Margery was, and felt, absolutely alone. Dwight still didn’t know that she was
pregnant with his child. Now that they
had both agreed to end the marriage, if ending it was what they were
doing. They would still be
together. They would always be
together. But sex? Between them?
Out of the question. It wasn’t simply that they were not suited for each
other, but that making love with Dwight took Margery into a place she didn’t
want to visit. She didn’t know how to
describe it, but it was very frightening to her, this sense of losing entirely
her sense of self, of foundation, and this terror of being stranded in that
void forever. They had made love only
twice. When it ended with her convulsive
weeping, both knew that this was not going to work. And now, for the third time, she was
pregnant. She didn’t know what to do.
She wanted a
cat. Nothing fancy, just an ordinary
alley cat. Tabby, black and white, or
whatever. She had never wanted pets
before, but had always liked cats. She
sat looking out the window, onto the street below, at the trees, their leaves
grown weary and slightly limp with the oppressive heat of August. She looked at
the people down below on the street.
There were always people walking out there. It was a nice apartment in an older
building. Spacious, clean with big
windows and lots of light. For two days now she had done virtually nothing,
having left her job. Finally. Another one of Theresa Somerville’s setups,
but this one worked. Margery had been
given the wrong mix of medications for Milton Zane and the novagenarian nearly
died. Theresa agreed to hush everything
up on the condition that Margery tender her immediate resignation. She finally had her. And now her period wasn’t happening. Almost a week now. She had never been this late. And she “felt” pregnant, though she couldn’t
even to herself describe this feeling.
She still hadn’t seen a doctor.
She was afraid to? Maybe. What if she wasn’t? It could be stress, from not simply losing
her job but its aftermath, its fallout.
Six years she’d stuck it out there.
She was due for a rest.
Overdue. This was her second day
doing nothing. Mostly she slept. And read.
Right now she was halfway through reading Women in Love. But Margery didn’t like D. H. Lawrence. Better than nothing, she supposed. She had blindly picked it from Dwight’s
library, with her eyes closed, and simply assumed that this was what she ought
to reading. It was better than nothing,
she supposed. She hadn’t been out
much. Being out no longer felt safe for
Margery. She was cocooning. She was pregnant. Or believed herself to be pregnant. She wanted a cat. She wanted… what did she want? She wasn’t used to desiring, she was usually
content with what she had. And she
couldn’t stop worrying about Carol.
Contemplation was a struggle for her.
Her attention would wander, or she would doze or eat. She knew that she was burnt-out. She should be doing something. She should be sleeping. It was early—one, two in the afternoon? She didn’t know, or care. On Dwight’s suggestion she had hidden all the
clocks in the apartment. She was in
retreat.
Retreat from what? Surely she needed to rest. And now that she was pregnant—if she wasn’t
pregnant? Perhaps it was stress? But
stress had never delayed longer than three days her period. She must be pregnant. How could she tell Dwight? So this was what she needed—not a cat, but a
baby. She wanted a baby? How could she tell? She certainly had wanted the second
child. Child. Not a fetus. Child. The first time, it was a fetus. She hadn’t wanted it, was glad to have done
with it. She had not suffered over the
loss. But the second time? Such a beautiful man, Warren, who had given
her this lovely gift of himself, and this symbol of liberation. She had lived under Megan’s tutelage, under
Megan’s spell, under Megan’s rule. They
had been lovers, and at first it was very good.
It was Megan who’d helped Margery, a confused girl of seventeen, to end
this first pregnancy. Megan and the
women’s collective had been Margery’s liberation. Then came Warren, the first man she had ever…
loved? Was it love? He certainly moved her. In every way he played her like a harp or a
violin and he played her beautifully, so beautifully. The news came that she was pregnant, and
Warren was already gone, having returned to England. She would have his child, a lasting memento,
though she didn’t know how to contact him since it was to his wife he’d
returned. Megan, in high dudgeon, unable
to face the end of Margery’s love, insisted, cajoled, commanded her to abort,
held over her her obligation to the women’s collective, to the honour of their
feminism, to women, to the honour of Megan.
Magery lied about Warren—he was nothing, a flash in the pan, she offered
him one single mercy fuck, she’d forgotten to protect herself. So Margery, who never lied, lied to Megan,
and Margery, who never acted against her integrity, so acted for Megan, who’d
already lost her long before she lost her baby.
Now Margery felt…hope. Finally a child that she loved, that she
could have, keep, raise, nurture and…it was too much, she was beginning to
weep, and only because she was beginning to hope, which she knew would mark the
beginning of her sorrows. She must,
tonight, tell Dwight who would welcome the news? Now that they had agreed to be unmarried,
while living together as brother and sister, since she couldn’t bear to have
sex with him, while knowing that he desired her. Did she desire him? She yearned over him, she loved him most
tenderly, but with her body did she him worship? She had worshipped with her flesh Warren and
Megan. Not Peter, who still had given
her a sort of wild cathartic joy. But
for sex, sexual love, the love of sex?
Yes, Megan for maybe three weeks.
But Warren for six months. And
still for Warren she hankered, even seven years later. Seven years it had been? This was, for Margery, like widowhood. What would she tell Dwight? What should she say to him? She ought to tell Carol, who was after all
her best girlfriend. Carol, who she
couldn’t get out of her mind, who she didn’t want to see just yet. Because she reminded her of Megan, but in a
different light. A humbled, broken
Megan, a Megan despoiled of her all-encompassing competence and authority, who
could scarcely manage her personal life, being caught up now in an entanglement
with a kinky weirdo. Which Megan would
never have done, for she would never let down her guard, her facsimile of
strength long enough to be rendered ridiculous.
She would never permit herself to be loveable, which quickly chilled
Margery towards her. Having seen her
recently, just a few months ago, she thought how old she now looked. Old and tired. And still faking her strength, still
cherishing her anger, nurturing like a resident incubus her bitterness,
embellishing it with a proud radiance.
She thought she seemed empty, like a bad actor doing the same
Shakespeare for the umpteenth time. She
had loved this woman. As she loved
Dwight and Carol? Dwight had never
presumed to rule or dominate Margery, to know what she needed. He was simply there. And Carol?
Margery and Dwight were her Mom and Dad, Carol their errant teenage
daughter. She was finally, after much
effort on their part, becoming sufficiently comfortable to talk about her
boyfriend. Margery felt a strong need to
call her, to tell her about the pregnancy.
She didn’t want to. She was getting
bored. A bit anxious. It might be time to venture outside, to take
the chance, the risk. She suddenly wanted
to see her mother. She wanted to lie
down and rest. Dwight had landed a job,
teaching summer school—script-writing for college students. He wouldn’t be home until late. She must in the meantime find something to
occupy herself. She started to put on
her shoes….
It was too soon to
think of getting another job. She was
tired, burnt-out and in need of rest. At
least her unemployment benefits would be soon kicking in. Theresa, as a concession, agreed to state
that Margery had been laid off, thereby saving her from having to wait an extra
six weeks. Already, the various
government and social services were beginning to betray the sort of
mean-spiritedness and selfishness that was becoming a sign of the times. It was getting harder to simply survive between
jobs. It could only get worse. Passing a mirrored window on Denman Street,
Margery could see that she looked slovenly, yet extremely sexy in her snug
white tank-top and faded jeans. All of a
sudden she felt a keen hunger. She
wanted a man? A woman? She wanted sex. Young men, mature men, women and girls all
looked equally suitable, delectable. She
was hungry, and not a few eyes seemed turned her way. Because she hadn’t been outside in two
days? Because of losing her job? The colours of the strident summer day
surrounded her, brushed against her skin, teased her hair and threatened to
invade Margery through every orifice and pore.
She wanted to lift her hands and wave her bare gleaming arms in this dance,
in this celebration of the fecund earth and her fertile body and all the
gleaming, smooth lovely bodies that surrounded her, just now on the
street. The music of Ravel and Debussey
pulsed through her: Bolero, Daphnis and Chloe, the Sea, and the ocean waves of
these rhythms of love, sex, life and fertility swept into her being and pulsed
with her blood as she felt herself spilling out and over and onto and inside of
every living being that surrounded her.
All the way to Davie Street she walked in this silent paean of grace and
sensual bliss, then towards the beach where near-naked bodies crammed every
available space of sand and grass. She
wanted to strip naked in front of all these people and dance into the
waves. As her now bare feet—she carried
her sneakers—touched the cool shallow water, she felt a slight pang in her
lower abdomen. Then another, slightly
sharper pain. She tried to ignore its
message. She felt it again, then again,
and she knew she had very little time.
Just enough to get to the ladies room in the Sylvia Hotel. Not enough
time to make it to the Shoppers Drug Mart….
She shouldn’t have
been surprised or alarmed at the copious amount of blood she had just
discharged. She had always had a
generous blood flow, and she’d made it to the toilet in time. There would be no baby. No news to break to Dwight. Margery’s tinge of sadness and loss was
quickly engulfed in a swaddling sense of relief and gratitude. She still couldn’t get Carol out of her
mind. She washed and dried her hands
then went in search of a pay phone.
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