A Jest of God by Margaret Laurence Read Free Book Online Page B

I can’t understand this. “I was the one who –”
    I can’t go on. I won’t think of it. Calla is looking at me with a pity I can’t tolerate.
    “If only you didn’t feel that way about it,” she says.
    “Do you know what I detest more than anything else? Hysteria. It’s so – slack. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m so ashamed.”
    “Child, don’t. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
    “I can’t be hard enough, evidently. What will I do next, Calla? I’m – oh, Calla, I’m so damn frightened.”
    She is kneeling beside the chesterfield, and the grey fringe of her hair is almost brushing against my face. She puts an arm around my shoulders and I realize from the rasping of her breath that she is actually crying. What has she got to cry about?
    “Rachel, honey,” she says, “it practically kills me to see you like this.”
    Then, as though unpremeditated, she kisses my face and swiftly afterwards my mouth.
    My drawing away is sharp, violent. I feel violated, unclean, as though I would strike her dead if I had the means. She pulls away then, too, and looks at me with a kind of bewilderment, a pleading apology, not saying a word. How ludicrous she looks, kneeling there, her wide face, her hands clasped anxiously. My anger feels more than justified, and in some way this is a tremendous relief.
    It takes me less than a minute to get to the front hall and put on my coat and hood.
    “Rachel – listen. Please. It was just that –”
    I can’t listen. I won’t slam the door. I must shut it very quietly. Once I am outside I can begin running.

THREE
    “H urry up, dear, or we’ll be late.”
    Her voice comes meadowlarking in through my bedroom door with such a lightness that I marvel at it, and she seems all at once marvellous, not letting on all that often about the frailty of her heart, although she had a slight attack two nights ago and the skin around her mouth was violet.
    “Coming. I’ll be right there.”
    Going to church is a social occasion for her. She hasn’t so many. It’s mean of me not to want to go.
    I always do, though. When I came back to teach in Manawaka, I told Mother the first Sunday that I didn’t think I’d go. She said “Why not?” I didn’t say God hadn’t died recently, within the last few years, but a long time ago, longer than I could remember, for I could not actually recall a time when He was alive. No use to say that. I only told her I didn’t agree with everything. She said “I don’t think it would be very nice, not to go. I don’t think it would look very good.” But I didn’t go. I held out three weeks. She didn’t reproach me, not openly. She only relayed comments. “Reverend MacElfrish asked after you, dear.He said he hoped you were well. I suppose he thought you probably weren’t, as he hasn’t seen you.” I thought what was the point in upsetting her, so I went. And have done, ever since.
    She hasn’t mentioned the Tabernacle. That was more than a week ago, and if anyone were going to tell her about it, they’d have done so by now, surely. I was in an agony for days, wondering if she would find out. I still can hardly believe she won’t.
    “Rachel – aren’t you ready yet?”
    “Yes, I’m just coming now.”
    “Oh – are you going to wear that orange scarf, dear? Isn’t it a little bright, with your green coat?”
    “Do you think so?”
    “Well, perhaps not. I would have thought your pink one would’ve gone better, that’s all. But never mind. You wear whichever one you want.”
    I won’t change. I don’t like the pink scarf. But now I won’t feel right about the orange one, either. If ever I said to her, “this is what you do,” she’d be hurt and astounded and would deny it. She believes absolutely that she never speaks ill of anyone or harmfully to a soul. Once when I was quite young, she said to me, “Whatever people may say of it, your father is a kind man – you must always believe that, Rachel.” Until