Authors: Margaret Atwood
Anna stood for a moment, brown-red with yellow fur and white markings like underwear, glaring at them. Then she stuck her middle finger in the air at them and ran to the end of the dock and jumped into the lake. It was a bellyflop, the water splattered out like a dropped egg. She came up with her hair in streaks over her forehead and started to swim around towards the sand point, clumsy, arms flailing.
“Get that?” David said mildly over his shoulder.
“Some of it,” Joe said. “Maybe you could order her to do it again.” I thought he was being sarcastic but I wasn’t sure. He began to unscrew the camera from the tripod.
I could hear Anna splashing and then stumbling below on the sand point; she was really crying now, her indrawn breaths rasping. The bushes rustled, she swore; then she appeared over the top of the hill, she must have climbed up by holding on to the leaning trees. Her pink face was dissolving, her skin was covered with sand and pine needles like a burned leech. She went into the cabin without looking at me or saying anything.
I stood up. Joe was gone but David was still on the dock, sitting now crosslegged. One at a time they were safer; I went down for the canoe.
“Hi,” he said, “how goes it?” He didn’t know I’d been watching. He had his shoes off and was picking at a toenail as though nothing had happened.
David is like me, I thought, we are the ones that don’t know how to love, there is something essential missing in us, we were born that way, Madame at the store with one hand, atrophy of the heart. Joe and Anna are lucky, they do it badly and suffer because of it: but it’s better to see than to be blind, even though that way you had to let in the crimes and atrocities too. Or perhaps we are normal and the ones who can love are freaks, they have an extra organ, like the vestigial eye in the foreheads of amphibians they’ve never found the use for.
Anna’s bikini lay on the dock, crumpled, a shed chrysalis. He picked up the top and began pleating and unpleating the strap. I hadn’t meant to say anything about it, it wasn’t my concern, but I found myself asking him anyway. “Why did you do that?” My voice was neutral and I realized it wasn’t for Anna I was asking, I wasn’t defending her; it was for myself, I needed to understand.
For a moment he acted. “What?” he said, grinning and innocent.
“What you just did to her.”
He looked hard at me to see if I was accusing him but I was untying the canoe, I was impersonal as a wall, a confessional, and that reassured him. “You don’t know what she does to me,” he said with a slight whine. “She asks for it, she makes me do it.” His voice turned crafty. “She goes with other men, she thinks she can get away with it, but she’s too dumb, every time I find out; I can smell it on her. Not that I’d mind if she’d do it openly and be honest about it, God knows, it’s not that I’m jealous.” He smiled broadmindedly. “But she’s devious, I can’t stand that.”
Anna hadn’t told me, she had left something out; or else he was lying. “But she loves you,” I said.
“Bullshit,” he said, “she’s trying to cut my balls off.” His eyes were sad rather than hostile, as though he had once believed better of her.
“She loves you,” I repeated, petals off a daisy; it was the magic word but it couldn’t work because I had no faith. My husband, saying it over and over like a Dial the Weather recording, trying to engrave it on me; and with the same bewilderment, as though I was the one who’d been hurting him and not the other way round. An accident, that’s what he called it.
“She never tells
me
that,” he said. “I get the impression she wants out, she’s waiting for the chance to leave. But I haven’t asked, we don’t talk much any more except with other people around.”
“Maybe you should,” I said; unconvinced, unconvincing.
He shrugged. “What would we talk about? She’s too dumb, she can’t figure out what I’m saying to her, Jesus, she moves her lips when she watches the T.V. even. She doesn’t know anything, every time she opens her mouth she makes an ass of herself. I know what you’re thinking,” he said, almost pleading, “but I’m all for the equality of women; she just doesn’t happen to be equal and that’s not my fault, is it? What I married was a pair of boobs, she manipulated me into it, it was when I was studying for the ministry, nobody knew any better then. But that’s life.” He wiggled his moustache and gave a Woody Woodpecker laugh, his eyes baffled.
“I think you could work it out,” I said. I braced the paddle across the gunwales and clambered into the canoe. I remembered what Anna had said about emotional commitments: they’ve made one, I thought, they hate each other; that must be almost as absorbing as love. The barometer couple in their wooden house, enshrined in their niche on Paul’s front porch, my ideal; except they were glued there, condemned to oscillate back and forth, sun and rain, without
escape. When he saw her next there would be no recantations, no elaborate reconciliation or forgiveness, they were beyond that. Neither of them would mention it, they had reached a balance almost like peace. Our mother and father at the sawhorse behind the cabin, mother holding the tree, white birch, father sawing, sun through the branches lighting their hair, grace.
The canoe pivoted. “Hey,” he said, “where you off to?”
“Oh. … ” I gestured towards the lake.
“Want a stern paddler?” he said. “I’m great, I’ve had lots of practice by now.”
He sounded wistful, as though he needed company, but I didn’t want him with me, I’d have to explain what I was doing and he wouldn’t be able to help. “No,” I said, “thanks just the same.” I knelt, slanting the canoe to one side.
“Okay,” he said, “see you later, alligator.” He unwound his legs and stood up and strolled off the dock towards the cabin, his striped T-shirt flashing between the slats of the trees, receding behind me as I glided from the bay into the open water.
I
moved toward the cliff. The sun sloped, it was morning still, the light not yellow but clear white. Overhead a plane, so far up I could hardly hear it, threading the cities together with its trail of smoke; an x in the sky, unsacred crucifix. The shape of the heron flying above us the first evening we fished, legs and neck stretched, wings outspread, a bluegrey cross, and the other heron or was it the same one, hanging wrecked from the tree. Whether it died willingly, consented, whether Christ died willingly, anything that suffers and dies instead of us is Christ; if they didn’t kill birds and fish they would have killed us. The animals die that we may live, they are substitute people, hunters in the fall killing the deer, that is Christ also. And we eat them, out of cans or otherwise; we are eaters of death, dead Christ-flesh resurrecting inside us, granting us life. Canned Spam, canned Jesus, even the plants must be Christ. But we refuse to worship; the body worships with blood and muscle but the thing in the knob head will not, wills not to, the head is greedy, it consumes but does not give thanks.
I reached the cliff, there were no Americans. I edged along it, estimating the best place to dive: it faced east, the sun was on it, it was the right time of day; I would start at the left-hand side. Diving by myself was hazardous, there ought to be another person. But I thought I remembered how: we took the canoes or we built rafts from strayed logs and board ends, they would often snap their ropes and escape in the spring when the ice went out; sometimes we would come across them again later, drifting loose like pieces broken from a glacier.
I shipped the paddle and took off my sweatshirt. I would dive several feet out from the rockface and then swim down and in: otherwise I’d risk hitting my head, the drop looked sheer but there might be a ledge underwater. I knelt, facing backwards with both knees on the stern seat, then put a foot on each gunwale and stood up slowly. I bent my knees and straightened, the canoe teetered like a springboard. My other shape was in the water, not my reflection but my shadow, foreshortened, outline blurred, rays streaming out from around the head.
My spine whipped, I hit the water and kicked myself down, sliding through the lake strata, grey to darker grey, cool to cold. I arched sideways and the rockface loomed up, grey pink brown; I worked along it, touching it with my fingers, snail touch on slimesurface, the water unfocusing my eyes. Then my lungs began to clutch and I curled and rose, letting out air like a frog, my hair swirling over my face, towards the canoe, where it hung split between water and air, mediator and liferaft. I canted it with my weight and rolled into it over the side and rested; I hadn’t seen anything. My arms ached from the day before and the new effort, my body stumbled, it remembered the motions only imperfectly, like learning to walk after illness.
I waited a few minutes, then moved the canoe further along and dived again, my eyes straining, not knowing what shape to expect,
handprint or animal, the lizard body with horns and tail and front-facing head, bird or canoe with stick paddlers; or a small thing, an abstraction, a circle, a moon; or a long distorted figure, stiff and childish, a human. Air gave out, I broke surface. Not here, it must be further along or deeper down; I was convinced it was there, he would not have marked and numbered the map so methodically for nothing, that would not be consistent, he always observed his own rules, axioms.
On the next try I thought I saw it, a blotch, a shadow, just as I turned to go up. I was dizzy, my vision was beginning to cloud, while I rested my ribs panted, I ought to pause, half an hour at least; but I was elated, it was down there, I would find it. Reckless I balanced and plunged.
Pale green, then darkness, layer after layer, deeper than before, seabottom; the water seemed to have thickened, in it pinprick lights flicked and darted, red and blue, yellow and white, and I saw they were fish, the chasm-dwellers, fins lined with phosphorescent sparks, teeth neon. It was wonderful that I was down so far, I watched the fish, they swam like patterns on closed eyes, my legs and arms were weightless, free-floating; I almost forgot to look for the cliff and the shape.
It was there but it wasn’t a painting, it wasn’t on the rock. It was below me, drifting towards me from the furthest level where there was no life, a dark oval trailing limbs. It was blurred but it had eyes, they were open, it was something I knew about, a dead thing, it was dead.
I turned, fear gushing out of my mouth in silver, panic closing my throat, the scream kept in and choking me. The green canoe was far above me, sunlight radiating around it, a beacon, safety.
But there was not one canoe, there were two, the canoe had twinned or I was seeing double. My hand came out of the water and I gripped the gunwale, then my head; water ran from my nose, I gulped
breath, stomach and lungs contracting, my hair sticky like weeds, the lake was horrible, it was filled with death, it was touching me.
Joe was in the other canoe. “He told me you went over this way,” he said. He must have been almost there before I dived but I hadn’t seen him. I couldn’t say anything, my lungs were urgent, my arms would hardly pull me into the canoe.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said.
I lay on the bottom of the canoe and closed my eyes; I wanted him not to be there. It formed again in my head: at first I thought it was my drowned brother, hair floating around the face, image I’d kept from before I was born; but it couldn’t be him, he had not drowned after all, he was elsewhere. Then I recognized it: it wasn’t ever my brother I’d been remembering, that had been a disguise.
I knew when it was, it was in a bottle curled up, staring out at me like a cat pickled; it had huge jelly eyes and fins instead of hands, fish gills, I couldn’t let it out, it was dead already, it had drowned in air. It was there when I woke up, suspended in the air above me like a chalice, an evil grail and I thought, Whatever it is, part of myself or a separate creature, I killed it. It wasn’t a child but it could have been one, I didn’t allow it.
Water was dripping from me into the canoe, I lay in a puddle. I had been furious with them, I knocked it off the table, my life on the floor, glass egg and shattered blood, nothing could be done.
That was wrong, I never saw it. They scraped it into a bucket and threw it wherever they throw them, it was travelling through the sewers by the time I woke, back to the sea, I stretched my hand up to it and it vanished. The bottle had been logical, pure logic, remnant of the trapped and decaying animals, secreted by my head, enclosure, something to keep the death away from me. Not even a hospital, not even that sanction of legality, official procedures. A house it was, shabby front room with magazines, purple runner on the hall floor, vines and blossoms, the smell of lemon polish, furtive doors
and whispers, they wanted you out fast. Pretence of the non-nurse, her armpits acid, face powdered with solicitude. Stumble along the hall, from flower to flower, her criminal hand on my elbow, other arm against the wall. Ring on my finger. It was all real enough, it was enough reality for ever, I couldn’t accept it, that mutilation, ruin I’d made, I needed a different version. I pieced it together the best way I could, flattening it, scrapbook, collage, pasting over the wrong parts. A faked album, the memories fraudulent as passports; but a paper house was better than none and I could almost live in it, I’d lived in it until now.
He hadn’t gone with me to the place where they did it; his own children, the real ones, were having a birthday party. But he came afterwards to collect me. It was a hot day, when we stepped out into the sun we couldn’t see for an instant. It wasn’t a wedding, there were no pigeons, the post office and the lawn were in another part of the city where I went for stamps; the fountain with the dolphins and the cherub with half a face was from the company town, I’d put it in so there would be something of mine.
“It’s over,” he said, “feel better?”
I was emptied, amputated; I stank of salt and antiseptic, they had planted death in me like a seed.
“You’re cold,” he said, “come on, we’d better get you home.” Scrutinizing my face in the light, hands on the wheel, tough, better this way. In my deflated lap there was a purse, suitcase. I couldn’t go there, home, I never went there again, I sent them a postcard.