Selected Stories (14 page)

Sometimes Et had it on the tip of her tongue to say to Arthur, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She didn’t believe she was going to let him die without knowing. He shouldn’t be allowed. He kept a picture of Char on his bureau. It was the one taken of her in her costume for that play, where she played the statue-girl. But Et let it go, day to day. She and Arthur still played rummy and kept up a bit of garden, along with raspberry canes. If they had been married, people would have said they were very happy.

I
THINK
of my mother sometimes in department stores. I don’t know why, I was never in one with her; their plenitude, their sober bustle, it seems to me, would have satisfied her. I think of her of course when I see somebody on the street who has Parkinson’s disease, and more and more often lately when I look in the mirror. Also in Union Station, Toronto, because the first time I was there I was with her, and my little sister. It was one summer during the War, we waited between trains; we were going home with her, with my mother, to her old home in the Ottawa Valley.

A cousin she was planning to meet, for a between-trains visit, did not show up. “She probably couldn’t get away,” said my mother, sitting in a leather chair in the darkly panelled Ladies’ Lounge, which is now boarded up. “There was probably something to do that she couldn’t leave to anybody else.” This cousin was a legal secretary, and she worked for a senior partner in what my mother always called, in her categorical way, “the city’s leading law firm.” Once, she had come to visit us, wearing a large black hat and a black suit, her lips and nails like rubies. She did not bring her husband. He was an alcoholic. My mother always mentioned that her husband was an alcoholic, immediately after she had stated that she held an important job with the city’s leading law firm. The two things were seen to balance each
other, to be tied together in some inevitable and foreboding way. In the same way, my mother would say of a family we knew that they had everything money could buy but their only son was an epileptic, or that the parents of the only person from our town who had become moderately famous, a pianist named Mary Renwick, had said that they would give all their daughter’s fame for a pair of baby hands.
A pair of baby hands?
Luck was not without its shadow, in her universe.

My sister and I went out into the station, which was like a street with its lighted shops and like a church with its high curved roof and great windows at each end. It was full of the thunder of trains hidden, it seemed, just behind the walls, and an amplified voice, luxuriant, powerful, reciting place names that could not quite be understood. I bought a movie magazine and my sister bought chocolate bars with the money we had been given. I was going to say to her, “Give me a bite or I won’t show you the way back,” but she was so undone by the grandeur of the place, or subdued by her dependence on me, that she broke off a piece without being asked.

Late in the afternoon we got on the Ottawa train. We were surrounded by soldiers. My sister had to sit on my mother’s knee. A soldier sitting in front of us turned around and joked with me. He looked very much like Bob Hope. He asked me what town I came from, and then he said, “Have they got the second story on there yet?” in just the sharp, unsmiling, smart-alecky way that Bob Hope would have said it. I thought that maybe he really was Bob Hope, travelling around incognito in a soldier’s uniform. That did not seem unlikely to me. Outside of my own town—this far outside it, at least—all the bright and famous people in the world seemed to be floating around free, ready to turn up anywhere.

Aunt Dodie met us at the station in the dark and drove us to her house, miles out in the country. She was small and sharp-faced and laughed at the end of every sentence. She drove an old square-topped car with a running board.

“Well, did Her Majesty show up to see you?”

She was referring to the legal secretary, who was in fact her sister. Aunt Dodie was not really our aunt at all but our mother’s cousin. She and her sister did not speak.

“No, but she must have been busy,” said my mother neutrally.

“Oh, busy,” said Aunt Dodie. “She’s busy scraping the chicken dirt off her boots. Eh?” She drove fast, over washboard and potholes.

My mother waved at the blackness on either side of us. “Children! Children, this is the Ottawa Valley!”

I
T WAS
no valley. I looked for mountains, or at least hills, but in the morning all it was was fields and bush, and Aunt Dodie outside the window holding a milk pail for a calf. The calf was butting its head into the pail so hard it slopped the milk out, and Aunt Dodie was laughing and scolding and hitting it, trying to make it slow down. She called it a bugger. “Greedy little bugger!”

She was dressed in her milking outfit, which was many-layered and -colored and ragged and flopping like the clothes a beggarwoman might wear in a school play. A man’s hat without a crown was shoved—for what purpose?—on her head.

My mother had not led me to believe we were related to people who dressed like that or who used the word
bugger
. “I will not tolerate filth,” my mother always said. But apparently she tolerated Aunt Dodie. She said they had been like sisters when they were growing up. (The legal secretary, Bernice, had been older and had left home early.) Then my mother usually said that Aunt Dodie had had a tragic life.

Aunt Dodie’s house was bare. It was the poorest house I had ever been in, to stay. From this distance, our own house—which I had always thought poor, because we lived too far out of town to have a flush toilet or running water, and certainly we had no real touches of luxury, like Venetian blinds—looked very comfortably furnished, with its books and piano and good set of dishes and one rug that was bought, not made out of rags. In Aunt Dodie’s front room there was one overstuffed chair and a magazine rack full of old Sunday-school papers. Aunt Dodie lived off her cows. Her land was not worth farming. Every morning, after she finished milking and separating, she loaded the cans in the back of her pickup truck and drove seven miles to the cheese factory. She lived in dread of the milk inspector, who went around declaring cows tubercular, we understood, for no
reason but spite, and to put poor farmers out of business. Big dairy interests paid him off, Aunt Dodie said.

The tragedy in her life was that she had been jilted. “Did you know,” she said, “that I was jilted?” My mother had said we were never to mention it, and there was Aunt Dodie in her own kitchen, washing the noon dishes, with me wiping and my sister putting away (my mother had to go and have her rest), saying “jilted” proudly, as somebody would say “Did you know I had polio?” or some such bad important disease.

“I had my cake baked,” she said. “I was in my wedding dress.”

“Was it satin?”

“No, it was a nice dark-red merino wool, because of it being a late-fall wedding. We had the minister here. All prepared. My, dad kept running out to the road to see if he could see him coming. It got dark, and I said, ‘Time to go out and do the milking!’ I pulled off my dress and I never put it back on. I gave it away. Lots of girls would’ve cried, but me, I laughed.”

My mother telling the same story said, “When I went home two years after that, and I was staying with her, I used to wake up and hear her crying in the night. Night after night.”

Aunt Dodie sang this at us, washing the dishes at her round table covered with scrubbed oilcloth. Her kitchen was as big as a house, with a back door and a front door; always a breeze blew through. She had a homemade icebox, such as I had never seen, with a big chunk of ice in it that she would haul in a child’s wagon from the ice-house. The ice-house itself was remarkable, a roofed dugout where ice cut from the lake in winter lasted the summer, in sawdust.

“Of course it wasn’t,” she said, “in my case, it wasn’t the church.”

A
CROSS
the fields from Aunt Dodie on the next farm lived my mother’s brother, Uncle James, and his wife, Aunt Lena, and their eight children. That was the house where my mother had grown up. It was a bigger house with more furniture but still unpainted outside, dark gray. The furniture was mostly high wooden beds, with feather ticks and dark carved headboards. Under the beds were pots not emptied every day. We visited there but Aunt Dodie did not come with us. She and Aunt Lena did not speak. But Aunt Lena did not speak much to anybody. She had been a sixteen-year-old girl, straight out of the backwoods, said my mother and Aunt Dodie (which left you to wonder, Where was this?), when Uncle James married her. At this time, she would have been married ten or twelve years. She was tall and straight, flat as a board front and back—even though she would bear her ninth child before Christmas—darkly freckled, with large dark slightly inflamed eyes, animal’s eyes. All the children had got those, instead of Uncle James’ mild blue ones.

“When your mother was dying,” said Aunt Dodie, “oh, I can hear her. Don’t touch that towel! Use your own towel! Cancer, she thought you could catch it like the measles. She was that ignorant.”

“I can’t forgive her.”

“And wouldn’t let any of the kids go near her. I had to go over myself and give your mother her wash. I saw it all.”

“I can never forgive her.”

Aunt Lena was stiff all the time with what I now recognize as terror. She would not let her children swim in the lake for fear they would drown, she would not let them go tobogganing in winter for fear they would fall off the toboggan and break their necks, she would not let them learn to skate for fear they would break their legs and be crippled for life. She beat them all the time for fear they would grow up to be lazy, or liars, or clumsy people who broke things. They were not lazy but they broke things anyway; they were always darting and grabbing; and, of course, they were all liars, even the little ones, brilliant, instinctive liars who lied even when it was not necessary, just for the practice, and maybe the pleasure, of it. They were always telling and concealing, making and breaking alliances; they had the
most delicate and ruthless political instincts. They howled when they were beaten. Pride was a luxury they had discarded long ago, or never considered. If you did not howl for Aunt Lena, when would she ever stop? Her arms were as long and strong as a man’s, her face set in an expression of remote unanswerable fury. But five minutes, three minutes, afterwards, her children would have forgotten. With me, such a humiliation could last for weeks, or forever.

Uncle James kept the Irish accent my mother had lost and Aunt Dodie had halfway lost. His voice was lovely, saying the children’s names. Mar-ie, Ron-aid, Ru-thie. So tenderly, comfortingly, reproachfully he said their names, as if the names, or the children themselves, were jokes played on him. But he never held them back from being beaten, never protested. You would think all this had nothing to do with him. You would think Aunt Lena had nothing to do with him.

The youngest child slept in the parents’ bed until a new baby displaced it.

“He used to come over and see me,” Aunt Dodie said. “We used to have some good laughs. He used to bring two, three of the kids but he quit that. I know why. They’d tell on him. Then he quit coming himself. She lays down the law. But he gets it back on her, doesn’t he?”

A
UNT
D
ODIE
did not get a daily paper, just the weekly that was published in the town where she had picked us up.

“There’s a mention in here about Allen Durrand.”

“Allen Durrand?” said my mother doubtfully.

“Oh, he’s a big Holstein man now. He married a West.”

“What’s the mention?”

“It’s the Conservative Association. I bet he wants to get nominated. I bet.”

She was in the rocker, with her boots off, laughing. My mother was sitting with her back against a porch post. They were cutting up yellow beans, to can.

“I was thinking about the time we gave him the lemonade,” Aunt Dodie said, and turned to me. “He was just a French Canadian boy then, working here for a couple of weeks in the summer.”

“Only his name was French,” my mother said. “He didn’t even speak it.”

“You’d never know now. He turned his religion too, goes to St. John’s.”

“He was always intelligent.”

“You bet he is. Oh, intelligent. But we got him with the lemonade.

“You picture the hottest possible day in summer. Your mother and I didn’t mind it so much, we could stay in the house. But Allen had to be in the mow. You see they were getting the hay in. My dad was bringing it in and Allen was spreading it out. I bet James was over helping too.”

“James was pitching on,” my mother said. “Your dad was driving, and building the load.”

“And they put Allen in the mow. You’ve no idea what a mow is like on that kind of a day. It’s a hell on earth. So we thought it would be a nice idea to take him some lemonade—No. I’m getting ahead of myself. I meant to tell about the overalls first.