Selected Stories (18 page)

“You go.”

“Bloody hell. She’s your friend. You cultivate her. You encourage her.”

“I never told her to play the piano.”

“I arranged so that I could have this afternoon free. That did not just happen. I arranged it. I am at a crucial point, I am at the point where this play
lives or dies
. If I go down there I’m afraid I might strangle her.”

“Well, don’t look at
me
. Don’t strangle
me
. Excuse my breathing and everything.”

I always did go down to the basement, of course, and knock on Dotty’s door and ask her if she would mind not playing the piano now, because my husband was at home and was trying to work. I never said the word
write
, Hugo had trained me not to, that word was like a bare wire to us. Dotty apologized every time; she was scared of Hugo and respectful of his work and his intelligence. She left off
playing but the trouble was she might forget, she might start again in an hour, half an hour. The possibility made me nervous and miserable. Because I was pregnant I always wanted to eat, and I would sit at the kitchen table greedily, unhappily, eating something like a warmed-up plateful of Spanish rice. Hugo felt the world was hostile to his writing; he felt not only all its human inhabitants but its noises and diversions and ordinary clutter were linked against him, maliciously, purposefully, diabolically thwarting and maiming him and keeping him from his work. And I, whose business it was to throw myself between him and the world, was failing to do so, by choice perhaps as much as ineptitude for the job. I did not believe in him. I had not understood how it would be necessary to believe in him. I believed that he was clever and talented, whatever that might mean, but I was not sure he would turn out to be a writer. He did not have the authority I thought a writer should have. He was too nervous, too touchy with everybody, too much of a show-off. I believed that writers were calm, sad people, knowing too much. I believed that there was a difference about them, some hard and shining, rare intimidating quality they had from the beginning, and Hugo didn’t have it. I thought that someday he would recognize this. Meanwhile, he lived in a world whose rewards and punishments were as strange, as hidden from me, as if he had been a lunatic. He would sit at supper, pale and disgusted; he would clench himself over the typewriter in furious paralysis when I had to get something from the bedroom, or he would leap around the living room asking me what he was (a rhinoceros who thinks he is a gazelle, Chairman Mao dancing a war dance in a dream dreamt by John Foster Dulles) and then kiss me all over the neck and throat with hungry gobbling noises. I was cut off from the source of these glad or bad moods, I did not affect them.

I teased him sourly: “Suppose after we have the baby the house is on fire and the baby and the play are both in there, which would you save?”

“Both.”

“But supposing you can just save one? Never mind the baby, suppose
I
am in there, no, suppose I am drowning
here
and you are
here
and cannot possibly reach us both—”

“You’re making it tough for me.”

“I know I am. I know I am. Don’t you hate me?”

“Of course I hate you.” After this we might go to bed, playful, squealing, mock-fighting, excited. All our life together, the successful part of our life together, was games. We made up conversations to startle people on the bus. Once we sat in a beer parlor and he berated me for going out with other men and leaving the children alone while he was off in the bush working to support us. He pleaded with me to remember my duty as a wife and as a mother. I blew smoke in his face. People around us were looking stern and gratified. When we got outside we laughed till we had to hold each other up, against the wall. We played in bed that I was Lady Chatterley and he was Mellors.

“Where be that little rascal John Thomas?” he said thickly. “I canna find John Thomas!”

“Frightfully sorry, I think I must have swallowed him,” I said, ladylike.

T
HERE WAS
a water pump in the basement. It made a steady, thumping noise. The house was on fairly low-lying ground not far from the Fraser River, and during the rainy weather the pump had to work most of the time to keep the basement from being flooded. We had a dark rainy January, as is usual in Vancouver, and this was followed by a dark rainy February. Hugo and I felt gloomy. I slept a lot of the time. Hugo couldn’t sleep. He claimed it was the pump that kept him awake. He couldn’t work because of it in the daytime and he couldn’t sleep because of it at night. The pump had replaced Dotty’s piano-playing as the thing that most enraged and depressed him in our house. Not only because of its noise, but because of the money it was costing us. Its entire cost went onto our electricity bill, though it was Dotty who lived in the basement and reaped the benefits of not being flooded. He said I should speak to Dotty and I said Dotty could not pay the expenses she already had. He said she could turn more tricks. I told him to shut up. As I became more pregnant, slower and heavier and more confined to the house, I got fonder of Dotty, used to her, less likely to store up and repeat what she said. I felt more at home with her than I did sometimes with Hugo and our friends.

All right, Hugo said, I ought to phone the landlady. I said he ought. He said he had far too much to do. The truth was we both shrank from a confrontation with the landlady, knowing in advance how she would confuse and defeat us with shrill evasive prattle.

In the middle of the night in the middle of a rainy week I woke up and wondered what had wakened me. It was the silence.

“Hugo, wake up. The pump’s broken. I can’t hear the pump.”

“I am awake,” Hugo said.

“It’s still raining and the pump isn’t going. It must be broken.” “No, it isn’t. It’s shut off. I shut it off.”

I sat up and turned on the light. He was lying on his back, squinting and trying to give me a hard look at the same time.

“You didn’t turn it off.”

“All right, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I could not stand the goddamn expense anymore. I could not stand thinking about it. I could not stand the noise either. I haven’t had any sleep in a week.”

“The basement will flood.”

“I’ll turn it on in the morning. A few hours’ peace is all I want.”

“That’ll be too late, it’s raining torrents.”

“It is not.”

“You go to the window.”

“It’s raining. It’s not raining torrents.”

I turned out the light and lay down and said in a calm stern voice, “Listen to me, Hugo, you have to go and turn it on, Dotty will be flooded out.”

“In the morning.”

“You have to go and turn it on
now.
”

“Well I’m not.”

“If you’re not, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

But I didn’t move.

“Don’t be such an alarmist.”

“Hugo.
”

“Don’t
cry.
”

“Her stuff will be ruined.”

“Best thing could happen to it. Anyway, it won’t.” He lay beside me stiff and wary, waiting, I suppose, for me to get out of bed, go down to the basement, and figure out how to turn the pump on. Then what would he have done? He could not have hit me, I was too pregnant. He never did hit me, unless I hit him first. He could have gone and turned it off again, and I could have turned it on, and so on, how long could that last? He could have held me down, but if I struggled he would have been afraid of hurting me. He could have sworn at me and left the house, but we had no car, and it was raining too hard for him to stay out very long. He would probably have just raged! and sulked, alternately, and I could have taken a blanket and gone to sleep on the living-room couch for the rest of the night. I think that is what a woman of firm character would have done. I think that is what a woman who wanted that marriage to last would have done. But I did not do it. Instead, I said to myself that I did not know how the pump worked, I did not know where to turn it on. I said to myself that I was afraid of Hugo. I entertained the possibility that Hugo might be right, nothing would happen. But I wanted something to happen, I wanted Hugo to crash.

When I woke up, Hugo was gone and the pump was thumping as usual. Dotty was pounding on the door at the top of the basement stairs.

“You won’t believe your eyes what’s down here. I’m up to my knees in water. I just put my feet out of bed and up to my knees in water. What happened? You hear the pump go off?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t know what could’ve gone wrong, I guess it could’ve got overworked. I had a couple of beers before I went to bed elst I would’ve known there was something wrong. I usually sleep light. But I was sleeping like the dead and I put my feet out of bed and Jesus, it’s a good thing I didn’t pull on the light switch at the same time, I would have been electrocuted. Everything’s floating.”

Nothing was floating and the water would not have come to any grown person’s knees. It was about five inches deep in some places, only one or two in others, the floor being so uneven. It had soaked and stained the bottom of her chesterfield and chairs and got into the
bottom of her piano. The floor tiles were loosened, the rugs soggy, the edges of her bedspread dripping, her floor heater ruined.

I got dressed and put on a pair of Hugo’s boots and took a broom downstairs. I started sweeping the water towards the drain outside the door. Dotty made herself a cup of coffee in my kitchen and sat for a while on the top step watching me, going over the same monologue about having a couple of beers and sleeping more soundly than usual, not hearing the pump go off, not understanding why it should go off, if it had gone off, not knowing how she was going to explain to her mother, who would certainly make it out to be her fault and charge her. We were in luck, I saw. (
We
were?) Dotty’s expectation and thrifty relish of misfortune made her less likely than almost anyone else would have been to investigate just what had gone wrong. After the water level went down a bit, she went into her bedroom, put on some clothes and some boots which she had to drain first, got her broom, and helped me.

“The things that don’t happen to me, eh? I never get my fortune told. I’ve got these girlfriends that are always getting their fortune told and I say, never mind me, there’s one thing I know and I know it ain’t good.”

I went upstairs and phoned the university, trying to get Hugo. I told them it was an emergency and they found him in the library.

“It did flood.”

“What?”

“It did flood. Dotty’s place is underwater.”

“I turned the pump on.”

“Like hell you did. This morning you turned it on.”

“This morning there was a downpour and the pump couldn’t handle it. That was after I turned it on.”

“The pump couldn’t handle it last night because the pump wasn’t on last night and don’t talk to me about any downpour.”

“Well there was one. You were asleep.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? You don’t even stick around to look at it. I have to look. I have to cope. I have to listen to that poor woman.”

“Plug your ears.”

“Shut up, you filthy moral idiot.”

“I’m sorry. I was kidding. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry. You’re bloody sorry. This is the mess you made and I told you you’d make and you’re bloody sorry.”

“I have to go to a seminar. I am sorry. I can’t talk now, it’s no good talking to you now, I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to say.”

“I’m just trying to get you to
realize.
”

“All right, I realize. Though I still think it happened this morning.”

“You don’t realize. You never realize.”

“You dramatize.”

“
I
dramatize!”

Our luck held. Dotty’s mother was not so likely as Dotty to do without explanations and it was, after all, her floor tiles and wall-board that were ruined. But Dotty’s mother was sick, the cold wet weather had undermined her too, and she was taken to hospital with pneumonia that very morning. Dotty went to live in her mother’s house, to look after the boarders. The basement had a disgusting, moldy smell. We moved out too, a short time later. Just before Clea was born we took over a house in North Vancouver, belonging to some friends who had gone to England. The quarrel between us subsided in the excitement of moving; it was never really resolved. We did not move much from the positions we had taken on the phone. I said you don’t realize, you never realize, and he said, what do you want me to say? Why do you make such a fuss over this, he asked reasonably. Anybody might wonder. Long after I was away from him, I wondered too. I could have turned on the pump, as I have said, taking responsibility for both of us, as a patient realistic woman, a really married woman, would have done, as I am sure Mary Frances would have done, did, many times, during the ten years she lasted. Or I could have told Dotty the truth, though she was not a very good choice to receive such information. I could have told somebody, if I thought it was that important, pushed Hugo out into the unpleasant world and let him taste trouble. But I didn’t, I was not able fully to protect or expose him, only to flog him with blame, desperate sometimes, feeling I would claw his head open to pour my vision into it, my notion of what had to be understood. What presumptuousness, what cowardice, what bad faith. Unavoidable. “You have a problem of incompatibility,” the marriage counsellor said to us a while later. We
laughed till we cried in the dreary municipal hall of the building in North Vancouver where the marriage counselling was dispensed. That is our problem, we said to each other, what a relief to know it, incompatibility.

I
DID NOT
read Hugo’s story that night. I left it with Clea and she as it turned out did not read it either. I read it the next afternoon. I got home about two o’clock from the girls’ private school where I have a part-time job teaching history. I made tea as I usually do and sat down in the kitchen to enjoy the hour before the boys, Gabriel’s
sons
, get home from school. I saw the book still lying on top of the refrigerator and I took it down and read Hugo’s story.