Part 33 (2/2)

A woman's voice gave a local number. Then there was a beep, and the same voice started talking again.

”I just realized I'd forgot to say who it was. Well you probably recognized the voice. It's Marian. I'm still not so used to these machines. And I wanted to say I realize you're not a single and I don't mean it that way. I'm not either, but it doesn't hurt to get out once in a while. Anyway, now I've said all this I really hope it's you I'm talking to. It did sound like your voice. If you are interested you can call me and if you are not you don't need to bother. I just thought you might like the chance to get out. It's Marian speaking. I guess I already said that. Okay, then.

Good-bye.”

Her voice on the machine was different from the voice he 'd heard a short time ago in her house. Just a little different in the first message, more so in the second. A tremor of nerves there, an affected nonchalance, a hurry to get through and a reluctance to let go.

Something had happened to her. But when had it happened?

If it had been immediate, she had concealed it very successfully all the time he was with her. More likely it came on her gradually, maybe after he 'd gone away. Not necessarily as a blow - 318*

of attraction. Just the realization that he was a possibility, a man on his own. More or less on his own. A possibility that she might as well try to follow up.

But she 'd had the jitters when she made the first move. She had put herself at risk. How much of herself, he could not yet tell. Generally a woman's vulnerability increased as time went on, as things progressed. All you could tell at the start was that if there was an edge of it now, there 'd be more later.

It gave him a satisfaction-why deny it?-to have brought that out in her. To have roused something like a s.h.i.+mmer, a blurring, on the surface of her personality. To have heard in her testy, broad vowels this faint plea.

He set out the eggs and mushrooms to make himself an omelette. Then he thought he might as well pour a drink.

Anything was possible. Was that true-was anything possible? For instance, if he wanted to, would he be able to break her down, get her to the point where she might listen to him about taking Aubrey back to Fiona? And not just for visits, but for the rest of Aubrey's life. Where could that tremor lead them?

To an upset, to the end of her self-preservation? To Fiona's happiness?

It would be a challenge. A challenge and a creditable feat.

Also a joke that could never be confided to anybody-to think that by his bad behavior he 'd be doing good for Fiona.

But he was not really capable of thinking about it. If he did think about it, he 'd have to figure out what would become of him and Marian, after he 'd delivered Aubrey to Fiona. It would not work-unless he could get more satisfaction that he foresaw, finding the stone of blameless self-interest inside her robust pulp.

You never quite knew how such things would turn out. You almost knew, but you could never be sure.

She would be sitting in her house now, waiting for him to call.

Or probably not sitting. Doing things to keep herself busy. She seemed to be a woman who would keep busy. Her house had certainly shown the benefits of nonstop attention. And there was - 319*

Aubrey-care of him had to continue as usual. She might have given him an early supper-fitting his meals to a Meadowlake timetable in order to get him settled for the night earlier and free herself of his routine for the day. (What would she do about him when she went to the dance? Could he be left alone or would she get a sitter? Would she tell him where she was going, introduce her escort? Would her escort pay the sitter?) She might have fed Aubrey while Grant was buying the mushrooms and driving home. She might now be preparing him for bed. But all the time she would be conscious of the phone, of the silence of the phone. Maybe she would have calculated how long it would take Grant to drive home. His address in the phone book would have given her a rough idea of where he lived. She would calculate how long, then add to that time for possible shopping for supper (figuring that a man alone would shop every day). Then a certain amount of time for him to get around to listening to his messages. And as the silence persisted she would think of other things. Other errands he might have had to do before he got home. Or perhaps a dinner out, a meeting that meant he would not get home at suppertime at all.

She would stay up late, cleaning her kitchen cupboards, watching television, arguing with herself about whether there was still a chance.

What conceit on his part. She was above all things a sensible woman. She would go to bed at her regular time thinking that he didn't look as if he 'd be a decent dancer anyway. Too stiff, too professorial.

He stayed near the phone, looking at magazines, but he didn't pick it up when it rang again.

”Grant. This is Marian. I was down in the bas.e.m.e.nt putting the wash in the dryer and I heard the phone and when I got upstairs whoever it was had hung up. So I just thought I ought to say I was here. If it was you and if you are even home. Because I don't have a machine obviously, so you couldn't leave a message.

So I just wanted. To let you know.

- 320*

”' Bye.”

The time was now twenty-five after ten.

'Bye.

He would say that he 'd just got home. There was no point in bringing to her mind the picture of his sitting here, weighing the pros and cons.

Drapes. That would be her word for the blue curtains- drapes. And why not? He thought of the ginger cookies so perfectly round that she 'd had to announce they were homemade, the ceramic coffee mugs on their ceramic tree. A plastic runner, he was sure, protecting the hall carpet. A high-gloss exactness and practicality that his mother had never achieved but would have admired-was that why he could feel this twinge of bizarre and unreliable affection? Or was it because he 'd had two more drinks after the first?

The walnut-stain tan-he believed now that it was a tan-of her face and neck would most likely continue into her cleavage, which would be deep, crepey-skinned, odorous and hot. He had that to think of, as he dialled the number that he had already written down. That and the practical sensuality of her cat's tongue. Her gemstone eyes.

Fiona was in her room but not in bed. She was sitting by the open window, wearing a seasonable but oddly short and bright dress. Through the window came a heady, warm blast of lilacs in bloom and the spring manure spread over the fields.

She had a book open in her lap.

She said, ”Look at this beautiful book I found, it's about Iceland. You wouldn't think they'd leave valuable books lying around in the rooms. The people staying here are not necessarily honest. And I think they've got the clothes mixed up. I never wear yellow.”

”Fiona . . .,” he said.

”You've been gone a long time. Are we all checked out now?”

- 321*

”Fiona, I've brought a surprise for you. Do you remember Aubrey?”

She stared at him for a moment, as if waves of wind had come beating into her face. Into her face, into her head, pulling everything to rags.

”Names elude me,” she said harshly.

Then the look pa.s.sed away as she retrieved, with an effort, some bantering grace. She set the book down carefully and stood up and lifted her arms to put them around him. Her skin or her breath gave off a faint new smell, a smell that seemed to him like that of the stems of cut flowers left too long in their water.

”I'm happy to see you,” she said, and pulled his earlobes.

”You could have just driven away,” she said. ”Just driven away without a care in the world and forsook me. Forsooken me.

Forsaken.”

He kept his face against her white hair, her pink scalp, her sweetly shaped skull. He said, Not a chance.

- 322*

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Alice Munro grew up in Wingham, Ontario, and attended the University of Western Ontario. She has published nine previous books- Dance of the Happy Shades, Lives of Girls and Women, Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You, Who Do You Think You Are?, The Moons of Jupiter, The Progress of Love, Friend of My Youth, Open Secrets, her Selected Stories, and The Love of a Good Woman. During her distinguished career she has been the recipient of many awards and prizes, including three Governor General's Literary Awards and the Giller Prize in 1998; the Rea Award for Short Fiction; the Lannan Literary Award; England's W H. Smith Award; and the United States's National Book Critics Circle Award. Her stories have appeared in The New Yorker, the Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, Sat.u.r.day Night, and other publications, and her collections have been translated into thirteen languages.

Alice Munro and her husband divide their time between Clinton, Ontario, and Comox, British Columbia.

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