Louise Erdrich: Four Souls

I do know , I thought, I can see it . I know a love crush far better than you do, sister. You vain bit of fluff! Though I would die for you, I suppose, were it to come to that, I do see you clearly. And I know more about the direction of men’s desires because I’ve watched from the outside. I saw how they once looked at you, before everything about you dulled to an aged girl and your hair fell out. Their eyes followed your gestures and their bodies were always half poised, half turned, ready to sidle or leap, crawl or elegantly saunter in your direction whenever you changed your position in a room. You were the sun to their yearning faces, however eagerly they tried to conceal their interest. But it was a blank power. You were thinly wrought, a skim of cream, a pleasing sugar dip. Which is why I worry so intensely now, and fear this servant whose craft took me unaware.

Yet the new woman did such an excellent job that I had absolutely no cause for complaint. Fleur filled and drained the electric tumbler washer, operated the short mangle, and at any time of day, while directing Mrs. Testor, I was apt to hear the thump and dance of her irons from below. The bedding appeared, stacks of it precisely folded and sun-bleached to a marvelous whiteness. In addition, she was discreet. I saw little of her. Fleur never appeared in the kitchen except at mealtimes, and as for the rest of the house, she made her rounds silent as a wraith. I never saw her on any of the other floors although the linens were delivered and changed, precisely as I had instructed, even to the paint smocks for Placide and the hand towels at my dressing table. Brother-in-law seemed both satisfied with the condition of his room and yet completely unaware that Fantan and Mrs. Testor no longer struggled and bickered over what was to be done with the mounds of soiled sheets and wrinkled pajamas that he discarded by the sixes and sevens. I was even lulled, as anyone would be I suppose, into the resumption of a modest social life.

Nothing like life had been, of course, when Mother held sway. She had an unsurpassable gift for organizing formal picnics, sleigh rides, outings of various types. On those rare occasions when she pressed brother-in-law into joining the fun I never shall forget the picture that he and Placide, the two of them, made in spanking white, she on his arm, walking the grounds by the lake as the light turned golden and their shadows dragged beneath their heels like long and languid blue capes. They were really quite magnificent. She was the beauty of the avenue when she married — tall and slim, with a mass of dark golden hair that curled and crackled with lights. He was young too, wealthy, unpredictable, purported to be the son of minor British royalty and a German industrialist, an entrepreneur and scholar whose interests ranged from the classification and study of serpents to the quiet manipulation of investments. I was to find out that his heritage was more than exaggerated, it was a disgraceful lie, although his wealth was not. He was financially unharmed by all market tremors and even benefited from every crisis. He’d acquired a stiff reputation for his handling of the family lumber business and the railroad line, which stretched west from its terminus, went on forever, its print bold and black as doctor’s stitches on the maps he had me trace with my fingers.

“Our son could run this, why not?” he used to say, wistfully, to Placide. Of course she had no interest in bearing a son or daughter. When he tried to interest me in his doings, I would politely dip my head. I could no more make out and take fascination in the schemes, the maps, the enthusiasms in his office, the ins and outs, than my sister could allow her body to conceive.

It was a shame, I thought, that Placide and I had not been fused into a single person. I would have done things with her looks, and there’s no question that she sorely needed brains. But we were woefully separate and single in our beings. Perhaps if we’d worked together, we could have managed John James Mauser. But too late. Once the laundry woman had begun to exert some sort of influence, my brother-in-law started acting on his own. He actually summoned a doctor who specialized in male diseases. The man made a house call all the way here from Chicago. The famous doctor arrived on a drizzly afternoon and after we took his raincoat, umbrella, rubber galoshes, and a hat away to dry and brush, he was shown upstairs, where he secluded himself with brother-in-law for most of a day.

SEEKING TO enlighten myself on the particulars of brother-inlaw’s condition, for his own good of course, I was forced to eavesdrop. After the esteemed Dr. Fulmer had finally finished examining his patient, he stepped into the hall where I was sitting, waiting, knitting. I had practically completed two pairs of socks.

“Put down those needles,” he glared at me from underneath his little band of black hair. “Are you the wife?”

“No,” I answered, though a bolt of conceit pierced me.

“Then fetch the wife!” he ordered.

I went upstairs and, with difficulty, persuaded Placide to leave off detailing the hem of some figure’s majestic robe. She followed me downstairs, and I ushered them both into a small sitting room, knowing full well that there was a thin panel in the wall between the two rooms. Through that panel, by means of an ordinary water glass pressed to my ear, I was able to hear the entire conversation so clearly that on several occasions I had to bite my lip so as not to offer correct information. Placide, of course, distracted and immersed in her artistic pursuits, knew less than I of brother-inlaw’s diet, sleep, taking of the air, and general treatment.

Placide had already hinted to me of her husband’s troublesome spermatorrhea, which he claimed was brought on by the practice of Karezza in the marital relation. So it did not surprise me to hear the doctor question my sister on the specifics of the practice laid out in Dr. Alice B. Stockham’s useful book. Placide had confided to me her terror of pregnancy, and I had laid aside my own longings for a nephew or niece in order to preserve Placide’s health. I had, of course, meant no harm when I placed the book in Placide’s hands, and in fact I still insist that Dr. Stockham’s adaptations of Zugassent’s practical methods of loving could, if sincerely practiced, improve the relations between the sexes and even save marriages.

“Now I want you to be perfectly open with me, Mrs. Mauser,” said Dr. Fulmer. “Can you describe this practice of Karezza to me in exact physical terms?”

Placide, of course, could not. Her modesty was a barrier. She tried her best to convey the spirit of the practice without resorting to crude word-pictures.

“We exercise the mutual power of our wills,” said Placide. “And the power of the heart.”

“For what purpose?”

“To collect and act on loving thoughts.”

There was a pause.

“That is all very well,” said the doctor. “But insofar as marital congress is concerned…”

“We have always practiced a conscious conservation of creative energy.” Placide was earnest. “It has had the most exciting effect on my artistic output!”

“I see.” The doctor seemed to be taking notes. “Is procreation possible through the marital relationship?”

“It is not wished,” said Placide with quiet assurance.

“Well then,” the doctor tried again, “is the congress satisfactory?”

“We have attained a marvelous level of mutual reciprocity,” said Placide. “And now, if I may excuse myself.”

“Not just yet.”

I could tell the doctor was not only losing patience but running out of circumlocutions.

“I must inquire, Mrs. Mauser, does the practice of Karezza require the partakees to suppress emission?”