Alias Grace (47 page)

Then I knew that I was not alone on the driveway. Mr. Kinnear was walking behind me, to the left; he was there to make sure no harm came to me. And then the lamp came on in the parlour window, and I knew that Nancy was inside, waiting to welcome me back from my journey; for I had been on a journey, I was sure of it, and had been absent a long time. Only it was not Nancy, but Mary Whitney who was waiting; and I felt so happy, to know I would see her again, restored to health and laughing, as she was before.

I saw how beautiful the house was, all white, with the pillars at the front, and the white peonies in flower by the verandah glimmering in the dusk, and the lamplight blooming in the window.

And I longed to be there, although in the dream I was there already; but I had a great yearning towards this house, for it was my real home. And as I felt that, the lamp was dimmed and the house went dark, and I saw that the fireflies were out and glowing, and there was the smell of milkweed blossoms from the fields all around, and the warm damp air of the summer evening against my cheek, so mild and soft. And a hand was slipped into mine.

And just then there was a knocking at the door.

S
imon is in the upstairs corridor again, in the attic, where the maids live. He senses them waiting behind their closed doors, listening, their eyes shining in the semi-darkness; but they don’t make a sound. His footsteps in their thick schoolboy boots ring hollowly on the boards. Surely there ought to be some kind of carpet here, or matting; everyone in the house must be able to hear him.

He opens a door at random, hoping to find Alice, or was her name Effie? But he’s back at Guy’s Hospital. He can smell it, almost taste it – that dense, heavy smell of damp stone, damp wool, halitosis, and septic human flesh. It’s the smell of trial and disapproval: he is going to be examined. Before him is a draped table: he must make a dissection, although he is only a student here, he hasn’t been taught, he doesn’t know how. The room is empty, but he knows he’s being watched, by those who are there to judge him.

It’s a woman, under the sheet; he can tell by the contours. He hopes she isn’t too old, as that would be somehow worse. A poor woman, dead of some unknown disease. No one knows where they get the cadavers; or no one knows for certain. Dug up in the graveyard by
moonlight, goes the student joke. No, not by moonlight, you fool: by the Resurrection Men.

Step by step he approaches the table. Does he have his instruments ready? Yes, here is the candlestick; but he has no shoes on, and his feet are wet. He must lift off the sheet, then lift off her skin, whoever she is, or was, layer by layer. Strip back her rubbery flesh, peel her open, gut her like a haddock. He’s shaking with terror. She will be cold, inflexible. They keep them on ice.

But under the sheet there’s another sheet, and under that another one. It looks like a white muslin curtain. Then there’s a black veil, and then – can it be? – a petticoat. The woman must be down there somewhere; frantically he rummages. But no; the last sheet is a bed-sheet, and there’s nothing under it but a bed. That, and the form of someone who’s been lying here. It’s still warm.

He is failing desperately, failing his examination, and so publicly too; but now he doesn’t mind that. It’s as if he’s been reprieved. It will be all right now, he will be taken care of. Outside the door, which is the same one he came in by, there’s a green lawn, with a stream flowing beyond it. The sound of the running water is very soothing. There’s a quick indrawn breath, and the smell of strawberries, and a hand touches his shoulder.

He wakes, or dreams he wakes. He knows he must still be asleep, because Grace Marks is bending over him in the close darkness, her loosened hair brushing his face. He isn’t surprised, nor does he ask how she has managed to come here from her prison cell. He pulls her down – she is wearing only a nightdress – and falls on top of her, and shoves himself into her with a groan of lust and no manners, for in dreams everything is permitted. His spine jerks him like a hooked fish, then releases him. He gasps for air.

Only then does he realize he’s not dreaming; or not dreaming the woman. She’s really here, in the flesh, lying motionless beside him in
the suddenly too-quiet bed, arms at her sides like an effigy; but she is not Grace Marks. Impossible now to mistake her boniness, her bird’s ribcage, her smell of singed linen and camphor and violets. The opium taste of her mouth. It’s his thin landlady, whose first name he doesn’t even know. When he entered her she made no sound, either of protest or delight. Is she even breathing?

Tentatively he kisses her again, then again: small kisses. It’s the alternative to taking her pulse. He works his way around until he finds a vein, the one in her neck, throbbing. Her skin is warm, a little sticky, like syrup; the hairs behind her ear smell of beeswax.

Not dead then.

Oh no, he thinks. What next? What have I done?

D
r. Jordan has gone off to Toronto. I don’t know how long he will be gone; I hope it’s not very long, as I have become quite used to him somehow, and fear that when he goes away, as he is bound to do sooner or later, there will be a sad emptiness in my heart.

What should I tell him, when he comes back? He will want to know about the arrest, and the trial, and what was said. Some of it is all jumbled in my mind, but I could pick out this or that for him, some bits of whole cloth you might say, as when you go through the rag bag looking for something that will do, to supply a touch of colour.

I could say this:

Well, Sir, they arrested me first, and James next. He was still asleep in his bed, and the first thing he did when they woke him up was to try to blame it on Nancy. If you find Nancy you will know all about it, he said, it was her fault. I thought this was very stupid of him, as although she hadn’t yet been discovered, they were bound to ferret her out sooner or later, if only by the smell; and indeed they did so,
the very next day. James was trying to pretend he didn’t know where she was, or even that she was dead; but he should have held his tongue about her.

It was still the early morning when they arrested us. They hustled us out of the Lewiston tavern at great speed. I believe they were afraid the men there might stop them, and attract a mob, and rescue us, as they might have done if McDermott had thought to shout out that he was a revolutionary, or a republican, or some such, and he had his rights, and down with the British; because there was still considerable high feelings then, on the side of Mr. William Lyon Mackenzie and the Rebellion, and there were those in the States that wanted to invade Canada. And the men that arrested us had no real authority. But McDermott was too cowed to protest, or else he lacked the presence of mind; and when they’d got us as far as the Customs, and said we were wanted on suspicion of murder, then our party was allowed to proceed, and to set sail without further ado.

I was very glum going back across the Lake, although the weather was fair and the waves not large; but I cheered myself up, by telling myself that Justice would not let me be hanged for something I hadn’t done, and I would only have to tell the story as it happened, or as much of it as I could remember. As for McDermott’s chances, I did not rate them very high; but he was still denying all, and saying we only had Mr. Kinnear’s things with us because Nancy had refused to pay us what we were owed, and so we had paid ourselves. He said if anyone had killed Kinnear it was most likely a tramp; and there had been a suspicious-looking man hanging around, who’d said he was a peddler, and sold him some shirts; and they should be looking for that one, and not an honest man like himself, whose only crime was to wish to better his lot in life through hard work and immigration. He certainly could lie, but never very well; and he wasn’t believed, and might just as well have kept his mouth shut; and I thought it wrong in him, Sir, that he was trying to put the murder
off on my old friend Jeremiah, who’d never done any such thing in his life, that I knew of.

They put us into the jail in Toronto, locked up in cells, like animals in a cage, but not so close together that we could speak; and then they examined us separately. They asked me a good many questions; and I was quite frightened, and not at all sure what I should say. I had no lawyer at this time, as Mr. MacKenzie only came into it much later. I asked for my box, which they made such a fuss over in the newspapers, and sneered at me for referring to it as mine, and for having no clothes of my own to speak of; but although it was true this box and the clothes in it had once been Nancy’s, they were hers no longer, as the dead have no use for such things.