Too much happiness_ stories - Alice Munro [34]
“It would be very kind if you would read to me. My eyes are tired in the evenings. You know this book?”
A Shropshire Lad.
I knew it. In fact I knew many of the poems by heart.
I said that I would read.
“And may I ask you please—may I ask you please—not to cross your legs?”
My hands were trembling when I took the book from him.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
He chose a chair in front of the bookcase, facing me.
“Now—”
“On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble—”
Familiar words and rhythms calmed me down. They took me over. Gradually I began to feel more at peace.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, ’twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
Where is Uricon? Who knows?
It wasn’t really that I forgot where I was or who I was with or in what condition I sat there. But I had come to feel somewhat remote and philosophical. The notion came to me that everybody in the world was naked, in a way. Mr. Purvis was naked, though he wore clothes. We were all sad, bare, forked creatures. Shame receded. I just kept turning the pages, reading one poem and then another, then another. Liking the sound of my voice. Until to my surprise and almost to my disappointment—there were still famous lines to come—Mr. Purvis interrupted me. He stood up, he sighed.
“Enough, enough,” he said. “That was very nice. Thank you. Your country accent is quite suitable. Now it’s my bedtime.”
I let the book go. He replaced it on the shelves and closed the glass doors. The country accent was news to me.
“And I’m afraid it’s time to send you home.”
He opened another door, into the hall I had seen so long ago, at the beginning of the evening, and I passed in front of him and the door was closed behind me. I may have said good night. It is even possible that I thanked him for dinner, and that he spoke to me in a few dry words (not at all, thank you for your company, it was very kind of you, thank you for reading Housman) in a suddenly tired, old, crumpled, and indifferent voice. He did not lay a hand on me.
The same dimly lit cloakroom. My same clothes. The turquoise dress, my stockings, my slip. Mrs. Winner appeared while I was fastening my stockings. She said only one thing to me, as I was ready to leave.
“You forgot your scarf.”
And there indeed was the scarf I had knit in Home Economics class, the only thing I would ever knit in my life. I had come close to abandoning it, in this place.
As I got out of the car Mrs. Winner said, “Mr. Purvis would like to speak to Nina before he goes to bed. If you would remind her.”
But there was no Nina waiting to receive this message. Her bed was made up. Her coat and boots were gone. A few of her other clothes were still hanging in the closet.
Beverly and Kay had both gone home for the weekend, so I ran downstairs to see if Beth had any information.
“I’m sorry,” said Beth, whom I never saw sorry about anything. “I can’t keep track of all your comings and goings.”
Then as I turned away, “I’ve asked you several times not to thump so much on the stairs. I just got Sally-Lou to sleep.”
I had not made up my mind, when I got home, what I would say to Nina. Would I ask her if she was required to be naked, in that house, if she had known perfectly well what sort of an evening was waiting for me? Or would I say nothing much, waiting for her to ask me? And even then, I could say innocently that I’d eaten Cornish hen and yellow rice, and that it was very good. That I’d read from A Shropshire Lad.
I could just let her wonder.
Now that she was gone, none of this mattered. The focus was shifted. Mrs. Winner phoned after ten o’clock—breaking another of Beth’s rules—and when I told her that Nina was not there she said, “Are you sure of that?”
The same when I told her that I had no idea where Nina had gone. “Are you sure?”
I asked her not to phone again till morning, because of Beth’s rules and the babies’ sleep, and she said, “Well. I don’t know. This is serious.”
When I got up in the morning the car was parked across the street. Later, Mrs.