Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [121]
There were a few audible gasps from the sofa side of the room. Somebody sniggered, and one of the soap-men said, “Atta boy Len, whoever you are.” Marian could see Len’s face now. The white surface had developed a random scattering of red blotches; the underlip was quivering.
“You rotten bitch!” he said thickly.
There was a pause. One of the soap-wives began a rapid conversation about something else, but trailed off quickly. Marian watched Len: she thought he was going to hit Ainsley, but instead he smiled, showing his teeth. He turned to the listening multitudes.
“That’s right folks,” he said, “and we’re going to have the christening right now, in the midst of this friendly little gathering. Baptism in utero. I hereby name it after me.” He shot out one hand and grasped Ainsley’s shoulder, lifted his beer stein, and poured its contents slowly and thoroughly over her head.
The soap-wives all gave delighted screams; the soap-men bellowed “Hey!” As the last of the suds were descending, Peter came charging in from the bedroom, jamming a flashbulb into his camera. “Hold it!” he shouted, and shot. “Great! That’ll be a great one! Hey, this party’s really getting off the ground!”
Several people gave him annoyed glances, but most paid no attention. Everyone was moving and talking at once; in the background the violins still played, saccharine sweet. Ainsley was standing there, drenched, a puddle of foam and beer forming at her feet on the hardwood floor. Her face contorted: in a minute she would have decided whether it would be worth the effort to cry. Len had let go of her. His head drooped; he mumbled something inaudible. He looked as though he had only an imperfect idea of what he had just done and no idea at all of what he was going to do next.
Ainsley turned and started to walk towards the bathroom. Several of the soap-wives trotted forward, uttering throaty cooing noises, eager to share the spotlight by helping; but someone was there before them. It was Fischer Smythe. He was pulling his woolly turtleneck sweater over his head, exposing a muscular torso covered with quantities of tufted black fur.
“Allow me,” he said to her, “we wouldn’t want you to catch a chill, would we? Not in your condition.” He began to dry her off with his sweater. His eyes were damp with solicitude.
Ainsley’s hair had come down and was lying in dripping strands over her shoulders. She smiled up at him through the beer or tears beading her eyelashes. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said.
“I think I already know who you are,” he said, patting her belly tenderly with one of his striped sleeves, his voice heavy with symbolic meaning.
It was later. The party, miraculously, was still going on, having somehow closed itself smoothly together over the rent made in it earlier by Ainsley and Len. Someone had cleaned the broken glass and beer off the floor, and in the living room now the currents of talk and music and drink were flowing again as though nothing had happened.
The kitchen however was a scene of devastation. It looked as though it had been hit by a flash-flood. Marian was scrabbling through the debris, trying to locate a clean glass; she had set her own down out there somewhere, she couldn’t remember where, and she wanted another drink.
There weren’t any more clean glasses. She picked up a used one, swished it under the tap, slowly and carefully poured herself another shot of scotch. She felt serene, a floating sensation, like lying on one’s back in a pond. She went to the doorway and leaned in it, gazing out over the room.
“I’m coping! I’m coping!” she said to herself. The fact amazed her somewhat, but it pleased her immensely. They were all there, all of them (except, she noted as she scanned, Ainsley and Fischer, and oh yes Len – she wondered where they had gone), doing whatever people did at parties; and she was doing it, too. They were sustaining her, she could float quite watertight, buoyed up by the feeling that she was one of