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

Lily took a sip from her glass. Shock! It hadn’t been watered — probably in honor of Mrs. Garnett’s last meal. But it was sour, thick, and full of silt. “I have always thought a little sugar would improve it,” said Lily chattily, but nobody heard.

Mrs. Freeport suddenly conceded that William Henry might have wanted his future widow to be happy. “It was because he spoiled you,” she said. “You were vain and silly when he married you, and he made you conceited and foolish. I don’t wonder poor William Henry went off his head.”

“Off his head?” Mrs. Garnett looked at Lily; calm, courteous Miss Littel was giving herself wine. “We might have general conversation,” said Mrs. Garnett, with a significant twitch of face. “Miss Littel has hardly said a word.”

“Why?” shouted Mrs. Freeport, throwing her table napkin down. “The meal is over. You refused it. There is no need for conversation of any kind.”

She was marvelous, blazing, with that water lily on her head.

Ah, Lily thought, but you should have seen me, in the old days. How I could let fly…poor old Cliff.

They moved in single file down the passage and into the sitting room, where, for reasons of economy, the hanging lustre contained one bulb. Lily and Mrs. Freeport settled down directly under it, on a sofa; each had her own newspaper to read, tucked down the side of the cushions. Mrs. Garnett walked about the room. “To think that I shall never see this room again,” she said.

“I should hope not,” said Mrs. Freeport. She held the paper before her face, but as far as Lily could tell she was not reading it.

“The trouble is”—for Mrs. Garnett could never help giving herself away—“I don’t know where to go in the autumn.”

“Ask your change man.”

“Egypt,” said Mrs. Garnett, still walking about. “I had friends who went to Egypt every winter for years and years, and now they have nowhere to go, either.”

“Let them stay home,” said Mrs. Freeport. “I am trying to read.”

“If Egypt continues to carry on, I’m sure I don’t know where we shall all be,” said Lily. Neither lady took the slightest notice.

“They were perfectly charming people,” said Mrs. Garnett, in a complaining way.

“Why don’t you do the Times crossword, Edith?” said Mrs. Freeport.

From behind them, Mrs. Garnett said, “You know that I can’t, and you said that only to make me feel small. But William Henry did it until the very end, which proves, I think, that he was not o.h.h. By o.h.h. I mean off his head .”

The break in her voice was scarcely more than a quaver, but to the two women on the sofa it was a signal, and they got to their feet. By the time they reached her, Mrs. Garnett was sitting on the floor in hysterics. They helped her up, as they had often done before. She tried to scratch their faces and said they would be sorry when she had died.

Between them, they got her to bed. “Where is her hot-water bottle?” said Mrs. Freeport. “No, not that one. She must have her own — the bottle with the bunny head.”

“My yogurt,” said Mrs. Garnett, sobbing. Without her make-up she looked shrunken, as though padding had been removed from her skin.

“Fetch the yogurt,” Mrs. Freeport commanded. She stood over the old friend while she ate the yogurt, one tiny spoonful at a time. “Now go to sleep,” she said.

In the morning, Mrs. Garnett was taken by taxi to the early train. She seemed entirely composed and carried her book. Mrs. Freeport hoped that her journey would be comfortable. She and Lily watched the taxi until it was out of sight on the road, and then, in the bare wintry garden, Mrs. Freeport wept into her hands.

“I’ve said goodbye to her,” she said at last, blowing her nose. “It is the last goodbye. I shall never see her again. I was so horrid to her. And she is so tiny and frail. She might die. I’m convinced of it. She won’t survive the summer.”

“She has survived every other,” said Lily reasonably.

“Next year, she must have the large room with the balcony. I don’t know what I was thinking, not to have given it to her. We must begin planning now for next year. She will want a good reading light. Her eyes are so bad. And, you know, we should have chopped her vegetables. She doesn’t chew. I’m sure that’s at the bottom of the yogurt affair.”

“I’m off to Nice tomorrow,” said Lily, the stray. “My sister is expecting me.”

“You are so devoted,” said Mrs. Freeport, looking wildly for her handkerchief, which had fallen on the gravel path. Her hat was askew. The house was empty. “So devoted…I suppose that one day you will want to live in Nice, to be near her. I suppose that day will come.”

Instead of answering, Lily set Mrs. Freeport’s water lily straight, which was familiar of her; but they were both in such a state, for different reasons, that neither of them thought it strange.

1960

CHILDHOOD recollected is often hallucination; who is to blame?

One of my father’s brothers, Hans-Thomas, was a bigamist. He had a wife and sons in Europe, and a wife and a little girl in the United States. The mother of the little girl was a Catholic and would not have married him if she had known he had been married once before. She was doubly injured; his divorce from the European wife, too late to be of any good to anyone, was not recognized in Boston, where she had made her home, and in the eyes of her church, she had never married at all.

My uncle was supremely careless, but heaven knows that he hadn’t been brought up that way. My grandparents were German. My grandfather died young, and the children were brought up by their mother. My uncle had been knocked about, physically and spiritually, as much as any disciplinarian could ask for. The education of my grandmother’s five children was based on humiliation; when they grew up, they stitched together their torn personalities as best they could. Hans-Thomas had spent whole days in a room, deprived of food and light and air and voices. Regularly, his head was shaved. Since this was not a common punishment in America, it was much remarked and ought to have taught him grace and obedience once and for all. But he grew up to be just as willful and heedless as he had been as a boy, hurt his wives, neglected his children, and escaped to Mexico, where he failed in one thing after the other. His mother sent him money until she died.

I met Hans-Thomas once, in our house in Montreal. He gave me two America five-dollar bills, which seemed to me more valuable than Canadian money — not that I had been given ten dollars to spend before. Lest the money go to my head, my mother made me buy presents for Germaine, the half-witted bonne d’enfants , and for her sisters and brothers and cousins. I had never been told about my uncle’s scandal, or why he lived in Mexico. I had never been told that the Boston cousin existed; but I knew. I knew about it, although no one had told me a thing. Perhaps that intuitive knowledge, the piecing together of facts overhead, overcharges the mind. In any case, the prelude to the hallucination is this: Simple Germaine takes me by train to my grandmother’s house, in northern Vermont, for the holidays. The towns, the snow, the shabby farms are all familiar; we cross the border, where there is a different way of speaking, different money, a different flag. We have made this trip a dozen times.

Christmas is a special season for us. My parents are atheists. My grandmother is a European of her time and her class — Socialist, bluestocking, agnostic, and a snob. Like my parents, she objects to Christmas, but on different grounds. My parents complain about the sentimentality, and the commercialization of a myth. My grandmother patiently explains her aversion to the pagan tree, and why she will not have one in her house. We seem to me entirely apart. In my Catholic pensionnat in Montreal, where I am a day student, instructed by my family to learn French and keep out of the chapel, Christmas is marked by four weeks of fever. On the last day, I receive a present — a pen-wiper — from a skimpy tree. There is a crèche; Bethlehem seems to be a town in Quebec. The holy family and the attending animals, angels, and kings are knee-deep in cotton snow. In my classroom, the board is decorated by the most artistic of the nuns. We watch her drawing with colored chalk: green holly, red berries, angels with yellow hair. The blackboard, no longer available for sums, holds all the excitement of a pagan season my parents despise.