Good Bones Read online

  The Author

  MARGARET ATWOOD was born in Ottawa, Ontario, in 1939. During her childhood she spent many summers in the bush country of northern Ontario and Quebec. Upon graduation from the University of Toronto in 1961, she took her master’s degree from Radcliffe College the following year and went on to pursue doctoral studies at Harvard University.

  Novelist and poet, critic and editor, Atwood is one of the most prolific and important writers of contemporary literature. Equally acclaimed as a writer of both fiction and poetry, she devotes much of her creative energy to giving literary shape to the aspirations, fears, and foibles of her society. Her many honours include the Governor General’s Award for Poetry, the Governor General’s Award for Fiction, the Los Angeles Times Fiction Award, the Giller Prize for Fiction, the Booker Prize, and several honorary degrees.

  Margaret Atwood resides in Toronto, Ontario.

  THE NEW CANADIAN LIBRARY

  General Editor: David Staines

  ADVISORY BOARD

  Alice Munro

  W.H. New

  Guy Vanderhaeghe

  Copyright © 1992 by O.W. Toad Ltd.

  Afterword copyright © 1997 by Rosemary Sullivan

  First published in 1992 by Coach House Press

  New Canadian Library edition 1997

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Atwood, Margaret, 1939–

  Good bones

  (New Canadian library)

  eISBN: 978-1-55199-550-2

  I. Title. II. Series

  PS8501.T86G86 1997 C813’.54 C97-930816-x

  PR9199.3.A88G86 1997

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com/NCL

  v3.1

  The following dedication appeared in the original edition:

  For G., as always, and for the two Angelas

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Bad News

  The Little Red Hen Tells All

  Gertrude Talks Back

  There Was Once

  Unpopular Gals

  Let Us Now Praise Stupid Women

  The Female Body

  In Love With Raymond Chandler

  Stump Hunting

  Making a Man

  Epaulettes

  Cold-Blooded

  Men at Sea

  Alien Territory

  Adventure Story

  Hardball

  My Life as a Bat

  Theology

  An Angel

  Poppies: Three Variations

  Homelanding

  Third Handed

  Death Scenes

  Four Small Paragraphs

  We Want It All

  Dance of the Lepers

  Good Bones

  Acknowledgements

  Afterword

  Other Books by This Author

  Bad News

  THE RED GERANIUMS fluorescing on the terrace, the wind swaying the daisies, the baby’s milk-fed eyes focusing for the first time on a double row of beloved teeth – what is there to report? Bloodlessness puts her to sleep. She perches on a rooftop, her brass wings folded, her head with its coiffure of literate serpents tucked beneath the left one, snoozing like a noon pigeon. There’s nothing to do but her toenails. The sun oozes across the sky, the breezes undulate over her skin like warm silk stockings, her heart beats with the systole and diastole of waves on the breakwater, boredom creeps over her like vines.

  She knows what she wants: an event, by which she means a slip of the knife, a dropped wineglass or bomb, something broken. A little acid, a little gossip, a little hi-tech megadeath: a sharp thing that will wake her up. Run a tank over the geraniums, turn the wind up to hurricane so the daisies’ heads tear off and hurtle through the air like bullets, drop the baby from the balcony and watch the mother swan-dive after him, with her snarled Ophelia hair and addled screams.

  The melon-burst, the tomato-coloured splatter – now that’s a story! She’s awake now, she sniffs the air, her wings are spread for flight. She’s hungry, she’s on the track, she’s howling like a siren and she’s got your full attention.

  No news is good news, everyone knows that. You know it, too, and you like it that way. When you’re feeling bad she scratches at your window, and you let her in. Better them than you, she whispers in your ear. You settle back in your chair, folding the rustling paper.

  The Little Red Hen Tells All

  EVERYONE WANTS IN on it. Everyone! Not just the cat, the pig and the dog. The horse too, the cow, the rhinoceros, the orang-outang, the horn-toad, the wombat, the duckbilled platypus, you name it. There’s no peace any more and all because of that goddamn loaf of bread.

  It’s not easy, being a hen.

  You know my story. Probably you had it told to you as a shining example of how you yourself ought to behave. Sobriety and elbow-grease. Do it yourself. Then invest your capital. Then collect. I’m supposed to be an illustration of that? Don’t make me laugh.

  I found the grain of wheat, true. So what? There are lots of grains of wheat lying around. Keep your eyes to the grindstone and you could find a grain of wheat, too. I saw one and picked it up. Nothing wrong with that. Finders keepers. A grain of wheat saved is a grain of wheat earned. Opportunity is bald behind.

  Who will help me plant this grain of wheat? I said. Who? Who? I felt like a goddamn owl.

  Not me, not me, they replied. Then I’ll do it myself, I said, as the nun quipped to the vibrator. Nobody was listening, of course. They’d all gone to the beach.

  Don’t think it didn’t hurt, all that rejection. Brooding in my nest of straw, I cried little red hen tears. Tears of chicken blood. You know what that looks like, you’ve eaten enough of it. Makes good gravy.

  So, what were my options? I could have eaten that grain of wheat right away. Done myself a nutritional favour. But instead I planted it. Watered it. Stood guard over it night and day with my little feathered body.

  So it grew. Why not? So it made more grains of wheat. So I planted those. So I watered those. So I ground them into flour. So I finally got enough for a loaf of bread. So I baked it. You’ve seen the pictures, me in my little red hen apron, holding the loaf with its plume of aroma in between the tips of my wings, smiling away. I smile in all the pictures, as much as you can smile, with a beak. Whenever they said Not me, I smiled. I never lost my temper.

  Who will help me eat this loaf of bread? I said. I will, said the cat, the dog and the pig. I will, said the antelope. I will, said the yak. I will, said the five-lined skink. I will, said the pubic louse. They meant it, too. They held out their paws, hooves, tongues, claws, mandibles, prehensile tails. They drooled at me with their eyes. They whined. They shoved petitions through my mail slot. They became depressed. They accused me of selfishness. They developed symptoms. They threatened suicide. They sa
id it was my fault, for having a loaf of bread when they had none. Every single one of them, it seemed, needed that goddamn loaf of bread more than I did.

  You can bake more, they said.

  So then what? I know what the story says, what I’m supposed to have said: I’ll eat it myself, so kiss off. Don’t believe a word of it. As I’ve pointed out, I’m a hen, not a rooster.

  Here, I said. I apologize for having the idea in the first place. I apologize for luck. I apologize for self-denial. I apologize for being a good cook. I apologize for that crack about nuns. I apologize for that crack about roosters. I apologize for smiling, in my smug hen apron, with my smug hen beak. I apologize for being a hen.

  Have some more.

  Have mine.

  Gertrude Talks Back

  I ALWAYS THOUGHT it was a mistake, calling you Hamlet. I mean, what kind of a name is that for a young boy? It was your father’s idea. Nothing would do but that you had to be called after him. Selfish. The other kids at school used to tease the life out of you. The nicknames! And those terrible jokes about pork.

  I wanted to call you George.

  I am not wringing my hands. I’m drying my nails.

  Darling, please stop fidgeting with my mirror. That’ll be the third one you’ve broken.

  Yes, I’ve seen those pictures, thank you very much.

  I know your father was handsomer than Claudius. High brow, aquiline nose and so on, looked great in uniform. But handsome isn’t everything, especially in a man, and far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but I think it’s about time I pointed out to you that your Dad just wasn’t a whole lot of fun. Noble, sure, I grant you. But Claudius, well, he likes a drink now and then. He appreciates a decent meal. He enjoys a laugh, know what I mean? You don’t always have to be tiptoeing around because of some holier-than-thou principle or something.

  By the way, darling, I wish you wouldn’t call your stepdad the bloat king. He does have a slight weight-problem, and it hurts his feelings.

  The rank sweat of a what? My bed is certainly not enseamed, whatever that might be! A nasty sty, indeed! Not that it’s any of your business, but I change those sheets twice a week, which is more than you do, judging from that student slum pigpen in Wittenberg. I’ll certainly never visit you there again without prior warning! I see that laundry of yours when you bring it home, and not often enough either, by a long shot! Only when you run out of black socks.

  And let me tell you, everyone sweats at a time like that, as you’d find out very soon if you ever gave it a try. A real girlfriend would do you a heap of good. Not like that pasty-faced what’s-her-name, all trussed up like a prize turkey in those touch-me-not corsets of hers. If you ask me, there’s something off about that girl. Borderline. Any little shock could push her right over the edge.

  Go get yourself someone more down-to-earth. Have a nice roll in the hay. Then you can talk to me about nasty sties.

  No, darling, I am not mad at you. But I must say you’re an awful prig sometimes. Just like your Dad. The Flesh, he’d say. You’d think it was dog dirt. You can excuse that in a young person, they are always so intolerant, but in someone his age it was getting, well, very hard to live with, and that’s the understatement of the year.

  Some days I think it would have been better for both of us if you hadn’t been an only child. But you realize who you have to thank for that. You have no idea what I used to put up with. And every time I felt like a little, you know, just to warm up my ageing bones, it was like I’d suggested murder.

  Oh! You think what? You think Claudius murdered your Dad? Well, no wonder you’ve been so rude to him at the dinner table!

  If I’d known that, I could have put you straight in no time flat.

  It wasn’t Claudius, darling.

  It was me.

  There Was Once

  — There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the forest.

  — Forest? Forest is passé, I mean, I’ve had it with all this wilderness stuff. It’s not a right image of our society, today. Let’s have some urban for a change.

  — There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the suburbs.

  — That’s better. But I have to seriously query this word poor.

  — But she was poor!

  — Poor is relative. She lived in a house, didn’t she?

  —Yes.

  — Then socio-economically speaking, she was not poor.

  — But none of the money was hers! The whole point of the story is that the wicked stepmother makes her wear old clothes and sleep in the fireplace –

  — Aha! They had a fireplace! With poor, let me tell you, there’s no fireplace. Come down to the park, come to the subway stations after dark, come down to where they sleep in cardboard boxes, and I’ll show you poor!

  — There was once a middle-class girl, as beautiful as she was good –

  — Stop right there. I think we can cut the beautiful, don’t you? Women these days have to deal with too many intimidating physical role models as it is, what with those bimbos in the ads. Can’t you make her, well, more average?

  — There was once a girl who was a little overweight and whose front teeth stuck out, who –

  — I don’t think it’s nice to make fun of people’s appearances. Plus, you’re encouraging anorexia.

  — I wasn’t making fun! I was just describing –

  — Skip the description. Description oppresses. But you can say what colour she was.

  — What colour?

  —You know. Black, white, red, brown, yellow. Those are the choices. And I’m telling you right now, I’ve had enough of white. Dominant culture this, dominant culture that –

  — I don’t know what colour.

  — Well, it would probably be your colour, wouldn’t it?

  — But this isn’t about me! It’s about this girl –

  — Everything is about you.

  — Sounds to me like you don’t want to hear this story at all.

  — Oh well, go on. You could make her ethnic. That might help.

  — There was once a girl of indeterminate descent, as average-looking as she was good, who lived with her wicked –

  — Another thing. Good and wicked. Don’t you think you should transcend those puritanical judgemental moralistic epithets? I mean, so much of that is conditioning, isn’t it?

  — There was once a girl, as average-looking as she was well-adjusted, who lived with her stepmother, who was not a very open and loving person because she herself had been abused in childhood.

  — Better. But I am so tired of negative female images! And stepmothers – they always get it in the neck! Change it to stepfather, why don’t you? That would make more sense anyway, considering the bad behaviour you’re about to describe. And throw in some whips and chains. We all know what those twisted, repressed, middle-aged men are like –

  —Hey, just a minute! I’m a middle-aged –

  — Stuff it, Mister Nosy Parker. Nobody asked you to stick in your oar, or whatever you want to call that thing. This is between the two of us. Go on.

  — There was once a girl –

  — How old was she?

  — I don’t know. She was young.

  — This ends with a marriage, right?

  — Well, not to blow the plot, but – yes.

  — Then you can scratch the condescending paternalistic terminology. It’s woman, pal. Woman.

  — There was once –

  — What’s this was, once? Enough of the dead past. Tell me about now.

  —There –

  —So?

  — So, what?

  —So, why not here?

  Unpopular Gals

  1.

  Everyone gets a turn, and now it’s mine. Or so they used to tell us in kindergarten. It’s not really true. Some get more turns than others, and I’ve never had a turn, not one! I hardly kno
w how to say I, or mine; I’ve been she, her, that one, for so long.

  I haven’t even been given a name; I was always just the ugly sister; put the stress on ugly. The one the other mothers looked at, then looked away from and shook their heads gently. Their voices lowered or ceased altogether when I came into the room, in my pretty dresses, my face leaden and scowling. They tried to think of something to say that would redeem the situation – Well, she’s certainly strong – but they knew it was useless. So did I.

  You think I didn’t hate their pity, their forced kindness? And knowing that no matter what I did, how virtuous I was, or hardworking, I would never be beautiful. Not like her, the one who merely had to sit there to be adored. You wonder why I stabbed the blue eyes of my dolls with pins and pulled their hair out until they were bald? Life isn’t fair. Why should I be?

  As for the prince, you think I didn’t love him? I loved him more than she did; I loved him more than anything. Enough to cut off my foot. Enough to murder. Of course I disguised myself in heavy veils, to take her place at the altar. Of course I threw her out the window and pulled the sheets up over my head and pretended to be her. Who wouldn’t, in my position?

  But all my love ever came to was a bad end. Red-hot shoes, barrels studded with nails. That’s what it feels like, unrequited love.

  She had a baby, too. I was never allowed.

  Everything you ever wanted, I wanted also.

  2.

  A libel action, that’s what I’m thinking. Put an end to this nonsense. Just because I’m old and live alone and can’t see very well, they accuse me of all sorts of things. Cooking and eating children, well, can you imagine? What a fantasy, and even if I did eat just a few, whose fault was it? Those children were left in the forest by their parents, who fully intended them to die. Waste not, want not, has always been my motto.

  Anyway, the way I see it, they were an offering. I used to be given grown-ups, men and women both, stuffed full of seasonal goodies and handed over to me at seed-time and harvest. The symbolism was a little crude perhaps, and the events themselves were – some might say – lacking in taste, but folks’ hearts were in the right place. In return, I made things germinate and grow and swell and ripen.