Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

That fucking woman wrote to me! Just as if nothing had happened. She dropped me a line after a five-year silence. Not mentioning Dad, as if he was dead. The letter was a sort of honeyed hiss.

Dear Susy,

Bet you’re surprised to see my writing, if you still remember it, if you’re still living at 9 Devereux Avenue. I hope so; it was a lovely house.

I’ve been thinking about the old days a lot. You were a sweet girl; I didn’t deserve you. I’m going in for motherhood again, and hope to do better this time around. A glorious Brazilian three-year-old from a desperately poor family. Black hair, black eyes, beautiful. You will have to meet her when I next come through London. I’m so excited about it all.

How are you? I’m sorry I’m so out of touch. You’re probably married by now with twins, or else headmistress of some marvellous school. In any case I wanted to drop you a line. Do write and tell me all your news. We’ll be staying for a month at the New York Plaza when we finally get out of here.

Your loving stepmother

Alexandra

Your loving stepmother! I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry I burst out crying. After the way she treated Dad. That was her thing, though, leaving people. After the way she wrecked our lives.

We didn’t deserve you, Alex. Nobody’s bad enough for that. Dad was crazy to do what he did but you must have pushed him till he snapped. He was a gentle man. He wasn’t violent. He never smacked me; he rarely shouted.

He loved her so much, she should have felt lucky, but it wasn’t enough for her, she wanted someone else, or however many other lovers she had. When I remember how she went on at me about sex!… that’s what I can’t stand; she’s such a liar. Alex never thought I was a sweet girl. I’m sure she never thinks about the old days.

Everything was lying and acting. All that mattered was appearances. The way I dressed used to drive her insane. She looked at Isaac’s spots as if they were plague sores — later, of course, they were. And then she acted the angel of mercy! Who was she trying to impress? There must have been something in it for her…

She ran off with that young boy. I heard he was really great-looking. Perfect for Alex, she was such a looks snob. But by now she must be getting on…

I last saw her at the funeral, looking wrecked, frightful, at least forty.

— Come to think of it, she must have been older than that. She was thirty-six when they went away. My God, so she was fifty then. I admit she didn’t look fifty. And she was as brilliantly done-up as ever. She was still as skinny, and her hair as red. But she was a dead white, a real snow-white, as if they had drained away her blood, as if she were the corpse, not Isaac. It must have been powder, laid on with a trowel. She sat at the back, but a lot of people gawped. She stared straight ahead, and didn’t look at anyone. I hated her so much for that. It was a pose, of course, like all her poses, trying to look like a Japanese mask, all stiff and grieved beneath the spotted net veil. She looked barmy and loathsome, but as smart as ever, like a drawing in very sharp black and white pencil. It was one of the horrible things about Alex. The world would end, and she’d still look smart.

I hated her for daring to show up when all that had happened to us was her fault.

She was late; I thought she wouldn’t show, I thought the bitch had lost her nerve. Dad was there with a trio of hard-eyed men with bull-like necks and suits like safes. Surely they realised he wasn’t a crook? Surely they realised it was a mistake? He was sitting in the front row, like me, and if the suits had been absent he’d have been beside me, we could have held hands and had a cry together, but no one could fit in the pew with them so I sat alone on the other side, turning to look at him, all the time hoping he would catch my eye. But he was staring up at the stained-glass window, a horribly gory saint stuck with arrows, thin chicken body, fat drops of blood. Some of that religious art is gruesome. Dad’s profile was old. He looked small between his minders. I longed to touch him, but the church was too cold, I didn’t know how close you were allowed to go to prisoners, I didn’t want the suits to push me away, I didn’t want a scene for the paparazzi…

But all the reasons were bad. I should have touched him, and I failed.

We were all too stuck in our stupid roles. My family has always been broken, frozen. Only Isaac and I really loved each other in an uncomplicated way. We made each other laugh. We were fond of each other. And later, of course, he was all I had left. We argued a lot and he was jealous of me — maybe I was sometimes jealous of him — but he was my friend and I miss him still.

It hurts, it hurts. And the guilt makes it worse, because I hadn’t seen him as much as I should have done since he was ill. I can’t forgive myself for being so stupid. I knew he would die, but I couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it, I suppose. I was busy, busy, when my brother was dying.

The thing is, it was true. I was too busy. I was starting to come out of a long dark tunnel, deciding to finish my training or bust, get a job, get on with my life… I didn’t want to be dragged down again. Besides, it cost money to fly to New York, and Dad didn’t send me any extra money –

— I’m like Alexandra, always making excuses, never admitting anything’s my fault. All right, it was my fucking fault. I didn’t make the effort when I should have done, I kept putting it off into the future, and when the future arrived, he’d gone. I felt such an idiot; why didn’t I realise? Once people are dead, nothing can be mended.

The funeral was the very last family occasion. The last time we would ever all be together. Not with our real mother, of course, but with the bitch who had replaced her — and oh, why must life be such a muddle, because she wasn’t always a bitch, she could be kind, she could be generous, sometimes she even made me laugh, but once they ran away I forgot all that. Why do I have to remember all that? At the funeral I was praying she wouldn’t be there, but maybe one per cent of me hoped she would. And I couldn’t help looking round for Isaac. Logically I knew he was in the coffin, but I couldn’t help thinking he might turn up, panting in at the last moment, as usual, clumsy, apologising, my brother, peering shortsightedly round the dark church. My brother aged twenty. My brother aged eight. He was kind to me, he cared. My brother.

But he didn’t come. Of course he didn’t. It was her who came, moving in a weird stiff way, acting her idea of a mourner, wasn’t she. A little ripple, or sigh, or whisper ran round the church as she came in, and for a moment I thought it would turn to a hiss, and they would all stand and hiss her down, I wanted that, I was dying for it, so at last she’d be made to see she couldn’t get away with everything… but the noise died away. The church settled down.

And Alexandra didn’t look for us. She sat at the back in her dead white makeup (it must have been makeup, I can’t be wrong. Alex never cared about any of us, she never even cared about Dad. I don’t want to be wrong, it makes life harder).

My father turned round, as I knew he would, he looked like a tortoise, sort of hopelessly craning. He saw her, and his face crumpled. The mouth was working. I didn’t want to lip-read. They held his arms. He was trying to rise. They held his arms, they held him down! My father held like a murderer.

At the end of the short, false service — all read in a nasal Californian voice which made death seem like a cold in the head, something to whine about — I saw his head shoot round again, I heard him groan as he half-rose to his feet. He must have seen her go. I saw her go. Just a glimpse of her back, a jetblack matchstick slipping through the door. A final flash of that carroty hair.