staring at my exposed knees. A fine perspiration forms on his upper lip. His hands begin to shake.
âJean, youâre going to ruin me,â he says after the patient has left the room.
âI hope so.â
One night after work, he catches my arm in the hallway, hisses in my ear, âYouâre acting like I donât exist, Jean!â
âYou donât,â I say ruthlessly, pulling on my coat. Recently I have been careful to leave the office at the same time as everyone else so that he cannot apprehend me, press me, unwilling, onto the waiting-room couch. Out into the night I run with the others, into the damp fall evening with its bitter smell of dying leaves. Clattering down the wooden porch steps, I turn onto the sidewalk, away from the congestion and traffic lights of downtown, and hear my own voice, shrill, sad and gay, calling, too loud, to my co-workers, âSee you tomorrow!â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
On the evening of the last day in November, Dr. Beveridge says to me, âAll right, Jean, youâve won,â and hands me a key. âIâve rented a small apartment for us. Itâs available as of today. Weâll live there on a month-to-month until things settle down and we can find something more comfortable. Iâm going home now to tell Alice. You tell your family too. Iâll meet you at the apartment at eight oâclock tonight. Here is the address.â
Then he sweeps me off my feet, carries me out to reception and makes love to me for the first time in weeks, in the blue quivering reflections cast by the aquarium. I am in rapture. I look up at the shining fish moving in their transparent, deadly regions. Suddenly I enter, I am transported into the aquariumâs landscape of sunken ships and treasure chests and tiny plastic scuba divers. My body floats, is sucked into one of the black, watery caves. I close my eyes and the searing colours of the fish burn my eyelids. I feel the fish moving over me, wave after wave of them, their scaly, wafer-thin bodies brushing the length of my limbs like feathers.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It is late when I arrive home.
âJean,â Mother says, relieved to see me. âItâs nearly seven. We wondered.â In the kitchen she and Floyd and Blanche have almost finished dinner, which is never delayed on my account because of Blancheâs galloping appetite. I see that Mother has set aside something for me on a plate, covered with a pot lid.
âToo bad you came home,â Blanche says, disappointed. âI was thinking of eating your dinner.â
âHelp yourself,â I tell her indifferently. âI wonât be sitting down.â
âIs anything wrong, Jean?â asks Mother, worried, detecting something in my face. Floyd, his cutlery poised in the air like daggers, stops to observe me.
âShe looks smug about something,â says Blanche cautiously.
âJean, sit down,â says Mother, perplexed.
âI donât have time to sit down,â I say. âIâm going upstairs to pack my bags. You may as well know,â I tell them, âthat Dr. Peter Beveridge and I have for some time been carrying on an affair. Heâs leaving his wife tonight. Heâs breaking the news to her even as we speak. Weâre meeting later this evening. We have an apartment waiting for us. Weâre going to be very happy.â
There is a moment of exquisite silence while they absorb the news. Blancheâs eyes are big and round, her face flattened with shock as though someone has hit her head-on with a frying pan. Mother cups her hand over her mouth.
Blanche is the first to find her voice. âI knew it!â she cries, though her soft, puddinglike face is now quivering with surprise. âI knew there was something funny going on.â
âIâm glad you think itâs funny,â I say.
âShe doesnât mean amusing, â Floyd explains. âJean,
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley