Margaret Atwood - Stone Mattress: Nine Tales

The freezing rain sifts down, handfuls of shining rice thrown by some unseen celebrant. Wherever it hits, it crystallizes into a granulated coating of ice. Under the streetlights it looks so beautiful: like fairy silver, thinks Constance. But then, she would think that; shes far too prone to enchantment. The beauty is an illusion, and also a warning: theres a dark side to beauty, as with poisonous butterflies. She ought to be considering the dangers, the hazards, the grief this ice storm is going to bring to many; is already bringing, according to the television news.

The TV screen is a flat high-definition one that Ewan bought so he could watch hockey and football games on it. Constance would rather have the old fuzzy one back, with its strangely orange people and its habit of rippling and fading: there are some things that do not fare well in high definition. She resents the pores, the wrinkles, the nose hairs, the impossibly whitened teeth shoved right up in front of your eyes so you cant ignore them the way you would in real life. Its like being forced to act as someone elses bathroom mirror, the magnifying kind: seldom a happy experience, those mirrors.

Luckily, on the weather show the personnel stand well back. They have their maps to attend to, their broad hand gestures, like those of waiters in glamorous films of the 30s or magicians about to reveal the floating lady. Behold! Gigantic swaths of whiteness plume across the continent! Just look at the extent of it!

Now the show moves outside. Two young commentators a boy, a girl, both of them wearing stylish black parkas with halos of pale fur around their faces hunch under dripping umbrellas as cars grind slowly past them, windshield wipers labouring. Theyre excited; they say theyve never seen anything like it. Of course they havent, theyre too young. Next there are shots of calamities: a multiple car-crash pileup, a fallen tree thats bashed off part of a house, a snarl of electrical wires dragged down by the weight of the ice and flickering balefully, a row of sleet-covered planes stranded in an airport, a huge truck thats jackknifed and tipped over and is lying on its side with smoke coming out. An ambulance is on the scene, a fire truck, a huddle of raingear-clad operatives: someones been injured, always a sight to make the heart beat faster. A policeman appears, crystals of ice whitening his moustache; he pleads sternly with people to stay inside. Its no joke, he tells the viewers. Dont think you can brave the elements! His frowning, frosted eyebrows are noble, like those on the wartime bond-drive posters from the 1940s. Constance remembers those, or believes she does. But she may just be remembering history books or museum displays or documentary films: so hard, sometimes, to tag those memories accurately.

Finally, a minor touch of pathos: a stray dog is displayed, semi-frozen, wrapped in a childs pink nap blanket. A gelid baby would have been better, but for lack of one the dog will do. The two young commentators make Aw cute faces; the girl pats the dog, which wags its sodden tail feebly. Lucky guy, says the boy. This could be you, its implied, if you dont behave yourself, only you wouldnt get rescued. The boy turns to the camera and solemnifies his face, even though its clear hes having the time of his life. Theres more to come, he says, because the main part of the storm hasnt even hit! Its worse in Chicago, as it so often is. Stay tuned!

Constance turns off the TV. She crosses the room, dims the lamp, then sits beside the front window, staring out into the streetlight-illuminated darkness, watching the world turn to diamonds branches, rooftops, hydro lines, all glittering and sparkling.

Alphinland, she says out loud.

Youll need salt, says Ewan, right in her ear. The first time he spoke to her it startled and even alarmed her Ewan having been no longer in a tangibly living condition for at least four days but now shes more relaxed about him, unpredictable though he is. Its wonderful to hear his voice, even if she cant depend on having any sort of a conversation with him. His interventions tend to be one-sided: if she answers him, he doesnt often answer back. But it was always more or less like that between them.

She hadnt known what to do with his clothes, afterwards. At first she left them hanging in the closet, but it was too upsetting to open the door and see the jackets and suits ranged on their hangers, waiting mutely for Ewans body to be slipped inside them so they could be taken for a walk. The tweeds, the woollen sweaters, the plaid work shirts. . She couldnt give them away to the poor, which would have been the sensible thing. She couldnt throw them out: that would have been not only wasteful but too abrupt, like ripping off a bandage. So shed folded them up and stored them away in a trunk on the third floor, with mothballs.

Thats fine in the daytimes. Ewan doesnt seem to mind, and his voice, when it turns up, is firm and cheerful. A striding voice, showing the way. An extended index-finger voice, pointing. Go here, buy this, do that! A slightly mocking voice, teasing, making light: that was often his manner towards her before he became ill.

At night, however, things get more complex. There have been bad dreams: sobbing from inside the trunk, mournful complaints, pleas to be let out. Strange men appearing at the front door who hold out promises of being Ewan, but who are not. Instead theyre menacing, with black trench coats. They demand some garbled thing that Constance cant make out, or, worse, they insist on seeing Ewan, shouldering their way past her, their intentions clearly murderous. Ewans not home, shell plead, despite the muted cries for help coming from the trunk on the third floor. As they begin to tromple up the stairs, she wakes up.

Shes considered sleeping pills, though she knows theyre addictive and lead to insomnia. Maybe she ought to sell the house and move to a condo. That notion was being pushed at the time of the funeral by the boys, who are not boys any more and who live in cities in New Zealand and France, too conveniently far for them to visit her much. Theyd been backed up in spades by their brisk but tactful and professionally accomplished wives, the plastic surgeon and the chartered accountant, so it was four against one. But Constance stood firm. She cant abandon the house, because Ewan is in it. Though shed been smart enough not to tell them about that. Theyve always thought she was slightly borderline anyway because of Alphinland, though once such an enterprise makes a lot of money the whiff of nuttiness around it tends to evaporate.

Condo is a euphemism for retirement home. Constance doesnt hold it against them: they want what is best for her, not merely what is simplest for them, and they were understandably perturbed by the disorder theyd witnessed, both in Constance though theyd made allowances because she was in the throes of mourning and in, just for example, her refrigerator. There were items in that refrigerator for which there was no sane explanation. What a swamp, she could hear them thinking. Awash in botulism, a wonder she hasnt made herself seriously ill. But of course she hadnt, because she wasnt eating much in those final days. Soda crackers, cheese slices, peanut butter straight from the jar.

The wives had dealt with the situation in the kindest way. Do you want this? What about this? No, no, Constance had wailed. I dont want any of it! Throw it all out! The three little grandchildren, two girls and a boy, had been sent on a sort of Easter egg hunt, searching for the half-drunk cups of tea and cocoa that Constance had left here and there around the house and that were now covered with grey or pale-green skins in various stages of growth. Look, Maman! I found another one! Ew, thats gross! Where is Grandpa?