Mavis Gallant - The Cost of Living - Early and Uncollected Stories

Because of the party and the extra work involved, Bernadette had been given the next afternoon off. She spent the morning cleaning. Nora kept out of the way. Robbie stayed in bed, mulishly maintaining that he wasn’t feeling well. It was after lunch, and Bernadette was dressed and ready to go downtown to a movie, when Nora decided not to wait any longer. She cornered Bernadette in the kitchen and, facing her, suddenly remembered how, as a child, she had cornered field mice with a flashlight and then drowned them. Bernadette seemed to know what was coming; she exuded fear. She faced her tormentor with a beating, animal heart.

Nora sat down at the kitchen table and began, as she frequently had done with Robbie, with the words “I think we ought to talk about a certain situation.” Bernadette stared. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Nora said.

“No,” said Bernadette, shaking her head.

“But you’re worried about something. Something is wrong. Isn’t that true?”

“No.”

“Bernadette, I want to help you. Sit down. Tell me, are you pregnant?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. Un enfant. Un bébé . Am I right?”

“ Sais pas ,” said Bernadette. She looked at the clock over Nora’s head.

“ Bernadette .”

It was getting late. Bernadette said, “Yes. I think so. Yes.”

“You poor little mutt,” said Nora. “Don’t keep standing there like that. Sit down here, by the table. Take off your coat. We must talk about it. This is much more important than a movie.” Bernadette remained standing, in hat and coat. “Who is it?” said Nora. “I didn’t know you had…I mean, I didn’t know you knew anyone here. Tell me. It’s most important. I’m not angry.” Bernadette continued to look up at the clock, as if there were no other point in the room on which she dared fix her eyes. “Bern adette !” Nora said. “I’ve just asked you a question. Who is the boy?”

“ Un monsieur ,” said Bernadette.

Did she mean by that an older man, or was Bernadette, in using the word “ monsieur ,” implying a social category? “ Quel monsieur ?” said Nora.

Bernadette shrugged. She stole a glance at Nora, and something about the oblique look suggested more than fear or evasiveness. A word came into Nora’s mind: sly.

“Can you…I mean, is it someone you’re going to marry?” But no. In that case, he would have been a nice young boy, someone of Bernadette’s own background. Nora would have met him. He would have been caught in the kitchen drinking Robbie’s beer. He would have come every Sunday and every Thursday afternoon to call for Bernadette. “Is it someone you can marry?” Nora said. Silence. “Don’t be afraid,” said Nora, deliberately making her voice kind. She longed to shake the girl, even slap her face. It was idiotic; here was Bernadette in a terrible predicament, and all she could do was stand, shuffling from one foot to the other, as if a movie were the most important thing in the world. “If he isn’t already married,” Nora said, “which I’m beginning to suspect is the case, he’ll marry you. You needn’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it, or Mr. Knight will.”

“ Pas possible ,” said Bernadette, low.

“Then I was right. He is married.” Bernadette looked up at the clock, desperate. She wanted the conversation to stop. “A married man,” Nora repeated. “ Un monsieur .” An unfounded and wholly outrageous idea rushed into her mind. Dismissing it, she said, “When did it happen?”

“ Sais pas .”

“Don’t be silly. That really is a very silly reply. Of course you know. You’ve only had certain hours out of this house.”

The truth of it was that Bernadette did not know. She didn’t know his name or whether he was married or even where she could find him again, even if she had desired such a thing. He seemed the least essential factor. Lacking words, she gave Nora the sidelong glance that made her seem coarse and deceitful. She is so uninnocent, Nora thought, surprised and a little repelled. It occurred to her that in spite of her long marriage and her two children, she knew less than Bernadette. While she was thinking about Bernadette and her lover, there came into her mind the language of the street. She remembered words that had shocked and fascinated her as a child. That was Bernadette’s fault. It was Bernadette’s atmosphere, Nora thought, excusing herself to an imaginary censor. She said, “We must know when your baby will be born. Don’t you think so?” Silence. She tried again: “How long has it been since you…I mean, since you missed…”

“One hundred and twenty-seven days,” said Bernadette. She was so relieved to have, at last, a question that she could answer that she brought it out in a kind of shout.

“My God. What are you going to do?”

“ Sais pas .”

“Oh, Bernadette!” Nora cried. “But you must think.” The naming of a number of days made the whole situation so much more immediate. Nora felt that they ought to be doing something — telephoning, writing letters, putting some plan into motion. “We shall have to think for you,” she said. “I shall speak to Mr. Knight.”

“No,” said Bernadette, trembling, suddenly coming to life. “Not Mr. Knight.”

Nora leaned forward on the table. She clasped her hands together, hard. She looked at Bernadette. “Is there a special reason why I shouldn’t speak to Mr. Knight?” she said.

“ Oui .” Bernadette had lived for so many days now in her sea of nausea and fear that it had become a familiar element. There were greater fears and humiliations, among them that Mr. Knight, who was even more baffling and dangerous than his wife, should try to discuss this thing with Bernadette. She remembered what he had said the day before, and how he had held her arm. “He must know,” said Bernadette. “I think he must already know.”

“You had better go on,” said Nora, after a moment. “You’ll miss your bus.” She sat quite still and watched Bernadette’s progress down the drive. She looked at the second-hand imitation-seal coat that had been Bernadette’s first purchase (and Nora’s despair) and the black velveteen snow boots trimmed with dyed fur and tied with tasselled cords. Bernadette’s purse hung over her arm. She had the walk of a fat girl — the short steps, the ungainly little trot.

It was unreasonable, Nora knew it was unreasonable; but there was so much to reinforce the idea—“ Un monsieur ,” and the fact that he already knew (“He must know,” Bernadette had said) — and then there was Bernadette’s terror when she said she was going to discuss it with him. She thought of Robbie’s interest in Bernadette’s education. She thought of Robbie in the past, his unwillingness to remain faithful, his absence of courage and common sense. Recalling Bernadette’s expression, prepared now to call it corrupt rather than sly, she felt that the girl had considered herself deeply involved with Nora; that she knew Nora much better than she should.

Robbie had decided to come downstairs, and was sitting by the living-room fire. He was reading a detective novel. Beside him was a drink.

“Get you a drink?” he said, without lifting his eyes, when Nora came in.

“Don’t bother.”

He went on reading. He looked so innocent, so unaware that his life was shattered. Nora remembered how he had been when she had first known him, so pleasant and dependent and good-looking and stupid. She remembered how he had been going to write a play, and how she had wanted to change the world, or at least Quebec. Tears of fatigue and strain came into her eyes. She felt that the failure of last night’s party had been a symbol of the end. Robbie had done something cheap and dishonorable, but he reflected their world. The world was ugly, Montreal was ugly, the street outside the window contained houses of surpassing ugliness. There was nothing left to discuss but television and the fluctuating dollar; that was what the world had become. The children were in boarding school because Nora didn’t trust herself to bring them up. The living room was full of amusing peasant furniture because she didn’t trust her own taste. Robbie was afraid of her and liked humiliating her by demonstrating again and again that he preferred nearly any other woman in bed. That was the truth of things. Why had she never faced it until now?