The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [102]
“Even men in overcoats have to take a leak sometimes,” he said.
I was taken aback by this vulgarity – it was at odds with his dinner-party politeness – but perhaps it was a sample of the orphanish jeering Reenie had predicted. I decided to ignore it. “You didn’t set the fire, I take it,” I said.I meant to sound sarcastic, but it wasn’t received that way.
“I’m not that stupid,” he said. “I wouldn’t set a fire for no reason.”
“Everyone thinks it was you.”
“It wasn’t, though,” he said. “But it would be very convenient for certain people to take that view.”
“What certain people? Why?” I wasn’t pushing him this time; I was baffled.
“Use your head,” he said. But he wouldn’t say any more.
The attic
I got a candle from the stash of them in the kitchen, on hand for power blackouts, and lit it, and led Alex Thomas out of the cellar and through the kitchen and up the back stairs, then up the narrower stairs to the attic, where I installed him behind the three empty trunks. There were some old quilts stored in a cedar chest up there, and I hauled them out for bedding.
“No one will come,” I said. “If they do, get underneath the quilts. Don’t walk around, they might hear the footsteps. Don’t turn on the light.” (There was a single bulb with a pull chain in the attic, just as in the cold cellar.) “We’ll bring you something to eat in the morning,” I added, not knowing how I would make good on this promise.
I went downstairs, then came back up again with a chamber pot, which I set down without a word. It was a detail that had always worried me, in Reenie’s stories about kidnappers – what about the facilities? It would be one thing to be locked into a crypt, quite another to be reduced to squatting in a corner with your skirt hauled up.
Alex Thomas nodded, and said, “Good girl. You’re a pal. I knew you were practical.”
In the morning Laura and I held a whispered conference in her bedroom. The subjects discussed were the procuring of food and drink, the need for watchfulness, and the emptying of the chamber pot. One of us – pretending to be reading – would stand guard in my room, with the door open: we could see the door to the attic stairs from there. The other would fetch and carry. We agreed to take these tasks in rotation. The big hurdle would be Reenie, who was sure to smell a rat if we acted too furtive.
We hadn’t worked out any plan for what we would do if we were found out. We never did work out such a plan. It was all improvisation.
Alex Thomas’s first breakfast was our toast crusts. As a rule, we did not eat our crusts until nagged – it was still Reenie’s habit to say Remember the starving Armenians – but this time, when Reenie looked, the crusts were gone. They were actually in Laura’s navy-blue skirt pocket.
“Alex Thomas must be the starving Armenians,” I whispered, as we hurried up the stairs. But Laura didn’t think this was funny. She thought it was accurate.
Mornings and evenings were the times of our visits. We raided the pantry, salvaged the leftovers. We smuggled up raw carrots, bacon rinds, half-eaten boiled eggs, pieces of bread folded over, with butter and jam inside. Once a leg of fricasseed chicken – a daring coup. Also glasses of water, cups of milk, cold coffee. We carted away the empty dishes, stashed them under our beds until the coast was clear, then washed them in our bathroom sink before replacing them in the kitchen cupboard. (I did this: Laura was too clumsy.) We didn’t use the good china. What if something got broken? Even an everyday plate might have been noticed: Reenie kept track. So we were very cautious with the tableware.
Was Reenie suspicious of us? I expect so. She could usually tell when we were up to something. But she could also tell when it was more politic not to know exactly what that something might be. I expect she was preparing herself to say she’d had no idea, in case we were caught. She did tell