Mrs. Macmillan came back with a handful of bed linen: new linen, fresh linen. Estelle was sitting uncomfortably in one of the stuffed chairs. Mrs. Macmillan tossed the bed linen onto the other stuffed chair, and without saying why, she ran her hands, palms down, over the old bottoms and sides and legs and feet and backs of the ghosts of people who had sat on her chesterfield-couch; and when she could see no more imprints, she beat their ghosts off the seat of the chesterfield, and began to transform it into a bed. She spread the sheets, two of them, she stuffed the cushions into one pillowcase, and beat the pillowcase with the cushions in it, as if she was beating a man. Estelle had to look up to see whether there was really a man inside the pillowcase. But of course, there was none: only Mrs. Macmillan’s personal thoughts and imaginations of souls and ghosts and men she wanted to beat, but couldn’t beat, because they were men and not pillowcases. She did all this without saying a word to Estelle, without looking at Estelle.
Estelle held the empty plate in her hands for a long time, not knowing whether she should go into the kitchen and put it down, with the empty cup (she had turned the mouth of the cup away from the lipstick-mouth that was on it, so that her own mouth made a new imprint upon the mouth of the red-mouthed cup), or whether to leave them on the coffee table, which didn’t have any room left on it, anyhow. She was still in this stupid position, holding the plate in one hand, and the cup in the other, with the knife and the fork held in the same hand as the cup, when Mrs. Macmillan appeared between the jalousies of the room in which she had taken refuge with a halo of light behind her, to say, “I gotta hit the sack, now. Put out the lights before you turn in, please.”
She nodded her head; and the apparition of Mrs. Macmillan’s head in aluminum curlers, covered by the meshes of iron that looked like cloth, nodded; and the jalousies closed like long parallel eyes. Estelle was now even more confused. If she had the strength, she would have remained forever, at least for the eternity of the remainder of the night, sitting with the plate and the cup and the knife and fork in her hands, waiting to see whether she was dreaming, whether she was mad, whether it was Mrs. Macmillan who was mad: for if it was not she who was mad, then she owed it to herself, and to the security of others not mad, to open her mouth and tell Mrs. Macmillan, “Are you goddamn mad?”
She put the plate and the cup and the knife and the fork on the floor (“If this was in Barbados, by morning this whole house would be crawling with ants!”); and she went to the chesterfield to lie down. She inspected the bed: it was really clean; Mrs. Macmillan knew how to make a bed.
She must have been sleeping a long time, for she did not hear the beginning of the loud knocking on the front door. Gradually, a conversation became clearer:
MAN’S VOICE: … and what the hell’ve you got here, Glo?
MRS. MACMILLAN’S VOICE: A friend.
MAN’S VOICE: You sure as hell know how to pick some lu-lues! This is a strange one! I not kidding ya! Where’s you find this one, this time?
MRS. MACMILLAN: Oh, she’s a good egg. Not like the last one. Was my next-door neighbour in that slaughter-house in Toronto, where I been for the last four weeks. Paying me a visit.
MAN’S VOICE: C’mon! hurry up, it’s late. I been late three times already this week. The boss’s mad as hell, too.
MRS. MACMILLAN: Won’t be a sec, Joe. Gimme two more seconds. Gotta leave a note for Estelle here, tell her that I gone …
MAN’S VOICE: That’s her name? Estelle? That’s a damn nice name! I like nice names. Estelle. Estelle! Don’t ya think Estelle’s a nice name, Glo?
MRS. MACMILLAN: Prettier than Glo? than Gloria? You know something, Joe? I think you’re nuts. I think somebody ought to look at that head o’ yours. And soon, too. What’s the difference between Estelle and Gloriana? A queen was named Gloriana … anyways, here I am. I am ready now. I’ll just put this note where she can find it, first thing when she gets up. ’Bye, Estelle. Sleep till ya wake up.
MAN’S VOICE: ’Bye, Estelle. Nighty-nighty, and have a good nice sleep.
MRS. MACMILLAN: You got a crush on Estelle? Or you’re nuts, Joe?
MAN’S VOICE: I got a crush on Estelle, or I’m nuts, Joe? I got a crush on Estelle, or you’re nuts, Glo? ’Bye-bye, Estelle, nice sleep, sleep tighty-tighty …
When it was safe, when the curtain of Mrs. Macmillan’s departure with the man had fallen, Estelle put on one of the many lamps in the living room and looked about her, to reassure herself that it was only a small part of her real life she was in the midst of, and not what people call “the drama of life,” or “life’s drama.” It was she. Estelle. There. In a room in North Bay. And there was a man in the room, there had been a man in the room. And he was talking to Mrs. Macmillan. The plate and the cup and the knife and the fork were still there, on the floor. There were no ants crawling over them. So she was not dreaming she was in Barbados. She was not in Barbados. The Watchtowers were still there on the towering coffee table with its pile of magazines, watching her. But she had
