by Anne Lazurko
“What? Like you and your father? Doesn’t seem you can do a whole lot more for these folks than we can.” He flourished his hat. “So you see – hope is worth a lot.”
I wanted out of the crowd, shrank under the press of animated, expectant faces. It was an exciting diversion, the people accomplices to the lie. They wanted to be duped. Maybe Fred was right. Maybe hope was all they had left. I backed away from him.
“See you in the spring, then.” Behind me, Fred’s voice was tinged with regret. “Good luck.”
I wanted, despite his obvious failings, to go with him, to be free of burdens, lost on the prairie where no one knew me and no one cared to. But the baby would grow and my belly accordingly. I wouldn’t fool anyone. Fred’s gaze was direct. Shaking my head, I shoved my way to the edge of the crowd, and ran.
Past the Station Hotel, Joyner’s Department Store and the livery, I ran until I was outside town and a stich burned my side. Just into the field, I came to a huge boulder and climbed onto it to survey the few streets that made up the town, turned to take in the countryside beyond. Where was I? It seemed my life had been spinning by with little attention to me, like I was outside my body watching. Within only a few days, my pregnancy had turned into banishment and, worse, destitution. And I ached everywhere with exhaustion. My shoulders slumped. I ran my hand over the smooth side of the rock, its flat, perfect surface like the pebbles worn to a polish in the creekbed at home.
How to explain my sitting here in a hellish-hot place while Evan was at medical school, where I should have been as well? He wouldn’t want this for me. He was one of few medical men who’d shown me any respect. It was Evan who had saved me from the hostility of my father’s colleagues.
My face had nearly burned with embarrassment, wading through them in the crowded men’s club, their black suits pressing in and making it nearly impossible to reach Father, who was deeply immersed in conversation. Their mutterings trailed behind me.
“Women in medicine, ha...Wouldn’t let her touch the instruments in my hospital...What if it’s her time of the month? Contaminate everything...Her father should know better...Reputation at stake...”
Their glaring eyes burned into my back. I was twenty, most of them over forty. Mother had insisted I wear a straight black dress, barely tucked at the waist with a high neckline. She’d gone to great pains, mostly mine, to bind my breasts tightly in an attempt to disguise any shape I might have. Hair in a matronly bun, no powder or lipstick. But the camouflage fell away under their stares. Finally I was at Father’s side. Oblivious to the stir I’d caused, he beamed. “An old friend of the family,” he said, introducing his friend. “No one can suture better in the whole of Newfoundland.”
I hoped one day he’d say the same of me. But with the disapproval of the others thick around me, I just wanted to go home. Father was annoyed, but suddenly Evan had been there offering to escort me.
“I could tell by your face,” he whispered. “Besides, if you don’t leave soon, these old men may just tar and feather you.”
“I don’t think Father will allow it.”
“The tarring or the walking you home?”
I tried to smile, and blushed instead. I’d sat next to Evan a few times in class. He was handsome enough, sharp features and dark hair that hung just slightly into his eyes so that he constantly brushed it aside. He was brilliant, answering questions with a clarity none of the rest could match. Mostly quiet, he listened to everyone with respect, just as he did walking me home that night.
“They make me so angry...‘women can’t practice’.... ‘women are too helpless’.... ‘women bleed.’” It was too bold. I stopped walking.
Evan had laughed. “They are archaic, I’ll admit,” he said. “But as far as I know, women still bleed, do they not?”
My neck was hot. “Of course, but it doesn’t make us contagious, or hysterical. I am none of those things at any time and am quite capable of doctoring through any part of my...cycle.” Again the torrent of words poured out of my mouth. He was only trying to be kind.
He laughed again, more quietly, and took my hand. His level gaze challenged my defiance. His lips brushed my cheek as he whispered into my ear. “I’d like to see you again.”
i i i
His father was a bastard. The word slipped into my mind and I liked the feel of it on my lips, the angry sound of it. Bastard, bastard, bastard. I sat on the rock and loudly whispered it out to the prairie, where it mixed with the rustling of the grass in the wind. Evan would come back for me. He would defy his father. As soon as the baby was adopted out, I’d go home and we’d be together.
I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked. It’s not so bad, I thought. That never-ending sky offered comfort in its own way; there had to be possibilities in something so big. Running my hands over tender breasts and slightly distended belly, I ignored the skeptical voices in my head reminding me that I had no money, that I’d have to take the first job I could find in order to survive, that I had every reason to be terrified.
A lone rider approached at a slow trot from the east, growing up and out of the landscape, details of the man coming together: dark cowboy hat, green shirt, spectacles. Instead of passing by as I’d hoped, he stopped a few feet from the rock.
“Hello there.” His voice was soft, yet clearly audible over the growing wind.
“Hello,” I murmured, not looking directly at him, afraid it might be taken as an invitation.
“You’re sitting on a buffalo rubbing stone,” he said, as though I’d asked. “The buffalo rubbed against it to scratch themselves. Wore it smooth like that.”
I glanced at my hand on the rock. “They must be huge.”
“They were.”
I looked at him more closely then. He was older, maybe thirty, his face sun-baked to deep brown, his blue eyes distorted by the thick spectacles he wore low on his nose. A misshapen cowboy hat was pushed back on his head and his boots, in their stirrups, were badly worn. His roan horse stuck its nose out and I couldn’t help but touch it, laughing as the animal snorted, spraying my hands and face.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. Then, more carefully, “Say, do you need a ride into town? I’m going through on my way back to Ibsen.”
“I’m fine.” I wiped my face with the hem of my skirt. “I’ll walk.”
He gave a slight nod. It was vaguely disappointing, his giving up so easily, though heaven knows what I would say to him. “I’m Silas Fenwick,” he said and turned to go.
“Moira Burns,” I said with a small wave. Jumping down from the rock I had a moment of fear. “Sir?” I called. He turned his horse back. “Are there any buffalo around here?”
He laughed a short, amused snort. “Not any more.” He rode away toward town.
I returned to Moose Jaw exhausted and hungry, impatient with the rampant changes of my body. Before sending me off, Father had explained what might be expected throughout the pregnancy, what was normal and what was not. I’d have been better off had he prepared me for men – how a man could run off at first mention of the baby he’d helped create, how another could encourage such abandonment and, mostly, how a father justified sending away the daughter who loved him most.
Back at the hotel, while I was waiting in the restaurant for a supper I could ill afford, a large balding man in a faded black suit and bow tie walked with slow, swaggering strides to my table. crossed my mind – snout, small pink eyes, tightly stretched belly – and I had to hide a chuckle behind my napkin. Without invitation he pulled up a chair and I drew back, ready to object. Up close, he seemed more a swine, and far less amusing.
“Your cousin tells me you need a job.”
CHAPTER 3
i i i
Mr. Penny’s buggy rattled into the tiny community of Ibsen. We’d travelled almost two hours, yet he whipped the horses hard the last mile
as if needing to make an entrance. I’d kept my mouth shut and held on, relieved I’d had to insist only once that he allow me off to pee and retch out of his sight while he continued to stumble loudly and drunkenly through details of his grand life as Ibsen’s most successful businessman.
“I own Ibsen. The general store, the lumberyard, the hotel. And everybody else owes me something.” His eyes narrowed and he leered. “I like it that way. It keeps ‘em humble.” His Adam’s apple danced with a soundless laugh.
I’d had to take the swine’s offer – room and board plus one dollar a day – because it meant I’d have a roof over my head and, if I worked hard and proved myself, a job when my condition became obvious. I had to believe it. I couldn’t have stepped into his buggy otherwise.
Now, leaning away from his putrid breath, I looked at my new home. Ibsen was a small protrusion of life on the flat, treeless plain of southern Saskatchewan. The dust of Main Street settled over the wagon as we moved past the grain elevator, the grocer, blacksmith and livery, a tiny barbershop. Penny hadn’t mentioned if he owned these. I glanced sideways to see his eyes drooping even as he urged the horses down the street.
A saloon occupied the ground floor of a two-story building called the Ibsen Hotel. Nearby signs attempted to dissuade patrons from entering. One read, DRINKING IS THE DEVIL’S ORK, the W faded grey and lifeless like the whole town. Another implored readers to sign a petition, proclaiming ALCOHOL BE PROHIBITED IN TOWN, as though the drunken and morally impoverished of the countryside were not worthy of their attention.
“Idiots,” slurred Mr. Penny. “Halfwits don’t know it’s rum money built this town. Moose Jaw too.”
I nodded, hoping he didn’t expect an answer.
“We’ll go in for a drink before I take you home.”
I couldn’t imagine it. “I’m really quite tired, what with the long trip and all. If you direct me to where I’ll be staying, I’ll just get settled.”
“Third house on the left there.” He pointed vaguely. “Attic is yours.”
He retrieved my luggage, grabbed a passing boy by the ear and told him to help me with my bags, tossing him a coin as he turned to go. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten, but he ran ahead, dragging my bags through the dust. Too tired to protest, I followed like a sheep until he stopped on the doorstep of a small two-story. It appeared Mr. Penny had built himself up bigger than his house. Inside was a mess, dishes with bits of congealed food on the table, pots on the stove. Clothing was randomly shed throughout the parlour and up the stairs. I gingerly stepped over Mr. Penny’s things, the boy following, until we came to a door on the second floor that led to the attic.
“This will be fine.”
His large brown eyes were so ingratiating, I reached into my purse for small change. “Thank you, ma’am.” He beamed and ran down the stairs. The door slammed. It was a relief to be alone.
The attic was small and sparsely furnished with an unfinished wooden table and two chairs, a dresser and a small bed. The air was stifling and musty, though the previous inhabitant had made some effort to leave the room clean and in order. One window looked out over the street. The field beyond shimmered pink in the dying rays of the sun. Opening the window proved small relief.
Damp curls leapt from the confines of the pins I’d used to set my hair, sweat trickling down my back and under my arms. I dragged my belongings upstairs, hung my dresses on hooks on the back of the door and laid the rest of the clothes in the dresser.
Ripping the stitches of the trunk’s false side, I freed the blue china from its hiding place. Holding a teacup, turning it over and sliding swollen fingers over delicate curves, I marvelled at how far it was from the life it once led. Amidst an array of beautiful things in Mother’s cabinet, the Coalport had been ignored and mostly forgotten. In this place, in this room, it was precious again, made lovely by its contrast to the surroundings. I set the pieces carefully on the dresser.
Last I set the family picture alongside the china. It had been taken only months before. I’d mostly forgotten the odd quality of light in the photograph. We’d been arranged outdoors, the sun low in the west, a shadow falling over only some of the faces, while the rest were brightly lit and squinting. There was Mother in black, her face unmoved, a slight wrinkle at the side of her mouth as she tried to smile; Father, back straight, shoulders round with worry. His hat sat squarely on his head, though moments before the flash I’d tried to set it at a jaunty angle, but he’d pushed my hands away. It wouldn’t have suited him anyway.
The girls were seated in front, Deirdre, the youngest, dressed in Sunday best, hair pulled back to reveal her small round face, perfect upturned nose and careless, vapid eyes. Flirting constantly, always dreaming about her next beau, she avoided being home as much as possible. The family had expected it would be Deirdre to end up in a predicament, her adventurous social outings strangely encouraged by our parents, much to the consternation of Aileen, who feared for Deirdre’s soul.
Poor, pale Aileen. Her sallow complexion was made worse in the picture by the washed-out colour of the dress she wore. She smiled a weak appreciation of this small attention, but her face remained pinched, wrinkles creasing the brow between worried eyes, shoulders tightened against the onslaught of her days. She was old in the picture, made older than God with looking after Mother. Aileen bore the brunt of our mother’s tyranny, listened to the unceasing complaints, worked tirelessly to run the household and nurse Mother through recurring episodes of blinding headaches that kept her in bed for days.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Aileen had suffered with me through the silence that roared around the house when I told Mother and Father of my pregnancy. For two days they closeted themselves in their bedroom, Mother’s angry weeping sliding out under the door, Father’s soft voice comforting her, choosing to believe her motives were pure.
“But the neighbours, they can be so harsh dear, even cruel, to people in Moira’s condition. I love my daughter. I can’t bear to see her scorned. She’ll be back after it’s adopted out. She can start again.”
But when she deigned to glance my way, Mother’s eyes were cold and grey and vindictive. “You will not ruin my life here. Nor your father’s. We have worked too hard.” She held her hand up, dismissive.
“And what have you worked at, Mother?” It popped out.
She slapped my face. Tears sprang up, though I bit down to keep from crying.
“Moira, you will leave at once.”
Aileen had quietly collected my hairbrush and comb, the ribbons I wore on special occasions, my sister’s eyes welling with tears at this unique injustice.
Poor Aileen.
In the portrait I sat in the middle of the family, though it always took me a moment to find myself. Are my cheeks really that full? My hair that thick and curly? I’d never noticed before how the escaped tendrils of hair framed my face in a pleasing way, how the neckline of my dress flattered my figure. White gloves were folded in my lap. I loved those gloves. They hid my hands, which I’d never loved, hands too large and easily calloused. But I liked my grin. It made me look as though I knew more than the other women in the picture: a grin of triumph at having become part of a world where I was more than the berated and ridiculed daughter of a sick woman. I would be a doctor like my father. I’d already been introduced to the sad reality of other people while on calls with him. I’d seen life beyond the walls of Mother’s anger. In the picture I knew what I was. And what I was not. I would not become Aileen.
And so I vowed to make the best of Mr. Penny and this situation, went to the ill-stocked kitchen and found lard to slather on stale bread. Mr. Penny arrived after I’d retired to the attic. He made a terrific noise, cursing, dropping things. I lay stiff in the bed, covers pulled to my chin, and anticipated his footsteps, his glaring face. Instead the house grew quiet and I drifted in and out of sleep all night.
CHAPTER 4
i i i
Every morning I wondered how I could continue as Mr. Penny’s housekeeper. But destitution was more frightening than exhaustion, and so I hauled water to the kitchen from the well out back, a necessity consuming much of the morning. The rest of the day was spent shovelling wood into the hungry mouths of the two stoves – both stayed lit all day – one for cooking, the other for heating water and the irons. Washing his clothes the day before, I’d gagged at the sweaty stench of them. Today I would press the clean shirts.
“There can’t be no wrinkles. And everything’s gotta be starched.” Mr. Penny was on his way out the door. “I have an appearance to maintain.”
“Yes sir.” I hated the ingratiating tone in my voice. I couldn’t imagine how I’d save any money from the pittance he paid.
He fixed me with a hard stare. “Mind you don’t steal anything or it’ll be the tank for ya.”
My face grew instantly hot. “Mr. Penny, I have never stolen anything in my life.” I swooned with anger. “And I don’t intend to start.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just keep it that way.” He nodded with contempt and left.
My whole body shook as I threw his wrinkled shirt on the table. The man was truly the pig I’d thought him to be. He had no right assuming such things. My father could buy his assets and more. His was a dump, his Ibsen a joke, the man an idiot. I wanted to chase after him, fling a torrent of proper vocabulary in his face to show off my education and status. Instead I sagged under the weight of his insinuation, choked on a mix of rage and despair. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when he learned the truth of my pregnancy, could only hope Mr. Penny remained as blind as he was vain.
Swallowing hard, I tested the iron and fought the urge to burn a hole in the fabric. On folding the third shirt, I discovered a note in one of the front pockets that must have gone through the wash. On it was written and . Disgusting. The paper arched into the trash.