“She’ll need to sit down. She’ll collapse on the couch. She’ll be kind of shocked at first. Her mouth might hang open and she’ll stare at you like a raccoon in a flashlight beam. She’ll take off her glasses and rub her weepy eye. She might even start to cry and say how disappointed she is in you. Like, oh, Jenny how could you let this happen? And what about your future and how will you finish school. But then she’ll pull herself together. She’ll say something like, ‘What’s done is done. There’s no use crying over spilt milk. The cat’s out of the bag. The roosters have come home to roost. The ship has sailed.’ ”
By this time Jenny was laughing. I think I had already persuaded her.
“Bea’s lonely, Jenny. Who has she got but us? This’ll give her something to do.”
She was about two and a half months along when she told Bea. It was a rainy night in October. Jenny had come home from work, had a hot bath and put on her pyjamas. Bea had made hot chocolate, so it seemed like she was open to mercy.
Jenny came into the bedroom. “Will you tell her with me?”
“Me? Why do you want me there?”
“You’re my sister. You’re all I have.” She teared up so I couldn’t say no, even though I thought it was a bad idea.
Bea had a look of fear in her face when Jenny and I both sat down on the couch. It was rare for me to sit in the living room. Jenny said, “Could we turn the TV off? I have something I need to tell you.”
Bea’s face went pale right away. I don’t know what she was expecting. “All right,” she said, and got up and did it.
Jenny had rehearsed a little speech. She had tried it out on me and I thought it was pretty good. She started, “You’ve been really good to us, Maggie and me. And I hope, well, I hope …”
She was floundering. Bea just gaped at her, a frown creasing her forehead.
Jenny was supposed to say something about hoping we hadn’t been too much trouble and that she’d made a bad mistake and then ask for forgiveness. But it came out differently. “You’re going to be surprised,” she said. “It looks like I’m pregnant.” Her tone seemed almost gleeful.
Bea did look shocked. Her mouth did kind of fall open. “It looks like?” she said. “Are you or not?”
“I am,” said Jenny. She started to cry.
“Oh don’t turn on the water works with me,” Bea said, deadly calm. “If you think that’s going to work with me you’ve got another think coming. Who is it? Is it that John? I knew there was something fishy with him. I had a bad feeling when he took off like that.”
“He doesn’t know anything about it,” Jenny said.
“I will not have this house turned into the talk of the town. Everybody thinking we’re just running wild over here, that I’m keeping a pair of sluts, no men to look after them. I want you out of my house.”
It was my turn for my mouth to fall open. She ran on. “I’ve lived in this town for sixteen years. We’re respectable people. Poor Ted will be turning over in his grave.”
“Shut up!” I shouted. I stood up. I wanted to slap her.
“No, you shut up. This is my house and you’ll do what I say. I can see I’ve been far too lax. I felt sorry for you. And all the while this has been going on behind my back. I must be the laughingstock. I want her out of my house.”
Poor Jenny started to sob and ran to her room.
I shouted, “This is 1974, you cow!”
“Don’t say another word,” Bea said, calm again. “Don’t say another word to me. You go to your room, I don’t want to see either of your faces. Go!” She screamed the last word so hard the house shook.
Except for Jenny’s heartbroken sobs, the house fell quiet. My mouth had gone dry, but I wouldn’t leave our room to get water. I wasn’t scared so much as shaken. I couldn’t believe my instincts had been so wrong.
After a while, I heard Bea on the phone. She would be calling her sister.
I could not think of a single thing to say. Jenny got up, went to her dresser drawer and took out the letters from Mom. As she read through each one, she sobbed even harder.
“I shouldn’t have called her a cow,” I finally said.
“What?”
“I called Bea a cow. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Bea swung the door wide.
“I found a place she can go,” she said to me, as if Jenny wasn’t there. “She can stay there until she has the baby. They’ll arrange the adoption.”
Jenny kept her head down and said nothing.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“It’s in Vancouver. It’s a home for unwed mothers. Run by the nuns. Maybe they’ll knock some sense into her head.”
“What about school?” I said.
“What about it? She should have thought about that before she went running around. Now she’s made her bed.”
“Do I have any choice?” Jenny finally said.
“No,” said Bea and left the room.
Jenny and I stayed awake most of the night. I couldn’t stand to see her so broken, but we had little to say to each other. Outside, the rain fell steadily. Winter coming on. We couldn’t escape to the woods or the tree fort. There was nowhere to go. My mind kept going to Chiwid. She was out there dug in under a tree, trying to stay dry.
Bea bought a ticket for Jenny the next day. The day after that, she would get on the bus to Vancouver. I went to Stedman’s and bought her a travel toothbrush and soap holder and a box of stationery, printed in pink gingham and scented like strawberries.
“I’ll write to you every day,” Jenny said, as she climbed on the bus. I watched her go. I had managed to keep myself from asking her the question that had been hounding me for three days: what’s going to happen to me?
[ TWENTY-ONE ]
Dear Maggie,
Here I am in Our Lady of Perpetual Help Home. Lots of pregnant girls here (obviously). I’m the only one who isn’t showing, which makes me wonder what I’m doing here. All they talk about is “relinquishing” or “keeping” and their due dates, and if they’re carrying high or low, whatever the hell that means, but it’s supposed to tell you if you have a boy or girl, but who fricking cares since almost everyone is “relinquishing” anyway, which means putting it up for adoption, though some are still “undecided.” Kind of like the dating game, bachelor number one, bachelor number two or bachelor number three. Except sadder.
If you ask me they’re pretty obsessed about the whole thing. Some girls are even knitting stuff, like little hats and blankets. Remember when we used to play house with our Barbies? It’s kind of like that, except no Barbies. I just want to get it over with.
But in case you’re worried about me, there are no bars on the windows or anything and the food is pretty good. I have a nice room, too, all to myself. There’s a bed (obviously), a dresser, a bedside table with a ceramic ballerina lamp on it, and a desk in front of the window that looks out onto the back lawn and gardens. It’s pretty decent, even in the rain. It hasn’t stopped raining since I got here, which was exactly twenty-five and a half hours ago. I know that because I didn’t really sleep last night and I could hear the rain all night long, that and a sound like wind, which I figured out today is actually traffic. This house is in a nice neighbourhood, though. I was surprised when the nun who picked me up at the bus depot drove up to this big old house surrounded by trees. It’s like a mansion, actually. You might like it. But don’t go getting any ideas. If I have to get a freaky, disgusting stomach like these other girls, that’s my punishment.
Oh yeah, you might ask yourself why I have a desk in my room. Homework. Yes, they have classes here. The nuns teach them. I met the English teacher today. She’s a nun, but really young and she doesn’t wear a habit. She’s a writer. Her name is Sister Anne. She said we’ll be doing lots of creative writing in class. So I plan to work on my poems.
Also, I guess the idea of Our Lady of Perpetual Help is that you’ve made this mistake but you’re supposed to learn from it and learn to make better d
ecisions and improve yourself. Which is where typing comes in. Maggie, if you want to learn a skill, which you do if you don’t want to be a DRAIN ON THE SYSTEM, you can’t go wrong with typing. Apparently, if you can type, you’ll always have a MARKETABLE SKILL. Do you think Mom could type? I don’t think so, but I doubt there’s a big demand for it around Williams Lake anyway. I could be wrong, though, since I am only an unfortunate girl who made a BAD DECISION.
Try not to worry, Maggie. I don’t know what the point is of telling you that, but actually I’m okay here and it’s better than staying with the double-crossing Beatrice Edwards. Actually, it’s probably worse for you right now. Did you apologize for calling her a cow yet? Tell her, “I’m sorry that you’re a cow.” Please don’t run away or anything stupid like that. I need to know you’re in the same place I left you.
Love XXOO Jenny
P.S. We are allowed to make phone calls out, but only collect calls.
Bea didn’t speak to me for several days, and I kept away from her. I went to school, went to work and wore a path from my bedroom to the bathroom and back. I kept my door closed and Bea kept the TV up loud, as if I wasn’t there.
The snow had started. I tried to think of where else I could go. There were people Mom and Dad used to know who lived in tents all winter long, usually while they were building their cabins. They had special stoves and fitted the stovepipe through a canvas opening in the tent. They kept a hole open in the ice to get water. But if you couldn’t keep in a wood supply, you’d freeze. I remember spending a few days in the fall with one family so Mom and Dad could help them with the wood. The two kids ran around wearing only shirts, no jackets. Mom said they were used to it and they weren’t cold.
At the gas station, Bob was more cheerful than usual. When Vern came in, Bob said, “Hey Chief! How’s it hanging?” which bugged me. “Chief” was the same thing he called the man who came in selling salmon and smelling of alcohol. Outside, I asked Vern if it bothered him. He said, “Maggie, if I got my shorts in a knot every time some dickhead called me Chief or Tonto, I’d have really knotty shorts.”
When Vern had gone, Bob looked up and said, “How’s life treating you, Maggie?”
“Fine,” I said.
One day he asked, “How’s that sister of yours? I haven’t seen her around lately. I hear she’s not at Frank’s anymore. Frank said that’s a big loss. The customers really liked her.”
I thought about making some excuse. Bob was a gossip. In fact I think some of the customers preferred that I pump their gas because if Bob got going, they could be there half an hour. But something made me not give a shit. I was tired, and besides that, I just wanted to tell somebody.
“Jenny’s in Vancouver,” I said.
He gave an exaggerated recoil and so I knew that he already knew. News got around that town. I had only told Vern, but of course she’d taken the bus, people had seen her, and they could put two and two together.
But Bob wanted me to tell it. “What’s she doing there?”
“She’s in a home for unwed mothers. Beatrice sent her there.”
Bob shook his head, looking at the floor. I suppose he hadn’t expected me to tell him the truth.
“I’ll tell you what I think. Can I tell you what I think, Maggie? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but if you want the opinion of someone who’s been around the block a few times, I’ll give it to you.”
I smiled.
“You want it?”
“Yes,” I said. He was my boss. What else could I say?
“My thinking is, where the hell is that woman’s head at? Beatrice Edwards, I mean. This is 1974.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“This isn’t the dark ages we’re living in. We’re not some backwater town here. Where does she get off sending that poor girl to Vancouver? Her friends are here. And just so you know, Frank feels the same way.”
I smiled at him.
“Ah, shit. You can’t keep a secret in this town,” he said.
Dear Maggie,
Today I made an ashtray. We do crafts here. I’ll keep it so when we get our own house, we’ll at least have an ashtray. Most of the girls smoke. They’re allowed, which is weird, don’t you think, considering all the other things we’re not allowed to do, including “loitering” in the front yard. We are allowed to sit out in the backyard if it’s nice, which as far as I can tell is never.
I have a social worker. She asked me all kinds of questions about our family and wrote the answers on a clipboard and wouldn’t look at me for some reason, and seemed pretty bored. (She looked at her watch twice.) But then she suddenly put the clip board aside and gave me this “poor you” kind of look which really bugged me—she has these glasses with big thick frames and she’s got a huge, wide mouth, she looks like some kind of bug—and then she said, “Well, in some ways it’s easier for you. Your choice is clear. You don’t need to spend a lot of time worrying about your options because clearly you have no support and no means of keeping a child.”
Which may be true, but still.
“You don’t seem too upset,” she said and sat there looking at me with her stupid bug eyes. I shrugged, which I assume was the wrong thing to do. I think she wanted me to cry. She had a box of Kleenex sitting in the middle of the table. Which also seemed wrong. Sort of like “Everyone cries, you’re not so special, so get it over with.” I think they could at least have the courtesy to put the Kleenex away and then take it out if you do cry, because you feel like some kind of cold fish if you don’t cry. I have too much time to think, don’t you think? Though they do try to fill up our idle hands with “activities.” Typing, for example. One girl here can type 80 words per minute, that’s 80 wpm, like a speed limit. She’ll be able to go anywhere, apparently. She wants to be a legal secretary. Who wants to be a legal secretary? Well, this girl does and she’ll win some award for Most Improved Typist, aka MIT. Which I, too, could aspire to! Sister Anne says in this very dry voice that typing is useful for writing papers in university, too. She says I should try to learn it, since I want to be a writer. I might type you a letter, except it probably won’t be done until I’m ready to pop.
Miss Bug Eyes wants to know who the father is. I said I didn’t know. Her pen stopped in mid-air. She was waiting to write something down. I figure there must be an “unknown” box to check off. She did not like my answer. I said I had a couple of different boyfriends and I didn’t know their last names. She knew I was lying.
She said, “The father’s family is your only chance.”
“Chance of what?” I said.
“Of keeping the baby.”
“I’m relinquishing,” I said. She kept her big lips pursed tight and wrote it down on her clipboard.
I don’t want them to go looking for him. If anyone comes around, promise me you won’t say anything. I have a good reason, but it’s nobody’s business.
Hi again,
It’s Wednesday. Last night I talked to a girl who I’ll call Ginger, because that’s her name, ha ha. She’s called Ginger because she has red hair. So she said she’d call me Ginger #2. I told her I didn’t like the bodily function sound of it, so she came up with Ginger-B, which I like. She has a bit of an English accent. She lived in England until she was ten, then her parents divorced and she came here with her mom. They were living with her aunt and uncle. The uncle was a real creepo and was always giving her the hairy eyeball. Her mom knew it, but never did anything, because she didn’t want to upset her sister. Creeps come in many different types, right? But he was a special type of creep.
They had these parties all the time, even on school nights. The music was so loud the floorboards under her bed vibrated. The uncle had some fabulous stereo system he was awfully proud of. That’s how she put it. Awfully proud. I love the way she talks. She says trousers instead of pants. Funny eh?
Sometimes a record would skip for an hour. She says you haven’t lived till you’ve heard “Break on Through to the
Other Side” skipping for a whole hour. “You ever listen to people getting drunk?” she asked me. “It could be quite interesting if it wasn’t so goddamn pathetic. First they’re all jolly and oh, the larks and the raucous laughter over who the hell knows what, but everything, apparently, is very, very funny when you drink, until it isn’t. Then comes the snarking and the shouting and the personal attacks. Then things start to crash around. There are eerie moments of silence. You wonder if someone has cut someone else’s throat and is suddenly aghast and sober. Once, my uncle took after his best mate with a hatchet. I saw it with my own eyes; the sound of splintering wood got me out of bed finally. Sometimes I put tissue in my ears, but that’s almost worse, not knowing what’s coming.” She said her house in England was in a quiet village and the only thing that ever disturbed her sleep was the peacocks shrieking. Her dad was nice too, and she missed him. Makes you wonder what happened.
Anyhow, one night Ginger snuck out of the uncle’s house and broke into a shed on the school grounds. She brought a blanket and slept in there for a week, until one morning the janitor found her. The principal called the uncle’s house and she got in a shitload of trouble. The uncle said, “If you’re so high and mighty that you can’t sleep in my house, then you can bloody well find somewhere else to live.” Her mom told the principal that Ginger had been acting up since the divorce and it was nothing serious. Then she actually put her hands together like she was begging her and said, Please dear, don’t rock the boat.
About a week later there was another party. Do you know the Cream song, “White Room”? She said she can’t hear it now without being sick. I mean really vomiting. It was playing when her uncle pushed her door open. He had to push hard enough to break the lock. He grabbed her by the throat, lifted her out of bed and threw her across the room. Ginger said she can’t figure out how no one heard. He picked her up and threw her again and again. She hit the dresser and the window and door. She remembers slamming into the wall between songs. She said someone had to have heard it, but no one came.
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