Stone Diaries, The - Carol Shields [64]
She knows that when the train arrives in Ottawa, all of these men will hurry off into the contained nexus of their real lives, while she is about to hurl herself into whatever accident of fortune awaits her. She will accept "it" without protest, without question, for what choice has she?
She is powerless, anchorless, soft-tissued—a woman. Perhaps that is the whole of it, that she is a woman. Yes, of course.
It occurs to her that she should record this flash of insight in her journal—otherwise she is sure to forget, for she is someone who is always learning and forgetting and obliged to learn again—but the act of recording requires that she remove her gloves, rummage through her bag for her pen and for the notebook itself. This is more than she is capable of doing. And so she forces herself to sit quietly, her pulse racing, as the train rolls into the gentle, shadowy outskirts of Ottawa, capital of the Dominion (Do-min-i-on) of Canada.
He is at the station a full ten minutes before her arrival. He has allowed for this, knowing he’ll need a cushion of calm in which to arrange his thoughts, his body too. "Well, well," he plans to say to her, draining the drama off the moment with his heartiness, "so you’ve made it all in one piece, have you?"
Or something about the heat. Or perhaps?—he doesn’t know what. Everything seems suddenly at risk. Even his long legs have gone unsteady.
He wouldn’t dream, though, of sitting down on one of those long, varnished benches. No, he pulls himself straight, his shoulders, his back, his hands clasped behind him, and paces the marble floor of the concourse. He pauses, staring up into the dome. A handsome building, yes indeed. He examines it carefully, its decorated frieze and fluted granite pillars with their classical pediments. He memorizes these stone surfaces, staring hard as though he may never again have an opportunity to see this clearly.
His life is on the cusp of change. Love, that sudden dissolving of art and nature, of language itself, is about to overcome his senses.
He breathes deeply, and glances up at the station clock. Yes, the train is on time. On the minute. Precisely. This fact he finds deeply satisfying. Also worrying.
And there she is. Coming toward him.
Some men are described as having an eye for an ankle. Not Barker Flett. He has no eye at all. Nor any notion of what is owed him or what he may desire. This moment, this meeting, was arranged years earlier.
Here she comes, her gloved hand already extended as she moves forward, and for a moment he believes he may actually take that hand in his and shake it, a social gesture, murmuring: how nice to see you, and was the train crowded? Did you find a place next to the window? Are you exhausted?
Instead he takes her in an embrace. Not a real embrace, for there is no question of their bodies coming together. No. His hands reach out and lightly graze her shoulders, then travel down to her upper arms (these arms bare below the elbows and slightly damp), then moving upward again to her face, touching it with his fingertips, cradling it. He has forgotten all his resolve; his blood is on fire.
Her knees are shaky after so many hours on the train. The sudden light of the station unbalances her, and she can think of nothing to say.
"Daisy?" he murmurs across the combed crown of her hair, making a question of it. Almost a sob. He forgets what he said next.
At his age he could not face the fret and fuss and jitters of a fullscale wedding, and so they were married quickly, quietly, in a judge’s chambers. August 17th, 1936. The telegram dispatched to Cuyler and Maria Goodwill in Bloomington minutes before the ceremony was framed in the past tense: "We have just been married. Letter