Blind Assassin (121 page)

I would have held on to her tightly, I wouldn’t have stumbled, I wouldn’t have let her fall. But also I wouldn’t have got far. They’d have been after me in a shot.

I went out onto the street by myself then, and walked and walked, head down, collar up, along the downtown sidewalks. The wind was coming in off the lake and the snow was whirling down. It was daytime, but because of the low clouds and the snow the light was dim; the cars were churning slowly past along the unploughed streets, their red tail lights receding from me like the eyes of hunchbacked beasts running backwards.

I was clutching a package—I’ve forgotten what I’d bought—and I had no gloves. I must have dropped them in the store, among the feet of the crowd. I hardly missed them. Once I could walk through blizzards with my hands bare and never feel it. It’s love or hate or terror, or just plain rage, that can do that for you.

I used to have a daydream about myself—still have it, come to that. A ridiculous-enough daydream, though it’s often through such images that we shape our destinies. (You’ll notice how easily I slip into inflated language like
shape our destinies,
once I wander off in this direction. But never mind.)

In this daydream, Winifred and her friends, wreaths of money on their heads, are gathered around Sabrina’s frilly white bed while she sleeps, discussing what they will bestow upon her. She’s already been given the engraved silver cup from Birks, the nursery wallpaper with the frieze of domesticated bears, the starter pearls for her single-strand pearl necklace, and all the other golden gifts, perfectly
comme il faut,
that will turn to coal when the sun rises. Now they’re planning the orthodontist and the tennis lessons and the piano lessons and the dancing lessons and the exclusive summer camp. What hope has she got?

At this moment, I appear in a flash of sulphurous light and a puff of smoke and a flapping of sooty leather wings, the uninvited black-sheep godmother.
I too wish to bestow a gift,
I cry.
I have the right!

Winifred and her crew laugh and point.
You? You were banished long ago! Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’ve let yourself go, you look a hundred and two. Go back to your dingy old cave! What can you possibly have to offer?

I offer the truth,
I say.
I’m the last one who can. It’s the only thing in this room that will still be here in the morning.

Betty’s Luncheonette

Weeks went by, and Laura did not return. I wanted to write to her, telephone her, but Richard said that would be bad for her. She did not need to be interrupted, he said, by a voice from the past. She needed to concentrate her attention on her immediate situation—on the treatment at hand. That is what he’d been told. As for the nature of this treatment, he wasn’t a doctor, he didn’t pretend to understand such things. Surely they were best left to the experts.

I tortured myself with visions of her, imprisoned, struggling, trapped in a painful fantasy of her own making, or trapped in another fantasy, equally painful, which was not hers at all but those of the people around her. And when did the one become the other? Where was the threshold, between the inner world and the outer one? We each move unthinkingly through this gateway every day, we use the passwords of grammar—
I say, you say, he and she say, it, on the other hand, does not say
—paying for the privilege of sanity with common coin, with meanings we’ve agreed on.

But even as a child, Laura never quite agreed. Was this the problem? That she held firm for
no
when
yes
was the thing required? And vice versa, and vice versa.

Laura was doing well, I was told: she was making progress. Then she was not doing so well, she’d had a relapse. Progress in what, a relapse to what? It should not be gone into, it would disturb me, it was important for me to conserve my energies, as a young mother should do. “We’ll have you well again in no time flat,” said Richard, patting my arm.

“But I’m not really sick,” I said.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Back to normal.” He gave a fond smile, a leer almost. His eyes were getting smaller, or the flesh around them was moving in, which gave him a cunning expression. He was thinking about the time when he could be back where he belonged: on top. I was thinking that he would squeeze the breath out of me. He was putting on weight; he was eating out a lot; he was making speeches, at clubs, at weighty gatherings, substantial gatherings. Ponderous gatherings, at which weighty, substantial men met and pondered, because—everyone suspected it—there was heavy weather ahead.

All that speech-making can bloat a man up. I’ve watched the process, many times now. It’s those kinds of words, the kind they use in speeches. They have a fermenting effect on the brain. You can see it on television, during the political broadcasts—the words coming out of their mouths like bubbles of gas.

I decided to be as sickly as I could for as long as possible.

I fretted and fretted about Laura. I turned Winifred’s story about her this way and that, looking at it from every angle. I couldn’t quite believe it, but I couldn’t disbelieve it either.

Laura had always had one enormous power: the power to break things without meaning to. Nor had she ever been a respecter of territories. What was mine was hers: my fountain pen, my cologne, my summer dress, my hat, my hairbrush. Had this catalogue expanded to include my unborn baby? However, if she was suffering from delusions—if she’d only been inventing things—why was it she’d invented precisely that?

But suppose on the other hand that Winifred was lying. Suppose Laura was as sane as she ever was. In that case, Laura had been telling the truth. And if Laura had been telling the truth, then Laura was pregnant. If there really was going to be a baby, what would become of it? And why hadn’t she told me about it, instead of telling some doctor, some stranger? Why hadn’t she asked me for help? I thought that over for some time. There could have been a good many reasons. My delicate condition would just have been one of them.

As for the father, whether imagined or real, there was only one man who was at all possible. It must be Alex Thomas.

But it couldn’t be. How could it?

I no longer knew how Laura would have answered these questions. She had become unknown to me, as unknown as the inside of your own glove is unknown when your hand is inside it. She was with me all the time, but I couldn’t look at her. I could only feel the shape of her presence: a hollow shape, filled with my own imaginings.

Months went by. It was June, then July, then August. Winifred said I was looking white and drained. I should spend more time outside, she said. If I would not take up tennis or golf, as she’d repeatedly suggested—it might do something about that little tummy of mine, which ought to be seen to before it became chronic—I could at least work on my rock garden. It was an occupation that accorded well with motherhood.

I was not fond of my rock garden, which was mine in name only, like so much else. (Like “my” baby come to think of it: surely a changeling, surely something left by the gypsies; surely my real baby—one that cried less and smiled more, and was not so pungent—had been spirited away.) The rock garden was similarly resistant to my ministrations; nothing I did to it pleased it at all. Its rocks made a good show—there was a lot of pink granite, along with the limestone—but I couldn’t get anything to grow in it.

I contented myself with books—
Perennials for the Rock Garden, Desert Succulents for Northern Climes,
and the like. I went through such books, making lists—lists of what I might plant, or else lists of what I had indeed already planted; what ought to have been growing, but was not. Dragon’s blood, snow-on-the-mountain, hen-and-chickens. I liked the names, but didn’t care much for the plants themselves.

“I don’t have a green thumb,” I said to Winifred. “Not like you.” My pretense of incompetence had now become second nature to me, I scarcely had to think about it. Winifred on her part had ceased to find my fecklessness altogether convenient.

“Well, of course you have to make
some
effort,” she would say. At which I would produce my dutiful lists of dead plants.

“The rocks are pretty,” I said. “Can’t we just call it a sculpture?”

I thought of setting off on my own to see Laura. I could leave Aimee with the new nursemaid, whom I thought of as Miss Murgatroyd—all our servants were Murgatroyds to my mind, they were all in cahoots. But no, the nursemaid would alert Winifred. I could defy them all; I could sneak off one morning, take Aimee with me; we could go on the train. But the train to where? I didn’t know where Laura was—where she had been stashed away. The Bella Vista Clinic was said to be up north somewhere, but
up north
covered a lot of territory. I rummaged around in Richard’s desk, the one in his study at the house, but found no letters from this clinic. He must have been keeping them at the office.

One day Richard came home early. He seemed quite disturbed. Laura was no longer at Bella Vista, he said.

How could that be? I asked.

A man had arrived, he said. This man claimed to be Laura’s lawyer, or acting on her behalf. He was a trustee, he said—a trustee of Miss Chase’s trust fund. He’d challenged the authority by which she had been placed in Bella Vista. He had threatened legal action. Did I know anything about these proceedings?

No, I did not. (I kept my hands folded in my lap. I expressed surprise, and mild interest. I did not express glee.) And then what happened? I asked.

The director of Bella Vista had been absent, the staff had been confused. They had let her go, in custody of this man. They had judged that the family would wish to avoid undue publicity. (The lawyer had threatened some of this.)

Well, I said, I guess they did the right thing.

Yes, said Richard, no doubt; but was Laura
compos mentis?
For her own good, for her own
safety,
we should at least determine that. Although on the surface of things she’d appeared calmer, the staff at Bella Vista had their doubts. Who knew what danger to herself or others she might pose if allowed to run around at large?

I didn’t happen by any chance to know where she was?

I did not.

I hadn’t heard from her?

I had not.

I wouldn’t hesitate to inform him, in that eventuality?

I would not hesitate. Those were my very words. It was a sentence without an object, and therefore not technically a lie.

I let a judicious amount of time go past, and then I set off to Port Ticonderoga, on the train, to consult Reenie. I invented a telephone call: Reenie was not in good health, I explained to Richard, and she wanted to see me again before something happened. I gave the impression that she was at death’s door. She’d appreciate a photograph of Aimee, I said; she’d want to have a chat about old times. It was the least I could do. After all, she’d practically brought us up. Brought me up, I corrected, to divert Richard’s attention away from the thought of Laura.

I arranged to see Reenie at Betty’s Luncheonette. (She had a telephone by then, she was holding her own in the world.) That would be best, she said. She was still working there, part-time, but we could meet after her hours were up. Betty’s had new owners, she said; the old owners wouldn’t have liked her sitting out front like a paying customer, even if she was paying, but the new ones had figured out that they needed all the paying customers they could get.

Betty’s had gone severely downhill. The striped awning was gone, the dark booths looked scratched and tawdry. The smell was no longer of fresh vanilla, but of rancid grease. I was overdressed, I realized. I shouldn’t have worn my white fox neckpiece. What had been the point of showing off, under the circumstances?

I didn’t like the look of Reenie: she was too puffy, too yellow, she was breathing a little too heavily. Perhaps she really wasn’t in good health: I wondered if I should ask. “Good to take the weight off my feet,” she said as she subsided into the booth across from me.

Myra—how old were you, Myra? You must have been three or four, I’ve lost count—Myra was with her. Her cheeks were red with excitement, her eyes were round and slightly bulged out, as if she were being gently strangled.

“I’ve told her all about you,” said Reenie fondly. “The both of you.” Myra wasn’t too interested in me, I have to say, but she was intrigued by the foxes around my neck. Children of that age usually like furry animals, even if dead.

“You’ve seen Laura,” I said, “or talked with her?”

“Least said, soonest mended,” said Reenie, glancing around her, as if even here the walls might have ears. I saw no need for such caution.

“I suppose it was you who organized the lawyer?” I said.

Reenie looked wise. “I did what was required,” she said. “Anyways, that lawyer was your mother’s second cousin’s husband, he was family in a way. So he saw the point of it, once I knew what was going on, that is.”

“How did you know?” I was saving
what did you know
for later.

“She wrote me,” said Reenie. “Said she wrote you, but never got an answer. She wasn’t allowed to be mailing any letters as such, but the cook helped her out. Laura sent her the money for it afterwards, and a little extra.”

“I didn’t get any letter,” I said.

“That’s what she figured. She figured they’d seen to that.”

I knew? who was meant
by they.
“I suppose she came here,” I said.

“Where else would she go?” said Reenie. “The poor creature. After all she’d been through.”

“What had she been through?” I very much wanted to know; at the same time I dreaded it. Laura could be fabricating, I told myself. Laura could be suffering from delusions. That couldn’t be ruled out.

Reenie had ruled it out, however: no matter what story Laura had told her, she’d believed it. I doubted that it was the same story I’d heard. I doubted especially that there had been a baby in it, in any shape or form. “There’s children present, so I won’t go into it,” she said. She nodded at Myra, who was gobbling up a slice of grisly pink cake and staring at me as if she wanted to lick me. “If I told you all of it you wouldn’t sleep at night. The only comfort is that you had no part in it. That’s what she said.”

“She said that?” I was relieved to hear it. Richard and Winifred had been cast as the monsters then, and I’d been excused—on the grounds of moral feebleness, no doubt. Though I could tell Reenie hadn’t entirely forgiven me for having been so careless as to let all of this happen. (Once Laura had gone off the bridge, she forgave me even less. In her view I must have had something to do with it. She was cool to me after that. She died begrudgingly.)

“She oughtn’t to have been put in such a place at all, a young girl like her,” said Reenie. “No matter what. Men walking around with their trousers undone, all kinds of goings-on. Shameful!”

“Will they bite?” said Myra, reaching for my foxes.

“Don’t touch that,” said Reenie. “With your sticky little fingers.”

“No,” I said. “They’re not real. See, they have glass eyes. They only bite their own tails.”

“She said, if only you’d known, you’d never have left her in there,” said Reenie. “Supposing you’d known. She said whatever else, you weren’t heartless.” She frowned sideways, at the glass of water. She had her doubts on that score. “Potatoes was what they ate there, mostly,” she said. “Mashed and boiled, she said. Skimped on the food, took the bread out of the mouths of the poor nutcases and loony birds in there. Lining their own pockets, is my guess.”