â It was none of your business.
     â How was it none of my business when we were supposed to be going together and
you didn't tell me?
     â I don't have to tell you everything I do.
     â Well, I can see you don't want to talk about this.
     â You don't know
what
 I want to talk about, you stupid hick.
     â Why am I stupid?
     Thus ended the polite part of the conversation. From here, things turned feral.
Anything Jane could use against him, she used against him: his lack of culture,
his insensitivity to her needs, the clumsy way he touched her, the way he took
her for granted. Worst of all, she dug into him for the way he had treated
Elizabeth Denny. He had betrayed Elizabeth, she said. He was a conniving son of
a bitch who didn't care for anyone but himself. In fact, given the way he'd treated his fiancée, he was bound to betray her too, because he was selfish, stupid, mean, rotten,
a prick and â for good measure â a jerk.
     Some of what she accused him of being was, to some extent, true. He
had
 been selfish, mean and stupid lately. But at least at the beginning of her
attack, Jane did not really believe Robbie was as bad as all that. Her words
were said as if with a crooked smile. As the catalogue of his sins grew,
however, so did her conviction that he was despicable. (For one thing, it was
impressive how many insults did apply to him. It felt as if she could have
called him anything short of murderer and meant it.) In the space of half an
hour, she had worked herself into a real hatred for Robbie, which became
entangled in her hatred for Barrow.
     However, Jane's attack was so unexpected and brutal it overshot its mark. Robbie was not put
off or offended. He imagined it was her âtime of the month' and, as usual, he didn't know how to react. Should he laugh, show affection, comfort her, speak French?
He opted to speak French
and
 try to comfort her. This was the worst choice possible, in part because Jane was
in no mood to be comforted, in even larger part because the only French he knew
was âVoulez-vous coucher avec moi?,' a phrase he inevitably mangled.
     During a break in what was becoming Jane's screed, a break she took for breath and to think up some more effective line
of attack, Robbie smiled timidly and said
     â Vous voulez coucher avec toi?
     He then put his hand on her thigh and moved as if to sidle up beside her and
give her a hug. It was as if she had been bitten by a snake. She jumped up from
the chesterfield on which they were sitting and cried out
     â Don't touch me!
     Robbie stood up, palms out, and apologized, confused that his effort to give
comfort had gone so far astray. But the very look of him was a provocation to
her. She had (she was convinced) only ever felt anything for him because his
body was all muscle and perfect. (The words âfirst love' didn't occur to her at this moment.) Now that the sight of him disgusted her, what
was left but resentment of her own lust?
     Though she was an articulate woman, none of her thoughts made it into words.
What came out was a cry of frustration, and she attacked him, hitting him with
her small fists, kicking him where she could, though what she wanted was to
crush his testicles flat. She might have succeeded too. It was difficult for
Robbie to protect himself against the onslaught of both feet and fists. Luckily
for him, though, the sound of Jane's cries, of his repeated apologies, of flesh hitting flesh, brought Jane's parents into the room.
     Seeing that the assault was one-sided, Mr. Richardson restrained his daughter
as best he could, folding his arms around her from behind and lifting her up,
then, with surprising calm, advising Robbie that it was perhaps time he left.
He said
     â I don't know how long I can hold her, son
as if he were restraining a panther.
     Hobbling, Robbie escaped from the Richardsons', falling into the evening rain and the safety of his truck. He had never been
so grateful to leave a woman. What a mistake he'd made. What a terrible mistake. He should never have had anything to do with
Jane Richardson when he'd had the true love of a woman like Liz. He'd been betrayed by his feelings. As he drove home, he imagined he had learned a
valuable lesson. But what lesson was there? He had fallen in love with Jane.
What could one do about that? Nevertheless, he repented as he fled, the lights
of the truck bounding over the dirt road like white horses.
The following day, Jane Richardson felt as if a door out of Barrow had finally
opened. She'd wanted to leave for some time, of course, but had been held back by what now
seemed like insignificant things: nostalgia, first love, fear of homesickness.
None of that mattered anymore. As if all she owned had been lost in a fire, she
was bereft but free, free to do what she wanted, free to rebuild from nothing.
There was, maybe, a small twinge where Robbie was concerned, but this was
something she could deal with.
     She knew she was leaving, knew for sure it was a matter of days, not months,
there being so little to take with her. As if to test her freedom, she walked
around Barrow trying to imagine what she would miss, defying the town to make
her stay. A light rain was falling. The world was slick and gleamed by shrouded
sunlight. The town smelled of damp earth and damp concrete and the flowers in
the park, lightly battered by rainfall, gave up their various perfumes. Here
and there, the bitter smell of weeds dominated. Cars and pickups passed,
shush
ing as they went.
     This bucolic mirage inspired nothing in her but boredom. She wanted no part of
the flowers or the distantly grumbling thunder or the familiar smells that
issued from the shops along Main Street. Coming up to Harrington's Bakery, no longer intimidated because she was no longer concerned with Barrow,
she decided to go in. Elizabeth Denny was there, of course, and was not pleased
to see her. Mr. Harrington and the customers in the shop acted as if everything
were fine, though all knew something was up. After a moment, Elizabeth excused
herself from work and accompanied Jane outside. They stood under the bakery's awning, out of the rain.
     â What do you want? asked Elizabeth. You come to gloat?
     â No, said Jane. I came to apologize.
     â Why would that be?
     â Because I made a mistake I'm sorry about.
     â You mean sleeping with my fiancé?
     â I mean having anything to do with him. It was wrong. I don't love him.
     â It's a little late to tell me that.
     â I know and I'm sorry about that too. You don't always know things when it counts. I'm sure you've realized things a little late.
     â No, said Elizabeth.
     â You're a better person than me, then. Anyways, I wish things could be different
between us, but I'm leaving Barrow. You won't ever have to see my face again.
     â That's what you came to say?
     â Yes.
     â Well, I don't really care what you do or where you go. My relationship with Robbie's over, thanks to you. So, I can't wish you well. I think you're a cow, to tell the truth, but I'm glad you're going. Have a nice life.
     â I'm sorry you see things that way, said Jane, but I wanted you to know I was
sorry.
     These were the last words she spoke to Elizabeth Denny. In fact, this was the
last time she saw her. Elizabeth turned away, went back into the bakery and
closed the door behind her. From the moment they parted, Jane was, more or
less, done with Barrow. She told her parents she'd had enough. She told her friends she was going to New York Ââ although she actually ended up in Toronto â and she was gone.
     A long time coming yet suddenly upon her, her last impression of the land that
had given birth to her was vague. The clouds were black and there was thunder.
Even in her Greyhound cocoon, Jane felt as if she were being grumbled at. It
was dark as the bus pulled away from the post office â her bewildered parents there to watch her go â so she saw very little. Rain the colour of husked rice was as if flung against
the bus windows, blurring her vision of the land she knew best.
     Of course, she did not escape Barrow entirely. There is not world enough to
escape from home. Over the years, what she had thought of as the steely grip of
the land loosened and became a light touch until, at times, as she walked along
the lakeshore from Springhurst Avenue, where she lived, she would feel Barrow
at her elbow, a discreet presence: wordless, soundless, ghostly but there;
Barrow, like her own Eurydice, unfading as long as she did not look back, gone
when she tried to remember this or that detail.
Though Robbie did not think so, Jane had done him a favour. She had burned the
bridges between them once and for all. Also, she had left and he was not going
to go to New York â her rumoured destination â to win her back. So, the only thing for him to do was suffer.
     He did not suffer as one might have thought he would, though. Yes, he loved
Jane and he would continue to do so for the rest of his life, whenever he
thought of her. But he did not think of her often. His was not the kind of mind
that nursed resentment and hurt. Jane had left him and given him a bloody lip
for a souvenir. When the lip was back to its usual state, Jane had gone and she
became a sporadic memory. The problem now was Liz. He saw her almost every day.
His love had no chance to dissipate. And although it was unusual for him, he
began to contemplate his behaviour. Had he, perhaps, done wrong despite doing
things for love? Was love not the highest virtue and good?
     None of his friends â that is, the Biglands, mostly â thought less of him. None of them could see that he'd done anything wrong. When they spoke of his situation at all, the general
feeling was that loving two women at once might be a nuisance, but if so it was
a nuisance compensated by variety.
     One snippet of conversation went like this:
     â A man could be real happy, someone said, if he had two women. You don't hear any bulls complaining and they've got to service way more than two cows.
     â Yeah, but a bull doesn't love a cow. It's not the same.
     â No one knows that for sure. Bulls get jealous, don't they?
     â And no one can say if a man loves a woman for sure, either, 'cept for the man.
     â If
he
 even knows. I'm not sure I've ever been in love, even if I felt like I was now and then.
     â I know I haven't and I don't want to be.
     The friends were talking in the kitchen. From the living room, Mr. Bigland
called out
     â What the hell's wrong with you pantywaists. That's enough talking about love! You boys are embarrassing your mother.
     Those words had ended all talk about feelings, but parts of the conversation
recurred to Robbie as he went about his life. Was it possible that there was no
such thing as love? He tried to think that way, but he could not. It made no
sense, because although there were any number of women who could get his engine
working, there had only ever been two who could touch something deeper in him.
There had only ever been two women he would surrender his happiness to please.
It was far from certain there would ever be another. And what would it be like
to live a life endlessly fucking but feeling nothing deeper than that an itch
had been scratched? He did not care to know. It didn't matter to him what you called it, but as far as he was concerned he loved Liz
Denny and he would not give up trying to make her see that he did, that he
always would and that it hurt him to be without her. Not for a moment did it
occur to him that his love might not have the significance for Elizabeth that
it had for him. The only question Robbie entertained was how to speak what was
inside him in such a way that Liz would see past his mistakes (such as they had
been) and past his flaws (such as they were) to the solid emotion within him.
     He simply had to speak to her again.
     He chose a Saturday, a month or so after Jane had gone. He waited for Liz as
she left Harrington's. She had a ride. She didn't need him, but he asked anyway if he could take her home (âNo') or if she would meet him at their clearing behind her uncle's farm.
     â Why? she asked.
     â You don't have to if you don't want to, but there's things I want to tell you.
     Elizabeth thought about it. She thought