Unless. Carol Shields

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СКАЧАТЬ lost that curved, clean shell she was carrying home from the beach. And these two women—Tessa and Cheryl—know what I am, standing here juggling my cascading images of before and after, all my living perfume washed off because my oldest daughter has gone off to live a life of virtue. Her self-renunciation has even made her choose a corner of Toronto where the pickings are slim. I had to explain the situation to my other daughters, how their sister Norah was in pursuit of goodness. I remember that I sketched in the picture fast, using the simplest and shortest words I could find, as though a summary would take the sting and strangeness away. Yes, a life of goodness, that’s what she’s chosen.

      They’ve been expecting me at the library; I always phone ahead. They have six books stacked on the counter, The Goodness Gap on top, then the Atwood, then a biography and a couple of slender new mysteries for my mother-in-law, Lois, and a copy of The Waves for Christine, who has just discovered Virginia Woolf. These books have been carefully chosen. Just the right degree of narrative packing for me, nothing too dark or New Agey; literary novels, but not postmodernly so; no “poetic” novels, please; no insulting trash. An exotic setting is always nice. But nothing about rich people or people who go to lunch—that is, people who know “where” to go to lunch, those smart-edged professionals who “want a life,” as if they weren’t getting one. Nothing hip. No family sagas, no male bonding with nature stuff. No horses. No poetry or short stories, not for the moment; they don’t work.

      Cheryl slides the little tower of books toward me slowly, as though they were gathered treasure aboard the deck of a schooner. Their bright new covers gleam in plastic library coats, catching warm bars of light from overhead. I dig into my bag for my library card, grateful.

      The reading room today is, as usual, lightly scattered with housewives and seniors, a few students, several of whom I recognize, and one or two strangers. These people move through the stacks or sit quietly at the old oak tables, turning the pages of reference books, poring over newspapers, glancing up when the door opens or closes, looking around and observing the quiet activity, and then retreating to print. This might be a private club, with everyone so relaxed and polite and obeying the rules.

      No one actually stares, but they know who I am. I’m Reta Winters, the doctor’s wife (that fine man!), the mother of three daughters, the writer. I live five miles out of town, in what used to be the countryside but is now becoming more and more a part of Orangetown, almost a suburb, if a town of five thousand can have a suburb. In our big old house, it could be said, we live the life we long ago chose: abundant, bustling, but with peaceful intervals, islands of furniture, books, music, soft cushions to lean into, food in the fridge, more in the freezer. I work as a writer and translator (French into English). And I am the mother of Norah Winters, such a sad case. They remember seeing her around town, a striking girl with fine features, tall like Tom, sometimes riding her bike up Main Street or sitting with her friends in front of the high school, that long straight blonde hair of hers, those strong slender legs testifying to the loose agility of the young. She had a smile that cut like a crescent through her whole body. She went away to university in Toronto, where she had a boyfriend, then she went missing for a few days last spring, then she turned up on a Toronto street corner. The word’s got around.

      They nod in my direction or else they utter greetings under their breath. “Afternoon.” Blessings that I return with a congenial dip of my head as though I were sniffing a nosegay. I’m braced by people’s steady repeatable gifts of acknowledgement, and am reminded of what I seem to be waiting for, what all of us wait for: that moment of grace or surprise that has left us but will certainly return. It always does. I believe this, more or less.

      In half an hour—I will be gone by then—Cheryl will ring a little bell and move from table to table, announcing in her tender girl’s voice that the library will be closed in five minutes. She will say this with a plunge of apology; she is genuinely sorry to break through the thread of her clients’ thoughts and regretful about disturbing the concentration of perception and silence that the library has promised each of its visitors and that has accumulated during the long sleepy afternoon. There is no longer enough money to keep the library open on weekday evenings. This is not Cheryl’s fault, but she feels sorry about the situation and hopes that they will understand.

      I glance around at my fellow citizens as I deposit the books in my sack, and I feel a surge of love for the arbitrariness of our arrangements, that we should be assembled here together in this particular compartment of time, sharing public space, at one with each other in our need for retreat and for the printed word. There’s Mrs. Greenaway, with her impossibly narrow nose bridge, smiling perpetually, an intelligent woman with no place to stow her brand of originality. Mr. Atkinson, retired teacher, his tie sunk into the fat of his neck, the Britannica opened on the table before him, to a map of some sort. There’s a bearded man whose name I don’t know but who seems to be scribbling a novel or a memoir into a series of spiral notebooks. There’s Hal (Swiftfoot) Scott, who pumps gas and plays hockey, or at least he did before he got caught in a drug bust last year. He’s reading Maclean’s, probably the sports section.

      This is a familiar yet unique scene. The precise pattern will occur only once—us, here, this moment engraved in a layer of memory—a thought that stirs me to wonderment.

      Such feelings come easily to me these days, and I know enough to distrust myself with these little ironic turnings, these fake jewels. The string section comes on somewhere behind my eyes. There is a sense of buoyancy, as though I’m being carried along on a tidal wave of sensation, borne forward. Precious and precarious, a bending, subtle wand of desire making itself known. Followed by a tightening of the throat, moistening of the eyes, awe for the beauty of ongoing life. Et cetera. Oh, God. This is insane, these errands, these visions, my stepping into cantilevered space and allowing myself to be tipped from skepticism to belief. Twin babies in snowsuits. People hugging at the airport. Pet with his golden fur and brown-socketed eyes sniffing endearingly into the corners of the house, knowing something is wrong, something is missing. Boo hoo.

      “She is such a lachrymose woman.” I once heard a man say that disdainfully about his sister; he might have been talking about me in my present state. But it’s just me, Reta Winters, pushing against what has become an observant loyalty to my habit of sadness. Stupid or shrewd; one or the other. It’s only temporary, a warped sense of rejoicing, une déformation—so says Danielle Westerman—but it’s somehow true, too. For here we are, together in this room at the public library with its old, worn wooden floors, held inside a little tick-tock of time.

      And each of us has a life we’ll soon be going back to. Dinners will be waiting for us; what an odd and consoling thought. Elaborate full-course affairs or plates of Kraft Dinner or Greek salad from a Safeway tub. I’ve got two chickens roasting in the oven right now, enough for leftovers tomorrow; a potato casserole that just needs heating up, and the makings of a salad. My, my, such a good woman, so organized, too.

      Enough of that!

      Yes, I must get home. A long day, yes. Rain, rain. The weather forecast. Goodbye. My umbrella, good heavens, I almost forgot. Yes, busy, busy. Parked just outside. Don’t really need. Still have the dog to walk. Yes, I will, of course I will. Thank you again, thank you both. You must be glad to see the end of a long day.

      I want, I want, I want.

      I don’t actually say these last words; I just bump along on their short, stubbed feet, their little dead declarative syllables—while buttoning up my coat and making my way home.

       Nevertheless

      WE LIVE ON A STEEP HILL. This is rolling country on the whole, so our rocky perch is a geological anomaly, chosen no doubt because it offered a firm foundation СКАЧАТЬ