Edgy People

by Barb Nobel

  A couple of the men laugh, but most of them scowl.

  Denise and I get in front of Cecile to shield her, but the man continues to smirk as if he’s said something clever.

  “Arsehole,” says Denise. Her voice is strong, full of contempt and unafraid, and the smirk drops from the man’s face.

  Cecile is close to tears, so we get out of line and go to the back. Now the wait will be longer, but we got away from that awful man.

  When we get to the front of the line, the bologna is gone and the soup tastes mostly like water. There are a few vegetables in there, but they’re so mushy we can’t identify them.

  “I never thought I’d be so glad to see a bit of cabbage,” I say, trying to be cheerful.

  Back at the church, before going to sleep, we play our favourite game: what we’ll eat when we’re rich. We detail meals rich with meat, warm bread and luscious desserts. Cecile talks about a chocolate pie her mother used to make with condensed milk.

  Sometimes, I wonder if this is a smart thing to talk about when we’re so hungry, and I switch the topic to Wallis Simpson, and whether she has committed mortal sin and will go to hell. The royal romance is interesting for a short while, but food is the only thing we think about these days, and we return to that topic.

  Night falls, and we huddle in our coats and try to sleep, hoping the Depression will end soon, and hoping for work of some kind tomorrow.

  My stomach grumbles.

  Hunger Three

  THE WORST THING FOR ME is that I can no longer help other people.

  Now other people help me.

  All my life I’ve taken care of others—my husband, my five daughters, my grandchildren. Sometimes it was difficult.

  I never wanted to move out to the country but my husband insisted. He thought it would be healthier to raise the girls out in the clean air. In those days, wives did what their husbands said, so we moved. If I’d had my way we’d have stayed in the city, where I could visit my sisters-in-law and be able to get the groceries easily.

  Of course, it was my life that got harder with the move, not Tom’s. Well, the girl’s lives changed too.

  But me, I was the one who got all the extra work. It was me who heated up the water and poured it into the old galvanized tub to give my girls a bath on Saturday evenings. They had to be clean for church on Sunday. Well, that really only lasted a couple years. When the other babies came along, I made Tom get a bathtub inside, and that was a lot easier.

  Today, I have a bath whenever I want to. I just need to tell the attendants. But that doesn’t make up for the fact that my privacy is gone. Seems like it’s now okay for anyone to see me without my clothes. I’ve gotten used to it somehow, and the attendants are mostly kind.

  Getting old and being in this wheelchair is no fun. I can’t walk anymore. And I can’t read anymore. I went blind in my right eye about a year ago; I have some sight in my left eye, but it’s going too. I can still recognize most people, but sometimes I recognize them by their voice or by what they’re doing. When the doctor decided to find out why my right eye was starting to bulge out, he discovered a brain tumour. In one way, I’m glad my sight is going, because I can’t even imagine how bad I look with my eye bulging out.

  I’ve made a decision. It’s still against the law to help anyone die, so I can’t ask that of my girls. But it’s not against the law for me to refuse food and water, and that’s what I’m doing. After some fuss here, they offered me the palliative care room, which is bigger than my room, but I said no thanks. I want to die in my own room.

  I seem to live a lot in the past now, and I’m dreaming of those old times again. I see that back room, the closet with all those old coats from the charity boxes, and my girls looking through the coats to find one that fits them for the winter. Sometimes, the sleeves were too short, and their mitts were short too, so they ended up with chilblains on their wrists. And with the dresses at their knees and their galoshes going only to their ankles, they were playing in the snow with half their legs bare. On really cold days, I insisted they wear their pajamas bottoms under their dresses when they went to school, and take them off before they went into class. It embarrassed them to be wearing pajamas to school, but I made them anyway. I don’t know why they wouldn’t let girls wear trousers to school in the winter. It was so old fashioned to insist on dresses all the time.

  I got them their mitts and socks for Christmas, but there wasn’t any money for coats.

  I’m dreaming of long ago Christmases too. I mean Christmas with my girls, not when I was a kid in the orphanage. There was only one time when I wasn’t able to get them something for Christmas. Like I said, I got them their socks, underwear, mitts, but nearly always a book each, and a board game for the family. Monopoly, Candy Land, Snakes and Ladders, Parcheesi. We had all of them.

  And the girls had a collection of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books.

  But that one time when I was in the hospital having my fourth daughter, there was just no money. When my daughters asked what they should say when the neighbourhood kids wanted to know what they got for Christmas, I told them to lie. Now ordinarily, I didn’t approve of telling lies, but what were these kids going to say? It was too hard for them to say they got nothing. I know how that feels.

  I had no idea what I was going to do when they got into high school. I didn’t have any money for new clothes, and they would get made fun of for not being dressed like the other girls. And that’s what happened. But they survived.

  I’m cold now, and I know it’s because I haven’t eaten for a few days, and someone puts a warmed up blanket on me, and it feels good.

  I remember that old house we lived in, and how cold it was. The windows were always frosted over, and the girls would melt the ice off the inside with the palm of their hand so they could see the mark they left on the windows. Other times, they just scratched off the frost so that they could look outside.

  One of my daughters is here every day now. I know they’re sad, but they figure it’s my decision, except for the oldest one, who keeps on begging someone to do something, feed me with tubes or something. But the others tell her no, it’s my decision.

  Other people come too: my daughter’s husbands and ex-husbands, and sometimes friends of my girls. And sometimes my grandchildren come.

  When I first decided to stop food and water, I got hungry, but it wasn’t terrible. I’m small now and don’t eat much anyway. And it’s not the first time I’ve been hungry.

  But the hunger did make me think of those days during the depression when I was a young woman and had no money for food. Sometimes, if I couldn’t get any work, I would go a full day with only a coffee and a doughnut. It made me think, too, of the times when I was trying to feed my family on very little. Potatoes, carrots, parsnips, those were the bases of many meals in the winter, with a little bit of meat cut up so small no one could find the pieces. Summer was better. Tom kept a garden, and when the neighbours went out, the girls got hold of some apples and strawberries.

  I know it’s the lack of water that will end it for me, and probably within this week. My daughters put some ice chips on my lips, and that feels good. My lips and skin are so dry. I would ask someone to put some cream on my face if I could find the energy to talk.

  Today, there’s someone else visiting me, but I don’t recognize her. Well, like I said, I don’t see too well anymore. My daughter tells me she was a childhood friend of hers when we lived out in the country and tells me her name is Cheryl, but I don’t remember her at all. Cheryl says she wanted to see me and say thanks for helping her, and listening to her when she was a child. She gives a nervous laugh, and by that laugh I remember her.

  As I drift off to sleep again, I remember turning the sheets. The sheets we had were so old and thin that I used to turn them side to middle. I cut them up the middle where they were very thin, and then sewed the outside edges together, where they were thicker, to make a new middle. They didn�
��t tuck in at the sides anymore because they were too narrow, but they had to do. One of my daughters joked that it was a wonder all my girls didn’t have seams up their backs from going to sleep on turned sheets.

  Then Cheryl says thank you for the coat. And I remember.

  She was just a little girl, and her coat was so, so thin. A hand-me-down from her brother, I think, but getting too small for her, and so worn out that I figured it did nothing to keep her warm. I had no coat for her. It was hard enough making sure my own kids were able to stay warm. I felt so bad for her, and really put my head into how I could help. And I did come up with something.

  When the sheets had been turned lengthwise, and then width wise, and then worn out everywhere, I still saved them. Sometimes, I cut them up and hemmed them for drying the dishes; sometimes, I just used them for dusting. But I knew I had a large piece in the rag bag that I hadn’t cut up yet. I pulled it out and folded it in four pieces, and hemmed the cut edges. Then I sewed that piece of sheet into the back of the coat, keeping it as square as I could. A little warmth for a little girl.

  Somehow, thinking about that, about how Cheryl, all grown up, came to thank me for that little gift, made me feel settled.

  I know my time is near. I hope no more memories come. I’m satisfied now that I did some good in the world, that I did some good for my family, which was both natural and my duty. But I did some good for others as well. I left something significant to mark my life.

  I want to end with that last memory.

  -End-

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you goes to Isobel Raven and to Cynthia Robins for their excellent feedback, frequently provided under time restrictions, on many of my stories. Thank you to Shane Joseph for the opportunity to publish this collection, and for his feedback and suggestions.

  Thank you also to all the Jolly Lits who have nourished my love of writing, and to others who encouraged me along the way.

  Author Bio

  Barb Nobel has loved reading and writing for as long as she can remember. She particularly likes the short story for its precision of language, for what is not said but only implied, and for the story’s invitation to imagination.

  Barb wrote the stories in this book over many years. The stories sometimes reflect her personal life experiences, and sometimes reflect the life experiences of friends and strangers. Many of them grew out of randomly overheard stories, others are pure imagination.

  Barb grew up in a very rural Ontario area, and attended a one room school house with a very outdated selection of books. Consequently she read many of the classics. When she was in the middle of grade eight a new two-room school was constructed, and she was overjoyed to have the use of an inside bathroom.

  As an avid reader Barb knew there was a more exciting life to come, and she was right. Whatever she can’t do herself, her characters can do.

  Barb moved to Toronto at the age of 18, eventually became a social worker, and worked for the City of Toronto. She retired in 2010, and loves retirement, and the freedom to travel, kick box, lift weights, and drink lots of coffee with friends. She is pleased to have time to spend with her granddaughter, and delighted that she is finally getting enough sleep.