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Inappropriate Behaviour
IRENE MOCK
Porcépic Books an imprint of
Copyright © 1997 Irene Mock
First Edition 1997.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage, retrieval and transmission systems now known or to be invented, without the permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
The publisher gratefully acknowledges financial assistance from the Canada Council and the BC Ministry of Small Business, Tourism and Culture. This is a Porcépic book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Edited by Joy Gugeler
Text design by Carolyn Stewart
Cover design and illustration by Doug Jones
Printed and bound in Canada by Webcom Ltd.
CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Mock, Irene, 1949–
Inappropriate behaviour
"A Porcépic Book."
ISBN 0-88878-374-4
1. Women-Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS8576.024152 1997 C813'.54 C96–901060–5
PR9199.3.M58152 1997
BEACH HOLME PUBLISHING
#226-2040 WEST 12TH AVENUE
VANCOUVER, BC V6J 2G2 CANADA
For David, Anna and Paul
Acknowledgements
The following stories (some in earlier forms and with different titles) were previously published:
"What We Have" and "Satellite Worlds" in Grain
"A Small Ceremony" in Matrix
"Neapolitan" in Queen's Quarterly
"Inappropriate Behaviour" in The Capilano Review
(nominated for the 1996 Journey Prize)
"To Be Young, To Be Beautiful" in Island
"Rapture" in The Fiddlehead
"Lovers and Other Strangers" in Descant
"Fire" in The Canadian Forum
The author is grateful to her family for their unfailing support and to Joy Gugeler for her sharp editorial eye. She also wishes to thank those who commented on earlier versions of these stories, especially Verna Relkoff.
If I tell you a story about terrible things happening, I can surround it with language, I can give it a body that is much more palatable than the events themselves were and you can carry it in your memory as a warning, or as a caution of some kind. And I who tell it can comprehend it that much more. I mean, telling is always, in all of its incarnations an act of optimism.
— RICHARD FORD
Firstborn
What We Have
Our beginnings are utterly mysterious—why are we born? Why when and as we are?
ON NIGHTS WHEN SHE COULDN'T SLEEP Julie would go into the room meant for the baby. She would look at the bassinet, the tiny clothes, the stuffed animals. Then she would come back to bed.
"Michael?" She touched his shoulder. "Michael, I keep thinking about the baby."
He struggled to wake up, put an arm around her. "Jules—honey, you know these things happen."
Yes, she thought, but there's got to be a reason. The two glasses of wine on Michael's birthday. Or maybe the week she was sick with flu in her first trimester? Or perhaps something larger. Some lack of faith?
"Michael," she said. "Promise me you won't tell anyone what's wrong with the baby."
She touched his hair but he frowned and pushed her hand away. "You know, it's not easy for me either."
She shuddered, drawing her hand over her swollen belly. Inside my body, my husband and I have created an abomination. In primitive times such a baby wouldn't be allowed to live. Probably the mother, she thought, wouldn't be allowed to live either. Maybe her mate would have killed her. Even twins—normal twins—were put to death because only animals had litters, so the mother must have mated with an animal. Did Michael know what they'd created? Did he have any idea?
"Michael," she said, "will you promise me please?"
It hadn't moved for several days, maybe longer. But the baby had never moved much anyway. She didn't want to bother Michael so she distracted herself, painting the baby's room, going to all the fitness and pre-natal classes. Still, when her father had greeted her over the phone with his proud, "Hello, Mother!" she had to protest. "Dad, please don't say that. I'm not a mother yet."
Why didn't she tell Michael then that she felt something was wrong with the baby? She knew all the things that could go wrong. It had annoyed her when friends said how well it was growing. When some would pat her belly and laugh. And wasn't it just like the doctor, when he couldn't find the heartbeat—three days ago at her regular eighth month check-up—to jiggle her belly, to say jokingly to the baby, "Wake up!" Finally, though, he'd given up, sent her for an ultrasound . . . .
The baby had been her idea. When they were talking about having it in their second year together, Michael was uncertain.
