Authors: Rachel Ingalls
‘Of course I want you.’
‘Then you will?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘What a great answer: well, yes. I love it.’
‘When?’ she said.
‘If you can get off work the day after tomorrow, we’ll go to the Town Hall and register. They’re closed tomorrow. After that, it’s a little while – I think maybe two weeks.’
‘But that’s so fast.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, everything. I mean, my family, my job, um.’
‘You want one of those long engagements?’
‘Wouldn’t it be better?’
‘No. Why wait? I went through a long engagement once. All it does is make you restless and impatient. And the honeymoon’s even worse. We could take a spring vacation somewhere, instead. How about that?’
‘Venice,’ she said quickly.
‘Oh? You do have it all mapped out, after all.’
‘I’ve just always wanted to go there.’
‘Fine. So, it’s yes?’
Yes, she said: it was yes.
During dinner they hardly spoke. And afterwards he said that if she didn’t mind, he’d leave early in the morning because he didn’t like the idea of Ricky waking up and finding that he wasn’t in the house. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘if you can get off a little early
tomorrow
, I could pick you up and you could come home with me. We could all have tea together. Ricky keeps asking to see you again.’
‘Okay. Sure. That would be nice.’
‘And on Saturday – would you mind coming down to my
ex-wife’s
place? She’s got the right to see him on Saturdays. You might as well meet them. The vipers. They got away with a large chunk of money they weren’t entitled to, and one-seventh of my son’s life that they also have no right to. He won’t speak to them. He takes a book. But every Saturday he has to get in the car and go. At least the two boys won’t be there. Ordway was married before, too. This time should be relatively okay. They usually send somebody to pick Ricky up. But every once in a while I do the chauffeuring, just to check that things are all right there. Would you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘That’s fine.’ Already she was jealous. She wanted to know what his ex-wife looked like. She wanted to know everything about her, especially if it was derogatory.
In the morning, after he’d gone, the phone rang. She hesitated before answering. If Bert were at the other end, she didn’t want to talk to him. But the call might be from Roy, to tell her something he’d forgotten or to change the time, or the place, for that afternoon.
She picked up the receiver and said hello.
Her Aunt Marion’s voice said, ‘Sandra? I’m so sorry to bother you. I didn’t wake you up, did I?’
‘No, I was up already. Has something happened?’
‘Oh, it’s stupid. I’m always so careful. But yesterday morning the newsboy didn’t get the paper on to the doorstep – it landed on the path. So I walked down the steps and I didn’t notice that there was a little patch of damp leaves on one of them.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘I fractured my kneecap. It’s still in one piece, but they’re going to operate: they’ll put pins in it, to stop it from pulling apart.’
‘Are you still at home?’
‘I’m in the hospital. They thought it would be better to keep me here – less uncomfortable. Everyone’s very pleasant. And the food is quite nice. Fortunately I’m insured for absolutely
everything
. But it does annoy me.’
‘Can I do anything for you, Aunt Marion?’
‘I was just about to ask. If it’s no trouble, it would be a big help. But there’s no hurry. Any time before Tuesday will do.’
‘How about Sunday?’
‘That would be perfect, dear. Let me get my list.’ She told Sandra the name of the ward she was in, gave her directions for driving to the hospital and read out a list of the things she’d need from home. When she had finished, Sandra remembered the phone call from the night before; maybe it hadn’t been from Bert, after all. She asked, ‘Did you try to get hold of me last night?’ Aunt Marion said no, she’d been sleeping like a log all night long because of some medicine they were giving her. ‘To stop the pain,’ she explained. ‘It doesn’t really work. I mean, it just puts me to sleep.’
* * *
She hadn’t realized until she saw him that she’d been
apprehensive
about meeting Eric again. She’d been thinking that he’d blame her. Although his manner was subdued and
well-mannered
, she felt that she ought to give him some kind of
apology before the afternoon was over. He didn’t seem nervous himself. On the contrary, after saying hello, he asked her, politely and confidently, ‘Would you like to see my room?’
They started up a wide, curving staircase. Like the rest of the house, it was bigger and more important-looking than anything she was used to.
‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ she said. ‘I felt badly about turning you in, but I didn’t see what else I could do.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he told her. ‘It’s okay.’ He headed towards a door that gave off the landing, saying, ‘It’s this one.’ He stood back for her. She walked in.
It wasn’t like a child’s room, nor like a place where a young boy lived. The furniture, the colors of the materials, the curtains, all looked as if they had come from the room of an adult. Even the bed was an adult’s single bed with a carved headboard. Many of the objects and pieces of furniture had the appearance of expensive, well-cared-for things. They might have been antiques.
Over the small desk hung a religious painting. As her eyes went to it, he said, ‘That’s St Catherine.’
The picture too looked old, as did the little desk with its green leather top that had a floral pattern stamped in gold around the edges. She took a step forward.
There were three people in the painting: two women and a baby. One woman held the baby, while the other one stretched out her hand towards it. The baby, with a little help from its mother, was putting a ring on a finger of the extended hand.
‘Mary and Jesus,’ he added. ‘It’s called
The
Mystic
Marriage.
It’s sort of like, ah, you know when nuns get married to God?’
‘What?’
‘They’re given a wedding ring.’
‘Uh-huh. Are you all religious? All the family?’
‘Nobody in the family. I saw this when my father was buying a set of chairs and I asked him to get it for me, for my birthday.’
‘That must have been a pretty big present.’
‘He said it would have been cheaper to buy me a car. He thought it was a waste of money.’
‘Because he didn’t think it was beautiful, or because you don’t go to church?’
‘What I like about religion are the stories. They’re pretty weird, but it’s surprising how they can have an application to everyday life.’
‘I don’t know. What I never liked about Sunday School was that they told you all that stuff that wasn’t true.’
‘If it has an application, it’s still got some truth.’
‘I guess I mean the thing you start out with.’
‘That would be a composite.’
‘Oh. Like how do you mean?’
‘A myth or a folktale.’
‘Exactly. Not true events.’
‘But they could be.’
‘But they aren’t. They’re just made up.’
‘They’re only made up in that they’re typical. They’re typical of certain wishes held by the people who tell the stories. Since we all still think the same way, those stories still typify something true.’
‘Like what?’
‘Revenge, murder, miracles and all that sex stuff.’
‘Well,’ she said, at a loss how to go on, ‘I never thought of it that way before.’
‘It’s a very interesting subject. I’m also interested in those preachers that get everybody to give them money to save their souls and then have to go into a psychiatric hospital when they’re found out.’
‘Those people are frauds.’
‘They want to be demagogues.’
‘Yes.’
‘But they’re using the wrong propaganda. The real power is in the secular branch.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘And besides, they let you keep the money afterwards.’
‘Right. And even if you get sent up the river, you can write a bestseller about it.’
She started to laugh. He joined in. It was going to be all right, she thought. He didn’t hold her betrayal against her.
He sat down in a straight-backed chair at the side. As he did so, he motioned towards the modern swivel chair at the desk. She sat down in it. She gave it a little swing, first one side, then the other. It was fun. The chair must have been another thing he’d asked for.
He said, ‘Are you his girlfriend now?’
‘I guess I am.’
‘I told you so, didn’t I? I said he’d be able to take over everything without any trouble.’
‘It doesn’t mean I don’t like you too. You’re the one I met first.’
When Eric reached the age of twenty-one, she thought, she’d be thirty-one and Roy would be about forty-five. She was closer in age to the boy who would be her stepson than the man who was to become her husband. That was a strange fact. It made her imagine that the odd tale with which Eric had introduced himself to her – the story about a body-swap – could become true at some future date: that at a certain age she might say to herself that her husband was immature, whereas his son was more like a grown man.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘No. Why?’
‘You look like you’re having trouble remembering a phone number.’
‘I was trying to figure something out. But it won’t ever happen, so I guess there isn’t any point wondering about it.’
‘Oh, I think those are some of the most interesting thoughts of all. You know: what would happen if a meteor collided with the moon; or how would you react if you found an escaped tiger in your living room: was it that kind of thing?’
‘Not so wild, but that’s the general idea. Maybe everything’s like that until it happens. If you’re thinking about something you have no experience of.’
They had tea in a smaller room off the large, high-ceilinged dining room. By the time they sat down it was dark outside. Roy accepted a cup, but didn’t drink it. He sat watching her and Eric
the way a man might relax to the sound of music. Sometimes he joined in the conversation, but he didn’t try to guide it. Eric was the host; he told a succession of jokes and puns. She countered with her cousin’s story about the hat and the Dalmatian. And after that they got on to the subject of movies.
She met Debbie, who came out of the kitchen to shake hands. Eric looked on with an expression of resignation. He didn’t appear either frightened or desperate. Everything still seemed to be all right.
In the car Roy said, ‘You have an amazing effect on him.’
‘Let’s hope it lasts.’
‘What did you think of his room?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘But peculiar. Like a museum. Everything antique, except for his computer over in the corner. Most of it was his mother’s. He fought tooth and nail for it during the divorce.’
‘The swivel chair’s modern.’
‘He didn’t let you sit in it, did he?’
‘Sure.’
‘Jesus. He won’t even let me sit in it. It’s his thinking chair. What did you talk about?’
‘About religion. We were looking at the painting above the desk.’
‘The girl marrying the baby? Christ, yes. That horrible thing. It’s worth a fortune now. When I bought it for him they thought it was workshop of John Doe and now it’s supposed to be the guy himself. But I guess they could change their minds again. I told him he should sell it before the price drops back down. And he looked at me like I’d suggested using chemical warfare on a maternity ward.’
‘He loves it.’
‘He could love a photograph of it just as much, and invest the money he got from the original.’
‘A photograph wouldn’t mean the same. A copy wouldn’t either. From the way he looks at it you can tell that he really appreciates everything about it. I think it’s like a person to him. He sits at the desk and sort of communes.’
‘My God, now I’ve got two of you,’ he said. ‘I’m out numbered.’
*
The next day, Thursday, they went to the Town Hall. On the way back he dropped her at the office, where she handed in her notice to quit, told Maureen the news and got ready to go out to lunch.
‘Have lunch with me,’ Maureen ordered. ‘I’m paying.’
They were outside, walking quickly in the cold air, when Bert came running up behind them. He caught hold of Sandra’s arm. ‘We’ve got a date,’ he told her.
‘No.’
‘Yes. I asked you Monday when you could make lunch and you said Thursday was all right.’
She was about to deny it but suddenly she recalled the sight of Bert looking through his appointment book to find a free day. She’d made the date just to get rid of him.
‘Want me to go on ahead?’ Maureen said.
Sandra nodded. She turned back to Bert. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot. I can’t. Let’s say goodbye, please. Don’t keep going on and on like this.’
‘This guy – the one with the car? I asked about him and he’s bad news. He did something –’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, but everybody says he’s just no good.’
How childish he was, she thought. Everybody was. Was it likely that he’d approve of the man she was planning to leave him for? But that was why divorcing couples always considered each other emotionally ill, insane, possibly genetically warped – that explained the unacceptable, which was that people changed: nothing was for long. Life itself didn’t last and the changeableness was natural, like death.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he said. ‘I get this terrible feeling in bed, that I’ve got to have you holding me. And then you aren’t there. And nothing feels right.’
She started to cry. He meant more to her, now that they were breaking up, than he had for all the months that they’d been together. There had been many times when – offended and bitter
– she’d wanted the power to make him feel bad, even to hurt him seriously. Now she had it and she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to hurt anyone like this, least of all him.
He held out his hand to her but she pushed it away. She said, ‘I can’t. I’ve told you. I told you every nice way I could. We’re getting married. We’ve already decided when. We’ve been to the Town Hall and everything. We’ve set the date.’