. The Polyglam lady takes her stance in front of the display.

  Now, girls, just to get acquainted, we’re going to play a little game. I think you’ll all really enjoy it. All my clients say it’s the nicest fun thing ever. It’s a simple little word game – not too simple, mind you – that wouldn’t do for you bright girls, eh? I’m going to give you each this full-colored Polyglam booklet, and on the first page you’ll see the words Polyglam Superware. See? That’s it. Now, see those blank spaces? I’m going to give you each a pencil, and I want you to see how many words you can make using only the letters in Polyglam Superware. We’ve got ten minutes. Ready? Go!

  — My mind has gone blank. There’s old Bertha scribbling away as though her entire future is at stake. Tess looks like Katie did once at about ten, when she had measles and wrote her exams at home – chewing her pencil, trying terribly hard.

  Stacey after several minutes writes down Mug. She looks at the word for awhile, contemplating its inner truth. Then she writes Pee. She crosses this out and writes Woe instead. By this time the ten minutes are up.

  Now let’s just count them up, shall we, girls? Ho ho Mrs. Uh MacAindra, you haven’t got very many, have you? Not to worry. It’s only a game, isn’t it? Mrs. Garvey, ten for you – that’s fine. Mrs. Fogler, let’s see now – Glam, Spam, Lam, Pew, Sew, Are – oh this is very good. Very good. Mrs. Fogler’s got twelve words, girls! Isn’t that nice? Now, Mrs. Fogler, it gives me real pleasure to present you with a little prize – this set of six Polyglam Juicicles. Yes, you can make your very own juice popsicles any flavor you wish. The kiddies can’t get enough of them.

  — Pure tact. She might have found out whether Tess had kids or not. I still wonder if it’s by accident or design that she and Jake never have. Tess has never said.

  Look – look at this, Bertha. Aren’t they the cutest?

  Real nice, Tess. Real handy. Really handy, that is to say.

  Now if you’ll just take your pencils again, girls, I’m going to let you in on a recipe which our Polyglam kitchens have just dreamed up – and is it ever a dream! It’s the yummiest dessert you’ve ever tasted. We call it Tropical Paradise. I made it only yesterday for my own youngsters, and every single one of them polished their plates and asked for more. I’m positive your toddlers and teens will all be saying – Mm – this is sure a tummy treat, Mum. Okay? Ready? One cup maraschino cherries, chopped very fine. One cup melted marshmallows. One cup diced pineapple. Two cups whipped cream. A teaspoon of

  Stacey writes Safe in the Arms of Jesus. Then she writes Lost in the Arms of Morpheus, followed by Yummy Yummy Says My Tummy. After that, she has time for one quick game of X’s and O’s.

  — Without realizing it, that woman may actually be suffering severely from myopia. I’m only thinking of Bertha’s toddlers.

  Everybody got it all down? You, Mrs. MacAindra?

  Yes, thanks.

  Good. Now, then, I’d just like to point out a few features of this lovely Polyglam Superware – features you may not have noticed. For instance, would you ever guess just how durable Polyglam is? Oh sure, we all know it won’t break, but the average person may not realize just how strong this unique material is.

  Three lake-water blue dishpans, upturned, become the Polyglam lady’s platform. She jumps up and down, tap dances, stomps with stiletto heels, leaps from one to another.

  — My God, what if she falls? I can see her skimming down, slamming her pointed chin on the grey Chinese carpet, unable to rise out of sheer mortification. Am I willing this to happen? Stop it, Stacey, for heaven’s sake – you may not realize your own tremendous mental powers. Yeh, a likely thought.

  The Polyglam lady does not slip. She does a ballet-like zigzag in the air and comes down in a proficient landing on two dishpans, legs outspread but not vulgarly so.

  Now, I don’t want any of you girls to feel you have to, but if you’d like to look at the various pieces of Polyglam

  These sandwich cases are just perfectly

  What adorable eggcups

  It’s this cookie jar that I think is so

  — If I get out of here for less than ten bucks it will be a bloody miracle. Two weeks ago it was copper-bottomed stove-ware at Bertha’s, and I bought a Dutch oven, which I needed slightly less than I
need a Dutch uncle. I’m weak-minded, that’s my trouble. Anything to look agreeable. Don’t rock the boat. Why can’t I? Why am I unable to? Help me. Who? How strange if Bertha and Tess were thinking the exact same thing. We could unite. This could start an underground movement. The Bluejay Crescent Irregulars. I can see it all now. We’re too damn complacent. No – we’re not complacent one bit. We’re just scared. Of what? Making a scene? Finding out we’re alone after all – better not to test it out? How do I know what Tess and Bertha think? Am I going to risk offending Tess by asking? I have to live next door to her. She frequently minds Jen for me. Oh Katie, you’re dead right about me, baby. I’m corrupt. Or was it immoral you said? Jesus, if I’m going to be immoral, I should scout around for some slightly jazzier way of being it.

  Two and a half decades back, to the Dragon Lady of Terry and the Pirates. Wearing Stacey’s face and a slinky black velvet ensemble that clings to her gifted breasts and friendly thighs. What was it you wanted to know, McNab? She is addressing the customs officer. Did you say smuggled opium? But McNab (about thirty, muscles like wire rope) can only stand and drool, overcome by his impossible desire. (Switch here from Saturday colored funnies page to elsewhere.) This way, McNab – nothing is impossible. Will it be the bed or the deck?

  — I am either suffering from delayed adolescence or premature menopausal symptoms, most likely both.

  When the purchases have been made, Tess serves coffee, two kinds of sandwiches, shortbread and layer cake with three-inch mocha icing.

  — Shut up, God. I feel too lousy not to eat. Bananas tomorrow.

  The Polyglam lady makes the first move to go.

  It’s been such a pleasure meeting you ladies, and thanks a million, Mrs. Fogler, and now I really must

  Thank you for coming. We certainly all had a wonderful

  I must be getting along now, too, Tess. Thanks loads

  Lovely evening thanks thanks

  Thanks a million

  Well, good night

  G’night – watch the step, Bertha

  Well, thanks again

  A pleasure thanks for coming

  Well, good night

  G’night, then, see you real soon

  Yeh sure thing well good night

  Good night

  On the doorstep, as Bertha and Stacey are finally sidling out, Jake Fogler appears. His enormous glasses and slightly worn face give him the look of an aging owl-like boy caught in some moment of nefariousness.

  — How long has he been standing here waiting for us to go?

  Hello, Jake.

  Evening, all. Tess has foisted all the gimcrackery on you, I see. Christ, Bertha, you can hardly stagger under the weight of all that crap.

  Oh Jake – don’t talk like that to Bertha. Don’t be an old

  Sorry, dear. Do I spoil all your fun? Coming back in for a drink, Stacey?

  Thanks, no. Got to get home. ’Night, Tess.

  Good night, Stacey.

  Tess’s small puzzled voice is at complete variance with her impressively packaged exterior. She waves uncertainly, then follows Jake into the house.

  Stacey, entering home, takes off her shoes in the hall, goes to the kitchen and pours a gargantuan gin and tonic. Mac is in bed and none of the upstairs lights are on. Stacey flicks on a small lamp in the living room and curls up on the chesterfield, the Polyglam booklet in one hand. Along with the Superware, families are shown on each page. Kids beam peacefully and undisturbedly. Mothers with young untired faces flow contentedly. Fathers with young untired faces smile proudly and successfully. Grandmothers with young untired faces gaze graciously and untroubledly.

  — Shit.

  The booklet skids and lies still under the coffee table. Stacey turns off the lamp and stands near the window, drinking and looking at the lights of the city out there. They flash and shift like the prairie northern lights in the winter sky, here captured and bound.

  The thin panthers are stalking the streets of the city, their claws unretracted after the cages of time and time again. The Roman legions are marching – listen to the hate-thudding of their boot leather. Strange things are happening, and the skeletal horsemen ride, ride, ride with all the winds of the world at their backs. There is nowhere to go this time

  — Today I saw a girl walking up the street towards me, a plain girl unfashionably dressed, and from a distance I thought it was myself coming back to meet me with a wiser chance. But it wasn’t.

  No other facet to the city-face? There must be. There has to be.

  Out there in unknown houses are people who live without lies, and who touch each other. One day she will discover them, pierce through to them. Then everything will be all right, and she will live in the light of the morning.

  FOUR

  Come on, you kids. Aren’t you ever coming for breakfast?

  THIS IS THE EIGHT-O’CLOCK NEWS BOMBING RAIDS LAST NIGHT DESTROYED FOUR VILLAGES IN

  Mum! Where’s my social studies scribbler?

  I don’t know, Ian. Have you looked for it?

  It’s gone. I gotta take it to school this morning

  Well, look. Katie, have you seen Ian’s social studies scribbler?

  No, and I’m not looking for it, either. If he wasn’t so

  Stacey, the party starts at eight tonight. Be ready, eh?

  Sure, yes yes of course. Duncan, eat your cereal.

  I hate this kind. Why do you always buy it?

  You say that about every kind I buy. C’mon.

  WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN TOOLEY’S NEW SHOWROOM YOU’RE IN FOR A REAL COOL SURPRISE

  Chatter buzz wail

  Okay, Jen, I’ll be up in a sec. Are you finished? Don’t try to get off by yourself – I’m coming.

  You going to get your hair done, Stacey?

  Yes, of course, whaddya think?

  I only asked, for heaven’s sake. No need to

  I’m sorry, Mac. Yes, I’m getting it done this morning. Want an egg?

  Please.

  Mum, it’s not here, and Mr. Gaines will be mad as fury. I got to find

  Okay. Ian, one minute and I’ll look. Where have you looked?

  Everywhere.

  ROAD DEATHS UP TEN PER CENT MAKING THIS MONTH THE WORST IN

  I got to take fifty cents, Mum.

  Duncan! What for?

  Cripples or something

  What?

  It tells about it right here, in this piece of paper they gave us

  Why didn’t you show me this last night?

  I forgot

  So long, Stacey. So long, kids.

  ’Bye, Dad.

  Oh good-bye, honey. Wait – you didn’t have your egg. It’s just done now

  Can’t. Said I’d be in by eight thirty. You eat it.

  I hate eggs.

  Miss Walsh said earn it if we can but I dunno how to earn fifty cents

  WHEN QUESTIONED THE BOY SAID HE HAD SEEN THE GIRL TAKING THE PILLS BUT HE HAD NOT KNOWN THEY WERE

  Scream

  Okay, Jen – I’m coming right now

  Mother, what have you done with my orange earrings?

  I never touched them, Katie, and anyway you can’t wear them to

  Who says I can’t?

  Mum, I’ve looked in the desk and everywhere and my social studies scribbler just isn’t

  YANCY’S FANCIES ARE THE BEST TASTE TREAT OF THE GOLDEN WEST

  Maybe you could advance me fifty cents on my allowance and I could

  Mr. Gaines will have hysterics I mean it boy you don’t know him

  They were on my dresser yesterday with my green earrings and now they’re both

  BRR-RING

  Katie, answer the phone, will you?

  I can’t I’m in the bathroom doing my hair

  Well, take Jen off, then, while you’re there

  Man, who was your servant last year?

  Oh shut up and do as you’re told

  BRR-RING

  Hello?

  Oh, hello. S
tacey?

  Yeh. Hello, Tess.

  Got time for coffee this morning?

  Well, I have to get my hair done. Maybe a quick one.

  Leave Jen with me, why don’t you?

  Oh gosh, Tess, I can’t ever pay you back. No, she’ll be okay with me.

  I don’t mind having her a single speck, Stacey. Really and truly

  Well, that’s certainly nice of you we’ll see look I gotta run now see you eh?

  Sure, okay. G’bye.

  G’bye. Come on, you kids! Ian, for the Lord’s sake whatsamatter with your eyes? Your scribbler’s under the cushion on the chesterfield. Here, Duncan, and please the next time let me know when you come home from school instead of springing things on me like this. You can earn it by clipping the edges on the lawn. Katie! You find your earrings?

  Yeh. They were on the floor behind my dresser.

  Well, next time don’t be so

  AND NOW THE PINK BALLOONS SINGING WELL WELL WELL WELL

  Okay, you guys, everybody out of here. Got everything?

  You missed your calling, Mother. You should’ve been in the army. You would’ve made a great sergeant-major.

  Nuts to you. So long, Katie. ’Bye, kids.

  ’Bye.

  Slam.

  Okay, flower. Here’s your cereal.

  — Quick, coffee, or I faint.

  EIGHT-THIRTY NEWS BOMBERS LAST NIGHT CLAIMED A DECISIVE VICTORY FOUR VILLAGES TOTALLY DESTROYED AND A NUMBER OF OTHERS SET ABLAZE

  Stacey stirs her coffee and lights a cigarette. Then she switches off the radio.

  — I can’t listen. It’s too much too much too much. What can you do, anyhow? Nothing. Just agonize. Useless. All useless. Me included. Listen, God, I know it’s a worthwhile job to bring up four kids. You don’t need to propagandize me; I’m converted. But how is it I can feel as well that I’m spending my life in one unbroken series of trivialities? The kids don’t belong to me. They belong to themselves. It would be nice to have something of my own, that’s all. I can’t go anywhere as myself. Only as Mac’s wife or the kids’ mother. And yet I’m getting now so that I actually prefer to have either Mac or one of the kids along. Even to the hairdresser, I’d rather take Jen. It’s easier to face the world with one of them along. Then I know who I’m supposed to be.