Skennen to leave him alone.
Which, to spare him further pain, Skennen did.
If the encounter with Skennen was devastating for Baillie, it
was something else entirely for Skennen. Having heard Baillie’s
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story – knowing that it contained a clue for the suitors of Carson
Michaels – he was astonished to find he now had a very good
idea about what made Carson weep. He wasn’t certain, of course,
because any reasonably long story is a wilderness of signs. The
thing that made Carson cry might be a bat, a pigeon, blood,
apples, a Citroën …
And yet, while listening to Baillie speak, Skennen had had
the impression that someone else was speaking to him – someone
behind Baillie, speaking through Baillie, as if Baillie were a
ventriloquist’s dummy. When La Kermesse was mentioned, it was
as if a bell sounded inside him. La Kermesse was one of the very
few paintings Skennen knew intimately. He’d lived with a repro-
duction of it that had hung in the library in Petrolia, the town
where he’d spent much of his childhood. And although the
painting was as detailed as a Hieronymus Bosch, a specific part
of it had come vividly to Skennen’s mind the instant Baillie
mentioned it: from the painting’s right side, about halfway up,
the depiction of a woman with a reddish top and white apron
carrying a porcelain jug up from a cellar. It was the way she
holds the jug: up before her, both hands beneath it, as if it were
being presented to someone no longer there. The instant the
white porcelain jug came to him, Skennen knew that Baillie’s
story had been meant for him, that a porcelain jug was the thing
that made Carson Michaels cry.
The following day, he made his way to Coulson’s Hill and
Lee’s Garage. He waited until his turn came at the till. As before,
Carson smiled politely and asked if he knew what made her cry.
– Yes, answered Skennen, a white porcelain jug.
There was a moment as Carson Michaels took this in. Then,
as if to prove his words right, she began to cry. No, she wept,
overwhelmed that a suitor had discovered her secret. On hearing
her weep, Lee came over and grabbed Skennen by the throat. He’d
have done more damage, too, had Carson not prevented him.
– He answered my question, she said.
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Carson’s tone, Lee’s dismay, the sudden quiet in the store …
It occurred to John Skennen that Carson Michaels had not
expected anyone to answer her question. Perhaps she’d had some
sort of agreement with Lee. Perhaps the rumours had been true:
Carson had been promised to one of Lee’s sons. Whatever the
case, when she recovered her poise, Carson Michaels said
– I get off at five. I’ll see you then.
Lee let go of Skennen’s lapels, which – after surrendering his
hold on Skennen’s throat – he’d been holding on to as if he
thought John Skennen needed help to stay upright.
– Hmm, he said.
Carson Michaels did not immediately love John Skennen.
As far as she was concerned, “love” – whatever it was – had not
been part of the compact. She had only promised to pay attention
to one who’d paid attention to her. Then again, what is love if not
a particular kind of attention? She liked the way Skennen smiled.
She found his hands – graceful as a pianist’s – beautiful. It was
pleasing to listen to his voice, a pleasure doubled by the fact that
he had interesting things to say.
And, of course, there was poetry. He read to her from the
work of Rimbaud and they translated The Drunken Boat together.
But she introduced him to the work of Anna Akhmatova, a gift
he carried with him thereafter: memorizing the translations,
moved by Carson’s love of Russian poetry, grateful to have discov-
ered such precious work in Coulson’s Hill.
All of which is to say that, after five months of seeing each
other, alone and with others, Carson Michaels loved John Sken-
nen – however one wishes to define “love” – and her feelings
were returned, their pleasure in each other’s company being
almost as intense as the physical pleasure they shared in her
narrow bed above Lee’s Garage.
In the midst of this happiness, one evening, now confident in
their love for each other, Skennen asked Carson why porcelain
jugs upset her as they did. Dismayed, she asked how he could
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not know the answer, knowing as he did that porcelain jugs had
an effect on her. Had he only guessed “porcelain jug”? Did he not
know her at all? In answer, he lied.
– I’ve heard the story, he said, but I want to hear it from you,
Carse.
– It’s too hard to talk about, she said.
But she told him how much porcelain vessels reminded her
of her father, a potter, and she reminisced about him. How strong
he’d been! Handsome and tall, gentle and loving, but terrifying,
too. He’d once put her mother in the hospital with a single, back-
handed blow.
– Do all jugs make you cry? he asked. Or is it just the one?
A difficult question because what moved her, at the thought
of porcelain jugs, was knowing that the one from her childhood
still existed. But, in the end, she supposed it was the one jug that
made her cry, really, the bone-white pitcher made by her father
when he’d been a boy in Chatham, the one whose place had been
on the night table beside her parents’ bed, the one still in the
house in Schomberg, where she and her siblings grew up, where
her brother still lived.
Moved by thoughts of home, of her siblings, of her parents,
Carson again began to weep, her tears falling on his chest, where
her head lay.
There and then, with Carson in his arms, John Skennen felt a
number of things. He felt guilt for having brought the pitcher to
her mind. He felt a deepening love and pity for his beloved. He
longed for a world in which Carson would never cry again. But
these emotions brought a host of assumptions and misinterpre-
tations. To begin with, he took Carson’s tears for painful, because
he himself did not cry, except when in pain. And then, knowing
Lee had been a close friend of her father’s, he imagined Carson’s
father had been as hulking and violent as Lee, just the kind to
put a woman in hospital with the back of his hand. He thought:
no wonder memories of childhood brought her to tears. He
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reasoned: he could not wipe out her childhood, but he could
eradicate its symbol, an act that would liberate Carson and her
siblings. He resolved: to decimate the jug and surprise Carson
with its fragments.
His chance to “put things right” came shortly. Over months of
pillow talk, Skennen had learned much about Carson’s siblings,
including the fact that her brother and his family still lived in
Schomberg, not far from the Scruffy Dog Tavern. The house,
which faced the road, was mostly hidden by trees. That in it
self
helped to identify it, as did the faded oranges painted on its post
box by Carson herself when she was twelve. He found the house
easily. Not only that but he found what he assumed was the porce-
lain jug at once. He could not have missed it. It was displayed in
the home’s front window, as if it were a statue of the Virgin or a
painting of Jesus with his finger pointing to his own bleeding
heart. And though he knew it was an offence to Carson’s brother,
he stole the jug, breaking into the house when no one was home.
Even while smashing the jug to pieces, taking pure pleasure
in destroying an object that caused Carson pain, Skennen had
an inkling that something was wrong. The pleasure itself was too
intense for such a small act. He broke the jug first with stones,
then used a crowbar to reduce it to fragments, keeping one small
piece to show Carson. All the while, he imagined he was obliter-
ating a living pest, not smashing a delicate thing that had spent
most of its life on a bedside table. But thoughts of its delicacy
did creep in, along with fleeting doubts. For instance, why would
Carson’s brother keep a thing that caused his family pain in the
front window of his house?
When he told Carson what he’d done – what he’d done for
her – she laughed.
– As if, she said.
– No, sweetie, I did! he answered.
And showed her the oddly shaped fragment he’d kept: a small
trident, its middle tine a stump.
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Recognizing the whole from a fragment, as one might recog-
nize a loved one from a mole or a finger, Carson Michaels fainted,
losing consciousness so quickly she’d have fallen straight to the
ground if he hadn’t caught her. It took some time to revive her,
too. When he did, he found that the woman he revived was not
the woman who’d fainted. Carson could not hate him. It was too
late for that. She’d taken him into her soul, and though love has
any number of bad habits, leaving without notice is not one of
them. But the fact was ineradicable: John had destroyed one of
the most precious things she and her family had: the last true
memento of their father, a man they’d all adored. And the destruc-
tion was her fault.
– But you said he was violent, said Skennen.
– To protect his children, yes.
– But he sent your mother to the hospital.
– My mother was an alcoholic, John. He came home and
caught her whipping my brother with a telephone cord. He hit
her to protect him!
– But the jug makes you cry!
– Of course it does! I miss my father terribly. Not a day goes
by that I don’t remember how much he loved us. If you knew me
well enough to know the thing that made me cry, how could you
not know its meaning?
And so, it finally came to her that she’d fallen in love with a man
who’d known nothing about her, the very thing she’d tried to avoid!
But don’t we usually fall in love with strangers?
Not always, but often enough that her wish to be known
before letting herself love had been naive. The thought of her
own naïveté mitigated her devastation. But only slightly, because
now she blamed herself for the destruction of the jug her father
had made when he was a boy. The thing was irreplaceable.
Thoughts of John now brought thoughts of irreparable loss.
In the weeks that followed, Skennen hoped that Carson would
see that he’d meant well, that he’d done everything for her. He
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hoped she would forgive him his mistake. But forgiveness was
not the problem. She did forgive him. She even chose not to tell
her siblings what she knew about the jug’s disappearance. And
yet, it was as if an invisible worm had made its way to the inner
folds of their love, feeding on it till there was not enough left to
sustain them. About a month after Skennen had broken the
porcelain jug, they parted – both humiliated, both banished from
the garden only two in love can reach.
Is it any wonder John’s life fell apart after that? Any wonder
that, drunk out of his mind, he helped Bob Grenville burn down
the post office in Coulson’s Hill, hoping he himself would die in
the conflagration? Any wonder that he spread rumours of his
own death – himself starting the story that he had died in the
post office – and wandered around the province like a madman?
Answering his own questions, Mr. Henderson said
– It’s no wonder at all.
And then there was a long pause, during which I listened to
the cicadas humming like a hydro tower outside the window. Mr.
Henderson had finished his story.
The professor and I were caught off guard, waiting as we were
for the rest of the story, wanting to know about John Skennen’s
fate. But no, the story was through. Mr. Henderson wiped tears
from his face and wordlessly got up to make tea.
– What a story, said Professor Bruno.
– Yes, said Mr. Henderson. And it has so many ins and outs.
Every time I tell it, I’m struck by something new. Just the other
day we were talking about this, John and me, and he says, “Don’t
you think it’s strange Baillie didn’t know what “‘Ego domini fata
Latin these days?’ And he said, “Yes, but who remembers words
they don’t understand? I’m telling you, Henny, “‘I’m the master of
your fate”” was meant for me. I’m sure this Madame Madeg was
telling me that she was the master of my fate, not just Baillie’s.
But I didn’t think about that till too late.”
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– Oh, said Professor Bruno, what a touching detail! If Sken-
nen’s right about “Ego domini,’ then this is a most wonderful
love story you’ve told us. Just think, this Madame Madeg not
only cursed her beloved but she also cursed the man who took
her beloved’s first love. She punished Skennen out of love for
Mr. Baillie!
– But what if she was just angry in general? I asked.
Both men looked at me with pity.
– That’s possible, said Professor Bruno. But it doesn’t feel
right, Alfie. If Skennen ruined Baillie’s chances with Carson
Michaels, then he did Madame Madeg a favour, didn’t he? He
helped her make Baillie feel what she’d felt. So, why punish Sken-
nen? She might have been angry in general, as you say, but her
anger was directed at Skennen, a stranger, someone she’d never
meet. And for no apparent reason! I say she punished him because
deep in her heart she couldn’t stand to have anyone hurt her
beloved. If I had to guess, I’d say Madame Madeg must still have
loved this Baillie fellow completely.
– It’s a love story, said Mr. Henderson. It’s a hell of a love story.
Mr. Henderson and Professor Bruno were quiet. They were,
no doubt, contemplating some aspect of life brought out by the
story. I was grateful that neither was in tears. As for me, I’d found
the whole story disturbing. What remains of our feelings for
those we’ve loved when they’ve left us? Of the four people in the
story – Madame Madeg, Baillie, Skennen, Michaels – I had most
sympathy for Madame Madeg. In fact, I was comforted by Profes-
sor Bruno’s idea that her love for Baillie persisted, even as she
sought revenge. But what a terrible thought: that you can wish
harm on someone you’ve loved. Was there something in me that
wanted Anne to suffer? Yes, of course, but not exactly. Even
though she’d left me, I wanted to know that my absence hurt her
at least as much as hers hurt me. I wasn’t after revenge or even
justice. I wanted to know that the feelings I’d had for her had
been reciprocal, that our despair was mutual.
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At the thought that our intimacy might have meant nothing to
Anne, that it had been barren, the tears that were welling up in
me fell. I tried to hide my emotion, but, seeing my tears, Mr.
Henderson, too, began to cry. And seeing Mr. Henderson’s tears,
Professor Bruno also began to cry. Seeing Professor Bruno cry, I
was overcome by another wave of tears. All of us then tried, I
think, to hide our emotions. Mr. Henderson turned away from
me as he wiped his face, and I turned away from Professor Bruno,
who turned away from Mr. Henderson. Unfortunately, in turning
away from Mr. Henderson, Professor Bruno saw me and was again
moved to tears. In turning away from me, Mr. Henderson had
turned to Professor Bruno and, seeing his tears, was again over-
whelmed, sniffling as he wiped his nose. And I, having turned
away from Professor Bruno, was overcome by emotion at the sight
of Mr. Henderson brusquely wiping the tears from his face. I
began again to weep, my body shuddering as tears fell. I don’t
know about the others, how they got hold of themselves, but I
put a hand over my face and held it there until – after what seemed
a long time – all my thoughts of Anne faded and I was calm again.
The stories and breakfast had set us back a few hours, the
professor and me. I was afraid that we would not get to Feversham
in time to meet with Reverend Crosbie, the woman to whom
John Skennen had dedicated his final collection of poetry, the
very collection I had with me.
– She’s the one to talk to, said Mr. Henderson. They had a