The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [228]
Nothing. Vertigo. I tottered on the brink, grabbed at air. In the end I resorted to the dictionary. Escarpment, a vertical fortification, or else a steep cliff-face.
In the beginning was the word, we once believed. Did God know what a flimsy thing the word might be? How tenuous, how casually erased?
Perhaps this is what happened to Laura – pushed her quite literally over the edge. The words she had relied on, building her house of cards on them, believing them solid, had flipped over and shown her their hollow centres, and then skittered away from her like so much waste paper.
God. Trust. Sacrifice. Justice.
Faith. Hope. Love.
Not to mention sister. Well, yes. There’s always that.
The morning after my tea with Laura at Diana Sweets, I hovered near the telephone. The hours passed: no word. I had a luncheon date, with Winifred and two of her committee members, at the Arcadian Court. It was always better with Winifred to stick to agreed plans – otherwise she got curious – and so I went.
We were told about Winifred’s latest venture, a cabaret in aid of wounded servicemen. There would be singing and dancing, and some of the girls were putting on a can-can routine, so we must all roll up our sleeves and pitch in, and sell tickets. Would Winifred herself be kicking up her heels in a ruffled petticoat and black stockings? I sincerely hoped not. By now she was on the wrong side of scraggy.
“You’re looking a bit wan, Iris,” said Winifred, her head on one side.
“Am I?” I said pleasantly. She’d been telling me lately I wasn’t up to par. What she meant was that I was not doing all I could to prop up Richard, to propel him forward along his path to glory.
“Yes, a bit faded. Richard wearing you out? That man has energy to burn!” She was in high good spirits. Her plans – her plans for Richard – must have been going well, despite my laxness.
But I could not pay much attention to her; I was too anxious about Laura. What would I do if she didn’t turn up soon? I could scarcely report that my car had been stolen: I didn’t want her to be arrested. Richard wouldn’t have wanted that either. It was in nobody’s interests.
I returned home, to be told by Mrs. Murgatroyd that Laura had been there during my absence. She hadn’t even rung the doorbell – Mrs. Murgatroyd had just happened to run across her in the front hall. It was a jolt, to see Miss Laura in the flesh after all these years, it was like seeing a ghost. No, she hadn’t left any address. She’d said something, though. Tell Iris I’ll talk to her later. Something like that. She’d left the house keys on the letter tray; said she’d taken them by mistake. A funny thing to take by mistake, said Mrs. Murgatroyd, whose pug nose smelled a fish. She no longer believed my story about the garage.
I was relieved: all might yet be well. Laura was still in town. She would talk to me later.
She has, too, though she tends to repeat herself, as the dead have a habit of doing. They say all the things they said to you in life; but they rarely say anything new.
I was changing out of my luncheon outfit when the policeman arrived, with news of the accident. Laura had gone through a Danger barrier, then right off the St. Clair Avenue bridge into the ravine far below. It was a terrible smash-up, said the policeman, shaking his head sadly. She’d been driving my car: they’d traced the licence. At first they’d thought – naturally – that I myself must be the burned woman found in the wreck.
Now that would have been news.
After the policeman had left I tried to stop shaking. I needed to keep calm, I needed to pull myself together. You’ll have to face the music , Reenie used to say, but what kind of music did she have in mind? It wasn’t dance music. A harsh brass band, a parade of some kind, with crowds of people on both sides, pointing and jeering. An executioner at the end of the road, with energy to burn.
There would of course be a cross-examination from Richard. My story about the car and the garage would still hold if I added that I’d seen Laura for tea