Authors: Andre Alexis
Pastoral (8 page)
     â You
have
 been thinking about all this, said Father Pennant. But let me ask you a
question. How would you know that a man loved two women equally? How could you
tell? Isn't that something only he would know?
have
 been thinking about all this, said Father Pennant. But let me ask you a
question. How would you know that a man loved two women equally? How could you
tell? Isn't that something only he would know?
     The pigeons, joined now by aggressive sparrows, were in a kerfuffle, jostling,
flying or trying to fly off with the bigger pieces of bread. Looking at the
birds, one had the impression the ground was alive with grey, white and brown
feathers, wings and bird heads.
flying or trying to fly off with the bigger pieces of bread. Looking at the
birds, one had the impression the ground was alive with grey, white and brown
feathers, wings and bird heads.
     â He'd have to prove it, said Elizabeth. You give him a choice and if he can't choose one woman or the other, he loves them both the same.
     â There you go, said Father Pennant. But if he can't choose, he'll be like that donkey who can't choose between two equal piles of hay and dies of starvation. Buridan's ass. That's the donkey's name. You can imagine how amusing that name was when I was in seminary.
     Elizabeth smiled politely, though she was not looking at him directly.
     â I've got to get back, she said. Thanks for talking to me.
     â I enjoy talking with you, said Father Pennant. Any time you like.
     The two of them got up as one, shook hands and went off in different
directions. Father Pennant, with his paper bags, one now neatly folded inside
the other, walked away thinking of his time at the seminary. From the moment he'd given his life to God, joy had come into his soul, and joy was with him still,
at times, though he no longer found God at the centre of his happiness. Nature
was often there â as if in God's place â and, now he thought of it, it felt at times as if he served two masters or was
himself devoted to two loves. Perhaps he'd been hasty in suggesting a man could not love two women equally.
directions. Father Pennant, with his paper bags, one now neatly folded inside
the other, walked away thinking of his time at the seminary. From the moment he'd given his life to God, joy had come into his soul, and joy was with him still,
at times, though he no longer found God at the centre of his happiness. Nature
was often there â as if in God's place â and, now he thought of it, it felt at times as if he served two masters or was
himself devoted to two loves. Perhaps he'd been hasty in suggesting a man could not love two women equally.
     Elizabeth, for her part, was grateful for Father Pennant's advice. She understood him to have said that it was not possible to love two
people at once. So, how would she get Robbie to choose between her and the
woman whose name now sounded like a nasty word, Jane Richardson?
people at once. So, how would she get Robbie to choose between her and the
woman whose name now sounded like a nasty word, Jane Richardson?
III
JUNE, JULY AND AFTER
JUNE, JULY AND AFTER
G
eorge Bigland had gone to Milwaukee for vacation and he had taken his sons with
him. His wife was a capable woman. She had to be, given Farmer Bigland's habits: principally, drink and self-pity. She could have run the farm with her
daughters alone, but Bigland had asked Robbie Myers to help out and Robbie had
taken time away from work on his father's farm to tend the sheep.
eorge Bigland had gone to Milwaukee for vacation and he had taken his sons with
him. His wife was a capable woman. She had to be, given Farmer Bigland's habits: principally, drink and self-pity. She could have run the farm with her
daughters alone, but Bigland had asked Robbie Myers to help out and Robbie had
taken time away from work on his father's farm to tend the sheep.
     There was nothing new about this arrangement. Robbie had been helping to tend
the sheep since he was a boy. Bigland and Robbie's father (also George) had been best friends since childhood. There had even
been some hope that Robbie would marry one of the Bigland girls and unite the
families. But Robbie had feelings of his own, it seems. He fell in love with
Liz Denny, the orphan, and this love had disappointed his father, the Biglands
and the Biglands' daughter Anne, who'd had a crush on Robbie from the time when they were young enough to bathe
together.
the sheep since he was a boy. Bigland and Robbie's father (also George) had been best friends since childhood. There had even
been some hope that Robbie would marry one of the Bigland girls and unite the
families. But Robbie had feelings of his own, it seems. He fell in love with
Liz Denny, the orphan, and this love had disappointed his father, the Biglands
and the Biglands' daughter Anne, who'd had a crush on Robbie from the time when they were young enough to bathe
together.
     Robbie preferred to tend cows. He was used to cows. He could tell when a cow
was sick or healthy or simply wanted milking. With sheep it was all slightly
foreign to him. There were always too many of them, gathered together to
protect themselves. And it was difficult to care about a clump of bleating
creatures whose fleeces were so lanolin-saturated your hand would come out of a
fleece greasy and stinking of sheep. He might, eventually, have grown used to
the physical fact of sheep, but he could not get used to the irritation of
watching over them. Bored while shepherding, he had too much time to think. And
having time to think, he had time to make himself unhappy.
was sick or healthy or simply wanted milking. With sheep it was all slightly
foreign to him. There were always too many of them, gathered together to
protect themselves. And it was difficult to care about a clump of bleating
creatures whose fleeces were so lanolin-saturated your hand would come out of a
fleece greasy and stinking of sheep. He might, eventually, have grown used to
the physical fact of sheep, but he could not get used to the irritation of
watching over them. Bored while shepherding, he had too much time to think. And
having time to think, he had time to make himself unhappy.
     These days, time with himself was especially hard to bear. He had told his
fiancée, a woman he loved, that he was also in love with another woman. Worse, he was
screwing the other woman, though he still hoped to marry his fiancée. There was no getting around how foolish that hope sounded. Looking over the
sheep as they jostled and bleated, he could think of nothing but the hurt and
resentment in Elizabeth's eyes when they'd spoken. She had not believed he loved her, and he had walked back home upset
because he
did
love Elizabeth. That she had not believed he loved her and Jane equally was to
be expected. No one believed him. It seemed the world could not or would not
believe that his predicament was not, strictly speaking, a sexual matter. His
friends imagined him first in the arms of one, then in the arms of the other, a
situation they all thought enviable. But how different the reality. He had, in
fact, gone directly from one bed to the other, perhaps half a dozen times, but
what harrowing times they had been. Jane's pleasure was in having him
before
 Elizabeth did. And on occasion, she had tried to exhaust him, letting him up
from bed only when she was sure his prick was âuseless.'
fiancée, a woman he loved, that he was also in love with another woman. Worse, he was
screwing the other woman, though he still hoped to marry his fiancée. There was no getting around how foolish that hope sounded. Looking over the
sheep as they jostled and bleated, he could think of nothing but the hurt and
resentment in Elizabeth's eyes when they'd spoken. She had not believed he loved her, and he had walked back home upset
because he
did
love Elizabeth. That she had not believed he loved her and Jane equally was to
be expected. No one believed him. It seemed the world could not or would not
believe that his predicament was not, strictly speaking, a sexual matter. His
friends imagined him first in the arms of one, then in the arms of the other, a
situation they all thought enviable. But how different the reality. He had, in
fact, gone directly from one bed to the other, perhaps half a dozen times, but
what harrowing times they had been. Jane's pleasure was in having him
before
 Elizabeth did. And on occasion, she had tried to exhaust him, letting him up
from bed only when she was sure his prick was âuseless.'
     A group of sheep had separated from the flock. As much as it was possible for
sheep to look suspicious, they looked suspicious. To give himself something to
do, he watched as Clyde, the border collie, harassed and nipped the wayward
ones back to the group. This distraction lasted only a moment. No sooner were
the sheep where they should have been than Robbie was again defending himself
against his own opinions and those of the world. What people could not see, he
thought, was that Jane and Elizabeth were entirely different. If he had also
been in love with someone
like
 Liz, well, then, yes, perhaps he could have been considered unfaithful. But
where Elizabeth was considerate, careful and gently loving, Jane was
unpredictable, selfish and a whirlwind. Where Jane was restless, inventive and
adventurous beyond common sense, Elizabeth was constant, patient, adventurous
only where the ground was well-known. Jane was physically solid, and he could
lose himself in her body. Liz was graceful, her arms and legs like ivy about
him. And then there was the matter of company. He could spend hours and hours
happily alone with Liz, the two of them walking through the woods or watching
old movies. Jane was bored by trees and refused to watch movies that didn't feature naked bodies and high death counts. He could not imagine living with
Jane as man and wife, but neither could he imagine a life without Jane there to
keep him from drowning at home. So, he loved both equally, knew he could marry
Liz, not Jane, and was certain his life would be miserable without both of them
in it.
sheep to look suspicious, they looked suspicious. To give himself something to
do, he watched as Clyde, the border collie, harassed and nipped the wayward
ones back to the group. This distraction lasted only a moment. No sooner were
the sheep where they should have been than Robbie was again defending himself
against his own opinions and those of the world. What people could not see, he
thought, was that Jane and Elizabeth were entirely different. If he had also
been in love with someone
like
 Liz, well, then, yes, perhaps he could have been considered unfaithful. But
where Elizabeth was considerate, careful and gently loving, Jane was
unpredictable, selfish and a whirlwind. Where Jane was restless, inventive and
adventurous beyond common sense, Elizabeth was constant, patient, adventurous
only where the ground was well-known. Jane was physically solid, and he could
lose himself in her body. Liz was graceful, her arms and legs like ivy about
him. And then there was the matter of company. He could spend hours and hours
happily alone with Liz, the two of them walking through the woods or watching
old movies. Jane was bored by trees and refused to watch movies that didn't feature naked bodies and high death counts. He could not imagine living with
Jane as man and wife, but neither could he imagine a life without Jane there to
keep him from drowning at home. So, he loved both equally, knew he could marry
Liz, not Jane, and was certain his life would be miserable without both of them
in it.
     Just as he was beginning to worry about himself in earnest, Robbie's thoughts were, mercifully, interrupted by Anne Bigland. He saw her approach in
the distance, bringing him his lunch in a wicker basket. Though they had little
to talk about these days, he was relieved at the sight of her. Stepping on
birch twigs that clicked and snapped beneath him, Robbie went out to meet her.
He was followed at a respectful distance by Clyde, the most mild-mannered
border collie there has ever been.
the distance, bringing him his lunch in a wicker basket. Though they had little
to talk about these days, he was relieved at the sight of her. Stepping on
birch twigs that clicked and snapped beneath him, Robbie went out to meet her.
He was followed at a respectful distance by Clyde, the most mild-mannered
border collie there has ever been.
     â I hope you're hungry, said Anne. Mom made you three sandwiches, 'cause she wasn't sure what kind you'd want. And there's coffee and orange juice.
     â Lunch is the best thing about watching sheep, said Robbie.
     â I know, said Anne. Are you bored? I could keep you company.
     â I wouldn't mind if you did stay awhile. I'm bored as hell. If it wasn't for the stray dogs around, you could leave these sheep on their own. They're not going anywhere.
     Clyde, soul of discretion, lifted his muzzle slightly, allowing himself a
circumspect sniff of Robbie's sandwich. He then sat perfectly still: his way of getting attention. And
seeing how still Clyde sat, Robbie pulled a morsel from his ham sandwich and
offered it to the dog. With the most discreet of motions, a tilt of his head
and a flash of pink tongue, Clyde took everything that lay on Robbie's palm. He swallowed the piece of ham sandwich and, once again, sat up straight
and stock-still.
circumspect sniff of Robbie's sandwich. He then sat perfectly still: his way of getting attention. And
seeing how still Clyde sat, Robbie pulled a morsel from his ham sandwich and
offered it to the dog. With the most discreet of motions, a tilt of his head
and a flash of pink tongue, Clyde took everything that lay on Robbie's palm. He swallowed the piece of ham sandwich and, once again, sat up straight
and stock-still.
     â Everything okay these days? Anne asked.
     â Yeah, everything's okay.
     â You still getting married?
     â Looks like it.
     The three of them â Clyde, Robbie, Anne â stood or sat quietly. Robbie was grateful for company, but there was nothing he
wanted to say to Anne Bigland and, as usual, nothing she could bring herself to
say to him, a habit of shyness having set in long before this. Her crush on him
was obvious to all. It was clear even to Robbie himself and he was not an
observant man.
wanted to say to Anne Bigland and, as usual, nothing she could bring herself to
say to him, a habit of shyness having set in long before this. Her crush on him
was obvious to all. It was clear even to Robbie himself and he was not an
observant man.
     Not far from them, the sheep began to bleat. A wind troubled the grasses and
brought the smell of pine with it. Anne's hair blew in her face and she tucked the strands behind her ears. It occurred
to Robbie that she was beautiful. If he'd had a sister, he thought, this is exactly how he would feel for her.
brought the smell of pine with it. Anne's hair blew in her face and she tucked the strands behind her ears. It occurred
to Robbie that she was beautiful. If he'd had a sister, he thought, this is exactly how he would feel for her.
     â Do you want some of this sandwich? he asked.
     Though she wasn't hungry, she took half the peanut butter and crab-apple jelly sandwich and ate
with him.
with him.
Jane Richardson loathed Barrow and rural Ontario and anything that smacked of âflora and fauna.' She was unsettled, and angry at having been born and raised in Barrow, Lambton
County, Ontario, Canada. She thought it an injustice that she had not been
asked if she wanted to be of this place, this county, this land. It was
difficult to know whom to blame for her âbirth in exile,' so she blamed whomever it pleased her to blame: her parents, God, the land or
her sheep-like, complacent fellow citizens.
County, Ontario, Canada. She thought it an injustice that she had not been
asked if she wanted to be of this place, this county, this land. It was
difficult to know whom to blame for her âbirth in exile,' so she blamed whomever it pleased her to blame: her parents, God, the land or
her sheep-like, complacent fellow citizens.
     Jane was not born with loathing for southern Ontario. Her first memories of
Barrow were good, if banal: a dying bird in her parents' back garden, burrs sticking to her school dress and scratching her thighs when
she sat down, snow at Christmas, a strong wind plucking an umbrella from the
ground and daintily planting it in a field some distance away. There were
thousands of such impressions, and all of them added up to a childhood. As she
grew up, however, the bright memories faded or were pushed aside so that, by
twelve, she could not have named anything interesting about Barrow. The list of
great things it did not have, on the other hand, grew wildly: from the general
(Barrow did not have a bar that served elegant drinks) to the specific (Barrow
had no Sphinx, no Louvre, no Hagia Sophia). By the age of twelve, Jane
Alexandra Richardson was aware that she had been born in a backwater.
Barrow were good, if banal: a dying bird in her parents' back garden, burrs sticking to her school dress and scratching her thighs when
she sat down, snow at Christmas, a strong wind plucking an umbrella from the
ground and daintily planting it in a field some distance away. There were
thousands of such impressions, and all of them added up to a childhood. As she
grew up, however, the bright memories faded or were pushed aside so that, by
twelve, she could not have named anything interesting about Barrow. The list of
great things it did not have, on the other hand, grew wildly: from the general
(Barrow did not have a bar that served elegant drinks) to the specific (Barrow
had no Sphinx, no Louvre, no Hagia Sophia). By the age of twelve, Jane
Alexandra Richardson was aware that she had been born in a backwater.
     For some, hatred of home is mixed with a tincture of self-hatred. But this wasn't so for Jane. She did not think it her fault she'd been born in Barrow. Nor did she exclusively blame her parents, both of whom
she loved. Her dislike of Barrow was imperturbable and objective. At fourteen,
she had promised herself she would leave the town as soon as she turned
sixteen. She would move to the United States, to San Francisco, say, and send
for her parents when she had made the beginnings of her fortune. But she had
not left at sixteen. She'd been too frightened to leave. Her parents had insisted she finish her
education, and her friends had warned her about cities and violence. And she
had listened. And in listening to others, she'd betrayed herself. And as far as she was concerned, she continued to betray
herself with every moment that passed with her still in Barrow.
she loved. Her dislike of Barrow was imperturbable and objective. At fourteen,
she had promised herself she would leave the town as soon as she turned
sixteen. She would move to the United States, to San Francisco, say, and send
for her parents when she had made the beginnings of her fortune. But she had
not left at sixteen. She'd been too frightened to leave. Her parents had insisted she finish her
education, and her friends had warned her about cities and violence. And she
had listened. And in listening to others, she'd betrayed herself. And as far as she was concerned, she continued to betray
herself with every moment that passed with her still in Barrow.
     Now that she was almost twenty-one, she
had
 to leave. Otherwise she would be, like her sisters and her sisters' friends, married and stuck with two or three children by the time she was
twenty-five. That thought, the thought of herself lumbered with children and
trapped in Barrow, made her life almost unbearable.
had
 to leave. Otherwise she would be, like her sisters and her sisters' friends, married and stuck with two or three children by the time she was
twenty-five. That thought, the thought of herself lumbered with children and
trapped in Barrow, made her life almost unbearable.
     To state an obvious point that was not obvious to Robbie: Jane Richardson did
not love him the way he loved her. She was relieved that, if things went to
plan, Robbie would marry another woman. Though it was conceivable Robbie might
consider leaving Barrow, Jane believed he was too much of the place. To her, it
seemed he belonged to the town she wanted to leave. As far as Jane was
concerned, Elizabeth Denny belonged to Barrow as well. Practically speaking,
therefore, Robbie  belonged to Elizabeth already, and that suited Jane fine.
not love him the way he loved her. She was relieved that, if things went to
plan, Robbie would marry another woman. Though it was conceivable Robbie might
consider leaving Barrow, Jane believed he was too much of the place. To her, it
seemed he belonged to the town she wanted to leave. As far as Jane was
concerned, Elizabeth Denny belonged to Barrow as well. Practically speaking,
therefore, Robbie  belonged to Elizabeth already, and that suited Jane fine.
     Now, at about the moment Robbie was speaking to Anne Bigland and playing
shepherd, Jane was in Atkinson's Beauty Parlour getting her hair done. It wasn't something she did often, preferring to stay away from the older women who were
Agnes Atkinson's clients. But then, every three months or so, while reading
Vogue
or
New York
 magazine, Jane would see a hairstyle she found irresistible. Old Mrs. Atkinson
could not always reproduce them exactly, but she always tried and, more, always
came fairly close, however odd the style might be. The two of them, the
hairdresser in her sixties and the restless young woman, would go carefully
over the picture (or pictures taken from different angles, if they were lucky),
discussing how best to recreate such-and-such an effect, what to do at the back
when there was no picture of the back of the model's head and so on. Then Agnes Atkinson would do her best to copy the style in
question.
shepherd, Jane was in Atkinson's Beauty Parlour getting her hair done. It wasn't something she did often, preferring to stay away from the older women who were
Agnes Atkinson's clients. But then, every three months or so, while reading
Vogue
or
New York
 magazine, Jane would see a hairstyle she found irresistible. Old Mrs. Atkinson
could not always reproduce them exactly, but she always tried and, more, always
came fairly close, however odd the style might be. The two of them, the
hairdresser in her sixties and the restless young woman, would go carefully
over the picture (or pictures taken from different angles, if they were lucky),
discussing how best to recreate such-and-such an effect, what to do at the back
when there was no picture of the back of the model's head and so on. Then Agnes Atkinson would do her best to copy the style in
question.
     On this day, the hairstyle Jane found in the pages of
Vogue
was one that made it look as if the model had just stepped out of bed:
au naturel
, as if a hairdresser hadn't touched her.
Vogue
was one that made it look as if the model had just stepped out of bed:
au naturel
, as if a hairdresser hadn't touched her.
     â What will they think of next? said Mrs. Atkinson.
     But it gave her pleasure to do this thing that no one but Jane Richardson would
ask her to do. âCan you do my hair so it looks like you haven't done it?': this idea was, for Agnes Atkinson, very close to a metaphysical proposition.
It was right up there with the tree falling in the forest and making â or not making â a sound.
ask her to do. âCan you do my hair so it looks like you haven't done it?': this idea was, for Agnes Atkinson, very close to a metaphysical proposition.
It was right up there with the tree falling in the forest and making â or not making â a sound.
     Agnes had washed and shampooed Jane's hair, and she was about to cut it when Elizabeth Denny came into the salon.
All talk stopped. The only sound was the sound of the hair dryers. And, of
course, no one knew quite where to look. There were seven women in the salon
when Elizabeth entered. Three stared at Elizabeth, then turned to Jane. Three
looked at Jane, watching for a reaction, and one woman stared at Elizabeth,
shocked that she had committed such an obvious faux pas. After a while, all seven looked elsewhere. Those who had been staring at Jane
stared at Elizabeth and vice versa, while the three who had been looking from
one to the other carried on looking this way and that.
All talk stopped. The only sound was the sound of the hair dryers. And, of
course, no one knew quite where to look. There were seven women in the salon
when Elizabeth entered. Three stared at Elizabeth, then turned to Jane. Three
looked at Jane, watching for a reaction, and one woman stared at Elizabeth,
shocked that she had committed such an obvious faux pas. After a while, all seven looked elsewhere. Those who had been staring at Jane
stared at Elizabeth and vice versa, while the three who had been looking from
one to the other carried on looking this way and that.
     Without looking at Jane, who was (warily) looking at her, Elizabeth sat in a
chair by the door. She picked up a magazine that lay on the low table:
Maclean's
, a pointless rag that she associated with doctors' offices and outhouses near Goderich. Without looking up at the others,
Elizabeth turned to the back of the magazine, staring at an article by some
frothy blowhard before reading the account of a film about vampires and the
review of a novel about a dying child.
chair by the door. She picked up a magazine that lay on the low table:
Maclean's
, a pointless rag that she associated with doctors' offices and outhouses near Goderich. Without looking up at the others,
Elizabeth turned to the back of the magazine, staring at an article by some
frothy blowhard before reading the account of a film about vampires and the
review of a novel about a dying child.
     The tension that had come at Elizabeth's entrance went (somewhat) underground, lightly torched by the meaningless words
that sprang up, like small fires, to distract from this confrontation between a
woman and the woman who â everyone knew â was sleeping with her fiancé.
that sprang up, like small fires, to distract from this confrontation between a
woman and the woman who â everyone knew â was sleeping with her fiancé.
     â Are you staying in town for Barrow Day?
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