by Barb Nobel
Carly has met Vern a couple times and doesn’t particularly like him, but in a more neutral way. I mean, she doesn’t out and out hate him, like some women he’s insulted. Carly is a small woman, so she’s not threatening to Vern, and she’s wise enough to let his remarks slide off her shoulders, so Vern is okay with her, because she can’t be bothered challenging him.
I’m trudging down the street heading for the lake and I’m thinking over my options. If Vern turned off that pilot light when he went back in, that’s criminal. He’ll go to jail. If that happens, he’s gonna be in trouble among all those hardened criminals. For sure he’s gonna be someone’s girlfriend, or pretty boy, or whatever they get called. That’s a nasty life for someone who doesn’t want that kinda thing. But if he did turn off that pilot light he condemned someone else to a terrible life. Is it Marlena in emergency? Is she gonna be scarred for life? Is she even gonna be alive?
It’s like I’m balancing one life against another life.
I don’t normally swear that much, but I suddenly realize that I’m tramping down the street muttering “oh shit, oh shit”. loud enough that the two girls coming towards me are getting afraid and turning into the nearest house prepared to bang on the door and get someone to save them from this huge, insane man. I figure I better go home before the police get calls about me.
When I get home, Carly tells me that Vern has called a couple times.
I make a decision. I’m calling the police. I’ve always been a responsible type person, and I’m not changing that now.
But first I tell Carly the whole story. Carly, bless her, tells me we’re going for a car ride. We need to make sure it’s the right address. Thank God I listen to her, because when we get near the street I can see the explosion is almost two blocks from Marlena’s house. I guess on the way over I was holding my breath, because when I see it isn’t the address we worked on, I let it all out and take in a healthy lung-full.
I’ve had enough of Vern.
When we get in the truck on Monday morning, I’m driving.
“Hey, didja see the game,” Vern asks. “I tried to call you a couple times, but Carly said you weren’t home.”
I don’t answer.
“Aaaah,” Vern says. “You didn’t get any last night, so now you’re in a bad mood. Look at me; I’m in a good mood.”
To listen to him you’d think he gets laid twice a day, every day.
I go into this big industrial plaza in the north part of the city. I drive into the back, behind the stores, where the garbage bins are. Vern looks puzzled, then terrified when I go round to his door and yank him out of the truck.
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s got into you?” he yells, as I shove him up against the hood of the truck. I don’t answer. I pick him up by the front of his jacket and shake him. I don’t realize how angry I am. I shake him a few more times and yell right into his face.
“No more,” I tell him. “Don’t you ever fucking insult another woman when you’re around me. When we go into anyone’s house, you keep your mouth shut. And I mean shut the whole time. People are gonna think you can’t talk. Do you understand me?”
I shake him again, because it looks like he’s going to yap at me, or make excuses or something like that.
“Do you understand? Because if you don’t you’re going into that garbage bin with the other rats.”
Finally, Vern just nods, and I let him down. We both go around and get into the truck.
“Jeeze,” Vern mutters. “You’d think making a joke was a federal offense.”
I shoot him a look and he stares out of his side window.
I’m still kind of shaking when I take the wheel. I don’t like this feeling, and I’m glad my dad taught me the right thing. But I also know that if my dad were here now, he would think I did the right thing this time.
The Strap
IT’S MONDAY AFTERNOON, AND ALL the grades are working on what we call “The War Project”.
The parents will complain about this, I know. I’ve been told more than once that my job is to teach the kids reading, writing and arithmetic. This is what the farmers want their kids to know, that and which cows are the best milkers, how to rotate crops, and, if you’re a girl, how to obey and get dinner. Still, we are halfway through April, and I will risk the complaints. I think it is important for the children to know what is going on in the world, even if the parents don’t think so.
Grade 5 created the map, drawing the continents carefully from the school atlas, and they are rightfully proud of their creation. The map takes up a good part of the side wall.
Grade six will keep track of the war efforts and colouring in the map – blue for the Allies, red for the Axis, and green for countries that declare neutrality. I have emphasized that the colours must be done lightly, so that the names can still be read. The first Canadian troops entered Europe in December, and the children gleefully, fearfully, coloured Canada blue.
Grade seven will be tracking significant events on the home fronts of the Allies – rationing, changes in the age for conscription, and civilian contributions toward the effort.
Grade eight is responsible for recording significant—soon to be historical—events, the most difficult chore, for who is to know which advance, which battle, which treaty, will be the most important in the end.
There is much excitement about Canada entering the war effort.
Michael, 15, and in grade eight, has declared that he will join the army as soon as they’ll take him. Michael is big for his age and is the ringleader of the boys. His misdemeanors are well known in this small farming community: the snake in the school cupboard, the bird let loose in the boys’ washroom, tossing the swing seat over the bars so that the swing is so high no child can reach it. The girls and the smaller boys avoid him on the playground. Every spring and fall he misses school to help with the sowing and harvesting, and so he has failed two grades.
I was warned about Michael when I started with this school in September, and advised by the superintendent to use the strap with him. “He’ll get the belt from his father when he gets home if you use the strap, and that will deter him from a lot of mischief,” Mr. Henderson said.
In my four years of teaching, I have never used the strap on a child. I don’t believe in it. How can we tell children that hitting is wrong, and then hit them. We would end up teaching that "might makes right”, that bullying works if you are bigger, or have more power. No, corporal punishment is not for me.
I can’t say I haven’t been tempted with Michael; he is certainly trying my patience. Bringing live mice to school and tossing them at the girls was his last misdemeanour and resulted in hysterics from Maud, Jean, and little Becky. Lizzie, Michael’s sister, knew better than to show any fear. I made Michael write out pages from the dictionary every day during the lunch hour, for two weeks. I have to say he did it well and with a cheerful manner. I suppose it was little enough compared to the labour he is used to.
At 4:30 p.m. I walk back to the boarding house with Moira Hill, who teaches grades one to four in the other classroom. Miss Hill has only a high school education, but she talks about going on to “normal school”. Otherwise, she will probably only be allowed to teach the lower grades.
Education values are changing in Ontario, and eventually even the rural areas will become part of the changes.
Miss Hill tells me how Vernon, grade 1, decided to decorate his face with his new crayons instead of using them to circle the largest number on his arithmetic work sheet. She laughs as she describes his black handle bar moustache and unibrow, and his bright red cheeks and lips. Vernon is still chubby with baby fat, and Miss Hill says that she could barely keep a straight face as she ordered him to go the washroom and wash his face.
Miss Hill is only nineteen, and will probably not teach for long. She is already being courted by Milt Sweet over on the next concession. I, on the other hand, am twenty five and considered a spinster.
&n
bsp; But I have my secrets, and they make me smile to myself. I’m not as spinsterish as these folks think I am. Charlie Peters has come calling three times now in the last four weeks.
Charlie is a confirmed bachelor at 36, and never has much to say, so I am left to make up the conversation. But that, I know, is how these farmers are. And most men, I guess.
We take a walk down the lane, and sometimes through the meadow. Charlie helps me over the fence and his hand lingers on my waist. I know he likes my womanly figure. After the walk, I make us some lemonade, and we sit on the porch swing.
Next time he comes calling, I will let him kiss me. I’m not entirely ignorant of the womanly arts.
And the most delicious part is that last night, Miss Hill was home to see that I had a suitor too. Surprise, Miss Hill.
Tuesday is a warm day, and the children are possessed by the devil. Even Isobel is gazing wistfully out the window. By mutual agreement, Miss Hill and I have extended the morning recess by a few minutes. After all, 15 minutes is not much time for vigorous children to run off their energy.
Miss Hill comes to my classroom during the recess and looks around to make sure none of the children are being kept in.
“Miss Lee,” she says. “Can we talk?”
“Of course,” I reply.
I’m glad that Moira Hill knows I have a suitor. She can’t lord it over me any longer.
But she seems unable to get started.
“Come, come,” I say to her, as if I were talking to one of the children.
“It’s about Charlie Peters,” Miss Hill says, and stops again.
I purse up my lips and puff out a breath of impatience.
“Charlie’s not like other men,” Miss Hill says in a rush. “He’s, he’s different. You’re not from around here, so you don’t know.”
Miss Hill turns an unbecoming dull red.
“Charlie likes other men.”
“Well, I’m sure other men like Charlie,” I say.
“That’s not what I mean. I mean that Charlie likes men in the way that most men like women.” She hesitates again. “There was some scandal a few years ago. Mr. Millsap saw him when he went into the city, and Charlie was going into one of those places. You know, those places where, where, uuumh, different men get together. Now Milt says he wants to get married so other people will think he is normal. But he isn’t normal.”
This is a deliberate attempt by Miss Hill to shame me. It’s obvious she’s jealous.
“Get out of my classroom,” I say evenly.
“Please,” she says. “It’s not fair that he’s trying to use you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Get out of my classroom,” I repeat.
How dare she imply that Charlie only likes me to cover up his past? He likes me for real, as any man likes a woman. How dare she?
After recess, we are working on the map. I have my back turned to the class. I’m afraid that something will show on my face. I am watching Jack write the rationing quotas in England on the board. Canadian rationing is already on the board, and the children are doing some comparisons. Goods rationed are much the same, sugar, butter, tea, and I’m going to initiate a discussion as to why these goods are rationed. I’ll let the children take the lead. Right now, I find it hard to concentrate on anything. Then I hear Michael’s voice, a low undertone meant to be concealed by the soft chatter. I can’t believe what I hear.
“Fat ass,” Michael says. His best friend, Jimmy, snickers. I feel heat spreading up my neck and into my face, but I’m so angry I don’t care.
“Michael,” I say sharply, “stay in at lunch.” He smirks at my red face, my aggravation.
When the children go out to play after lunch, Michael stays in. I call him to my desk and take out the strap. The smirk drops off his face.
“Miss Lee,” Michael says, “when my father sees I got the strap, he’ll beat me.” I know it’s not me he’s afraid of, but his father. This enrages me more.
“You should have thought of that before,” I say.
“But Miss, he’ll really beat me. He’s mad all the time since my mom died and he just looks for reasons to hit me. Last time, I had marks across my back for the longest time.”
“You should have thought of that before,” I repeat. I look him straight in the eye. “And Michael, if you pull your hand away I will go to your father myself and tell him why you’re in trouble.” He turns white. I had never seen him look scared before, and I feel like I am finally in command. It’s a good feeling.
Michael’s palm is brown, his hands already thickening with hard work.
The first strike leaves a red mark that covers his hand and up his wrist. I move to the side and hold his wrist.
I strike again and again. I don’t look at Michael’s face. I count. Seven, eight, nine, ten. As the strap comes down his hand changes from brown to pink, then to red. On strike number eight I see miniscule drops of blood, oozing. I continue. After the 10 strikes Michael’s hand is bright red. It looks warm, heated.
“Left hand,” I say.
I glance briefly at Michael. He is staring straight ahead, his face without expression. But tears stand in his brown eyes. I feel pleasure. There is no doubt about it. I feel pleasure. And I still have the left hand to do, 10 strokes.
The afternoon passes quietly, the children are subdued. I had promised a spelling bee for all the grades, but go next door and let Miss Hill know that it is cancelled. None of the children mention it. I think of Mr. Henderson’s recommendation, and decide he’s right. The strap is the answer.
The walk home that evening is quiet. Miss Hill ventures once to ask if I ever got the strap myself. I know she could hear me hitting Michael from the other class room. I don’t answer. She doesn’t say more, except to remark that spring is pretty much here.
The next day Michael isn’t in school, and Lizzie doesn’t have a note from their father.
“Where’s Michael?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Miss” Lizzie says. “He started out with me, but then he went into the woods by the Miller’s place. His back is really sore, Miss Lee. My dad hit him with the buckle end of the belt. I heard him crying last night when he thought everyone was asleep, and he couldn’t lean his back against the chair at breakfast this morning.” She looks at me reproachfully.
“That will do, Liz” I say, and she sits back down.
We all recite the Lord’s Prayer, and then I direct the grades to open their arithmetic books, and I assign pages. I direct grade five to study the seven and eight times tables. In 15 minutes I will quiz them on these tables while the other three grades work independently.
I look around the classroom and see Jimmy, grade seven, staring at me. He drops his eyes when I look back. I remember how he snickered yesterday, when Michael made his remark. I could have got him too, I think. He did snicker. That was probably worth at least three per hand.
Jimmy’s hand would not be hardened like Michael’s. His father doesn’t farm; he works in the hardware store in town. Jimmy wouldn’t do farm chores; his hand would be soft and pink.
“I’ll get you,” I think with anticipation, with satisfaction.“Sooner or later I’ll get you”
Dreaming
THE LITTLE HILL IS PERFECT. It’s about three and a half feet high, and has a slight slope. Two little girls in worn cotton dresses lie on the hill, their feet braced at the bottom, and watch the clouds.
The sky is deep blue. Across the creek the cows make their way slowly toward a distant barn. No sound breaks the silence.
It is two weeks into summer vacation. Endless days of possibilities lie ahead.
“What colour is your dress?” asks Emma.
“Blue,” says Rose. “See the sky in between those two biggest puffy clouds? It’s just that colour, and it has white swans down all around the neck and the hem. What colour is your dress?”
“Oooh,” breathes Emma. “Your dress is beautiful. My
dress is pale pink, with pale blue swans down around the neck and hem.”
“You can’t have blue swans down,” says Rose.
“Why not?”
“Well, did you ever see a blue swan.”
“I never even saw a white swan,” says Emma.
Rose glances quickly at her sister. “Well, we could probably dye the swans down,” she says.
“Yeah, we could dye it. You can dye just about anything.” Emma giggles and nudges Rose with her elbow. “Remember when Mom dyed her hair that yellow colour, and Daddy got so mad and said she looked like an old horse?”
“I remember,” replies Rose.She thinks for a minute. “I don’t think he said ‘horse’, though. I think he said a different word.”
“Well, what do you think he said? It sure sounded like ‘horse’ to me.”
“I don’t know, but Mom got so mad, I think he said something else. There sure was a lot of yelling that time.”
Emma digs her toe into the dirt at the bottom of the hill to keep from sliding down. Dirt sifts into the hole in her runner and grits on her foot. She expertly points her toe and shakes her foot, and sand trickles back out of the hole.
“And my dress will have sequins on it too, like that dress in the Eaton’s catalogue.” “Sequins and swans down.”
Behind the girls a door opens and a woman throws water from a tin wash basin into the yard.
“Rosie and Emmie, you two get in this house and get these dishes done,” the woman calls.
“Okay, Mom,” Rose replies.
After a comfortable silence of some minutes, Emma asks, “But what will the men wear?”
Rose considers. “Maybe they would wear what that man wore in the poem Miss Phillips read to us. You know, that man who rode around robbing people on the highway. He wore a coat of some kind of velvet, and lace underneath his chin, and big tall boots.”