Bear (8 page)

Summer came in swiftly. Rabbits continued to worry the garden. The Director gave her his gracious permission to spend her holidays there, even threatened to come and visit her.She knew he would neverleave the city. Over the first of July weekend, the motorboats, the tourists, the water-skiers and the cottagers arrived: pallid but hearty summer people. At night, knowing they were still out on the river, she pulled down the blinds, and during the days she felt violated, for thesweet silence was gone. A family even came to the door and asked if she could show them her house. She declined the honour. Lovers built bonfires on her beaches. Water-skiers leapt by her, waving. She did not feel friendly. She wanted to be alone with the bear.The Laplanders venerate it, and call it the Dog of God. The Norwegians say, “The bear has the strength of ten men, and the sense of twelve.“They never, however, call it by its true name, lest it ravage their crops or flocks. Rather, they refer to it as “Moedda aigja,“the old man with a fur cloak.Not that she neglected her work.She worked. Always, they had said ofher, she was nothing if not consciencious She had to work.And there was still enough to do. Aside from mere cataloguing, there was the inventory ofthe house to be made.(And each of its angled rooms seemed to contain inumerable little Victorian tables of a kind that distressed her: four-legged, small topped, of a height and size only for a Bible or a fern or perhaps one of those glass bells that displayed decaying birds or funeral wreaths. The splay of the table legs disgusted her.) There were many things to be counted, and with any luck there would also be things to be edited. For although the lawyer’s inventory existed, it was not nearly complete. One bright morning she woke in good spirits and disclosed to herself the fact that she had not even attempted to open the door to the basement.She was afraid ofdamp, spidery places. She breakfasted and briskly looked after the bear (they could not go swimming because there were four motorboats placidly fishing the channel) and, armed with two flashlights and an oil lamp, went through the door, downwards.The nether region was indeed dark and spidery. To her relief, however, she found four filled oil lamps hanging in brackets from the beams.She lit them one by one and the basement flared into eerie dimensions. Assisted by one of the flashlights, she began to explore. It interested her to find that on two sides the foundations of the octagon had been quarried further to form what presumably were cold-rooms, for one contained wooden racks and green-topped jarred preserves, and three totally withered apples. The other was empty save for the long-decayed form ofa burrowing animal. Orderly people, the Carys.Here were stacked neat coils of stove-wire, ordered rows of pipe. Another corner formed a repository for wicker summer chairs. More discarded fern tables. Pictures(The Soul’sAwakening. Wolfe at Quebec, but not, alas, the Siege of Derry, the one she had always wanted) with melted gilt and plaster frames. So they were not sosophisticated they missed the oleograph era.Old, tasselled snowshoes with turned-up toes. A broken banjo.(Did they sing”Old BlackJoe”on the porch steps at night?)Then, along another wall, trunks; in fact, a history of trunks: hoop-topped ones with stamped tin bindings, doubtless lined with printed birds; large theatrical wicker hampers; wood-bound World War One footlockers; turn-of-the-century wardrobe trunks, fit to contain a hundred brides. Trunks upon trunks. Work. Treasure.She grinned and took the boat down to Homer’s and asked if he and Sim could lend her a hand.“Want to get some stuff up from the basement,” she said vaguely. Homer’s eyes glinted behind his glasses. He went to the house part behind the store and spoke to his wife.Her voice rose high and pettish behind the rows of canned goods. “Hepped on those damned Carys,” Lou heard.“Open til nine and then goodness knows what time. Something queer goin’ on, I betcha.“Lou blushed, felt like running away. She thinks I’m after him, she thought. “You wife can come too,” she said to Homer. “The way she’s carrying on, she might like to get her face wiped off,“Homer said, without changing his cheerful grin.“She don’t like me going to the island.Never did. Thinks it’s haunted or something, a bad influence. Look, I can come over myself if you like, if you think the two ofus can manage. Gotta leave Sim to manage the gas pumps. Babs is a pretty good girl but somehow she never cottoned on to the gas pumps.” “How many kids have you got, Homer?” “Nine, counting the two she adopted.” “Gosh, that’s a lot.““You wouldn’t leave a kid without a home just because you’re scared of a little work.” “I would.She wouldn’t. Listen,we can do it when you’re not so busy.” “Monday night’s not so bad. I couldn’t help you on a weekend. This is the busy season,and now we’ve got the campground—they don’t know anything,you know. Half the time not even how to light their Coleman stoves.You got to make sure they don’t fill the tanks with barbecue lighter fluid.Then there’s all the business of the Flushabyes going down the septic tanks. Gotta have septic tanks. What do people go camping for if they can’t take their children?Some of the women spend all their time in the laundromat and the outboards to fix at the Marina.Gosh,some of them come up here and sit in their trailers all day drinking beer. Fishing widows. Main thing is, you can’t do it no more for $2.50 a day, not with all the new regulations. Anyway, I’ll be glad to get away for a bit. She’ll simmer down.” She drove back, her thoughts divided.She felt she was taking a man away from his wife.She felt she was offering him something of a holiday.She was glad his wife adopted children and refused to man gaspumps,but she was angry with her raised and querulous voice. Fish wives give us all a bad name, she thought. Fishwives. Fishwidows. And we all set out to be mermaids. Bears were once common on the British Isles. Caledonian bears were imported by the Romans and used asinstruments of torture. In Wales,it was a beast of chase.Homerbrought a bottle of rye.They had a drink, then went below and lit the lamps.He had never, he said, been “below decks” but once before, and that to bring up some lawn chairs when the old lady held a dim flashlight. He peered around fascinated.He found a stash of old lamps she had not noticed, coal-oil lamps, fancy candle-shades, even a brass student’s lamp,which he coveted. Eventhough it was the Institute’s by law, she gave it to him. Why the hell not? she thought. He’s been so good to me. One by one, they dragged the trunks up the stairs. They put some in the kitchen, some in the bedroom and the dining room. Sat down exhausted at the table.“Well,” he asked, “aren’t you going to open them?““I guess I should.” It struck her as odd that now when there was treasure trove all around her, she was not shaking. “You should dust them, first,” he said. “I guess I should.” “You’re not that kind of woman, are you?” “What kind of woman?““Housekeeping first.““Hell, no, Homer.““You better clean ‘em up before you open them. Where you’ve got no running water, the thing is to get at the dirt right away.Can’t hose the place down,you know.” “Which one first?““You want me to be here?““If you were told to go away, would you, Homer?““Nope.““The oldest or the newest?““That footlocker there from the first war. I was always interested in uniforms.” She found a rag and rubbed at the trunk.Not too well in case she should appear to be giving in to him. Opened the trunk. It contained two rough green brown army blankets “Can’twin ‘em all,” Homer said.“Have another smidgen of the good stuff.“Some were empty, some were full.One contained empty Gem jars and one beautiful dresses from the nineteen twenties and thirties: beaded chintzes, hcavenly dark velvets, and a strange peach-coloured velveteen evening coat appliqued with silver kid. She took them into the bedroom and tried them on in front ofthe tall, swinging pierglass. Homer loomed in the doorway.“They don’t go with your tan,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with all my straps.” “They held their own busts up, my mother used to say.” nonsense, they tied them down so they could pretend they didn’t have any. On the farm girls, it didn’t work.” Breasts were not Homer’s subject. He began to talk about the marina business. He told her more about the marina business than she would ever need to know. “Whose were the old dresses, do you think?““Oh, the old Colonel’s, I think. She went some where away to school, England, I guess, or Montreal, and she was away a long time.I heard tell once I think, only I’m not sure I remember, she took some millionaire’s daughter around to parties in Europe in the good old days before the crash. In those days they didn’t let the girls run loose. I guess the Colonel had good connections, so she took this girl all around and kept an eye on her. She used ta tell me something about the way they lived over there. They’d hire a plane to get from Paris to parties in London or Oxford, a little open four-seater.They had their own sheepskin jackets and leather helmets made, she said.” “Wow.” “Ah, you and me, what would we do with a butler, eh? Tip him and call him ‘my man’?When I was guiding there was an old Yankee gent I liked, he was real generous, sometimes he called me’my boy.’ I told him I’d quit if he didn’t call me Homer. Or Campie, sometimes they called me Campie, in those days. He understood.” “Come on into the other room, and we’ll get atthe rest of the trunks.” “You know, when you’re drinking, you’ve got to be careful of the lamps.““I’ll take the flashlight in, and you light the gas bracket for me.““Good girl.“She did not like the parlour. It was full of wrong angled, unlivable corners, the weakness ofthe octogon. The furniture was squared and sat ill and off centred. Every time she went into the room,it imprinted on her the conventional rectangle and nagged. However, under the flickering light, half hunkering against the horsehair sofa, she opened one of the trunks.As she leaned to its mystery,Homer pinched her behind. “Don’t,” she said”Engaged elsewhere?“Her heart flopped.“You are,” she said.“Oh, hell, Babs and I … twenty-four years. If a guy can’t . . “If a guy can, she can.” “I’d kill her.““Then keep your hands off me.“He stood sulkily before her now, glowering.“You asked me over.” “To help me with the trunks. As you’ve helped with the trunks.I didn’t ask you to bring the booze, though I’ve enjoyed it. Let’s see what’s in this trunk.” He took her arm.“Look here…” “Shut up, Homer.” She stood and faced him.They were the same height. She was younger, he was stronger. She liked him, but she did not like what he was doing. Taking, she thought, advantage.Suddenly, she wanted to pull rank, pull classon him,keep him in his place. She knew they were equal but she did not feel they were equal, in her head she was a grand lady going to balls, he was a servant who knew her secrets. She was still wearing, in fact, a ball gown. She looked down.There is cleavage, there are breasts half hanging out”Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said. Homer shook his head. “It wasn’t that. I like you, you know. I like you. When I like a woman I like her no matter what she wears. Don’t matter none to me if you’re in jeans and a checkered shirt. Sure, I’m full ofbooze.A man gets a night off every once in a while. Nothing wrong with that.You like it, too, don’tyou? Never once turned down a drink, nor offered one. You’re a snob.I never knew you were that. I should have.” She tried to hold him back.“Homer …” He jammed his cap on his head.“If you want any work from now on you’ll contract it through your Institute, your fucking Institute.“She stood, uncertain, then touched him. “Sit down.” “No, I’m going.““Come into the kitchen where it’s friendly and I’ll put on a sweatshirt so I’m not a grand lady any more. We haven’t notched the bottle yet.” “I got to go home. Babs’ll be mad.” “Come and sit down … my man.” Because the wheels were going around in her head, bells were ringing, she was understanding things. “I like you,” she said in the kitchen.“But there’s Babs.And if I pay you with sex where does that leave me?” “You got a good head,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.That bit about Babs—you leave that to me. It’s our private business, see? Everyman and his wife have a deal, you can’t interfere with it. No way you can be good to Babs by pulling a fast one on me. She won’t appreciate it. She don’t care if I’m pulling trunks upstairs or screwing you, it’s all the same to her. I’m just not there. She’s a woman, shewants me to be there, right under her thumb. But a man’s got to be away some of the time, and she don’t man the gaspumps no matter what.” She was thinking, I won’t ever lie back on a desk again, not ever, ever …. “But,” he said,“I like you. And you’re living here all alone. You like to drink, I thought, well, she probably likes to screw and what’s all that wrong with it? You’re a modern woman, after all.“She thought, I could take him into my bed and send him off at dawn through the reeds and the kingfishers. I like him. He’s hard, he’s tough, he’d begood at it. I could hold him. Maybe he’d even hold me. It would be human. God knows, there might be something country boys know I never heard of. But it went against some grain in her. “Listen,” she said.“Just help me move the trunks away so there’ll be a clearway through the kitchen. Anyway, I’ve got the curse. And I did give you some Scotch once, Homer.“She was afraid then that he’d say something unforgivable about riding the rags, but he didn’t. He helped her.“Are we still friends?” she asked.Sort of,” he said sheepishly. Both of them knew they had nobody to tell about this, and it made them feel better.

”Bear,” she cried.“I love you. Pull my head off.“The bear did not,but her menstrual fever made him more assiduous. She was half afraid of him, but drunk and weak for danger. She took his thick fur that skidded in her hands, trying to get a grip on his loose hide, but when she went deeper into it she encountered further depth, her short nails slipped. She cradled his big, furry, assymetrical balls in her hands, she played with them, slipping them gently inside their cases as he licked. His prick did not come out of its long cartilaginous sheath. Never mind, she thought, I’m not asking for anything. I’m not obliged to anybody. I don’t care if I can’t turn you on, I just love you.The weather was at its gayest, blue and blossoming. She swam, and when the channel was empty,swam in great gusts and spurtings with the bear. She gathered bitter lettuces in the garden. She worked in the office with the canvas shades let down against the blinding sun that poured in the lantern. She went through the contents of the trunks again and again, finally slitting a blue calico cotton lining and finding Colonel Cary’s letter of commission in the 49th Foot, his military citations from Portugal, a draft of a letter petitioning for ownership of the island, and a cartoon of Rowlandson’s showing a man in black boots disappearing up a damsel’s dress. This she thumbtacked under the Colonel’s portrait. It humanized him. Because what she disliked in men was not their eroticism, but their assumption that women had none. Which left women with nothing to be but house maids. She unfolded and copied his precious papers. She cleaned the house and made it shine. Not for the Director, but because she and her lover needed peace and decency. Bear, take me to the bottom ofthe ocean with you, bear, swim with me, bear, put your arms around me, enclose me, swim, down, down, down with me. Bear, make me comfortable in the world at last. Give me your skin. Bear,I want nothing but this from you. Oh, thank you, bear .I will keep you safe from strangers and peering eyes forever. Bear, give up your humility. You are not a humble beast. You think your own thoughts. Tell them to me. Bear, I cannot command you to love me, but I think you love me.What I want is for you tocontinue to be, and to be something to me .No more. bear. Sometimes, late at night, she got faraway stations on her transistor radio. Garbled anguages from over the pole, slow accents from NewOrleans. One night when she was working by the upper window in a soft,soapy summer wind, Greek music began to flood the room. The bear snoozed by the dead fireplace. It was well after midnight. The wind riffled her papers as the bouzoukis sobbed.“Bear,” she said suddenly, “come dance with me.” She stood up and began to shift her feet in the Greek pattern, holding up her arms like a Cretan figurine.