Part 19 (2/2)

”Pretty cozy in here,” he said.

Clary could only keep one eye open at a time, but there were still three children with her, and they were all breathing. n.o.body had thrown up in the bed. All you could ask for.

Mrs. Pell checked the mailbox while the whole boiling of them were still sleeping. Finally! Miss Bossy Clara might have made her pay rent out of it. $446. It was a start.

She put on her shoes and set off down the street, turtle-pace on cramped feet, lists curling in her mind: mint chocolate cookies, teabags, smoked oysters. Cheque every month! One thing she needed: a little wire cart with wheels, or plastic like that Mrs. Zenko had. And these shoes were killing her. That doctor hadn't even looked at her feet, and d.a.m.ned if she was going to say anything. She dawdled along the windows of the bargain store. Why not? A barette with a rainbow on it for Dolly. A Maple Leafs baseball cap for Trevor; her brothers had liked the Leafs on the radio. Nothing for Pearce, Clara was spoiling him already. In a tangled basket Mrs. Pell found a locket that opened up double to make four places for pictures. $1.99, you couldn't beat that. A bent book of household cleaning tips in the bargain bin. That'd do for Clara. She stumped home.

27. Wellwater.

When Clary took the locket to Lorraine that evening, she brought the household tips too, to give her a good laugh. ”I was worried at first,” Clary said, and then tangled herself up trying not to mention shoplifting. ”But she's got the receipt if you don't like the locket.” That was the best she could do, to let Lorraine know that it was safe, not stolen.

The roses had blown open on the nightstand, the red one showing its whole heart of gold, the cream with a tiny bud still withheld in its centre. Lorraine put out a finger to touch the blown one, and the bud, and their perfume swung through the room.

Clary walked downstairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

At the turn of the last flight, Paul had his foot on the bottom step, coming up, looking tired. He backed down, and she backed up, neither of them wanting to cross on the stairs.

”Your mother said that too?” he asked, laughing up at her.

She came down, happy that he was there. ”You're always here!” she said, and then worried that that might seem like a complaint.

”What a good dinner that was,” he said. ”I meant to write you a proper note-”

”Oh please, no note! My mother would never invite anyone back who didn't write one!”

”I'm only teasing you,” he said. ”You have a happy household. You've made it their home.”

Clary knew she was smiling too strongly, mouth splitting hoyden-wide, like her mother always mentioned. She stopped herself, put her fingers to her mouth, said nothing.

”I was happy to be there, thank you for inviting me. How is Lorraine?”

Clary made a face. ”Holding steady, I guess. Her hair is coming in. She looks badly shorn, like a French collaborator.”

Paul felt a movement in his chest, a physical stirring of the deep unhappiness that Binnie had left behind her. Her poor plucked head, her sorry eyes sunk into steroid-round cheeks, her pain. Her bravery, he told himself quickly. Laughing in her hospital bed, asking him to take her picture, so she could have it for later.

”My younger sister died,” he said. He could tell Clary. ”Two years ago. Her name was Binnie. Robina. Bald as an egg, a lemon on two sticks, nothing left of her but pain.”

”Yes, I'm so sorry,” she said. She took his hand. She was kind.

Late in the evening, Paul looked in the door of Lorraine's room. No Darwin. He had hoped to see him for some restorative conversation, or even a beer. His hat was hung on the top of the i.v. stand, though, so he would be back. In the meanwhile, Lorraine was sleeping.

Paul sat down to wait for a few minutes, and let his mind go blank. A little later, he saw that Lorraine was gradually opening her eyes.

”Hey,” she said slowly.

”h.e.l.lo,” he said.

A fresh jug of ice water dewed, pearled, on the rolling table. The water-women must have been around.

”May I have a drink of your water?” Paul asked.

”How can you, a priest, ask me, a Samaritan woman, for a drink?”

”Are you a Samaritan woman?” Paul was surprised at Lorraine's phrasing. Was she quoting from the well at Sychar?

Lorraine smiled at him with her wolfish teeth. ”Go ahead,” she said. ”Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, though.”

Paul poured himself a gla.s.s of water, but he did not drink. It was late, and perhaps he was more tired than he had realized.

”I have no husband,” she said.

”No,” he agreed. ”But no, I-I think you do, don't you? Clayton? He's not gone for good, is he?”

”Oh, I think so,” Lorraine said, shaking her head. Flutters of black hair fell off in all directions, outwards in a spray. The bed was littered with strands and locks of hair.

”I have no wife,” he said, able to say it out loud.

”No, the woman you have been living with is not your wife,” she said, seriously.

”I could not rule her, I wouldn't do it. My choosing not to-I was not what she needed.”

”You need some of the living water.”

She leaned forward, she leaned perilously over the edge of the bed which had run far away into the distance, she reached back and she was Binnie, reaching, or no longer reaching-Binnie turning her head away and floating off along the current of the living water, turning again one last time to say, ”Goodbye!”

When Paul woke up he felt a tear running into his ear. Lorraine was sound asleep, her mouth delicately open. Not looking like Binnie at all, Paul was glad to see.

Darwin was sitting on the orange chair, watching him. ”Need a ride home, man?”

”Thanks,” Paul said. ”I'm okay, really. I'm well.” He had not dreamed of Binnie since she died.

Darwin put his heavy hand on Paul's knee. Then he stood up to his always-surprising height, and helped Paul stand too.

28. White box, yellow box, gold box.

The white box of watercolours was the hospital in a box: compact, functional, the steel brush like a scalpel, the hi-tech waterproof pen. The rolling table's drawer had become her glove compartment, Lorraine thought, missing the Dart. In the stretches of time where n.o.body wanted blood or came to change an i.v. bag, she drew, like she had done for the kids. It was calm.

During one of those solitary drawing times a woman came to her room, carrying a big bosom on her slight frame. Her shoulders hunched a little-permanently embarra.s.sed, Lorraine thought. The woman came to the end of the bed and introduced herself as being from Social Services. Her white plastic nametag said Bertrice.

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