Margaret Atwood - The Edible Woman

I had just begun on the windows when the phone rang. It was Duncan. I was surprised; I had more or less forgotten about him.

“Well?” he asked. “What happened?”

“It’s all off,” I said. “I realized Peter was trying to destroy me. So now I’m looking for another job.”

“Oh,” said Duncan. “Actually I didn’t mean that. I was wondering more about Fischer.”

“Oh,” I said. I might have known.

“I mean, I think I know what happened but I’m not sure why. He’s abandoned his responsibilities, you know.”

“His responsibilities? You mean graduate school?”

“No,” said Duncan. “I mean me. What am I going to do?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said. I was irritated with him for not wanting to discuss what I was going to do myself. Now that I was thinking of myself in the first person singular again I found my own situation much more interesting than his.

“Now, now,” Duncan said, “we can’t both be like that. One of us has to be the sympathetic listener and the other one gets to be tortured and confused. You were tortured and confused last time.”

Face it, I thought, you can’t win. “Oh all right. Why don’t you come over for some tea a bit later then? The apartment’s a mess,” I added apologetically.

When he arrived I was finishing the windows, standing on a chair and wiping off the white glass cleaner I had spread on them. We hadn’t cleaned them for a long time and they had got quite silted over with dust, and I was thinking it was going to be curious to be able to see out of them again. It bothered me that there was still some dirt on the outside I couldn’t reach: soot and rainstreaks. I didn’t hear Duncan come in. He had probably been standing in the room for several minutes watching me before he announced his presence by saying “Here I am.”

I jumped. “Oh hi,” I said, “I’ll be right with you as soon as finish this window.” He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.

After giving the window one last polish with a sleeve torn from one of Ainsley’s abandoned blouses I got down from the chair, somewhat reluctantly – I like to finish things once I’ve begun them and there were still several windows left uncleaned; besides, the prospect of discussing the love life of Fischer Smythe wasn’t all that compelling – and went out to the kitchen. I found Duncan sitting in one of the chairs, regarding the open refrigerator door with a mixture of distaste and anxiety.

“What smells in here?” he asked, sniffing the air.

“Oh, various things,” I answered lightly. “Floor polish and window cleaner and some other things.” I went over and opened the kitchen window. “Tea or coffee?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Well, what’s the real truth?”

“You must know they’re married.” Tea would be easier, but a quick root through the cupboards didn’t uncover any. I measured the coffee into the percolator.

“Well, yes, sort of. Fish left us a rather ambiguous note. But how did it happen?”

“How do these things ever happen? They met at the party,” I said. I turned on the coffee and sat down. I had thoughts of holding out on him but he was beginning to look hurt. “Of course there are a few complications, but I think it will work out.” Ainsley had come in the day before after another prolonged absence and had packed her suitcases while Fischer waited in the living room, head thrown back against the cushions of the chesterfield, beard bristling with the consciousness of its own vitality, eyes closed. She had given me to understand in the few sentences she had time for that they were going to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon and that she thought Fischer would make, as she put it, “a very good one.”

I explained all this to Duncan as well as I could. He did not seem either dismayed or delighted, or even surprised, by any of it.

“Well,” he said, “I guess it’s a good thing for Fischer, mankind cannot bear too much unreality. Trevor was quite disturbed though. He’s gone to bed with a nervous headache and refuses to get up even to cook. What it all means is that I’m going to have to move out. You’ve heard how destructive a broken home can be and I wouldn’t want my personality to get warped.”

“I hope it will be all right for Ainsley.” I really did hope so. I was pleased with her for justifying my superstitious belief in her ability to take care of herself: for a while there I had begun to lose faith. “At least,” I said, “she’s got what she thinks she wants, and I suppose that’s something.”

“Cast out into the world again,” Duncan said reflectively. He was gnawing on his thumb. “I wonder what will become of me.” He did not seem overly interested in the question.

Talking about Ainsley made me think of Leonard. I had called Clara shortly after I had heard the news about Ainsley’s marriage, so she could tell Len it was safe to come out of hiding. Later she had called back. “I’m quite worried,” she said, “he didn’t seem nearly as relieved as he ought to have been. I thought he would go back to his apartment right away but he said he didn’t want to. He’s afraid to go outside the house, though he seems perfectly happy as long as he stays in Arthur’s room. The children adore him most of the time and I must say it’s rather nice having someone who takes them off my hands a bit, but the trouble is he plays with all of Arthur’s toys and sometimes they get into fights. And he hasn’t been going to work at all, he hasn’t even phoned them to tell them where he is. If he just lets himself go like this much longer I’m not sure how I’m going to cope.” Nevertheless she had sounded more competent than usual.

There was a loud metallic clunk from inside the refrigerator. Duncan jerked, and took his thumb out of his mouth. “What was that?”

“Oh, just falling ice, I expect,” I said. “I’m defrosting the refrigerator.” The coffee smelled done. I set two cups on the table and poured.

“Well, are you eating again?” Duncan asked after a moment of silence.

“As a matter of fact I am,” I said. “I had steak for lunch.” This last remark had been motivated by pride. It still was miraculous to me that I had attempted anything so daring and had succeeded.

“Well, it’s healthier that way,” Duncan said. He looked at me directly for the first time since he had come in. “You look better too. You look jaunty and full of good things. How did you do it?”

“I told you,” I said. “Over the phone.”

“You mean that stuff about Peter trying to destroy you?”

I nodded.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said gravely. “Peter wasn’t trying to destroy you. That’s just something you made up. Actually you were trying to destroy him.”

I had a sinking feeling. “Is that true?” I asked.

“Search your soul,” he said, gazing hypnotically at me from behind his hair. He drank some coffee and paused to give me time, then added, “But the real truth is that it wasn’t Peter at all. It was me. I was trying to destroy you.”

I gave a nervous laugh. “Don’t say that.”

“Okay,” he said, “ever eager to please. Maybe Peter was trying to destroy me, or maybe I was trying to destroy him, or we were both trying to destroy each other, how’s that? What does it matter, you’re back to so-called reality, you’re a consumer.”

“Incidentally,” I said, remembering, “would you like some cake?” I had half the torso and the head left over.

He nodded. I got him a fork and took the remains of the cadaver down from the shelf where I had put it. I unwrapped its cellophane shroud. “It’s mostly the head,” I said.

“I didn’t know you could bake cakes,” he said after the first forkful. “It’s almost as good as Trevor’s.”