“Well,” I said uneasily, “yes, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s all for the best. Roger’s not one for settling down, you know. Look, Jude, I’ve got to go. The big boss is prowling today. Bye for now. Keep the faith.”
“You too,” I said, not knowing which faith she referred to, but sensing that she had meant: respect my privacy, leave me alone for a while, ask me no questions, hold off, give me time, keep faith in me.
So I hadn’t phoned her again, and today I hadn’t rushed into the little office. But later I wished I had. She had looked both brave and fragile in her yellow suit, and I had been moved by the gallantry with which she concentrated on her filing cabinet, pencil in hand, and that enormous abdomen bunching up in front of her.
I am late getting home from the library. It is dinner time, and Richard suggests we send out for a pizza.
When it arrives Meredith and Richard and I eat it in the family room, along with glasses of ginger ale. The curtains are pulled and the television is on. It gets late and I should send the children to bed; I should remind them that this is a school night, but I am reluctant to break up our warm, shared drowsiness. Ruthie is far away now, as far away as a character in a story – did I really see her? Furlong Eberhardt seems foreign and trifling – what matters is our essential clutter of warmth and food and noise.
Eleven o’clock. The news comes on. More Watergate, more Belfast, another provincial land scandal, and then, to wind up the news, a lighter item. Dr. Martin Gill is introduced. Unbelievably his face spreads across the screen.
There is not a sound from us. The three of us; Meredith and Richard and I, do not speak; we do not even move; we are frozen into place.
The interviewer explains that Dr. Gill has startled both the art and the literary world by creating – he consults his notes – a graphic presentation of Paradise Lost (a famous seventeenth century poem, he explains to all of us out in TV land). Presented today at a national symposium on literature, it was a tremendous sensation. Two art galleries have already made impressive bids for the tapestries. “Is that true, Professor Gill?” the interviewer asks.
The camera goes back to Martin. “Yes, it does appear to be true,” he says with engaging modesty.
The interviewer continues with a long information-packed question, “In that case, it would seem that this work of yours, quite apart from the interest in connection with the poem, has an intrinsic, that is, a beauty of its own.”
“I am really quite overwhelmed by the response,” Martin says, his slow, slow smile beaming out across the country. Beautiful. It is a highly individual smile, both provocative and sensual – I’ve never noticed that before.
The two faces fade, giving way to sports and weather, and the children and I slowly turn to look at each other. Richard and Meredith are staring at me and their mouths hang open with awe. And so, I perceive, does mine.
And then we leap and dance around the room; singing, shouting, laughing, hugging each other. We order another pizza, a large special combination. Friends phone to ask if we’ve seen Martin, and we phone Martin several times at his hotel and finally, at two o’clock in the morning, we reach him and talk and talk and then dizzy, crazy, mad with happiness we go stunned to bed.
In the morning there are three things for me to read. First the Toronto newspaper – a write-up on Martin and a picture of him posing in front of the weavings. I peer intently at the tapestry but, as in most newsphotos, it is smeary and porous and not very effective. Martin though, with his nice white teeth open in a smile, comes out very well.
PROFESSOR WEDS ART TO LITERATURE
English professor Martin Gill delighted his colleagues at the Renaissance Society yesterday with a change from the usual staid academic papers. His presentation was a pictorial representation of Paradise Lost, Milton’s famous epic masterpiece. Using the techniques of tapestry making, Dr. Gill, a distinguished scholar, used different colors to represent the themes in the poem, and produced not only a visual commentary on the piece, but a stunning work of abstract art. Three art galleries, including the National Gallery, have placed bids for the work.
The idea was intended as a teaching aid, Dr. Gill explained. “The poem is so complex and so enormous that often the student of Literature loses the total Miltonic pattern."
Dr. Gill is the son of Professor Enos Gill of McGill University, author of Two Times a Nation. His wife is Judith Gill, the biographer. About the future Dr. Gill denies that he will divorce literature for art. “It’s only been a temporary romance,” he said to reporters with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t trust my luck twice.”
Next I read a note from Furlong. I had been expecting this, knowing that once he realized he had tipped his hand, he would make haste to smooth over the traces.
My dear Judith,
I’m sure you regret as much as I our little misunderstanding the other night. I must say I was more than usually rattled by your startling lunge at my throat, and I’m afraid I lost what the youth of today would call my cool. No doubt I babbled like a complete looney. As soon as I realized what it was that concerned you – I refer to your mistaken impression that I had appropriated your plot for Graven Images – I came to my senses, and can only hope that you came to yours as well. Judith, my pet, we have been good friends for too long to allow this misunderstanding to come between us. The truth is, I value your friendship and, yes, I admit it, perhaps I did get a new slant from your aborted novel, but as I explained to you, writers are no more than scavengers and assemblers of lies.
You have done me a good turn; perhaps I may be able to do the same for you one day.
Fondly,
FURLONG
Last of all I read an airletter from England. At first, seeing the bright blue paper and feeling the familiar featherweight paper, I thought that Anita Spalding had finally come through. But no, it is addressed to us, to Dr. and Mrs. Martin Gill.
Dear Dr. and Mrs. Gill,
First of all let me thank you for your very kind Christmas card. I apologize for the silence from this end. I will be passing quite near you in a month’s time, and if it is not too terribly inconvenient, might I call on you? I will be in New York for a few days conferring with my publisher (I am about to have a novel published) and there is an item of some urgency which I am anxious to discuss with you. In addition, I am most desirous of making your acquaintance. Please do not go to any trouble for me. I shall be in the city only two nights (I have already secured hotel accommodation) and I should be distraught if my sudden appearance were in any way to inconvenience you.
I remain,
Your obedient servant,
JOHN SPALDING
P.S. We have had a nasty winter compounded by strikes and fuel shortages, not to mention my own distressing personal affairs. I trust all is well with you and your family.
JS
APRIL
I wake early one morning. Something is amiss. A wet smell. What is it? I sniff, and instead of the usual hot metal smell of the furnace, I smell something different.
And I hear something. Water running. Someone has left a tap on all night. “Martin,” I say. “Are you awake?”
“No,” he says crossly. “It’s only six-thirty.”
“What’s that sound, Martin?”
“I can’t hear anything.”
“Listen. It’s water dripping. Can you hear it?”
He listens for a minute. “I think it’s just the snow melting,” he says. “It’s the snow on the roof.”
I listen again. It is the snow; it’s running off the roof in rivulets. It’s pouring through the downspout.
And that explains the funny smell. It’s the grey-scented, rare and delicate-as-a-thread smell of the melt. Spring.
At last.
Hurriedly I write a letter to John Spalding.
Dear John, (I use his first name, availing myself of the North American right to be familiar.)
We were delighted to get your letter and look forward to seeing you at the end of the month. Are
you sure you wouldn’t like to change your plans and stay with us? We have plenty of room and would enjoy having you. Martin and I are anxious to know if you are bringing your wife and daughter. All of us, and especially Richard, of course, would love to meet them. If this note reaches you before you leave England, do drop us a line and let us know.
Our congratulations to you on the publication of your novel. We look forward to hearing more about it.
Sincerely,
JUDITH GILL
(And then because no letter to or from Britain seems complete without a reference to the weather, I add –) P.S. We have had a long winter and lots of snow, but spring is on the way now, and by the time you arrive the last of the snow will be gone.
JUDITH
In a week I had a reply.
Dear Judith, (Aha, familiarity is contagious.)
Thank you for your kind offer of a bed which I accept with gratitude. As for my wife, she and I have recently separated. Isabel has returned to Cyprus and has taken Anita with her. I supposed – wrongly I see – that Anita had written to your son about the chain of events. But then she has not even written to me very regularly. All this is rather upsetting to her, no doubt. Her mother has attached herself to a rogue of a gigolo, a cretinous beach ornament, and Anita has no doubt seen more of the unsavory world in the last month than is good for her. The whole subject is exceedingly painful to me at the moment; thus, perhaps it is for the best that you know before I come.
There are daffodils blooming all over Birmingham. Truly glorious.
Best wishes,
JOHN SPALDING
Isabel Spalding gone off with gigolo! I picture him, heavy with grease, cunningly light-fingered and handsome. And her, pale and sluttish in a bikini. Poor Anita.
I hasten to tell Richard about what has happened in far-off Cyprus. For although the correspondence may be ended, it is better for him to know that there is, at least, an explanation; he has not been rejected; he has not accidentally written something offensive, he has not been the victim of a love that was unrequited.
I explained to him how traumatic a sudden shift in geography can be to a child, not to mention the catastrophic splintering of a family. He nods; he can understand that. Later she may feel like writing, I tell him. Yes, he says, perhaps. I gaze at him, trying to think of something further to comfort him, but he dashes away saying, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. Does he mean it? He has survived this long.
BUFFET SUPPER
WHERE – 62 Beaver Place
WHEN – April 30th, 8:00
Judith and Martin Gill
We are going to have a party. Or, as my mother would say, we are going to entertain. Not that entertaining was something she ever did. Only something she would like to have done. She would love to entertain, she always said, if only the slip covers were finished, if only the lampshade was replaced, if only Bert – our father and her husband – would fix the cracked piece of tiling in the bathroom. She would entertain if she had more room, if the children were older and off her hands, if chicken weren’t so expensive, if her nerves didn’t act up when she got over-tired.
But she never did. Only her sister and a few close relatives and neighbors ever sipped coffee at our kitchen table. Mrs. Christianson, Loretta Bruce who lived across the street in a bungalow identical to ours, which my mother always said needed some imagination as well as some spit and polish, a Mrs. McAbee; timid women, all of them, who flattered our mother on her “taste,” who asked, when they had finished their Nescafé, well, what have you been doing to the house lately? Then she would lead them into the living room, or bedroom or whatever, and point out the new needlepoint cushion or the magazine rack with its felt appliqué, and they would chorus again how clever she was. Poor swindled souls, believing that women expressed their personalities through their houses. A waste. But maybe they really thought differently.
The buffet supper was Martin’s idea. “We have to do something with him,” he said when he read John Spalding’s letter. “Besides we haven’t had a party since December.”
I make up a list of people. About thirty seems right. Nancy and Paul Krantz, the Parks and the Beerbalms from the neighborhood. And some university people. Furlong? I can’t decide what to do with him, first thinking that nothing could persuade me to have him, the traitor, the thief, the liar. But it is unthinkable, on the other hand, to exclude him. Besides, I might have a chance to ask him a few searching questions. But then, I argue, why should I invite him, especially after that self-serving note he sent me in which he cast me in the role of a crazy woman who lunged and who took easy neurotic offence, and himself as the worldly artist, just self-depreciating enough to admit to minor dishonesties. Swine. But I had to invite him. For one thing, Mrs. Eberhardt must be invited, for I could depend on her to draw out John Spalding, should he turn out to be someone who needed drawing out.
And what about Ruthie? Should I invite her? She would probably refuse, but just what if she didn’t? I decided to consult Roger, so I phoned him at his office.
“Roger,” I said, “we’re having a party. Martin and I. In a couple of weeks.”
“Terrific.”
“John Spalding is coming from England. Remember hearing about him?”
“Sure. Your old landlord.”
“Right. Well, I’m writing invitations and I wonder if – well – I’d like to invite Ruthie, of course, but I don’t want to put either of you on the spot.”
“Ruthie,” he mused.
“Just tell me what you think, Roger. Shall I ask her or not?”
A pause. And then he said, “Sure. I suppose we can’t avoid each other forever. Not in a city this size.”
“Okay then,” I said. “Ruthie’s on the list. I’ll have to send this to her at the library I suppose. Or have you discovered where she’s living?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Well, yes. I guess I do know where she’s living.”
“Really? Where?”
“This may sound odd, Judith, but it seems she is staying at the Eberhardts’ apartment.”
I am surprised. Very surprised. “At Furlong’s? Ruthie is staying at Furlong’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Well,” he paused again, “the truth is – I guess I should come right out with it – the truth is I followed her home one night. From the library.”
“And she went to Furlong’s?”
“Yes. Amazing isn’t it. I couldn’t believe it at first, so the next night I followed her again. Same time. Same place.”
Cunningly I asked, “How did she look, Roger? I mean – is she okay?”
“Fine, as far as I could, tell, fine. It was fairly dark, of course. I’d love to say she was thin and pinched and lonely looking, but actually she looked quite okay. I think she’s even put on some weight.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And, of course, when I thought it over, it isn’t all that extraordinary you know. Her staying there. They were always good to both of us, both Furlong and his mother. Sort of adopted us. And God knows she’s safe enough with Furlong. As you well know.”
“Roger. This is sort of a personal question and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“What is it, Judith?”
“Why is it you and Ruthie never got married?”
“I had a feeling you were going to ask that. Well, the answer is that Ruthie never wanted to get tied down.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“Because she once said the same thing about you. That you didn’t want to get tied down.”
“I suppose we both spouted a lot of nonsense.”
“Do you suppose things would have worked out if you had been married?”
“I suppose. I mean, it makes it a little more difficult to split if you’ve got all that legal mess.”
“Is it rea
lly over then, Roger? With you and Ruthie? Not that it’s any of my business.”
“I’d hate to think so. I think she just needs time on her own. To sort things out. Get her head together.”
I had been sympathetic to this point, but suddenly I was enraged. “Damn it, Roger. Damn it, damn it.”
He sounded alarmed. “Judith, what have I said?”
“All that blather about getting heads together.”
“It’s just an expression. It means –
“I know what it means. But it’s so – so impossibly puerile. Do you think anyone ever gets it all sorted out? Gets it all tidied up, purged out, all the odds and ends stowed away on the right shelves? Do you really believe that, Roger?”
“Sometimes you need time. How can you think in a thicket?”
“That thicket happens to be a form of protection. It’s thinking in a vacuum that’s unreal.”
“Judith, I just don’t know,” he sighed. “I just don’t know anymore.”
“Look, Roger, I think I’ll just send this invitation to Ruthie’s office. I don’t want her to know that I know where she’s staying if it’s such a big mystery.”
“Good idea.”
“She probably won’t come anyway.”
“Probably not,” he said dolefully.
I am putting the finishing touches on Susanna Moodie. In the mornings I go over the chapters one by one, trying to look at her objectively. Does she live, breathe, take definite shape? Is the vein of personality strong enough to bridge the episodes? The disturbing change in personality: it bothers me. Dare I suggest hormone imbalance? Psychological scarring? It’s unwise to do more than suggest. I’m not a psychologist or a doctor, as the critics will be quick to point out. But I do have a feeling about her. I wonder though, have I conveyed that feeling?