“Well,” I say, “why not?”
“The only thing is,” Judith hesitates, “well, you know how Mother always was about lilacs. They’re just weeds, she used to tell us. Remember that, Charleen?”
“No,” I reply, “I don’t remember her ever saying that.”
“We were always wanting to take a bunch to school—you know-flowers-for-the-teacher sort of thing. And she’d never let us because she said they were just weeds.”
“I don’t remember that,” I say again, and saying it I am conscious of a curious lightening of heart. It is somehow wonderful and important to know that at least part of the burden of memory has been spared me.
“But lilacs are beautiful,” Meredith protests, “they’re heavenly flowers; I can’t think of more gorgeous flowers. I’ll make a bouquet for Grandma, just leave it to me,” she says
Eugene, who is not normally introspective about his profession, just as he is not particularly critical or adula tory about it, once told me that he occasionally has moments when he is visited by a sharp sense of unreality. It happens most frequently when he is delivering to his young patients lectures on the importance of brushing their teeth. For a moment or two he feels himself undergoing a dizzying separation: suddenly he is the farmboy from Estevan eavesdropping on a solemn, middle-aged professional in a white jacket who is piously pressing for dental hygiene as though it were a system of morality. He is invariably self-amused when this occurs and at the same time awed by the transcendental experience of seeming to overhear himself.
I had something of the same feeling myself yesterday talking to my mother about Greta Savage; I had replied to her questioning with a calm I hadn’t known I possessed, and hearing myself I had felt very close to being the person I would like to be.
“What are you going to do about that woman?” she asked.
“What woman?”
“That crazy woman. That kidnapper.”
Without really intending to, I heard myself defending Greta, explaining to my mother that Greta had taken Seth as an act of love. She loves Seth, and, in a neurotic, labyrinthian way, she loves me too.
My defense of Greta was all the more surprising because I defended her instinctively. Like the kind people of the world—like Eugene-the-orthodontist—I had judged with instant charity; like the good folk in fairy tales I had performed magic, spinning gold from straw, transforming apples to golden guineas. Kindness, kindness—a skill which I have nourished and rehearsed and worried into being—had jumped out and taken me by surprise. Without thinking, without laborious reflection I had fallen into its easy litany.
Even more surprising, it had given me a temporary ascendancy; my mother had been silenced; perhaps kindness and bravery have a common root.
“Greta acted out of love,” I told my mother again, and, overhearing myself, I knew it was true.
“Here comes Louis Cradle,” Martin calls from the front window.
“Louis who?” I ask.
“Louis Cradle. And he’s all zooted up.”
Judith, setting out teacups, explains, “Berceau is French for cradle.”
“Oh,” I say, for an instant stung by my ignorance—how spotty my education was—was I going to spend a lifetime meeting such voids?
Louis Cradle, Mr. and Mrs. Cradle. Mentally I thrust about for the symbolism, cradle of a new life, no, too pat, the sort of pearl the “pome people” dived after—the “pome people” could never leave a paradox unturned, seeing life as a film strip jerking along from insight to insight, a fresh truth revealed every three and a half minutes—better forget about symbolism; yes.
Louis coming into the house looks no more dressed up than he was when he took me for lunch; indeed he wears the same old navy blue suit which does, however, look as though it has been brushed and perhaps even pressed.
But he is wearing a hat, a soft cloth cap in a fine wool, rather a strange choice for so warm a day. Yet, the effect seems not unsuitable. I’ve often noticed that men who cover their heads, sweetly and solemnly concealing the tops of their heads with turbans, hoods, fezzes and skull caps, seem to be putting on a spiritual covering which announces piety and humility and which, in the shorthand of costume, declares that life is perishable, vulnerable and worthy.
At half past two my mother has her bath; then she retires to her room again in order to get dressed. The house is ready. Martin and Eugene have even managed to pry open one of the living room windows, long ago painted shut, and a breeze drifts in. The cake has been delivered, and there is a box of tiny, paper-thin cookies too. Judith and I arrange them on a tray; we put out milk and sugar, and I even set out a circle of lemon slices on a glass plate.
The only thing missing is a scene which I half-imagine might take place, the scene where my mother takes Judith and me aside and asks us if we object to the fact that she is remarrying, if we have any sensitivities about our father being more or less supplanted. Some faint, quivering, awkwardly-delivered apology, a seeking of approval or even permission, at the very least a fumbling for consensus or a simple explanation: she is lonely, she needs someone to look after the furnace, see to the insurance, someone to talk to. But now it’s almost time for the wedding. The missing scene is clearly not going to take place; thank God, thank God.
“Where’s Grandma?” Meredith asks us.
“Getting dressed,” I say nodding at the closed door.
The minister has arrived, a young man, no more than twenty-five, with a prominent bridge of bone above his eyes; his face gleams with sweat. “Hot day for May,” he announces nervously.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Judith says a little defiantly. She has changed to a striking sleeveless dress in rough, lemon-coloured cloth.
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if you took off your jacket,” suggests Martin, who does not intend to wear a jacket.
“My mother will be out in a minute,” Judith says. “She’s just getting dressed.”
“This really is a happy occasion,” the young man remarks.
Louis, supremely relaxed and almost dapper, invites him to sit down by the window. “It was very good of you to agree to come.”
“Do you think I should see if Grandma needs a hand?” Meredith whispers to me.
“No. She’ll be out in a minute,” I answer.
“It’s half past three.”
“Really?”
“On the dot.”
“Not like her to be late.”
“Especially for her own wedding.”
“ ... really should check, don’t you think?”
“Give her a minute or two.”
“You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Maybe we should ...”
“Ah, there she is now.”
“Mother.”
“Mrs. McNinn?”
“Oh, Grandma!”
“My dear.”
The ceremony, a shortened version of the traditional marriage service, is performed in front of the artificial fireplace (symbolism?) and, since it is short, we all remain standing. Judith and Martin stand in the archway to the dining room, Eugene and I by the window, and the three children beside the television set.
My mother’s voice repeating the vows is exceptionally matter of fact. She might be reading a recipe for roast beef hash, and curiously enough, I find her lack of dramatic emphasis reassuring and even admirable. Louis, on the other hand, seems quite overcome. He chokes on the words and once or twice he dabs at his eyes, though this may be the result of asthma rather than emotion.
From where I stand I can see only their backs; my mother leans slightly to the left; perhaps her operation has unbalanced her. And Louis stoops forward as though anticipating an attack of coughing. They look rather fragile as people always do from the rear; it is after all the classic posture of retreat. Retreat from what? Age, illness, loneliness? Louis slips a ring on my mother’s hand and they stand for a moment with hands joined. Two is a good number, I think, and like a chant it blocks out the remainder o
f the service for me. Two is better than ten; two is better than a hundred; two is better than six; when all is said, two is better than one; when all’s said, two is a good number.
“That’s a lovely bouquet you’re carrying, Mrs. McNinn. Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have said Mrs. Berceau.”
“Well, lilacs aren’t my favourite, but my granddaugh ter here ...”
“Won’t you have some tea, Louis?”
“Yes, please, Judith, that’s just what I need.”
“And a piece of cake?”
“A nice cake, isn’t it?”
“You weren’t a bit nervous, were you, Louis?”
“Well, to tell you the truth—”
“Welcome to the fold, Louis.”
“Well, well, thank you, Martin, very kind of you.”
“Great institution, marriage.”
“Do you think she’s holding up okay, Char?”
“She looks a little tired. But not bad.”
“Considering ...”
“Nice you could come east with Aunt Charleen, Eugene.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it, Meredith.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“No, really.”
“What do you think, Judith, should I bring out the champagne?”
“I don’t know, Martin. You know Mother. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Oh, hell, why not?”
“And that woman over there? Mrs. Forrest? She’s your aunt, is that right?”
“Yes, she’s a poet. Most people think we look alike.”
“And the man with her? Dr. Redding? In the grey suit?”
“That’s Eugene. Her lover.”
“Lover?”
“You look so shocked. Are you really shocked?”
“Of course I’m not shocked. Why should I be shocked?”
“You must have been scared getting kidnapped like that.”
“Scared?”
“I mean, did you think she was going to try for ransom or something like that?”
“Naw, it wasn’t like that. It was—I don’t know—it was kind of fun, the whole thing.”
“You look beautiful, carrying that bouquet.”
“Have some more cake, someone has to eat all this cake.”
“It’s good cake.”
“A little dry, if you ask me.”
“May I propose a toast ...”
“Good idea.”
“I’ve never had champagne before.”
“Neither have I.”
“Really?”
“Delicious.”
“Like ginger ale, only sour.”
“Ah, look at the bubbles rising.”
“You’re supposed to sip it, Richard.”
“Here, have another glass, Judith.”
“If you’re sure there’s enough ...”
“Lovely.”
“Tea is plenty good enough for me.”
“Here’s to marriage.”
“Here’s to the bride and groom.”
“Here’s to the future.”
“Happy days.”
“I love you, Eugene.”
“Charleen, Charleen.”
Nothing is what it seems. Our plane flying west is defying a basic natural law which says that on any given day the sun sets only once; but here it is setting over Lake Superior, again over Winnipeg, over the prairies, over the mountains. We’re diving into its fiery, streaming trail, we’re chasing it down to its final, almost comic, drowning. Don’t tell me about the curve of the earth.
Eugene, peering down through grey mist, says, “What we should do is buy a farm. A few acres. For weekends, you know. Maybe grow some vegetables, have a horse for the kids. Might even be a tax advantage there ...”
My childhood is over, but at the same time—and this seems even more true—it will never be over. Say it fast enough and it sounds like a scuttling metaphysic of survival. Who ever said you can’t live without logic.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice says, “this is your captain speaking.” But how do we know it is our captain?
“We’ve just been told there’s a light rain over Vancouver—” A light rain, a light rain, the beginning of a poem, a light rain.
“But visibility is excellent—” Watch out for symbolism now.
“We hope you have enjoyed your flight. This is your captain wishing you a good evening.” Good evening, good evening.
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