Hooks in her hair. If you just keep your head down. She crawled through, tugging, keeping herself together.
“Don’t tell Julia,” she said finally, straightening up, wiping at the mud on her knees. The trail was right there after all. She wasn’t so far off. It was just so noisy.
“I won’t,” he said, walking beside her. Gentle, gentle. Something about him reminded her of someone. A real gentleman.
“You can call me Miss Muffin,” she said then and laughed, her first real laugh in a long time. Of course he didn’t understand and it was so hard to explain. Though the water was cold, it felt nice to wash her feet for a bit and listen to the river slipping past the stones.
“Can I take you somewhere?” he asked and Lenore bit her lip. She wanted to keep hold of the nice part. It never lasted these days, always went away. “Is there someone to call?” he asked.
“Sometimes there is,” she said, hugging her knees, trying, trying to keep hold.
5
O ne problem was colour. The home-decoration book Julia had borrowed from the library was full of Grecian blues and greens that looked fabulous in glossy print, but would they work in this kitchen? She gazed around forlornly. There was an open feeling – she liked having the landing to the basement right there, by the back door, and no divider shutting off the stairs going to the second floor – but everything was cramped. The floor looked terrible: ugly chipped beige linoleum tiles glued, sloppily, over buckled green linoleum tiles, so there were waves and holes. And the walls were a very dull, stained white, the minuscule counter a tacky fake chopping-board brown, the sagging cupboards false oak and falling apart.
She couldn’t manage a kitchen renovation. Julia knew this in her marrow. Yet rationally, logically, she felt she should have been able to get something else done in a given day besides looking after Matthew and dealing with her mother. She had a master’s degree, had held a research job, had submitted articles to some of the finest publications.
Matthew pulled open the bottom drawer of the oven, slammed the pots and pans, sent the lids rolling down the hall,one of his favourite games. Julia flipped the pages of the library book. Gorgeous summer hues, rustic, artfully primitive. A turquoise chair, shimmering violet door, a window trim of ancient blue opening onto a summer meadow with a bottle of white wine in the foreground, some grapes and bread. Why not go to Greece in the spring break? Bob would love it. Bathe their bodies in olive oil and salt air. They hadn’t been anywhere since France. Since Matthew.
Everything was either Before or Since Matthew. Before Matthew was sleep, regular, ordinary, plentiful as water before the drought. It was so much sleep they took it for granted. It was staying up till two in the morning with red wine and
Hamlet
, Julia and Bob alternating parts. It was making love everywhere from this tiny kitchen counter (Julia sitting pretty, wrapping her legs around Bob’s shaggy torso) to the attic among Bob’s dissertation drafts and the bags of clothes that they’d pull out, wrapping one another in silks and old ties. Before Matthew was dining in dimly lit restaurants on rich little combinations of feta cheese and black olives, on tandoori chicken and satay and sushi with black bean sauce. It was talking about inconsequentials, about George Eliot and Franz Kafka and Bob’s obsession, Poe, about how a poem can change the balance of your life, one certain slide of words delivered at a particular time with the suddenness of love or the weight of received truth when there was no such thing any more for those too old for it, how odd and humbling and electrifying to read something and have it stiffen you or melt the cold feeling in your centre.
Before Matthew was Sunday mornings on the sofa with Bob rubbing her feet, books and magazines and newspapers spread all over the floor. It was going from one to the other with
“Don’t tell Julia,” she said finally, straightening up, wiping at the mud on her knees. The trail was right there after all. She wasn’t so far off. It was just so noisy.
“I won’t,” he said, walking beside her. Gentle, gentle. Something about him reminded her of someone. A real gentleman.
“You can call me Miss Muffin,” she said then and laughed, her first real laugh in a long time. Of course he didn’t understand and it was so hard to explain. Though the water was cold, it felt nice to wash her feet for a bit and listen to the river slipping past the stones.
“Can I take you somewhere?” he asked and Lenore bit her lip. She wanted to keep hold of the nice part. It never lasted these days, always went away. “Is there someone to call?” he asked.
“Sometimes there is,” she said, hugging her knees, trying, trying to keep hold.
5
O ne problem was colour. The home-decoration book Julia had borrowed from the library was full of Grecian blues and greens that looked fabulous in glossy print, but would they work in this kitchen? She gazed around forlornly. There was an open feeling – she liked having the landing to the basement right there, by the back door, and no divider shutting off the stairs going to the second floor – but everything was cramped. The floor looked terrible: ugly chipped beige linoleum tiles glued, sloppily, over buckled green linoleum tiles, so there were waves and holes. And the walls were a very dull, stained white, the minuscule counter a tacky fake chopping-board brown, the sagging cupboards false oak and falling apart.
She couldn’t manage a kitchen renovation. Julia knew this in her marrow. Yet rationally, logically, she felt she should have been able to get something else done in a given day besides looking after Matthew and dealing with her mother. She had a master’s degree, had held a research job, had submitted articles to some of the finest publications.
Matthew pulled open the bottom drawer of the oven, slammed the pots and pans, sent the lids rolling down the hall,one of his favourite games. Julia flipped the pages of the library book. Gorgeous summer hues, rustic, artfully primitive. A turquoise chair, shimmering violet door, a window trim of ancient blue opening onto a summer meadow with a bottle of white wine in the foreground, some grapes and bread. Why not go to Greece in the spring break? Bob would love it. Bathe their bodies in olive oil and salt air. They hadn’t been anywhere since France. Since Matthew.
Everything was either Before or Since Matthew. Before Matthew was sleep, regular, ordinary, plentiful as water before the drought. It was so much sleep they took it for granted. It was staying up till two in the morning with red wine and
Hamlet
, Julia and Bob alternating parts. It was making love everywhere from this tiny kitchen counter (Julia sitting pretty, wrapping her legs around Bob’s shaggy torso) to the attic among Bob’s dissertation drafts and the bags of clothes that they’d pull out, wrapping one another in silks and old ties. Before Matthew was dining in dimly lit restaurants on rich little combinations of feta cheese and black olives, on tandoori chicken and satay and sushi with black bean sauce. It was talking about inconsequentials, about George Eliot and Franz Kafka and Bob’s obsession, Poe, about how a poem can change the balance of your life, one certain slide of words delivered at a particular time with the suddenness of love or the weight of received truth when there was no such thing any more for those too old for it, how odd and humbling and electrifying to read something and have it stiffen you or melt the cold feeling in your centre.
Before Matthew was Sunday mornings on the sofa with Bob rubbing her feet, books and magazines and newspapers spread all over the floor. It was going from one to the other with
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