A Jest of God (25 page)

He had his own demons and webs. Mine brushed across him for an instant, and he saw them and had to draw away, knowing that what I wanted from him was too much. Was that it? Or was he merely becoming bored?

I don’t know whether he meant to lie to me or not. As for what was happening with him and to him this summer, I couldn’t say what it really was, nor whether it had anything to do with me or not.

“N
ow please don’t be silly, Rachel. It’s out of the question, dear, I’m afraid.”

“No. It’s what we’re going to do.”

“I realize you might like somewhere else for a change – don’t think I don’t realize that, dear, because I do. I know it’s been tiresome for you, sometimes, I mean, with my heart and that. I fully realize all these things, Rachel. I’ve lived a good deal longer than you, after all. I know it’s not always very entertaining for you, here. I know it’s a strain for you – no, you needn’t contradict me – I can see it – a strain and a
bore
, yes, a boring life for you, living here with someone who can’t help the fact that she’s not so lively as once, and can’t keep up in the same way any more, however much she tries.”

“Yes. That’s right. It is.”

“What?”

“A strain. It is sometimes a strain.”

“Oh, indeed? And I suppose you don’t think it was a strain for me, bringing you and Stacey up, with your father about as much use as a sick headache, and –”

“Hush. Hush, now. I know. It wasn’t easy for you. Why should you think mine must be any easier for me?”

“Your what, for mercy’s sake?”

“My life. You want me to say no of course it hasn’t been a strain, and of course I want to stay here, and I’m sorry I ever brought up the subject and we won’t discuss it any more. But I can’t. I can’t do that now.”

“Rachel, you’re not yourself. You’re not talking a bit sensibly, dear. I can hardly follow you. I just don’t see what you’re getting at. You’re talking so disjointedly.”

“I’m sor – I mean, try. Try to listen.”

“That’s terribly unfair of you, Rachel.”

“Unfair?”

“You know I always listen, dear, to everything you want to say. I have, ever since you were a small girl. I’ve always listened.”

“But have you heard?”

“What? Rachel, I don’t know what to think, I really don’t. I’m worried about you, dear, I’ll tell you that.”

“Don’t be. Oh, listen, I mean it. It’s going to be all right. Look, you may even like things, once we get there.”

“All my friends are here, Rachel. I can’t leave. I wouldn’t know a single solitary soul. No one. Think of it. I’ve lived here all my –”

“Yes. That part of it is too bad. I know. But there’s Stacey, don’t forget, at the coast.”

“A strange house, or some cramped apartment, more than likely. I couldn’t, Rachel. And in a strange place, a strange city.”

“Don’t you want to see your grandchildren?”

“Well, of course I do. Naturally. How can you suggest that I don’t want to see them?”

“I didn’t mean to suggest it. I only meant – wouldn’t it be nice to see them?”

“If they could come here, yes, on a visit, it would be lovely.”

“They won’t, though. We haven’t the room. And Stacey won’t come here, anyway, not ever.”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve been thinking of writing and suggesting to her –”

“Mother, try to realize. I’ve been accepted for the job in Vancouver, the one I applied for. We’re moving at the end of the month.”

“The furniture – whatever could we possibly do about all this furniture? I refuse to sell it, Rachel. I won’t hear of it.”

“We’ll take as much as we can. We may have to sell some of it. Or give it to a rummage sale. There’s an awful lot of old junk here.”

“Rummage sale? My things? I won’t. I simply will not.”

“Yes. We’ll have to.”

“Oh Rachel – it’s mean of you. You’ve turned really nasty and mean, and I can’t see what I’ve ever done to merit it. It’s not fair.
It’s not fair!”

“Hush, hush now. Sh, Sh. I know. It’s not fair. You’re quite right. Try not to cry. Here – here’s your handkerchief. Blow your nose. Then you’ll feel better. I’ll get your sleeping pill now. It’ll calm you.”

“I don’t want to move, Rachel. Please.”

“I know. But we have to.”

“But why? Why?”

“Because it’s time.”

“Time? That’s no answer.”

“I know. But it’s all the answer I’ve got.”

“Why do you keep on refusing to talk reasonably, Rachel? What have I done? Is it something I’ve said or done to offend you, dear?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She sees that I am not going to reply. I cannot, but she does not see that. The crinkled skin of her face looks cruelly exposed, for her tears and her dabbing hands have taken away her facepowder. She looks bewildered, and is, and there is nothing I can do. Tea and a sleeping pill will be more use than any words I could ever find, no matter how I might delve and scrabble in my mind to find the ones that seemed appropriate to me. The fact that I know it’s no use makes it a little easier. She’s not trying wilfully not to see, as I once imagined. And for myself, I don’t really know what it will cost her to leave this place where she has over the years nursed two children, a dead man, some sprightliness of chosen draperies and china, and more dank memories than I dare to dwell upon.

She turns her face away, leans back in her chair, lifts one violet-veined wrist and lets it fall, driftingly slow. Oh Lord. The lady of the camellias, dying on silver screen,
circa
1930. Yet I feel like hell, also, at her hurt, the unfeigned part that doesn’t, to her knowledge, ever show. And then, as well, some distant-early-warning system in my own territory tells me we’re not finished with the argument.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance, Rachel. Goodness knows I’ve never wanted to stand in your way. That’s the last thing in the world I’d ever wish to do, believe me. But dear – oh, I don’t know if I should even bring this up, but –”

“What is it?”

“Well, dear, of course I’m not blaming you for not having considered it. Why should you? I mean, you did have
all sorts of other things, more interesting things, to consider. I quite see that. But it’s just that –”

“Mother, for heaven’s sake, what is it?”

“I very much doubt,” she says, “that my silly old heart would stand the move.”

The silence between us seems to spread like dusk. It is up to me to speak, and I have prepared some words for this, but now I am afraid to use them. Afraid of what? Not only of damaging her. Perhaps not chiefly that. Afraid, more, of the apparent callousness her ears will hear and mine can’t bear to listen to or admit. Do it, Rachel. Or else quit.

“I have considered that. I’ve considered it quite a lot. But – I think we will just have to take the risk.”

She turns to me. She turns on me.

“I see. That’s how you are, eh? That’s the kind of person
you
are.”

“Well, in the end – the end – it’s in other hands.”

I’ve spoken so oddly and ambiguously, not knowing I was going to deliver this nineteenth-century cliché until I heard it, compelled out of some semi-malicious hope that she would be bound to be flummoxed by the phrase, and that she might not decently be quite able to deny some sovereignty, even though she still attempts to believe in her physical immortality which must be bolstered with huge doses of quiet, care, cups of tea, heart boosters and heart calmers, sleeping potions and every available brand of sorcery. And yet, what I said was also meant, unintentionally intended, and I really wonder now why I have been so ruthlessly careful of her, as though to preserve her throughout eternity, a dried flower under glass. I’m not responsible for keeping her alive. There is, suddenly, some enormous relief in this realization.

She is looking at me, dismayed.

“Other hands? What on earth do you mean?”

“Well, just that – what happens to you, you can’t necessarily do anything much about it.”

“Doctor Raven,” she says, offended, “has specifically forbidden me under any circumstances to exert myself, Rachel. You know that as well as I do.”

“You won’t have to exert yourself. All you have to do, if that’s all you want to do, is to sit and let yourself be wafted towards the coast. Mild weather, practically no snow in winter, daffodils in March or is it April, and a visit with Stacey’s kids every Sunday or maybe even twice a week, let’s hope. I meant, really, that Doctor Raven is not able to say, entirely, either. You know?”

I catch in my own voice something of Nick’s –
You know?
I didn’t mean to copy. But something of him inhabits me yet. If I could see him only for half an hour. No, Rachel. You can’t. Yes, I know. It will go away after a while.

“Rachel, you’re talking so peculiarly. Doctor Raven has been my doctor for goodness knows how long. If he doesn’t know what’s what, dear, who does, may I ask?”

“I don’t know. I’ve no idea. God, for all I know.”

Is it some partial triumph, that I can bring myself finally to say this, or is it only the last defeat?

“God?” she shrills, as though I had voiced something unspeakable. Then she simmers down, recollects herself. She used to be a member of the choir, for heaven’s sake, for the sake of heaven. “Well, certainly, dear, of course, all that goes without saying. But I don’t honestly see why you felt you had to bring it up. I’m not easily upset, as you know. But I can’t go along with this notion of gaily talking about all these matters.”

She is clamped, rigid, protecting herself against all comers.

“I’m sorry.”

And I am. Because I didn’t know, before, how frightened she is. But there’s no help for it, that I can see, except to say
Hush, it will be all right – there, there.

I am the mother now.

Willard is sitting behind his desk. He doesn’t rise. He looks up, adjusts his glasses and consents to smile. He’s hardly spoken to me since I gave my notice, but now he has to say something, for I won’t be seeing him again.

“Ah, Rachel. The moment has finally come, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I just want you to know I certainly do wish you every success in your new – and of course Angela joins me in this wish, most sincerely.”

“Thanks.”

“I must say – I know you won’t take it amiss if I say this, Rachel – I must just mention that I was a little taken aback at your decision. It wasn’t what I would have expected of you.”

“No.”

“I mean, of course, it’s your concern, but I can’t help wondering, I’d just like to ask you one thing, quite frankly.”

“What is it?”

“Weren’t you happy here?” Willard asks, peering foxily. “I always thought you got along so well here. Taught well, fitted in with the other staff very harmoniously, and as for myself, we’ve never had the slightest disagreement, you and I. That’s so, isn’t it? You must admit that it is. I always thought you were perfectly satisfied with the way our school is run. I could be quite mistaken, of course, but I always
thought
so. I trust you don’t mind my asking, but naturally this is a matter of some considerable interest to me.”

He doesn’t want my answer. He wants me to say “Of course I have always been as happy as a veritable meadow-lark in this eminently well-run establishment, Willard, and I can assure you my leaving has nothing whatsoever to do with you, who have been in every conceivable way the best of principals – it is only that my old mother wishes to see her dear little grandchildren, so I am taking off, albeit with the greatest and bitterest of regrets.”

What am I to say, though? Sometimes I was happy here, and sometimes not, and often I was afraid of him, and still am, although I see now this was as unnecessary as my mother’s fear of fate. What good would it do to say that? I couldn’t explain, nor he accept.

“I’ve just lived here long enough, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with the school.”

And this, like everything else, is both true and false.

The teacher’s room is empty. All the gruelling good-byes have been said to the others. I told Calla I would wait here to see her. I feel nothing at leaving. There have been, lately, a few days when I feel nothing of any description, nothing at all. This may not be good, but it’s restful.

“Oh – hello, Rachel. You did wait.”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“I know, but I thought you might be in a rush, what with packing and everything.”

We stand facing one another. We’re stalling. We don’t know what to say. Then I see she has decided.

“Rachel, maybe this is uncalled for, but I – well, I’m sorry that things weren’t different for you. That it wasn’t what you thought, when you came to my place that day.”

“Oh – that.” Now I’m forced back into the total pain, as
one is when somebody sympathizes with a death you had begun not to think about every moment. Why couldn’t she have kept quiet about it? But I see she couldn’t, not now, this once.

“Yes,” she says. “I only wanted to let you know –”

“You must have thought –” My voice rises like a speeded-up record, “you must have thought I was a fool. As, of course, I was.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But heavens, child, that’s the least of your worries.”

This really is so. It’s the least of my worries. What is so terrible about fools? I should be honoured to be of that company.

“Calla –” Now, at last, it had to be expressed and offered some acknowledgement, because the truth is that she loves me.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry things weren’t different for you. I mean, that I wasn’t different.”

“Oh – that,” she says.

She glances away, then looks again at me, meets my eyes. Calla, pillar of tabernacles, speaker in tongues, mother of canaries and budgerigars.

“Not to worry,” Calla says. “I’ll survive.”

The last time I was in the Japonica Funeral Chapel was that night I came down here late and talked to Hector. Everything looks just the same, but now it does not seem to matter much that my father’s presence has been gone from here for a long time. I can’t know what he was like. He isn’t here to say, and even if he were, he wouldn’t say, any more than Mother does. Whatever it was that happened with either of them, their mysteries remain theirs. I don’t need to know. It isn’t necessary. I have my own.