Lady Oracle (43 page)

I went through the bureau drawers, deciding what I would have to leave behind. I packed three pairs of underpants. Nightgowns were not necessary; Fraser Buchanan’s black notebook was. The typewriter would have to stay, but
Stalked by Love
I would take with me.

I picked up the manuscript, intending to roll it into a cylinder for easy packing. Then I sat down and started leafing through it. I saw now what was wrong, what I would have to do. Charlotte would
have to go into the maze, there was no way out of it. She’d wanted to go in ever since reaching Redmond Grange, and nothing anyone could say, not all the hair-raising tales of the servants, not all the sneering hints of Felicia had been able to deter her. But her feelings were ambiguous: did the maze mean certain death, or did it contain the answer to a riddle, an answer she must learn in order to live? More important: would she marry Redmond only if she stayed out of the maze, or only if she went in? Possibly she would be able to win his love only by risking her life and allowing him to rescue her. He would unclench the hands from around her throat (whose hands would they be?) and tell her she was a silly little fool, though brave. She would become Mrs. Redmond, the fourth one.

Don’t go into the maze, Charlotte, you’ll be entering at your own risk, I told her. I’ve always got you out of it before but now I’m no longer dependable. She paid no attention to me, she never did; she stood up, put away her embroidery, and prepared to go outside. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, I told her. But I couldn’t stop, I had to see it through to the end. I closed my eyes.…

It was noon when Charlotte entered the maze. She took the precaution of fastening one end of a ball of knitting wool, borrowed from Mrs. Ryerson on the pretext of mending her shawl, at the entrance; she did not intend to lose her way.

The walls of the maze, which were of some prickly evergreen shrub, were indeed sadly overgrown. Surely no one had been here for many years, Charlotte thought, as she pushed her way through the straggling branches, which caught on her gown as if to hold her back. She turned to the left, then to the right, unwinding her ball of wool as she went.

Outside, the sky had been overcast and a cold February wind had been blowing; but here, sheltered by the thick walls of leaves and branches, Charlotte felt quite warm. The sun had come out and the sky was clearing; nearby, a bird sang. She was losing track of time; it seemed as if hours had
passed while she walked along the gravel path between the green, thorny walls. Was it her imagination, or had the maze become trimmer; better kept … and flowers had begun to appear. Surely it was too early for flowers. She had an odd sensation, though unseen eyes were watching her. She remembered Mrs. Ryerson’s stories about the Little Folk; then she laughed at herself for giving in, even momentarily, to superstition. It was just an ordinary maze, there was nothing unusual about it. Surely the two previous Lady Redmonds had met their fate in some other way.

She must be getting near the center of the maze. She turned another corner, and sure enough it was there before her, an open graveled oblong with a border of flowers, the daffodils already in bloom. Disappointingly, it was empty. Charlotte peered about looking for some clue to its evil reputation, but there was none. She started to walk back the way she had come. Suddenly it was frightening, she wanted to get out before it was too late. She didn’t want to know any more, she’d been a fool ever to have come here. She began to run, but she made the mistake of trying to wind up the ball of knitting wool as she ran, and her feet became hopelessly entangled. As she fell, iron fingers closed around her throat … she tried to scream, she struggled, her eyes bulged, she looked wildly around for Redmond.

From behind her came a mocking laugh – Felicia’s! “There wasn’t room for both of us,” she said, “one of us had to die.”

Just as Charlotte was sinking into unconsciousness, Felicia was flung aside like a bundle of old clothes, and Charlotte was gazing up into the dark eyes of Redmond. “My darling,” he breathed hoarsely. Strong arms lifted her, his warm lips pressed her own.…

That was the way it was supposed to go, that was the way it had always gone before, but somehow it no longer felt right. I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere; there was something, some fact or clue, that I had overlooked. I would have to walk it through, I would have to find a suitable locale and go through the motions. I thought of the Cardinal’s garden in Tivoli, with its sphinxes and fountains and its
many-breasted goddess. That would do, it had a lot of paths. I would go there this afternoon.…

But I was forgetting about the man, my car with its empty tank; I would have to leave the book for later and concentrate on my escape.

This time I really would disappear, without a trace. No one at all would know where I was, not even Sam, not even Arthur. This time I would be free completely; no shreds of the past would cling to me, no clutching fingers. I could do anything I wanted, I could be a hostess in a bar, I could return to Toronto and give body rubs, maybe that was what I should have done. Or I could merge into Italy, marry a vegetable man: we’d live in a little stone cottage, I’d have babies and fatten up, we’d eat steamy food and cover our bodies with oil, we’d laugh at death and live in the present, I’d wear my hair in a bun and grow a moustache, I’d have a bibbed apron, green, with flowers on it. Everything would be ordinary, I’d go to church on Sundays, we’d drink rough red wine, I’d become an aunt, a grandmother, everyone would respect me.

Somehow this was not convincing. Why did every one of my fantasies turn into a trap? In this one I saw myself climbing out a window, in my bibbed apron and bun, oblivious to the cries of the children and grandchildren behind me. I might as well face it, I thought, I was an artist, an escape artist. I’d sometimes talked about love and commitment, but the real romance of my life was that between Houdini and his ropes and locked trunk; entering the embrace of bondage, slithering out again. What else had I ever done?

This thought did not depress me. In fact, although I was frightened, I was feeling curiously light-hearted. Danger, I realized, did this to me.

I washed my hair, humming, as if I were getting ready for a big evening. A lot of the brown came out, but I no longer cared.

I padded out onto the balcony on my wet bare feet to dry my hair. There was a breeze; far below in the valley I could hear gunshots, it
must’ve been someone shooting at a bird. They’d shoot anything that moved here, almost, they ate the songbirds in pies. All that music devoured by mouths. Eyes and ears were also hungry, but not so obviously. From now on, I thought, I would dance for no one but myself. May I have this waltz? I whispered.

I raised myself onto my bare toes and twirled around, tentatively at first. The air filled with spangles. I lifted my arms and swayed them in time to the gentle music, I remembered the music, I remembered every step and gesture. It was a long way down to the ground from here; I was a little dizzy. I closed my eyes. Wings grew from my shoulders, an arm slid around my waist.…

Shit.
I’d danced right through the broken glass, in my bare feet too. Some butterfly. I limped into the main room, trailing bloody footprints and looking for a towel. I washed my feet in the bathtub; the soles looked as if they’d been minced. The real red shoes, the feet punished for dancing. You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man. But you were afraid to dance, because you had this unnatural fear that if you danced they’d cut your feet off so you wouldn’t be able to dance. Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance.

But I chose the love, I wanted the good man; why wasn’t that the right choice? I was never a dancing girl anyway. A bear in an arena only appears to dance, really it’s on its hind legs trying to avoid the arrows. And now I didn’t have any Band-Aids. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, tears running helplessly from my eyes, blood running helplessly from the tiny cuts in my feet.

I went into the other room and lay down on the bed, feet raised on the pillow so the blood would run the other way. How could I escape now, on my cut feet?

A
fter a couple of hours I got up. My feet weren’t as bad as I’d thought, I could still walk. I practiced limping, back and forth across the room. At every step I took, small pains shot through my feet. The Little Mermaid rides again, I thought, the big mermaid rides again.

I would have to walk up to town, hobbling through the gauntlet of old women, who would make horns with their hands, tell the children to throw stones, wish me bad luck. What did they see, the eyes behind those stone-wall windows? A female monster, larger than life, larger than most life around here anyway, striding down the hill, her hair standing on end with electrical force, volts of malevolent energy shooting from her fingers, her green eyes behind her dark tourist’s glasses, her dark mafia glasses, lit up and glowing like a cat’s. Look out, old black-stockinged sausage women, or I’ll zap you, in spite of your evil-eye signs and muttered prayers to the saints. Did they think I flew around at night like a moth, drinking blood from their big toes? If I got a black dress and long black stockings, then would they like me?

Maybe my mother didn’t name me after Joan Crawford after all, I thought; she just told me that to cover up. She named me after Joan of Arc, didn’t she know what happened to women like that? They were accused of witchcraft, they were roped to the stake, they gave a lovely light; a star is a blob of burning gas. But I was a coward, I’d rather not win and not burn, I’d rather sit in the grandstand eating my bag of popcorn and watch along with everyone else. When you started hearing voices you were in trouble, especially if you believed them. The English cheered as Joan went up like a volcano, a rocket, like a plum pudding. They sprinkled the ashes on the river; only her heart remained.

I walked up the hill, past the black-dressed old women on the steps, ignoring their hostile eyes, and along the street that led to the post office. The policemen or soldiers were in their places; the massive woman behind the counter was there, too.

She knew who I was by now, I didn’t have to ask. She handed me another of Sam’s brown envelopes. It felt like more newspaper clippings, so I tore it open.

There were more clippings; but on top of them was a letter, on crisp law-office stationery:

The signature a scrawl; and underneath the letter,

Forgetting decorum, I sat down on the bench, right beside a policeman. This was terrible. Sam and Marlene had been arrested for murder, they’d been accused of murdering me, they were actually in jail. For a fleeting moment I thought how pleased Marlene would be; but then, she’d be quite cheesed off that I was the cause and not some strike or demonstration. Still, jail was jail. They hadn’t told yet, that much was clear.

It was that family on the beach, the one having the picnic. They’d watched me thrashing around in the water, they’d seen me go under. They’d read the account in the paper, the interview with Marlene in which she said they’d thrown me a life preserver. But there was no life preserver, and when the police checked with the boat-rental place they admitted there hadn’t even been one on the boat. They found my dress, though, in the bow; that made them suspicious. The family’s name was Morgan. Mr. Morgan said he heard a scream (he couldn’t have, it was too far away, it was too windy) and looked up in time to see Sam and Marlene leaning over the side of the boat, just after pushing me in. There was a picture of Mr. Morgan, as well as the picture of me, the smiling one taken on the day of my death. Mr. Morgan looked serious and responsible; he was having the time of his life, he was important at last, he was acting out his own fantasy.

Poor Sam. By now he’d had his pockets emptied and his shoelaces taken away, he’d had louse-killer put on him and a finger stuck up his anus. He’d been grilled by two detectives, one acting kind and offering him cigarettes and coffee, the other bullying him, and all because of my stupidity, my cowardice. I should have stayed where I was and faced reality. Poor gentle Sam, with his violent theories; he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I was referred to as a “key figure” in a mysterious dynamite plot. Marlene’s father, apparently, had come forward with information about some missing dynamite, and Marlene had broken down and admitted to taking it. But she couldn’t produce it. I’d been in charge
of it, she told them; and she told them about the secondhand car too, but they hadn’t been able to locate it. The police were assuming that what they referred to as Sam’s “cell” had liquidated me because I knew too much and was becoming traitorous. Arthur had been taken in for questioning, but later released. It was obvious he was both innocent and ignorant.

I’d have to go back and rescue them. I couldn’t go back. Maybe I could send the police a token part of me, just to let them know I was still alive. A finger, an autograph, a tooth?

I got up off the bench, stuffing the clippings into my purse. I went outside and headed toward the hill. Then I saw Mr. Vitroni. He was sitting at an outdoor café table. There was another man with him. I couldn’t see him clearly, his back was toward me, but surely this was the man. Come back a day too soon.

Mr. Vitroni had seen me, he was looking straight at me. I hurried across the square, I was almost running. I made myself slow down. I looked behind only once, and Mr. Vitroni was getting up, shaking hands with the man.…

I turned the corner and began to run in earnest.
I must be calm, I must be collected, I must collect myself.
My cut feet screamed as they hit the stones.