Helen Oyeyemi - What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours

That niggled at her. Jill frowned. Actually two things bothered her — his having said, “The hottest time of day is 2PM” when the usual answer was simply “2PM,” and then there was the appearance of Vi’s hand in the shot. It was only there for a moment before it was withdrawn from the space in front of the lens with a barely audible “oops,” but Jill could see now that the waving hand was probably the reason why Jacob laughed a little as he talked his way back toward the answer (could be that he’d momentarily forgotten the question): “The hottest time of day is 2PM.”

Alex returned before she could replay the third conversation again. He was in his early twenties now, and was sporting chin stubble and red chinos. He didn’t grumble as much as she expected when she made her request that they just watch some telly together. He quite happily complied, putting his arm around the back of the sofa and keeping her warm that way. She didn’t have a clue what they were watching, but took the time to absorb every detail of his face so that later, when he was gone again and it was twelve-thirty at night, the man who looked like her and Jacob was superimposed on the darkness.

—

IN THE MORNING Alex came back in his late thirties with photos of his wife Amina and her granddaughter. Jill went down to the corner shop to try and prepare herself for her son’s arrival in her own decade of life. She hadn’t looked into the mirror before going out of the front door — Darren at the corner shop was shocked and asked her if she was OK. She told him she was fine, and asked about the date and time. It was four p.m. in the outside world, and a week and five days had passed since she’d begun testing Presence. Fox rain was falling (still?) and Jill said: “Time flies, time flies.” Darren asked her if she was OK again, and this time she asked him how he was. Darren was fine too, or so he said . Can’t complain… She bought some lip balm and went home.

—

SHE’D MISSED Alex’s forties: “I’m in my fifties, now, Mum…” He didn’t look it… maybe he was lying, maybe your baby’s just always your baby. But she didn’t feel able to stay at home with her son who was now older than her. There was a lot she could’ve learned from him, she knew, but that would’ve meant staying in that flat where the temperature was so far below zero that the numbers were now meaningless. She didn’t feel able to send Alex away either. She washed. Not just her fringe, she washed all over. And she took a different outfit out of her suitcase and put it on. She didn’t say good-bye to Alex, but left him sleeping on a mattress they’d set up in the second bedroom, between the puppet stages, still makeless, though by twelve-thirty his presence would have faded away altogether. Jill locked the front door behind her and made two journeys: first stop work, to ask after her boys, the ones she still had hope for. The front desk warden made a few phone calls in a low voice with her back turned, then told her they were fine, nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and wasn’t it tomorrow that she was due back?

“Good, yes, that’s right… see you tomorrow.”

—

JILL’S SECOND JOURNEY ended at home in Holland Park. On the train she thought about the likelihood that Vi would be there with Jacob. She’d been there in the camera shot with Jill and Jacob, however momentarily. His answer had still come to her, and when she got home the front door was unlocked and she found the house as dark and as cold as the flat she’d left earlier; it was twelve-thirty and she found Jacob slumped over the kitchen table with his headphones on. She took them off and asked him again: “What’s the hottest time of day?”

The answer, without verbal deadweight this time: “2PM…”

His arms around her, and hers around him, knots and tangles they could only undo with eyes closed. “You’re so warm.”

“About Presence,” she said. “Scrap it. Don’t do this to anyone else.”

“Agreed.”

—

JACOB MENTIONED ALEX once, as they were comparing notes. “I wish we had a picture, at least,” he said, and Jill knew what and whom he was referring to. She didn’t agree, but neither did she contradict his wish. It was his own, after all.

From: Willa Reid

To: Dayang Sharif

Date: November 12th 2012, 18:25

Subject: JOIN US

Dear Dayang,

Among Cambridge University’s many clubs, unions, academic forums, interest groups, activist cells and societies, there’s a sisterhood that emerged in direct opposition to a brotherhood. What this sisterhood lacks in numbers it more than makes up for in lionheartedness: [1] This is Grainne’s self-perception. If you can overlook her narcissism you may come to care for her one day.—M.A. You sayin’ you care for me, Marie?—G.M. The Homely Wench Society. The Homely Wenches can’t be discussed without first noting that it was the Bettencourt Society that necessitated the existence of precisely this type of organized and occasionally belligerent female presence at the university.

The Bettencourt Society has existed since 1875. The Bettencourters are also known as “the Franciscans” because a man gets elected to this society on the basis of his having sufficient charisma to tame both bird and beast. Just like Francis of Assisi. Each year at the end of Lent term the society hosts a dinner at its headquarters, a pocket-sized palace off Magdalene Street that was left to the university by Hugh Bettencourt with the stipulation that it be used solely for Bettencourt Society activities. If you’ve heard of the Bettencourters you may already known the following facts: No woman enters this building unless a member of the Bettencourt Society has invited her, and no Bettencourt Society member invites a woman into the building unless it’s for this annual dinner of theirs. And getting invited to the dinner is dependent on your being considered exceptionally attractive.

The Homely Wench Society has only existed since 1949. The women who were its first members had heard about the Bettencourt Society and weren’t that impressed with what they heard about the foundational principles of these so-called Franciscans. As for their annual dinner… hmm, strangely insecure of intelligent people to spend time patting each other on the backs for having social skills and getting pretty girls to have dinner with them. But people may spend their time as they please. No, the first Homely Wench Society members didn’t have a problem with the Bettencourt Society until Giles Rutherford (Bettencourt Society President, 1949, Ph.D. Candidate in the Classics Faculty) was writing a poem and got stuck. What he needed, he said, was to lay eyes on a girl whose very name conjured up the idea of ugliness the same way invoking Helen of Troy did for beauty. Luckily for Giles Rutherford’s poem, the first wave of female Cantabs working toward full degree certification were on hand to be ogled at. Rutherford sent his Bettencourt Society brethren out into the university with this task: “Find me the homeliest wench in the university, my brothers. Search high and low, do not rest until you’ve sketched her face and form and brought it to me. Comb Girton in particular; something tells me you’ll find her there.” [2] At least that’s what Grainne Molloy imagines Rutherford said. This is not verifiable!—T.A. Bah, history students.—G.M. The Bettencourters looked into every corner of Newnham and Girton and found many legends in the making. They compiled a list of Cambridge’s homeliest wenches, a list which later fell into the hands of one of the women who had been invited to the Bettencourt’s annual dinner. This lady stole the list and sought out other women who’d accepted invitations to this dinner. Having gathered a number of them together she showed the list of homely wenches around and asked : “ Is this kind of list all right with us?”