Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [138]
I had just begun on the windows when the phone rang. It was Duncan. I was surprised; I had more or less forgotten about him.
“Well?” he asked. “What happened?”
“It’s all off,” I said. “I realized Peter was trying to destroy me. So now I’m looking for another job.”
“Oh,” said Duncan. “Actually I didn’t mean that. I was wondering more about Fischer.”
“Oh,” I said. I might have known.
“I mean, I think I know what happened but I’m not sure why. He’s abandoned his responsibilities, you know.”
“His responsibilities? You mean graduate school?”
“No,” said Duncan. “I mean me. What am I going to do?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said. I was irritated with him for not wanting to discuss what I was going to do myself. Now that I was thinking of myself in the first person singular again I found my own situation much more interesting than his.
“Now, now,” Duncan said, “we can’t both be like that. One of us has to be the sympathetic listener and the other one gets to be tortured and confused. You were tortured and confused last time.”
Face it, I thought, you can’t win. “Oh all right. Why don’t you come over for some tea a bit later then? The apartment’s a mess,” I added apologetically.
When he arrived I was finishing the windows, standing on a chair and wiping off the white glass cleaner I had spread on them. We hadn’t cleaned them for a long time and they had got quite silted over with dust, and I was thinking it was going to be curious to be able to see out of them again. It bothered me that there was still some dirt on the outside I couldn’t reach: soot and rainstreaks. I didn’t hear Duncan come in. He had probably been standing in the room for several minutes watching me before he announced his presence by saying “Here I am.”
I jumped. “Oh hi,” I said, “I’ll be right with you as soon as finish this window.” He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.
After giving the window one last polish with a sleeve torn from one of Ainsley’s abandoned blouses I got down from the chair, somewhat reluctantly – I like to finish things once I’ve begun them and there were still several windows left uncleaned; besides, the prospect of discussing the love life of Fischer Smythe wasn’t all that compelling – and went out to the kitchen. I found Duncan sitting in one of the chairs, regarding the open refrigerator door with a mixture of distaste and anxiety.
“What smells in here?” he asked, sniffing the air.
“Oh, various things,” I answered lightly. “Floor polish and window cleaner and some other things.” I went over and opened the kitchen window. “Tea or coffee?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Well, what’s the real truth?”
“You must know they’re married.” Tea would be easier, but a quick root through the cupboards didn’t uncover any. I measured the coffee into the percolator.
“Well, yes, sort of. Fish left us a rather ambiguous note. But how did it happen?”
“How do these things ever happen? They met at the party,” I said. I turned on the coffee and sat down. I had thoughts of holding out on him but he was beginning to look hurt. “Of course there are a few complications, but I think it will work out.” Ainsley had come in the day before after another prolonged absence and had packed her suitcases while Fischer waited in the living room, head thrown back against the cushions of the chesterfield, beard bristling with the consciousness of its own vitality, eyes closed. She had given me to understand in the few sentences she had time for that