The Fire-Dwellers (30 page)

Val come over some evening. Phone me. We’re in the phone book. MacAindra, Bluejay Crescent. We’ll kill a bottle.

  — Stacey, you are phony as a three-dollar bill, and she knows it.

Valentine Tonnerre looks at her, unsmiling. Then she reaches under her left breast and scratches, a long slow deliberate gesture.

Yeh well

So long, then.

But Valentine does not appear to have heard, so Stacey rises, dutifully pays and goes.

  — God of thunder. Vernon Winkler. I’ll bet a nickel to a doughnut hole that he puts vodka in that tomato juice of his. How can I tell Mac, and what will I say?
You’ve been scared by a strawman
. How could anybody say that? If we’re scared, at least there is some dignity in being scared of genuine demons. Aren’t there any demons left in hell? How in hell can we live without them?

Bluejay Crescent. Stacey parks the car in front of the house and goes quickly up the steps, inside, through the house and out the back door. Duncan is swinging Jen on the low swing and she is shrieking with laughter and excitement. Ian and assorted friends are constructing a new and larger bug, and
the grass around them is littered with wheels, boards, nails, hammers and other essentials. Katie is rubbing her newly washed hair with a towel.

Hi. Everything okay, Katie?

Sure. Why shouldn’t it be?

I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry I was so long, honey. Do you want to go now?

I can’t until my hair’s dry. If you’d come back half an hour ago, I could have gone to the beach with Marnie and washed my hair tonight.

Sorry. I was delayed

Seems like you’re always delayed when it’s me who’s looking after Jen. When it was Mrs. Fogler, you used to get home when you said you would.

My heavens, Katie, I’ve said I’m sorry – what more can I

Okay okay okay

The phone rings. Katie leaps to her feet and sprints towards the house.

I’ll get it, Mother. I’m expecting a call.

All right.

  — You are, eh? Who from? Why doesn’t she say? She’s getting very secretive all of a sudden lately. Oh for heaven’s sake, Stacey, what do you expect?

In a moment Katie emerges and looks oddly at Stacey.

It wasn’t for me. It was for you. It was Mr. Fogler, but he’s rung off now. He sounded kind of strange. He wants you to go over right away. I think Mrs. Fogler must be sick or something.

Stacey goes swiftly. When she reaches the Foglers’ doorstep, Jake opens the door before she can ring the bell. It is the first time Stacey has ever seen him without his glasses. He looks younger and less owlish. But then she sees why he has
taken his glasses off. He grinds away at his eyes with his palms as though his tears are repugnant and shameful to himself.

Jake – what is it?

It’s Tess

But he cannot say anything more. He takes Stacey’s hand and draws her into the living room. He motions her to the chesterfield, and then he gropes over to the liquor cabinet, pours two brandies and hands one to Stacey. He drinks his own quickly, pours another and then lowers himself into an armchair. His voice is steadier now, but there is a kind of self-dramatizing hysteria in it which repels Stacey despite herself.

I found her this morning, Stacey. Here. Right here, where I’m sitting now. She’d swallowed Christ knows how many sleeping pills and nearly a whole bottle of rye.

Stacey’s hands around the brandy glass begin to shake.

Jake that’s is she

No. She’s not dead.

Thank God

I took her to hospital Stacey it was terrible I got her into the car all by myself I should’ve phoned for you or Mac or phoned the ambulance but I wasn’t thinking straight at all I just thought I had to get her there right away and she was limp and I couldn’t tell whether she was breathing or not her breathing was so shallow and faint

Jake I’m sorry

They pumped her out and it was touch-and-go for most of the day and then they said they thought she’d be okay Stacey she has to go to to you know the mental hospital

Listen, Jake, don’t feel badly about that. They’ll be able to help her.

Now he is not dramatizing. His voice is only pain and bewilderment.

Yes but why? Why would she? What’s the matter with her? What did I do wrong? Was it me? What was it?

I don’t know

  — I don’t know and I do know. Dog eat dog and fish eat fish. How many things added up? But I didn’t get the message either. Why didn’t I? I always envied her for being so glamorous. I couldn’t see anything else.

Jake I’m so damn sorry I did know she was upset sometimes and I might have tried but I didn’t

You shouldn’t think that way, Stacey. It was me. I guess. But what did I do or not do?

Maybe it wasn’t you Jake. Everything starts a long time ago.

Do you think so? Do you really think so?

Sure. Of course. It’s well known.

  — He was the one who used to tell me slickly that I had a death wish because I would have liked from time to time to be on a snow mountain by myself, no voices. Now he clutches at any naive theory that might totally exonerate him. Never mind. Who could blame him for wanting that?
It wasn’t me
, the kids say. It is always the other guy who starts the trouble. And I say furiously,
How am I supposed to find out? How can I sift it all?

Jake pours another brandy for them both.

Maybe I should’ve agreed years ago for her to have kids, Stacey. But whenever we talked of it, she seemed so damn scared. I thought that was what she
wanted
me to say – that she was enough and that I didn’t feel the need of any

Maybe that’s what she did want you to say. Or maybe she did and didn’t.

Jake puts his head in his hands and once again there is the faintly shrill teetering quality in his voice.

I don’t know what the hell she
ever
wanted, to tell you the truth. She was so goddam beautiful it seemed incredible that she would marry me at all

I think she thought she was stupid

Christ, Stacey, surely you realize that if I kidded her sometimes it was only because she was so goddam beautiful and I look like some kind of chimpanzee and I thought she could take the odd crack how did I know

Jake – stop it. This could go on and on. Come to our place for dinner tonight. And for as long as you want or until

Thanks, Stacey. But I couldn’t do that. It may be months. I’ll come tonight if I can

  — He won’t, though. He couldn’t sit there and talk. He couldn’t bear the glances of my kids. He’ll have a light delicious dinner of brandy.

He sees her to the door and she walks home slowly, wondering how to tell Katie. The boys don’t need to know, but Katie has to be told.

Katie?

What happened to her, Mum? Is she dead?

No she’s not

Did she try to kill herself?

Yes. How did you know?

Katie shrugs, throwing back her half-damp hair. Under the flippancy of her voice there seems to be an undertone of something else, perhaps fear.

Oh well, that’s the usual gimmick, isn’t it?

Not that usual, I’d say.

You never read the papers? Mum – will she be all right?

I hope so. She needs

Yeh, I know. Treatment. Mother

Yes?

You couldn’t have done anything. It must’ve been past that point. So let’s not get all worked up, eh?

Oh Katie

Hey don’t worry please please just don’t cry Mum
please
you’re okay there there you’re okay now

Yes. Thanks, Katie.

  — One day she will have to take over as the mother, and she’s beginning to sense it. No wonder it frightens her. It damn near terrifies me, the whole business, even after all these years. And then I give in like now, and lean on her. I mustn’t.

Mum?

What?

Don’t ever pull that stunt like she did will you?

No. I won’t.

  — I promise you, Katie. I give you my word. But what if the day ever comes a long time from now when Katie is worn out and would half or even three quarters wish to release me from that kind of promise? Shut up, you. We’ll have to deal with that one when the time comes.

Stacey goes next door to tell Bertha Garvey. From the front porch she can hear Julian’s voice ranting in his accustomed manner at Bertha over some offense real or imagined. Then when he comes to the door he is calm, smiling, almost courtly.

Stacey. How nice to see you. Do come in. Bertha’s in the kitchen.

  — Where else, you old fraud? She spends her entire life there.

Bertha is making applesauce. She listens silently and then she turns and faces Stacey. She does not gasp or make horrified noises. Her voice is as ordinary as always.

She never ate enough, Tess didn’t. She starved herself. No wonder she got so rundown and keyed up. When she gets home, I’m going to make good and sure she eats.

Stacey cannot help smiling.

Bertha, you’re great. You know that?

Bertha motions with the wooden spoon towards Julian.

Try telling him.

  — What does Bertha concoct for her personal theater? The lumberjack she never married, the one who would have loved her with perfect admiration just as she is?

As she is going out, Stacey can hear their voices, Julian’s crotchety and yet frightened.

Don’t you go letting that Tess give you any fancy notions, Bertha.

And Bertha’s voice, plain and solid as a pine board.

Don’t you ever worry. I’m too stubborn to die yet for a while.

The march winds its way across the bridge, and Stacey, glancing backward, can see the banners, each carried by two people, the words curving and only partially visible as the marchers pace.

Beside Stacey, a girl in a green corduroy slacks suit takes long slow measured steps. She has informed Stacey that this
style of walking is less tiring. Stacey, however, is not able to take the advice because her own legs are not long enough. Also, she has not had the foresight to wear slacks. She is wearing a blue-and-white-striped cotton dress and sandals, and apart from one or two elderly tweed-clad ladies near the rear of the column, she is the only woman wearing a skirt. She looks around, flinching, trying not to notice, trying not to let it make any difference.

  — Something like this is supposed to be serious, and here you are, Stacey, worrying about how you look. I know, I know. But I’d feel easier and less conspicuous if I’d worn my slacks. What if Mac should drive past and see me? He’d have a fit. Why can’t I tell him? There’s nothing furtive about it, for heaven’s sake. In fact, it was with the opposite in mind that I came.
I don’t kid myself that it’s going to change the world, but I plod along – it makes as much sense as anything else
. That’s what Luke said. Why did I think of that? I wish I hadn’t. Because now I don’t know if I am really plodding along out of conviction or only because it was in the back of my mind that he might be here and I might see him again. I must not want to see him again. I mustn’t. But I do. I can help what I do but not what I feel.

Someone starts singing “We Shall Overcome.” Most of the marchers are young. Their voices are strong and certain. High on the bridge, with the gulls’ mocking bird-voices around them, the marchers sing. Stacey tries to sing, but she cannot. The green corduroy girl gives her a wry look, so she tries again, but no music emerges from her open mouth.

  — I see myself tromping along here, this slightly too short woman, slightly too heavy in the hips, no longer young. And all I can feel is embarrassment. I might at least have the decency not to feel embarrassed. Maybe I’d feel differently if I had faith. But I can’t seem to manage it.

They have crossed the bridge, and at a street corner a small group is waiting to join the march. One of them is Luke. The same clothes, the same Indian sweater. He still wears his beard, except that now it is thicker and looks as though it belongs. Standing beside him is a girl about twenty, with long fine brown hair, wearing white jeans and sweater, and carrying a sign.
PEACE
. Luke has his arm around her.

Stacey turns to the green-corduroy girl.

Gosh I’m sorry but I just have to go to the bathroom. I’m going to have to drop out at this corner and find a john somewhere.

Gee, bad luck. Never mind. If you hurry, you can catch us up.

I’ll try

Stacey, conscious of disapproving looks which she feels convinced must be aimed at her retreat, darts out of the line of marchers. Quickly, then, into the anonymity and shelter of the nearest doorway, which happens to be a hamburger place. A boy is mopping the counter with a wet and greyish rag.

Yes ma’am?

Oh – coffee please.

She drinks it slowly, to make it last as long as possible, and watches through the window the remainder of the marchers going past. They are singing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone.” Their voices reach back to the bridge where the gulls eternally whirl. Perhaps they reach to the city as well, or perhaps not.

When the last marcher is out of sight, Stacey goes out and gets a bus back home.

  — I might at least have seen it through. For what, though? It’s like church – you think maybe if you go, the faith will be
given, but it isn’t. It has to be there already in you, I guess. Or maybe you have to persevere. I wish I’d stayed. Despite Luke. Despite embarrassment. Despite no faith. But bravery has never been my specialty. All I know how to do is get by somehow. I’d like to talk to somebody. Somebody who wouldn’t refuse really to look at me, whatever I was like. I’d like to talk to my sister. I’d like to write to her. I’d like to tell her how I feel about everything. No. She’d think I was crazy, probably. She’s too sensible ever to do this sort of thing, like today, or like with Luke and all that. She’d think I must be mad, not to be perfectly happy, with four healthy kids and a good man. I couldn’t write to her. She’d never see. She’d think even worse of me than she already does. Luke? I couldn’t let you see me. All right – you showed me where I belonged, when you said
What can’t you leave?
I guess I should be grateful. I
am
grateful. Maybe not for that, so much. I guess I knew it anyway. For the way you talked to me and held me for a while – that’s why I’m grateful. I said unspokenly
Help
and you didn’t turn away. You faced me and touched me. You were gentle. You needn’t have been, but you were, and that I won’t forget or cease being glad for. Even if you’d been older, or I’d been younger and free, it wouldn’t have turned out any simpler with you than it is with Mac. I didn’t see that at one time, but I see it now.