Dancing Lessons (29 page)

I heaved a sigh of relief when she got up to leave, dangling keys in her hand, though I noticed that instead of his usual bundle on the large ring she carried, there were just two keys on a small ring, similar to mine, one for the front door and one for his room, to be handed over to the next occupant, no doubt. It made me sad, for it seemed to signify such a swift diminution of one's presence here on this earth.

I was now consumed with anxiety to get going when she paused to say, “Don't tire yourself, though.” Then, “Are you sure? I could send Annie or one of the girls to help you?”

I wanted to wring her neck. But I gave her my brightest smile and assured her I'd be fine on my own. At least for the start. I'd let her know when I needed help. Then, in case she changed her mind, as now I was desperate to get the job, I assured her I would let her know the minute I felt it was too much for me. Really, I wanted to beat her over the head to make her hand over the keys. Thankfully, I didn't have to, for she did so, and I greedily closed my hand over them, imagining the warmth they yielded was from him. As soon as she left and closed the door, I held them up to my lips and kissed them. Then hastily put them down again, for she came charging back in.

“Oh, Miss Sam,” she said, her expression hovering between a frown and a smile. “Perhaps you would like to take something for yourself? A memento? Anything you would like.”

I looked at her and nodded and she left, for good this time. I threw up the keys and caught them. A sign of my complete restoration to life.

ENTERING MR. BRIDGES' ROOM
was not as hard as I thought it would be, nor was going through his possessions. I felt rather at peace the whole time, as I placed his suits in the garment bags I found with a cedar hanger to repel moths in each one—the first I had seen. As I folded and placed his shirts, his socks and underwear, his dressing gowns, his ties, his cashmere sweaters, in piles on the bed, I couldn't help remarking how new everything appeared. Even the clothes he wore for gardening—his Tilley shorts and hat, his Lacoste shirts—were washed and neatly folded with the rest, nothing on them to show they had ever come in contact with dirt. I'm sure he must have had a much stronger influence over Mavis the laundress than I had, if she indeed was the one who looked after his clothes. I doubted it, for no such attention was paid to mine.

Didn't some people wear things out, I wondered? He certainly didn't need a wife who could mend. Or one who could pack, for that matter, for every item, in the drawers, the closet, was meticulously arranged. In the bathroom, towels were symmetrically aligned on the towel rack, as were his shoes on trees. Mr. Bridges was nothing if not consistent—everything in his room was as neat and ordered as his person had been. I wondered now, could he have been as dependent on his wife for domestic comforts as he claimed? For the state of his possessions certainly didn't reveal a man in need of anyone.

Even without considering the stuff he must have had at his own house, I was amazed at just how much of everything Mr. Bridges possessed. It was an extraordinary windfall for Matron to dispose of. I thought of how she could use it to buy compliance and favours from the staff, tradesmen, for years to come. And then I suppressed that thought, for I was beginning to think of myself, and Matron, as entirely nice people after all. Perhaps something of the unruffled nature of Mr. Bridges' life was rubbing off on me.

In the bathroom, I bagged up his medicines for disposal, again alarmed by the quantity of both prescription and non-prescription items. Had he needed all of these? It seemed extraordinary. Was he that sick? Was my amazement at such an arsenal of goods simply due to my ignorance of things medical, because, apart from this past week, my own cupboard held nothing but the most basic of first aids?

The medicine collection was the only sign perhaps of a slight disorder, for the bottles on the surface of the counter around the sink were placed there helter-skelter, in no special arrangement, some even turned over on their sides. The medicine cabinet also yielded lots of items, but no surprises.

Mr. Bridges had an equally large quantity of grooming aids, expensive like his clothes. Six or seven bottles each of things like shampoo, conditioner, aftershave, and things I never knew men used: moisturizer, concealer, face wash, cologne. I was beginning to think the owner of this cache might have been slightly vain, but then I replaced that thought with one that this kind of excess was probably perfectly natural for people with plenty of money. Then I backtracked on excess, for I didn't want to be critical, but perhaps his list of basic necessities was longer than my own. What did I know? I felt the first twinge then of being out of sync with a world that was not now meant to be mine. I was not used to excess. Until I came to live at Ellesmere Lodge, my own cupboard was entirely bare. I wondered then what commentary on one's life did possessions make. Was mine as threadbare as it seemed? In comparison with someone like Mr. Bridges—or Ruby, for one could hardly move around in her room for the trunks and boxes, for her things—was my life to be judged as empty?

Having come along this route, I slid from thinking of these people's lives as models of excess to mine as an example of deficiency. Of carelessness. Of loss. Didn't I always manage to let slip away anything of value?

Contemplation of this state must have induced some kind of trance, for when Maisie banged on the door I'd left open to ask if I wanted her to put my lunch in my room, I jumped. I was surprised to find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror holding plastic bottles of shampoo in both hands and squeezing them.

Once I took that break for lunch I found the morning's work had worn me out. I decided to leave the rest of the task for the following day. This was mainly the clearing out of the other items—the top drawer of the chest that held jewellery and odds and ends, and the two drawers of his bedside table. I thought that task would take me no more than an hour or two. I vowed that after I was finished there, I would make my way downstairs and face the world.

WHEN CELIA CAME OVER
that night, I don't know why I didn't tell her about what had happened with Mr. Bridges that last day, for I wanted to. I wanted to tell her about what might have been, about the circumstances of his death, that breathless word withheld. How my heart was pounding, longing so hard to hear it, I sent such a powerful signal to his own that it was shell-shock all over again, a short-circuiting of the body's electricity.

Instead, I found myself telling her about my day, sorting out his things, and how I was bothered that I didn't feel sad at the death of my friend but rather detached—as if I was clearing out a stranger's room.

“Was that natural, do you think?” I asked.

She said, “Yes, it takes time for grief to develop fully, and sometimes activity to displace that grief, at least for a while, is just what is needed.” She paused, and then she added, smiling at me, “Perhaps that is why Mrs. Spence asked you to do it.”

What! I thought, but didn't say, Matron with insight?

“She knew,” she said, “as I did, how much he meant to you.”

I mentally retorted, Of course you do not know. No one will ever know.

As she continued to talk, I turned to marvelling as I always did at how even in tone her voice is, almost without inflection, unlike mine, unlike most of the rest of her countrymen and women, for we are all given to voices that play up and down the scale to reflect the high drama, the low moments of our lives. And yet that modulated voice was commanding, one that I, like her students, her television viewers, could have confidence in. For like Mr. Levy she spoke with the voice of authority. Looking at her, lying stretched out on the bed, shoes off, in a simple pink cotton dress that made her look girlish and pretty, I couldn't help wondering, what were the high dramas, the low moments of your life?

I was never there to share them, not really. Though when you came home on your visits you might have been telling me much more than I realized at the time. I used to eavesdrop on your play sometimes, when you had all the little children under your spell, not just your brother and sisters but often the neighbours as well. You were their Pied Piper, as they hardly ever had visitors. How exciting and glamorous you must have seemed to them, with your beautiful clothes, your books and your toys that you willingly shared. But it was the stories you told that I listened to, the way you kept them in line with your rules and your instructions. You were as open and alive with them as you were like a clam with me. I listened as often as I could, pausing to eavesdrop as I went about my day's work, especially if you were at your favourite spot, which was under the big poinciana tree at the back, with the swings and the bench or exposed roots that were perfect for sitting. You would have the bench, of course, because you were not used to slumming. I would watch how carefully you would first dust it off, then arrange your skirt before sitting down so it would not get crushed or dirty. How unchild-like these gestures were. I suddenly recalled the very first time I saw her, this woman you came to call “Auntie,” how she had peeled the cellophane off the lollipops she brought for Shirley and Junior and how, instead of discarding the paper there on the roadside as any normal human being would have done, she kept the wrappers in her hand the whole time, taking them back to the car with her, no doubt to be properly disposed of. Was it that carefulness that was rubbing off on you? Was her vocabulary becoming yours, peppered now with words like
satan, sin
and
Jesus, Heaven
and
Hell
, words you had never heard around my house, well, not outside the goodnight prayers I encouraged the children to make. My one concession to churchiness. You were so kind to the other children, but so strict, with all your rules and regulations, with your punishments for infringement, which they happily complied with, thinking it all a game. “You, Shirley. Into the corner with you, miss. Think about what you have done and don't come out until I say.” And Shirley would go and stand in the designated space and turn her back, while the rest of the children giggled. At the time, such actions made me smile, too, because it seemed so incongruous coming from such a little one. And, because you were small, never once did I think of my own constricted childhood in the thrall of adults.

I WAS SITTING UP
in bed with my back resting against the headboard, letting my thoughts roam, for Celia had fallen asleep beside me. I didn't wake her, for I knew she had some sort of built-in clock that would suddenly propel her awake and into movement. But while she was asleep, I could talk to her the way I couldn't otherwise. I turned to gaze at her closed eyes, her eyelashes still long, but fuller with mascara. You are like a doll still, I thought, but one much emaciated, the cheeks no longer plump, the skin no longer bisque. If I shook you like a doll, would your bones rattle? Would your eyes, not earthy like mine but water-signed like your father's, fill with tears? You hardly ever cried as a child. So I never wanted to shake you, as I wanted to shake the others sometimes, especially Lise who was so filled with temper. What wounds to her soul had transmitted such agony that she in turn inflicted on others? Had I conveyed my own unhappiness to her when I carried her? Did the blows I received when she was already inside my belly create a disturbance that registered inside her tiny brain? Is there already a functioning brain at that stage? How little I know.

I do know that's the last time we had our drunken dance at night, he and I, the last time he laid hands on me, in any sense of the word. For it was only the next morning in the pristine light of day, as he sat on the bench on the veranda and pulled on his boots before leaving for work, that I told him I was expecting. I have to admit, it hit him hard. I could see by the blood rushing to his face and his hands falling from tying the laces. He lifted his head and looked out at the yard, his expression bleak. I wasn't sure what disturbed him really, the prospect of another child, or the balling up of the fist to hit me the previous night. He didn't look at me and my swollen mouth. He looked at his hands. He clenched and unclenched them. He didn't say anything for a long time while I stood, in my kitchen apron, my hands unconsciously curled around my belly. He resumed tying his laces, and he got up and put on his hat and he mumbled something as he turned and walked away. I still am not sure if it was “Sorry.” It would have been the only time the word was ever said.

IT IS TO YOU
I've wanted to say sorry, those other evenings when I was ill and you dropped by on a quick visit and you lay beside me on the bed, dressed in your business suit, which signified you hadn't gone home yet after your day's labour, your high heels off, your feet stretched out though not reaching as far as mine at the bottom of the bed, for you didn't inherit my height. Rangy, like your father, your body, your arms, your little legs sturdy from the start, and strong, well able to carry you as you left me. For that is what was hurtful, your eagerness to leave, to find another home away from us. Was it the crowded room you shared with your brother and sister, the skimpiness of everything? Our meals, our clothing, our toys and playthings. Our threadbare lives?

That day you walked away, you didn't wave when you looked back. You didn't cry.

Suddenly I'm startled, for out of nowhere, as if you were reading my mind, you ask, “G,”—for so you have taken to calling me from that day at the coffee shop—“why did I end up living with Aunt Phil and Uncle Ted? You know, I've been trying to remember, but nothing comes back at all.”

It takes me a long time to reply to your question. For since our talk in the coffee shop you have showed no further interest in the subject. Nor have you ever shown interest before in discussing anything about our lives. I'm stunned to hear you say you don't remember anything about leaving home when it is so engraved on my heart. Your calling them “Aunt Phil” and “Uncle Ted” still makes me want to grind my teeth in a jealous rage, for they were not related to you at all. Yet in all these years it is them you related to.