kitchen door. “This way,” he said, and outside he seemed different: freer, younger. “There’s a path through the woods over there, that leads to some enormous old gray rocks, with a cave in one of them. It’s not my property, but I know the owner—I have the option on his land—and he doesn’t care if I walk there. I want to show it to you; it’s great. Are you warm enough?”
Dale laughed. Was she warm enough? She was on fire inside her sweater and leather jacket; she was incandescent with delight. He was going to show her rocks and caves; he was going to tell her about his parents. He had slept with her, he had fed her, he had talked to her, he was holding her hand. The late October day was crisp and cold and golden. Leaves crunched beneath their feet, birds called. As they climbed the side of a hill they could look down on the cattle standing in the far end of the pasture, dumb with the pleasure of warm sun on their backs. Dale felt expansive with a warming contentment; she thought she felt the pleasure of the cows, the satisfaction of the singing birds, the solid complacency of the earth beneath her feet. When she looked at Hank, she could not keep from smiling, and he smiled in the same way at her. Everyone in the world was surely allotted one day of joy, she thought, and that day had finally arrived for her. She relished it, she did not care what it cost, it was so sweet, so fine, it was worth anything. Occasionally Hank stopped walking, and took Dale in his arms and kissed her face, her breasts, her neck, and then stood awhile, simply holding her close to him, as if perhaps he too felt the miraculousness of the day, of what had been given to them. They walked through the woods, holding hands, or stood against a tree, embracing each other, wondering over and over again at what they felt: a total, complete, completing joy, as enormous and consuming and splendid as an ocean full of flames.
Three
The seventh day in November in Vancouver, the rain came down in sheets, as it had for three previous days. Rain dripped and drizzled down the masts of unused sailboats tossing in harbors, down and off branches and needles of pines and hawthorn trees, from holes in gutters into pools and rivulets in the grass. There was little light from the sky because the sun was hidden by such dense rain-laden clouds. Children developed runny noses and distraught mothers took them out anyway, to the Stanley Park aquarium to watch the turtles glide through enormous green, dimly lit tanks, or simply to the drugstores where they strolled up and down buying colored soap they didn’t need—anything that would allow them to stay awhile longer in a large busy bright place where they could ignore the rain. Businessmen were drenched crossing the parking lots from their cars to their offices, and the sodden cuffs of their trousers flapped forlornly against their ankles, and water dripped off their hats or ears and ran down their backs, ruining the feel of their freshly ironed shirts. Headlights shone on cars and lamps shone from houses during the day; people began to feel claustrophobic. Winter was setting in, day and night were becoming the same, the rain was monotonous, steady, insistent.
Margaret Wallace lay in bed for most of the four rainy days. She got out of bed now and then and exercised to music, or wrote in her journal, or took long baths, or ate, but mostly she stayed in bed, reading. She read three books: a brittle, sharp, well-written feminist novel; a collection of essays on the nature of man; and a new rich romantic mystery. Occasionally she felt one pang of regret—that she had vowed to give up chocolates, because eating them made her fat and made her face look bloated. And she loved chocolates so, especially when she was reading mysteries. But she ate a stalk of celery instead, which she had cut up into many small, elegant, bite-sized pieces. And at the end of the four days, when she was dressing to go out, she stepped
Dale laughed. Was she warm enough? She was on fire inside her sweater and leather jacket; she was incandescent with delight. He was going to show her rocks and caves; he was going to tell her about his parents. He had slept with her, he had fed her, he had talked to her, he was holding her hand. The late October day was crisp and cold and golden. Leaves crunched beneath their feet, birds called. As they climbed the side of a hill they could look down on the cattle standing in the far end of the pasture, dumb with the pleasure of warm sun on their backs. Dale felt expansive with a warming contentment; she thought she felt the pleasure of the cows, the satisfaction of the singing birds, the solid complacency of the earth beneath her feet. When she looked at Hank, she could not keep from smiling, and he smiled in the same way at her. Everyone in the world was surely allotted one day of joy, she thought, and that day had finally arrived for her. She relished it, she did not care what it cost, it was so sweet, so fine, it was worth anything. Occasionally Hank stopped walking, and took Dale in his arms and kissed her face, her breasts, her neck, and then stood awhile, simply holding her close to him, as if perhaps he too felt the miraculousness of the day, of what had been given to them. They walked through the woods, holding hands, or stood against a tree, embracing each other, wondering over and over again at what they felt: a total, complete, completing joy, as enormous and consuming and splendid as an ocean full of flames.
Three
The seventh day in November in Vancouver, the rain came down in sheets, as it had for three previous days. Rain dripped and drizzled down the masts of unused sailboats tossing in harbors, down and off branches and needles of pines and hawthorn trees, from holes in gutters into pools and rivulets in the grass. There was little light from the sky because the sun was hidden by such dense rain-laden clouds. Children developed runny noses and distraught mothers took them out anyway, to the Stanley Park aquarium to watch the turtles glide through enormous green, dimly lit tanks, or simply to the drugstores where they strolled up and down buying colored soap they didn’t need—anything that would allow them to stay awhile longer in a large busy bright place where they could ignore the rain. Businessmen were drenched crossing the parking lots from their cars to their offices, and the sodden cuffs of their trousers flapped forlornly against their ankles, and water dripped off their hats or ears and ran down their backs, ruining the feel of their freshly ironed shirts. Headlights shone on cars and lamps shone from houses during the day; people began to feel claustrophobic. Winter was setting in, day and night were becoming the same, the rain was monotonous, steady, insistent.
Margaret Wallace lay in bed for most of the four rainy days. She got out of bed now and then and exercised to music, or wrote in her journal, or took long baths, or ate, but mostly she stayed in bed, reading. She read three books: a brittle, sharp, well-written feminist novel; a collection of essays on the nature of man; and a new rich romantic mystery. Occasionally she felt one pang of regret—that she had vowed to give up chocolates, because eating them made her fat and made her face look bloated. And she loved chocolates so, especially when she was reading mysteries. But she ate a stalk of celery instead, which she had cut up into many small, elegant, bite-sized pieces. And at the end of the four days, when she was dressing to go out, she stepped
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