Too much happiness_ stories - Alice Munro [47]
“I could let—”
“The thing is, though, this place is condemned—”
“I could let you borrow.”
“Borrow? We don’t borrow around here. We don’t use the borrow system around here. Excuse me, I’ve got to go get hold of my mood. Are you hungry? Would you like some soup?”
“No thanks.”
When he was gone she thought of running away. If she could locate a back door, a route that didn’t go through the kitchen. But she could not do it, because it would mean she would never see him again. And the backyard of a house like this, built before the days of automobiles, would have no access to the street.
It was maybe half an hour before he came back. She had not worn her watch. Thinking maybe a watch was out of favor in the life he lived and being right, it seemed. Right at least about that.
He seemed a little surprised or bewildered to find her still there.
“Sorry. I had to settle some business. And then I talked to Marnie, she always calms me down.”
“You wrote a letter to us?” Sally said. “It was the last we heard from you.”
“Oh, don’t remind me.”
“No, it was a good letter. It was a good attempt to explain what you were thinking.”
“Please. Don’t remind me.”
“You were trying to figure out your life—”
“My life, my life, my progress, what all I could discover about my stinking self. Purpose of me. My crap. My spirituality. My intellectuality. There isn’t any inside stuff, Sally. You don’t mind if I call you Sally? It just comes out easier. There is only outside, what you do, every moment of your life. Since I realized this I’ve been happy.”
“You are? Happy?”
“Sure. I’ve let go of that stupid self stuff. I think, How can I help? And that’s all the thinking that I allow myself.”
“Living in the present?”
“I don’t care if you think I’m banal. I don’t care if you laugh at me.”
“I’m not—”
“I don’t care. Listen. If you think I’m after your money, fine. I am after your money. Also I am after you. Don’t you want a different life? I’m not saying I love you, I don’t use stupid language. Or, I want to save you. You know you can only save yourself. So what is the point? I don’t usually try to get anywhere talking to people. I usually try to avoid personal relationships. I mean I do. I do avoid them.”
Relationships.
“Why are you trying not to smile?” he said. “Because I said ‘relationships’? That’s a cant word? I don’t fuss about my words.”
Sally said, “I was thinking of Jesus. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’”
The look that leapt to his face was almost savage.
“Don’t you get tired, Sally? Don’t you get tired being clever? I can’t go on talking this way, I’m sorry. I’ve got things to do.”
“So have I,” said Sally. It was a complete lie. “We’ll be—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t say, ‘We’ll be in touch.’”
“Maybe we’ll be in touch. Is that any better?”
Sally gets lost, then finds her way. The bank building again, the same or possibly a whole new regiment of loiterers. The subway ride, the parking lot, the keys, the highway, the traffic. Then the lesser highway, the early sunset, no snow yet, the bare trees, and the darkening fields.
She loves this countryside, this time of year. Must she now think herself unworthy?
The cat is glad to see her. There are a couple of messages from friends on her machine. She heats up the single serving of lasagna. She buys these separated precooked and frozen portions now. They are quite good and not too expensive when you think of no waste. She sips from a glass of wine during the seven-minute wait.
Jonah.
She is shaking with anger. What is she supposed to do, go back to the condemned house and scrub the rotten linoleum and cook up the chicken parts that were thrown out because they’re past the best-before date? And be reminded every day how she falls short of Marnie or any other afflicted creature? All for the privilege of being useful in the life somebody else—Kent—has chosen.
He’s sick. He’s wearing himself out, maybe he’s dying. He wouldn’t thank her for clean sheets and fresh food. Oh no. He’d rather die on that cot under the blanket