Authors: Margaret Laurence
Gosh, I hope so. I’m kind of nervous.
There’s nothing to be nervous
about
. Just don’t argue or
I won’t I swear it.
The room is large, old-fashioned, plush, velvet-draped, and full of people. Stacey straightens her black cocktail dress with perspiring hands. At one end of the room there is a long bar, behind which three waiters are being kept busy. Stacey pats at her hair. In the middle of the room is a bandstand, from which members of a small and bored-looking orchestra are dispensing waltzes and slow foxtrots. Stacey resists the desire to look behind her and make sure her waist-slip has not edged disastrously downwards. Across the room, corner
to corner, stretches a white banner with one word in cerise, gold-edged.
Standing with a group of laughing girls, all lissome and blonde with good teeth and no waists, is Thor, dressed in midnight-blue evening suit and drinking tomato juice. His silver hair glimmers phosphorescently. Stacey checks by running one finger along her outer thighs to make sure her panties have not by any chance suddenly lost their elasticity and begun to descend. Thor waves and grins, and Mac lifts a hand in a return salute. Stacey unobtrusively puts one hand behind her and touches a thumb to the small of her back in case her bra has become unhooked. The orchestra goes into the droning circles of a Viennese waltz, and before Stacey and Mac can reach Thor, he is dancing with one of the girls.
C’mon, then. Let’s get a drink, eh?
You think we should, Mac?
Don’t be ridiculous, Stacey. He’s not intolerant. He doesn’t try to foist his opinions on other people.
Not much, he doesn’t.
Well, if you’re going to take that line, you better stick to Coke.
No – I’m not. I mean I won’t.
— Resolutions, where have you gone? All night on Coke and I will be a raving lunatic. Two, though. Only two. Then stop. Spirits of my dead forefathers, strengthen me. They should strengthen you, nitwit? They probably all died of whiskey. Mac, don’t leave me. I can’t cope with this crew.
Stacey, this is Mickey Jameson. Mick, I’d like you to meet my wife.
Pleased to meetcha.
Hello – glad to meet you
And this is my wife, Priscilla – dear, this is Mac MacAindra and Stacey.
Hello there
Glad to meet you
What’ll it be, Stacey?
Oh – Scotch and water, please, with lots of ice.
— Maybe gin and tonic would be better? Mother’s ruin. No, that’s for home. Mac prefers gin. Scotch for the crises. Up, the clans.
Mickey Jameson is short, young, blue-eyed, pink-faced. His wife is similar in feminine version. Stacey contemplates the girl, wondering if she really is not perspiring or is only pretending not to. The girl’s dress is short and white but not virginal, and her make-up is a work of abstract art. The long false eyelashes glow diamondly with a touch of what appears to be the instant-snow spray that Stacey associates with Christmas trees.
— Can’t be. Must be some other gloop. Must ask Katie. If I would only read articles on make-up instead of those epistles telling me all the harm I’m doing, then I’d know. I can’t read them. I look at them from the edge of one eye, at a distance, but they always scare me off. It looks so complicated. Things used to be a hell of a lot simpler, in my day. Cream, lipstick and powder. Finish.
In my day
. Lovely phrase, that.
Been with Richalife long?
Who, Mac? Oh, not so very long. What about your husband?
Just a month or so. But he loves it. It’s the greatest, isn’t it?
Yeh. It’s fine.
Mickey says he was just marking time, before. Just simply marking time. He was in house paints. What was your hubby in, before?
He was in essence – I mean to say, the essence of his work was kind of educational. Encyclopedias, like.
Oh, say. Well, think of that, now. What made him switch?
Oh you know go-ahead firm and that
Yeh well that’s just exactly what Mickey said, too.
Mac and Mickey are standing shoulder to shoulder. Stouthearted men.
Yeh, well, like I said, Mick, I used to do the Okanagan – up and down the whole valley – with my previous firm, so that’s why I wanted to keep the area for the time being. I know it like the palm of my hand.
Sure, boy, I can see that all right. I would’ve figured you for the city, though.
You could be right, there. Maybe it’s time I changed territory.
A change is as good as a rest, I always say.
Well, you could be right.
At this point, Thor saunters up and joins the group, or rather, the group re-forms around him.
Hi, Mac. Hi, Mickey. Good to see you. Well,
hello
there, Priscilla. You don’t mind if I call you Priscilla, do you?
Why, certainly not. I’d just love you to, Mr. Thorlakson.
Thor’s the name sweetheart. Just Thor. And who have we here? Stacey, isn’t it? Well, and how are
you
, Stacey?
Just fine, thanks.
I’m glad to hear it. Have you got all those nice kids of yours on the Younglife Program yet? Oh yes, you have. I remember the charts now. And if I remember correctly, they’re
doing just dandy, too. Just great. Well, that’s splendid, Stacey. You have any trouble getting the whole brood to line up for the Program every morning, Mac?
Nope. None whatsoever.
— Like fun. He leaves it to me, and sometimes I give them one and mostly I forget, or forget on purpose, thinking the stuff is probably subtly addictive, or will ultimately be found to contain traces of arsenic, and then I flush the baubles down the john when no one’s around, and probably Katie will rat on me one of these days. I don’t know when Mac takes his. It is not a subject which is discussed between us.
Well, that’s great. Say, you know, Mickey, this guy’s got four children. Brave fellow, eh? You going to try for a baseball team, Mac?
Not yet a while
Well, let me know when you think of trying, and we’ll give you an extra ration of Richalife. How about that? Only save enough energy to get the product across, won’t you, Mac? If possible, that is.
— What’s going on? What are you getting at, you slimy bastard?
Four kids aren’t many these days
What’s that? Oh – yes, you’re perfectly right there, Stacey. Yes, indeed. Large families are coming back in, all right. Personally, I’ve got nothing against large families. Provided people can look after them and educate them adequately. No, not adequately – properly. I would say
properly
.
We aim to.
Of course you do, Stacey. I’d never doubt that for an instant. Well, if you good people will excuse me, I see one of the office girls over there and I think I really must go and dance with her.
Thor skims shiningly off. Stacey goes to the bar and gets another Scotch by herself.
Mac?
Yeh?
What was all that?
What was all what?
Oh for heaven’s sake,
you
know. He was needling
He was kidding. Can’t you take a
joke yet
, Stacey?
Nope. No sense of humor. Me, Tess and Queen Victoria.
Look, I gotta go and see Stewart Essex for a minute. He mentioned he’d like a country circuit. I think it’s time I got onto a city run. You okay here?
Sure. You go ahead. I’ll find somebody to talk to.
The evening grinds along. Stacey discovers several other aimless wives whose husbands are in essential conference together.
Hello. Mind if I join you?
Oh, do. I’m Clare Gallagher and this is Joanie Storey.
Hi. Glad to meet you. I’m Stacey MacAindra.
Your old man’s talking shop, too, I suppose?
What else?
Boy, I really love it. I was saying to Joanie, here, they take you out about once a month and then what do they do? Dance with you? Not on your sweet Nelly they don’t. You got kids?
Yeh. Four.
Yeh? How old?
Daughter fourteen, son ten, son seven, daughter two. You? I got only the two, but believe me, that’s plenty. My little boy just turned five, and my girl is eighteen months. They’re sure a handful.
I know, but they get easier. It makes a lotta difference when they’re at school.
I suppose. But then again, I think the house’ll seem awfully empty.
Well, I guess so. My youngest isn’t at school yet, of course, so I don’t know.
— How to get out of this? They’re thinking the same, maybe. Funny thing – when I’m with those know-everythings in some evening class or other, I think the hell with intellectual pursuits and all I feel like doing is gabbing about my kids. But when I’m with women who are gabbing about kids, I think the hell with it. Powder room – that’s it.
In the course of the next hour, Stacey visits the Ladies’ twice, on each occasion slipping a small cake of the provided pink soap into her evening bag. She repairs her make-up, stares gloomily at herself in the antiseptic-looking mirror, smiles stiffly at the other women who clank in and out of the toilet cubicles. She then goes back to the bar and obtains another double Scotch. She dances once with a corpulent youngish man who pumps her hand up and down and maneuvers her around the corners by swiveling her on his belly. After that, nobody asks her. She decides to stay within easy reach of the bar.
— Who would want to dance to that dreary music, anyway? Not me. I used to love dancing. I used to be a good dancer. I said to Katie and Ian once,
You may not believe it, but I used to be a good dancer
. What kind of music in those days, they wanted to know.
Boogie-woogie
, I foolishly said. They damn near killed themselves laughing. They went around for days saying it –
Boo-oo-gie-woo-oo-gie –
and collapsing in mirth. Ha bloody ha.
Double Scotch, please.
— Come on, doll, be sociable. Don’t want to be sociable. Don’t know anybody. What did Thor mean, needling Mac like that? He was needling him. And saying like that,
Who have we
here?
Like I was something that just crawled out from under a stone. The bastard. Who does he think he is? How dare he talk to Mac like that? Listen, you thunder god, you, you double-dyed snake-in-the-grass, you refugee from the discards of Lucifer’s army. Let me tell you one simple thing. Just one. Do you want to know why Mac didn’t reply? Do you want to know why he didn’t wipe the floor verbally with you? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you straight. Because he is a gentleman, that’s why. Because he cannot be bothered to stoop to your paltry jesting, you sick clown, that’s why. Believe me, I’d say it to your face.
Thor’s face. Immediately in front of her and somewhat above. His height. Very tall man. Surrounded by a circle of anonymous others. Stacey sees only Thor – the white opalescent skin, the eyes like turquoises, opaque blue, the silver mane. She realizes she has walked all around the room in search of him, and now she has found him.
Excuse me.
Why, hi there, Stacey. You enjoying the party?
Yes. Yes, thanks. There was only one thing I wanted to ask you about.
Go right ahead. What is it? It isn’t – ah – private?
Oh hell no it’s not private it’s only about that quiz
Quiz?
Quiz. Why’d you do it?
You mean the Richalife Quiz? I don’t think I quite see
I said why’d you do it? What can you gain? Who’s gonna tell you anything on a thing like that?
You don’t think so?
Hell I know so. I mean if I feel guilty or anxious, like let’s say I stabbed my dear old grandmother in the back for her money or I find I got stigmata on both palms and I gotta wear gloves everywhere I go, you think I’m gonna
say?
Titters of general laughter. Thor reaches out and takes Stacey’s hands.
Here – let me see. No, you’re all clear, Stacey, I’m glad to say. You didn’t strike me like the type. Well, about the quiz, now.
— I got to stop. Stacey, girl, shut your trap. Change subject. Now. Essential. Get a grip on yourself. Think of Mac.
No, it’s only that it’s an intrusion or do I mean infringement? I mean infrusion, that’s what I mean but I guess I shouldn’t have brought it up.
One of the circle, a slender man in glasses, puts a hand on her rump.
As long as that’s all you bring up
Hey the party’s getting rough
We’ve all got good manners here
Stacey lets the talk flow away from her. She glances around to find Mac, knowing she must focus on him. Finally she sees him. He is standing near a window, his face turned away from her. He is talking with a tall brown-haired girl whose face is a medieval tomb carving, elongated, drawn in subtle lines of earnestness and prayer. Stacey quickly looks away.
— Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only talking to her. Yeh, but that look on her face. What is she
saying?
None of your business, Stacey. None of your damn business. She looks so much more sensitive and that, than I look. What about one for the road? Stacey, kid, you’re stoned. I am not stoned. All right, so even if I am, so what? I don’t give a fuck.
She spins around to face Thor again, and in doing so, her evening bag spills open and two pink soaps slither down onto the polished floor. Stacey looks at them as though she has never seen them before. There is a small moment of silence and uncertainty. Then someone laughs, a high fluting. Stacey discovers with some astonishment that it is herself.
I always take them home for the kids. I do it with those wrapped sugar lumps too
Thor picks them up for her.
Think nothing of it. I know I used to like things like that, as a kid.
Yeh? Well, I’m certainly glad to hear it. Were you – were you always called Thor?
Except when I was called late for supper ha-ha. Yes, it’s an Icelandic name.
That’s what I figured. Lots of people of Icelandic descent where I came from. Not exactly where I
came
from, but same province. Manitoba. Prairie girl, that’s me.
Really? How interesting.
He looks bored almost to the limit of endurance, and she recalls too late that she told him once before where she came from, as though compelled to flaunt her small-town background.