Margaret Atwood - Stone Mattress - Nine Tales

“Oh no,” she’d said to him. “I don’t think so. Not alpha males. It just sort of happened that way. Maybe. . I always loved that breakfast cereal. Alpine?”

She comes across as fatuous in every interview she’s ever given, which is why she no longer gives them. Nor does she attend conventions any more: she’s seen enough kids dressed up like vampires and bunnies and Star Trek , and especially like the nastier villains of Alphinland. She really can’t bear one more inept impersonation of Milzreth of the Red Hand — yet another apple-cheeked innocent in quest of his inner wickedness.

She also declines to engage in social media, despite her publisher’s constant urging. It does no good for them to tell her she’ll increase the sales of Alphinland and extend the reach of its franchise. She doesn’t need any more money, because what would she use it for? Money had not saved Ewan. She’ll leave it all to the boys, as their wives expect her to. And she has no wish to interact with her devoted readers: she knows too much about them already, them and their body piercings and tattoos and dragon fetishes. Above all, she doesn’t wish to disappoint them. They’d be expecting a raven-haired sorceress with a snake bracelet on her upper arm and a stiletto hair ornament, instead of a soft-spoken, paper-thin ex-blonde.

She’s just opening up the Alphinland file folder on her screen to consult the list of gods when Ewan’s voice says, right in her ear and very loudly, “Turn it off!”

She jumps. “What?” she says. “Turn what off?” Has she left the burner on under the kettle again? But she hasn’t made the hot drink!

“Turn it off! Alphinland! Turn it off now!” he says.

He must mean the computer. Shaken, she looks over her shoulder — he was right there! Then she clicks the Shut Down button. Just as the screen darkens, there’s a heavy, dull thud, and the lights go off.

All the lights. The streetlights too. How did he know in advance? Does Ewan have prophetic vision? He never used to.

She gropes her way down the stairs and along the hall to the front door, opens it cautiously: to the right, a block along, there’s a yellow glow. A tree must have fallen across a hydro line and pulled it down. Heaven only knows when they’ll be around to fix it: this outage must be one of thousands.

Where did she leave the flashlight? It’s in her purse, which is in the kitchen. She shuffles and gropes her way along the hall, fumbles in her purse. Not much juice left in the flashlight batteries, but enough so she manages to get the two candles lit.

“Turn the water off at the mains,” says Ewan. “You know where that is, I showed you. Then open the faucet in the kitchen. You need to drain the system, you don’t want the pipes to burst.” This is the longest speech he’s made for a while. It gives her a warm, fuzzy feeling: he’s genuinely worried about her.

Once she’s accomplished the faucet quest, she assembles a collection of insulating items — the duvet from the bed, a pillow, some clean wool socks, and the plaid car rug — and makes a nest in front of the fireplace. Then she gets the fire going. As a precaution, she pulls the fire screen across in front of it: she wouldn’t want to go up in flames during the night. There isn’t enough wood for a whole day, but there’s enough to get her through until dawn without freezing to death. It will surely take hours for the house to cool down. In the morning she’ll think about alternatives; perhaps by then the storm will have blown past. She snuffs out the candles: no sense in setting herself alight.

She curls up inside the duvet. In the fireplace the flames flicker. It’s surprisingly cozy, at least for now.

“Well done,” says Ewan. “That’s my gal!”

“Oh Ewan,” says Constance. “Am I your gal? Was I always? Were you having an affair, that time?”

No answer.

The trail of ashes leads through the woods, glimmering in the moonlight, the starlight. What has she forgotten? There’s something wrong. She comes out from under the trees: she’s on an icy street. It’s the street where she lives, where she’s lived for decades, and there’s her house, the house where she lives with Ewan.

It shouldn’t be here, in Alphinland. It’s in the wrong place. All of it is wrong, but she follows the trail of ashes anyway, up the front steps and in through the door. Sleeves wrap around her, sleeves of black cloth. A trench coat. It isn’t Ewan. There’s a mouth, pressing against her neck. There’s a long-lost taste. She’s so tired, she’s losing power; she can feel it draining away from her, out through the ends of her fingers. How did Gavin get in here? Why is he dressed like an undertaker? With a sigh she melts into his arms; wordlessly she falls back onto the floor.

Morning light wakes her, streaming in through the window with its extra pane of ice. The fire has gone out. She’s stiff from sleeping on the floor.

What a night. Who would have thought she was capable of having such an intense erotic dream, at her age? And with Gavin: how idiotic. She doesn’t even respect him. How did he manage to work his way out of the metaphor she’s kept him bottled up in for all these years?

She opens the front door, peers outside. The sun is shining, the eaves are growing bright icicles. The kitty litter on her steps is a mess; as things melt, it will turn to damp clay. The street is a shambles: branches everywhere, ice at least two inches thick. It’s glorious.

But the inside of the house is cold, and getting colder. She’ll have to go out into all that dazzling space to buy more wood, if there is any. Or else she could find a shelter of some sort: a church, a coffee shop, a restaurant. Some place that still has power and heat.

That would mean leaving Ewan. He’d be alone here. That wouldn’t be a good thing.

For breakfast she has vanilla yogourt, spooning it straight from the container. While she’s eating it, Ewan announces himself. “Pull yourself together,” he says, quite sternly.

She fails to grasp his point. She doesn’t need to pull herself together. She’s not dithering, she’s only eating yogourt. “What do you mean, Ewan?” she says.

“Didn’t we have good times?” he says, almost pleading. “Why are you ruining it? Who was that man?” Now his voice sounds hostile.

“Who do you mean?” she says. She has a bad feeling. It can’t be possible that Ewan has access to her dreams.

Constance , she tells herself. You’re out of control. Why wouldn’t he have access to your dreams? He’s only inside your head!

“You know,” says Ewan. His voice comes from behind her. “That man!”

“I don’t think you have any right to ask,” she says, turning around. No one there.

“Why not?” says Ewan, more faintly. “Pull yourself together!” Is he fading?

“Ewan, did you have an affair?” she asks. If he really wants to get into it, two can play.

“Don’t change the subject,” he says. “Didn’t we have good times?” There’s a tinny quality to the voice now: something mechanical.

“You’re the one who was always changing the subject,” she says. “Just tell me the truth! You have nothing to lose any more, you’re dead.”

She shouldn’t have said that. She’s gone about this all wrong, she ought to have reassured him. She shouldn’t have used that word, it slipped out because she was angry. “I didn’t mean it!” she says. “Ewan, I’m sorry, you’re not really. .”

Too late. There’s a tiny, barely audible explosion, like a puff of air. Then silence: Ewan is gone.

She waits: nothing. “Stop sulking!” she says. “Just snap out of it!” She’s briefly angry.

She goes out for food. On one of the sidewalks, a thoughtful soul has laid down sand. The corner store, miraculously, is open: they have a generator. There are other people in there, bundled and swaddled: they’ve lost their power too. The woman with the dyed hair and the tattoo has plugged in a crock pot and heated up some soup. She’s selling the barbecued chickens, cut up into pieces so there will be enough to go around. “There you are, dear,” she says to Constance. “I was worried about you!”