The Book of Eve Read online

  So my solitary confinement has been pretty hard to distinguish from death itself. Oh, hell — if You’ll pardon the expression — that sounds emotional and exaggerated, but You know what I mean. God, I hate whiners, and even to You I won’t snivel with self-pity.

  It would have been different if my life before Burt got arthritis had been full of colour and interest and the richness of love and loving. But if You don’t mind my saying so, I got a damn small share of those things, so small that coming up to my seventieth year I couldn’t help feeling both cheated and panicky.

  Well, that’s my case. Does it make any sense to You? I hope so, because, Sir, I’d like You to respect me, even if You disapprove. And I’d be glad if You could give a bit of advice on what to do with my freedom, now I’ve stolen it. Hoping to hear from You in the near future,

  I remain,

  Yours disobediently,

  Eva.

  Which would be all very well if God ever answered His mail.

  Naturally it was raining by the time light came. My headache had bloomed into a fine specimen and my back-muscles gave a thin scream every time I moved. Not moving at all would have been easy, but lying still encouraged the old thinking and counting, and built up much depression. Now those indignant self-reproaches I thought I’d escaped saw their chance to come around and put their tongues out at me. Worst of all was the nagging voice of common sense, asking things like How could you leave, if not home, all that good walnut and mahogany furniture, specially the corner cabinet and the spinet desk so lovingly restored … the Lawren Harris, the Lismer drawing, the sterling flatware, even the worn Oriental rugs that still glowed — how could you leave all that, not to mention your status as respectable wife, mother, and grandmother? Even your identity you’ve left behind like rubbish. Surely you must have had some kind of brain-storm.

  Lying there, feet cold, I thought, “It’s true. Go home, you crazy old cow. Tell everybody you’re sorry. This is impossible. What do you think you’re doing in this awful basement?”

  And of course I could then hear Burt’s pedantic voice adding the accountant’s viewpoint. “Just how do you propose to live on seventy-eight dollars a month? Because you can hardly expect me to contribute, can you, to a wife who just walks off like that, without a word? Sulking, I suppose, because I won’t sell this house and move into some cardboard apartment at a ridiculous rent. You’ve always been secretive. And foolish with money. Hold on here and this place will double in value the next ten years. And of course by Quebec law I’m not bound to support you unless you live under my roof. Well, you can’t live on the pension cheque, and at your age you can hardly expect to get a job. All your life you’ve been spoiled, protected. Live on seventy-eight a month! What about shoes and drugs and dentists? Some people might manage it, perhaps, but not you.”

  Meekly I conceded the perfect truth of all this. Furthermore, I could admit now that this place was more humble than home. Last night (though I’d pretended not to) I distinctly saw a bug slide away down the sink-drain. Rain had leaked in for years at the window over my head, leaving a long rusty stain on the wall. The air smelled of dust and tomcats and furnace oil. By daylight the room, with its battered old furniture, looked sordid as a waiting-room in hell. It might be possible to fix the place up — if you had a few thousand dollars — but my bank account contained exactly thirty-nine dollars. I hadn’t even had the wits to bring along my few pieces of jewellery to sell. (But maybe Burt would send them along … they were my own. And some of my shoes …)

  It was only seven o’clock, but I got up and began to dress, very slowly because of the headache and the stiff back, both of which instantly got worse. It would take only a few minutes to pack up and phone home. He would be sour and vindictive, but what was new about that? I’d accepted it for over forty years.

  “No, Burt, I never really liked you,” a surprised, rude little voice said inside me. “I married you because I wanted to be married and I wanted children. The ring, the bed, the security. But you I never really liked. And I suspect the same may be true on your side. It’s just habit or inertia or cowardice that’s kept us together all this time.” I groped for a chair to put on my stockings, and depression like a lead weight seemed to push me into it. “And yet he’s always been what people call a good husband, a good provider. Perfectly faithful. Right, always, about everything concrete and unimportant. Thrifty. Decent. Not ungenerous in some ways. In fact now, he might … he just might … if only he’d send me the diamond rings, even, that were Gran’s. They might bring as much as five hundred … they’re mine, after all, he can’t keep them, can he?”

  “Of course he can. He can do anything he likes.”

  And so could I.

  With that, my headache vanished, as if turned off by a switch. I stood up stiffly and finished dressing. Tomorrow, or whenever the rain stopped, I would take the bus and go to the bank. Bug-killer and putty and a broom wouldn’t cost a fortune. Nor would a phone call. Not to Burt. I still had the sore back, and the very thought of a little chat with Burt was enough to start the headache on the road back. But I would ring Neil right away. Poor boy. A pity to drag him into this, but I had no choice. He might be able to get more out of his father than I could. It was worth trying. At the very least, I had to let them both know I was all right.

  “Neil?” (At the office, not at home, in case Elegance should frown.)

  “Mother, for God’s sake, is it you? Where are you?”

  “Now just a minute —”

  “Just a minute, Mum — Sheila, I don’t want to be disturbed — just ask Kalmer to wait — now, Mum. Are you all right?”

  Dear Neil, voice gentle under the hectoring edge of worry. It was really a pity I had to do this to him.

  “I’m fine, dear. Sorry if you worried. But Neil, I want to ask you —”

  “Mother, I’ve been worried sick. Where the hell are you? I called everybody I could think of last night, nobody knew a thing, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to the police. And as for Dad, he’s fit to be tied.”

  Rather shamefaced grin. “I’ll bet he is.”

  “But where are you? Was there some kind of row? What made you just take off like that, without a word to anybody?”

  “I don’t know, really. Neil, what I want to ask you is —”

  “Well, of course I know things have never been exactly idyllic with you and Dad, but I never thought — I mean after all these years —”

  “That’s it, maybe, dear. All those years.”

  “But Mum, he’s really upset. I don’t think you — I’ve never seen him like this. Of course he’s started a bad attack; I had to get a nurse in this morning. But the thing is, whatever’s wrong can surely be put right. He cares a lot about you, you must know that.”

  Meant to keep this conversation strictly matter-of-fact, but perspiring now under the arms like a surgeon with his first patient on the table.

  “Neil, I don’t want to go into all that. There’s no point really. All I want to say is, I don’t intend to go back. What I called for was to let you know I’m all right, not dead yet or anything. And to ask if you’d please get me some of my things from the house.”

  “Some of your things! But Mum —”

  “Yes, my shoes, for instance —”

  “But Mum —”

  “Dear, I do wish you wouldn’t keep on quacking ‘But Mum.’ Your father will get on quite well with a practical nurse or a housekeeper. The price will half kill him, but I can’t help that. I am not going back. That’s quite final. But I need some of my things rather badly, like my extra shoes, and if you could also get hold of my bits of jewellery —”

  “Mother, listen, you’ll feel completely different in a day or two, I know you will. Dad’s irritable, he says sharp things; but you know perfectly well he … of course what you need is a little change and rest. He knows that as well as I do. Why don’t you go off to New York for a week or so and see some bright lights? Or have a little whirl in Florida
? You haven’t had a holiday in years, really. I’d be glad to provide the —”

  “No. I mean, no thanks.” Why is it, I wondered crossly, that truly good people like my son seem able to speak only in clichés.

  “But Mum —”

  Sigh. “Neil, all I want is my shoes.”

  “But Mother, you can’t just — look here, where are you? I’ll come along and pick you up for lunch and we can —”

  “No. Thanks, dear, but no.”

  A baffled pause at the other end. Mustering of forces mutually.

  “Whether you like it or not, Mum, I’ll have to see you, we’ve got to discuss this thing. Why won’t you tell me where you are? It isn’t reasonable — you’ve got to —”

  “No, it isn’t reasonable. I’m sorry, Neil.”

  “Wait a second — don’t ring off for God’s sake. Look, how are you off for money?”

  “Oh, I have a bit tucked away in the bank. Enough for a while.” That sounded grand; quite airy and confident.

  “For a while. But then what? All you’ve got of your own is the pension. And you can’t possibly live on that. And then how is Dad going to manage without you? How can you have the heart —”

  There are times when I remember that Neil is Burt’s son, all right.

  “Are we talking about hearts or cash here? If it’s money, I was hoping you might persuade your father to give me a little every month. But if he won’t, I’ll find some way to manage. I am not going back to him, for that or any other reason.”

  Another pause.

  “Of course I’ll speak to Dad about it. But he’s not very likely to —”

  “No, I know. Well, I have no resources to go after a legal separation or anything like that; but I did think we might between us settle what’s fair. For the last eighteen years, after all, with that arthritis of his, I’ve waited on the man hand and foot and got nothing much more for it than my room and board. But I simply won’t whine to you … forget all that. Only perhaps you could discuss it with him, a small allowance. Even fifty dollars a month would make all the difference. But make no mistake about it, I won’t go back.”

  Long speech. Heart banging unpleasantly. Silence at the other end. My poor Neil. Peace-maker, always defeated, like all the gentle compromisers.

  “And if you could just pack up the rest of my clothes and things, and the little velvet jewel box in my top drawer …”

  “But Mum —” One last feeble quack.

  “I’ll call you again — say on Friday.” (That would give Burt time for two tantrums and a recovery — perhaps.)

  “That’s nearly a week —”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, Mum, can you manage all right? Let me give you some cash at least, to have by you. And for God’s sake tell me where you’re staying.”

  “No, I’m perfectly all right for money, and it’s better this way. Just have a talk with your father and I’ll call you Friday.”

  But peace-makers have their own weapons. Before I could hang up, he said, “Mum, I want you to know how much this is hurting him, his pride — and it’s a worry for me too, if that matters. And Kim has been really upset.”

  Not fair, not fair. Lovely Kim at fourteen with her long nut-brown hair and shy eyes (and silly dog’s name, the mother’s trendy choice, of course) — a low blow to bring my Kim into this and make tremors start climbing up my legs again. Would she think of me with scorn now I’ve become a sort of geriatric hippie?

  “I’ll call Friday,” I said quickly and hung up.

  For a minute I stayed in the stuffy phone booth, just breathing in and out and staring down at my rain-stained shoes. Then I tugged the door open and trudged slowly up the street, back to my hole. Rain the whole way. But as I unlocked Mrs. MacNab’s door I thought, Well, he did leave one out; that’s something — “You’ll Live to Regret This.” For some reason that cheered me up a bit.

  It rained with such religious fervour all week that it wasn’t till Friday that I went along to the bank to close my account. A nervous business, going along that familiar street, dreading an encounter with neighbours. Luckily I saw no one I knew in the bank and, hurrying to the bus-stop with my coat-collar well turned up, thought I’d made a clean getaway. But ahead of me in a cluster of people at the traffic light, I caught sight of tall, thin-as-a-pole Janet Gordon from next door, and my heart immediately jumped into the top of my mouth.

  At once I began to sidle out of the group, but she never glanced back my way, being absorbed in chat with a friend. And I paused in my flight, because what I could hear of the chat turned out, entertainingly, to be about me.

  “— after all those years — more devoted husband never lived — of course you know I always — something odd — never would join any clubs or groups — once told me she’d rather be grilled alive than play bridge. Frivolous. But I do feel sorry for him, poor soul.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Florida. Took all his bonds with her.”

  “How awful,” said the friend sincerely.

  The light changed and I dropped farther behind, trying to rearrange my face, which had already attracted the attention of two cheeky little boys. In Florida! Who would ever have credited Janet with so much creative imagination! And that touch about the bonds was perfect. So much more impressive and believable than the truth, as art should always be. And who knows — maybe a wish-fulfilment of Janet’s own. Her husband had a model railway in the basement and false teeth that clicked.

  Much diverted as long as these reflections lasted. Soon I climbed aboard an eastbound bus and relaxed, settling down for the long ride with the content of one who has avoided unpleasantness successfully, without at all deserving to.

  The days became long, then, and the nights longer.

  Having no one to talk to was the biggest change. Communication between me and Burt of course used to take place at the lowest level of exchange — we traded in nothing but the smallest of talk, expertly manoeuvring, always, to avoid a row. “Colder today.” “Too much salt in this. Can’t you —” “We need potatoes.” “The paper boy’s late.” Hardly stimulating dialogue. But not to speak out loud a single word, for two days at a time, as I’ve more than once done since the move — a very odd feeling grew, as if I were isolated on some forgotten island, or walking mute through someone else’s dream. There were times when I wondered if I were real.

  I hardly ever saw the other occupants of the MacNab house. Most of them no doubt went dutifully off to jobs every morning, while I sat up reading or scribbling or thinking most of the night, and slept all morning. There was an ancient couple in the front rooms; they inched out cautiously in the noon sun, tall her holding short him gingerly by the arm, both old parchment faces set with effort. They never spoke, though he always lifted a tremulous hand to his hat. Another old gaffer in a belted overcoat to his heels often hurried in and out talking to himself in some impenetrable foreign language. A harried young mother came and went, too, hauling along two grimy toddlers; but she had nothing to say that wasn’t said better by her look of controlled desperation. She never said a word to the kids either, except by way of a jerk or push. Somewhere up on the top floor lived a couple of smart-jacketed queers, but they spoke only to each other and to their prancing poodle.

  Only Mrs. MacNab, surprisingly, turned out to be a compulsive talker, though she had just two topics. One was her son, Findlay, an old young man who seemed to spend most of his life putting out garbage. The other was their joint struggle with all the problems and hardships of running the house, keeping it clean, paying the taxes, collecting the rents, and so on and on and on. Soon I learned to time my entrances and exits to those intervals when she was emptying suds. Better silence than some kinds of conversation. But it all made for a lot of introspection; and being so totally alone with myself was not always comfortable.

  Thinking about abstract things is something no woman willingly does, and I had no intention of beginning now. But somehow all kinds of speculati
ons drifted along in my solitude, specially after dark. I was no nearer after a week than I’d been at the beginning to understanding exactly what made me walk out of my snug middle-class security into this place. But I did a lot of rather vague and muddled thinking about my life generally, trying to see if it made any kind of pattern or sense. Very hard to find much of either.

  This century and I are about the same age, so it would be easy, even if not really true, to say I’m a typical twentieth-century product of desiccated moral codes. Or a victim of its two diseases, comfort and boredom. But it’s so unflattering to be a product or a victim. No, if I’m a product at all it’s of the nineteenth century, which in many ways hasn’t ended yet. Brought up to believe in the Christian ethos, vaguely accept its preposterous claim, and at the same time, with no strong sense of irony, live by the Victorian motto — Possess, or Prosper, or something like that. Certainly I lived by that contradictory code, going to church, teaching school, marrying Burt; yes, it divided me even in the midst of all that business I thought of as love with Pat. If I had a coherent motive through it all, it was acquisitive: collect, invest, and then count the interest, as if some time or other the thing of value would come along, and I could then buy it.

  And then, without warning, I walked out. (And have been feverishly counting over your money ever since, you old fool.) Since then I’ve been sitting in parks with the bowing pigeons. Or walking around the streets looking in the windows of pawnshops and second-hand clothing stores and Chinese restaurants. Perfectly idle and pointless days. I eat hunched over a book at the kitchen table, careless of crumbs, belches, or noisy chewings. My hair needs doing and funds are too low for that. Have to renew the pressure pills, which leaves so little of my dwindling cash that I don’t dare buy so much as a toothpick. My shoes finally dried out after their second drenching (the damn rain never stopped all week), but they’re stiff and shrivelled now, hurt my corns a lot, and interfere plenty with philosophical reflection. All I know for sure is that being alone like this, holed up in a dusty basement, is something of value, and I’ll never go back.