A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [41]
Now he is the one who turns away.
“Don’t say that, Rachel. You don’t have to. It’s not necessary. Let it be, just as it is. Don’t worry – I don’t think you’re a tramp.”
I can’t see what he means. Then I realize. When he said the first time, he meant the first time two people were with each other. He doesn’t know I never was, before, with anyone. The relief of this realization is so great that for a moment I can think of nothing else. Then the other thing strikes me. He believes I was lying to him, out of some false concern for – what? My reputation – I’ve lost my reputation. Who said that? Some nitwit in Shakespeare. Nick doesn’t know – he doesn’t know how I’ve wanted to lose that reputation, to divest myself of it as though it were an oxen yoke, to burn it to ashes and scatter them to the wind. I want to laugh, to rage at him for thinking me a liar, to – Hush. Hush, Rachel. This won’t do. Now now. Not here.
The world spinningly returns, the soft scraping of branches against one another in the darkness. Then I see there is no darkness, really, all around us. It’s a full moon. Anyone could see.
“Hey, what’s the matter, darling?”
But I’ve shoved him from me with all my strength. Getting into my clothes again takes an hour, an aeon.
“What’s the hurry?” he says. He is still lying there in the grass, grinning lazily.
“I’ve got to go home now, Nick.”
“Oh, do you? All right, then.”
As we drive back, the night seems unbearably warm, the air glutinous and sugary with the heat and the smell of grass and weeds that still clings around us. He drives with one arm around me, and I want to draw closer to him to have him hold me so reassuringly that nothing can ever go wrong again. But I must not move closer to him. He’s driving. It would be dangerous. What if we were in an accident, and I were found with my hair all disarranged and my lipstick gone and my dress creased and crumpled?
“Here we are,” Nick says. “I’ll phone you, eh?”
“Yes.” Without thinking, I’ve put my arms around him, held my face to his, asking to be kissed.
“Oh – Rachel, listen.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll – fix yourself, next time, won’t you? It’s better that way.”
“Yes.” But I can’t look at him, can’t speak of it like this. Not yet. Give me a little time. I’ll get used to it, to this practicality, these necessities, this coldness. Why should this hurt? What do I expect? To have him say he loves me? That he’ll never say. He doesn’t like people telling lies.
“Are you all right, Rachel?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. You look a little strained.”
“No, I’m all right. Good night, Nick.”
“Good night, darling. I’ll see you.”
Mother is awake. Of course. Anything else would have been too much to hope for. The instant she hears me on the stairs she flicks on her light. What if she comes out into the hall and sees me like this, dishevelled? I will not be quizzed. I won’t be. I’ll refuse.
“That you, Rachel?”
“Yes.”
Who does she think it is – the Angel of Death? But maybe that’s precisely what she did think. Maybe she has been lying there for hours, listening for uncertainties in her heart’s beating. Or worrying about me. She cares about me. I matter to her.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Mother. Would you like some cocoa?”
“That would be nice, dear. And I think I could manage a little slice of toast, while you’re on your feet.”
Into the bathroom, quickly, to re-do my makeup and hair. There. Now I look neat, usual. And yet, when I’m in her room and handing her the tray, I avoid the querulous fragility of her face, the over-brightness of her eyes rimmed with the shadows of sickness or disappointment. I cannot look at her. She wouldn’t know at all; no explanation could ever get through to her. There are three worlds and I’m in the middle one, and this seems now to be a weak area between millstones.
At last she’s settled and I can go to bed. I haven’t begun to think yet. I’ve been saving that for when I am alone.
I wish I could tell my sister.
Right now, I’m fantastically happy. He did want me. And I wasn’t afraid. I