The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [183]
“Oh? You didn’t tell me.”
“I forgot. Reenie was furious with her.”
“For coming to the funeral?
“For not coming earlier. She was quite rude to her. She said,‘You’re an hour too late and a dime too short.’”
“But she hated Callie! She always hated it when she came to stay! She thought she was a slut!”
“I guess she hadn’t been enough of a slut to suit Reenie. She’d been lazy at it, she’d fallen down on the job.”
“Of being a slut?”
“Well, Reenie felt she ought to have followed through. At least she should have been there, when Father was in such difficulties. Taken his mind off things.”
“Reenie said all that?”
“Not exactly, but you could tell what she meant.”
“What did Callie do?”
“Pretended she didn’t understand. After that, she did what everyone does at funerals. Cried and told lies.”
“What lies?” I said.
“She said even if they didn’t always see eye to eye from a political point of view, Father was a fine, fine person. Reenie said political point of view my fanny, but behind her back.”
“I think he tried to be,” I said. “Fine, I mean.”
“Well, he didn’t try hard enough,” said Laura. “Don’t you remember what he used to say? That we’d been left on his hands, as if we were some kind of a smear.”
“He tried as hard as he could,” I said.
“Remember the Christmas he dressed up as Santa Claus? It was before Mother died. I’d just turned five.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I mean. He tried.”
“I hated it,” said Laura. “I always hated those kinds of surprises.”
We’d been told to wait in the cloak room. The double doors to the hall had gauzy curtains on the inside, so we couldn’t see through into the square front hall, which had a fireplace, in the old manner; that was where the Christmas tree had been set up. We were perched on the cloak-room settee, with the oblong mirror behind it. Coats were hanging on the long rack – Father’s coats, Mother’s coats, and the hats too, above them – hers with large feathers, his with small ones. There was a smell of rubber overshoes, and of fresh pine resin and cedar from the garlands wreathed around the front-stair banisters, and of wax on warm floorboards, because the furnace was on: the radiators hissed and clanked. From under the windowsill came a cold draught, and the pitiless, uplifting scent of snow.
There was a single overhead light in the room; it had a yellow silk shade. In the glass doors I could see us reflected: our royal blue velvet dresses with the lace collars, our white faces, our pale hair parted in the middle, our pale hands folded in our laps. Our white socks, our black Mary Janes. We’d been taught to sit with one foot crossed over the other – never the knees – and that is how we were sitting. The mirror rose behind us like a glass bubble coming out of the tops of our heads. I could hear our breathing, going in and out: the breath of waiting. It sounded like someone else breathing – someone large but invisible, hiding inside the muffling coats.
All at once the double doors swung open. There was a man in red, a red giant towering upwards. Behind him was the night darkness, and a blaze of flame. His face was covered with white smoke. His head was on fire. He lurched forward: his arms were outstretched. Out of his mouth came a sound of hooting, or of shouting.
I was startled for a moment, but I was old enough to know what it was supposed to be. The sound was meant to be laughter. It was only Father, pretending to be Santa Claus, and he wasn’t burning – it was only the tree lit up behind him, it was only the wreath of candles on his head. He had his red brocade dressing gown on, backwards, and a beard made out of cotton batten.
Mother used to say he never knew his own strength: he never knew how big he was in relation to everyone else. He wouldn’t have known how frightening he might seem. He was certainly frightening to Laura.