The Neurosis of Containment
I found Mrs. Livesday in the music room sipping sherry.
“And have you rested?” she asked with what I feared was forced cordiality.
“I have, thank you,” I replied, “and I must apologize to you. Please accept my apology, Mrs. Livesday. You have always shown me nothing but generosity and have been a constant friend now for over a decade—”
“That long! Of course I accept. What a reliefl Dear Gertrude, you have been testy. But now that’s over and forgotten. Have some sherry and begin to think about the feast Cobb has prepared.” Indeed, as I had lain thrashing in my little room, they had been to the train station to fetch a large, boxed fish packed in ice and sent from Nova Scotia. It was a beautiful salmon, its recent history revealed on a small square of cardboard Cobb had found tucked playfully in its smiling mouth. There were lemons in the box also—an extravagance in those days—wrapped in white paper. And they had also brought back flowers—something I wished I had thought of myself. Instead of stewing upstairs, I chided myself, I might have been out gathering flowers. Entering the dining room with Mrs. Livesday on my arm and seeing them throbbing at the table’s center I said as much: “I intended to bring you some flowers, dearest Mrs. Livesday!” (I had not thought to bring her anything!) “But I promise to make up for my ill temper and the rest.”
“Dear Gertrude!” she replied. “Will you please cease to torture yourself! Now. Sip this wine and look! Here comes Cobb with our fish.” Baked in cream, it appeared to swim in a dish the size of a small pool. Cobb brought out scalloped potatoes next, a spinach soufflé, corn bread. “Attempt to discover the nature of our dessert,” she continued, “although I doubt you can!”
Cobb sat down then and smiling shyly echoed her: “I doubt she can!”
I could not. As it turned out, Cobb had baked a tarte Tatin—and a perfect one, I should add, gilded with caramel and served with a small glass of brandy, followed by a smaller cup of Turkish coffee.
“Mine shows a face!” Mrs. Livesday cried, peering into her cup. “The world is full of delights.” She gave Cobb her brandy glass to be refilled, repeating as she took it back: “To delight!”
Again I felt stirring that irresistible rage. I believed she was chiding me for my spinsterhood and Spartan ways and so set to scowling, muddling over a thousand things, as the eerie buzzing started up again—or I became once more aware of it.
She: It seems the word delight_ has offended you, somehow._
I: Not at all! Delight! How could it? That would be silly! I blushed. It’s only… my ear is still ringing… a strange affliction… hard todescribe. Imagine a hive, Mrs. Livesday, filled with bees made of tin. Bees the size of… atoms. Their wings… cymbals of brass. Imagine that! Deep in your brain! I wonder: Could I have picked up some malady on thetrain?
She: Poor Gertrude! I had completely forgotten. So you are still afflictedwith this odd malaise. I hope it is not tinnitus! Or Meniere’s disease. My God! That would be terrible! Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Your appetite is good. That is a promising sign. Shall we call in a doctor? I’ve a competent one just down the road.
Astonishing us both I blurted out: “But I do not wish to be cured! What if this is… is intentional?”
“Intentional?”
“A summons of some sort.”
“Gertrude! A summons! Forgive me but I cannot follow your reasoning here. A summons from whom?”
“But I have no idea!” I cried out, my irritation rising once again. Why was she always demanding that I justify myself? “You are worse than my mother!”
“That I doubt.” Had I hurt her? She looked more perplexed than hurt.
