Harry and the woman were standing back to back with their hands and fingers interlaced. Harry faced the camera full front. Most of the woman could not be seen; she was hidden behind him.
Who took the photo? Who enlarged it? Was a photographer present to record the highlights of the dance?
Harry and the woman were positioned in this odd manner as if they’d taken part in a bizarre dance routine and had to stop to catch their breath. Harry was leaning slightly, to accommodate his limp. The look on his face was one of not-sosecret exultation.
The photo was important enough that he hid it from me.
Oh, they were canny, those two.
Other details. She was wearing a long woollen skirt. Of this, I could see the hem; also, the heel of a dark shoe. I could barely make out a pattern on the skirt; it might have been tartan. She was shorter than Harry, no soft or bony shoulder sticking out. She’d have been thinner, smaller than I.
But who was she? Was it Jeannie Price, who used to work at the Town Hall? Anna whatshername who ran the hospital gift shop? They were both short and they’d have been at that dance. But their husbands would have been there, too.
When I came across the photo, I felt as if I’d been slammed in the ribs. Still on my knees before the shredder, I had to bend forward to place my palms on the floor so that I could keep my balance. My lungs were behaving as if my ribs had punctured them, and I began to take short quick breaths.
When did this moment of intimacy take place? What did it represent? I told myself that the photo must have been snapped immediately after a spot dance. That they were waiting to see who would be declared winner. But who was she, and why was she hidden in the filing cabinet?
I began to think of the woman as Anonymous-she.
Die, Harry, I said, after my breathing had calmed down.
But Harry was already dead.
Was this a matter great or a matter small? “Be not ignorant of any thing,” Grand Dan had said, “in matters great or small.”
If Harry had been alive when I found the photo and if he’d been lying on a pillow, I’d have yanked it out from under him. I’d have yanked it out hard. Instead, I picked up the photo, returned it to the brown envelope and carried it up the stairs. I opened the sharps drawer in the kitchen and slid the envelope under the carving knife. I tried to calm myself, closed the drawer, and took slow deep breaths.
I went to bed in the middle of the day and pulled the covers over my head.
Harry, I hardly knew ye.
FUNNY BONE
THIRTY-FOUR
That recollection ended in anger—or bitterness. Something unpleasant. If we were to see a tomogram of the human soul, would it show wedges of hidden spite, sharp-edged triangles of loneliness pushed up under the spleen, or tucked against the diaphragm and causing shortness of breath? Would there be barbs that jab at the brain and limit our insight, or that pierce the walls of the heart?
Stifle the bad parts, Georgie. Don’t allow them to squeeze through.
I’m trying to stay warm. I’m moving, bit by painful bit. The sunlight teases before it vanishes behind a cloud. I could sing to the crow that flaps overhead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was trying to deliver a message.
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all
Harry’s favourite hymn was “Abide with me.” He would have liked Teresa Brewer to sing it, but neither of us had ever heard her sing a hymn. I happen to know that he fell in love with the hiccup in her voice when she sang “Bo Weevil.” That was Harry. His love for Teresa was something I could live with. Anonymous-she is another story.
I’m preoccupied with thirst, water being the necessity of life. But even though I’m weak, I’m not a bit hungry.
Uncle Fred used to say, “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
A small potato would do right now. Served with a glass of water. Water is what I want, but a hot potato would warm me.
Celebrate the potato, Georgie. Imagine food, if that will keep you going.
Do you remember, Harry, the first and only time we visited the west? It was the year of the heat wave in Wilna Creek, the hottest summer on record. We had the travelling bug after Europe, and we chose the west coast because neither of us had been there and because we wanted to know that somewhere in the country there was cool mountain air. We flew to Vancouver and rented a car and drove in and out of mountain ranges, past the largest trees I had ever seen.
After British Columbia, we headed south to the state of Washington. We walked along the old market shore of Seattle, that beautiful city, and bought four yellow dahlias with flopping heads and carried them up the steep hill to our hotel. We inhaled sea air, took a ferry the next day, and I wrapped Grand Dan’s shawl around me while we circled the Sound. The second evening, we walked down the hill to Ivar’s and ordered salmon steaks and potatoes au gratin. The waitress was confused and said, “Do you mean grottin’ potatoes?” and we nodded and looked at our laps. On the way back, we climbed the hill, and along the empty street I found a black brassiere stretched out on the sidewalk beside a garbage bin, its cups flattened. A sad affair, I thought, and I picked it up and shoved it into the bin. I remembered it later when I took off my own before climbing into bed. We undressed in the dark and kept the curtains open so that we could look down over the lights of the harbour.
It was a hot summer on the east coast, too. When we returned, Gordo announced that he was coming for a visit. One of the photos I found in Harry’s cache was taken at the end of that visit—the night of Gordo’s only bath. He stayed a month, and went home the day after the bath. I kept telling myself to be tolerant. He needed cheering. He stared out the kitchen window at the chokecherry for long periods, and sucked on TUMS. When clouds swept over the house, he announced, “That puts the kibosh on that!”
In the photo, Gordo is wearing a burgundy dressing gown of flattened velour. Harry had given it to him, perhaps in gratitude after learning that Gordo had decided not only to bathe, but to return to New Brunswick. We were not sorry to see him go, but he was family and we put up with him. The night before his departure, Harry and I made love noisily in our bedroom, next to the spare room. I’m ashamed of it now, because we did it to drive Gordo away. That was not a magnanimous gesture.
But making love is. Harry used to say to me, after sex, “It’s written all over your face. Everyone will know as soon as you set foot out the door.” And when I went out, I felt strangers staring.
The moment Gordo drove away, I went straight to the living room and flopped down on the chesterfield. I listened to Django’s “Solitude,” all mellow and scrambly. He made it sound easy. He made it sound blessed.
The mind tricks. I smell river, though it’s two miles from here. I feel mist on the back of my hands, and lick it off and remember the smooth-stoned shore where Ally and I used to go as children. The place has been called a beach in recent years but, name or no name, it’s always been the same spot, a sheltered cove where the water is deep enough to swim. If you follow the creek far enough after you walk past Mott’s old property—now a subdivision—you will reach the river. Ally and I sometimes walked there on a Sunday afternoon during the war years, when we were in our teens. We lay in our swimsuits, toasting ourselves on flat rocks in the sun. We talked lazily, in low tones, and turned back to front and front to back, so that we would tan evenly. When we were home again, we slapped gobs of Noxema on each other’s back, cold splashes of white cooling our red-hot skin.
A few months before Case was born, Harry arrived home after work on an excessively hot evening and drove me to the river. Our old Hudson rattled a good deal and we bumped over uneven rock to a clearing on shore. As there was no one at the river when we arrived, we took off all our clothes and draped them over the grille on the nose-shaped hood, and waded in. The river was clear and swift and the water bubbled. I stood in cool w
ater up to my neck and became part of the soothing current, and I swam. When we waded to shore, I wondered if someone would come along before we had time to get dressed. I was pregnant, and my skin was as soft as it would ever be. I was twenty-two years old. Harry told me I was beautiful, and I listened to old England in his voice and believed him.
Harry, my old love. I’m doing my best to warm up and stay alive. I’m even trying to celebrate our history. Hoist yourself up from the spirit world and nudge someone onto the downward path. I’m on my back in Spinney’s Ravine. We walked here so many times, I won’t insult you by giving directions. I rolled the car, Harry, the black car you bought from a salesman with white shoes. It landed on its wheels, though how that happened is a mystery.
I still think of it as your car and I always will.
I flew through the air, something I’m not proud of. I might have had banal thoughts as I flew. But there was a fleeting moment of insight. I am this, I am that. Flip sides. Joy or pain. Tears or laughter. Sink or swim.
Live or die.
I’m not ready to die.
Come on, you old bone. I’m cold and I’m old and I’m at the bottom of the ravine and my limbs are connected but I don’t know how long I can hold out. I’ve sung and ranted and remembered our history and sent messages and prayed to God, and I’m this close to home. The home where you were beside me at every turn, good or bad.
I want to be heard, Harry. The way I was heard when we once whispered secrets at night. Your arm around me, my cheek resting against your shoulder. Last moment of clarity before sleep. In our youth, I carried your love bites on my thigh, your rapid heartbeat against my breast.
There’s something comforting about talking to the dead. There is that to be said.
THIRTY-FIVE
All that from one small potato. I was trying to think of warmth; I was trying to celebrate food.
Here, then, is a celebration of food, sprung from the mind of Georgina Danforth Witley, who is trying her best not to be depressed.
Dumplings that melt in the mouth, plumped up and served with gravy.
Creamed peas on toast. Made with fresh cream. Stolen peas, if necessary.
Tea. A single, steaming cup.
“Let me hot up your tea,” Aunt Fred said, when she topped up a cup. She poured Uncle Fred’s directly into his saucer, like a cat’s. Their youngest son once gave them a mug which, when boiling water was added, revealed the torso of the Pope. As the sides heated, the Pope’s face appeared, his arms stretched open above a ridge of painted mountains. The Pope in the mug was the last Pope, the one who died. He’s been replaced by Benedict—but I believe Benedict suffers from a touch of pomp. He was elected to his new job at a ripe old age, which made me feel I should go right out and look for work. Like Lilibet and me, the Pope was an April baby, but I read that he was born a year later.
I’m older than the Pope. And I am lying here on the ground, while he is doing something with his life.
I’ll think of water again. A tall glass. A cup, a flask, a jug. A creek, a stream, my body floating, head turning side to side when I wish to drink. The water is clear. I am not cold. I simply float and drink, float and drink.
Is that movement? The crow again? There must be other creatures, ground creatures all around. Do they keep their distance because I mutter and chant and sing to myself?
But the movement isn’t the crow. It’s a black garbage bag, a real one this time, snagged by a low branch. When I look towards the bushes, I see a dark shadow the shape of a long, sleek animal with a flowing tail. Is my vision clouding again, or am I deceived by the angle of fading light? At least I’m not seeing black spots any more.
What would Lilibet do if she found herself on the ground at the bottom of a ravine? No blanket to cover her, no Philip to wonder why she hasn’t joined him for tea.
Is it true, Lilibet, that you and Philip have separate bedrooms? Does no one keep you warm under the blankets at night? If you only knew how lonely it can be after your husband dies, you might reconsider.
Could you stay alive in my circumstances? I never learned survival techniques. Unlike you, I was neither Sea Ranger nor Guide. Still, I’d like to know what you would do in my place, though it’s not a practical question. It’s a privilege of Royalty to have a chauffeur, a retinue following behind. But you know how to drive; I saw the war photos when we were young. You were still a princess and it was almost the end of the war and you were taking a vehicle-maintenance course. I read about you in the magazines, and saw you at the movies on a black-and-white newsreel before the main feature, which was also black-and-white. You appeared alert and patriotic in your uniform, as if you were glad, so very glad, to be part of the war effort. I was envious because I had not yet learned to drive, though I’d stood on a running board or two.
There’s that flutter again. The garbage bag has taken the shape of a goose. I’m hallucinating. I’ll have to think of food again. I’m in too much pain to imagine water. Every sound I make comes out as a croak. When we were on our trip, I sat on the end of the bed in our hotel room in Switzerland while Harry was in the shower, and I watched a black-and-white documentary on French TV. It was about the raising of a goose for the purpose of making foie gras. Harry missed the documentary. After watching, I was sorry I hadn’t missed it too. It began with a French farmer proudly displaying his imprisoned goose, a bloated fowl stuck in a crate that had slats across the top. The goose’s head and part of its long neck protruded up through an opening between slats. At feeding times—and these were frequent—the farmer poked a funnel down the gullet of his captive and poured corn through it. The idea was to force-feed the goose so that its liver would enlarge abnormally. Poor goose, its head stretched to the sky, throat extended, food crammed down its esophagus. I gagged on its behalf. It was not able to draw its head back down into the cage, and gave one loud croak. Is it any wonder that I’ve never eaten pâté since?
Towards the end of the documentary, the connoisseurs were not so squeamish. Four men sat around a rough wooden table in the shade beneath an arbour, and dipped chunks of bread into small dishes of pâté set before them. They sipped red wine between samplings. The goose was no longer in the picture.
That’s enough to banish anyone’s appetite.
There was another kind of goose, and that is better to think about. It was late spring, and we were on the Trans-Canada Highway, returning home after driving east to visit Gordo. Harry was at the wheel and we’d crossed the border from New Brunswick into Quebec. We were past St-Louis-du-Ha!Ha!, maybe even past Rivière-du-Loup, close to the St. Lawrence River. I looked up through the window and saw that the sky was filled with a mass of moving white. It was a few moments before I understood that we were directly under a migratory path and were witnessing a momentous, annual gathering of snow geese. Wave after wave, line after line, weaving and fluttering, down they flew, black wingtips flashing, white underbellies sinking to the dark earth of the fields. Every field as far as I could see was covered in strutting white. As populated as the fields became, so did the migration continue above. In the sky, tattered waves of geese buoyed up, drifted and sank. The weary fowl kept coming and coming, landing in fields on both sides of the highway. We stopped the car, and saw that other cars were stopping too. Truck drivers lined up their transports end to end along the shoulder, and some of the drivers walked beside their vehicles, pooling in small groups, speaking in awed tones and pointing to the sky. We got out of the car, and stayed where we were.
The scene made me want to fall to my knees.
Now that was a celebration.
THIRTY-SIX
We were good travellers, Harry and I, despite starting late. In Europe, we flew to Italy after Geneva. The paved hills along the Riviera were disappointing, but I was attracted to San Remo, our destination. We had a short flight to Nice and on the plane an attendant served tea with two cookies. I watched a tall man across the aisle remove every raisin before eating his cookies. It took him most of th
e trip to pick out the raisins, one by one. I thought of Case, who liked “rinkies” in her Cream of Wheat when she was a child. I looked back at the man just as the second cookie went down his gullet, and we landed.
The French and Italians had poured cement over what once must have been beautiful slopes overlooking the sea. Miles of greenhouses with flowers cascading down could not atone for the hills of cement that I saw from the window during our long taxi ride. But when we arrived, I loved San Remo to the last detail, starting with the sign on our hotel room door. In case of fire, behave yourself as follows: If smoke makes the gangway unpracticable, enter again your room, close well the door and show yourself at the window.
Harry and I behaved ourselves as follows. We fastened the chain across the door, removed our clothes and slipped between the sheets. Late in the afternoon, we walked the streets to take our bearings. Flowering trees were lascivious to the point of outrage. We entered a park close to the Ligurian Sea and looked out at an azure haze. Trees sent ropes of vines down into the earth. Magpies foraged while unseen birds hid behind giant leaves and mewed like sideways-speaking cats. As we left the park, a man hitched up his crotch. The varieties of public testicular behaviour in Italy could not be ignored. We carried on to the marina and strolled past yachts, while small birds flitted from the underbellies of umbrella-shaped trees. We returned to our hotel and stood on the balcony and looked out through the tips of tossing palms. In the early evening, we went for a long, slow swim in the green-blue waters of the sea.