Andre Alexis - Pastoral

— Yeah, but a bull doesn’t love a cow. It’s not the same.

— No one knows that for sure. Bulls get jealous, don’t they?

— And no one can say if a man loves a woman for sure, either, ’cept for the man.

— If he even knows. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love, even if I felt like I was now and then.

— I know I haven’t and I don’t want to be.

The friends were talking in the kitchen. From the living room, Mr. Bigland called out

— What the hell’s wrong with you pantywaists. That’s enough talking about love! You boys are embarrassing your mother.

Those words had ended all talk about feelings, but parts of the conversation recurred to Robbie as he went about his life. Was it possible that there was no such thing as love? He tried to think that way, but he could not. It made no sense, because although there were any number of women who could get his engine working, there had only ever been two who could touch something deeper in him. There had only ever been two women he would surrender his happiness to please. It was far from certain there would ever be another. And what would it be like to live a life endlessly fucking but feeling nothing deeper than that an itch had been scratched? He did not care to know. It didn’t matter to him what you called it, but as far as he was concerned he loved Liz Denny and he would not give up trying to make her see that he did, that he always would and that it hurt him to be without her. Not for a moment did it occur to him that his love might not have the significance for Elizabeth that it had for him. The only question Robbie entertained was how to speak what was inside him in such a way that Liz would see past his mistakes (such as they had been) and past his flaws (such as they were) to the solid emotion within him.

He simply had to speak to her again.

He chose a Saturday, a month or so after Jane had gone. He waited for Liz as she left Harrington’s. She had a ride. She didn’t need him, but he asked anyway if he could take her home (‘No’) or if she would meet him at their clearing behind her uncle’s farm.

— Why? she asked.

— You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but there’s things I want to tell you.

Elizabeth thought about it. She thought

— Well, it’s not as if I wasn’t ever going to speak to him again

and said

— Okay

though it had just rained and the ground would be impassable in places.

— I don’t want to hear anything about how much you love me, she added.

The woods had already begun to change colour. Some of the leaves had turned yellow and orange, and the pine trees, encouraged by the rain, spread their scent as if they were in mating season. The ground was muddy in spots. The only practical thing to wear were wellingtons and, of course, stepping in the wrong place made it feel as if your boots wanted to stay behind.

Robbie arrived before Elizabeth. It was not yet dark but he’d brought a flashlight, just in case they talked until darkness. Not that either of them needed light to find their way home, but it occurred to him that it might be gentlemanly to have a flashlight to offer, on the off chance she wanted one.

Elizabeth, when she arrived, was all business.

— What do you want? she asked.

— I just …

he said, suddenly self-conscious.

— I just wanted to say …

he said, unwilling to say much, for fear it be the wrong thing.

— I just wanted to tell you how much I miss you.

— It’s always about you, she said, about how much you love me, how much you miss me. Have you thought for a second about how I feel?

Risking everything, he answered honestly.

— No, he said, I haven’t.

— Why not?

— I’m a little … I’m not smart like you are, Lizzie. I try to think about others, but I don’t always manage to in time. But I do think about you and how you make me feel. I haven’t always done the right thing. I’m sorry.

He meant it and she knew he meant it. After all, knowing someone well means knowing all the signs of genuine emotion, and they had known each other since they were children. She knew that he was struggling to say what she already knew, struggling to say it with the right words, though so little of what anything means comes through words. Here he was, wishing for an eloquence his body and spirit already possessed. What good would it have done for him to go on like some lost troubadour? What was that poem they’d studied in Grade 12?

When I see leaves, flowers and pears

appearing on the branches and hear

the birds in the woods sing,

then Love buds, blooms and bears fruit in me …

Devil-tongued bastards, all of them. Anyway, she already knew that he loved her, missed her and wanted her back. What she didn’t know was if any of that counted.

— You’re sorry, she said. What does that change?

—I don’t know, Lizzie, but it should change something, shouldn’t it?

— Yes, she said, I guess it’s nice to know you’re sorry.

— I’m not saying you have to or anything, but I’d still like to …

— You want me to marry you, after what you put me through?

— I’m not saying you have to or anything. I’m just saying maybe think about it if you still love me, ’cause none of this is ever going to happen again. I swear it on the Bible.

How little he knew himself. If it was true that he hadn’t sought to be in love with two women at once, how could he possibly know if it would or would not happen again? And now she had a perfectly good idea how he would behave if it did. The next time, however, the next time, if she married him, there might be children involved. Would that stop him? Or was it amor vincit omnia forever and ever? There was no telling, from this side of the divide, just what he might do.

— What if it does happen again? she asked.

— It won’t, he answered. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.

Again his lack of self-knowledge was flagrant. But how little he knew her! It was bad enough that he’d not known how hurt she would be by this Jane Richardson business, but he rarely knew how to reassure her when she needed it most. He had known her for as long as she had known him. How could he not know her feelings?

— What do you think I’m feeling now? she asked.

— I think you’re feeling like I don’t know what you’re feeling, he answered.

She looked at him — his brown hair pasted to his forehead, his eyes looking into hers — and saw that his attention was entirely given to her, as it rarely was except when they were making love. It occurred to her that he did know her somewhat and that at times he did have the right answer. These were thoughts that, despite herself, gave her pleasure.

Well, after all, it took time to fall out of love. She was vulnerable and knew it.

— I’ve got to go home, she said.

— You want me to come with you? I brought a flashlight.

— No, I don’t want you to walk me home. I’ll call you.

In the end, if you could call it winning, she had, she supposed, won. She had Robbie to herself, if she wanted him.

She should have been … if not pleased, then at least satisfied. But it was not so simple. What was there to feel satisfied about, really? She had learned a lesson about her fiancé and it had marred her picture of him. Also, the idea that she had ‘won’ him from Jane Richardson was repulsive. And again: by now, it seemed everyone between Barrow and Sarnia knew her business. One day, she’d gone to Petrolia to see Dr. Reidl and even there it seemed people knew all about her situation. The way they looked at her with sympathy. Christ on a cross! Nowadays, everyone had sympathy for her, and the more sympathy they had the worse it was. She couldn’t give change without feeling the weight of an unstated ‘you poor girl.’ Hard to find satisfaction in any of that.