A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [17]
Not Calla’s voice. Mine. Oh my God. Mine. The voice of Rachel.
“Hush, Rachel. Hush, hush – it’s all right, child.”
She is crooning the words softly over me. We are in her flat. The chesterfield is covered with an old car rug, green and black plaid, and it is on this that I am lying. I remember only vaguely our getting here, walking through the streets and the wind, the rain pelting against me and I hardly noticing it at all. As for the rest, I remember everything, every detail, and will never be able to forget, however hard I try. It will come back again and again, and I will have to endure it, over and over.
The crying has stopped now. Calla hands me a handkerchief and I blow my nose.
“How long did it go on?”
“You mean – crying? You started in the Tabernacle, and I took you out right away, and –”
“No. I didn’t mean that. I meant – the other.”
“Oh. Only a minute. Less, probably.”
“You don’t have to be kind. How long?”
“I’ve told you,” Calla says. “But if you won’t believe me, what can I do?”
“Was it – was I – was it very loud?”
“No,” Calla says. “It wasn’t loud at all.”
I have no way of knowing whether she is telling me the truth or not. She is looking at me closely and questioningly, as though trying to decide whether to say something.
“Look – it’s okay,” she says at last. “I know it wasn’t – well, you know – a religious experience, for you.”
I feel absolutely cold and detached from everything. My voice sounds flat and expressionless, nearly a monotone.
“I guess it’s a good thing you realize that, anyway.”
“I’m not,” she says with unexpected bitterness, “entirely lacking in all forms of understanding.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, but you think I’m a crank for going there. Maybe I am. I wanted you to go so you’d see it wasn’t faked. And now look what’s happened, what I’ve done. Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry – honestly I am. I should never –”
“You’re sorry?” I can’t understand this. “I was the one who –”
I can’t go on. I won’t think of it. Calla is looking at me with a pity I can’t tolerate.
“If only you didn’t feel that way about it,” she says.
“Do you know what I detest more than anything else? Hysteria. It’s so – slack. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m so ashamed.”
“Child, don’t. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I can’t be hard enough, evidently. What will I do next, Calla? I’m – oh, Calla, I’m so damn frightened.”
She is kneeling beside the chesterfield, and the grey fringe of her hair is almost brushing against my face. She puts an arm around my shoulders and I realize from the rasping of her breath that she is actually crying. What has she got to cry about?
“Rachel, honey,” she says, “it practically kills me to see you like this.”
Then, as though unpremeditated, she kisses my face and swiftly afterwards my mouth.
My drawing away is sharp, violent. I feel violated, unclean, as though I would strike her dead if I had the means. She pulls away then, too, and looks at me with a kind of bewilderment, a pleading apology, not saying a word. How ludicrous she looks, kneeling there, her wide face, her hands clasped anxiously. My anger feels more than justified, and in some way this is a tremendous relief.
It takes me less than a minute to get to the front hall and put on my coat and hood.
“Rachel – listen. Please. It was just that –”
I can’t listen. I won’t slam the door. I must shut it very quietly. Once I am outside I can begin running.
THREE
“Hurry up, dear, or we’ll be late.”
Her voice comes meadowlarking in through my bedroom door with such a lightness that I marvel at it, and she seems all at once marvellous, not letting on all that often about the frailty of her heart, although she had a slight attack two nights ago and the skin around her mouth was violet.
“Coming. I’ll be right there.”
Going to church is a social occasion for her. She hasn’t so many. It’s mean of me not to want to go.
I always do, though.