Her cheerful smile falls when Mr. Rourke says, “And the second prize goes to Muriel Books.”
Granny’s body relaxes a little. She hates Muriel, and I imagine she doesn’t want her to take first prize. Muriel looks at her ribbon and turns to my grandmother. “I may not have gotten first place, but I beat you, and that’s worth more than the blue ribbon.”
Granny’s grip on her handbag tightens. I fear she’s going to beat Muriel with it.
“And the blue ribbon winner is Doris Blake.”
The applause is deafening. There’s a new queen. Long live the queen.
Doris stumbles to the stage. “Thank you,” she squeaks. She hugs each of the judges. “It’s such a shock,” she gasps. “I never thought I could win.”
I’m not surprised. The judges’ gluttonous behavior toward her coconut cream pie guaranteed a sure win.
“Congratulations,” Granny says when Doris leaves the stage. Doris has the courtesy not to say anything but thank you.
We barely make it out of the tent when Granny’s eyes narrow and her mouth takes a nasty turn. She waves her ribbon inches from my face. “This is your fault,” she charges.
“My fault?”
“Yes, you put me in such a foul mood last night that the judges could taste it in my pie.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Allegations erupt before I can defend myself. “Your unpleasantness toughened my crust and soured my filling. My meringue wept because you made me overcook it. How am I ever going to hold my head up again? I have the reputation of being the best darn pie maker, and I lost to Doris Blake. Doris Blake,” she moans.
“It would have been worse if Muriel won.”
“Don’t remind me of that. She beat me, too, and don’t think for a second that she’ll ever let me forget it. I’ll hear about this day until the day I die.”
Granny pins blame onto my chest with a staple gun, and there’s no getting it off. I think of the night before. Maybe—just maybe—I deserve the badge of misconduct.
Her body hangs in defeat. Even her plump cheeks sag. I have to make it up to her.
“Let’s go home,” she says with a growl. Most years, I have to drag her from the fairgrounds. But most years, she parades around waving a blue ribbon.
I take my two coupons out of my pocket. “We have to pick up our prizes.”
“Oh yeah,” she says as she digs in her purse for her half-coupon. “I forgot about that.” She beelines to the bingo tent. There’s no suggestion of resting this time.
My eyes comb the prizes. The fur of the fluorescent pink phone and radio rustle as people walk pass. Relief washes over me. No one plucked them from the nest of offerings before I had a chance to make them my own.
Granny sucks on her teeth. “I guess I’ll pick a blanket. Maybe I’ll put it over my head.”
The two tickets in my hand become moist. A middle-aged man approaches me. “Have you made your choices?”
“I’ll take the telephone table and the gold boudoir lamp,” I say hurriedly. When he brings them over to me, I turn to Granny. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I did, but at least it’s something.”
Her words stammer. “You don’t have to give your prizes to me.”
“I know, but I want to. Besides, there isn’t anything I like anyway.” I sneak a quick glance at the telephone and radio. Longing churns within me. An ache settles in my gut. The florescent pink fur glistens in the sunlight. The vibrant colour is so bold, my eyes pain. I have to turn away.
“I know I mentioned the telephone table, but how did you know I wanted that precious little lamp?”
How did I know? Her question will suspend in time forever. It’s a moment of utmost clarity. Naked, the golden angel embraces red plastic flowers with pride. Its gilded finger points and beckons to me. My hands ball into fists as Granny stares at the lamp in near-rapture. I look down at her and know with absolute certainty—her taste is a contagion, and her garishness courses through my veins.
Giving someone a gift never felt so bad. Prized possessions flash through my mind. Plastic sunflower decals plaster my brain as they plaster every inch of my room. My hand can’t circle the peace medallion hanging from my neck. Pink plastic hoops hang from my ears. Orange terrycloth bell-bottoms cling to my skin. My multicoloured, tie-dyed top pulsates.
My mind scrutinizes my closet. Blue, black, and grey pants dangle from the hangers, and monochrome sweaters fill dresser drawers, but Ma picked every piece. I lean against the table.
I can’t disclose that our mutual hideous taste makes it easy to give each other gifts the other will love. “Who wouldn’t like such a gorgeous lamp?” I ask.
“No one could resist such a beauty,” Granny says with certainty.
Many people could and would, but I don’t say a word. Granny gives my hand a gentle squeeze. The gesture means a lot, because Granny rarely displays affection. We carry the winnings outside of the bingo tent.
Granny waves her ticket. “In the excitement, I almost forgot. Wait here while I redeem my coupon.”
She returns to hand me a blanket decorated with life-sized orange sunflowers so jam-packed, it looks as if someone wolfed down a field of them and vomited on the cloth. I can’t help myself. I reach for it and nearly burst with happiness.
The matter is settled. Granny did pass her garish taste gene to me. “Thank you,” I say with a big smile.
She returns the smile. Both of us bask in glory of Fortuna’s smirk.
Granny has her telephone table and lamp. I clutch my blanket under my arm. I no longer feel bad about my slice of blame in the pie’s defeat. What I did is not nearly as atrocious as what she did to me. We walk from the tent, confident that we can carry a wooden table, a thick blanket, and a heavy lamp for forty-five minutes in hellish heat. As we leave the fairgrounds, it occurs to me. Granny passed another gene to me—that of supreme arrogance.
Two hours later, we stumble up our porch steps. Ma arrives home and finds us there.
“What’s this?” she asks as she points to our winnings.
“We won at bingo,” Granny explains.
“Congratulations,” Ma says as she stares at the blanket. She lifts the lamp from the table and hastily sets it down. “But how did you manage to carry it?”
Granny and I exchange a look. “It’s not as heavy as it looks,” Granny claims.
“We didn’t have any problems,” I say with a wave of my hand.
“But the heat…” Mom says.
“It wasn’t that hot,” Granny says.
Mom shakes her head in confusion but lets the matter drop. Thank God, because my arms are so weak, I can’t hold up my end in an argument.
Ma heads into the house. Granny and I don’t have the strength to haul ourselves from the chairs. Arrogance is a demanding bedfellow, but what can you do when it lies in your bed? Granny takes hold of my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. We will never tell Ma how we almost passed out and sat like fools on a telephone table in the middle of town, wiping our sweaty faces with a flannel blanket. I hope no one else will either.
Chapter 54
Hang a picture on the wall. You’ll invariably stand back and study everything about it. Is it too bright, too dull, does it fit the surroundings, is it somewhat wonky? Time passes, and you barely notice its quirks. The same goes with people.
Ma grabs her purse. “I’m going to the movies with Tim. I’ll be back by ten.”
“Have fun!” I call out. Granny and I are watching a Peter Sellers movie, and she’s laughing so hard, she dabs her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m going out to dinner with Tim,” Ma says a few nights later. “There’s some leftover stew for you and Mom.”
“Granny is going to the dinner at the church.”
“Are you joining her?”
I grab my schoolbag, “I can’t. I’m eating at Susan’s house. We have a project that’s due on Friday. Her mom said I could stay for supper. Besides, she’s going with Jake Wheeler.”
“Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Dow.”
“I won’t.”
Ma and Tim see countless movies and consume numerous restaurant meals. My brief conversations with him center on the weather.
Thursdays are Ma’s day off. As I turn the corner on my way home from school, I can almost smell the roast beef cooking. I hope she made roasted potatoes to go with it. The carrots, I could do without.
When I open our front door, I’m not disappointed. The food smells scrumptious, and as I sniff deeply, I can detect the aroma of chocolate cake. I throw my schoolbag on the bench and hurry to the kitchen. My anxious steps come to a halt. “Hello, Mr. Davis.”
“Hello, Marnie. I just made a pot of tea. Would you care for a cup?”
“I would, but I have a lot of homework. I should get right to it. Call me when dinner is ready.”
Tim starts coming over a few nights a week. I resent how his presence changes our routine. I can no longer take an early bath and wear my nightie, which is much too short, as I watch TV.
Our conversations also change. When he’s around, we only speak nicely about people. The pretext is limiting, and our bubbly chatter becomes watery and lacking.
Time passes, his visits become routine, and I become accustomed to his presence. Auntie Fran and Uncle Frank start coming over on Fridays, and we all play euchre.
Tim proves to be a very nice man. His silly sense of humor makes Ma laugh. I like him, in spite of myself.
Stocky, short, and athletic, he enjoys any game that involves a ball. Ma works hard, in the house and outside of it. When she has extra energy, she doesn’t use it to play games. Tim often asks me to toss a football around or go to the park to practice batting.
Our hall closet fills with Frisbees, balls, and rackets. When he carts over his lawn bowling balls, Ma stops him as he climbs our porch steps.
“You can’t keep putting everything in the hall closet. It’s getting dangerous. I put a big box in the garage for all your toys.”
Initially, I suspect he’s trying to impress my mother, but as time passes, his enthusiasm proves genuine. He enjoys the time we spend together as much as I do.
One day as we are walking home from the park, he turns to me and says, “You know what my biggest regret is?”
“That last shot you took on me,” I tease as I swipe at the air with my tennis racket.
He doesn’t parlay with a joke. His face remains pensive. “I regret never having any children.”
I toss the tennis ball in the air and watch its descent as I say, “Why didn’t you have any?”
“It wasn’t planned or anything like that. It just never happened.”
I throw the ball in the air a few more times. Is he hinting he wants to marry Ma and have children? Worry walks beside me. I push it out of the way with a blunt question. “Don’t you think you’re a bit old to start a family?”
Tim laughs and catches the ball in mid-air. “That’s not what I’m getting at. I don’t want to start a family at my age. I just want to tell you something.”
“Tell me what?”
“Well,” he pauses and throws the ball even higher than I did. “I just want to say that the longer I know you, the more I like you, and if I did have a daughter, I would want her to be just like you.”
The ball falls to the ground. I pick it up. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I tell his feet. He doesn’t say anything, so I throw the ball skyward as hard as I can. “I can’t say I’d like you to be my dad, because that would be wrong. If my dad heard me say such a thing, he would be hurt, but any kid would be darn lucky to have you as a father.”
“Thanks.”
“No need to thank me. I’m just telling you the truth. You’re a very nice man, Mr. Davis. You would have made a wonderful father.”
His face crinkles with mischievousness. “Are you complimenting me because you like the steaks I bring over?”
“No, it’s the Cornish hens that make you appealing.”
“First one home gets to finish the lemonade,” he says as he begins to run. We laugh like drunken fools. I manage to reach the house first. I know he let me win, so I share the lemonade with him. We never speak about our feelings again. We don’t have to. After that day, I know that whenever I toss a ball in the air, he’ll catch it.
Chapter 55
Years pass. I keep envisioning Ma bursting through the door with Tim and announcing, “Guess what.”
Her hand shoots out, and a diamond sparkles for all to admire. Granny trots over and takes her hand. “It’s so lovely.” Tim and Ma’s face fill with joy. “It suits you,” I remark, and all of us embrace one another, happy to have each other in our lives.
It never happens.
Christmas comes and goes, and there’s no telltale box under the tree.
The icy grip of winter loosens, and spring slips from its hoary hold. It’s the freshest, most hopeful of seasons. Crocuses dart from the ground in a blast of colour. Tulips stand ramrod straight and form perfect petals that slowly unfurl with the growing heat. And the hyacinths—is anything a deeper purple? Mustn’t forget apple blossoms. Breathe deeply, and the sweet aroma of the delicate blooms hint at the cornucopia soon to come.
Easter, with its promise of renewal, comes early this year. The soggy ground barely dries before the sisters make plans. They decide that the Easter meal will be at our house. After a soggy beginning, the ground finally dries. I’m not surprised to see Ma frowning at our kitchen tiles.
Spring in our home means only one thing—it’s time to take out the wax remover. I come home from school, and Ma holds up the dreaded bottle. “Marnie, I need your help.”
She almost drops the jug when I say, “Sure, give me a moment to change.” I throw on my old jeans and a ratty t-shirt, anxious to begin. Ma studies me when I hurry to the kitchen.
“I thought you hated this job.”
“I do, but it has to be done. We might as well get it over with.”
Her quizzical look will soon be answered. Compliance comes with a price. The wax remover will trap us in the kitchen. She won’t be able to dodge questions. By the time we strip the tiles, I’ll uncover why she and Tim aren’t married.
The old cotton blouse that Ma uses to spread the wax remover is so old, we don’t remember whom it belonged to.
Wax remover is bothersome. It has a small window of opportunity. You must give it time to work, but if it sits too long, it becomes wasted. Mom tests the floor with her fingernail. “It’s ready,” she announces as she grabs a brush.
I don’t squander my time. “Why haven’t you and Tim ever gotten married?” I ask as I clutch my scrub brush. She looks up and sighs, finally understanding my agreeableness.
“He asked me once, but I turned him down.”
My brush stops rotating. “I can’t believe you turned him down. Don’t you love him?”
“Of course I do,” she replies without hesitation. She grabs a chunk of steel wool and scrubs in tight circles. Intent on the task before her, she refuses to look at me.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There is no problem.”
“If there’s no problem, why aren’t you married?” Tim will make a perfect addition to our family. I can’t understand why she refused his proposal.
“Concentrate on one tile at a time. Don’t shoot off in every direction.”
“Fine, but let’s stick to the question.”
“I’m not married because I’m happy with the way things are. Don’t move on to a new tile. You didn’t finish the one you started.”
“But everyone gets married. Look at your sisters. Both of them remarried, and they’re happier for it.” I work on a grimy corner, amazed at how much dirt has gathered.
Ma pushes her hair from her face. “That’s fine for them, but not everyone has to.” Her voice takes on an edge as she scrubs faster. She doesn’t like having to explain herself.
“But you were married before, and
you liked it.”
“I was, and I never regretted it. Your father was perfect.”
“That’s why you can’t marry Tim.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t measure up.” I wipe away the dirty gunk with a clean cloth, pleased at how spotless the surface is now.
“It’s not that,” Ma huffs. “Go over the area you just did. You left some of the old wax.”
It looks perfect to me, but Ma’s frown gets me to scrub harder. I force myself to work in tight circles rather than sweeping strokes. “Then what is it?” I ask, hating how she never volunteers information. You have to pull it from her, and the constant yanking becomes tiresome.
She throws down the steel wool. “It’s me,” she says. She applies more wax remover. The floor is half finished. Removing wax and questioning Ma are arduous tasks, and I can’t wait to be done with them.
“You? That doesn’t make any sense. You were married before, and you were happy. Why can’t you do it again?” My area looks dull, free of any residue of wax.
“People change, circumstances change.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I grumble.
“It’s not hard to understand. I’m happy with the way things are. I like being my own boss. I enjoy living with you and Mom, and although I love Tim, I prefer if we just date. Start scrubbing over here.” Taking her fingernail, she tests the surface. “It’s already loosened.”
“He’s okay with that?”
“He is. When people get older, they get set in their ways. I think he asked me to marry him because he thought I expected him to. When I turned him down, he was hurt, but I believe he was also a little relieved. Change the water for me, Marnie. Make sure it’s warm, not hot.”
I accept what she says, but I don’t appreciate her wisdom. I’m too young and too inexperienced to understand love and its different faces.
Like all teenage girls, I dream of meeting Prince Charming. He’s the magical man who will make my life perfect. He isn’t going to ride up on a white stallion and drop me off at my door every night. No way. Together, we’ll have everything we want and need. Marriage will fling open the gates of Nirvana.
Chickens & Hens Page 21