Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

It was sloppy to have left that note under the refrigerator. And that lipstick kiss was so tawdry. She keeps the lipstick in her locker; she’s only ever used it on that one note. Stan would never put up with her wearing a garish hue like that – Purple Passion is its name, such bad taste.

Which is why she bought it: that’s how she thinks of her feelings toward Max. Purple. Passionate. Garish. And, yes, bad taste. To a man like that, for whom you have feelings like that, you can say all sorts of things, I’m starved for you being the mildest of them. Words she would never have used, before. Vandal words. Sometimes she can’t believe what comes out of her mouth; not to mention what goes into it. She does whatever Max wants.

His name isn’t Max, of course, any more than Charmaine’s name is Jasmine. They don’t use their Consilience names: they decided on that the first time, without even talking about it. It’s as if they can read each other’s minds.

No, not minds: each other’s mindlessness. When she’s with Max, she throws away her mind.

Tidy

That first time had been an accident. Charmaine had stayed behind at the house after Stan left, finishing the final tidy, as she used to do at first, before Max. “You go on ahead,” she’d tell him to get him out of her hair, which was pulled back into her housekeeping ponytail. She liked her cleanup routine, she liked to put on her pinafore apron and her rubber gloves and tick the items off her mental list without being interrupted. Rugs, tubs, sinks. Towels, toilets, sheets. Anyway, Stan hated the sound of the vacuum. “I’ll just make up the bed,” she’d say. “Off you go, hon. See you in a month. Have a good one.”

And that’s what she was doing – making up the bed, humming to herself – when Max walked into the room. He startled her. Cornered her: there was only the one door. A thinnish man, wiry. Not unusually tall. A lot of black hair. Handsome too. A man who’d have choices.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Sorry. I’m early. I live here.” He took a step forward.

“So do I,” Charmaine said. They looked at each other.

“Pink locker?” Another step.

“Yes. You’re the red one.” Backing away. “I’m almost finished here, and then you can …”

“No hurry,” he said. He took another step. “What do you keep inside that pink locker of yours? I’ve often wondered.”

Had he made a joke? Charmaine wasn’t so good at telling when people were making jokes. “Maybe you’d like some coffee,” she said. “In the kitchen. I cleaned the machine, but I can always … It’s not very nice coffee, though.” Charmaine, you’re babbling, she told herself.

“I’m good,” he said. “I’d rather stay here and watch you. I like the way you always make up the bed before you leave. And put out the fresh towels. Like a hotel.”

“It’s okay, I kind of like doing it, I think it looks …” Now she was backed up against the night table. I need to get out of this room, she told herself. Maybe she could glide around him. She moved to the side and forward. “I’m sorry, I have to leave now,” she said in what she hoped was a neutral tone. But he put his hand on her shoulder. He stepped forward again.

“I like your apron,” he said. “Or whatever it is. Does it tie at the back?” The next minute – how did it happen? – her pinafore apron was on the floor, her hair had come loose – had he done that? – and they were kissing, and his hands were under her freshly ironed shirt. “We’ve got a couple of hours,” he said, breaking away. “But we can’t stay here. My wife … Look, I know this place …” He scribbled an address. “Go there now.”

“I’ll just tuck in the sheet,” she said. “It would look wrong otherwise.” He smiled at that. She did tuck in the sheet, though not as tightly as usual, because her hands were shaking. Then she did what he said.

That was their first vacant house. It was dim, there were dead flies, the lights didn’t work, nor the water; the walls had been cracked and stained, but none of it mattered that first time, because she wasn’t noticing those kinds of details. He’d left first, by the side door. Then, after she’d counted to five hundred as he’d suggested, she’d walked out the front door, trying to look hurried and official, and scootered straight to Positron Prison, where she’d checked in, handed over her civvies, taken the mandatory shower, and put on the clean orange prison-issue suit that was waiting for her. After dinner in the women’s hall with the others – it was roast pork with Brussels sprouts – she’d joined her knitting circle as usual, and chatted about this and that, also as usual. But she was sleepwalking.

She ought to have been appalled by herself, by what she’d done. Instead she was amazed, and also jubilant. Had it really happened? Would it happen again? How could she contact him, or even believe in his existence? She couldn’t. It was like standing on a cliff edge. It made her dizzy.

At ten o’clock she went into her double cell, where the woman she shared with was already asleep, and there was the reassuring clang of the door and click of the lock. It felt safe to be caged in, now that she knew she had this other person inside her who was capable of escapades and contortions she’d never known about before. It wasn’t Stan’s fault, it was the fault of chemistry. People said chemistry when they meant something else, such as personality, but she does mean chemistry. Smells, textures, flavours, secret ingredients. She sees a lot of chemistry in her work, she knows what it can do. Chemistry can be like magic. It can be merciless.

She slept that night as if drunk. The next day she went about her hospital duties as briskly as usual, hiding behind the grillwork of her smile. Ever since then she’s been waiting: inside Positron while Max inspects vacant dwellings in Consilience; then in the house with Stan, working at her bakery job during the days; she does the pies and the cinnamon buns. Then there’s an hour or two of being Jasmine, with Max, on switchover days, while he’s going into Positron Prison and she’s coming back to civilian life, or vice versa. A vacant house. The anxiety. The haste. The rampage.

Then more waiting. It’s like being stretched so thin you feel you’ll break the very next minute; but she hasn’t broken yet. Though maybe leaving the note was breakage of a sort. Or the beginning of it. She should have had better control.

Stan must have read the note. It has to have been like that. He must have read it and then tucked it back under the fridge, because Max described where he’d found it, and it was a lot farther over to the right than where she’d stashed it. Ever since then, Stan has been so preoccupied he might as well be deaf and blind. When he makes love – that’s how Charmaine thinks of it, as distinct from whatever it is that happens with Max – when Stan makes love, it isn’t to her. Or not his usual idea of her. He’s almost angry.

“Let go,” Stan said to her once. “Just fucking let go!”

“What did you mean, ‘Let go?’ ” she asked him afterwards in her puzzled, clueless voice, the voice that had once been her only voice. “Let go of what? What are you talking about?” He said, “Never mind” and “Sorry” and seemed ashamed of himself. She did nothing to discourage that. She wants him to feel ashamed of himself, because such feelings of his are a part of her disguise.

He called her Jasmine once, by mistake. What if she’d answered? It would have been a giveaway. But she caught herself and pretended she hadn’t heard. Maybe Stan has fallen in love with her note, with its ill-advised fuchsia kiss. Is that funny, or is it dangerous?

What if Stan finds out? About her, about Max. What would he do? He has a temper; it was worse when they were in the car, but even since coming here he’s thrown some glassware, he’s sworn at things when they don’t work the way he wants: the hedge pruner, the lawn trimmer. He wouldn’t enjoy the discovery that there is no Jasmine really, except inside Charmaine. She would lose him then. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.