Across the Bridge by Mavis Gallant Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mavis Gallant
Marie went down she found Raymond starting over in a new place: his motels seemed to die on his hands. She used to come back to Montreal riddled with static electricity. Berthe couldn’t hand her a teaspoon without receiving a shock, like a small silver bullet. Her sister believed the current was generated by a chemical change that occurred as she flew out of Fort Lauderdale toward a wet, dark, snowy city.
Marie had been living with Berthe ever since 1969, the year her husband died. She still expected what Berthe thought of as husband service: flights met, cabs hailed, doors held, tips attended to. Berthe had to take the bus out to Dorval Airport, with Marie’s second-best fur coat over her arm and her high-heeled boots in a plastic bag. Through a glass barrier she could watch her sister gliding through customs, dressed in a new outfit of some sherbet tone – strawberry, lemon-peach – with everything matching, sometimes even her hair. She knew that Marie had been careful to tear the American store and union labels out of the clothes and sew in Canadian ones, in case customs asked her to strip.
“Don’t tell me it’s still winter,” Marie would wail, kissing Berthe as if she had been away for months rather than just a few days. Guiding Marie’s arms into the second-best-mink sleeves (paws and piecework), Berthe would get the first of the silvery shocks.
One year, when her son, Raymond, had fallen in love with a divorced woman twice his age (it didn’t last), Marie arrived home crackling, exchanging sparks with everything she touched. When she ate a peppermint she felt it detonating in her mouth. Berthe had placed a pot of flowering paper-white narcissi on Marie’s dressing table, a welcome-home present reflected on and on in the three mirrors. Marie shuffled along the carpeted passage, still in her boots. She had on her Florida manner, pretending she was in Berthe’s flat by mistake. As soon as she saw the plant, she went straight over and gave it a kiss. The flower absorbed a charge and hurled it back. Berthe examined the spot on Marie’s lip where the shock had struck. She could find nothing, no trace. Nevertheless Marie applied an ice cube.
She waited until midnight before calling Raymond, to get the benefit of the lower rate. His line was tied up until two: he said the police had been in, investigating a rumor. Marie told about the plant. He made her repeat the story twice, then said she had built up a reserve of static by standing on a shag rug with her boots on. She was not properly grounded when she approached the flower.
“Raymond could have done more with his life,” said Marie, hanging up. Berthe, who was still awake, thought he had done all he could, given his brains and character. She did not say so: she never mentioned her nephew, never asked about his health. He had left home young, and caused a lot of grief and trouble.
On Marie’s eighth visit, Raymond met her at the airport with a skinny woman he said was his wife. She had dark-blondhair and one of those unset permanents, all corkscrews. Marie looked at her, and looked away. Raymond explained that he had moved back to Hollywood North. Marie said she didn’t care, as long as she had somewhere to lay her head.
They left the terminal in silence. Outside, she said, “What’s this car? Japanese? Your father liked a Buick.”
“It belongs to Mimi,” he said.
Marie got in front, next to Raymond, and the skinny woman climbed in behind. Marie said to Raymond, in French, “You haven’t told me her name.”
“Well, I have, of course. I introduced you. Mimi.”
“Mimi isn’t a name.”
“It’s hers,” he said.
“It can’t be. It’s always short for something – for Michèle. Did you ever hear of a Saint Mimi? She’s not a divorced woman, is she? You were married in church?”
“In a kind of church,” he said. “She belongs to a Christian movement.”
Marie knew what that meant: pagan rites. “You haven’t joined this
Marie had been living with Berthe ever since 1969, the year her husband died. She still expected what Berthe thought of as husband service: flights met, cabs hailed, doors held, tips attended to. Berthe had to take the bus out to Dorval Airport, with Marie’s second-best fur coat over her arm and her high-heeled boots in a plastic bag. Through a glass barrier she could watch her sister gliding through customs, dressed in a new outfit of some sherbet tone – strawberry, lemon-peach – with everything matching, sometimes even her hair. She knew that Marie had been careful to tear the American store and union labels out of the clothes and sew in Canadian ones, in case customs asked her to strip.
“Don’t tell me it’s still winter,” Marie would wail, kissing Berthe as if she had been away for months rather than just a few days. Guiding Marie’s arms into the second-best-mink sleeves (paws and piecework), Berthe would get the first of the silvery shocks.
One year, when her son, Raymond, had fallen in love with a divorced woman twice his age (it didn’t last), Marie arrived home crackling, exchanging sparks with everything she touched. When she ate a peppermint she felt it detonating in her mouth. Berthe had placed a pot of flowering paper-white narcissi on Marie’s dressing table, a welcome-home present reflected on and on in the three mirrors. Marie shuffled along the carpeted passage, still in her boots. She had on her Florida manner, pretending she was in Berthe’s flat by mistake. As soon as she saw the plant, she went straight over and gave it a kiss. The flower absorbed a charge and hurled it back. Berthe examined the spot on Marie’s lip where the shock had struck. She could find nothing, no trace. Nevertheless Marie applied an ice cube.
She waited until midnight before calling Raymond, to get the benefit of the lower rate. His line was tied up until two: he said the police had been in, investigating a rumor. Marie told about the plant. He made her repeat the story twice, then said she had built up a reserve of static by standing on a shag rug with her boots on. She was not properly grounded when she approached the flower.
“Raymond could have done more with his life,” said Marie, hanging up. Berthe, who was still awake, thought he had done all he could, given his brains and character. She did not say so: she never mentioned her nephew, never asked about his health. He had left home young, and caused a lot of grief and trouble.
On Marie’s eighth visit, Raymond met her at the airport with a skinny woman he said was his wife. She had dark-blondhair and one of those unset permanents, all corkscrews. Marie looked at her, and looked away. Raymond explained that he had moved back to Hollywood North. Marie said she didn’t care, as long as she had somewhere to lay her head.
They left the terminal in silence. Outside, she said, “What’s this car? Japanese? Your father liked a Buick.”
“It belongs to Mimi,” he said.
Marie got in front, next to Raymond, and the skinny woman climbed in behind. Marie said to Raymond, in French, “You haven’t told me her name.”
“Well, I have, of course. I introduced you. Mimi.”
“Mimi isn’t a name.”
“It’s hers,” he said.
“It can’t be. It’s always short for something – for Michèle. Did you ever hear of a Saint Mimi? She’s not a divorced woman, is she? You were married in church?”
“In a kind of church,” he said. “She belongs to a Christian movement.”
Marie knew what that meant: pagan rites. “You haven’t joined this