“How does Harry come into it, Mrs. Reynold?”
“He mentioned Harry several times, something about making amends and regretting what he’d done to Harry. Now obviously that doesn’t make sense, does it? Ron would never do anything to Harry, the two have been thick as thieves ever since they were children. And why, after all these years, should Ron suddenly call Dorothy and get maudlin about his treatment of her?”
“I don’t — know.”
“The poor child has suffered enough. I thought perhaps if Harry were there and could come and talk to her it might calm her down a bit. She’s always been fond of Harry, and she seems to think, from Ron’s conversation, that Ron wanted her to see Harry.”
“Why?”
“He seemed to believe he’d done something terrible. Has he?”
“No.” The word was sharp and final.
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Yes.”
“Did he seem quite normal to you?”
“Yes. Quite normal.”
“How very puzzling. Surely a normal man doesn’t suddenly call up a former wife he hasn’t seen in years and tell her he wants to apologize before he leaves.”
“Leaves?”
“He said he was going away. And when Dorothy asked him where, he said he couldn’t tell her, it was an undiscovered country. According to Dorothy, it sounded as if he was quoting a line of poetry.”
Thelma leaned back and closed her eyes. The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.
“Mrs. Bream? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” A reluctant whisper. When Aunt May called, Thelma could hide and pretend she hadn’t heard. But this time there was no place to hide. “Yes, Mrs. Reynold, I’m here.”
“Did Ron say anything to you or Harry about taking a trip?”
“No.”
“I’m perplexed, I truly am. How inconsiderate of Ron to annoy people like this, and I shall tell him so the first chance I get. As a matter of fact, I tried to call his house a little while ago but no one answered. Do you suppose he’s already left?”
“I don’t know.”
“Undiscovered country,” Mrs. Reynold said. “Undiscovered country, indeed.”
“I must — I must go now, Mrs. Reynold.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. And I do hope I haven’t upset you in any way.”
“I’ll — I’ll give Harry your message when he comes home.”
“Thank you, child. I’m sure Harry will know what to do.”
“Good-bye.”
When she’d put down the telephone, she wiped her right hand carefully with a handkerchief, as if she had touched something dirty and had been contaminated. Then she rose and groped her way to the stairs. The child in her womb felt as heavy as stone.
She reached her room, exhausted, and fell across the bed on her stomach with her arms outstretched. High school. The smell of books and dust, and oiled wood floors. Memory work today, class. It’s your turn, Thelma. We had the first part of the soliloquy last week. No need to repeat. Start with “For who would bear...” Quiet, class, while Thelma recites.
“For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life...”
Go on, Thelma.
No, I can’t. I don’t remember!
Go on, Thelma.
“... But that the dread of something after death
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns...”
Such beautiful language, the teacher said. Lovely, lovely. But do put a little more feeling into it, Thelma.
Eight
It was ten o’clock Sunday morning, and a woman unknown to any of the principals in the case was getting ready to go to church. Her name was Celia Roy, she lived alone on the outskirts of the small town of Thornbury on Georgian Bay, she was a widow with a pension and two married daughters and no hope of much more in this life.
She was the kind of woman to whom nothing extraordinary had ever happened. True, she’d seen people die, babies born, mistakes committed, tragedies enacted, sacrifices made, but this was all run-of-the-mill stuff to Celia. What she dreamed of, in her declining years, was winning a new car on a radio quiz program, or an all-expense trip to Hollywood in a slogan contest, or a thousand dollars for submitting the best recipe. She would have settled for a really good night at the church bingo on Thursday, but even that hadn’t happened.
She put on her hat in front of the sideboard mirror. She’d worn the hat for three years and could have put it on properly in pitch darkness, but she stood in front of the mirror out of habit, not really seeing either the hat or herself under it. Her hands were trembling with excitement and fear. It was the Sabbath, she was on her way to church, and she’d done something wrong, perhaps quite wrong. What was more, she had no intention of telling anyone about it. The dog was dead. She’d buried him herself in the dark of night, and no one knew a thing about it.
She heard her daughter Mabel’s old Ford wheeze up in front of the house and cough to a stop. Each time Celia heard this noise she expected it to be the car’s last — it sounded exactly like old Mr. Thurston’s death rattle — but each time, under Mabel’s expert pumping and pounding and shouting, the car would miraculously come to life in every joint and pulsate vigorously as if to deny all charges of age and infirmity.
Mabel bounded in the front door. She was a lively young woman with a hearty laugh and a quick temper and little or no patience with people who slunk, as she called it, through life.
“Hi. Ready, Mom?”
“Just about,” Celia said. “I look a fright. It’s this hat. It’s getting out of shape.”
“Who isn’t,” Mabel said cheerfully. “I told you to get a new one for Easter.”
“And what to use for money?”
“Speaking of money, I don’t have a cent for the collection plate. John didn’t get his check, this is the third time in a row it’s been late.” She saw her mother’s purse lying on the wicker jardiniere and picked it up. “Mind if I borrow a quarter?”
Celia had turned quite white. “Stop. Wait.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I–I don’t like other people opening my purse.”
“You never objected before.”
“Well, I am now. Give it here.”
“Honestly, honestly, you’d think I was trying to steal from you or something.”
“I want none of your lip. Give me that purse.”
“I just don’t like your attitude, like I was a thief or something. What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re shaking like a leaf.”