We So Seldom Look on Love (27 page)

SH:
You mean you worried it was too pretty?

BG:
Or untrue. I don’t mind prettiness when it’s true.

—Reprinted by permission of the author

Chapter One

All three girls are in the front seat. The fat girl with the glasses is driving. In the back seat their father is asleep sitting up.

They pull into the parking lot, and two men who are leaning against a blue Volkswagen van turn to look at them. One of the men has a camera round his neck. “Fuck,” the thin girl says.

Their father jerks awake. Before the car has come to a full stop, he has his door open. “Scram!” he yells at the men. He falls out the door, onto one knee. The three girls quickly get out of the car. Their father stands up and heads for the men, thrashing his arms. “Vamoose!” he yells. “Bugger off!” The men don’t move.

“Dad,” the fat girl pleads. Their father staggers away from everyone and slaps his pockets for cigarettes.

“Just leave him,” the thin girl mutters. She starts walking, giving their father a wide berth. Her sisters follow. The fat girl with the glasses can’t squeeze between the fenders of the two hearses, and she reddens, conscious of the men approaching. “Climb over,” the thin girl orders. Glancing at the photographer, she reaches into her purse and gets out the pack of cigarettes that their father is searching for. If she has to have her picture taken, she wants to be smoking.

The photographer starts clicking. But not at the thin girl. He aims at the third girl, the pretty blonde one, who is waiting while the fat sister climbs over the fenders. “Figures,” the thin girls thinks. The pretty girl gazes at the scorched white sky as if wondering whether their mother is up there yet.

“Excuse me,” the second man says, sauntering up. The pretty girl smiles politely. The thin girl narrows her eyes. The eyes of the man are rabid with fake pity. He says it’s a real drag about their mother and he hates like hell to hassle them, but the pictures aren’t going to have captions unless he gets their names straight.

Both the fat girl and the pretty one look at the thin girl. “Lou,” the thin girl says. The man flips open a pad and starts writing. Lou nods at the fat girl, “Norma,” nods at the pretty girl, “Sandy.” This is the first reporter that Lou’s let anywhere near her. It’s because he has long hair and a beard and is wearing blue jeans.

“Still in high school?” the reporter asks conversationally.

“For another few weeks, yeah.” Lou blows a smoke ring. The photographer goes on clicking at Sandy.

“When did you get the cat?” the reporter asks.

“What?”

“The cat. Your mother went up on the roof to rescue a cat, didn’t she?”

“We better get inside,” Norma murmurs.

Sweat starts dripping down the reporter’s forehead. “I understand that one of you was there when it happened,” he says, earnest now.

“We were all there,” Lou says. Her hand shakes bringing her cigarette up to her mouth. “Okay, we’ve got to go,” she says, moving around the reporter, feeling herself on a dangerous verge.

Inside the funeral parlour, Sandy asks where the washroom is. She has decided to put her false eyelashes back on.

It’s not vanity, like Lou thinks. This morning Lou said, “You’ve got too much makeup on. Nobody’ll believe you’re broken up.” So Sandy took her eyelashes off, but now she wishes she hadn’t, and not only because of the photographer. She can’t understand why someone as smart as Lou hasn’t figured out that the better you look, the better people treat you.

She bats her lashes to see if they’re stuck on. “Beauty is only skin deep,” she tells herself defensively. She has always taken this expression to mean that only what is skin deep is beautiful.

Her throat tightens. She has had an awful thought. In an autopsy they remove all your organs, don’t they? She isn’t sure. But just the idea of strange men rummaging around inside their mother … She thinks of their mother’s organs sloshing in whisky. She thinks of their mother’s womb, and she starts crying and fishes in her purse for Kleenex. Even before their mother died, the depressing image of her womb crossed Sandy’s mind a couple of times. She pictured an empty drawstring purse.

Norma and Lou go into the room where their mother is. Nobody else has arrived yet. They’re an hour early because yesterday their aunt phoned and told them to be. The casket is against the far wall, between big green plants that you can tell from the door are plastic.

Norma walks over. “Is she all here?” she whispers. Only the upper part of the casket is open, and the lower part doesn’t seem long enough.

“Who gives a shit,” Lou says in a steady voice. “She’s dead.” Last night Lou cried her heart out. Their sweet little mother who tap-danced … have they cut off her legs? No way is Lou going to look in the casket.

She walks to the window and parts the heavy velvet drapes. Their father is yelling at the newspapermen again. They are about ten yards away from him, standing their ground. Lou can’t hear their father, but the newspapermen are nodding as if whatever he’s yelling makes a lot of sense.

Norma touches the tip of their mother’s small nose. “It’s me,” she whispers. Their mother’s nose is like a pebble, cool. Her face is white and smooth as a sink, and Norma realizes it’s because the blood has been drained from her. “What do they do with the blood?” she asks Lou.

“Christ,” Lou says, lighting another Export A. “Do you mind?” She wonders if Sandy went to the washroom to cry. In a couple of weeks Sandy plans to marry a guy who has the stupidest face Lou has ever seen on a person not mongoloid retarded. Lou suddenly has a panicky feeling that she has to put a stop to the wedding. As soon as possible. Today.

She closes her eyes. What the hell is going on? she asks herself. What does she care who Sandy marries? Maybe their mother is seeping out, and Lou has swallowed Maternal Instinct. People in Wales believe that you can swallow a dead person’s sin. But their mother had no sin, and nobody can tell Lou that she sure had one, the biggest one, because Lou has always viewed that as a sacrifice. Their mother had no instincts left either, now that Lou thinks about it. Drowning pain Lou doesn’t count.

When Lou opens her eyes, Sandy is entering the room on the arm of an undertaker. He gestures toward the casket, disengages himself and backs away, and pressing her hands at her mouth, Sandy walks over and stands beside Norma.

“She’s got lipstick on,” Sandy says.

“They always do that,” Norma says.

“But she never wore pink lipstick,” Sandy says, her voice breaking. She slowly brings her hand down and touches her fingers to their mother’s lips. “Are her insides in her?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“They’re pickled in formaldehyde,” Lou says. Lou is still looking out the window. Their father has just accepted a flask from the reporter, and now he’s shaking the reporter’s hand. “What a prick,” Lou says.

Norma sighs. She walks over to a chair and drops into it and removes her glasses, which have felt too tight ever since they fell into the eavestrough. She knows that the prick Lou is referring to isn’t one of the newspapermen, it’s their father. Lou says she hates their father. Norma’s never been able to hate him and especially couldn’t now, when he’s so pathetic. Even Lou has to admit that he loved their mother. What drove their mother to drink and probably to the roof, and what drove him, part way at least, to every bad, crazy thing he did, never really drove the two of them apart. Yesterday, in their mother’s bedside table, Norma found the kidney stone that he gave their mother—for luck and instead of an engagement ring—on the night they met. Lou wouldn’t look at it. Lou blames him.

Lou turns from the window. Norma is staring at her without glasses. Sandy is crying quietly, leaning into the casket. She seems to be stroking their mother’s face.

“What are you doing?” Lou asks her.

“Changing her lipstick,” Sandy sobs.

Lou feels nauseated. “I need some air,” she says and leaves the room.

Going around a corner in the hall, she bumps into their father.

“Oh, hi!” he says, astonished.

His whisky breath makes her stomach heave. “The last room on the left,” she says, shoving by him.

She opens an Exit door and is in the parking lot. The heat slams into her. The photographer is gone, but the reporter is still there, resting against a car that’s in the shade. He gets up and wanders over.

“What are you hanging around for?” she asks.

“Waiting for you.” He lights her cigarette. The back of his hands and forearms have a rug of black hair on them. “So,” he says, “was it an accident or what?”

“Didn’t the whisky loosen my father’s tongue?” she asks sarcastically.

“What is she crying about? … She isn’t crying for these deaths on either side of her.”

“I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.”

She wonders why she doesn’t tell him. It’s none of his business, but that’s not the reason.

“Off the record,” he says. “Strictly between you and I.”

“Between you and me,” she corrects him.

He dips his head to look in her face. He has whisky breath, too.

“I’ve got to go back in,” she says, tossing away most of her cigarette.

“Hey, come on.” He grabs her arm.

“Let go.”

“One minute, okay?”

“FUCK OFF, OKAY?”

They stare at each other. He drops his hand.

In the washroom she looks for feet under the cubicle doors. Sees none. She shuts herself in a cubicle and starts crying. She can’t believe it, it makes her mad, because last night she imagined she experienced the final evolution of her heart.

What is she crying about? Not about their mother or about the baby that she cried at the thought of having and still wouldn’t keep. She isn’t crying for these deaths on either side of her.

She’s crying because … She doesn’t know why. But when she’s cried herself out, the relief leaves her light-headed. No, it’s more than relief—it’s the same feeling she had up on the roof with their mother and Norma (although she never felt more separate from everyone), when she was above the whole subdivision, and the clouds rolling from horizon to horizon made her think of a great migration. The wind whipped her hair. It was warm and windy. Not dark or light. Their father couldn’t get to her. He couldn’t climb the ladder! Their mother wouldn’t climb down. There was a standoff, a stopping of time. Something was going to happen—Lou felt that much, although she didn’t know it was going to be something so terrible—but in that suspended minute or two, Lou was in heaven, on the verge of flying even. Doing out of no fear what their mother, a few seconds later, did terrified.

The title
We So Seldom Look on Love
comes from a line in the poem “Ode on Necrophilia” by Frank O’Hara. To learn about the poet and read more of his poetry, visit:
www.rooknet.com/beatpage/writers/ohara.html
www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/164

Trephination, which Julie unwittingly performs on herself in “Body and Soul,” is discussed in a
British Journal of Neurosurgery
article on a similar case. The article is entitled “Self-trephination of the skull with an electric power drill.”
(British Journal of Neurosurgery,
Taylor & Francis, Volume 11, Number 2, April 1997). To read the abstract, visit:
www.tandf.co.uk/journals/
(Search for “self-trephination”)

Charles Eisenmann was a photographer famous for his portraiture of unusual people who travelled with circus sideshows in the late nineteenth century. To view one of his photos of a woman very much like the character in “Sylvie,” visit:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myrtle_Corbin

In 1996, the story “We So Seldom Look on Love” was made into the feature film
Kissed.
To read an interview with director Lynne Stopkewich on adapting the story to film, visit:
www.eye.net/eye/issue/issue_08.29.96/
FILM/cv0829.php

Descant
cultural magazine devoted its entire Spring 2006 issue to Barbara Gowdy. For information on this issue, and to read Steven Heighton’s interview in its entirety, visit:
www.descant.on.ca./issues/d132.html

Barbara Gowdy received the prestigious Marian Engel Award in 1996, recognizing her contribution to Canadian literature.

We So Seldom Look on Love

• Finalist for the Trillium Award

Mister Sandman

• Finalist for the Trillium Award

• Finalist for the Governor General’s Literary Award for Fiction

• Finalist for the Giller Prize

• Named a Times Literary Supplement “Book of the Year”

The White Bone

• Finalist for the Trillium Award

• Finalist for the Governor General’s Literary Award for Fiction

• Finalist for the Giller Prize

• Finalist for the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize

The Romantic

• Nominated for the Man Booker Prize

• Finalist for the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize

• Finalist for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book

• Finalist for the Trillium Award

Praise for
We So Seldom Look on Love

“A
writer now emerging as one of Canada’s most accomplished and outrageous….
We So Seldom Look on Love
will only deepen her reputation for fine technique and alarming content.”

—The Globe and Mail

“This politically incorrect collection of stories is one of the most enjoyable reads to come my way this year…. There are no ‘perfectly normal people’ in Barbara Gowdy’s fictional world. Quite the contrary. Readers who take the plunge will emerge breathless and refreshed.”

—Books in Canada

“Collectively, these stories are not for readers who insist on a coy handling of uncomfortable situations, who prefer sentences ending with
dot dot dot.
Like Cormac McCarthy and William Burroughs, two of her favourite writers, Gowdy stares down the things she finds repulsive….
We So Seldom Look on Love
is not just a book about freaks. It is a book about coping mechanisms, about the process of learning to live with oneself…. Wonderful and unsettling.”