Crossings

CROSSINGS

Copyright © 1979 by the Estate of Betty Lambert

Introduction copyright © 2011 by the Claudia Casper

Second edition: 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

ARSENAL PULP PRESS

Suite 101, 211 East Georgia St.

Vancouver, BC

Canada V6A 1Z6

arsenalpulp.com

This publication is made possible with support from the City of Vancouver’s 125th Anniversary Grants Program, the Office of Vancouver’s Poet Laureate Brad Cran, and the participation of the Government of Canada.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada (through the Canada Book Fund) and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.

Cover photograph by Herb Gilbert

Printed and bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

Lambert, Betty, 1933-1983

Crossings / Betty Lambert.

Originally publ.: Vancouver : Pulp Press, 1979.

Issued also in electronic format.

ISBN 978-1-55152-427-6

I. Title.

PS8573.A385C76 2011 C813’.54 C2011-904107-3

Introduction

by Claudia Casper

Betty Lambert’s only novel is utterly contemporary, utterly shocking, razor sharp (I swear you can cut yourself while reading this book), and as original and controversial as the day she ripped the last sheet of paper from her typewriter and laid it on top of the manuscript.

Crossings re-entered my life when the wry firebrand Anakana Schofield, a Vancouver writer and critic with an avid interest in the city’s working-class literature and labour history, invited me to join other writers to read at an event at the Vancouver Public Library in December 2010. Anakana, with the sharp eye of a literary immigrant from Ireland, was wandering the VPL’s Canadiana reference section when she found a mention of Crossings and became intrigued. She found a copy and was bowled over by the passion, complexity, and commitment of Lambert’s writing and the fact that she did not turn away from depicting the difficult stuff.

When she spoke of the novel, Anakana was astonished by how few people had even heard of it. She decided to organize the VPL event, called "Crossings: A Return." During the evening, writers Annabel Lyon, Renee Rodin, Juliane Okot Bitek, myself, and Anakana and performance artist Lori Weidenhammer read from their favourite passages, and Lambert’s sister, nephew, and daughter spoke movingly and stirringly about the woman they remembered and had lost much too early at the age of fifty.

Now Crossings has been chosen as one of ten books reissued in 2011 in honour of Vancouver’s 125th birthday, and at last this masterpiece will get the chance to take its proper place among the important literature of the twentieth century.

The city of Vancouver that plays a starring role in Crossings was a rough-edged port town with a resource-based economy and home to beatniks, heroin addicts, and slacker businessmen who skied or sailed in the afternoons. It was a pre-Expo Vancouver, when real estate prices were not the city’s primary meme and False Creek was not yet a cluster of condo glass. You could still scare yourself looking down at the ocean through knotholes in the wooden sidewalk of the Cambie Street Bridge, and when you glanced to the east, you saw the sign for Sweeney’s Barrels and great piles of peeled logs stacked dockside. Gastown’s steam clock had not been installed, and bars still had separate Ladies’ entrances and covered windows to hide the shameful activity of imbibing alcohol.

When Lambert wrote her novel the first generation of women for whom the pill was available from the onset of puberty was sexually active. Anti-war protests were taking place under the banner Make Love Not War, a slogan whose meaning expanded to include the conflicts of race, gender, and class. Feminism and sexual liberation were hitting their stride, yet sexual assault, rape, spousal abuse, sexual harassment, and inequality flourished. Fierce, brutal, often silent struggles were going on between the genders, and class conflict sometimes played out between men and women so that the wounds of class and the wounds of gender became morally entangled—pain and confusion abounded among the daisies and the guns and the long hair. In September 1975, Pat Lowther, the gifted Canadian poet and University of British Columbia instructor who had just submitted her latest collection of poems, A Stone Diary, to Oxford University Press, was murdered in North Vancouver by her husband. Lowther’s publisher was a friend of Lambert’s, and it seems likely Lambert would have known her and certainly known about her murder.

I arrived at Pulp Press in 1980, a young woman who had moved to Vancouver from Toronto with the pure but inchoate intention to write. By then Betty was the writer who had made the big time; the US edition of Crossings had been published by Viking in New York, and her plays were being produced by numerous theatre companies. Meanwhile, the contradictions of that era played out in the offices of Pulp. I do not describe the situation with blame. It was a time of sudden change; we were all reaching for new social ideals and hopes while anchored by the society we were born into and weighed down by our own ignorance and human limitations. The culture at Pulp Press was a culture of men. They were the writers and artists, the movers and shakers, and the deliverers of the most, and frequently the best, one-liners; they were also the ones who started, financed, and ran the press and who mostly made the final editorial decisions. And then there were the women: typesetters, editors, shippers, frequently also writers, often girlfriends and common-law wives; yet somehow we were more the audience than the actors. Also, amid all the drinking and chaos, there was physical violence against some of the women in relationships—it was known but not spoken of, left invisible and hush-hush in shadows, glanced at only when unavoidable. There was less vocabulary and social context for such actions then than now (there is still no precise vocabulary—wife abuse doesn’t cover girlfriends or women in more casual sexual relationships, yet the phenomenon is the same), and things are harder to see and talk about when we have inadequate language.

When I finally read Crossings in the mid-’80s I was astonished at the clear-eyed, brave precision of Lambert’s understanding of the desire for self-annihilation, the potency of sexuality linked to it, and her scalpel-like ability to deconstruct the subtextual aggressions of class and culture. In Crossings, class and gender are fully weaponized. Lambert’s story of a mutually destructive, erotic affair between a writer, Vicky, and Mik, an ex-con and logger (You can’t destroy me. I’ve been destroyed by experts) is unflinchingly non-judgmental as it tracks their protracted chess game of physical violence, intellectual superiority, and emotional dominance.

Betty Lambert was born in Calgary to a working-class family in 1933, during the Great Depression. My father died when I was twelve, Lambert wrote, and I was no longer working-class, I was welfare-class, and I was determined to get out … Writing was a way out, but soon it became more than that, it became a necessity. She wrote more than sixty plays for radio and stage, produced to enthusiastic acclaim in Vancouver, Toronto, and New York, as well as dozens of stories. She was also a knowledgeable, energetic, and generous professor of English at Simon Fraser University. She was a socialist with a cutting wit and deep moral skepticism.

Lambert finished writing Crossings in 1976 or 1977 and was discouraged when the manuscript failed to find a publisher. She handed it to a friend, Brian Brett, who was about to retire from his partnership in the literary publishing company Blackfish Press, with the words, maybe you can find someone for it. Brett writes, "I was in love with Betty, though she was almost twenty years my elder. She was so good, so hot, so smart, and had been a power in the sixties, but was left behind. It was near criminal. She’d gone from being a honcho to not being able to find anyone to publish Crossings."

Brett interested Stephen Osborne, founder of Geist magazine and one of the early and most committed instigators of Pulp Press (later reincarnated as Arsenal Pulp Press, publisher of this book, under the new leadership of Brian Lam). Osborne drove out to Brett’s house in Tsawwassen one afternoon and, after much drinking of whiskey, a box containing the manuscript was produced from the depths of a closet. That night Osborne sat down at his kitchen table in Burnaby and opened the box with the intention of reading just a few pages, but he continued through the night, finishing the last page at eight o’clock the next morning. He realized he had just read a truly remarkable work.

Crossings was published in 1979 by Pulp and received a rave review by Canada’s top book critic at the Globe and Mail, William French, who wrote, "Rarely has the complex subject of male-female relationships been dissected with such skill and subtlety … Crossings is that rara avis, the kind of novel that makes you say, after the first few pages, now here’s a real writer." The novel was picked up by Viking in the US and released under the title Bring Down the Sun. Lambert’s career was on the rise again. In 1980 her radio play Grasshopper Hill won the ACTRA Nellie Award and a new stage play, Jennie’s Story, opened to a standing ovation at Toronto’s St. Lawrence Centre, won the 1983 Chalmers Canadian Play Award, and was nominated for a Governor General’s Award. In February of 1983, Lambert was diagnosed with lung cancer. After chemotherapy she went into remission for several months and managed to complete a new play, Under the Skin, before the discovery of a brain tumour. She died on November 4, 1983, blinded by three tumours and unable to speak because of pneumonia. Days earlier she’d written on a notepad, I want to write.

Biographical descriptions of Lambert’s life include the sound of a typewriter being worked furiously. She was driven to write—she was a woman with a fire inside and a lot to say at a time when women still were not expected to say much; were expected, if they did insist on using their voices, to entertain, to emote, to speak about women’s issues—love and child-rearing—but not about the desire to destroy, to annihilate the self, not about ethics and truth and the muddied waters of evil and good in which we all swim.

Lambert had not only the determination to write as a woman who thought and loved thinking (Crossings’ narrator is frequently criticized within the text for being too rational, cerebral, and philosophical), she also had the courage to write about the volatile, primal, reprehensible (to quote Jane Rule’s review) world of passion. Lambert’s writing about sex is superior to most writers’ and equal to any. The following passage describes Vicky midway between orgasms with Mik: I was under the sea at last, slippery and silk, silver and single, whole, not moving, as salmon do, resting in their element, gills moving imperceptibly, breathing. His sweat on my tongue. She writes devastatingly well about bad sex too: So. Benjamin Ferris poked it in one last time. Without a safe. Without consulting the little calendar, without a norform. He did it. Yes he did. Back and forth he went like a little man. Brave as brave. And ooops, here he comes, and he’s out and running all over the sheet.

The raw, wild, primal life-and-death world of sex and babies infiltrates the politically correct, cultured world of early yuppiedom and academia, while separate from both realms and rising above them is the perceptive, probing mind of Lambert’s narrator Vicky. Her cool voice, silently screaming like Plath’s, like Kathryn Harrison’s in The Kiss—the only way in which she truly exists is through her voice—anatomizes her libidinal participation in her own destruction.

The narrative structure of Crossings, daring and virtuoso in the author’s effortless handling of time, darts back and forth across the narrator’s life. Lambert uses fragments, repetition, recapitulation, and interruption, even ending paragraphs mid-sentence to contradict what has gone before. The narrative circles back around its story several times, like an anxious dog preparing to lie down.

Her main themes, honesty and truth, are even more relevant now than when she wrote the novel, given the wild explosion of plugged-in voices telling us facts and interpreting them for us. Lambert writes, I thought truth was something you could work out, like the logarithms upon which a slide rule is premised. I thought if you could once discover the base, you could work it out from there. I thought if I could ascertain facts, it would all come clear. Multi-dependent, multi-causal perhaps, but there in some solid and satisfying way. Lambert’s approach to her themes, along with her narrative structure and bold content, makes Crossings a contemporary novel. If I haven’t made it clear yet, let me say now—this is in no way an old-fashioned or musty book. It slaps you in the face and wakes you out of your trance while pulling you deeper into the author’s.

What kind of truth is possible given the unreliability of memory and the constraints of point of view? Vicky is haunted by the inaccuracy of memory, often correcting and changing what she has already written, sometimes with a straight-up correction, sometimes ironically, with a sly, double-edged wit. For example, when a psychiatrist asks Vicky about her hysterical pregnancy, "You do realize, Mrs Ferris? You do know you’re not having a baby?’ she replies, ‘Yes, I realize.’ I wished he wouldn’t smoke. It was bad for the baby."

Lambert wrestles with language, psychology, and philosophy and gives us lovely meta-textual moments by having other characters correct or contradict the narrator and accuse her of dramatizing, fictionalizing, inventing, dreaming, of having hypnagogic spells.

The seventh version.

‘The unity of plot does not consist, as some suppose, in its having one man as its subject. An infinity of things befall that one man, some of which it is impossible to reduce to unity.’

‘Vicky always dramatizes,’ says my mother. ‘Must you always dramatize?’

Francie said, ‘But you lied!’

Jeff says, ‘You have fictionalized your whole life.’

…

Sister Mary Joseph says, ‘You have always been obsessed with truth.’

The Nut Lady [Vicky’s psychotherapist] said, ‘Why did they tie your hands to the crib?’

‘Because I bit my nails.’

‘Why?’

Lambert was an intelligent, passionate, profound, potent and complicated writer, yet she was also delightfully irreverent, funny, and down-to-earth. "When they ask me later if I have been influenced by Bach, in the fugue-like contrapuntal technique, I want to say, ‘Actually, it was I Love Lucy.’"

The main difficulty in writing an introduction to this novel is that I want to quote every line to you. Better just to let you indulge in this killing, brilliant, and raw novel, the crime of its near oblivion put right by Arsenal Pulp Press and the city of Vancouver’s 125th anniversary.

Crossings

I TOOK THE CATS and flew up to the island. All the time I was getting ready to go, packing, neatly, like a lady, I felt frozen. As if the trembling had frozen into a single shrieking note, high-pitched on a violin, so high that no one could hear, only the mad dogs of the universe.

And I moved calmly, neatly, precisely, like a lady, a small poised smile on my face, cold with that shriek of terror. I was putting myself in his hands. I was going to his territory. I was going beautiful, a sacrifice.

‘You can’t destroy me,’ he had said. ‘I’ve been destroyed by experts.’

I rounded up the cats and put them, yowling, into the big Mexican basket. I put my typewriter in the case. I took enough paper for the last story.

The big plane flew low over the water and we came in. This was the end of the world but there was still another plane to catch. When the man opened the luggage compartment, Peter spat at him. He had gotten out of the Mexican basket. Sally and Lolly were still inside, huddled, afraid, frozen. But Peter was enormous, puffed out to twice his size with indignation. ‘I’ve got a tiger in my tail,’ said the man and everyone laughed. I laughed too, and gathered Peter up, stroking him, saying, ‘It’s going to be all right. It’s all right, it’s going to be all right.’

I found a taxi. He seemed to know all about it. We drove to the sea. I went down the ramp as if it were the most normal thing in the world. There was a man in a hut, at the bottom of the ramp. A little hut with calendars and a telephone. I hired the man to fly me to the island, as if it were something I had done every day of my life. I had just locked the door and walked away, leaving all my things, the fake Sarukhan rugs, the Renoir reproduction, all my stories, the bills that were going to come through the mail slot. I had walked away, as other people did, as Mik had done all his life. A shriek of freedom in my head. So this was what it was, freedom. To walk away and leave everything behind, to go to a man and say, Kill me.

A week before I had phoned him. It was a radio telephone and he had to take the call in the cookhouse. Everyone in the cookhouse could listen in. Everyone on all those lonely islands could listen in.

‘It was all sound and fury, signifying nothing,’ I said. But he didn’t understand.

‘What? What?’ he said, his voice strange and crackling through the lost northern air.

‘I’m not pregnant,’ I said. And everyone heard. He was humiliated.

The men went into the forest and the women stayed in the compound. It was forbidden to go into the forest if you were a woman. Once I climbed the road into the forest, the cats leaping in and out of the trees beside me, running ahead and then dashing back, suddenly elemental, or following me, as dogs do, then rushing away again, their tails fluffed absurdly, scuttering back to the forest and leaping at me, the prey, arched-back, stiff-legged, doing the sideways daring dance of Siamese. I walked up into the forest until I saw them, the men, in their great yellow machines, grunting and roaring, tearing at the earth, ripping and gouging. I hid behind a tree and watched them, men alone in their secret world, and I was afraid. Men engaged in their mysterious rites, tearing great holes in the earth.

The ground shook beneath them. I felt the shudder in the tree I was hiding behind. Like creatures from some fantastic world, the men moved, grunting, laborious, in metal helmets and thick boots. No one human could have such large feet, it was impossible.

But that was later. Now I was going to the island, I was putting myself into his hands, great thick hands, hands that grasped you and brought you down, hands like weapons. Not fists. Nothing that looked like that could be called ‘a fist.’ A fist is small, with knuckles, the bones shine whitely through the skin. Thin and delicate. Mik’s hands were weapons.

‘You can’t destroy me,’ he had said. ‘I’ve been destroyed by experts.’

Sometimes at night I cry God, God, and before my mind can stop it, He comes and holds me. Over each nipple is a tattoo: one says Cream and the other says Coffee.

Later, that day in the forest, I crept away, unseen. I went back to the compound and had tea with the boss’s wife. She made doilies.

‘How do you get them to stand like that?’ I said. It was all mys­terious to me, the world of women. Women who wait in com­pounds for men. I belonged nowhere.

‘You starch them,’ she said.

They were curved and bowed into elaborate arches and scallops, and they were everywhere, on the backs of the chairs, on the back of the sofa, on the arms, on the radio, on the side tables, everywhere. In their centres were ceramic fish or ashtrays, bowls and figurines. They said ‘Campbell River, B.C.’ or ‘Victoria, B.C.’

But now the little plane is taking off. Inside it is wired. The chair I am sitting on is actually wired to the floor. Peter is yowling in the back. Lolly is mewing plaintively. Sally is stoic, resigned. I think, Held together with baling wire, just as the books have promised. This is ‘baling wire,’ and I am delighted to meet it at last. You never meet a brickbat, for instance.

‘But what is a brickbat?’ I said, nineteen and clever, all those years ago.

The old Marxists looked at me with scorn. But they never told me.

The world below us stretches deep and green and blue, miles of forest and sea and mountains. We thud through the great empty sky, and the white and the blue and the dark green ignore us. The man beside me is chewing a match. He drives the plane as if it were a car, as if it were nothing, as if every day he took someone like me to the island to be killed.

The wings go up on one side and down on the other. My stomach lurches, as if my body still cares for itself, as if it can still remember, and I am amused, as one is at a child who cries out in the dark. ‘There, there, it’s all right,’ but the child too will die, one way or another.

Like a swallow, we come down toward the inlet. The forest rises to meet us, alerted now. The sun glints sharply through the glass and the man curses, ducks his head. I am wearing my grandmother’s wedding ring. And here we are, an insect of wood and metal, moving calmly through gentle ripples to the dock.

Mik comes down the path to meet us. But he was not waiting. He must have heard the plane circling, but he is not waiting for us. He comes down the path now that I am on the dock. The man with the match hands out the typewriter, the Mexican basket, the suitcase.

Mik is filthy. Unshaven. Dressed in unfamiliar khaki and great tan boots. Even his face is grimy, streaked with grease. I know. He is so like me. I know everything. He wouldn’t clean up, he wouldn’t shave, he would not come down to the dock when he heard the plane circling in the sky. How could he? If he shaved, if he cleaned up, if he came running down, it would not be me. It would be someone else. I would not have come.

I don’t think he says anything to me. He goes ‘Hunh!’ and picks up the basket, typewriter, suitcase, managing them all easily. I don’t hear the plane leave. The world is deephued with gold from the dying sun, gathering now into navy blue shadows. We go up the dock, up the path. The stones are sharp under my elegant brown shoes. Alligator shoes, very expensive, someone gave them to me. Who? Oh yes. Barney. She said, ‘They hurt my feet.’ They hurt mine too, but I am so pleased to be wearing size five.

My hair is long now. And I am thin. I am small and thin and elegant in expensive clothes and alligator shoes.

Mik moves silently a little ahead of me, thick and silent, not looking back. It is time for the sun to go down. Now we are passing a large open shed. A man is working there. A Japanese. Caught in the last golden flash like a man on the stage. He straightens up, sees us, does a double-take.

Mik laughs. His great thundering laugh.

The first time I ever saw Mik, he did a double-take too, but then it was on purpose.

It is comical, this double-take, as if the Japanese has meant to do it, as if he saw at a glance the joke about us. But he hasn’t meant it, he has just done it.

We have to cross a log bridge to get to the house. And the house itself is on logs, almost in the bed of the stream, only feet away from the lagoon. It is in deep shadow now, the house. I am to learn it is in deep shadow all the time. Morning, noon, and night. From the mountains and the forest. In the lagoon, jellyfish float lazily. Like blobs of semen slowly disintegrating.

Mik says, ‘You can’t swim there. They get on you.’

There is tarpaulin on the floor. Bleached white. Mik must have poured gallons of Javex on it, but he says, ‘No, Dutch Cleanser.’ It is powdery beneath my shoes.

‘I chunked the joint out,’ he says.

There is a door.