The Equations of Love (25 page)

“Well,” said Lilly coolly, “handsome is as handsome does. As long as he’s good to Eleanor …” and she nearly burst with pride, but not even the Matron could guess that.

T
hree times following the marriage of Eleanor and Paul, Lilly spent her two weeks’ annual holiday with them, and then she went no more. Paul, rather than Eleanor, divined some uneasiness in this silent woman his mother-in-law in spite of the welcome she received. During the day-time Lilly helped her daughter in the house, or went with her shopping, or went to a show. Or Lilly was taken to the houses of friends or Eleanor’s friends came to tea. Lilly could find nothing to talk about. She had nothing to say. She felt that as Eleanor’s mother she reflected no credit on Eleanor, and that weighed upon her. At the hospital one never made conversation for conversation’s sake. But all these pleasant girls and women seemed to relate experiences which to Lilly were irrelevant. She was not at ease and she did not enjoy herself. In the evening, there they were, Paul reading or working, Eleanor reading or sewing or talking to her mother, Lilly sitting. She wished she had her rocker. She wished she had a movie magazine. Paul and Eleanor did not seem to have any movie magazines. She had looked through the magazines of which there were a great many but the names were unknown
to her – hardly a picture in the lot. She did not like to buy herself a movie magazine. So she sat, and because she had nothing to do, she sucked her teeth absent-mindedly. Then, sometimes, Paul closed his books, looked up and said “Who wants some fresh air? Anyone want to go for a drive?” and that was better, for then they drove round the park under the trees, and saw the lights come out on the Lions’ Gate Bridge and on the opposite shore. That was much better, for there was no constraint. But the next evening there they were again, sitting, and Lilly sucked her teeth in despair, or someone came in and they sat talking, talking about goodness knows what, and that was worse.

One afternoon Lilly came out of her bedroom door, moving quietly as usual, just as Paul came in and ran up the stairs. He ran up calling “Nora!” and Eleanor came quickly out of their bedroom. They did not see Lilly, but Lilly, standing in her doorway, saw Eleanor come up to her husband with her face raised, and on her face a revealed look that Lilly had never seen on Eleanor’s face nor on any face. Eleanor’s face was changed and radiant. For a moment the husband and wife looked at each other. They did not speak. Then they kissed. Paul remained with his arms around his wife and his face to hers. They were alone, and this moment had revealed their felicity. What was it all about? All that had happened was that Paul had come home to dinner. Was there some special secret life that these two led together, of which other people had no knowledge? There was. Of that Lilly felt sure, as, quickly, having seen what she had seen, she stepped back into her room and quietly closed the door. She sat down on her bed, shaken by her daughter’s look. She had lived for nearly fifty years, and she had never seen this thing before. So this was love, each for each, and she had never known it. And this secret life
of love went on in this house and she had never seen it before. She was outside it.

The third year that Lilly stayed with her children, Eleanor had a maid. Lilly had less than ever to do, and time hung very heavily. She felt that the maid thought poorly of Mrs. Lowry’s mother and this disturbed her. If it were
my
home and
my
maid, she thought, it would be kinda different.

Each time she returned home to her cottage in the Valley, it was with a sense of relief. After her third visit the Matron had a severe attack of arthritis which resulted in lameness and a great deal of pain. Lilly did what she could to relieve the Matron, but it was plain that the Matron suffered a great deal. Matron looks older, thought Lilly. And then she realized that Matron
was
older, and she – Lilly – was older too, and she and Matron had worked together for nearly a quarter of a century, and something like this – arthritis, or a fall or one of those things – might happen to Lilly too. The Matron confided that she was very worried. She had been careful all these years, and had saved, but she helped to support her mother, who still lived. If she kept well and could work until she was sixty-five, and could continue to save, she would be secure – or almost secure. “That’s it, for a woman,” said the Matron with unusual bitterness, “work, work, work, save and scrimp, and then arthritis and then old age and what do you get out of life?” Lilly, who had begun to have a nice little savings account in the bank in the village, now saved to the point of meanness. Her only luxury was her visit to town; a visit, it was true, but it had begun to cost money.

“Darling,” Eleanor had said, “do you know you’re letting yourself go a bit? And you’re really so pretty! You should have your hair styled while you’re in town.”

“Styled? What’s styled?” asked Lilly. And she had not gone to have her hair styled. But she had bought a new hat to do Eleanor and Paul credit, and she had bought a long unnecessary dress for the same reason and somehow it looked wrong. Eleanor had wanted to pay for it but that Lilly would not allow. And she had given the maid a preposterous tip out of pride, and she had paid visits to the dentist. The last trip had cost her over two hundred dollars. She was horrified. She would not go again.

Over and above all reasons was another. While living in the Valley she never thought of Lilly Waller. But in Vancouver, fear was with her (like a taste, or a smell) that some day, in the town, someone who had known young Lilly Waller in her vagrant years would look at her, and look again, and would come up and say to her “Say, aren’t you Lilly Waller? I remember you!” It was not likely, but it was possible. In the night she would wake and smell this fear, and the sweat would break out upon her as she thought, not of herself, but of Eleanor, and Paul, and their secret life, and the children that they would some day have. She would not come again.

It was easy enough. Safe in the Valley she could write, or she could telephone. She could explain “I’m going to stay home this year and take time and cover my chesterfield and chair. You come along up and see me.” Or she might say “Matron’s arthritis is not so good. I guess I’ll take my holiday later this year,” and then she would not take a holiday at all. And her small bank account grew. When Eleanor had one boy, and then another, and then another, Lilly had, after all, to go to town to see each new baby, but she could not be induced to stay unless she was needed for a few days in the house. The oldest boy was christened Walter Hughes Lowry
which was a nice tribute to Walter Hughes. Lilly loved the boys in a way, but she was not a grandmother by nature.

One evening in the last brilliance before twilight Lilly was standing at the sink in her cottage kitchen. She gave the sink a final wipe. It was pearly clean. She wrung the dishcloth quickly and neatly, looking out of the window at the late sunshine as she did so. A man was crossing the yard that divided her cottage from the hospital. He walked with a swaggering gait, a swaggering roll. He had a cigar in his mouth. He removed it. He spat. He put the cigar back into his mouth. Walking slowly with his swaggering gait, he looked as would a stranger from side to side of the hospital yard, from the hospital building to Lilly’s cottage and back to the hospital. Although he wore western clothes, Lilly saw that he was Chinese. His hat, tilted sideways and backwards, revealed a drooping eyelid. Through his wide nostrils he blew cigar smoke. He was formidable. His face was insolent. Lilly, drawing back and back into the shade of her kitchen curtains like a silent animal withdrawing into the cover of the forest, saw, beyond any possibility of doubt, that this man was Yow.

W
hen Poor Lilly recognized the Chinaman, the import of what she saw caused her such terror that the blood rushed from her head and she fell like a stone. She began to gain consciousness, but the horror of what she had seen overwhelmed her and she sank back again. When at last she was able to raise herself she crawled towards the cottage door, reached up and bolted it. She at last rose dizzily to her feet. She drew herself into the bedroom, where she half fell upon the bed.

Year after year now she had lived in an obscurity that was so planned and safe that there were times when it seemed that the years of vagrancy had never been. They had become a dream and hardly a dream, yet a recurring dream. Her faked past had almost become her reality. She had forgotten the associates of her vagrant years, and here was Yow, the most dangerous, the most violent of them all. There was a bicycle, wasn’t there, and there were some underclothes. There was Yow in her room on Cordova Street. There was Yow at Lam Sing’s and the bicycle. There were other men. There was Lilly working at Lam Sing’s. There was the murky half-lit night of Chinatown.
There was the bicycle again. There were the police; the police! and Yow’s cries in the night, and Lilly hiding in the bushes, and Lilly running, running in the dark from the police, and the same Lilly now a desperate elderly woman.

Oh God, said Lilly aloud for the first time in her life, crouching on her bed, what shall I do? I done the best I could didn’t I and what’ll happen to me now? There’s Eleanor … and Paul … and Walter and little Paul and the baby and their swell home and their swell friends. If it wasn’t for them I’d just go and drown myself … but there’s Matron and all the folks … I done the best I could. Pain shot through her head. Did I hurt myself when I fell down, I guess I did. Lilly drew herself up on the bed (she could not think lying down) and the same support of boldness and hard sense that had saved her before began to be felt through the waves of sick terror and fear and pain.

I needn’t fool myself, she knew. I’ve changed some but he’d remember me sure. I guess he’s come after Wong’s job … I’d see him every day … I could wear black glasses but he’d know me – I knew him – and he’s the kind that wouldn’t have no mercy. She remembered more and more clearly the terrifying fondness on Yow’s violent face, and she remembered his words “I killem you,” and, she thought, I guess he went to jail and had time to learn to hate me plenty. She could see his derisive face, she could hear his contemptuous voice saying “This woman! I know she! She alla same my woman, she stealem bicycle, I go jail she stealem lady pant, stocking, dress, bicycle everything …” She could not face it out. He was too strong for her. Oh, she cried aloud again, God God
what
shall I do? It’s like I was in a trap. There’s not one person I can turn around to, not Matron and not Eleanor
and not Paul and those little kids, I gotta go on protecting them and I gotta go on by myself. I gotta get away … right away. And at the thought of what she had to find to do, at once, and at the thought of leaving those who were her life and all because of that vicious man whom she would destroy if she knew how, Lilly, who had never indulged herself in weeping, wept painfully, and wept hopelessly, and wept alone, in the dark of her room.

She felt weak, but she was determined, and, by the time that morning came, her plans were made and she had done with crying.

I
t was nearly ten o’clock the next morning when Lilly heard the tap that she knew would come on her door.

“Yes?” she called.

“It’s Ruthie, Mrs. Hughes,” said the voice of the young nurse-in-training. “Matron sent me over to see if you’re all right.”

“Wait,” said Lilly, and got slowly off the bed.

“Oh, Mrs. Hughes, what is it? You’re ill! Come back to bed,” said the girl, shocked at Lilly’s ravaged face.

Lilly gave herself a careless passing glance in the mirror and saw her face, pale, puffed, streaked with weeping and sleeplessness, and bruised on the forehead.

“No,” she said with a short laugh, “I’m not sick, Ruthie. I fell, I fainted I guess, and I had bad news from back East and I didn’t get much sleep. Ask Matron can she step over when she’s got a minute, and oh, Ruthie, get me a pair of dark glasses, the bigger the better, my head hurts and my eyes don’t seem to stand the light.”

In the evening Lilly caught the eastbound train at Mission. Before boarding the train she telephoned Eleanor
from the station telephone. She had not gone to the hospital all day. She would not run that risk.

“Eleanor,” she said, “that you? I’ve only got a minute. Now listen. Your Aunty Mabel’s sick, she’s living in Toronto now … I know … neither did I … I’d forgotten too … but she’s all alone and I got a letter from her yesterday that just broke me up. The doctor says she hasn’t got long, she might go right away or … and she says she’s gotta see me … no, now listen … she’s plenty of money it’s just she wants me
with
her … it was awful pathetic. Matron ran me down to the bank to see Mr. Walker and I drew money for my fare and he’ll wire some to the bank when I let him know … sure, I’ll be at Aunty Mabel’s place … I’ll wire you … I gotta go … the train’s coming in … give Paul my love and the boys … now don’t you worry … what’s that?” and Lilly hung up the telephone because she had to. For once she had made a long and hurried speech. She had said all she had to say and she could say no more. She had not telephoned earlier because she dared not risk Eleanor’s intervention. She said goodbye to Matron and took her seat in the train and smelt the unfamiliar train smell. She felt very tired. Had she covered up all her tracks? Yes, she thought she had. In the small change of daily living, Lilly gave and expected truth. But at the crises that misfortune had brought into her humble life ever since her childhood she had not scrupled to lie for expediency. And now as she dodged again, she lied again, and felt no guilt, only involvedness – a girl’s gotta live, hasn’t she? Sure, a girl’s gotta live.

Lilly resolutely turned to the new experience of travelling on the train. She would not look forward – yet. She could not plan her future – yet. She had got safely away, and that was enough. She dared not look backwards. Perhaps her own
cottage would stand there without her and she might never see it again; and Matron, bewildered as time went on, would be without her help; and Eleanor, whom she had moulded with infinite work and care, would continue her happy and sufficient life without her mother, anxious, of course, yet deceived and unaware … and for how long? She discovered bitterly how much she loved. She felt the strange taste of sorrow in her throat, and in her stomach the cold core of lead that only the desolate know.