Selected Stories (17 page)

It was Gabriel who found me Hugo’s story. We were in a, bookstore, and he came to me with a large, expensive paperback, a collection of short stories. There was Hugo’s name on the cover. I wondered how Gabriel had found it, what he had been doing in the fiction section of the store anyway; he never reads fiction. I wondered if he sometimes went and looked for things by Hugo. He is interested in Hugo’s career as he would be interested in the career of a magician or popular singer or politician with whom he had, through me, a plausible connection, a proof of reality. I think it is because he does such anonymous work himself, work intelligible only to his own kind. He is fascinated by people who work daringly out in the public eye, without the protection of any special discipline—it must seem so, to an engineer—just trying to trust themselves, and elaborating their bag of tricks, and hoping to catch on.

“Buy it for Clea,” he said.

“Isn’t it a lot of money for a paperback?”

He smiled.

“There’s your father’s picture, your real father, and he has written this story you might like to read,” I said to Clea, who was in the kitchen making toast. She is seventeen. Some days she eats toast and honey and peanut butter and Oreos, and cream cheese and chicken sandwiches and fried potatoes. If anybody comments on what she is eating or not eating, she may run upstairs and slam the door of her room.

“He looks overweight,” said Clea, and put the book down. “You always said he was skinny.” Her interest in her father is all from the point of view of heredity, and what genes he might have passed on to
herself. Did he have a bad complexion, did he have a high I.Q., did the women in his family have big breasts?

“He was when I knew him,” I said. “How was I to know what had happened to him since?”

He looked, however, very much as I would have thought he would look by now. When I saw his name in the newspaper or on a poster, I had pictured somebody much like this; I had foreseen the ways in which time and his life would have changed him. It did not surprise me that he had got fat but not bald, that he had let his hair grow wild and had grown a full, curly beard. Pouches under his eyes, a dragged-down look to the cheeks even when he is laughing. He is laughing, into the camera. His teeth have gone from bad to worse. He hated dentists, said his father died of a heart attack in the dentist’s chair. A lie, like so much else, or at least an exaggeration. He used to smile crookedly for photographs to hide the right top incisor, dead since somebody at high school pushed him into a drinking fountain. Now he doesn’t care, he laughs, he bares those rotting stumps. He looks, at the same time, woebegone and cheerful. A Rabelaisian writer. Checked wool shirt open at the top to show his undershirt; he didn’t use to wear one. Do you wash, Hugo? Do you have bad breath, with those teeth? Do you call your girl students fond exasperated dirty names, are there phone calls from insulted parents, does the Dean or somebody have to explain that no harm is meant, that writers are not as other men are? Probably not, probably no one minds. Outrageous writers may bounce from one blessing to another nowadays, bewildered, as permissively reared children are said to be, by excess of approval.

I have no proof. I construct somebody from this one smudgy picture, I am content with such clichés. I have not the imagination or good will to proceed differently; and I have noticed anyway, everybody must have noticed as we go further into middle age, how shopworn and simple, really, are the disguises, the identities if you like, that people take up. In fiction, in Hugo’s business, such disguises would not do, but in life they are all we seem to want, all anybody can manage. Look at Hugo’s picture, look at the undershirt, listen to what it says about him.

The student wife, it seems, got stuck with all the children. What happened to Mary Frances, did she die, is she liberated, did he drive her crazy? But listen to the lies, the half-lies, the absurdities.
He lives on the side of a mountain above Vancouver
. It sounds as if he lives in a wilderness cabin, and all it means, I’m willing to bet, is that he lives in an ordinary comfortable house in North or West Vancouver, which now stretch far up the mountain. He has been
sporadically affiliated with various academic communities
. What does that mean? If it means he has taught for years, most of his adult life, at universities, that teaching at universities has been the only steady well-paid job he has ever had, why doesn’t it say so? You would think he came out of the bush now and then to fling them scraps of wisdom, to give them a demonstration of what a real male
writer
, a creative
artist
, is like; you would never think he was a practicing
academic
. I don’t know if he was a lumberjack or a beer-slinger or a counterman, but I do know that he was not a telephone lineman. He had a job painting telephone poles. He quit that job in the middle of the second week because the heat and the climbing made him sick. It was a broiling June, just after we had both graduated. Fair enough. The sun really did make him sick; twice he came home and vomited. I have quit jobs myself that I could not stand. The same summer I quit my job folding bandages at Victoria Hospital, because I was going mad with boredom. But if I was a writer, and was listing all my varied and colorful occupations, I don’t think I would put down
bandage folder
, I don’t think I would find that entirely honest.

After he quit, Hugo found a job marking Grade 12 examination papers. Why didn’t he put that down?
Examination marker
. He liked marking examination papers better than he liked climbing telephone poles, and probably better than he liked lumberjacking or beer-slinging
or any of those other things if he ever did them; why couldn’t he put it down?
Examination marker
.

Nor has he, to my knowledge, ever been the foreman in a sawmill. He worked in his uncle’s mill the summer before I met him. What he did all day was load lumber and get sworn at by the real foreman, who didn’t like him because of his uncle being the boss. In the evenings, if he was not too tired, he used to walk half a mile to a little creek and play his recorder. Blackflies bothered him, but he did it anyway. He could play “Morning,” from
Peer Gynt
, and some Elizabethan airs whose names I have forgotten. Except for one: “Wolsey’s Wilde.” I learned to play it on the piano so we could play a duet. Was that meant for Cardinal Wolsey, and what was a
wilde
, a dance? Put that down, Hugo.
Recorder player
. That would be quite all right, quite in fashion now; as I understand things, recorder-playing and such fey activities are not out of favor now, quite the contrary. Indeed, they may be more acceptable than all that lumberjacking and beer-slinging. Look at you, Hugo, your image is not only fake but out-of-date. You should have said you’d meditated for a year in the mountains of Uttar Pradesh; you should have said you’d taught Creative Drama to autistic children; you should have shaved your head, shaved your beard, put on a monk’s cowl; you should have shut up, Hugo.

When I was pregnant with Clea we lived in a house on Argyle Street in Vancouver. It was such a sad gray stucco house on the outside, in the rainy winter, that we painted the inside, all the rooms, vivid ill-chosen colors. Three walls of the bedrooms were Wedgwood blue, one was magenta. We said it was an experiment to see if color could drive anybody mad. The bathroom was a deep orange-yellow. “It’s like being inside a cheese,” Hugo said when we finished it. “That’s right, it is,” I said. “That’s very good, phrase-maker.” He was pleased but not as pleased as if he’d written it. After that he said, every time he showed anybody the bathroom, “See the color? It’s like being inside a cheese.” Or, “It’s like peeing inside a cheese.” Not that I didn’t do the same thing, save things up and say them over and over. Maybe I said that about peeing inside a cheese. We had many phrases in common. We both called the landlady the Green Hornet, because she had worn, the only time we had seen her, a poison-green outfit with bits of rat fur and a clutch of violets, and had given off a
venomous sort of buzz. She was over seventy and she ran a downtown boarding-house for men. Her daughter Dotty we called the harlot-in-residence. I wonder why we chose to say “harlot”; that was not, is not, a word in general use. I suppose it had a classy sound, a classy depraved sound, contrasting ironically—we were strong on irony—with Dotty herself.

She lived in a two-room apartment in the basement of the house. She was supposed to pay her mother forty-five dollars monthly rent and she told me she meant to try to make the money baby-sitting.

“I can’t go out to work,” she said, “on account of my nerves. My last husband, I had him six months dying down at Mother’s, dying with his kidney disease, and I owe her three hundred dollars board still on that. She made me make him his eggnog with skim milk. I’m broke every day of my life. They say it’s all right not having wealth if you got health, but what if you never had either one? Bronchial pneumonia from the time I was three years old. Rheumatic fever at twelve. Sixteen I married my first husband, he was killed in a logging accident. Three miscarriages. My womb is in shreds. I use up three packs of Kotex every month. I married a dairy farmer out in the Valley and his herd got the fever. Wiped us out. That was the one who died with his kidneys. No wonder. No wonder my nerves are shot.”

I am condensing. This came out at greater length and by no means dolefully, indeed with some amazement and pride, at Dotty’s table. She asked me down for cups of tea, then for beer. This is life, I thought, fresh from books, classes, essays, discussions. Unlike her mother, Dotty was flat-faced, soft, doughy, fashioned for defeat, the kind of colorless puzzled woman you see carrying a shopping bag, waiting for the bus. In fact, I had seen her once on a bus downtown, and not recognized her at first in her dull blue winter coat. Her rooms were full of heavy furniture salvaged from her marriage—an upright piano, overstuffed chesterfield and chairs, walnut-veneer china cabinet and dining-room table, where we sat. In the middle of the table was a tremendous lamp, with a painted china base and a pleated dark-red silk shade, held out at an extravagant angle, like a hoop skirt.

I described it to Hugo. “That is a whorehouse lamp,” I said. Afterwards I wanted to be congratulated on the accuracy of this description. I told Hugo he ought to pay more attention to Dotty if he
wanted to be a writer. I told him about her husbands and her womb and her collection of souvenir spoons, and he said I was welcome to look at them all by myself. He was writing a verse play.

Once when I went down to put coal on the furnace, I found Dotty in her pink chenille dressing gown saying goodbye to a man in a uniform, some sort of deliveryman or gas-station attendant. It was the middle of the afternoon. She and this man were not parting in any way that suggested either lechery or affection and I would not have understood anything about it, I would probably have thought he was some relative, if she had not begun at once a long complicated slightly drunk story about how she had got wet in the rain and had to leave her clothes at her mother’s house and worn home her mother’s dress which was too tight and that was why she was now in her dressing gown. She said that first Larry had caught her in it delivering some sewing he wanted her to do for his wife, and now me, and she didn’t know what we would think of her. This was strange, as I had seen her in her dressing gown many times before. In the middle of her laughing and explaining, the man, who had not looked at me, not smiled or said a word or in any way backed up her story, simply ducked out the door.

“Dotty has a lover,” I said to Hugo.

“You don’t get out enough. You’re trying to make life interesting.”

The next week I watched to see if this man came back. He did not. But three other men came, and one of them came twice. They walked with their heads down, quickly, and did not have to wait at the basement door. Hugo couldn’t deny it. He said it was life imitating art again, it was bound to happen, after all the fat varicose-veined whores he’d met in books. It was then we named her the harlot-in-residence and began to brag about her to our friends. They stood behind the curtains to catch a glimpse of her going in or out.

“That’s not her!” they said. “Is that her? Isn’t she disappointing? Doesn’t she have any professional clothes?”

“Don’t be so naive,” we said. “Did you think they all wore spangles and boas?”

Everybody hushed to hear her play the piano. She sang or hummed along with her playing, not steadily, but loudly, in the rather defiant, self-parodying voice people use when they are alone, or think they
are alone. She sang “Yellow Rose of Texas,” and “You Can’t Be True, Dear.”

“Whores should sing hymns.”

“We’ll
get
her to learn some.”

“You’re all such voyeurs. You’re all so mean,” said a girl named Mary Frances Shrecker, a big-boned, calm-faced girl with black braids down her back. She was married to a former mathematical prodigy, Elsworth Shrecker, who had had a breakdown. She worked as a dietician. Hugo said he could not look at her without thinking of the word
lumpen
, but he supposed she might be nourishing, like oatmeal porridge. She became his second wife. I thought she was the right wife for him, I thought she would stay forever, nourishing him, but the student evicted her.

The piano-playing was an entertainment for our friends, but disastrous on the days when Hugo was home trying to work. He was supposed to be working on his thesis but he really was writing his play. He worked in our bedroom, at a card table in front of the window, facing a board fence. When Dotty had been playing for a bit, he might come out to the kitchen and stick his face into mine and say in low, even tones of self-consciously controlled rage, “You go down and tell her to cut that out.”