JOY WILLIAMS
255
the round black drain . She splashes her hands and face with water.
The drain seems very complex. Grids, mazes, avenues of descent,
lacings, and webs of matter. At the very bottom of the drain she sees
a pinpoint of light. She's sure of it. Children lie there in that light,
sleeping. She sees them so clearly, their small, sweet mouths open in
the light.
"We know too much," Jenny says. "We all know too much
almost right away. ' ,
"Clean yourself up better than that," the man says .
"You go ahead . I'll meet you there," Jenny says. For she has
plans for the future. Jenny has lived in nothing if not the future all
her life. Time had moved between herself and the man but only for
years. What does time matter to the inevitability of relations?
It
is in–
evitability that matters to lives, not love. For had she not always
remembered him? Had she not always been aware of his plans for
her? And seen him rising from a kiss? Always.
When she is alone, she unties the rope that ties her luggage
together. The bag is empty . She has come to this last place with
nothing, really. She has been with this man for a long time. There
had always been less of her each time she followed him. She wants to
do this right, but her fingers fumble with the rope.
It
is as though her
fingers were cold, the rope knotted and soaked with sea water.
It
is so
difficult to arrange. She stops for a moment and then remembers in a
panic that she has to go to the bathroom. That was the most im–
portant thing to remember. She feels close to tears because she almost
forgot .
,'I have to go to the bathroom, .. she cries.
Her mother leads her there .
"This is not a nice bathroom," her mother says. Water runs here
only at certain times of the day.
It
is not running now. There are rags
on the floor. The light falling through the window is dirty.
"Help me mother," Jenny says .
Her stomach is so upset. She is afraid she will soil herself. She
wants to get out in the air for a moment and clear her head . Her head
is full of lies. Outside the toilet, out there, she remembers, is the
deck of the motor sailer. The green sails which have faded to a style of
blue are luffing, pounding like boards in the wind . She closes the
door to the toilet . Out here is the Atlantic, rough and blue and cold.
