Home Schooling

by Carol Windley

  HOME SCHOOLING

  HOME SCHOOLING

  stories

  CAROL WINDLEY

  Copyright © 2006 Carol Windley

  Copyright © 2006 This edition Cormorant Books Inc.

  This is a second edition.

  Second printing November 2006

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

  system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior

  written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian

  Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence,

  visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the

  Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council

  for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support

  of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing

  Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  Printed and bound in Canada

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Windley, Carol, 1947-

  Home schooling / Carol Windley. — 2nd ed.

  Short stories.

  ISBN 1-897151-03-9

  ISBN-13 978-1-897151-03-7

  I. Title.

  PS8595.I5926H65 2006A C813’.54 C2006-905724-9

  Editor: Marc Côté

  Cover design: Angel Guerra/Archetype

  Cover image: Corbis

  Author photo: Robert Windley

  Interior design: Tannice Goddard

  Printer: Friesens

  CORMORANT BOOKS INC.

  215 SPADINA AVENUE, STUDIO 230, TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA M5T 2C7

  www.cormorantbooks.com

  For Bob

  CONTENTS

  What Saffi Knows

  Home Schooling

  Family in Black

  Sand and Frost

  Felt Skies

  Children’s Games

  The Joy of Life

  The Reading Elvis

  Acknowledgements

  WHAT SAFFI KNOWS

  THAT SUMMER A BOY went missing from a field known as the old potato farm, although no one could remember anything growing there but wild meadow barley, thistles in their multitudes, black lilies with a stink of rotten meat if you brought your face too close or tried to pick them. There were white fawn lilies like stars fallen to earth and bog-orchids, also called candle-scent, and stinging nettles, blameless to look at, leaves limp as flannel, yet caustic and burning to the touch. Even so, nettle leaves could be brewed into a tea that acted on the system like a tonic, or so Saffi’s aunt told her. She recited a little rhyme that went: Nettle tea in March, mugwort leaves in May, and all the fine maidens will not go to clay.

  Imagine a field, untended, sequestered, grass undulating in a fitful wind. Then disruption, volunteer members of the search party arriving, milling around, uniformed police and tracking dogs, distraught relatives of the missing boy. No place for a child, Saffi’s mother said, yet here Saffi was, holding tight to her aunt’s hand, taking everything in.

  All the people were cutout dolls. The sun hovered above the trees like a hot-air balloon cut free. Saffi’s shoes were wet from walking in the grass; she was wearing a sundress that tied at the back of her neck and she kept scratching at mosquito bites on her arms and legs until they bled and her Aunt Loretta said she’d give herself blood poisoning, but Saffi didn’t stop, she liked how it felt, it gave her something to do. She could see her daddy, standing a little apart from the others, drinking coffee from a paper cup. He was a young man then, tall, well-built, his hair a sprightly reddish-brown, his head thrown back, eyes narrowed in concentration, as if he hoped to be first to catch sight of any unusual movement in the woods, down near the river. Saffi looked where he was looking and saw a flitting movement in the trees like a turtledove, its silvery wings spread like a fan and its voice going coo-coo, the sound a turtledove would make when it was home and could rest at last. But there was no turtledove. Never would there be a turtledove. Saffi was the only one who knew. But who would listen to her?

  July 1964, in a town on Vancouver Island, in the days before the tourists and land developers arrived and it was quiet, still, and everyone more or less knew everyone else. There was a pulp and paper mill, a harbour where the fishing fleet tied up, churches, good schools, neighbourhoods where children played unsupervised. Children were safe in this town. They did not go missing. But now, unbelievably, not one but two children were gone, one for nearly six weeks and then three days ago this other boy, his red three-speed bike found ditched at the edge of the old potato farm, where it seemed he liked to play, hunting snakes and butterflies, but never hurting anything, just catching things and letting them go.

  His name was Eugene Dexter. His jacket had been found snagged in a hawthorn tree beside the Millstone River, at the far end of the old potato farm. Or else it was a baseball cap that was found. Or a catcher’s mitt. You heard different stories. There was a ransom note. There was no such note. The police had a suspect, or, alternately, they had no suspects, although they’d questioned and released someone and were refusing to give out details. But, said Saffi’s mother, wasn’t that how they operated, secretly, out of the public eye, trying to conceal their own ineptness? She kicked at a pebble. A woman beside her spoke of premonition, showing the gooseflesh on her arms. Some men got into a scrum, like elderly, underfed rugby players, and began praying aloud.

  One minute it was warm and then the wind made Saffi shiver. Behind the mountain dark clouds welled up, filled with a hidden, shoddy light. The boy’s parents arrived in a police car, lights flashing. But maybe Saffi was remembering that wrong. Maybe they drove up in their own car, Mr. Dexter behind the wheel. In any case, there they were, Mr. and Mrs. Dexter, making their way over to tables borrowed from the high school cafeteria and set up in the field, with sandwiches and donuts and coffee and mimeographed instructions for the search party, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising when Mr. Arthur Dawsley sidled up to Saffi’s mother and said wasn’t this turning into quite a three-ring circus? He was their neighbour. He lived on the other side of a tall hedge. Along the front of his yard was a picket fence painted green and on his front door was a sign that said: No Peddlers. When Saffi was small, less than two years old, she’d mispronounced his name, saying Arthur Daisy, and in her family it was the wrong name that had stuck. It didn’t suit him; she wished she could take it back. Her parents teased her, calling Arthur Daisy her friend, but he wasn’t. His hair the colour of a cooking pot sat in deep waves above his forehead. Under his windbreaker he was wearing a white shirt and a tie. He said he knew this gathering was no circus, that was merely a figure of speech, and not a good one, considering. He said he supposed he was too old to be of much help in the search, but surely he could lend a little moral support.

  “Beautiful weather, all the same,” he said, and then walked in his peculiar upright, stolid fashion over to Saffi’s daddy, who averted his face slightly and emptied the dregs of his coffee onto the ground, as if the last thing he craved was a word with Arthur Daisy. At the same time the boy’s father was handing an item of clothing over to the police, a green striped soccer shirt, it looked like, tenderly folded, and the police let their dogs sniff it and they strained at their leashes as if they’d been given a new idea and the sound of their baying came like a cheerless chorus off the mountain.

  Later the wind died down and the clouds built up, dark clouds edged with a beautiful translucent white, dazzling to the eye, and just as Saffi and her mother and aunt got in the car to go home there came a violent drenching downpour, and everyone said it was al
most a relief; it was turning out to be such a hot, dry summer.

  This could be said of her: as a child she noticed things, she took things in, and to this day she can’t decide, is this a curse or a gift? A curse, she thinks, for the most part.

  The child she was and the person she’s become: in a way they’re like two separate people trapped in the same head. Could that be? The child mystifies her. The child with her pallor, her baby-fine, dry hair; her solemn grey-blue eyes, her air of distraction and wariness. Her odd little name that her mother had got out of a book of names: Saffi, meaning “wisdom.” Who are you? I am Saffi, no one else. She feels sympathy for that child, of course she does, and affection, impatience, anger, shame. And sorrow. Shouldn’t someone have been looking out for her? Shouldn’t someone have been watching over her? “Daddy’s girl,” her daddy called her, but daddy didn’t have much time for her, not really.

  When Saffi was in her yard she made a game out of watching for Arthur Daisy to leave in his car, which he did sometimes, not every day, and as soon as he was gone she crawled through a gap in the hedge into his backyard. She knelt in the shade, looking out at the things he kept there: a wheelbarrow tipped up against a garden shed, a pile of buckets, a heap of steamy grass clippings buzzing with blue-bottles, a mound of composted dirt he made from dead leaves and egg shells and potato peelings, garbage from his kitchen.

  At the foot of his porch steps there was a folding chair and an overturned washtub he used as a table, a coffee mug on it. Two of his shirts hung from the clothesline like guards he’d left on duty.

  He had painted his cellar window black, but he’d missed a little place shaped like a star and she could get up close to it and see a shaded light hanging from the ceiling and beneath the light a table with a boy crouched on it. He was a real boy. She saw him and he saw her, his eyes alert and shining, and then he let his head droop on his chest. Don’t be scared, she said; don’t be. He was awake but sleeping, his arm twitching, his feet curled like a bird’s claws on a perch. All she could see in the dim light was his hair, nearly white. He was wearing a pair of shorts.

  She called him bird-boy. She whistled at him softly, as if he were a wild thing. She had to be careful. Since he’d got the bird-boy, Arthur Daisy never stayed away for long; he’d drive off and then almost at once he was back, slamming his car door and pounding up his front steps. Before he got that far, though, Saffi would have scrambled through the hedge, her hair catching in the branches so that she’d have to give it a cruel tug, but she never cried or uttered the least sound, and at last she was home free.

  If Arthur Daisy didn’t drive away in his car, if he happened instead to be working in his garden and saw her playing outside, he’d call to her. “Well, Saffi, what do you think I’ve got?” He kept calling to her. Your friend, Arthur Daisy, her daddy would tease her. She walked to his house on the side of the road, placing the heel of one foot in front of the toe of the other, her arms out for balance. “Hurry up, slowpoke,” he would say, pushing his gate open to let her in.

  He looked like the old troll that lived under the bridge in Three Billy Goats Gruff, one of Saffi’s picture books. He wore an old brown cardigan, the pockets sagging with junk. “What do you think I’ve got?” he’d say, and he’d pull something out of a pocket and hold it in his clenched fist and if she stepped back he’d bend closer, closer, his colourless lips drawn back so that she could see his stained teeth, gums the bluish-pink of a dog’s gums. She didn’t want to guess, she was no good at it. She covered her eyes until he told her to look and it would turn out to be an old nail or a screwdriver or the sharp little scissors he used for cutting roses.

  “Well?” he’d say. “What do you say? Has the cat got Saffi’s tongue?” He slapped his hand on his trouser leg and laughed his old troll laugh and picked up his shovel and went back to work digging in his garden.

  That summer Saffi’s mother got hired as an operator at the B.C. Telephone Co. on Fitzwilliam Street. Her first job, she said, since she got married. Her first real job, ever. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t leave Saffi every day, but the truth was, she had no choice, she needed the extra income; she’d lost interest in being poor her entire life. She ran up some dresses for work on her old treadle sewing machine, dark blue dresses, in rayon or a serviceable poplin, something she said she could gussy up with a little white collar, or a strand of pearls.

  Saffi remembered her mother wearing those dresses to work for years. When at last they’d gone completely out of style or had simply worn out, she’d cut them into squares and stitched them into a quilt for Saffi, and Saffi had it still, folded away in a cedar chest her husband’s parents gave her for a wedding present. When she took it out and ran her fingers over the scraps of fabric, little cornfields, meadows of blue, she couldn’t help returning in her mind to those long-ago summer mornings, bright and hot, dreamlike, almost, when she’d clung to her mother and begged her to stay home, and her mother had given her a weary, abstracted glance and pulled on the little chamois-soft gloves she wore for driving. She kissed Saffi on the top of her head and then she was gone, and Saffi heard her backing her car out onto the road and driving away. Aunt Loretta made Saffi sit at the table and eat her breakfast, but Saffi’s throat ached from not crying and she couldn’t swallow a spoonful. Aunt Loretta rinsed her uneaten porridge down the drain — what a terrible waste, she said — and then she wiped Saffi’s face with a dishrag and sent her outside to play in the sun while she got on with tidying the house. Saffi sat on the front steps and looked at one of her books, with pictures of a frog prince, his blubbery mouth pursed for a kiss, a scraggly old witch with skinny fingers reaching out to grab anyone she could catch.

  Even though she knew he couldn’t see her, she imagined the bird-boy was watching, and so she turned the pages carefully. She was good at reading, but poor at arithmetic. It wasn’t her fault. The numbers had their own separate lives, their own shapes, and refused to let her touch them. Nine in its soldier’s uniform the colour of an olive with a double row of brass buttons. Three a Canterbury bell, a curled-up snail leaving a trail of slime, dragging its little clamshell house behind. Seven had a licking tongue of fire and smelled like a thunderstorm. Four was the sea coming in along the shore, it was a ship sailing, it was blue and white and stood on its one leg.

  The numbers said: Leave us be! Be quiet! Don’t touch! They kept themselves apart, like little wicked soldiers in a castle. The teacher held her worksheets up in class and said, Is this the work a grade one girl should be doing? Saffi had to cover her ears and sing to herself about the Pied Piper, how he made the rats skip after him out of town and then the children followed and the town got dark and the parents wrung their hands and lamented, Oh, what have we done?

  When Aunt Loretta finished the housework she called Saffi inside and read her a story about a turtledove.

  “I know what that is,” Saffi said. “I seen a turtledove in the cellar at Arthur Daisy’s house.”

  Aunt Loretta said she must have seen some other kind of bird. “All we have around here is pigeons,” she said. “You know what a pigeon looks like, don’t you? And it’s I saw, not I seen.”

  “It looked like a boy,” Saffi said. “It had white feathers on its head. It sang like this: cheep, cheep, cheep.”

  “Oh, Saffi,” her aunt said. “You are a funny little thing.”

  Outside her house the road was all churned up where her daddy parked his logging truck when he got home. Sometimes he’d swing her up into the cab and she’d sit behind the steering wheel and he’d get her to pretend she was the driver, telling her, “Start the engine, Saffi, or we’ll still be sitting here when those logs sprout a whole new set of roots and branches.” He made engine noises like a growling cat and she pretended to turn the wheel and he gave directions. “Turn left,” he’d say. “Gear down for the hill, now shift into third, that’s the way.” It was hot in the truck and there was a sour smell of her daddy’s sweaty work shirt, the smell of stale thermos c
offee and engine oil, the beer her daddy drank. Her daddy always said he was a hard-working, hard-drinking man and people could take him or leave him. Leave him, was his preference. He liked a quiet life. He liked his home and when he got home he deserved a beer, didn’t he? “Yes,” said Saffi. “Yes, sir, you do.”

  “Who are you?” her daddy said. “Are you daddy’s favourite girl?”

  Her daddy. Danny Shaughnessy. He was away in the woods for days at a time, then he’d be home, he’d come into the kitchen, where Saffi was standing on a kitchen chair at the counter, helping Aunt Loretta coat chicken pieces with flour or peel potatoes, little tasks her aunt allotted her to fill in the last hour or so until her mother returned. Her daddy would go straight to the fridge for a beer and sometimes he gave Saffi a taste, the beer making her gag and trickling down her chin and her daddy laughed and kissed it away. Her aunt told him to leave her alone. He said Saffi was his kid, wasn’t she? He didn’t have to leave his own kid alone, did he? Aunt Loretta said he could at least take off his work boots and wash his hands.

  “Don’t you have a kitchen of your own to go to?” he’d say. “Isn’t it time you got back to good old Vernon, Loretta?”

  They fought like kids, the way kids at school went at each other, hands on their hips, faces thrust forward, then they agreed to an armistice and sat at the kitchen table and had a glass of beer together, Saffi with them, and her daddy praised her, saying what a doll she was, a real little lady. On the drive down from Campbell River, he said, he’d heard on the radio a boy was missing, ten years old, a slightly built boy, with white-blond hair, last seen wearing shorts, a blue jacket, running shoes. And then, just south of Royston, a boy who answered that description exactly was standing at the side of the highway. He’d blasted the horn at him, because kids never understood, they had no idea how much room a truck like that needed to stop, they’d run out without thinking. More than likely it was some other kid, but what if it was this Eugene Dexter and he’d just driven on by?