The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [77]
If there was one thing Port Ticonderoga would not stand for, said Father’s lawyer in an advisory tone, it was this kind of smut in the hands of the teachers of innocent youth. Father realized he could not keep Mr. Erskine in the house after that without being considered an ogre.
(I have long suspected Reenie of having got hold of the photographs herself, from the brother who was in the magazine distribution business, and who could easily have managed it. I suspect Mr. Erskine was guiltless in respect of these photographs. If anything, his tastes ran to children, not to large brassières. But by that time he could not expect fair play from Reenie.)
Mr. Erskine departed, protesting his innocence – indignant, but also shaken. Laura said that her prayers had been answered. She said she’d prayed to have Mr. Erskine expelled from our house, and that God had heard her. Reenie, she said, had been doing His will, filthy pictures and all. I wondered what God thought of that, supposing He existed – a thing I increasingly doubted.
Laura, on the other hand, had taken to religion in a serious way during Mr. Erskine’s tenure: she was still frightened of God, but forced to choose between one irascible, unpredictable tyrant and another, she’d chosen the one that was bigger, and also farther away.
Once the choice had been made she took it to extremes, as she took everything. “I’m going to become a nun,” she announced placidly, while we were eating our lunchtime sandwiches at the kitchen table.
“You can’t,” said Reenie. “They wouldn’t have you. You’re not a Catholic.”
“I could become one,” said Laura. “I could join up.”
“Well,” said Reenie, “you’ll have to cut off your hair. Underneath those veils of theirs, a nun is bald as an egg.”
This was a shrewd move of Reenie’s. Laura hadn’t known about that. If she had one vanity, it was her hair. “Why do they?” she said.
“They think God wants them to. They think God wants them to offer up their hair to him, which just goes to show how ignorant they are. What would he want with it?” said Reenie. “The idea! All that hair!”
“What do they do with the hair?” said Laura. “Once it’s been cut off.”
Reenie was snapping beans: snap, snap, snap. “It gets turned into wigs, for rich women,” she said. She didn’t miss a beat, but I knew this was a fib, like her earlier stories about babies being made from dough. “Snooty-nosed rich women. You wouldn’t want to see your lovely hair walking around on someone else’s big fat mucky-muck head.”
Laura gave up the idea of being a nun, or so it seemed; but who could tell what she might fall for next? She had a heightened capacity for belief. She left herself open, she entrusted herself, she gave herself over, she put herself at the mercy. A little incredulity would have been a first line of defence.
Several years had now gone by – wasted, as it were, on Mr. Erskine. Though I shouldn’t say wasted: I’d learned many things from him, although not always the things he’d set out to teach. In addition to lying and cheating, I’d learned half-concealed insolence and silent resistance. I’d learned that revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I’d learned not to get caught.
Meanwhile the Depression had set in. Father didn’t lose much in the Crash, but he lost some. He also lost his margin of error. He ought to have shut down the factories in response to lessened demand; he ought to have banked his money – hoarded it, as others in his position were doing. That would have been the sensible thing. But he didn’t do that. He couldn’t bear to. He couldn’t bear to throw his men out of work. He owed them allegiance, these men of his. Never mind that some of them were women.
A meagreness settled over Avilion. Our bedrooms became cold in winter, our sheets threadbare. Reenie cut them down the worn-out middles, then sewed the sides together. A number of the rooms were shut off; most of the servants were let