Surfacing - Margaret Atwood [17]
I examine the part of his face that shows, an eyelid and the side of his nose, the skin pallid as though he’s been living in a cellar, which we have been; his beard is dark brown, almost black, it continues around his neck and merges under the sheet with the hair on his back. His back is hairier than most men’s, a warm texture, it’s like teddy-bear fur, though when I told him that he seemed to take it as an insult to his dignity.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I love him. It shouldn’t matter, but there’s always a moment when curiosity becomes more important to them than peace and they need to ask; though he hasn’t yet. It’s best to have the answer worked out in advance: whether you evade or do it the hard way and tell the truth, at least you aren’t caught off guard. I sum him up, dividing him into categories: he’s good in bed, better than the one before; he’s moody but he’s not much bother, we split the rent and he doesn’t talk much, that’s an advantage. When he suggested we should live together I didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t even a real decision, it was more like buying a goldfish or a potted cactus plant, not because you want one in advance but because you happen to be in the store and you see them lined up on the counter. I’m fond of him, I’d rather have him around than not; though it would be nice if he meant something more to me. The fact that he doesn’t makes me sad: no one has since my husband. A divorce is like an amputation, you survive but there’s less of you.
I lie for a while with my eyes open. This used to be my room; Anna and David are in the one with the map, this one has the pictures. Ladies in exotic costumes, sausage rolls of hair across their foreheads, with puffed red mouths and eyelashes like toothbrush bristles: when I was ten I believed in glamour, it was a kind of religion and these were my icons. Their arms and legs are constrained in fashion-model poses, one gloved hand on the hip, one foot stuck out in front. They’re wearing shoes with Petunia Pig toes and perpendicular heels, and their dresses have cantaloupe strapless tops like Rita Hayworth’s and ballerina skirts with blotches meant for spangles. I didn’t draw very well then, there’s something wrong with the proportions, the necks are too short and the shoulders are enormous. I must have been imitating the paper dolls they had in the city, cardboard movie stars, Jane Powell, Esther Williams, with two-piece bathing suits printed on their bodies and cutout wardrobes of formal gowns and lacy negligées. Little girls in grey jumpers and white blouses, braids clipped to their heads with pink plastic barrettes, owned and directed them; they would bring them to school and parade them at recess, propping them up against the worn brick wall, feet in the snow, paper dresses no protection against the icy wind, inventing for them dances and parties, celebrations, interminable changing of costumes, a slavery of pleasure.
Below the pictures at the foot of the bed there’s a grey leather jacket hanging on a nail. It’s dirty and the leather is cracked and peeling. I see it for a while before I recognize it: it belonged to my mother a long time ago, she kept sunflower seeds in the pockets. I thought she’d thrown it out; it shouldn’t still be here, he should have got rid of it after the funeral. Dead people’s clothes ought to be buried with them.
I turn over and shove Joe further against the wall so I can curl