Patterns of Swallows (24 page)

The
note said,
Ruth,
I love you, but we both know we can't go on like this. I know what
it must be doing to you, living this way. It would be better for
both of us if I go away just for a little while. At least until I
can get things all squared away in my mind and be the husband I know
I should be. Please don't try to find me. I'll be fine. I won't do
anything foolish. But I just need to get away for now. Good-bye, I
do love you. Please believe me. Graham.

Ruth flung the note into a
twisted ball and into the garbage can as though it had been a snake
that had bitten her.

Yet at the same time, the
dramatics and the noble self-sacrifices of the note were laughable.
There was a ludicrous clash in tones between the note and Graham's
shamefaced retreat coupled with Lily's childish spite in their
encounter that morning. The contrast made her want to laugh loud and
hard. She resisted. She mustn't let Mom think she was going crazy.
But maybe she was. If she wasn't, the rational universe had.

The idea occurred to Ruth that
previously the calendars of her personal history could be dated by
two divisions – B.G. and A.G. Before Graham and After Graham.
But her history had entered a new era: P.G. Post-Graham.

But after all, this stage would
last hardly long enough to be an era. It might be, what? One day?
Two days? A week at most. It could hardly last longer than that.
Chances were good that he'd be back tomorrow already. How long could
it possibly take for Lily Turnbull's companionship to lose its
lustre?

But that first day P.G. had to
be got through somehow.

Ruth was carried through the
remainder of that first day by two things – by her
mother-in-law's presence and by simply putting one foot in front of
the other.

As to the first, Ruth shuddered
with a cold terror at the thought that she could have been living
alone when this happened. She had a new appreciation of Mom's need
for continuous company after her husband had died. Being alone was
the one thing that was unfaceable. All that time on one's hands with
nothing to do but think!

As to the second, there were
tasks, menial ones, but ones Ruth could concentrate some energy, if
not thought, on. While her mind ran its own wilful course, even
having her hands busy helped. There were potatoes to be peeled and
onions to be chopped, and thank heavens it was wash day! There was
the usual mountain of ironing to do.

Mom said, "Ruth, just leave
it. Please. Why don't you go rest? You need to rest. I can do
that."

And Ruth had almost shouted in
desperation, "Please let me do something."

Mom had offered no further
resistance then but set up the other board and iron to help Ruth.
She understood the value of quiet, unspoken companionship at such a
time. And she felt in sore need of it herself.

While she may not have been as
personally affected by the tragedy in quite the same way as Ruth, she
was very personally affected by the tragedy. Just in a different
way.

The sheets had to be ironed,
Ruth knew, and she knew she had to do it. They had to be faced. But
they held memories. The memories pressed and burned into Ruth like
the iron into the sheets. But the sheets couldn't be shirked. If
she shirked the sheets now, when would she face them?

The memories, on the other hand,
she would have shirked if she could have. But they, too, couldn't be
shirked simply because they refused to be shirked.

If they would only lie dormant
for awhile, covered over, just until Graham returned, then she could
unearth them and maybe even laugh over them again someday. Maybe she
and Graham would even be able to laugh together over the memory of
this time someday.

She allowed herself to shirk
Graham's shirts, however. She picked her careful way around the
still slightly damp pieces of white fabric in the pile, choosing only
linens and the women's clothing. The first day P.G. was too soon to
think of ironing Graham's shirts.

Mom noticed but said nothing and
carefully managed things so that she ended up with all of Graham's
shirts. Ruth noticed the manoeuvre and was grateful but said
nothing, as well.

As she ironed Graham's shirts,
Mrs. MacKellum poured out her love and longing into them. She
yearned to hold them, press them to her face, and take in whatever of
Graham's scent still clung to them.

She imagined them as the tiny
underthings she'd once ironed in just this way. The great size of
the man's shirts amazed her. The years had run as fast and had
disappeared, as though in one instant, like the owner of the shirts
had. And she feared that the owner of the shirts, just like the
years, would never return.

Though Graham meant to leave his
wife and not his mother, I can't help imagining that it was his
mother, on that first day P.G., whose heart was the more broken by
his act. After all, his wife believed her husband would return to
her. His mother knew for a fact her little boy never would.

Mrs. MacKellum clenched her
teeth against the shaking in her jaw. She mustn't give in. For
Ruth's sake, she must stand firm.

*
* *

That first night, the inevitable
could be put off no longer. Ruth had to go to bed sometime. Feet of
lead dragged her to the bedroom. She left the lights off and
undressed with the door open to give her the little light she needed
to find her nightclothes.

It was a strange impulse that
prompted her to undress and crawl into bed in the darkness. After
all, Graham was more often than not out at this time of night. The
empty side of the bed was a familiar sight by now. But tonight, it
was different. Tonight she felt the need for the optical illusion
the darkness provided. If she couldn't see the blankness, she could
imagine it wasn't there.

On another strange impulse, she
got out of bed and crept to the kitchen in the dark. Even in the
dark, she could find the flask of whiskey "for emergencies"
that Graham kept in the unused ceramic cookie jar in the back corner
of the cupboard above the refrigerator. She was fairly certain it
would still be there and that there would be something left in it.

It was still there and only half
used. And this was an emergency.

She poured herself a tumbler
full. It should be mixed with something, she knew, but she couldn't
be bothered. It might work faster neat.

She downed the entire glassful
as quickly as she could. It took her at least fifteen minutes.

The first large swallow made her
gag and nearly retch. She ran for the sink to lean over it just in
case. An uncontrollable shudder started in her head and ran the
entire length of her body after she'd managed to get her first effort
down. What did people see in this?

She willed herself for the next
sip. She had to take a smaller one this time. Taking a smaller sip
didn't help much. Yet she was determined.

It only seemed to grow worse by
the end. The last half could only be got down by plugging her nose,
tipping her head back, and pouring in the fiery liquid as close to
the back of her throat and as far away from her tongue as she could
get it, and still it burned and made her shiver at the same time.

But Ruth would not allow herself
to wash a drop of it down the sink. It took all her willpower to
force down the last eighth of an inch at the bottom of the tumbler,
but she did it.

She wasn't sure how much whiskey
it would take to do the job. She knew that last little bit probably
wouldn't matter much, but she hated not to finish a thing that she'd
started.

And it did do the job. It took
her half an hour of lying awake in the darkness to feel anything from
the whiskey, but very quickly from that point on, lucidity
disappeared, her head swam, and before long, all awareness had faded,
and she was fast asleep.

*
* *

She expected to feel wretched
the next morning – physically wretched, I mean, but she
surprised herself. She discovered that she may have had no immediate
taste for it, but she had a good head for whiskey. At least for the
morning after whiskey. She felt only very slightly nauseous (but
that may have had more to do with the recalled taste of her first
experience with hard liquor than anything) and had no headache at
all.

The sleep had done her good.
She could face getting up and going to work after that night of deep,
unbroken sleep she'd had. She'd gone to work on no sleep before.
She knew what that felt like, and she'd had no intention of
straggling through Day Two P.G. on zero hours of sleep. She'd needed
that whiskey.

She said
nothing to Jim and Glo or the others at the Morning Glory about the
events that had transpired. After all, Day Two P.G. might be the end
of the era. There was a good chance Graham would be back today. How
long
could
it take a person to realize the mistake he'd made, Ruth wondered.
Maybe she'd better count on a week just to be on the safe side. But
even for a week, nothing need be said. Maybe after it was all over
it could be told. Not until then.

But by the end of Day Two P.G.,
Graham was still absent.

Ruth lay in bed that night,
thinking about sleeping and about blessed oblivion and about the
flask in the cookie jar that could provide blissful though brief
respite from thought. She tossed and turned for an hour, resisting
temptation. After two hours, she found her way to the kitchen in the
dark.

She got up on a chair to take
down the ceramic cookie jar. She pulled out the flask and removed
its lid. Then she poured all its contents down the sink.

She knew of two more of Graham's
hiding spots. She quickly found the bottles half-filled with
whatever it was. It didn't matter what it was. Whatever it was also
disappeared down the sink.

What she had to face wasn't
going to be faced that way.

*
* *

Common adversity caused Ruth and
her mother-in-law to interact on a level of honesty they had never
approached before.

One memorable conversation took
place shortly after Ruth had unthinkingly been "rude" to a
well-meaning cashier at the Co-op.

Ruth had always mildly disliked
any form of shopping. Even grocery shopping was a task she avoided
until absolutely necessary. Mom, on the other hand, loved shopping,
so after they'd combined their households, Ruth was more than willing
to turn over the chore to her. But Mom didn't drive, so when large
items needed purchasing, either Ruth or Graham had no choice but to
come along.

In the days P.G., even Mom found
the marketing a sore trial. Every day of the week, the Co-op was
filled with housewives on a social outing, looking for a good
tongue-wag.

Ruth openly refused to set foot
in the store. All things could be borne if they had to be, but some
things didn't have to be. When Mom needed Ruth to drive her, Ruth
waited in her car in the parking lot, reading a book while Mom did
the shopping.

Mom
never expressed her own dread of doing the marketing. She felt it
was the least she could do for Ruth. Perhaps she felt that nothing
she could do
for
Ruth would be enough to make up for what her son had done
to
Ruth. She did all kinds of things quietly and uncomplainingly in the
days P.G. as a kind of vicarious penance on Graham's behalf.

But that day, Mom had no choice
but to involve Ruth in the shopping. She'd overspent by fifty-eight
cents she didn't have with her. Either she'd have to put something
back (but everything on the list was necessary), or she'd have to
enlist Ruth's help.

Leaving the groceries where they
were at the check-out, she stepped just outside the door of the store
and waved frantically at Ruth in the car. It took Ruth a moment or
two to look up from her book. She came running when she saw Mom's
signal.

"I'm so sorry, Ruth. I
didn't take enough money. I need fifty-eight cents, if you have it."

"Of course. I'm the one
who should be sorry I didn't give you enough. Seeing I never do the
shopping, I forget that prices keep going up."

Ruth dug through her change
purse as the two women rushed back to the check-out. An impatient
line-up was forming already, but, as Ruth handed her a small handful
of dimes, nickels, and pennies, Sandy, the cashier, took the time to
say to Ruth sympathetically (though too honestly to be socially
acceptable), "I was so sorry to hear about you losing your
husband."

"Losing him?" Ruth
snapped. "He didn't die, y'know!"

Sandy looked down with her face
turning a shade that matched her reddish hair.

"I'm sorry," she
stammered. "Maybe I shouldn't have ..."