Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

She does have a lingering doubt. Does loving Stan really count if she can’t help it? Is it right that the happiness of her married life should be due, not to any special efforts on her part, but to a brain operation she didn’t even agree to have? No, it doesn’t seem quite right. But it feels right. That’s what she can’t get over – how right it feels.

It was Jocelyn who paid for this whole thing, or who arranged for it to be paid. But although Charmaine urged her to come, Jocelyn didn’t attend the wedding ceremony proper. “I don’t want to be the wicked witch at the feast” was what she said. Truthfully, Charmaine was relieved by that, because despite everything that Jocelyn had done for her and Stan, it must be admitted that some of those things might not be viewed as positives by everyone. Such as Jocelyn humping the jockey shorts off Stan. But Charmaine has no hard feelings about Jocelyn, because she isn’t entitled to them. And everything balances out, so it’s like having nothing in the bank and no debts owed.

But here she is now, Jocelyn, walking into the chapel area. She’s come to the reception, as she hinted she might. She’s wearing mauve, which isn’t the same as the pink-and-blue colour palette, but doesn’t clash with it either. Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has given this angle some thought, and has come up with a tasteful solution.

Stan’s upsetting brother, Conor, is with her, wearing those reflector sunglasses he thinks make him look tough, and three of his criminal friends. No, not criminal, Charmaine won’t use that word. Unusual. That is a better word, because Conor and those men rescued her from Ed, so how could she ever view them as criminals, even if they are criminals in the rest of their time? Though Conor has always been a bad influence on Stan, in her opinion. Or he was when they were younger. Today he’s looking more mature, in Charmaine’s opinion. Maybe he will meet a wise older woman who will help him become a productive member of society. That is her wish for him, on this wonderful day when everyone should be granted something good.

Charmaine detaches herself from Stan so he and Conor and the unusual friends can do that back-slapping and fist-bumping and name-repeating routine they do. “Con!” “Stan!” “Rikki!” Jerold!” “Budge!” Like they don’t know each other’s names already. But it’s a male-bonding thing, she’s seen a TV show about that, it’s like saying “Congratulations” or something. Now they’re moving over to the champagne is, even though Stan should really not have any more of it or he’ll be too drunk to do the things she’s hoping they’ll do, once they get to the hotel room and she’s had a lovely shower, with white fluffy towels and almond oil body lotion all over her.

And once Conor and his buddies have dumped some alcohol into themselves, Conor will think about kissing the bride, and kissing Charmaine as well; he’ll want to plant some aggressive smooches on her, to annoy Stan. She ought to warn Aurora about Conor – the way Max is, now that he’s truly in love, he might resent any other man laying a finger on Aurora, and then there could be a fight, which Max would lose, because four against one, or maybe five, counting Stan, and Max would get a nosebleed at the very least and ruin the cake or the floral arrangements, and that would spoil this beautiful, perfect day – but as she looks around the reception space, she sees that Max and Aurora have already disappeared. Hot to trot, though it won’t be trotting, it will be galloping, she thinks, without a shadow of regret. Or is that a tiny shadow? It can’t be, since every shadow of regret, and every shadow, period, has been lasered out of her. All of her shadows.

She decides to glide as far away as she can, over behind the fountain where Conor can’t see her, because out of sight, out of mind. Jocelyn comes with her.

“So, joy and fresh days of love,” she says.

“I guess,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn says weird things sometimes. “For me and Stan, that’s really true.”

“Good,” says Jocelyn. “I have a wedding gift for you,” she says. “But I’ll give it to you a year from now. It isn’t ready yet.”

“Oh, I love surprises!” says Charmaine. Is that true? Not always. Sometimes she hates them. She hates the kinds of surprises that pounce on you out of the dark. But surely Jocelyn’s surprise won’t be that kind.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says, “for everything you’ve done for us. For me and Stan.”

Jocelyn smiles. Is that a real smile, warm and friendly, or is it a slightly scary smile? Charmaine always has trouble figuring out Jocelyn’s different smiles. “Thank me later,” Jocelyn says. “Once you know what it is.”

Then, after the handshakes and goodbyes, and after Conor has kissed Charmaine after all, but only on the cheek, Jocelyn and Conor and those other men get into a long, sleek black hybrid car with tinted windows and drive away.

Charmaine stands beside Stan with her arm linked through his and waves at them until the car is out of sight. “Do you think they’re an item?” she asks. “Conor and Jocelyn?” She’d kind of like it if they were, because then Jocelyn wouldn’t be prowling around uncoupled, so she’d be less likely to make a grab for Stan. Though Charmaine is grateful to Jocelyn, she still doesn’t trust her, after all those lies she told and all the tricky numbers she pulled.

“I’d put money on it,” says Stan. “Con always liked the hard-nosed ones. He says it’s more of a challenge, plus they know what they want, plus they’ve got more RPMs.”

RPMs is a car engine term, Charmaine knows that. But it isn’t very polite. “That isn’t very polite,” she says. “Women aren’t cars.”

“It’s Con’s way of talking,” says Stan. “Not polite. Whatever, they’re in business together.”

“What kind of business?” says Charmaine. It would have to be something they’re both good at, such as bluffing. Maybe they’re working for the casinos. If the two of them are an item, she wonders how long that’s been going on.

“I’d say their business is none of our business,” says Stan.

Stan has a new job. He’s an Empathy Module adjustor for UR-ELF Las Vegas, Robotics Department. He’s in charge of perfecting the Elvis grin, which has never been quite accurate. Too tight and it’s a snarl, too loose and it’s a drool; UR-ELF has had complaints both ways. But Stan is making progress: he’s going to ace this! After that’s done, he’s already booked for the Marilyns, where some tweaks to the pout are required.

It’s the weekend, so he’s home, his own home, trimming the cactus hedge. His hedge, his own cactus hedge. And his trimmers; he keeps them in razor-sharp condition. On the lawn – his lawn, or rather their lawn, which is covered with Astro-Turf because of the Vegas watering restrictions – little Winnie, already three months old, gurgles on a blanket covered with images of cute baby ducks. Stan wondered about naming her Winifred – her nickname would sound too much like a kids’-story bear, and she’d be called Poo at school and teased for being named after a turd, but Charmaine said it was a tribute to her Grandmother Win, because what would have happened if it hadn’t been for her, and anyway it was only little boys who had such potty brains. So they could jump that bridge when they came to it, when they could always opt for Winnie’s second name, which is Stanlita. Charmaine insisted on that; she said it was like a memorial to their undying love. Stan said there wasn’t any such name as Stanlita, and Charmaine said there was, and he looked it up online, and fuck if she wasn’t right.