The Pagan House Page 19

  Mrs Duckworth smiles at the transparency of her old suitor speaking through his current consort. Yet she makes no response. Her husband has been buried one year since; she continues to wear widow’s clothes. His portrait hangs over the mantelpiece and George Pagan doubts his competencies were a match for his widow’s. Weakness is betokened in the softness of his jaw, the wary lassitude in his eyes.

  Mrs Duckworth, the Hester Lovell of jealous myth, bows her head in this New Haven boarding-house parlour and shivers as if against the cold. Mary shivers too, in sympathy.

  ‘I shall call Sammy and ask him to build up the fire.’

  ‘Let us do it ourselves,’ says Mary Pagan, brightly.

  On her hands and knees, watched by Mrs Duckworth and Mr Pagan, she covers the embers with wood from the basket and blows life into the dying flames with her own breath. She is glad to be doing this, glad to be doing something beyond the duel of conversation. She must be doing something now, and if she were not repairing the fire, whose capacities she doubts to warm this chilly, dully green room, she feels she might be compelled to embrace Hester Lovell, to comfort her in her sadness and confusion and pride; and it is quite beyond Mary Pagan to predict the effect of an embrace upon her rival, whether it would coax her into intimacy or drive her further away; and it is quite beyond her too to understand which in her heart she would choose.

  ‘Please, do not misunderstand me. I am here merely to issue an invitation, in Mr Stone’s name and that of the Association, to visit us, in Onyataka.’

  It pains her to pronounce the name of her home to a perhaps enemy and Mrs Duckworth notices the weakness; and even if mistaking its source, it gives her the energy to resume the conflict.

  ‘Mr Stone is a married man, and if he has any such love for me as has been represented, then it is a sin in his heart. I had a dear, good husband and do not wish to extend my acquaintance in the direction of any gentleman, named or otherwise. I do not want a husband or a …’

  George looks away from the fire to see his wife’s adversary waving a hand towards the word that she will not say.

  Mary has no such compunction or shame. ‘The point is, not to help you to a husband or a lover, but to have you do the right thing by Christ and his gospel.’

  ‘I shall speak plainly too: I do not believe the Kingdom of God has come, and furthermore I do not believe in the abolition of marriage, no matter how suitable or congenial some might find it to live otherwise.’

  ‘Have you read our Annual Report?’

  ‘I have not, but I have heard it spoken disapprovingly of as at war with the Bible.’

  ‘Oh no. It is in the very spirit of it! Nothing can be more so. If you came to live with us at Onyataka’—here she steels herself to pronounce its name as casually as she may, without any motherly restraint or protectiveness—‘you would soon find out that we are at the beginning of the day when the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed.’

  Her own heart keeps no such secrets, not from Mr Stone, nor even from Mr Pagan, and not, it seems, from Mrs Duckworth, whose grey eyes steadily follow her from fireplace to chair.

  ‘And would you raise the dead also? Is there no end to Mr Stone’s miraculous accomplishments?’

  In truth, they have tried but, unsure of her ground, wary of the superciliousness of her rival, Mrs Pagan does not mention the Perfectionists’ attempts to push aside the veil that separates the inhabitants of the visible and invisible realms. They have had more success in healing the sick than quickening the dead.

  ‘We live in both the material and immaterial worlds,’ is how Mary contents herself with a response.

  ‘I am curious. This interview cannot be any more agreeable to you than to me. I would even suppose that it is less agreeable. Why did not Mr Stone come here himself? Why did he send you in his place?’

  It is a question that George has asked Mary. And they both know the answer even if they have left it unspoken: she is paying the price of free love, forcibly made to disentangle herself from the ties of special affection.

  ‘I don’t think,’ she slowly says, ‘that even if I could answer your questions you would be able to comprehend my answer. Our place is far away from yours.’

  ‘And I don’t believe that I am ready to make the journey.’

  ‘We are greater than we believe ourselves to be.’

  The ensuing silence is broken by a knock on the door, a voice from the stairs—Mrs Duckworth! The interview is over.

  ‘You will pardon me,’ Mrs Duckworth says, in the manner of someone unused to asking forgiveness.

  ‘I hope only that I have not offended you.’

  ‘You have not offended me.’

  ‘And perhaps you will read our Report. And visit us.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  They bid each other good day and George follows Mary Pagan out into a coldly sunlit New Haven afternoon.

  Perhaps it is the sunshine, or more likely the efforts of her intercourse with Hester Lovell, but Mrs Pagan is dazzled on the street. She walks in some kind of daze, allows herself to be supported by her erstwhile husband, unsure of direction, unsure of herself, unmoored, a rudderless boat on difficult seas.

  When their return journey is done, Mrs Pagan leaves Mr Pagan to make the report at the Mansion House. Postponing the greetings and embraces, she walks down the rise and sits in her favourite place, the copse by the horse barn where blind Jess died, between young cherry trees where cardinals busy themselves by day and nightjars at night, where the seniors in their enterprise had camped while building the Mansion House, where once Seth Newhouse had caught a bear. Which is where she sits, unable to eliminate the image of her rival from her mind. Plainly God does not mean Mrs Duckworth to rest in her present situation, but stirs her up from time to time. Plainly the visit has not been a success, for any of them. Mary Pagan has tried to wash out the claiming spirit but it resists, this most stubborn stain, which persists in identifying happiness with place and person rather than with meekness of spirit before God.

  She should rest, learn meekness to God’s will. She should subside, as she does now, leaning back against a pillow of heather, spreading her arms wide, the joyful thistles scratching against her wrists, the sun beating against her closed eyelids.

  Mr Pagan could watch her for ever; he might build a house on that very spot to contain her, and she could lie here for ever, wait for the vines to entangle her limbs, the birds to peck her flesh, the dead woman of the copse, wide awake.

  4

  The Pagan House had been subtitled. It was like a movie for the stupid. Every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen and bathroom had been labelled with the sticky white tags that Warren had written out and applied: POTS AND PANS, TEA AND COFFEE, BAKING SUPPLIES, HAIR CARE (MALE), HAIR CARE (FEMALE), SOUVENIRS, FLATWARE (EVERYDAY), FLATWARE (BEST), SILVERWARE (EVERYDAY), SILVERWARE (BEST), PHOTOGRAPHS, BILLS (CURRENT), BILLS (ARCHIVE), RESTAURANT MENUS, IMPORTANT TELEPHONE NUMBERS. He had put up a chart in the kitchen that showed the meals and doctors’ appointments and committee meetings of Fay’s usual day, and another in the bathroom that he’d colour-coded with the times and quantities and names of Fay’s medications (generic and company-branded); all this was to fill the absence of the presiding wisdom of Warren, who had gone.

  Despite his preparations, the household was in rackety consternation. Paul was absent, being splendid somewhere. Michelle was curled on an armchair, picking at damp loose threads on her sweater sleeve. Lucille, who wore a lower-cut cleavage for times of emergency, was mixing drinks and sneering at Frank, who railed and shouted, while Edgar’s father patted his chest and drank.

  ‘This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t spoken to him like that!’ Lucille said.

  ‘How was I to know he was so fucking sensitive? She’s better off without him, if this is how he acts.’

  Edgar’s father said, ‘Uh. Excuse me. She wasn’t in hospital when he was here.’

  ‘Yeah, and excuse me, I didn’t see you around to h
elp.’

  ‘We figured everything was under control.’

  ‘Well, it is. Everything is perfectly under control. Mom was taken to hospital last night. How much more under control do you want?’

  ‘Where is Warren?’ Edgar asked, and when no one responded, Edgar’s father repeated the question.

  ‘We don’t know where Warren is!’ Frank shouted. ‘We had an argument—’

  ‘You had the argument,’ Lucille said.

  ‘Takes two to tango, baby,’ Frank said. ‘He left and Mom had her attack and we took her to Onyataka General. That’s all we know. Fucking fag.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be coming back. He’s got his opera,’ Edgar said to his father.

  ‘What about his opera?’ Edgar’s father asked.

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ Frank said.

  ‘Is that what they call it?’ Lucille said.

  For a moment Frank and Lucille were united: eyes rolled, fingers gripped noses, invisible toilets were flushed.

  ‘What kind of attack did she have?’ Edgar said.

  ‘Do we know where he’s gone?’ Edgar’s father said. ‘Has he taken the car?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have,’ Edgar said.

  This was the first thing he had said that gained the attention of his uncle and his aunt.

  ‘Waddyamin?’ Frank and Lucille said together, which confused Edgar, who was silent.

  ‘What do you mean?’ his father asked.

  Edgar said, ‘He wouldn’t take anything that didn’t belong to him. He’s scrupulous.’

  ‘Scrupulous. That’s a big word, that’s a ten-dollar word,’ Frank said.

  Edgar didn’t like his uncle, he didn’t like his bigness, the chummy violence of his company, he didn’t like the way he wore shorts all the time and called Fay ’Mom’, and Edgar didn’t like being talked about in the third person when present. How could someone who liked the sort of music Frank did when he was young turn into the sort of man he was now? The passageways to adulthood must be even more treacherous than Edgar had supposed.

  ‘He’s a bright kid,’ Frank said, with contempt. ‘Scrupulous.’

  ‘Maybe we should visit the hospital?’ Edgar said, and in the absence of any better idea, Paul was retrieved from his glittering world and the family loaded itself into two cars and drove the five miles to Onyataka General.

  The doctor, a man of Asian origin, diagnosed anxiety and stress and mistakes in her medication schedule.

  ‘Well I don’t see how that could have happened,’ Frank said.

  ‘Oh don’t you?’ Lucille jeered.

  ‘Well thank you, very much,’ Frank said. ‘How long do you want my mother here?’

  The doctor looked to the double doors that swung into the emergency room. ‘Under normal circumstances, I would like to keep her in one, two days.’

  A golf swing sent an imaginary ball, which represented Fay, towards the car-park.

  ‘Waddyamin?’

  ‘We are backed up. All beds full. Your mother is not at risk. She is in competent care, I understand?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Lucille said. ‘Super-competent. More than.’

  Frank stared disbelievingly at his wife. Her mockery of him was not usually exercised in front of strangers. Paul studied the reflection he made in the polished side of a crash cart. Michelle, empty-eyed, chewed on a sleeve of her sweater.

  ‘You sure she shouldn’t stay in longer?’ Frank said. ‘You did say you’d like to keep her a few days.’

  ‘In normal circumstances. These are not normal circumstances. The fire means that we are rushed off our feet.’

  ‘What fire?’

  ‘At the bingo hall. We’re overloaded with burns cases of varying severity.’

  The doctor fired a second imaginary golf ball, adjusted his watch and nodded in leave-taking.

  ‘What happened at the bingo hall?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. That’s not in our purview.’

  ‘Purview,’ scoffed Frank.

  Edgar stood on tiptoe to look through the circular windows into the emergency room where all the beds were filled by stout dark-skinned women and the air resounded with the plaints of their relations.

  ‘Can we see my mother?’ Edgar’s father asked, patting his heart.

  ‘She has already been discharged. And has been waiting, I think for some time, in the family room.’

  ‘Well, congratulations, you’ve made it,’ Jerome said, when they arrived at the beige low-ceilinged room decorated with posters advertising the dangers of substance abuse. Fay had a small suitcase, neatly, squarely, at her feet. The state of her hair indicated her ordeal. It looked as if she had been struck by lightning.

  ‘She won’t let me take her home,’ Jerome said.

  ‘I’m waiting for Warren,’ Fay said.

  ‘Warren’s gone, Mom.’ Frank puffed out his cheeks and slowly released air. He offered his arm, and Fay stared at it as if it were an animal in whose dangerous presence she had to remain perfectly still.

  ‘I want Warren.’

  Edgar held out his hand and Fay smiled slowly and accepted it. ‘Edgar,’ she said.

  ‘Edgar,’ Frank repeated, with a roll of his eyes and a screwball gesture at his own temple. ‘Sticky fucking wicket.’

  ‘We should go home,’ Edgar said.

  His grandmother stood, supported by Edgar. She was even lighter than the last time they had done this. Fay leaned on him for the walk to the car-park and wouldn’t settle in the car until he was beside her.

  In the living room there began what Frank was pleased to call a family conference. ‘Okay. Let’s set up some kind of schedule here,’ he said.

  ‘There already is a schedule,’ Fay said.

  ‘I think it’s time we did things properly. Mike?’

  Edgar’s father kicked off his loafers. He lay on the sofa, holding a braided cushion over his eyes. ‘Absolutely Frank. You’re the boss.’

  ‘And that’s exactly the kind of attitude we don’t need.’

  ‘Excuse us,’ said Edgar, which wasn’t necessary because no one heard and no one paid attention to their leaving.

  Edgar took Fay upstairs. She climbed into bed and Edgar managed to persuade her to remove her overcoat. He didn’t dare attempt encouraging her out of her clothes and into her pyjamas. She looked to the dressing-table and Edgar understood. He fetched the smallest silver brush and worked at her hair until it passed her mirror inspection. ‘Perfect,’ she said, and fell asleep.

  Edgar went down to the parlour to make his phone call to his mother.

  ‘Eddie! Happy, happy birthday! Tell me about your day.’

  He was inspired. He had never talked so long and so freely. Oh, the evening before—barbecue by the swimming-pool, a Cuban band playing, fireworks in the moonlight, waltzes and salsa, the man who had fallen into the pool, the whiskey sours that Edgar’s father had let the birthday boy taste—

  ‘That’s entirely irresponsible. There’s bourbon in those.’

  ‘I only tasted a little. It was my birthday.’

  —but all this was as nothing to the excitements and glamour of the day. A fashionable restaurant commandeered for the occasion, the immense cake, the photographs, a girl called Lisa, the presents heaped upon him—

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get them all home, it’s so many.’

  ‘I’ve got you something too. I was waiting to give it in person.’

  ‘That’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ Edgar said grandly, proceeding to itemize a bicycle and a drum kit and various arcane books—

  ‘What do you mean, arcane books?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Arcane books.’

  —and he was about to add a computer but decided not to in case that taxed her gullibility. He and his father had gone fishing together and were about to climb a mountain—

  ‘A mountain? Where are you? This doesn’t sound like Connecticut.’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s old Indian territory. Well, maybe it’s more o
f a hill. But it’s a pretty big hill.’

  ‘Give me the number again of your hotel. I haven’t been able to get through. I must have taken it down wrong last night.’

  ‘We’re leaving in the morning. I’ll call you from the next place.’

  They argued to and fro about that until Mon relented and supposed that would be all right. ‘Could I have a word with your father now, please? I do love you so much, you can’t know how awful it is not to be with you today.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual kinds of things, but could you put your father on now, please?’

  ‘Uh. He’s talking to his brother.’

  ‘To Frank? What’s Frank doing with you? Mike can’t stand Frank.’

  ‘No. I know. But.’ Edgar considered turning the scene downstairs into a family party in his honour but rejected that as being both too unlikely and far too unattractive. He would keep his preferred life entirely separate. ‘He’s talking to him on the phone. Dad’s got a mobile phone. They call them cellphones here.’

  ‘Oh good. You can give me that number then, and I’ll be able to reach you whenever. Eddie?’

  ‘I don’t know the number.’

  Edgar was resolute on that point and on his refusal to interrupt his father’s telephone call, which was happening on the croquet lawn, quite far away. He agreed that his father would call Mon back straight away.

  ‘I promise,’ Edgar said. ‘I love you too.’

  Reluctantly he went to rejoin the people he supposed he had to call his family.

  5

  Under Uncle Frank’s regime the house disintegrated further. Pills went untaken, Fay’s dermatitis grew worse. ‘It’s an anxiety thing, clearly,’ Lucille said, sitting on the sofa with Edgar’s father, who refreshed her glass with whisky. Lucille and Edgar’s father spent most of their time on the sofa; her complaints about Frank grew in volume, and cheerfulness, the more whisky she drank. At unpredictable moments she would violently put together a tray of water and fruit and medicines and go up to the invalid room. Edgar from the corridor watched Lucille sitting on the bed, holding Fay’s hand, cooing insistent soft things that Fay pretended to sleep through. When Lucille had gone, her thighs in white canvas jeans brushing together as she walked, her scent of ripe fruit and spices, which Edgar decided was Levantine, hanging in the bedroom air, Edgar brought the middle hairbrush over to the bed, for which thoughtfulness he was rewarded with the saddest of smiles.