The Canterbury Sisters (6 page)

“Well, I like the idea,” says Valerie, making an ineffectual attempt to fluff her matted hair. She’s evidently one of those people who thinks that if she keeps repeating herself, her opinion might count as two votes. “We can tell whatever stories we want. How people get through . . . Oh, you know, all of it. Love. Death. Having the rug pulled right out from under you just when you think you’re set. How you keep your heart alive in the middle of this fucked-up world. You know, everything.”

The 6:42 express to Canterbury is sounding better by the minute.

Becca’s lips are pushed into a pout. “I don’t know why the stories have to be so heavy,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with just telling a simple love story, is there?”

“Of course there isn’t,” her mother says. “But in the original Chaucer, wasn’t there some kind of bet?” Everyone is nodding. We’ve all read the same Wikipedia articles.

“More of a contest,” Tess says. “The host declared that the pilgrim who told the best tale would be treated to a feast at the expense of the others when they returned from Canterbury.”

“Then let’s do that,” says the Athlete, whose name I still can’t recall. “I love contests.”

“Who won?” asks another woman. This is the first time I’ve heard her speak. She’s small, and her hair is as black as if someone has drawn it on with a Magic Marker. She has a rough voice that echoes Jersey, or Long Island, or maybe one of the lesser boroughs, a voice that brings to mind mobsters and pasta and TVs sold from the back of a van. Something about her seems familiar, although maybe I’m just thinking that I know her type. “In the real book, I mean.”

“No one won,” Tess says. “They never reached Canterbury because Chaucer abandoned the tales halfway through.” She wrinkles her nose. “Some say he died. Others say he just got tired of the project and switched to other work. Either way, most of the pilgrims’ stories went untold.”

“Then it’s decided,” says Claire, and I think she’s smiling, but her face is so taut that it’s hard to tell. “We will each share a story, and I think we should follow the example of the original pilgrims and challenge ourselves to explore the nature of love. Tess will judge which one of us comes closest to the mark. Must the stories be true?”

“She’s hoping the answer is yes,” says Silvia, and I swear that when she throws back her head and laughs, she all but whinnies. “Go ahead, darling. Tell them how many husbands you’ve had.”

“Just four,” says Claire, her tone kind of coy and teasing. It’s the kind of voice most women save for when they’re talking to men, not each other, but I don’t think she can help herself. She reminds me of Diana. Seduction is her default mode. It’s like she has some sort of sexual Tourette’s. “Is that a lot?”

It’s four more than I’ve had, but Silvia isn’t finished. “And tell them how old your present boyfriend is.”

“Age isn’t an issue between us,” Claire says airily, so evidently he’s a freaking child.

“I don’t think we should say the stories have to be true,” says Jersey. “I think we should say they can either be like reality or we can make them up, or it can be a little bit of both, and it’s the teller’s choice. Whatever she wants.”

Becca glances at her mother and her mouth gives a little twist. I can’t quite read her expression, but there’s some problem brewing between them. Of course, there’s always something brewing between a teenage girl and her mother, the only question is what. Maybe they’ve argued at some point about the suitability of a particular boy—or perhaps they’ve argued about the suitability of a girl. It’s hard to say. Becca has an androgynous look, a sort of carefully calculated rebelliousness, but I imagine that’s typical of girls her age, so I’m probably reading this part all wrong.

“I’d be happy to serve as judge,” Tess says. “So here are the rules. The stories don’t have to be true, or autobiographical. And yes, the nature of love is a worthy theme, but don’t imagine that all the stories must be romantic, or noble. You might tell a tale of the most foolish thing you’ve ever done for love, or one in which the lovers give up everything for each other, or even one in which they never meet. And since our time together terminates in Canterbury, the winner shall be declared there and treated to a marvelous dinner by the others. I know just the place.” Her voice and manner are that of a teacher giving an assignment, and when she finishes, I almost expect her to clap her hands. “Shall we draw lots to see who goes first?”

“I’ve never understood that term,” Valerie says, probably speaking for us all. “What are lots and how do you draw them?”

“Shortest straw?” asks the Athlete.

“No,” says Tess, “for that implies the loser goes first, and the right to tell the opening story of the journey is a great honor. You shall all draw cards. Highest begins.”

With this, she extracts a blue silk bundle from the backpack at her feet, which, when unwrapped, reveals an oversize and elaborately decorated deck of cards. It looks nearly medieval itself, the figures hand-drawn and faded, and I wonder what else Tess has in that pack. Leading these tours must require the host to be a veritable Mary Poppins, able to entertain, instruct, and comfort at a moment’s notice.

The deck goes around the circle, each woman selecting a card. I look at mine under the corner of the table, surprised to find that my heart is beating a bit faster. I don’t want to go first. It seems like too much responsibility, as if the first story might set the tone for our entire pilgrimage. But I wouldn’t want to go last either, so I’m relieved to get an eight of hearts. Right in the middle of the lineup and thus probably safe.

“Now turn them,” says Tess.

The cards turn. The winner/loser is Jean, who has pulled the queen of diamonds. It seems appropriate to her, just as I suppose a middling amount of love is appropriate to me.

But Jean is unfazed. “This is easy,” she says. “I can tell the story of my husband. Because I was married to the perfect man.”

Well, that’s quite a statement. It seems to strike the whole group mute for a moment and it’s the sort of remark that implies way more than it explains. The fact she said “was married” instead of “am married” proves she’s no longer with this man . . . and since she’s proclaimed him to be perfect, divorce isn’t likely. Jean must be a widow, and judging by the calmness with which she has spoken, this is not a fresh wound. Her husband died years ago, that’s my guess, which means not only that Becca is the daughter of a perfect man but she was half-orphaned sometime during her childhood or early adolescence. No wonder she seems so angry. The oldest, the only girl, her most likely family ally lost just when she needed him most.

“You’re talking about your first husband?” asks Claire.

“My only husband,” Jean says firmly, and Claire frowns, as if wondering how such a thing is possible.

“But the rest of you are married?” she persists, looking around the table, and I realize we’re all trying to define each other as quickly as possible, based on whatever criteria leaps to mind. For Claire the primary distinction seems to be among those who are married and those who are not, and I feel the customary tightness in my chest that I always get whenever the M-word arises. The assumption is that everyone gets married sooner or later, even the doughiest and dullest and most hopeless. The people you see walking around Walmart at three in the morning usually have someone with them.

As it turns out, Silvia in the sun is married and so is the black Athlete. Tess and Becca are single, but it’s okay because they’re young. Claire has been to the altar a hundred times, that’s been established, and the Queen of Jersey says, “I’m married,” and then adds “more or less.” So there’s a story there—I guess we’ll hear it soon enough—and Valerie says, “I’m a spinster.” Of course she would say “spinster.” Of course she would claim the most loaded possible word, all Quaker and Amish and witchy, and she would furthermore say it ironically. Making sure we all know she’s chosen this lesser-taken path, which we understand being a spinster is hip.

They look at me next, so I blurt out,
“I was married once, but so long ago that it’s like it hardly happened.”

It’s a good lie. I know, because I’ve told it many times before and no one has ever challenged me. People are comfortable with divorcées, far more comfortable than they are with the spinsters of the world, and I’ve now been evoking the ghost of this discarded husband for at least ten years, ever since I rounded the bend of thirty-five and being single suddenly began to feel abnormal. I’ve given him a name, Michael. A height, “shorter than me,” and a profession, architect, sometimes even adding, “He worked on big public buildings like airports, that sort of thing.”

“So shall we settle our bill of fare?” says Tess. “A van is waiting outside to drive us to our first inn and tomorrow, bright and early, we will begin the trail.”

Bill of fare. Love it. So British, so old-fashioned and cute. This is what we’re paying for. There are murmurs of agreement all around, credit cards being produced, scarves being retrieved, the scrape of chairs being pushed back. A hum in the air. A sense of departure. Should I throw in my lot with this group of women? For we’ve come truly to the point of no return, I suppose. If I’m going to catch the train to Canterbury on my own, I should leave now. If I’m going to the airport, and back to America, then I should have left thirty minutes ago. I look around the table. A companion is someone with whom you eat—a rather random and not particularly high standard of friendship, but what the hell. If history has taught us anything, it’s that no woman should journey to Canterbury alone.

JUST AS Tess promised, a van is waiting for us, parked in an alley behind the George, near a Dumpster in a position that is undoubtedly illegal. The young man leaning against it looks like a hood. Pimply and lanky, a cigarette dangling from his lips. But the moment he sees Tess approaching, all of us behind her dragging our bags and packs over the cobblestones, he straightens up and flings the cigarette to the side, suddenly all pep and service. There’s an art to loading this many suitcases, ranging from a stylish bag with
LOUIS VUITTON
emblazoned on the side, probably Claire’s, to a nearly shredded military-style knapsack, probably Becca’s. But the young man gets them all wedged in with a practiced ease.

Fitting in the women proves trickier. We hesitate at the door of the van, no one quite willing to go first. I want to redeem myself as a good sport, so I step up and struggle my way to the back row, with the Athlete right behind me and Valerie, still chattering, trailing her. The black-haired Queen of Jersey takes the seat in front of us, along with Jean and her daughter, leaving Claire and Silvia in the best position, beside the door and only two to a row. Tess slides in the passenger seat beside the driver, who has been introduced as Tim.

Valerie wants to talk. She wants to know where I’ve come from, why I joined them at the last minute, what brings me to Canterbury. My initial scan of the situation has convinced me she’s pretty much the last one I want to befriend and God knows how long we’re going to be wedged in this van. So to discourage her I say I want to read my email before we leave the city. It isn’t totally a lie. Just as I said back in the George, I suspect phone service will be spotty in the country, so this may be my last chance to check in for days. I should text something to Ned and at least let him know that we won’t be talking tomorrow. I’m responsible like that, even when I’ve just been dumped.

But when I wiggle my purse up to my lap, I can’t find my phone. I dig systematically through every compartment in the bag, my panic slowly rising with each zipper I pull and pouch I explore. And then the mental image pops in my head. Me putting the phone down on the bar beside the closely cropped man when I signed my bill. I must not have picked it up again.

“I’ve left my phone,” I call out. “I think it’s back in the bar.”

This is a minor-league disaster, of course. We have edged from the parking lot and are on a city street, our journey underway. Who knows how hard it will be to change direction on these small, confusing, one-way roads and wind our way back to the George. And I’m in the worst possible part of the van to climb out, the left-hand seat in the very back. Five or six women will have to move to set me free. I’ve already joined them late, with my weird name and bad attitude, and now I’m starting off the trip by being a mondo pain in the ass.

“Use mine,” says the Athlete, slipping her backpack to her lap, and managing the transfer far more smoothly than I did. “Call the restaurant and see if they have it.”

“Are you sure? Roaming is expensive.”

“No problem. I bought one of those programs with unlimited travel minutes.” As she unzips her backpack to take out the phone, I glimpse the undeniable glint of a gold Godiva chocolate box, nearly hidden in the folds of a scarf. So that’s her formula. Order a salad when you’re in public and pick at it in the most ostentatious manner, giving little side lectures on antioxidants and organic farming as you go, making sure everyone at the table understands you’re a paragon of health and self-control. But then at night, alone and in bed, I bet she hits the Godiva and hits it hard.

The Athlete pauses for a minute, as if she is as surprised to find the candy box there as anyone, then hands me her phone. “Go ahead,” she says. “I have unlimited time. Really.”

Tess calls back the number of the George and I type it in, but it’s busy. I try again. Busy again.

“I’m so sorry about this,” I call up to the front of the van, but Tess is chirpy. She knows her job.

“It’s easier to turn back than to wait for the line to clear,” she says over her shoulder and then she murmurs a few low words to the driver and the other women hasten to assure me it’s no big deal, we’ll just pop right back. It’s too early in the trip for any of us to be rude to each other, or even honest, and when Tim stops the van in the street dead in front of the George, everyone is cheerful about climbing out and making way for me.

I’m breathless when I get to the door of the pub, my heart pounding, my mind already racing. Everything I need to function in the world is in that phone. Contact information for everyone I work with, my plane reservation back home, my bank accounts, my compass and camera and bills and music and games and step counter. If I lose that phone, I will be utterly adrift. It will almost be like I never existed.