Andre Alexis - Pastoral

Dressed, Robbie apologized.

— It’s awfully early to be drinking, said Agnes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell your mother about this.

As if he were still a boy, Robbie said

— I’m sorry, Mrs. Atkinson

and walked out into what was now a light, warm rain.

For all the attention paid the matter while Robbie was in Atkinson’s, a stranger might have wondered if Barrow’s young men did not habitually go naked into beauty parlours. But as it is with so many unusual moments, the incident grew in the imaginations of those who had lived it. It became more significant the more they were asked about it. What had they seen? (Well, everything!) Did they know why Robbie had come into the parlour like that? (He was drunk!) Was he really drunk, or is it something worse, because, you know, there’s been insanity in the Myers family before? (So true! They hid Robbie’s uncle Mark away for ages, before they put him in a proper home. Robbie’s most likely the same way. Just think what’ll happen if Liz Denny has kids with that boy!)

The more anyone thought about it, the more peculiar it became: slightly sinister for some, amusing for others. Still, as nothing dangerously wrong had happened and as Robbie’s subsequent attitude — contrite, embarrassed — was not alarming, the incident was blamed on alcohol and forgotten a relatively short time later. (That is, it was never forgotten, but, after a certain time, it was only ever brought up in jest.)

Jane was angry that Robbie had done what she’d asked.

Elizabeth was humiliated, or further humiliated, because Robbie’s humiliation was hers too: yet another dose of misery. People began to openly wonder if he was a suitable husband for any self-respecting woman, and they all felt compelled to tell her so. The general consensus was that Elizabeth had good reason to back out of the wedding.

A few days after Robbie scandalized the women in Atkinson’s, Elizabeth and Jane met in St. Mary’s. They spoke quietly near the front of the church while a handful of sinners waited to confess at the back. The day was dark. The rain came down in a pale, earth-lit shower. Thunder sounded in the distance, as if the land were clearing its throat every so often. It was a relief to enter the church, though the interior was gloomy and the stained-glass saints, their colours darkened, lost much of their charm. The light inside was as thin as if it were shining through khaki cloth.

Without a hint of triumph, Jane said

— I told you this would happen.

— I know that, answered Elizabeth. I’m sorry I asked you to do it.

— You should have thought about that before you asked.

— You don’t have to go on about it.

The wind outside sounded like distant, tuneless whistling. For a moment, the two women sat quietly, staring at the altar while listening to the storm, to the whispers from the confessional, to the crepitations of the church itself as it withstood the weather.

— I told you, Jane repeated, there isn’t anything I can’t get Robbie to do.

Above all, Elizabeth hated the sound of the woman’s voice. Jane Richardson was unbearable, but it was she herself who had chosen this road. What could she say? At least the question of her marriage had been decided.

— There’s nothing else to say, said Elizabeth. I hope you and Robbie are happy together.

Jane felt guilt and alarm.

— I told you, she repeated

then stopped herself. It all suddenly seemed like some kind of joke. But at whose expense?

Thunder rattled the church and rain now thrummed against the stained glass. It was oppressively humid and, inside, mixed in with the smell of incense, was a strong whiff of rot. Elizabeth rose from the pew and said, with more bitterness than she’d intended

— I hope I never have to see your face again.

— That makes two of us, said Jane.

Elizabeth walked to the back of the church, to the confessional. There was much on her mind. Her wedding, for instance. She should have postponed it, given the circumstances, but she had gone on with the planning and the arrangements. She had chosen a wedding dress. And although they had not had sex for months now, she had gone on seeing Robbie, nursing what was left of her feelings for him.

How much she wanted Robbie punished, and how much she wanted Jane Richardson hurt! For the first time in her life, she felt hatred, and was upset at how intimate hatred was. She had said that she hoped never to see Jane Richardson again. That was true, but it was also true that a part of her wanted Jane Richardson near her always. She felt a physical longing to damage the woman, to hit, to bite, to grind her into the dust. These feelings, close as they were to desire, were the hardest to bear, and they were the ones for which she felt shame.

Once its thick velvet curtains were drawn together, the confessional was dark. The sounds of the church and the noise of the storm were muffled to a rumour. When Father Pennant opened the grilled partition between his face and hers she could immediately smell the mint he used for his breath. She hoped her own breath was not sour. She had intended to confess her anger and hatred, but in the confessional she found she could not. However much she wanted to, she could not speak of anything true.

— Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession. Since then I’ve … been disrespectful to my parents and I’ve …

She received forgiveness for a handful of petty — or invented — misdemeanours.

— Go, my child, and sin no more.

And left feeling as if she had betrayed herself.

The episode at Atkinson’s was humiliating for Robbie, but not because he’d been naked. The look on Agnes Atkinson’s face — embarrassed, peeved, maternal — was a source of pain whenever he remembered it. And then Agnes had complained to his mother and, worse yet, his mother had felt compelled to speak to him about it.

— I’ve been hearing strange things from Agnes Atkinson, Robbie. Now, you’re old enough for me to speak to you like a man and I shouldn’t have to tell you, you shouldn’t be exposing yourself to women. Don’t interrupt. I understand you might be thinking it’s not as bad, you exposing yourself to older women. Most young men, they think older women don’t have feelings, but we do. And it’s bad enough the women in Atkinson’s have to see you in your birthday suit, but did you even think about what Elizabeth’s going through? How’s she supposed to hold her head up with her fiancé embarrassing himself all over town? Don’t you dare interrupt, Robert. There’s nothing you can say about this. Your father’s convinced this is some stupid dare. One of the Bigland boys dared you, didn’t they? Don’t interrupt. You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t want to hear your explanation. I want you to promise you won’t be doing this kind of thing again. Barrow isn’t the place for these shenanigans. You need to move to Sarnia if you’re going to expose yourself like that. Sarnia’s too big for anyone to know anyone else. No one cares about anything there. You and those damned Bigland boys should move to Sarnia and not ruin things for people in Barrow. Honestly, I don’t know why Elizabeth has stuck with you. You should thank your stars. And that’s the last I’m going to say about all this. You understand? I want you to promise this isn’t going to happen again and then we’ll drop the subject. You understand?

He had, of course, promised, because he did not want to talk about this with his mother any more than she wanted to talk about it with him. Still, the humiliation and embarrassment were things one might have expected to feel after traipsing around in one’s altogethers. The strange thing, the thing he could not have predicted, was the exhilaration he’d been feeling since walking out of the beauty parlour. He had faced his greatest fear and he had overcome it. He had done all that for Jane. How much he loved her! He had never loved anyone like this, maybe not even Liz.