Days by moonlight Page 10

  But fall in love he did, walking into the store at Lee’s Garage like

  walking into a well-known ambush.

  What is it like to fall in love at first sight?

  Skennen had never felt anything like it. His outrage vanished

  at the sight of Carson’s face. It didn’t seem to him a “beautiful”

  face, though he understood why some might call it that. To him,

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  her beauty was beside the point, overcome as he was by her face’s

  rightness. No other face, seen at the moment he first saw hers,

  could have had the same effect on him. His sense of justice was

  appeased and expanded. It wasn’t that Truth was Beauty or Beauty

  Truth. It was that both “truth” and “beauty” were avatars of Justice,

  both manifestations of rectitude. In fact, you could have called

  this love at first sight a kind of crossed wiring in which all the

  higher ideals – Truth, Beauty, Love, Honour – seemed to be

  avatars of Justice.

  Somehow – was it because desire for her had afflicted so

  many that she immediately recognized the signs or was it that he

  radiated longing? – she knew at once what his feelings meant.

  He approached the till, bringing with him a bag of Lay’s Potato

  Chips. He did not look directly at her, until she asked for his

  payment. He was careful to say nothing to betray the fact – the

  impulse, the instinct – that he loved her. His first words to her –

  as he stared at Wilfrid Laurier’s receding hairline and pursed

  lips on the five-dollar bill he gave her – were

  – There you go.

  He would have welcomed any words she spoke, but her first

  words struck him as elegant.

  – Thank you, she said.

  But she added, as he stood there trying to figure out where to

  put his change

  – There’s a thing that makes me sad. Do you know what it is?

  Skennen allowed himself then to look directly at the woman

  he loved and almost lost himself in contemplation. No particular

  aspect of her struck him as inescapable. He had seen eyes as

  lovely (but where?), lips as appealing (not possible!), a brow as

  noble, hair as lustrous. But he’d never been as affected by these

  things. He’d never felt as he did and, really, it would have been

  difficult for her not to recognize his state.

  – I’m sorry, he answered. I’m afraid I don’t know you at all.

  – No need to apologize, she said. Would you like to guess?

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  Skennen said the first word that came to him.

  – Portulaca?

  To one side of the till, there were four or five men – locals all,

  from the look of them – standing around, quietly watching. At

  Skennen’s mention of the word portulaca, they snorted in unison.

  But Carson was kind.

  – I’ve never heard that before, she said. It’s a flower, isn’t it?

  – It is, he said, but I was thinking of a poem.

  One of the locals – pink face above a blue-and-green plaid

  shirt – said

  – You phony bastard!

  Ignoring him, Skennen quoted Dennis Lee.

  – ‘Lovers by the score come sporting fantasies like we had,

  strolling bright-eyed past the portulaca …’

  – That’s lovely, said Carson, but, no, portulaca doesn’t make

  me sad. Neither does poetry.

  Skennen felt dismissed. There were customers behind him

  waiting to pay.

  – I’ll be back when I know the answer, he said.

  – I’d like that, said Carson Michaels.

  She sounded polite, nothing more. Lee, on the other hand,

  was cheerful as he met Skennen on the way out. Warm and

  friendly, if you went by the man’s smile. But he radiated menace.

  It wasn’t only that the man was six feet nine inches tall and three

  hundred pounds. It was that, even standing still, he seemed like

  a vicious dog straining to break a metal link chain.

  – That’s one guess, he said. When you come back it’ll be two.

  You get three in all, then I feed you to Frick and Frack.

  Skennen considered pleading ignorance or expressing doubt

  that he’d be back at all. But there’d have been no point. In the

  same way that Carson Michaels had known he was smitten, Lee

  knew that Skennen would be back. They all knew, even the men

  who were probably still snickering by the till.

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  Surrendering to his fate – his fate being love for Carson

  Michaels – Skennen took this task seriously. Where was one to

  begin when trying to discover what made a woman weep? Difficult

  question. And the first thing he discovered was just how particular

  his difficulties would be. To begin with, it was next to impossible

  to see Carson on her own. Not only did she work in the general

  store attached to Lee’s Garage but she lived above Lee’s as well.

  She was not sequestered, exactly, nor did she live the life of a

  hermit. But she was inevitably accompanied by Lee or Lee’s sons,

  wherever she went. She was chaperoned – or, as rumour had it,

  jealously guarded by Lee’s eldest son.

  Skennen’s next idea was to petition her family and friends

  for help. They were bound to have at least some idea of what

  made Carson cry. This thought was obvious and, among the suit-

  ors, common. But Michaels, her family, and her close friends

  were all from Schomberg, one of the most unnerving towns in

  Southern Ontario. Schombergians were secretive at the best of

  times, but Carson Michaels’s suitors had driven her family and

  friends to a pugnacious silence. Skennen did not find a single

  acquaintance of Carson’s who would speak to him, and, as far as

  he could tell, her family had disappeared entirely.

  His third – and final – idea was to talk to Carson’s old suitors,

  the ones who’d failed and were now bitter enough to co-operate

  with anyone who might win her, bitter enough to wish her

  “defeated.’ There were quite a number of banished suitors, enough

  of them to fill a modest-sized town: bigger than Napanee, say,

  but smaller than Quinte West. Skennen met these people singly

  or when they assembled in support groups. And though they

  were of every race, height, gender, and size, Michaels’s former

  suitors shared a greyness of soul. Each had his or her own tale of

  despair. And none had any information to help him.

  Or, rather, almost none.

  One evening, Skennen met a man named Glenn Baillie in

  much the same way as he’d met the weeping man in Sutton. Baillie

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  was sitting alone in the Pig’s Ear Tavern, in Peterborough. The

  man was young – in his late twenties, say – and he was extremely

  fit. This, he said, had to do with his diet. He claimed to eat only

  vegetables, fruit, fish, nuts, and yogourt. He was a fanatic about

  his health, he said. The strange thing was that he made these

  claims aloud, though he was by himself. More: his concern for

  his health was contradicted by the seven shot glasses of whisky

  that stood in a straight line before him.

  It was this seeming contradiction and the fact the man spoke

  so blithe
ly to himself that interested Skennen. After watching

  him awhile, he approached Baillie’s table and politely asked why,

  if he was concerned for his health, he would drink so much in

  one go.

  – I haven’t drunk anything, Baillie answered. I’m waiting to

  see if I drink them.

  There being no answer to that, Skennen nodded and was

  about to turn away when, unprompted, Baillie asked

  – Do you know Carson Michaels?

  The question caught Skennen completely by surprise. He

  hadn’t been thinking of Carson. He turned to look at Baillie

  again: young in appearance, his hair falling into his eyes, medium

  build, slightly shorter than Skennen, pale with a hopeful expres-

  sion on his face.

  – I know about her, Skennen answered.

  Baillie’s expression changed from one of hope to one of concern.

  – Do you love her? Baillie asked.

  – Yes, said Skennen, but I don’t see how that’s your business.

  – I love her, too, said Baillie. I’ve never loved anyone half as

  much, but I know for certain she’ll never love me. Even if I could

  answer her question.

  Despite himself, Skennen offered his sympathy.

  – No one knows the future, he said.

  Baillie looked at him, then, with unconcealed dislike.

  – I have to tell you a story, he said, one that might concern you.

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  Glenn Baillie, born in Liège, had moved with his parents to

  Petrolia at the age of five. Ashamed yet proud of his “foreign

  accent,’ he deliberately spoke English – a language he’d easily

  mastered – with an exaggerated French accent. He couldn’t always

  maintain it, though. From time to time, an English-Canadian

  accent or even a Flemish one would come through.

  He’d been an unhappy child. Though he was the third of five

  children, he grew up lonely, close to no one in his family, close

  to no one around him. Canada itself struck him as miserable:

  uncultured, bland, hypocritical, and quietly cruel. So, at eighteen,

  he returned to Europe and, for a time, drifted through its countries

  working on farms. He ended up in a small village in Normandy,

  penniless and desperate for work. More exactly, he was in a

  tavern near Clasville. The place was sullen and poorly lit, and

  when he entered, all conversation stopped.

  About five minutes after him, an older woman came into the

  tavern – “older” to him, though she was all of thirty-five. At her

  entrance, it was as if the silence itself had gone silent – an

  absolute zero of conviviality. There was something about the

  woman that made him wary, but he was young, defiant, and,

  although usually shy, he asked if she would like a drink.

  Without hesitation, she said

  – Thank you. I don’t drink what they serve here. But maybe I

  could offer you something. I’m looking for someone to help

  around the farm. It’s apple season. My trees need picking. You

  look like you could use a little money.

  – I could, he said. I was looking for a job.

  And just like that, the woman hired him.

  There were signs – there always are in retrospect – that

  Madame Madeg was not what she seemed. First, the tavern’s

  barkeep gave Baillie a strangely charitable look when it was clear

  he’d be working for the woman. This look was followed by a refusal

  to take money from him. Then there were the strange looks he

  and Madame Madeg got from pedestrians, some of whom made

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  the sign of the cross as her car passed. In his innocence, Glenn

  Baillie took these things as expressions of concern for Madame

  Madeg’s car, a 1957 Citroën that rattled its way to her farm.

  Further signs: there were bats nailed to the doors of her house

  and barn.

  – Just ignore them, she said.

  But they were not the kind of things he could ignore. The

  poor creatures were nailed through their hearts, their bodies and

  wings curling around fixed points like drying leaves curled around

  their midribs.

  – But why do you do this? he asked.

  Madame Madeg shook her head.

  – I don’t do it, she said. The neighbours do it to intimidate

  me. If I take them down, they replace them. So, I’ve got used to

  them. It’s not so bad. The creatures only stink for a day or two

  once they start to rot.

  He never got used to them. It was easier to close his eyes as

  he approached the doors.

  Madame Madeg had hired him to cull the apples from her

  orchard – about a hundred Gros-Hôpital trees, their apples a

  kind of dirty green with, here or there, an outbreak of red. The

  trees were ready for culling but there seemed to be little urgency

  about it. He was the only one she hired and she didn’t appear the

  least interested in the number of barrows he emptied into the

  ancient wooden crates in the barn.

  Nor did he know what she did while he was picking apples.

  He rarely saw her during the day. What he saw, now and then,

  were the women who came to see her. Were they friends? Business

  associates? Clients? It was impossible for him to tell. Those who

  happened to see him never returned his greetings. Some seemed

  frightened. Others gave him defiant looks. But none ever spoke

  to him.

  His evenings were another matter. The farmhouse was simple,

  spacious, well-lit, and clean. Its kitchen was large and almost

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  intimidating with its supply of pots, pans, and the paraphernalia

  of preparation. (Preparation for what, though?) On one shelf,

  there were alembics of various sizes and test tubes. The dining

  room was more inviting. Its large oak table was pleasing as only

  wood can be, having accommodated countless diners, their

  many touches.

  Despite the warmth of the room, it was sometimes awkward

  to sit alone with Madame Madeg. On those occasions, he was

  spared discomfort by a framed reproduction of La Kermesse by

  Pieter Balten. The painting – which hung on a wall – was one of

  those in which the artist had depicted countless scenes from

  the daily life of his own time. It was one of those “life’s rich

  pageant” things – like something from Hieronymus Bosch –

  and it was diverting when neither he nor Madame Madeg had

  anything to say.

  From the beginning, Baillie understood that Madame Madeg

  wanted something from him. But, young as he was, seeing nothing

  valuable in himself, he could not guess what that might be. Nor

  did Madame Madeg help him guess, or not directly. She was

  considerate. She fed him well. She made sure there was enough

  for him to drink. But then, every once in a while, she alluded to

  his appearance – his brown eyes, his muscular shoulders. So

  that, from time to time, he had the distinct impression that she

  desired him. But here, too, his inexperience got in the way.

  Madame Madeg was, to his mind, like a friend of his parents.

  And yet …

  Those were the days when his own sexual longing was oppres-

  sive. He went to bed a
t night with an erection and woke in the

  morning with another. His mind and glands conspired to keep

  him aroused. A wind that blew sand on his neck, a warm touch

  on his wrist, the sight of Madame Madeg’s feathery brown hair,

  a glimpse of her breasts, pale white where the sun had not reached,

  the smell of her perspiration mingled with the lavender of her

  soap … almost anything could call pleasure to his mind and body.

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  So, it should not have been a surprise when, one evening

  when he’d drunk more wine than usual and Madame Madeg had

  left her hand on his upper thigh as she praised him for his work

  around the farm, he’d felt longing. But it was a surprise. The

  immediacy of his arousal – every atom of him suddenly, humili-

  atingly filled with longing for Madame Madeg. And then: how

  easily and expertly she touched him! In those hours between

  their kiss at the dining room table and the bluish dawn light that

  finally revealed her body to him, Baillie learned that what he’d

  previously taken for pleasure – the quick satisfactions he’d given

  himself when desire was overwhelming – was to real pleasure

  like a pond is to the ocean. Now aware that Madame Madeg put

  his body to better use than he could, he’d have done anything

  for her.

  They spent the next months copulating, wearing clothes only

  when it was unavoidable, Madame Madeg as enraptured with

  him as he now was with her. That is to say, Baillie spent the

  winter making love with the most accomplished and, to some,

  most terrifying witch in Normandy.

  Not that Baillie knew Madame Madeg was a witch. Not that

  winter. No, the world they created was meant for lovers – a dense

  garden, a bed smooth as a wafer of sunlight. And although women

  (mostly) and men (ashamedly) still came to see Madame Madeg,

  Baillie never thought to ask why they’d come. That winter, he

  couldn’t wait for them to leave. But then, as spring approached,

  he sometimes went into Clasville with Madame Madeg, so as

  not to be away from her. It was on these excursions that he first

  became curious about her work. For one thing, the people in

  Clasville inevitably nodded at him in silent greeting. Few talked

  to him. There weren’t many occasions when they could. But when

  they did they were pointedly circumspect, as if worried about

  the impressions they’d make.