Running my fingers over the basket’s pinkish strips of shaved wood, I snapped out of myself long enough to add the finishing touches to that first picture, along with my John Henry. LEWIS, I stroked in, real careful. My hands were too tired to put in MAUD and the usual dot after it, but my last name would do. I got up off my chair and hobbled to the range and somehow made myself tall enough to reach up and shove the picture into the warming oven to dry. Stepping back, I staggered a little, almost reeled off my pins. What a scare that would have been, poor Ev coming home to find the door blocked, a body sprawled behind it. I steadied myself, turtled over to the daybed and stretched out.
I had no sooner got comfy, lying there with a smoke in my hand, when I heard a car draw up outside. Seconds later came the knock. It took me a while to get the door. It was a lady come to pick up the cat painting I owed her, the one of Fluffy all white and grumpy. She gasped when she saw me, like she was seeing a ghost—or maybe an angel, yours truly haloed with smoke, hands and apron properly dappled with green paint. Carmelita Twohig, she was, a spinster from up past Deep Brook somewhere, not too far away. She was a dried-up stick of a woman, a bearer of bad news, more often a tire-kicker than a buyer. A person more likely to rain on your happiness than smile upon it. The fire in the range had all but gone out, and Carmelita Twohig brought the cold in with her. Her eyes darted around in wonder—at my decorating, I suppose. Then she looked at me half miffed.
“You poor little dear. Where’s your man?” were the first things out of her mouth.
“My husband, you mean?”
With a single eye-swoop, my visitor took in the whole place. I was able to look up enough to see it. Her eyes came to rest on my apron. Perhaps the paint clashed with its pink rickrack trim? Carmelita was dressed neat as a pin in a green-and-black tweed coat, her hair done up like a bird’s nest. Her face was powdered and its surface seemed to crack as she spoke. Her voice was almost pained.
“He’s left you here? All by your lonesome? Well. Don’t take offence in my saying he’s a queer duck—he is a bit of one, isn’t he.”
“What?” I was gobsmacked at the gall of her to barge in then talk so uppity. I chuckled a chuckle that was strictly of the nervous kind. Carmelita Twohig made it sound like Ev and me both owed her some sort of apology.
“Only duck I’ve got.” I only meant it as a joke.
The woman turned pink as the pickled beet juice stuck to a dish atop my magazines. She looked around for somewhere to sit—the nerve of her, uninvited. There was just my painting chair and Ev’s and the chair outdoors with my sign on it. After a full minute, she invited herself over to the daybed and plunked herself down.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said. Whatever your husband might be, it’s not my business. But if you need help—” Her pitying eyes raked me up and down as I backed onto and sank into my chair. I felt her gaze come to rest on my shins, where both stockings had slid down around my ankles. Stifling a wince, I bent and flipped through some paintings leaning like record albums against the table leg. My mind skipped back to the days when the wind-up phonograph had stood in that spot, to the wax cylinder we had played on it. It was years since our phonograph had died and that unknown person, bless their heart, had left us a radio. A radio was a lot finer company than a Carmelita Twohig could provide or would merit—though nothing could stand in for for that old record, or the old songs from the movies Mama and I had loved. But then that radio had brought me a world of music, country music I mightn’t have heard otherwise.
I still imagine the Hawkshaw Hawkins, Hank Snow, and Hank Williams records I’d buy if I could, and if they had a machine up here in the otherworld to spin them on. Then we’d be talking glory—cooking with gas, like you people say.
Carmelita’s eagle eyes fixed on me as I searched through the paintings. Thinking of my secretary buffered me some. I thought of the day she had found me by the road and helped me into the house. She’d paid no mind to the bucket by the stairs or the clutter, just helped me sit, fetched a hankie for me to wipe my nose on. I’d scraped both knees on the gravel, so she’d wet a cloth and dabbed them clean. The last time I’d felt such a gentle, kindly touch was when Mama was alive and I was still a girl—or maybe later, when I used to get my hair done.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs.—?” it hadn’t taken a lot of gumption to say to her.
“Oh. Call me Kay.”
“O-Kay. You can call me Maud.” Then we’d both laughed, me all dusty from the ditch and her dressed so nice, clearly on her way to town.
“Well, I won’t take no more of your time,” I’d said. “Didn’t mean to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all—the store’s not going anywhere. Would you like tea?”
Like I was a guest in my own house. “Only if you’re making it.” I’d laughed. “Only if you’ll stay and have some yourself.”
A far cry, that visit was, from the visit with the spinster-woman who sat before me now. Miss Carmelita Nosy Parker Twohig eyed me like there was no tomorrow. I couldn’t help but wonder what she had at home to make her act special. The look on her made me butterfingered. Her eyes were on my shin, a black bruise from a few days before when I’d bumped myself on the opened oven door.
“Yours is here, don’t worry.” Paint a picture of my leg, it might last you longer, I wanted to say, wishing she would quit her staring. “You wanted one with the white cat, right?”
“Nasty bruise. I don’t suppose you did that yourself.”
“No, a donkey jumped out an’ kicked me.”
The Twohig woman didn’t laugh, she had no sense of humour. Still she gawked, her eyes made that bruise burn. When I finally put my finger on her painting and handed it over, she looked stunned. She held the picture out, studying it. Her eyes had a shine I was used to seeing. A do-gooder’s self-satisfaction: pity with a pinch of guilt thrown in. The spinster lady opened her tidy black purse, took out two pink two-dollar bills, and laid them down atop the cookie tin I saved buttons in. Four dollars was the price Ev had agreed on quite a while back. I wasn’t about to haggle for one more dollar, have Carmelita Twohig eyeball me any longer than necessary. Since Ev wasn’t there, I took the bills and slipped them inside my blouse. It would have been nice if there’d been another dollar to go with the two. Never mind, four dollars was better than none. The bills felt shammy-soft tucked under my shirt, next to my bosom.
I dipped my brush in the turpentine, wiped it on a rag, hoped the woman would take this as a hint to shove off. I just wanted her to git. But she was in no hurry to.
“You should have that bruise looked at. If there is anything I can do to—”
Avoiding her eyes, I made my voice humbug-sweet: “Now why would a body need your help?” I wished I hadn’t let her in, wished Ev had never taken her order. “All right. It wasn’t a donkey kicked me, it was the range that jumped out and did it.”
“Good heavens.” She sounded flustered, impatient, when I was the one whose patience was being tested. Then she had the gall to say, “I don’t know why you defend him like you do. Everyone knows what he’s—” Her high and mighty voice trailed off.
If she had not been a paying customer, then and there I would have told her to git. I’d of sicced Joe on her. You aren’t married? I longed to say. Will no one have you? Though my heart frosted over at her rudeness, my voice melted through.
“I have got my reasons,” I said.
Miss Twohig hugged her purchase, looked away. “Ever think of doing dogs or roosters? Make a nice change. I mean, cats are best.” Then her eyes drifted to my hands—my left one, namely—and I glimpsed what she was thinking. Sure enough, she blurted out, “If he’s your husband, how come he never put a ring on your finger? If you’re not married to him, why put up with—?” She looked around and I saw where her gaze came to rest, on the chamber pot or whatever you prefer to call it. You could walk right out of here, what’s s
topping you? the woman’s eyes seemed to say. People do not need to speak to say the damnedest things. Now she looked mortified, at herself I hoped.
Proper thing, I thought. Must be nice, deciding for other folks what works for them and what doesn’t. So, just the once, I spoke up. “You ain’t married to him, why the interest?”
Clasping her purchase to her chest, Carmelita Twohig studied the mat that lay between our feet. You could still see the roses hooked into it, despite the wear. Then she opened up her purse again, took out a quarter, and planted it atop my table-tray. “For you.” Her voice was regretful, almost apologetic. “I hope you’ll spend it on yourself, and don’t spend it all in one place.” She gave a little laugh. Then, muttering her goodbye, she beat it outside, quick as lightning. I heard Willard and them cawing and flapping around, like crows do. Watching her go to her car, I saw two yearlings swoosh down past her head, Willard supervising from atop the mailbox till she got in and drove off. As they flew back up to roost in the trees I felt for the spinster’s bills, making sure both were safe. I set the quarter out where Ev would see it someday, maybe, next to his shaving brush.
By now it was near chilly enough to see my breath, yet my face burned. I kept thinking of how I should have answered the woman back. How I should have pointed out that I had painted more than my lion’s share of dogs, horses, oxen, and swans, not just cats and bluebirds. I wished Secretary had been there to set the woman straight.
Let me tell you, I was that glad when Secretary’s car pulled up soon after—like a gift from above, only ten minutes too late. She was coming from town, like I told you before, to pick up the orders and put them in the mail. She’d passed Ev on his bicycle a few miles up the road near Conway, she said, all in a rush. She pulled the pickles from her bag, mentioned she’d bought them at the Baptist church bazaar in Barton. She cut herself off. “Is something wrong, Maud? Gosh, are you okay? Is it Ev, something’s happened?”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Don’t mind me.” I smiled at her, and thought how in this neck of the woods, maybe in the whole of Nova Scotia, it was just a given that everyone knew everyone else, at least anyone who got around a-tall. I longed to complain to her about the Twohig woman. But, dollars to doughnuts, she and Carmelita Twohig were acquainted, or at least knew of each other.
I opened a tin with one last toffee in it, held it out to her. Like I said, folks talk. One person’s word against another spreads like wildfire, and just because Secretary was a helpmate didn’t mean she was above this. She wouldn’t take the candy. I slipped it onto my tray for later.
Secretary was also the type who didn’t sit still, always busy helping somebody out—I suppose it was the mother in her.
“Now don’t you fret about me, hear?”
Glancing over at the candy, she gave me the eye. “My, you look hungry. Could I fix you a bite to go with the pickles, before Ev gets home?”
I’d have liked that, I’d have liked her to stay for a spell, but we both knew she had best skedaddle before Ev arrived. “Well thanks. That’s nice of you. But you’ve done more than enough just stopping by. Don’t want to hold you up. We’ll enjoy your pickles, we sure will.”
Her eyes darted to the window. She was watching for him, I knew, anxious to grab the orders and be on her way.
“Can I offer you something for your trouble?” A card, an ashtray, a trinket of some sort, I meant, though I had none of these to give. And of course she would say no, she helped us out of the goodness of her heart. True to this goodness she shook her head, then hesitated.
“You can tell me, you know. Whatever’s on your mind. And what’s with those birds? Good Lord. Glad I’m not superstitious, ‘one crow sorrow’ and all that. Now, if something’s not right…you can trust me. I won’t say anything.”
“Ah, you got better things to do than listen to this old crow’s worries.” I gave a playful snort, glimpsed her smile. She had the kindest eyes, my secretary did. As she bit her tongue, I admired the string of pearls around her neck. The pearls gleamed like a person’s eyes in the gloaming of nightfall. “It’s just, well, someone was here asking why don’t I paint something else for a change. Something besides cats.”
“Pfft.” Secretary rolled her eyes. “Who was? Do I know him?”
“Her. Oh no, a tourist is all.” A tiny fib. White as Fluffy and just as harmless.
“Early in the season for those Uppity-Canadians-from-away, isn’t it.” She snickered, as amused by summer people as Ev and me were. “Like what, though? What did she mean, this ‘someone’? Is there something else you’d like to do?”
Fly to the moon? I thought, giving her question but a moment’s pause. I gazed out the window. “Crows. If I had more time, oh yes, I might like to try painting crows.”
“You’ve got plenty to draw from, that flock outside,” Secretary said, following my gaze. “They’re smart, crows, but not exactly cheery. They might be a little dark”—Secretary drew in her breath—“but, why the heck not? You paint ’em, I’ll post ’em. I don’t doubt for a second they’d catch on. Now, you’re sure there’s nothing I can fix for you?”
I shrugged and gave her a big smile. Leave it to my helper, she had boosted my spirits more than I could’ve hoped for. She smiled right back, gave me a hug, and before I knew it was on her way. The only signs she’d been there were the pickles in their jar and the shrunk-down stack of paintings.
4.
A Good Man is Hard to Find
Hours after my secretary left, dusk fell deep enough to justify lighting the lamp. The kerosene’s smell brought back memories of kids in school years ago, kids poorer than I could have imagined being back then, their hair slicked down dark with spirit to kill the nits. A smoky draft filled the lamp’s chimney, greyed its glow. I pined for company, not company you had to talk to but the company that was on the radio. Voices swooping in over the airwaves from as far away as Boston and, sometimes, if the radio and the airwaves were extra canny, from all the way down in West Virginia. But there it sat on the shelf, dead as a doornail.
Ev had tried replacing the batteries, but no dice. I could hardly remember the last time it worked. But I remembered clear as a bell the day the radio had appeared, just sitting there on the doorstep. Just like I remembered Secretary’s set-to with Everett, which happened pretty much at the get-go. Dropping in not long after my tumble in the ditch, she had bustled around and lit a fire to boil water, as Ev was off somewheres. First I had thought, what, she thinks she owns the place? Then I’d felt grateful. It felt a bit like having Mama come visit, if Mama could’ve returned from the grave. Except with this woman there was no need to explain. About Ev and me, I mean.
“My husband has known your husband quite a while” was as much as she would say, and that Ev was “a character.” But she had put me at ease, adding, “What man isn’t, behind closed doors? What goes on in the home stays in the home.” So she could see right off how things worked with Ev and me, seemed happy enough to leave it at that. This was a comfort, because I didn’t need someone coming in and rocking the boat. Marriage being a dinghy you don’t want to stand up too straight in, lest it capsizes.
She had gone ahead and rinsed out two cups, found the tin with the teabags. “You’re company, you shouldn’t be doing the work,” I said. Sitting in Ev’s chair, she’d sipped her tea, bright eyes smiling as she turned her head this way and that, admiring what-all I’d painted here and there.
“Well, there’s something else you and I have in common. We both love birds and flowers.” Her voice was warm as honey standing in sunshine. Tickled pink, I never asked what the other thing was we had in common. Being married, I guess. Blushing, I’d smiled into my teacup. Kept smiling as Ev’s boots disturbed the gravel outside and the door scraped open. Then there he’d stood, caught by surprise, me having company.
“This is Kay,” I’d blurted out before he could speak.
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br /> “I know who she is.” Ev had slouched over, scowling, and lifted the lid to find the teapot empty. “Well ain’t that sweet. Man of the house comes home and not so much as a cuppa for him.” My visitor had spoken right up. “If we’d known you were coming—” Setting down her cup, she had eyed me like she was that sorry for him getting riled up. “I was just driving by, Ev. Thought I’d check on Maud after that fall she took.”
“I bet you were. That’s Mr. Lewis to you. I reckon you’d best get back in your car and keep driving. There’s nothing wrong with Maudie, she don’t need your help.” I’d held my breath, braced for his “Now git.” Instead, he’d turned on his heel and left. My visitor had shrugged and shot me a curious look. Trembling, I’d listened to his footsteps fading. She’d patted my wrist, real gentle, and again I thought of Mama.
“Anything you need, Missus Lewis, you can call on me. I am happy to lend a hand.”
And I had thought, well isn’t that the ticket—finding yourself flat on your lonesome arse one minute, then having someone so kind and helpful over for tea the next. But then her voice sounded less like Mama’s than the teacher’s at school the year I had quit: “You must find the time long. It’s good you’ve got your painting to keep you occupied.” Then she’d asked, “But is there anything that could make your days more enjoyable?” I’d said my days were plenty enjoyable but since she’d asked, music—music would make nice company while I painted. But before she could answer, Ev had come thundering back in.
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