From the Fifteenth District by Mavis Gallant Read Free Book Online

colors in a long-stemmed silver dish that sat in turn upon a lace napkin and a glass plate. Carmela was further given cold water in a tall frosted glass, a long-handled delicate spoon with a flat bowl, and yet another plate containing three overlapping wafer biscuits. Her tears had weakened her; it was almost with sadness that she touched the spoon.
    “I won’t have it said that I ran away,” said the clergyman. “One almost
would
like to run. I wasn’t prepared for anonymous – letters.” The soft complexion that was like a girl’sflushed. Carmela noticed that he had not shaved; she could not have imagined him bearded.
    “Anonymous letters to the police?” said Mr. Unwin. “And in English?”
    “First one. Then there were others.”
    “In
English?”
    “Oh, in English. They’d got the schoolmaster to translate them.”
    “Not even to my worst enemy –” Mr. Unwin began.
    “No, I’m sure of that. But if I have inspired hatred, then I’ve failed. Some of the letters came to me. I never spoke of them. When there was no reaction then – I suppose it must have been interesting to try the police.”
    “Those you had – were they by hand?” said Mr. Unwin. “Let me see one. I shan’t read it.”
    “I’m sorry, I’ve destroyed them.”
    Carmela looked across at the houses on which work had been suspended for more than a year – a monument to Mr. Unwin’s qualifications as an investor of funds, she now understood; behind them was the sea that no longer could frighten her. She let a spoonful of pistachio melt in her mouth and swallowed regretfully.
    “Of course you know the story,” said Mr. Unwin. “You have heard the gossip.”
    “I don’t listen to gossip,” said the clergyman. They had no use for each other, and might never meet again. Carmela sensed that, if Mr. Unwin did not. “Nothing needs to be explained. What matters is, how we all come out of it. I’ve been told I may leave. My instructions
are
to leave. Hang them. They can intern me or do whatever they like. I won’t have them believing that we can be bullied.”
    Mr. Unwin was speaking quietly; their words overlapped. He was going to explain, even if it was to no purpose now, whether the clergyman had any use for him or not. “…  When we did finally marry we were so far apart that she hardly had a claim. I made her see a neurologist. He asked her if she was afraid of me.” The lines of age around his eyes made him seem furtive. He had the look of someone impartial, but stubborn, too. “Having children was supposed to be good. To remove the guilt. To make her live in the present.” They had come here, where there was a famous clinic and an excellent doctor – poor Dr. Chaffee. Gone now. Between her second breakdown and the birth of the twins, somewhere in that cleared-out period, they married. The Church of England did not always allow it. Old Ted Stonehouse had been lenient. For years they’d had nothing but holidays, a holiday life, always with the puritan belief that they would have to pay up. They had paid, he assured the younger man, for a look at their past – a wrecked past, a crippling accident. At times, he could see the debris along the road – a woman’s shoe, a charred map. And they married, and had the twins, and the holiday came to an end. And she was beginning to be odd, cruel, drinking stuff out of teacups. She kept away from the babies. Was afraid of herself. Knew she was cruel. Cruel to her own great-uncle. Never once looked at his grave. Mr. Unwin had been to the grave not long ago, had stung his hands on nettles.
    “Oh, I’d never weed a grave,” said the clergyman. “I am like that, too.”
    “Well, Padre, we choose our lives,” said Mr. Unwin. “I gave up believing in mine.”
    “Forget about believing in your life,” said the younger man.“Think about the sacraments – whether you believe in them or not. You might arrive in a roundabout way. Do you see?”
    “Arrive where?” said Mr.