Mavis Gallant - The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

She said through the white netting over the door, “I’m sorry, Roy.” It was not enough; she added, “I’m sorry I don’t understand you more.” The stillness worried her. She limped near and bent over him. He was holding his breath, like a child in temper. She said softly, “I could stay a bit longer.” No answer. She said, “Of course, my foot will get better, but then you might find something else the matter with me.” Still no answer, except that he began breathing. Nothing was wrong except that he was cruel, lunatic, Fascist — No, not even that. Nothing was wrong except that he did not love her. That was all.

She lugged her suitcase as far as the road and sat down beside it. Overnight a pocket of liquid the size of a lemon had formed near the anklebone. Her father would say it was all her own fault again. Why? Was it Sarah’s fault that she had all this loving capital to invest? What was she supposed to do with it? Even if she always ended up sitting outside a gate somewhere, was she any the worse for it? The only thing wrong now was the pain she felt, not of her ankle but in her stomach. Her stomach felt as if it was filled up with old oyster shells. Yes, a load of old, ugly, used-up shells was what she had for stuffing. She had to take care not to breathe too deeply, because the shells scratched. In her research for Professor Downcast she had learned that one could be alcoholic, crippled, afraid of dying and of being poor, and she knew these things waited for everyone, even Sarah; but nothing had warned her that one day she would not be loved. That was the meaning of “less privileged.” There was no other.

Now that she had vanished, Roy would probably get up, and shave, and stroll across to the Reeves, and share a good old fry-up. Then, his assurance regained, he would start prowling the bars and beaches, wearing worn immaculate whites, looking for a new, unblemished story. He would repeat the first soft words, “Don’t be frightened,” the charm, the gestures, the rituals, and the warning “It won’t always be lovely.” She saw him out in the open, in her remembered primrose light, before he was trapped in the tunnel again and had to play at death. “Roy’s new pickup,” the Reeves would bawl at each other. “I said, Roy’s new one … he hardly knows how to get rid of her.”

At that, Sarah opened her mouth and gave a great sobbing cry; only one, but it must have carried, for next thing she heard was the Reeves’ door, and, turning, she saw Tim in a dressing gown, followed by Meg in her parachute of a robe. Sarah stood up to face them. The sun was on her back. She clutched the iron bars of the gate because she had to stand like a stork again. From their side of it, Tim looked down at her suitcase. He said, “Do you want — are you waiting to be driven somewhere?”

“To the airport, if you feel like taking me. Otherwise I’ll hitch.”

“Oh, please don’t do that!” He seemed afraid of another outburst from her — something low-pitched and insulting this time.

“Come in this minute,” said Meg. “I don’t know what you are up to, but we do have neighbors, you know.”

“Why should I care?” said Sarah. “They aren’t my neighbors.”

“You are a little coward,” said Meg. “Running away only because …” There were so many reasons that of course she hesitated.

Without unkind intention Sarah said the worst thing: “It’s just that I’m too young for all of you.”

Meg’s hand crept between the bars and around her wrist. “Somebody had to be born before you, Sarah,” she said, and unlocked her hand and turned back to the house. “Yes, boys, dear boys, here I am,” she called.

Tim said, “Would you like — let me see — would you like something to eat or drink?” It seemed natural for him to talk through bars.

“I can’t stay in the same bed with someone who doesn’t care,” said Sarah, beginning to cry. “It isn’t right.”

“It is what most people do,” said Tim. “Meg has the dogs, and her television. She has everything. We haven’t often lived together. We gradually stopped. When did we last live together? When we went home once for the motor show.” She finally grasped what he meant by “live together.” Tim said kindly, “Look, I don’t mean to pry, but you didn’t take old Roy too much to heart, did you? He wasn’t what you might call the love of your life?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Dear, dear,” said Tim, as if someone had been spreading bad news. He seemed so much more feminine than his wife; his hands were powdery — they seemed dipped in talcum. His eyes were embedded in a little volcano of wrinkles that gave him in full sunlight the look of a lizard. A white lizard, Sarah decided. “This has affected Meg,” he said. “The violence of it. We shall talk it over for a long time. Well. You have so much more time. You will bury all of us.” His last words were loud and sudden, almost a squawk, because Meg, light of tread and silent on her feet, had come up behind him. She wore her straw hat and carried her morning glass of gin and orange juice.

“Sarah? She’ll bury you,” said Meg. “Fetch the car, Tim, and take Sarah somewhere. Come along. Get to Friday. Tim.” He turned. “Dress first,” she said.

The sun which had turned Tim into a white lizard now revealed a glassy stain on Meg’s cheek, half under her hair. Sarah’s attention jumped like a child’s. She said, “Something’s bitten you. Look. Something poisonous.”

Meg moved her head and the poisoned bite vanished under the shade of her hat. “Observant. Tim has never noticed. Neither has Roy. It is only a small malignant thing,” she said indifferently. “I’ve been going to the hospital in Nice twice a week for treatment. They burned it — that’s the reason for the scar.”

“Oh, Meg,” said Sarah, drawn round the gate. “Nobody knew. That was why you went to Nice. I saw you on the bus.”

“I saw you,” said Meg, “but why talk when you needn’t? I get plenty of talk at home. May I ask where you are going?”

“I’m going to the airport, and I’ll sit there till they get me on a plane.”

“Well, Sarah, you may be sitting for some time, but I know you know what you are doing,” said Meg. “I am minding the summer heat this year. I feel that soon I won’t be able to stand it anymore. When Tim’s gone I won’t ever marry again. I’ll look for some woman to share expenses. If you ever want to come back for a holiday, Sarah, you have only to let me know.”

And so Tim, the battery of his car leaking its lifeblood all over French roads, drove Sarah down to Nice and along to the airport. Loyal to the Reeve standards, he did not once glance at the sea. As for Sarah, she sat beside him crying quietly, first over Meg, then over herself, because she thought she had spent all her capital on Roy and would never love anyone again. She looked for the restaurant with the blue tablecloths, and for the beach where they had sat talking for a night, but she could not find them; there were dozens of tables and awnings and beaches, all more or less alike.

“You’ll be all right?” said Tim. He wanted her to say yes, of course.

She said, “Tim, Roy needs help.”

He did not know her euphemisms any more than she understood his. He said, “Help to do what?”

“Roy is unhappy and he doesn’t know what he wants. If you’re over forty and you don’t know what you want, well, I guess someone should tell you.”

“My dear Sarah,” said the old man, “that is an unkind thing to say about a friend we have confidence in.”

She said quickly, “Don’t you see, before he had a life that suited him, inspecting people in jails. They didn’t seem like people or jails. It kept him happy, it balanced …” Suddenly she gave a great shiver in the heat of the morning and heard Lisbet laugh and say, “Someone’s walking on your grave.” She went on, “For example, he won’t eat.”