Duet. Carol Shields
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dreamed up this lunatic scheme.’
‘Judith, we’re talking in circles. I don’t think it’s all that idiotic. What do you think, Dad?’
Grandpa Gill regards me. Clearly he does not want to join in the foray, but he is being pressed. He speaks cautiously: ‘I think I partially understand what Judith is worried about. The publish-or-perish syndrome does occasionally have the effect of forcing academics to make asses of themselves. But, on the other hand, cross-disciplinary approaches seem to be well thought of at the moment. A graphic demonstration of a literary work, with the design features stressed, might make quite an interesting presentation if –’
I interrupt, out of exasperation, for I know he can go on in this vein for hours. ‘Look, Martin there’s another thing. And I hate to say this because it sounds so narrow-minded and conventional, but I, well, the truth is – I can’t bear to think of you sitting there in your office weaving away. I mean – do you know what I mean? – do you – don’t you think it’s just a little bit – you know –?’
‘Effeminate?’ he supplies the word.
‘Eccentric. It’s the sort of thing Furlong Eberhardt might dream up.’
‘And I suppose you think that reference will guarantee instant dismissal of the whole idea.’
‘Oh, Martin, for heaven’s sake, do what you want. I just hate you to look ridiculous.’
‘To whom? To you?’
‘Forget it. I don’t even know why we’re discussing it.’ I start picking up newspapers and gathering together the coffee cups. Lala springs to my side, but I tell her not to bother; I can manage.
I feel strange as I carry the cups into the kitchen. A nervy dancing fear is spinning in my stomach, and I lean on the sink for support. A minute ago I had been overjoyed that Martin’s wool was to be put to so innocent a purpose. What has happened? What am I afraid of?
Guilt presses; I should have been more consoling when his paper was turned down. I should take greater interest in his work. Year after year he sweats out the required papers and what interest do I show? I proofread them, take out commas, put his footnotes in order. And that’s it. No wonder he’s developed a soft spot on the brain. To conceive of this bit of madness, actually to carry it through.
And to carry it out furtively, covertly. For I am certain he deliberately withheld the project from me. Perhaps from everyone else as well. He probably even pulls the curtains in his office and locks the door when he weaves. I try to picture it – Martin tugging at the wool, sorting his needles, tightening his frame, and then pluck, pluck, in and out, in and out. My husband, Martin Gill, weaving away his secret afternoons.
It might even be better if he did have a mistress. One could understand that. One could commiserate; one could forgive. But what can be done with a man who makes a fool of himself – what do you do then?
Martin is crazy. He’s lost his grip. Or is it me? I try to think logically, but my stomach is seized by pain. I try to construct the past few months, to remember exactly when Martin last mentioned something about his work. I sit down on the kitchen stool and try to concentrate, but my head whirls. When did he last discuss the seventeenth century? Paradise Lost? The Milton tradition? Or something temporal such as his lecture schedule. When? I can’t remember.
And then I think with a stab of pain, when did we last make love with anything more than cordiality?
My head pounds. I open the cupboard and find a bottle of aspirin. And then, though it is just a little past noon, I creep upstairs and get into bed. The sheets are cool and deliciously flat. Below me in the family room I can hear the Rose Bowl Game beginning.
Hours later I awake in the darkened room. In the upstairs hall the light is burning brutally; long, startling El Greco shadows cut across the bedroom wall. Footsteps, whispers, the rattle of teacups. Someone reaches for my hand, places a cold cloth on my forehead.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I want to say, but my voice has disappeared, in its place a dry cracked nut of pain. My lips have split; I can taste blood. The inside of my mouth is unfamiliar, a clutch of cottonwool.
‘Drink this,’ someone says.
‘No, no,’ I rasp.
‘Please, Judith. Try. It may help.’
Lala was sitting on the edge of my bed, a figurine, a blue-tinted shepherdess. She was pressing a teaspoon toward me. I opened my mouth. Aspirin. Aspirin crushed in strawberry jam; its peculiar bitter, slightly citrus flavour reaches me from the forest of childhood (my father crushing aspirin on the breadboard with the back of a teaspoon when my sister and I had measles, yes).
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