Anne Dresden drove Martha home. Martha was grateful. At least there was Anne. Anne’s broad arms, her flat-shoed unerring practicality, her ox-hearted steadiness. She had been exactly what Martha had needed. Susie would have made jokes, been flippant even. Anne had stayed with her and taken charge. At the hospital they’d given her antibiotics, injections, wrapped her in bandages and recommended rest. Hand wounds were the worst. Anne had nodded sensibly, patting Martha. Martha burst forth with her visions of mad salivating dogs. She was nauseated.
Anne took her home to her place, initially just for a cup of tea.
‘You’ve moved?’ Martha had said as they pulled up to a small house on Duke St.
‘Yes, I told you. You don’t remember?’
Martha remembered then. Anne wasn’t a close friend; she was one of those good women Martha couldn’t relate to, though she liked her and even admired her goodness. But Anne made her conscious of her own selfishness. So Martha hadn’t asked about her move, but had felt afterwards that she should have, that she should have given Anne the chance to tell her because maybe she needed to.
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Why did you move?’
‘Greg was having an affair. I’ve got the kids.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, I’m doing fine. A relief actually to not have to clean up after him as well as the kids.’
Martha was so ashamed. Her own injury seemed hysterical in comparison, and Anne was tending to her, giving her a cup of tea. Suddenly she was weeping again. ‘Oh, Anne, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t cry on my account. Come on, have some cake.’
Anne had squeezed her for an instant with her broad brown hand, and Martha had felt better.
Now Anne was driving her home through the downpour and Martha was preparing herself for her entrance. Anne Dresden wouldn’t do such a thing: contrive her arrival for maximum effect. But something had happened to Martha, finally something had happened. To be attacked by an animal was not just unusual, it set off a deep, thrilling, primordial fear. Martha had been dragged to the very edge of life. She had bled. She had a tale to tell. And while she had survived the attack, the possibility of infection still hung over her, so she was owed not only enthralment in her story, but also ongoing solicitude for her threatened health. They should all see how shaken she was, how fragile and shocked. They should understand, like Anne did, how frightened she had been, how upsetting and brutal it was to fight to the death. This would all be conveyed by her appearance, her bandaged hand and foot, her limp, the war-weary expression. Because, once the initial questioning was over, she would lose their attention. Martha had already anticipated this and was hurt in advance. She would have to hide this brittle aspect of her feelings if she was to be received with tenderness. She wanted to be cared for. No one could deny that, after such a terrible attack, for once she was deserving.
Only Ada would understand the fabled portent of the attack. Martha’s hand rose to her heart; she had become aware of both this embarrassing need to be attended to, and of a deep, nameless grief that was at the root of this need and which now overwhelmed her. She was alone—surrounded by people, but alone. All this emotion—the tears, all for nothing or for everything, it didn’t matter which. It was the fox who had died, not Martha. It was Anne Dresden who had lost her husband. Martha wrung emotion out of air, weather, even foxes. That was why she was sad.
But this was how it always was. She wasn’t poor or ill or divorced or childless or otherwise slighted. She was privileged actually. And her husband didn’t cheat on her, or beat her. She had nothing to complain about. And yet she was unhappy. But to be unhappy when she had so much was all wrong and shameful. It showed deep personal failure. If Anne could smile and roll up her sleeves, why could Martha not do the same? But Martha wasn’t like Anne. She never would be. She just had a miserable case of quiet, unspectacular, unwarranted unhappiness. And the realisation just made her worse.
Now she leaned out the window so Anne wouldn’t notice, gulped in a deep breath of the rain-washed air and turned on the radio. She had to stymie the swelling of this. She had to stop thinking. She had to begin again to prepare mentally for the theatre of her return, where for once she would get her due.