A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [34]
“Listen, Calla – I’ll phone you, eh? In a little while. When I’m – when I’ve got things straightened out.”
“Yeh. Sure, Rachel. Okay.” Her voice sounds drab, unresisting.
“When do you go to your brother’s?” I must take some interest; I must at least be polite.
“I’m not going there this summer. Two of his kids have chickenpox, and I’ve never had it.”
“Won’t you be going away at all, then?”
“No. I’m kind of – oh, I don’t know – tired, I guess. I thought I’d just do nothing much. Anyway, I promised to help re-paint the woodwork at the Tabernacle.”
The first she’s mentioned the place since that night. I have to say something. I must. Only to let her see it doesn’t matter to me – I’ve forgotten it – it was nothing, nothing of any importance. But my hands have tightened and I can feel the phone receiver slimy with sweat.
“Oh. That’s nice. How is the Tabernacle these days?” Idiotic. As though I were asking after her aunt’s health.
“Pretty good, thanks.”
“I always meant to ask you –” Horribly, I can hear my squeaking giggle, “if you ever – you know – spoke in tongues –”
“No. That hasn’t happened. The gift hasn’t been given to me.”
Her voice is grave and sad, just as though something really had been withheld from her, something real, some kind of grace. Senselessly, this frightens me. Can’t I get away now? Haven’t we talked long enough?
“Well – I’ll give you a ring, Calla.”
What a stupid way of saying you’ll phone anyone. There’s an ambiguity about the phrase that seems both silly and sinister. I won’t say that again.
“Fine. Don’t work too hard, Rachel.”
“No, I won’t. Good-bye.”
Did she mean that last remark as a crack? It doesn’t matter. But now I see I’m stuck with the lie, and will have to invent complicated explanations to cover it.
Oh what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!
Mother’s voice, lilting and ladylike, telling me that as a child. I can’t remember what my sin was, only the burden of listening to the jingle, knowing she would never smack me and get it over with, because she never did – that wasn’t her way. She used to tell me over and over how my mis demeanours wounded her. They also hurt Jesus, as I recollect. Well, poor Jesus. No doubt He weathered it better than I did.
Why couldn’t it have been Nick who phoned?
That’s nonsense. I didn’t expect him to. He won’t. Why should he?
I don’t know whether I want to see him or whether I only want to correct the impression he must have of me.
“Rachel –”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t listening,” Mother says, “but I couldn’t help hearing you mention some course or other. You never told me about it.”
“It’s not definitely settled yet. I was only considering it.”
“Well, of course it’s your own business, dear. I mean, you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing. It’s just that it seems a little odd, never to mention it.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. It’s just that it wasn’t definite.”
“Of course, dear, I quite understand. It’s perfectly all right. It isn’t as though I expect you to tell me everything you do. I mean, after all, it is your life, isn’t it? It’s just that it seemed rather a peculiar thing to keep quiet about. I mean, it isn’t as though there were any reason to conceal it.”
“Please, Mother. Let’s not have a scene about it. Please.”
“Scene? Of course not. I’m not annoyed, Rachel – you mustn’t think that. I couldn’t be annoyed over a thing like that. A little hurt, perhaps. But there. It’s probably foolish to feel that way. You have a perfect right to keep anything secret if you want to –”
“It wasn’t a secret. It was – oh, never mind. I’m sorry. I just never thought, I guess. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind, dear. Everyone’s thoughtless at times, I guess. I can’t expect –”
This is our conversation. This is the way we talk, the way we go on.
It’s been a week now since I went out with him. A week ago today. I don’t know why I even bother to think about