The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [229]
Laura had been in the car when it had broken down, I’d say; she’d accompanied me to the garage. When I’d left my purse behind, she must have picked it up, and then it would have been child’s play for her to go the next morning and reclaim the car, paying for it with a forged cheque from my chequebook. I’d tear out a cheque, for verisimilitude; if pressed for the name of the garage, I’d say I’d forgotten. If pressed further, I’d cry. How could I be expected to remember a trivial detail like that, I’d say, at a time like this?
I went upstairs to change. To visit the morgue I would need a pair of gloves, and a hat with a veil. There might be reporters, photographers, already. I’d drive down, I thought, and then remembered that my car was now scrap. I would have to call a taxi.
Also I ought to warn Richard, at his office: As soon as the word got out, the corpse flies would besiege him. He was too prominent for things to be otherwise. He would wish to have a statement of grief prepared.
I made the phone call. Richard’s latest young secretary answered. I told her the matter was urgent, and that no, it could not be communicated through her. I would have to speak with Richard in person.
There was a pause while Richard was located. “What is it?” he said. He never appreciated being phoned at the office.
“There’s been a terrible accident,” I said. “It’s Laura. The car she was driving went off a bridge.”
He said nothing.
“It was my car.”
He said nothing.
“I’m afraid she’s dead,” I said.
“My God.” A pause. “Where has she been all this time? When did she get back? What was she doing in your car?”
“I thought you needed to know at once, before the papers get hold of it,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “That was wise.”
“Now I have to go down to the morgue.”
“The morgue?” he said. “The city morgue? What the hell for?”
“It’s where they’ve put her.”
“Well, get her out of there,” he said. “Take her somewhere decent. Somewhere more . . .”
“Private,” I said. “Yes, I’ll do that. I should tell you there’s been some implication – from the police, one of them was just here – some suggestion . . .”
“What? What did you tell them? What suggestion?” He sounded quite alarmed.
“Only that she did it on purpose.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “It must have been an accident. I hope you said that.”
“Of course. But there were witnesses. They saw . . .”
“Was there a note? If there was, burn it.”
“Two of them, a lawyer and something in a bank. She had white gloves on. They saw her turn the wheel.”
“Trick of the light,” he said. “Or else they were drunk. I’ll call the lawyer. I’ll handle it.”
I set down the telephone. I went into my dressing room: I would need black, and a handkerchief. I’ll have to tell Aimee, I thought. I’ll say it was the bridge. I’ll say the bridge broke.
I opened the drawer where I kept my stockings, and there were the notebooks – five of them, cheap school exercise books from our time with Mr. Erskine, tied together with kitchen string. Laura’s name was printed on the top cover, in pencil – her childish lettering. Underneath that: Mathematics. Laura hated mathematics.
Old schoolwork, I thought. No: old homework. Why had she left me these?
I could have stopped there. I could have chosen ignorance, but I did what you would have done – what you’ve already done, if you’ve read this far. I chose knowledge instead.
Most of us will. We’ll choose knowledge no matter what, we’ll maim ourselves in the process, we’ll stick our hands into the flames for it if necessary. Curiosity is not our only motive: love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on. We’ll spy relentlessly on the dead: we’ll open their letters, we’ll read their journals, we’ll go through their trash, hoping for a hint, a final word, an explanation, from those who have deserted us – who’ve left us holding the bag, which is often a good deal emptier than we’d supposed.
But what about