Part 3 (1/2)
The first thing you had to wonder was whether her whole body had been transformed in the same way.
”How amazing,” said Joyce, as neutrally as possible.
”Well, I don't know how amazing it is, but it would have cost a pile of money if I'd had to pay for it,” Edie said. ”That's what I was into at one time. What I'm showing it to you for is that some people would object to it. Like supposing I got hot in the shed and had to work in my s.h.i.+rt.”
”Not us,” said Joyce, and looked at Jon. He shrugged.
She asked Edie if she would like a cup of coffee.
”No, thank you.” Edie was putting her s.h.i.+rt back on. ”A lot of people at AA, they just seem like they live on coffee. What I say to them, I say, Why are you changing one bad habit for another?”
”Extraordinary,” Joyce said later. ”You feel that no matter what you said she might give you a lecture. I didn't dare inquire about the virgin birth.”
Jon said, ”She's strong. That's the main thing. I took a look at her arms.”
When Jon says ”strong” he means just what the word used to mean. He means she could carry a beam.
While Jon works he listens to CBC Radio. Music, but also news, commentaries, phone-ins. He sometimes reports Edie's opinions on what they have listened to.
Edie does not believe in evolution.
(There had been a phone-in program in which some people objected to what was being taught in the schools.) Why not?
”Well, it's because in those Bible countries,” Jon said, and then he switched into his firm monotonous Edie voice, ”in those Bible countries they have a lot of monkeys and the monkeys were always swinging down from the trees and that's how people got the idea that monkeys just swung down and turned into people.”
”But in the first place-” said Joyce.
”Never mind. Don't even try. Don't you know the first rule about arguing with Edie? Never mind and shut up.”
Edie also believed that big medical companies knew the cure for cancer, but they had a bargain with doctors to keep the information quiet because of the money they and the doctors made.
When ”Ode to Joy” was played on the radio she had Jon shut it off because it was so awful, like a funeral.
Also, she thought Jon and Joyce-well, really Joyce-should not leave wine bottles with wine in them right out in sight on the kitchen table.
”That's her business?” said Joyce.
”Apparently she thinks so.”
”When does she get to examine our kitchen table?”
”She has to go through to the toilet. She can't be expected to p.i.s.s in the bush.”
”I really don't see what business-”
”And sometimes she comes in and makes a couple of sandwiches for us-”
”So? It's my kitchen. Ours.”
”It's just that she feels so threatened by the booze. She's still pretty fragile. It's a thing you and I can't understand.”
Threatened. Booze. Fragile.
What words were these for Jon to use?
She should have understood, and at that moment, even if he himself was nowhere close to knowing. He was falling in love.
Falling. That suggests some time span, a slipping under. But you can think of it as a speeding up, a moment or a second when you fall. Now Jon is not in love with Edie. Tick. Now he is. No way this could be seen as probable or possible, unless you think of a blow between the eyes, a sudden calamity. The stroke of fate that leaves a man a cripple, the wicked joke that turns clear eyes into blind stones.
Joyce set about convincing him that he was mistaken. He had so little experience of women. None, except for her. They had always thought that experimenting with various partners was childish, adultery was messy and destructive. Now she wondered, Should he have played around more?
And he had spent the dark winter months shut up in his workshop, exposed to the confident emanations of Edie. It was comparable to getting sick from bad ventilation.
Edie would drive him crazy, if he went ahead and took her seriously.
”I've thought of that,” he said. ”Maybe she already has.”
Joyce said that was stupid adolescent talk, making himself out to be dumbstruck, helpless.
”What do you think you are, some knight of the Round Table? Somebody slipped you a potion?”
Then she said she was sorry. The only thing to do, she said, was to take this up as a shared program. Valley of the shadow. To be seen someday as a mere glitch in the course of their marriage.
”We will ride this out,” she said.
Jon looked at her distantly, even kindly.
”There is no 'we,'” he said.
How could this have happened? Joyce asks it of Jon and of herself and then of others. A heavy-striding heavy-witted carpenter's apprentice in baggy pants and flannel s.h.i.+rts and-as long as the winter lasted-a dull thick sweater flecked with sawdust. A mind that plods inexorably from one cliche or foolishness to the next and proclaims every step of the journey to be the law of the land. Such a person has eclipsed Joyce with her long legs and slim waist and long silky braid of dark hair. Her wit and her music and the second-highest IQ.
”I'll tell you what I think it was,” says Joyce. This is later on, when the days have lengthened and the dandles of swamp lilies flame in the ditches. When she went to teach music wearing tinted gla.s.ses to hide eyes that were swollen from weeping and drinking, and instead of driving home after work drove to Willingdon Park where she hoped Jon would come looking for her, fearing suicide. (He did that, but only once.) ”I think it was that she'd been on the streets,” she said. ”Prost.i.tutes get themselves tattooed for business reasons, and men are aroused by that sort of thing. I don't mean the tattoos-well that too, of course, they're aroused by that too-I mean the fact of having been for sale. All that availability and experience. And now reformed. It's your f.u.c.king Mary Magdalene, that's what it is. And he's such an infant s.e.xually, it all makes you sick.”
She has friends now to whom she can talk like this. They all have stories. Some of them she knew before, but not as she knows them now. They confide and drink and laugh till they cry. They say they can't believe it. Men. What they do. It's so sick and stupid. You can't believe it.
That's why it's true.
In the midst of this talk Joyce feels all right. Really all right. She says that she is actually having moments in which she feels grateful to Jon, because she feels more alive now than ever before. It is terrible but wonderful. A new beginning. Naked truth. Naked life.
But when she woke up at three or four in the morning she wondered where she was. Not in their house anymore. Edie was in that house now. Edie and her child and Jon. This was a switch that Joyce herself had favored, thinking it might bring Jon to his senses. She moved to an apartment in town. It belonged to a teacher who was on a sabbatical. She woke in the night with the vibrating pink lights of the restaurant sign across the street flas.h.i.+ng through her window, illuminating the other teacher's Mexican doodads. Pots of cacti, dangling cat's eyes, blankets with stripes the color of dried blood. All that drunken insight, that exhilaration, cast out of her like vomit. Aside from that, she was not hungover. She could wallow in lakes of alcohol, it seemed, and wake up dry as cardboard, flattened.
Her life gone. A commonplace calamity.
The truth was that she was still drunk, though feeling dead sober. She was in danger of getting into her car and driving out to the house. Not of driving into a ditch, because her driving at such times became very slow and sedate, but of parking in the yard outside the dark windows and crying out to Jon that they simply must stop this.
Stop this. This is not right. Tell her to go away.
Remember we slept in the field and woke up and the cows were munching all around us and we hadn't known they were there the night before. Remember was.h.i.+ng in the ice-cold creek. We were picking mushrooms up on Vancouver Island and flying back to Ontario and selling them to pay for the trip when your mother was sick and we thought she was dying. And we said, What a joke, we're not even druggies, we're on an errand of filial piety.
The sun came up and the Mexican colors began to blare at her in their enhanced hideousness, and after a while she got up and washed and slashed her cheeks with rouge and drank coffee that she made strong as mud and put on some of her new clothes. She had bought new flimsy tops and fluttering skirts and earrings decked with rainbow feathers. She went out to teach music in the schools, looking like a Gypsy dancer or a c.o.c.ktail waitress. She laughed at everything and flirted with everybody. With the man who cooked her breakfast in the diner downstairs and the boy who put gas in her car and the clerk who sold her stamps in the post office. She had some idea that Jon would hear about how pretty she looked, how s.e.xy and happy, how she was simply bowling over all the men. As soon as she went out of the apartment she was on a stage, and Jon was the essential, if secondhand, spectator. Although Jon had never been taken in by showy looks or flirty behavior, had never thought that was what made her attractive. When they travelled they had often made do with a common wardrobe. Heavy socks, jeans, dark s.h.i.+rts, Windbreakers.