Alice Munro's Best (60 page)

But after a while other things did. The real adventures of the summer. The older girls – that included Sabitha – slept in the upstairs of the boathouse. Sometimes they had tickling fights – they would all gang up on someone and tickle her till she shrieked for mercy and agreed to pull her pajama pants down to show if she had hair. They told stories about girls at boarding school who did things with hairbrush handles, toothbrush handles.
Ugga-ugga.
Once a couple of cousins put on a show – one girl got on top of the other and pretended to be the boy and they wound their legs around each other and groaned and panted and carried on.

Uncle Clark's sister and her husband came to visit on their honeymoon, and he was seen to put his hand inside her swimsuit.

“They really loved each other, they were at it day and night,” said Sabitha. She hugged a cushion to her chest. “People can't help it when they're in love like that.”

One of the cousins had already done it with a boy. He was one of the summer help in the gardens of the resort down the road. He took her out in a boat and threatened to push her out until she agreed to let him do it. So it wasn't her fault.

“Couldn't she swim?” said Edith.

Sabitha pushed the cushion between her legs. “Oooh,” she said. “Feels so nice.”

Edith knew all about the pleasurable agonies Sabitha was feeling, but she was appalled that anybody would make them public. She herself was frightened of them. Years ago, before she knew what she was doing, she had gone to sleep with the blanket between her legs and her mother had discovered her and told her about a girl she had known who did things like that all the time and had eventually been operated on for the problem.

“They used to throw cold water on her, but it didn't cure her,” her mother had said. “So she had to be cut.”

Otherwise her organs would get congested and she might die.

“Stop,” she said to Sabitha, but Sabitha moaned defiantly and said, “It's nothing. We all did it like this. Haven't you got a cushion?”

Edith got up and went to the kitchen and filled her empty iced-coffee glass with cold water. When she got back Sabitha was lying limp on the couch, laughing, the cushion flung on the floor.

“What did you think I was doing?” she said. “Didn't you know I was kidding?”

“I was thirsty,” Edith said.

“You just drank a whole glass of iced coffee.”

“I was thirsty for water.”

“Can't have any fun with you.” Sabitha sat up. “If you're so thirsty why don't you drink it?”

They sat in a moody silence until Sabitha said, in a conciliatory but disappointed tone, “Aren't we going to write Johanna another letter? Let's write her a lovey-dovey letter.”

Edith had lost a good deal of her interest in the letters, but she was gratified to see that Sabitha had not. Some sense of having power over Sabitha returned, in spite of Lake Simcoe and the breasts. Sighing, as if reluctantly, she got up and took the cover off the typewriter.

“My darlingest Johanna –” said Sabitha.

“No. That's too sickening.”

“She won't think so.”

“She will so,” said Edith.

She wondered whether she should tell Sabitha about the danger of congested organs. She decided not to. For one thing, that information fell into a category of warnings she had received from her mother and never known whether to wholly trust or distrust. It had not fallen as low, in credibility, as the belief that wearing foot-rubbers in the house would ruin your eyesight, but there was no telling – someday it might.

And for another thing Sabitha would just laugh. She laughed at warnings – she would laugh even if you told her that chocolate eclairs would make her fat.

“Your last letter made me so happy –”

“Your last letter filled me with rap-ture –” said Sabitha.

“– made me so happy to think I did have a true friend in the world, which is you –”

“I could not sleep all night because I was longing to crush you in my arms –” Sabitha wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.

“No.
Often I have felt so lonely in spite of a gregarious life and not known where to turn –”

“What does that mean – ‘gregarious'? She won't know what it means.”

“She
will.”

That shut Sabitha up and perhaps hurt her feelings. So at the end Edith read out, “‘I must say good-bye and the only way I can do it is to imagine you reading this and blushing –' Is that more what you want?”

“Reading it in bed with your nightgown on,” said Sabitha, always quickly restored, “and thinking how I would crush you in my arms and I would suck your titties –”

Somewhat surprisingly, there was no reply to this letter. When Sabitha had written her half-page, Johanna put it in the envelope and addressed it and that was that.

WHEN JOHANNA GOT
off the train there was nobody to meet her. She did not let herself worry about that – she had been thinking that her letter might not, after all, have got here before she did. (In fact it had, and was lying in the Post Office, uncollected, because Ken Boudreau, who had not been seriously sick last winter, really did have bronchitis now and for several days had not come in for his mail. On this day it had been joined by another envelope, containing the check from Mr. McCauley. But payment on that had already been stopped.)

What was of more concern to her was that there did not appear to be a town. The station was an enclosed shelter with benches along the walls and a wooden shutter pulled down over the window of the ticket office. There was also a freight shed – she supposed it was a freight shed – but the sliding door to it would not budge. She peered through a crack between the planks until her eyes got used to the dark in there, and she saw that it was empty, with a dirt floor. No crates of furniture there. She called out, “Anybody here? Anybody here?” several times, but she did not expect a reply.

She stood on the platform and tried to get her bearings.

About half a mile away there was a slight hill, noticeable at once because it had a crown of trees. And the sandy-looking track that she had taken, when she saw it from the train, for a back lane into a farmer's field – that must be the road. Now she saw the low shapes of buildings here and there in the trees – and a water tower, which looked from this distance like a toy, a tin soldier on long legs.

She picked up her suitcase – this would not be too difficult; she had carried it, after all, from Exhibition Road to the other railway station – and set out.

There was a wind blowing, but this was a hot day – hotter than the weather she had left in Ontario – and the wind seemed hot as well. Over her new dress she was wearing her same old coat, which would have taken up too much room in the suitcase. She looked with longing to the shade of the town ahead, but when she got there she found that the trees were either spruce, which were too tight and narrow to give much shade, or raggedy thin-leaved cottonwoods, which blew about and let the sun through anyway.

There was a discouraging lack of formality, or any sort of organization, to this place. No sidewalks, or paved streets, no imposing buildings except a big church like a brick barn. A painting over its door, showing the Holy Family with clay-colored faces and staring blue eyes. It was named for an unheard-of saint – Saint Voytech.

The houses did not show much forethought in their situation or planning. They were set at different angles to the road, or street, and most of them had mean-looking little windows stuck here and there, with
snow porches like boxes round the doors. Nobody was out in the yards, and why should they be? There was nothing to tend, only clumps of brown grass and once a big burst of rhubarb, gone to seed.

The main street, if that's what it was, had a raised wooden walk on one side only, and some unconsolidated buildings, of which a grocery store (containing the Post Office) and a garage seemed to be the only ones functioning. There was one two-story building that she thought might be the hotel, but it was a bank and it was closed.

The first human being she saw – though two dogs had barked at her – was a man in front of the garage, busy loading chains into the back of his truck.

“Hotel?” he said. “You come too far.”

He told her that it was down by the station, on the other side of the tracks and along a bit, it was painted blue and you couldn't miss it.

She set the suitcase down, not from discouragement but because she had to have a moment's rest.

He said he would ride her down there if she wanted to wait a minute. And though it was a new kind of thing for her to accept such an offer, she soon found herself riding in the hot, greasy cab of his truck, rocking down the dirt road that she had just walked up, with the chains making a desperate racket in the back.

“So – where'd you bring this heat wave from?” he said.

She said Ontario, in a tone that promised nothing further.

“Ontario,” he said regretfully. “Well. There 'tis. Your hotel.” He took one hand off the wheel. The truck gave an accompanying lurch as he waved to a two-story flat-roofed building that she hadn't missed but had seen from the train, as they came in. She had taken it then for a large and fairly derelict, perhaps abandoned, family home. Now that she had seen the houses in town, she knew that she should not have dismissed it so readily. It was covered with sheets of tin stamped to look like bricks and painted a light blue. There was the one word
HOTEL
, in neon tubing, no longer lit, over the doorway.

“I am a dunce,” she said, and offered the man a dollar for the ride.

He laughed. “Hang on to your money. You never know when you'll need it.”

Quite a decent-looking car, a Plymouth, was parked outside this hotel. It was very dirty, but how could you help that, with these roads?

There were signs on the door advertising a brand of cigarettes, and of beer. She waited till the truck had turned before she knocked – knocked because it didn't look as if the place could in any way be open for business. Then she tried the door to see if it was open, and walked into a little dusty room with a staircase, and then into a large dark room in which there was a billiard table and a bad smell of beer and an unswept floor. Off in a side room she could see the glimmer of a mirror, empty shelves, a counter. These rooms had the blinds pulled tightly down. The only light she saw was coming through two small round windows, which turned out to be set in double swinging doors. She went on through these into a kitchen. It was lighter, because of a row of high – and dirty – windows, uncovered, in the opposite wall. And here were the first signs of life – somebody had been eating at the table and had left a plate smeared with dried ketchup and a cup half full of cold black coffee.

One of the doors off the kitchen led outside – this one was locked – and one to a pantry in which there were several cans of food, one to a broom closet, and one to an enclosed stairway. She climbed the steps, bumping her suitcase along in front of her because the space was narrow. Straight ahead of her on the second floor she saw a toilet with the seat up.

The door of the bedroom at the end of the hall was open, and in there she found Ken Boudreau.

She saw his clothes before she saw him. His jacket hanging up on a corner of the door and his trousers on the doorknob, so that they trailed on the floor. She thought at once that this was no way to treat good clothes, so she went boldly into the room – leaving her suitcase in the hall – with the idea of hanging them up properly.

He was in bed, with only a sheet over him. The blanket and his shirt were lying on the floor. He was breathing restlessly as if about to wake up, so she said, “Good morning. Afternoon.”

The bright sunlight was coming in the window, hitting him almost in the face. The window was closed and the air horribly stale – smelling, for one thing, of the full ashtray on the chair he used as a bed table.

He had bad habits – he smoked in bed.

He did not wake up at her voice – or he woke only part way. He began to cough.

She recognized this as a serious cough, a sick man's cough. He struggled to lift himself up, still with his eyes closed, and she went over to the bed and hoisted him. She looked for a handkerchief or a box of tissues, but she saw nothing so she reached for his shirt on the floor, which she could wash later. She wanted to get a good look at what he spat up.