Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

“Pardon?” says the Governor’s wife. “Oh yes — dear Mr. Tennyson.”

“It helps the concentration,” says Dr. DuPont in a low voice. “The inner sight is keener when hidden from outward view. Now, Dr. Jordan, we may safely travel into the past. What is it you would wish me to ask her?”

Simon wonders where to begin. “Ask her about the Kinnear residence,” he says.

“What part of it?” says DuPont. “One must be specific.”

“The verandah,” says Simon, who believes in starting gently.

“Grace,” says DuPont, “you are on the verandah, at Mr. Kinnear’s. What do you see there?”

“I see flowers,” says Grace. Her voice is heavy, and somehow damp. “It’s the sunset. I am so happy. I want to stay here.”

“Ask her,” says Simon, “to get up now, and walk into the house. Tell her to go towards the trapdoor in the front hall, the one leading to the cellar.”

“Grace,” says DuPont, “you must…”

Suddenly there’s a loud single knock, almost like a small explosion. It has come from the table, or was it the door? Lydia gives a little shriek and clutches at Simon’s hand; it would be churlish of him to pull away, so he does not, especially as she’s shivering like a leaf.

“Hush!” says Mrs. Quennell in a piercing whisper. “We have a visitor!”

“William!” cries the Governor’s wife softly. “I know it’s my darling! My little one!”

“I beg you,” says DuPont, with irritation. “This is not a’séance!”

Under the veil, Grace stirs uneasily. The Governor’s wife sniffles into her handkerchief. Simon glances over at Reverend Verringer. In the dimness it’s hard to be sure of his expression; it seems to be a pained smile, like a baby with gas.

“I’m frightened,” says Lydia. “Turn up the light!”

“Not yet,” Simon whispers. He pats her hand.

There are three more sharp raps, as if someone is knocking at the door, imperiously demanding entry.

“This is unconscionable,” says DuPont. “Please request them to go away.”

“I will try,” says Mrs. Quennell. “But this is a Thursday. They’re used to coming on Thursdays.” She bows her head and clasps her hands. After a moment there’s a series of little staccato pops, like a handful of pebbles rattling down a drainspout. “There,” she says, “I think that’s done it.”

There must be a confederate, thinks Simon — some accomplice or apparatus, outside the door, under the table. This is, after all, Mrs. Quennell’s house. Who knows how she may have rigged it up? But there’s nothing under the table except their feet. How is it all worked? Just by sitting here he is rendered absurd, an ignorant pawn, a dupe. But he can’t leave now.

“Thank you,” says DuPont. “Doctor, please pardon the interruption. Let us proceed.”

Simon is increasingly conscious of Lydia‘s hand in his. It’s a small hand, and very warm. In fact the entire room is too close for comfort. He would like to detach himself, but Lydia is clutching him with a grip of iron. He hopes no one can see. His arm tingles; he crosses his legs. He has a sudden vision of Rachel Humphrey’s legs, naked except for her stockings, and of his hands on them, holding her down while she struggles. Deliberately struggles, watching him through the lashes of her almost-closed eyes to see the effect she’s having on him. Writhes like an artful eel. Begs like a captive. Slippery, a skin of sweat on her, hers or his, her dank hair across her face, across his mouth, every night. Imprisoned. Her skin where he’s licked her shines like satin. It can’t go on.

“Ask her,” he says, “whether she ever had relations with James McDermott.” He hasn’t been intending to pose this question; certainly not at first, and never so directly. But isn’t it — he sees it now — the one thing he most wants to know?

DuPont repeats the question to Grace in a level voice. There is a pause; then Grace laughs. Or someone laughs; it doesn’t sound like Grace. “Relations, Doctor? What do you mean?” The voice is thin, wavering, watery; but fully present, fully alert. “Really, Doctor, you are such a hypocrite! You want to know if I kissed him, if I slept with him. If I was his paramour! Is that it?”

“Yes,” says Simon. He’s shaken, but must try not to show it. He was expecting a series of monosyllables, mere yes’s and no’s dragged out of her, out of her lethargy and stupor; a series of compelled and somnolent responses to his own firm demands. Not such crude mockery. This voice cannot be Grace’s; yet in that case, whose voice is it?

“Whether I did what you’d like to do with that little slut who’s got hold of your hand?” There is a dry chuckle.

Lydia gasps, and withdraws her hand as if burned. Grace laughs again. “You’d like to know that, so I’ll tell you. Yes. I would meet him outside, in the yard, in my nightdress, in the moonlight. I’d press up against him, I’d let him kiss me, and touch me as well, all over, Doctor, the same places you’d like to touch me, because I can always tell, I know what you’re thinking when you sit in that stuffy little sewing room with me. But that was all, Doctor. That was all I’d let him do. I had him on a string, and Mr. Kinnear as well. I had the two of them dancing to my tune!”

“Ask her why,” says Simon. He can’t understand what’s happening, but this may be his last chance to understand. He must keep his head, and pursue a straight line of enquiry. His voice, to his own ears, is a hoarse croak.

“I would breathe like this,” says Grace. She utters a high erotic moan. “I would twist and twine. After that, he’d say he’d do anything.” She titters. “But why? Oh Doctor, you are always asking why. Poking your nose in, and not only your nose. You are such a curious man! Curiosity killed the cat, you know, Doctor. You should watch out for that little mouse beside you; and her little furry mousehole too!”

To Simon’s astonishment, Reverend Verringer giggles; or perhaps he is coughing.

“This is an outrage,” says the Governor’s wife. “I won’t sit here and listen to such filth! Lydia, come with me!” She half rises; her skirts rustle.

“Please,” says DuPont. “Bear with me. Modesty must take second place to the interests of science.”

For Simon this whole occasion is reeling out of control. He must seize the initiative, or at least try to seize it; he must keep Grace from reading his mind. He’s been told of the clairvoyant powers of those under hypnosis, but he’s never believed in them before. “Ask her,” he says sternly, “if she was in the cellar of Mr. Kinnear’s house, on Saturday, July 23rd, 1843.”

“The cellar,” says DuPont. “You must picture the cellar, Grace. Go back in time, descend in space….”

“Yes,” says Grace, in her new, thin voice. “Along the hallway, lift the trapdoor; go down the cellar stairs. The barrels, the whisky, the vegetables in the boxes full of sand. There on the floor. Yes, I was in the cellar.”

“Ask her if she saw Nancy there.”

“Oh yes, I saw her.” A pause. “As I can see you, Doctor. From behind the veil. And I can hear you too.”

DuPont looks surprised. “Irregular,” he mutters, “but not unknown.”

“Was she alive?” asks Simon. “Was she still alive, when you saw her?”

The voice sniggers. “She was partly alive. Or partly dead. She needed” — a high twittering — “to be put out of her misery.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Reverend Verringer. Simon can feel his own heart pounding. “Did you help to strangle her?” he says.

“It was my kerchief that strangled her.” A fresh chirping, a giggling. “Such a pretty pattern it had on it!”

“Infamous,” murmurs Verringer. He must be thinking of all the prayers he’s expended on her, and all the ink and paper too. The letters, the petitions, the faith.