A clock bongs rudely. Disappointment falls on my lap. “I have to leave,” I explain. “My ma will worry.”
“Come back again,” Mrs Scarpetta says as she rises and gives me a hug. The heat from her body warms me. Johnny walks me downstairs. When we get to the door, his right arm shoots out. “Stay there.”
He opens the door a crack before he goes outside and looks around. “It’s safe, come on,” he says when he returns to me. He grabs my hand and looks into my eyes. Is he going to kiss me? He moves in closer. I can smell the floral scent of his shampoo. His velvety lips brush my cheek. He whispers in my ear. “Run, there’s a war going on. Go through the bushes and you’ll be safe.”
Running with a belly full of gnocchi gives me cramps, but I run all the way home. When Ma asks me what I did all day, I say, “Nothing.”
The smell of beef stew drifts from the kitchen.
“Hungry?” Ma asks.
The stew doesn’t make my taste buds sing. I want more gnocchi. I also want to hear more of Mrs. Scarpetta’s stories. I feel as if I went to Italy. Our dining room looks dreary and small.
An odd sense of guilt forces me to eat heartily. This day holds many things, some I don’t even recognize. It’s one of the best days of my life. I vow never to call an Italian a wop. I never do, but I’m still at war most summer days, for it has nothing to do with prejudice. It’s just sheer fun.
Chapter 5
Presently, Marjorie’s face lies in wait. Scrunched tight, her freckles have a reddish tinge. I think of the Scarpettas. I want to tell Marjorie she’s the idiot. She tosses words around freely—words that ought to be locked away, for words that wound should be lost.
Children surround her. They give her strength and weaken me. Her razor-sharp tongue primes to shred my complaints. I don’t defend my Irish heritage and decency in general. I pretend I didn’t hear the name. I focus on my so-called ignorance, protecting my intelligence rather than defending what I know to be just.
“I know what a bastard is.”
Her shrill voice pierces my lie. She leans in closer to me. “Tell me what it means,” she hisses.
Eyes turn on me. It feels as if there are hundreds, but in actuality, there are no more than twenty. Anger triggers tears. The encounter must end. I hate how anger and frustration make me cry. I would like to jump up in defiance instead of crumbling into tears, but cruelty is part of our nature and always will be. How can you not cry? How can you not crumble into a protective ball? “I don’t have to tell you anything,” I snarl as I retreat.
I walk swiftly, but her triumphant voice pursues me. “A bastard is a kid who doesn’t have a father, and you, Marnie O’Sullivan, don’t have one, so you see, you are a bastard child.”
I am. The news shocks me. I keep walking.
Anger joins my step. I’m furious with my father. He let himself die and made a bastard of me.
Shame joins my furious march. Being angry with someone for dying must be a sin, if not in this life, then in the next.
The bell rings, sharp and insistent. Games, whispers, and taunts stop as everyone hurries to class. I sit quietly at my desk. The elastics of my knee socks dig into my calves. My white blouse and blue jumper feel stiff and scratchy. It’s appropriate, given I’m attending a Catholic school where standards sit higher than human nature to leave you guilt-ridden and prickly.
Sister Mary Theresa hands back tests. My stomach rolls in fear. It’s our math test. Mathematics is the only subject that strips my confidence and leaves me feeling stupid. The paper lands on my desk. I eye the grade and hide it. Marjorie, who sits across from me, receives her paper. Pride puffs her poop-sprinkled cheeks. Sister Mary Theresa stops. “Congratulations, Marjorie. It’s nearly perfect. Only one tiny error.” The black habit barely flutters past before Marjorie whispers, “What did you get?”
I ignore her. She wants to embarrass me. I rarely know the answer to questions with numbers. She knows this.
Marjorie lunges at the notebook containing the buried test. Her reflexes are quicker than mine are. The exchange ends almost before it begins. She tugs at the concealed paper, looks down, and beams with satisfaction. The large forty-two accompanied by the bright, red-circled F incites her to wave the paper above her head. “Marnie got another F!” she hollers. Laughter rings like a battle cry.
Why are some people warriors even when there isn’t a war going on?
Everyone joins in to giggle and share amused glances. For the life of me, I don’t understand why Marjorie is a leader. Heat burns my cheeks. It scorches deeper than my allotted F. If the world were fair, Marjories wouldn’t rule, nor would they have near-perfect papers.
Sister claps her hands. “We are beginning a new lesson. This is not the time for nonsense. Open your books to page fifty-six.”
The teacher’s instructions waft to become background noise. My daydream is so realistic, I startle as Ma barges through the door, stops the lesson, and demands that Sister Mary Theresa grab the well-worn leather strap she keeps in the top drawer of her desk and beat Marjorie silly.
When the day ends, I hurry home. Cooking smells and lemon polish greet me when I open the door.
“Ma!” My screech bounces off the walls.
Ma runs over to me, her face ashen. She grabs me and twirls me around. “Why did you yell like that? I thought you were hurt.”
“I am hurt, Ma.”
Ma bends down. “Where?”
“On the inside, Ma.” My mouth puckers until I see my bottom lip. “Marjorie Burton made a fool of me.”
Ma’s arms circle and hold tight. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”
“It is, Ma.”
“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me what happened.”
I head to the kitchen table. By the time I finish, I can barely talk. “And, and, and then she waved the paper over her head and all the children laughed as if she told a funny joke.”
Ma caresses my hair. Her touch is soft. “It was foolish laughter, Marnie. Ignore things done without thought.” Her fingers linger. “They’re always quickly forgotten.”
“But Ma…”
“Don’t let her hurt you. That’s what she wants.”
“But Ma…”
She holds up her hand. “That’s enough. Think of everything you have. You do well in every subject but one. You can’t be good at everything. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Ma disregards Marjorie and her evil deeds. She plants an image of me surrounded by exquisitely wrapped presents and grabbing for more. I’m no stranger to the image. I’ve entitled it “The Covetous Child.” Delivered telepathically, its goal is to prevent me from making verbal comparisons between what I have and what others are given. Greed is not a picture you care to study when you’re the one posing.
However, this day is different. I won’t give up. Mother has used her telepathic image once too often. Besides, this is not about greed or envy. Marjorie can become a mathematician for all I care. Determined to get my mother’s help, my rant persists. Ma steers the conversation from Marjorie to focus on me.
“Marjories come and go. You can’t control how others think and behave. Concentrate on your actions, not Marjorie’s.” It takes little prompting for me to agree with her. Victorious, she advances her position. She grabs my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You should feel sorry for her.”
I yank my hand away from the warmth of her grip. She’s asking too much of me. Contempt is all I feel for the youngest Burton. Mother’s suggestion of pity overwhelms. Tugged in opposite directions, I mumble the correct reply and trust that the conversation will end. “I’ll try, Ma.”
A downcast glance and the hastiness of my words override their content. She won’t be done with me until I believe the words I utter.
“Do you want to be filled with meanness?” she asks.
“No.”
“Do you want to be the sort to take joy in someone else’s misfortunes?”
“Of course not!” I cry. The
reverie of the strap reddening Marjorie’s hands swings back to embarrass me.
Hands on hips, Ma stands before me. “Do you now see why you should pity her? Do you understand the strength of compassion and the destruction of hate?” She grabs my chin in her hand and forces me to look into her eyes. “Hate can hurt you more than the person it’s aimed at.”
Comprehension swirls inside of me, not ready to lodge, but satisfied to explore its new quarters. Ma’s words are beginning to make sense. At least they do until the next day arrives.
I barely step into the schoolyard before Marjorie yells, “Hey, Johnny, do you know who loves you?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Marnie O’Sullivan loves ya.” Marjorie begins to sing.
Marnie and Johnny sitting in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love,
then comes marriage,
then comes baby in a baby carriage.
I want to die. I do love Johnny with all my heart. “You’re a dirty liar!” I scream.
Marjorie cackles and continues with her song.
Johnny’s liquidly milk-chocolate-coloured eyes stare into my heart. He scrutinizes my love with a knowing grin. I pray that death from embarrassment comes quickly. I close my eyes. Nothing happens. Left standing, my rage hits like a wave. It washes away something inside of me. I don’t know what it is, but I feel the loss.
Chapter 6
The train grinds to a stop. A red-haired woman, clearly distraught and accompanied by a boy no more than five years old, boards. They sit in the row across from me. The blonde-haired boy immediately begins to fidget.
“Sit still,” the woman says.
The boy’s face is transparent. Annoyance tightens his features. A touch of boldness dances in his green eyes. “I don’t want to go, Mommy,” he complains shrilly as he thrashes about.
His mother sighs deeply. “You don’t have a choice,” she answers dismissively.
An incensed glare lifts his cherub cheeks. He remains quiet for only a second before eager words rush out. “I want to stay with Sam and Jonathan. We’re supposed to go to the zoo. To see monkeys, Mommy, real monkeys!”
His mother stares ahead. His voice loses excitement and finds petulance. “Now I won’t get to. It’s not fair.” Arms cross and bottom lip juts. His mother snatches his arms and forces them to rest by his sides. She fusses with the material of his expensive blue suit. Her hand irons out wrinkles as his hands ball into fists.
Words sputter like acid. “There’s no such thing as fair,” the red-haired woman snaps. Unmindful of her green silk dress, she crosses her arms and frowns so deeply, lines intercept her face like a road map. The boy squirms as his face twists in displeasure. A nasty edge sharpens her tongue. “Stop it!” she orders. “There were things I wanted to do, too.” She roughly seizes his arms and forces him to remain stationary with a cutting glower.
The woman’s red hair reminds me of Marjorie. Isn’t it funny how the past is like the tide? It rises and falls and pulls us in certain directions.
I wonder if Marjorie Burton still lives in Farley Falls. If I see her, will I still despise her, or do emotions expire, leaving only lifeless memories in their wake? Marjorie no longer seems important. Perhaps she never was.
Chapter 7
Days are no longer Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. They become numbers. Daddy is dead three days, four days, five days… When two weeks pass, I trudge home from school. I open the front door. “Ma!” I yell.
Silence circles me. I approach the kitchen with trepidation. A white piece of paper rests on the wooden kitchen table.
Found job. Had to start right away. Be back a little after six. Look in fridge. You’ll find a special snack. Hope you like it. Things are looking up.
p.s. If you’re lonely, go visit with Mrs. Plante. She’d enjoy your company.
Luv, Mom
Ma is always home. Dazed, I open the refrigerator. A bottle of chocolate milk is at eye level. Four sugar cookies sit on a plate. Their perfect shape tells me that they’re from The National Bakery. Mom is many things, but meticulous she’s not. Her cookies are tasty but always misshapen.
I guzzle the chocolate milk from the bottle. I eat all the cookies, not wanting to enjoy how the juicy raisins compliment the crunchy cookie. Finished, I sit at the table and wait.
Aloneness hangs from me. It makes the house appear larger and drains it of personality. I can’t fill the dark corners, and the walls no longer embrace—they ensnare. Nonetheless, I’ll never be lonely enough to visit Mrs. Plante. I open my schoolbooks and struggle with my math homework. When a math problem frustrates, I think of my next-door neighbour and carry on.
Ma arrives home at six fifteen. Excitement affixes a blush to her cheeks. She married out of high school and never worked a day in her life. “I’m Wyman’s new cashier,” she announces. “Can you believe it?” She pulls vegetables out of the refrigerator and throws together a salad.
I stand beside her in utter silence.
She snaps a celery stalk from its tight bundle. “Our lives will change,” she says with a nonchalance that leaves me confused. “I almost forgot,” she trills as she rushes from the room. She comes back holding a Wyman’s paper bag. “I’ll be wearing this,” she says proudly as she snatches a uniform from the sack and holds it high.
It’s the ugliest thing I ever saw. It’s orange and shapeless, with its boxy top and baggy-looking pants.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I touch the material. Synthetic, it feels cheap and slippery. Our eyes meet. She looks as if she’s given me a gift, and I have to accept. “Orange suits you,” I say. “It brings out the colour of your hair and eyes. You’ll look very nice.”
“I think so, too,” Ma says with a smile. She grabs hold of me. “It will be exciting to work in a drugstore.”
My eyes drift to the clock. “Will you always come home so late?”
Her teeth find her bottom lip. “I have to work until six, and the walk home is at least fifteen minutes.”
“School lets off at three thirty.”
“I’ll think of something,” she promises.
Within a week, the dilemma is rectified. Ma asks my grandmother to move in with us. She accepts the offer.
Chapter 8
A horn honks to announce my grandmother’s arrival. She and all her possessions sit in a beat-up truck in our laneway. Ma runs to the front door and throws it open. I sit at the kitchen table and finish my breakfast.
Granny hired two men to help with the heavy work. They cart the furniture in while Ma and Granny point. Granny had lived in a tiny apartment. The men leave within the hour. The handkerchiefs dangling from their pants pockets remain untouched and dry.
Ma and Granny work until suppertime, rearranging everything until each of Granny’s possessions finds a spot. Chicken stew simmers on the stove. When Granny lowers herself into the kitchen chair, her deliberate movements tell me that her arthritis is acting up. She doesn’t complain. My grandmother is small like my mother, but she has large hands, long arms, and is surprisingly strong. She pulls her load. Ma sets a plate in front of her. “Looks good, Ellie,” Granny says with a smack of her lips.
Ma hands me my stew. I don’t say a word. Granny is sitting in Daddy’s chair. Since his death, I’ve managed to envision him sitting there daily. He has yet to miss a meal. Granny is crowding him, forcing him to vacate. I eat my stew deliberately. Hateful thoughts mix with the concoction, making it hard to swallow.
I shouldn’t resent my grandmother for living in our house. It isn’t her fault she has life while my Daddy doesn’t. I look into her wrinkled face and wonder why death chose to snatch my father while allowing her to grow even older.
I never gave death a thought until it showed up at our door. After that, I think about it a lot. How does it choose its victims? I don’t see rhyme or reason in its choices. Its motives are beyond reach. Whenever I can’t grasp something, I don’t give up.
I try harder. Not having answers frustrates me.
Too stubborn to admit defeat, I irritate myself by grappling questions that are difficult to answer. My mind imagines a pantry lined with answers to every question. Sometimes the answer you seek is on the top shelf, too far away to reach. Other times, you can’t even see it, because something else sits in front of it. Nonetheless, it lies in the pantry, awaiting discovery. I feel it my bones.
Every day, our lives change just a little. It’s not obvious at first. Ma cancels the newspaper. I don’t notice until homework demands a newspaper article. A new brand of bread replaces the bread I’ve eaten for years. I rarely make my own sandwiches, so the switch goes unnoticed for a long time. When I complain, I find out that I was eating the new one for weeks.
Without warning, the cumulative effects of small changes smack me in the face. It stings not to recognize your own life. Little things become big when they band together.
Ma moves ahead, doing what she has to. I try to follow her example, but I falter. I can’t carry on. Deep down, I don’t want to. My love for my father convinces me that it’s wrong to persevere.
If Daddy looks down, I want him to see me suffering. We no longer share hugs and kisses. Misery is the only way I can prove that I love and miss him. If life evolves, the large hole his passing left might disappear along with him. I won’t let that happen.
Granny tries to help me adjust. Intentions rest in eyes that soften when she sees me. She hands them to me in afternoon snacks gathered on daily walks. Sometimes she treats me with candy. Granny has a sweet tooth, and we can rip through bulging paper sacks quicker than chipmunks. At other times, she visits bakeries and brings back cheese bread or date squares. An Italian store opens in the neighbourhood, and Granny trots inside. Her taste buds are more daring than Ma’s. We get our first taste of salami, mortadella, and capicola. The names sound funny, but the taste puts ham to shame.
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