Â
AT HOME Jocelyn and I decide we must sell some of the kittens. She is to keep two of the first batch, Lolita and Humbert, but the rest must go. Especially Pieface, a stray who howled her way into the place and then proceeded to suck on Sally. Now that I've got Sala for Jocelyn, it's just too much. âBesides, Sala thinks
he's
a cat too,' says Jocelyn, âand that's ridiculous in a seventy-five pound German Shepherd!' It is, too; he's always getting caught in the cat hole, or trying to jump on top of the radiator. And Lolly, seductive wench, is constantly getting Sala all excited. âIt'll still be too much for his ego,' says Jocelyn, âwith four cats and just him.' She's right. To this day, he persists in his identity crisis and chases cats madly, not from canine instinct but
amour
.
We put an ad in the paper and the auction commences.
âIt's like you're doing interviews for adoption,' Mik says. âWhat was wrong with
them?
' jerking his thumb at a couple going down the sidewalk. Rejects.
âThey wanted Siamese for prestige,' I say.
âAnd yesterday you wouldn't sell because they said they'd spay the female. Already you've got so many rules ⦠you sell them only by twos.'
âOne would get lonely, after this house.'
âBut what's so wrong with spaying the female then, if you're going to insist they go as couples?'
âWell. Spaying's as bad as a whatsit. A vasectomy.'
Mik doesn't answer for a while. Then he says, âMy sister's husband's got one.'
âThey get neurotic if they're alone. They need company.'
âNot a Siamese. A vasectomy.'
âYou're kidding!'
âTwenty minutes. Never felt a thing.'
âDoes your sister
know
?
'
âSure. It was her idea. She gets pregnant every time he hangs his pants on the bedpost.' Mik laughs.
âIt was
her
idea?'
âHell,' says Mik, âhe says it's even better now.'
âYou mean she still does it with him?'
âSure. Why not. It doesn't affect a man's ability.'
âI couldn't.'
âCouldn't what?'
âI couldn't, not with a man who had that.'
â
You
're
kidding,' Mik says to me.
âNo. It wouldn't feel right. It'd be like, you know, with a eunuch.'
âYou've got to be kidding.'
I shake my head. âNo. I could never go to bed with someone like that.'
âBut, Jesus, they've got four kids already.'
âBut what if she dies? What if they all get burnt up in a fire?'
âJesus!' Mik says. âYou really mean it.'
âYou're damned right, nobody's going to spay my pussy,' and I hug Lolly. But he doesn't laugh. He is looking at me with that funny look. As if he's working something out. As if he's measuring me for the drop.
Â
THE PROFESSOR phoned to say he was having guests the coming weekend, would I care to come? âHe's John Straussen,' he said. But I didn't recognize the name. âThe CBC big wig?' I still don't twig. âHis wife's Marguerite Prentiss.'
âOh sure. I've seen her on television.'
âCome on Thursday and then we can have a quiet day before they get here. They'll be coming with Iris.'
Iris was, is, the professor's wife, a woman of formidable wit. Once, at the professor's house, she had introduced Ben, saying, âAnd this is Mr Victoria Ferris.' And to a magnificent lady professor whom I adored, âHow wise of you, dear, to give up girdles, they only stop the circulation.'
âYes, well, can I let you know? I'm sort of working on something.'
It's a lie. I should be working but I'm not. I should be finishing up the one about the man from the sea, and all the complicated chess crud. People had talked so much about the symbols in the other that now I thought I was a symbol writer, and I was putting them in like capers. Anyway, I wasn't working at all. I was screwing around.
And the promise to the Festival man was hanging over my head too.
Jocelyn had announced she would be leaving soon, for the East. David was going to get his PhD and she was going to be with him.
Ben had finished the head. It sat on the coffee table. The best thing he ever did, but rather foreboding. Now he had no more excuses for coming over.
I think I said that. âWell, I'll be seeing you sometime.'
âYes. I guess you'd rather I didn't come over.'
âYes. I guess so.'
âHow's the asthma?'
âNonexistent. I threw the stuff all away. The day of the divorce.'
âI refuse to accept the divorce.'
âYes, you've told me.'
âPeople don't stop being married because of a piece of paper.' And,
âHow's the Nut Lady?'
âFine. She says I'm not destructive. She says if I press a button the world will not explode.'
âYou never were destructive,
I
was the destructive one. You're a good person.'
Somehow this sort of talk from Ben makes me feel even more sick.
âDo you realize we never fought?' I said. âWe spent our time telling each other how wonderful we were. We never got cross.'
âWhy should we have done?' said Ben. âWe agree on all the basic matters.'
I threw back my head and eyed him archly but that sort of ploy never worked with Ben. âAnd what were they, the basic matters?'
âSocialism, for one,' Ben said seriously. âWe're both socialists. And God. We don't believe in God. And the inherent dignity of the individual. The possibility of free will in spite of determinism. That's why I didn't interfere.'
âWith what?'
âWith what you're doing now. Maybe you need it. Maybe you need a man like that. I mustn't stop you. It would be a breach of your individual liberty. All I can do is stand by.'
âFor what? Stand by for what?'
âFor whatever happens.'
âWhat do you think's going to happen?'
âI think he'll hurt you. I think you want him to hurt you.'
âWhy should I want that?'
âBecause you want to punish yourself. For the abortion. You see it as murder.'
âIt was murder.'
âThat's a matter of opinion.'
âIt's a matter of
fact.
It was
alive
.'
âIs life the same when it's uterine, as when it's â¦' He pauses.
âAer-e-o?' I supply. âYes, for me.'
Ben sighs. âI've given it a lot of thought. I was wrong to encourage you. I mean, about the abortion. In many ways, it was my fault.'
I feel a tremor of terror and I hear myself say, âYou couldn't come in me! That time! You couldn't do it in me. You pulled out!'
âI know,' says Ben. âIt haunts me. But you see, I didn't want to hurt you.'
âHurt me!'
âNo, that's true,' he protests. âI couldn't bear to think of all that suffering. All that blood and pain. It was terrible to think of you like that.'
âYou think there wasn't blood? You think there wasn't pain?'
âNot as much as there would have been, at nine months. You were only about two months gone, you know.'
âI was
five
months gone!'
Ben smiles, his superior smile. âNo. I checked. The foetus was only â¦'
âOh, I see. That's what you were doing. With the scalpel. Checking.'
âScalpel?' He is genuinely puzzled.
âWhen you took the scalpel in. To the bedroom. You were checking?'
âI never took a â¦'
âWhatever it was. What you use on the silk-screen.'
But he denies it. He denies the whole thing.
âYou're very lovely, Vicky,' he says. âYou know I love you, don't you? And you're a good person, basically. Try to remember that. I know you're hurt and bitter. But we all love you, try to remember that.'
âWho. You and who else?'
âAll your friends. Ivan and Marie and Paul. Even Marcie. Marcie would like to make it up with you. She's very sorry. I've talked to her about it.'
âThanks, anyway.'
âIt's true. Marie was saying just this morning what a wonderful person you are.'
â
Was
she? Does she sleep with you too, as well as Paul? To comfort you?'
Ben's face gets that hurt look. âMarie is a very fine person. And Ivan understands about Paul. They don't believe in possession.'
âThe more fool Ivan,' I say. âIt's going to happen all over again, you know. It'll be Wilma all over again.'
And at the moment, something goes zonk inside me and I know what the Festival play is about.
âThey believe in free love,' Ben is saying, but my mind is going whing whizz zip-azap. âMarie says you're terribly romantic.'
âOh yeah? What does Ivan say?'
(I find out years later. After I've written the Ivan-Wilma play. âWhat week end?' Ivan says to me in the caf.
âYou know. That weekend. When you went on the motorcycle. And you left Wilma alone with Lionel. I always thought it was on purpose. You know. That you sort of wanted it to happen. Because if she did it, she'd
have
to leave you.'
âNo. I never expected anything to happen. God, women are romantic,' Ivan said gloomily. âI don't know what it is you all want.')
âThe trouble with us was,' says Ben, ignoring my Ivan-question, âthe trouble with us was I treated you like a child bride, always protecting you from everything. I wouldn't let you grow up. I see it now.'
âI can see you've all gone into this thoroughly,' I say, âyou and Paul and Ivan and Marie. Sitting together over home-made saki discussing poor little Vicky.'
âI've given up liquor,' says Ben, âand meat.'
âDoes it work?'
âWhat?'
âOh, you know. Rod. He said it got rid of lustful thoughts, giving up meat.'
âThat isn't why,' says Ben. âI just can't bear to think of the animals. Neither can you, Vicky. You know you can't. You gave it up for eight months; you were stronger than me then.'
I'd read
The Jungle
and driven everyone mad. Grace said of that time, âThat was the real test. If I can stand you as a self-righteous vegetarian, I can stand you as anything.' But that was before I started proselytizing motherhood.
âWhat's, uh, Mik doing now?'
âLooking for a job.'
âOh. I thought he had one, in a logging camp.' Ben makes it sound like Siberia.
âThat finished.'
âLittle Ivan asked me what meat was,' Ben says, âand when I told him, he threw up. Now he won't touch it.'
âDid he really throw up? Oh Ben.'
âYes. He cried for the cow.' Ben looks at me severely. âYou can't lie to children.'
âI know you, you made it very real. You didn't just tell the truth. You made it ⦠you drew a cartoon. Yes, and you gave it a name, that cow. And a baby calf. And you told him each and every grisly detail. Oh Ben.'
âWhen I'm a teacher, I'll tell the truth to children,' Ben says.
âOh I bet you will too.' I think about this.
âDid
you give the cow a name?'
But he doesn't answer. He sighs.
âHow are you doing, for money?'
âI'm getting a government loan.'
âOh that's good.'
âWell, I'd better be going. I'm glad you like the head.'
âIt's the best thing you've ever done. Full of anger.'
âAnger?' He is really puzzled.
âWell, it's Medusa, Ben. Look at it. Look at the eyes. And the way the neck cuts off, and the face sags in ⦠and the hair, like snakes.'
âThat's how you look.'
âI
know.
That's how I look to you.'
âThat head is full of my love for you.'