Hunger's Brides (209 page)

Carlos comes afterwards, to tell me what was said. They should have come by the thousands, tearing their hair and rending their cloaks … and in truth the ceremony was a splendid one. Though many did not come.

But Carlos was there. He rose and came to stand before them. His closing phrases I record:

There is a bird, born in Heliopolis, from a nest of burning spices, who lives but once every few hundred years. She is forged from fire in silence. She is the sun of night. To the first fire, does the firebird return. To the sun's first city, to Heliopolis.

And if you have a little time, together we will take her out across the plains and over the tortured hills, up through pines like bearded giants, where in the cold air her voice echoes still. Up and up across the snowy slopes to the cone's smoking brim.

I will make her long lived. I will make her live three hundred years. I will deliver her. From you, to you.

Here. I place the crown of wildflowers on her brow. There, now we start.

This ceremony begins with the heart.

M
ONDAY
        

[March 20, 1995]

T
EN A.M
. He calls in sick. He has been up all night drinking port. Madeleine has already gone out. A whiteness flutters behind his eyes, a blizzard rages silently in his mind. He sits in the den staring at the phone he has brought in from the kitchen. The den once had its own phone. He removed it to remain undisturbed. He has not remained undisturbed.

He looks under ‘Limosneros' in the phone book. There is only one. He realizes he remembers Beulah's number; it is not in the book, but it is not her number he is after. He leaves a message at her parents' home. His message now is something in a neutral tone. Have they spoken with Beulah lately? He's just received a disturbing call. Several calls. As he speaks, he knows this too will be a disturbing message to listen to. He is not displeased.

The phone company has promised him a new, unlisted number. By Wednesday morning at the latest. With the police, it goes as he expected. Delisting his number was a good idea. That should do the trick. If it didn't, if she came to the house or office—threatening calls, letters—anything, he should call again immediately. Constable Roberts. Call her police pager number, any time. He puts her card out on the kitchen counter for Madeleine. Their answering machine, unplugged now, is only a squat black box on a countertop.

He looks at the thermometer fixed to the outer frame of the kitchen window. It is almost thirty degrees below zero. A moment of certitude to savour.

It has stopped snowing outside. He begins grading term papers. He marks for almost seven straight hours, stopping only to brew more coffee.

When the phone rings his stomach plummets. Too much caffeine. He looks down at the desk. He is already on his feet. Still it takes him a moment to start towards the phone. It is Madeleine. She will go directly from work to be with Catherine. She'll eat at Mother's. He tells her about his calls, tells her about Constable Roberts. Her voice softens. Mom says Cate's fine. Won't be too late. The roads are icy. It's supposed to hit minus forty. Unbelievable, she says, tomorrow is the
first day
of spring
. He tells her she should take care. Coming home. She chides him in return. Eat something decent.

He puts a TV dinner in the microwave, stands at the window. It is dark and very clear. Through the window he can see the stars. He turns on the kitchen light. His guts churn with heartburn and hunger. The microwave bell sounds. He takes his dinner out. Seven thirty-five. He takes the plastic tray back into the den. He is nearly through the stack of papers.

For five days he has hardly slept, since before the onset of his daughter's fever. Now, his belly quieted, he falls asleep.

Madeleine arrives home about ten, finds him propped face down beside an empty TV tray on his desk. She wakes him with difficulty. “You have potatoes in your beard,” she says, her eyes crinkling. Bleary-eyed, he gropes at his chin. “Other side.”

“Thanks.” Though her face is gentle, her beauty tonight strikes him with the full force of mockery. A beauty too long neglected. She is sitting on the edge of his desk in a short black cashmere coat, thick-soled leather boots laced over black stirrup pants. A silver teardrop pendant gleams against a soft black turtleneck. A beaded vest to match the red felt pillbox over her short blond hair. As he looks up at her sitting there on the desk his eyes trace the strong bones of her jaw. Her cheekbones are wide, her blue-grey eyes thoughtful. It occurs to him her eyes look almost oriental. Her cheeks are flushed with cold or drink. Has she been out walking in this?

He is trying to clear his mind of sleep. He smells her perfume. She is wearing more make-up than usual.

“We've come a long way together, for Catherine—for us. We thought we could make our own rules.”

“We were wrong.”

“Don, let's not run from this too.”

“I'm not running.”

“Two years ago I would have settled for less.” Her face has gone pale, just a bright pink spot high on each cheek. “Two
great
years.” There is a fierceness in her voice.

“Best of my life, Madeleine.”

“Call her, see her. If you want …” She looks down at her hands.“I'd go with you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Anything I ever had … my whole life … someone's taken back.”

Noisy in love, quiet in heartbreak, his wife.

Ahhh, Madeleine….
What have I done…. Hush…
.

It is dark. She has gone to bed. He is lying naked, covered with a blanket, on the brown leather couch in the den. The backdoor light folds shadows across the deck. Steam spills out from under the icy whirlpool cover. The phone is ringing. He cannot make his body move. The ringing seems to go on forever. He staggers to his feet, over to the phone, blanket bunched over his shoulders. Madeleine is standing at the bottom of the stairs in her long flannel nightdress. He can't see her feet. In the half-light, she hovers. His hand is on the phone. He hesitates.

“Answer it.”

Three hundred years ago, a butterfly beat its wings in a convent cell in Mexico.

“Hullo?”

“Hello, Gentle Reader.” The voice he knows so well, the voice he has been hearing in his dreams … soft, speech slightly slurred. He has never known her to drink more than a glass of wine. “Guess who?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because you're late, because it's the night of the equinoctial cocktail, night of shooting stars, night of the MorningStar—”

“Beulah …” He twists slightly away, hunches his shoulders to shield the phone. He does not want to see his wife's face at the sound of this name but he can see her shape.

“Please,
profe. Vente, por favor
. I have something here for you. Gentle Reader, please …” The voice is soft and faint.

“Why are you calling me that?”

“Because it's after midnight. Because it's tonight and I thought you'd know. Because it's already started and can't be stopped. Because you're late … and the best is left to come …”

“Beulah, what do you
want
from me?”

“You're the last guest. Everyone's here I'm all alone….” Her speech is so blurred now he cannot make out the rest.

“I'll come tomorrow. Are you in the same place?”

His wife leans heavily against the stairwell.

“Beulah? Are you there …? Beulah I can hear you—what are you
doing?”

He flinches, and gently returns the phone to its cradle. He stands transfixed, as though it has changed into a snake before his eyes. He turns but cannot meet Madeleine's eyes.

“We can't get this back, can we, Don. We can't fix this….” She looks from his face, to the ground, out the window. “We don't get to keep … us.”

He moves away from her, walks into the den, begins to dress.

“You're not going
out
in this….”

“You said.”

“Not like this—not at this hour.”

“It's tonight.”

“You
can't
—the roads are
hell
—now
look
at me.
It's forty below zero.”
He pulls on the faded blue T-shirt he has been wearing for two days, something picked out for him in a Banff tourist shop. Beulah's idea of a joke.
“Say
something, for God's sake.”

“I need to go out,” he answers.

“I need to hear the words.” Her lips quiver slightly. “You owe me that much. Are you still in love with her?”

“What …?”

It was an obsession. A long time ago
.

Only an obsession … no more
. He is at the front door. He puts on his slippers, pulls a tweed sports coat from the closet.

“Go up to your daughter's room, Donald. Take a good look around. And you decide where your future is.”

Instead he looks outside, thinks he sees a light snow falling.

“I will not let you do this to Catherine.”

He opens the door. A burst of vapour rushes up past the eaves. She recoils from the blast of cold. Her hand goes to her throat. “I want your answer—first thing in the morning. One way or the other.”

Something in his wife's voice stops him for a moment. He turns back.“She needs help,” he says. As he speaks, steam slides between his lips, blurs Madeleine's face. He starts back down the icy steps. He must protect his family. She is ruining his life. He is responsible. This is his carelessness. She is ruining their life.

“I'm calling the police.” Her voice is even. He hears the front door bang shut. He starts the car, drives away with the window down, a white fluttering behind his eyes.

By the time he gets back home, the police have come and gone. He
is covered in blood. He should have worn dark clothes. His shirt is gone. His chest hair and beard are matted with rust. The quantities suggest a bloodbath. The taste of iron is in his mouth, his head throbs. From behind his eyes the fluttering of white is gone.

Dawn is breaking. His wife of ten years has her answer. An answer of a kind. She finds him standing barefoot on the cedar deck. There is a horror in her eyes. She asks him if he's hurt this girl. He thinks she's asked this before.
This girl
, strange formula for her to use.