As the old folks would say

by Hubert Furey

  September is always a beautiful month in Newfoundland, but that year it was exceptional, with clear sunshine and a warm southerly wind every day, and I would pause to absorb the heat of the sun, brilliant on the horizon over the Southside Hills, or to watch the morning mist lie sluggish and heavy in the valley before being dissipated by the advancing heat of the day.

  It was one such morning that I first saw her.

  The houses were close, almost adjoining, and as I squinted in the direction of the adjacent veranda to avoid the blinding sun, she came within my view. She was sitting in a faded wicker rocking chair, her knees drawn up and her legs bent in the direction of the veranda railing, where her slippered feet rested. This slumping posture caused the chair to tilt backward precariously, but she seemed unaware of the danger of falling.

  Her hands held a book which was cradled between her knees, and her body was motionless, except for an occasional movement of her head as she followed the turning of the pages. I did not notice it then, but I remembered after that she did this with a violent hand motion, the harsh slapping of the pages contrasting sharply with the murmuring blend of sounds that made up the autumn morning.

  Her long, tangled auburn hair, which she repeatedly swept back with an impatient gesture, kept swirling around her face in the morning breeze. She did not look at me, or give the least indication that she was aware of my presence, or of my immediate and sudden fascination with hers, even as I gazed directly at her. She remained absorbed in the book, oblivious to the fact that she had been the object of my total attention since I first stepped into the morning sunshine.

  The appearance of other students hurrying down the street alerted me to the risks of lagging, and I effected a pretend glance at my watch before hastening down the steps to begin my day of classes.

  * * * *

  I saw her every morning after that.

  She was always reading, her slumped posture doing no justice to the youthful shape of her body, which was so apparent the occasional times I saw her stand. At such times she would stretch languidly, or lean over the veranda railing, her arms straight, her hands gripping the railing for support.

  These times would last only moments, before she returned in a tired manner to the chair, slumping back into the same unmoving position with which I had become familiar. At times I saw her raise her head to stare intently at the Southside Hills, and I wondered, in my fanciful imagination, if some tragic memory or some deep yearning were the reasons for her gazing with such intensity.

  Once, while I was watching some children playing chase in the field across the street, she looked in my direction, but she gave no visible sign that she saw me or wished to attract my attention. She always appeared absorbed within herself, wrapped up in her own thoughts.

  She never smiled.

  * * * *

  None of this, of course, dampened my youthful ardour in the least.

  To my adolescent mind, she possessed all that was necessary for an impending friendship. She looked my age, she was pretty, and she lived next door. If anything, her brooding introspection merely deepened the mystery of her personality, sweetened the joy of anticipation.

  I was still young and romantic in approach, and surface and appearance were all that mattered. The absence of recognition or conversation on her part never presented itself to me as unusual. I could dismiss it as nothing more than a temporary, fleeting aspect of our beginning together: an obstacle to be overcome in the present, to become a laughable memory in the future, once friendship had taken root, and words and caresses had become ready expressions of uninhibited feeling.

  One day, one time, there would happen that chance moment, and there we would be, holding hands, adoring one another in conversation or silence, experiencing the delight of closeness, like all the great literature of love described it. In the meantime, it was only a matter of patience, of dutifully maintaining life’s routine until that overpowering moment had arrived, when the metaphoric ice would be broken, and she and I would laugh about those mornings in the past when never a word passed between us.

  One could still, like the great lovers of history, admire from a distance, see the sun’s rays turn auburn hair to a burnished copper; or linger just one more illicit moment to enjoy the fullness of her tempting body, clad in the loose-fitting white sweater and grey slacks she always wore.

  * * * *

  I never wondered about the sadness that seemed to be her daily companion, or the shadows that hid her eyes, the rare times they were raised in my direction. I was never curious about her presence every morning on the veranda, or the fact that she was always there before I came out, even when mornings were beginning to take on the sharp chill of the oncoming fall. Neither did I consider it strange that her continuous reading, of book after book, gave her little apparent enjoyment.

  I never questioned anything about her.

  I was young, I was attracted to her, and that was all that mattered. My most pressing problem was to discover a way to end this daily ritual of observing, passing, and longing, and replace it with one that included walking together, and talking and going to movies at the Paramount Theatre.

  It never occurred to me that she wasn’t the least bit interested in me. If anything, the unrecognized rejection on her part formed just another part of that mystery surrounding her presence, a mystery which was drawing me inexorably on.

  * * * *

  The opportunity finally presented itself one afternoon toward the end of September. That morning she had been absent from her usual position in the wicker chair, although the book she was reading lay face down, divided at the spot where she had discontinued reading.

  She must have been out before me, but had found some reason to go back in. I had become so used to seeing her the first thing in the morning that I was totally unprepared for the fact that she wasn’t there, and I searched for excuses to linger.

  I fumbled with my briefcase, lit a cigarette—though I rarely smoked that early in the morning—and even pretended to re-enter the house as if I had forgotten something, to give her time to re-emerge, to see her again as I had seen her every day during September.

  I slowly descended the steps one by one, aware that I was running the risk of missing the bus and being late for class, but to no avail. She did not reappear.

  Her absence, to my surprise, disturbed me, its unexpectedness contrasting so starkly with the consistency of her daily appearance. It was totally inexplicable, and my youthful imagination gave rein to every conceivable fanciful explanation on the way to the university and throughout the day.

  I was distracted for the first time ever during lectures, something my disciplined approach to study would never have permitted up to this point. Her absence that morning was still fresh in my mind as I stepped off the bus on LeMarchant Road and headed down the adjacent street for my return home, filled with dismay that the day had begun so badly.

  You can imagine my youthful exhilaration as I turned the corner toward my boarding house to come upon her in full view in the afternoon sunlight. She was not reclining in the wicker chair reading, but was sitting on the steps in front of the veranda, absent-mindedly playing with a long straw of hay which she continually twirled between her fingers, her eyes focussed on the movements of a massive-looking boxer dog that growled menacingly as it played with a discarded tennis ball on the opposite side of the street.

  * * * *

  My legs slowed, and I felt as if I were pushing my body along. My heart was pounding in my chest, its agitated movement fuelled by the inner excitement which was beginning to surge through me. I would be really close to her for the first time.

  I would have to pass directly in front of her, and the long-awaited encounter would happen, regardless of any inhibitions deriving from my want of courage. The anticipated moment had arrived. Common courtesy would dictate that we speak, a
nd the rest would take its course.

  In retrospect, I suppose I could have taken an entirely different course and walked on the other side of the street to avoid an encounter with somebody whom I should have known had not the slightest interest in me, but, after all those mornings of maddening speculation, it simply could not go on any longer.

  I desperately wanted to meet her.

  Besides, the other side of the street was under the unquestionable control of the dog, who had ceased playing with the ball when I came upon the scene, and was eyeing me as if he were hoping I would provoke him into some legitimate retaliation. I instantaneously concluded that whatever the emotional risks of meeting with the unfathomable mistress, they were infinitely inferior to the physical risks of a losing confrontation with her dog.

  As I rapidly approached the inevitable encounter, I was by turns apprehensive and resolute. This was the very moment for which I had waited and hoped for three weeks. One smile, one “good day” in the Newfoundland fashion, one meaningless comment on the weather—under any circumstances an absolute guarantee of conversation in Newfoundland—and it would begin.

  The split-second recognition of each other’s presence would overcome forever the gulf between us, and bring us both into a whole new world of thoughts and feelings. Whatever happened after that would be, as it says in the marriage ceremony, in the hands of God. What was imperative now was the beginning. I moved directly in front of her with baited breath. The very next second contained the rise or fall of my emotional career.

  * * * *

  She didn’t even look.

  I had passed directly in front of her, making it impossible for her to avoid seeing me, and she did not give the slightest indication that I existed. True, her line of vision was broken for an instant, but neither by facial expression or bodily gesture did she acknowledge my presence. She continued twirling the straw of hay between her fingers, staring blankly at no particular point in the distance, her eyes still focused on the dog.

  I was dumbfounded.

  Not a word had passed between us. We were like two ships passing in the night, unaware of each other’s movements, giving no signal, expressing no wonder, uttering no query about the harbour ahead or the storm behind. The meeting on which I had placed such hope and expectation, around which I had woven such dreams and fantasies, had not even taken place.

  As I walked away, my feelings of pending excitement changed to feelings of confusion and hurt. I wanted to strike back, to hurt her in return. I wanted to lash out with some sharp, cutting statement, some biting insult, to bring her down from what I perceived to be her distant, lofty, superior perch.

  * * * *

  Then she spoke. Or rather she called, in a quiet voice that was clear and commanding.

  “Come here, Handsome!”

  This sudden new turn of circumstance jolted me, exceeding my wildest expectations. I was instantly returned to my earlier feelings. Not only was I being noticed, but noticed for the most singular characteristic which the young male adolescent considers of paramount importance . . . his appearance.

  Granted, I had only ever heard it used this way in a jocular fashion, when girls wanted to attract men in a teasing, provocative manner, but I was beyond analysis at that point. She had spoken to me, and that was enough.

  I was giddy with joy, delirious with the thoughts of triumph and achievement. That moment, the moment of joyous encounter, the moment which would herald the beginning of a whole new world between us, had finally arrived. But, I could not be compulsive, out of control, immature. She must see me as restrained, with composure.

  I had gone the whole gamut of emotions. Moments before I had been excited and expectant, only to be thrust into confusion and despair. Now I had been raised again to the very heights of exhilaration and ecstasy.

  I turned to face her, to look for the first time into her eyes, to see unobstructed that paling complexion beneath the flowing auburn hair. I tried to be as nonchalant as I could.

  “You called me.”

  The intent was firm, but my voice was raspy, and I tried to give my eyes that strong, set look, like the self-confidant heroes in the movies. Her eyes still retained their vagueness, but already that vagueness was slowly giving way to puzzlement as she attempted to grapple with my response. Then her face, which had always looked taut and tense, softened, and a warm smile formed on her lips, the first I had ever seen.

  * * * *

  She looked at me for what seemed a long time before she spoke, her face betraying uncertainty as to how she should reply in return. When she did, it was in a halting manner, each word gently measured to soften the harsh effect of its content, knowing there was no way to eliminate the devastating impact of her answer.

  “I . . . I . . . was just . . .” She stammered, trying to find the right tone for the words. “I . . . was just . . . calling my dog. That’s his name.”

  The last words were blurted out, tumbling over one another, apologetic. Embarrassment overcame me, and I must have been as red as the ore dust we used to see on the Bell Island cars.

  But she didn’t laugh.

  Standing before her was an emotionally helpless, emotionally naked human being, a silly adolescent fool . . . and she didn’t laugh. It was in her power to destroy me at that moment, to snicker derisively or lash out with some curt, clipped, demeaning sentence.

  She didn’t do any of that.

  In an instant she had grasped the reality of my situation, the crushing embarrassment of the devastated adolescent; and she didn’t laugh. She could not be that cruel.

  “What’s yours?” she asked quickly. “I’m Mona Collins.”

  * * * *

  For the first time I looked into her eyes, but they were no longer blank and vague. For the first time I saw the real person—the sensitive, compassionate person—behind them.

  The sadness had disappeared, the marks of whatever tragedy or painful experience totally dissipated. The soft, understanding eyes, glazed into indifference by too much of whatever her sensitive nature could not withstand, were now beseeching, imploring mine to glimpse the unbelievable coincidence of the events that had taken place; to overcome the feelings of self-hurt and embarrassment, to see beyond the pain of a momentary misunderstanding.

  They begged me to see the humour amid the hurt and confusion, to go beyond the trivial and the transitory to the greater richness of life experience; to laugh at the comical, to reserve the times of suffering for real pain.

  Then she did laugh. Not in a hurtful way, not in a way that would add misery to my already miserable situation. It was the laughter of healing, the laughter of understanding, the laughter of life.

  Her eyes laughed first, and her face glowed, challenging the brightness of the afternoon sun. The laughter infected her whole being, the gentle convulsions of her body creaking the wooden step on which she sat. Even the boxer relaxed his hold on the tennis ball and blinked uncomprehendingly at the sudden change in the atmosphere of the afternoon.

  It was not the laughter of contempt or belittlement; it was the laughter of joy, of release, of oneness with the vibrant pulse of life around her. She was hurling defiance at whatever demons of the past or future had been tearing at her soul, her spirits soaring for one brief moment, unconquerable. The rustling of the trees mixed with the sounds of the street to join in chorus, acclaiming in unison with her:

  “I cannot be destroyed. I can be free. I am a person.”

  * * * *

  I became aware that I was laughing, too: laughing and transcending. I was laughing with enjoyment, forgetting the misery of silliness I had just experienced, transcending the ridiculous and the superficial.

  I had grown a lot in a few minutes.

  I had waited so long to know her, but in such a trivial sense. Now I was truly knowing her, knowing her for her compa
ssion, her sensitivity, her understanding. My own emotional clumsiness had placed me totally within her power. With one cold, haughty glance, one sarcastic, cutting remark, she could have destroyed me, defenceless in my immaturity.

  Yet in an instant she had chosen to extricate me from a predicament of my own silly making. She must have suffered, or was suffering. All the signs of her exterior person pointed to that. Yet, instead of the retaliation of bitterness, there could still be awakened gentleness, mercy, and humour. In an instant of life she had revealed to me the true nobility of woman.

  I would carry that moment with me forever.

  * * * *

  We parted laughing, and I left the scene to mount the steps to the house, leaving her alone with the gambolling dog. Before I entered, I turned once more to look in her direction. She had not left the steps, still absorbed in the playful activity of the big boxer, but even from that distance I could see her face again assume that cast of sadness with which I had earlier become familiar.

  I was perplexed, and I entered the house resolved to dispel the mystery of her mood the very next time I met her, now that the first insurmountable barrier had been hurdled. Perhaps I would engage her from the veranda first thing in the morning, or boldly call on her that evening after supper.

  Perhaps I should go directly back and begin where the episode had ended so happily—strike when the iron was hot, as they said. No, I reasoned, time must be allowed to pass to let the full impact of the first meeting take its course.

  There would be another day, another afternoon, another meeting.

  * * * *

  I never saw her again.

  I had my first major assignment to do during the night, and I waited impatiently for the morning to come. I hastily gulped my breakfast, to the smiling understanding of my old cousin, and practically ran outdoors, for that first wonderful look, but she was not there.

  Again I dawdled.

  I set down my briefcase, lit a cigarette, inhaled as I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare of the morning sun, but she did not appear. I could see the dog just beyond the corner of the veranda, but he looked mopish and confused, as if he had lost all interest in life. The tennis ball, with which he had been so engrossed the day before, lay on a storm grate undisturbed.