by Sophie Weeks
“As long as it is not thin, like dishwater, I shall be content.” She smiled. “Christopher and I met over a cup of coffee. He was drinking cappuccino in the afternoon, and I laughed at him. It was before I knew all Canadians did that. He liked me for it, though. I don't know why. I was terribly rude,” she concluded fondly.
Looking at Carla, with her beautiful fair hair and pensive face, Margaret didn't think it was at all surprising that Christopher had been caught by her light and held there, rapt. But she was too worried at what Christopher's reaction might be to seeing Carla here. He'd never wanted her to see the reserve, and whether that owed more to shame or to a strong sense of privacy, Margaret wasn't sure.
She didn't have much time to ponder it, though, for no sooner had Margaret settled her guest with some coffee and a cookie, than the back door banged open. “Christopher,” Margaret said, stepping forward, but Christopher blew right past her.
“What the fuck part of extreme hazard was too hard for you to translate, Carla?” he demanded.
Carla stood up and faced him, her five feet somehow a pretty good match for his six as she scowled at him. “No one has gotten sick in a month, Christopher. I am not a fool, I will take all caution with my eating, so why don't you tell me why you're really so angry, hmm?”
“And you expect my family to just put you up with no notice at all? I—I—” Christopher couldn't get the words out for a moment, then finally managed, “I share a room with my cousin.”
“Then I can get a room in town.”
“There are no rooms in town,” Christopher yelled. “The motel is booked solid with scientists and agents. There're no rooms anywhere.”
“There's room here,” Margaret interposed. “Christopher, she's welcome to stay here with us. Dad already invited her.”
“Well I'm glad someone invited her, because I sure as hell didn't! How did you get in?”
Carla explained, and Margaret took that as an opportunity to slip upstairs. Emilie was peeking out of her door, too chastened yet to venture forth, but curious at the raised voices. Margaret lifted her eyebrows and escorted Emilie back into her room. “You shouldn't listen in,” she scolded, but lightly.
“Sorry.” Emilie flopped back onto her bed. “Who's that woman?”
“Carla. She … hmm. She's Christopher's girlfriend. She might be staying with us for a while.” Margaret sat down and ran her hands through her hair. “How are you doing?”
“I never, ever want to go back to school,” Emilie moaned. “Do I have to?”
Margaret was sympathetic. There were things you could reasonably tell a teenaged girl she would live down, and there were things, like having the whole school see such a video, that she would never live down. She had a quick flash of sympathy for Kate, who had never lived down her own adolescent misstep. “I don't know, Emilie. It's not like there's another school across town you can go to. And you have to go to school.” She thought for a minute. “If this is where your heart is, then you can't run away.”
“How do you know where your heart is?” Emilie asked.
“I'll let you know when I find out,” Margaret sighed, closing her eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN CHRISTOPHER FINALLY CALMED DOWN, he had quite a bit of ado to make peace with Carla, for she'd flooded with tears as Christopher had emphatically expressed his displeasure at her presence. Margaret didn't come down until the sounds of shouting and crying were over, and when she did, they were sitting on the bench by the back door together, with Christopher whispering in Italian and stroking Carla's hair. Margaret smiled to see them leaning so close together, the storm passed, for the moment at least.
“So,” Margaret said, clearing her throat. “What's the plan?”
“Is it okay if Carla stays here?” Christopher asked. “I … we've decided that she will come and meet my father tomorrow, but I think everyone will take this more calmly if there's a little more distance. We hate to put you out …”
“It's okay,” Margaret said sympathetically. “Carla, if you want, you can stay in Rob's old room in the bunkhouse. It's not fancy, but you'd have a little more privacy when Christopher visits.”
“Thank you, Margaret. The bunkhouse sounds very good. Very rustic, very Old West, yes?”
“Uh, yes,” Margaret said, trying not to grin.
Christopher rolled his eyes. “This enthusiasm for roughing it is going to last exactly two days.” But he kissed Carla tenderly. “I have to go back to work. But … tomorrow we'll go talk to my father. I promise. Call me before you go to sleep, cara.”
“Okay,” Carla whispered, smiling at him. When he had gone, she sighed and turned to Margaret. “You know when you wish to either shake or embrace someone or perhaps slap them?”
“I think so, yes. Come on, let's get your things put away. You can lie down if you want, and lunch will be in a couple of hours, unless you're hungry now.”
Carla shook her head, rubbing her eyes. “I think I would like to rest my eyes,” she said apologetically.
“I can get you some tea bags to put on them,” Margaret promised. At Carla's assent, she paused to boil the kettle and pour the boiling water over a couple of tea bags in a thermal cup. “There. You can drink the tea and then put the bags on your eyes.”
Together the two women separated Carla's luggage. Margaret panted. “What's this full of, rocks?” she said of the trunk they carried between them. Carla had to be the last woman on earth to travel with a trunk.
“Canned food. I wished to bring something from myself to … well, I meant it for Christopher's family, but perhaps your family will like the things. I will not be a bad guest eating you out of house and home.” Carla opened the trunk with a flourish. Inside, it seemed as though a gourmet grocery store had imploded, so densely packed it was with chestnuts in honey, chocolate bars, smoked fish, and other goods.
“Oh my goodness. We certainly can't accept all that,” Margaret said positively.
“You must. My hostess gift to you, yes? Where is the pantry?” And in moments, Carla was unpacking the large trunk onto the bare shelves. “My mother used to say that I prepared for travel like an ancient Roman army,” she tossed over her shoulder with a smile.
“My grandmother will love this,” Margaret said. “Thank you.”
They carried the rest of the luggage out to the bunkhouse, and Margaret found some clean sheets and made up the bed. “I'll have Gene bring some more firewood in for you this afternoon. There's a hot plate over here, and a toilet next door; of course you should come into the house whenever you like. My cousins will like to meet you.”
Carla looked around her with more interest than the spartan room deserved, in Margaret's mind. “The bunkhouse, it is where the cowboys sleep, yes?”
“Yes,” Margaret laughed. “Usually. There's one over there. He's uh … my boyfriend. Sort of. Not like you and Christopher, though.”
“I understand.” Carla hugged Margaret hard. “Thank you, Margaret, again. I am very grateful to you.”
When Carla was settled, Margaret went next door. Gene was sitting by the stove, reading some kind of technical manual. But when Margaret came in, he put it away and said, “I wondered how long it would take you to come talk to me.”
“I didn't mean for it to be this long,” Margaret apologized. She briefly explained what had happened that morning. She pulled up a chair to sit beside him. For a while, both of them stared at the stove. “I didn't like you asking Dad's permission. It seemed way too … serious.”
“Yeah,” and he looked a little sheepish. “I felt like kind of a dumbass about halfway through it. Sorry.”
“It's okay. At least we don't have to sneak around anymore.” Margaret reached out for his hand and smiled when he squeezed her hand.
“I know you're going back to college,” Gene said. “And I don't figure I'm the kind of guy who'll settle down young. You don't have to be scared.”
“I'm not scared,” she said indignantly.
“Yes, you are. You're scared of cold prairie nights that scream out what you never got to do.”
Margaret gaped at him for a moment, then pressed forward and kissed him, long and sweet. And if what she felt just then was closer to gratitude than love, it didn't matter much at all.
***
For a miracle, everyone came to the kitchen for lunch, and even Emilie was allowed to come downstairs long enough to eat her share of the big frittata that Margaret had made. Louise liked Carla and her pretty manners immediately, and Margaret was pleased with how animated Louise was talking to Carla about Europe and her girlhood grand tour there.
“Venice is a sad city,” Carla said in response to some question of Louise's. “For me, as an architect, this city is too sad to live in. But I love it too much to stay away always. I'm like a sad Proserpina, returning again each year. And I bring Venice to the world, for Venice shall not be in the world forever.”
“How come?” Jon asked.
“Venice is sinking. And we struggle against it, but our city is built on the seas, and the sea shall reclaim her someday.” Carla smiled wistfully. “Every November the floods are just a little deeper, claim just a millimeter more of the land. Each year I watch my darling drown.”
After lunch was over, Carla insisted on helping to wash the dishes. “Forgive me for talking so long over the meal. We Italians are inefficient.”
Margaret smiled and said, “We all enjoyed it. Usually we don't sit down together in the middle of the day. And Bonne-maman loves talking about Europe.”
“Have you ever been to Europe?”
Margaret nodded. “My school has a summer program. I spent last summer in Paris.” Margaret remembered that summer as if it were from another life, it seemed so far away now.
“That's right, Christopher told me you studied fashion design.” A little cloud passed Carla's face. “Do you think he is ashamed of me?” she asked abruptly.
“No,” Margaret answered immediately. “I'm sure that's not true. He is ashamed, but not of you. I don't think you quite understand what the reserve is like.”
“I have seen poverty before,” Carla said. “I have been to China, Margaret. I doubt Christopher's family is poorer than the Chinese.”
“Not poorer,” Margaret acknowledged. “But different. There's a lot of alcoholism on the reserve. Diabetes too. It's … it's a sad place. And if I had to guess, I'd say Christopher thinks you'll take one look at where he came from and leave him.”
“Imbecile,” Carla grumbled, putting the last dish in the drying rack. Then Margaret made her sit down while she kneaded the dough for that day's bread. She was actually, if she thought about it, very happy to have Carla for a guest—the other girl was good-natured, and she was a breath of fresh air in the closed, claustrophobic community.
They were interrupted when Sam came barreling in the door in tears. The girl stopped short at the sight of the stranger, looking shy but unable to compose herself. “Sam, what's wrong?” Margaret said quickly. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Your stomach—do you have to go to the bathroom?”
Sam shook her head irritably, having weathered far too many inquiries about her bowel movements of late. She looked from Margaret to Carla, and Carla tactfully said, “Forgive me, I'm very tired,” and slipped out the back door. Then Sam relaxed and ran to Margaret, wrapping her arms around her cousin's waist.
“What's wrong, Sam?” Margaret whispered.
“I did something bad,” the little girl choked out. “I'm the worst person in the world, Margaret.”
“Why, what did you do?” Margaret was still hugging tight and speaking very gently.
“I called Jess that word,” Sam finally managed to say. “The word they all call her.”
“Ohhhhh.” Margaret didn't say anything more until Sam calmed down a little. “Tell me what happened.”
“She wouldn't tell me what Emilie did, why everybody keeps looking at me and whispering, and I said … I said probably she was in love with Emilie because she was a stupid …” Sam pressed her lips together and looked up. “I just wanted her to tell me. Uncle Jon wouldn't say anything, and Emilie isn't coming out of her room.”
Margaret sighed. “It's my fault. I should have talked to you.” She should have realized that though Louise could probably be kept from the truth, Sam couldn't—she had to go to school, and all her classmates knew. Sitting down, but keeping her arm around Sam's waist, she told the girl what Emilie had done.
“Wait, so I have to go to school and face everyone, and she doesn't? That is the least fair thing ever.”
“Your sister's going through a rough time.” Margaret looked at Sam sympathetically. “I know you are too.”
“That's why it's so bad,” Sam said. “Jess got my homework for me every day when … after the accident, and she doesn't care that my sister's a big slut, and then I called her that word. She'll never speak to me again.”
“I bet she will. I bet she will if you say you're sorry and you mean it.”
“Of course I'm sorry. But that won't be enough.”
“You might be surprised.” But Margaret's heart was sorrowful for poor Jess, who had so much to deal with generally.
“Who was that lady?” Sam asked, finally going over to sit down while Margaret poured her a glass of milk.
“That's Carla. She's Christopher's girlfriend, and I guess she'll be staying with us for a little while. You'll like her, she's very sweet.”
“Okay,” Sam said, not particularly interested. She drank her milk, looking worried still. “Can I ride over to Jess's?”
“It gets dark so early now,” Margaret protested. “I don't want you out after dark.”
“Please, Margaret?”
“I'm sorry, Sam, it's just not safe. Listen, I'll call Kate, okay? And if Jess wants to come to dinner, then I'll drive over and get her. She can spend the night here and go to school with you tomorrow.”
“But what if she won't come?”
“Then that's her choice, Sam. You were really mean to her and hurt her feelings. She's allowed to be mad about that.”
Sam nodded unhappily. “Call right now?”
“Okay.” Margaret kissed Sam on top of the head. “It's going to be all right.”
Margaret went into the office and sat down behind the desk, calling up Kate. She felt more than a little wary of speaking to the other woman just then, especially after the incident with Gene the day before. Still, she couldn't let her own stupidity get in the way of Sam's friendship with Jess; that would be selfish. When Kate picked up, she took a deep breath and tried to be as friendly as she could, explaining that the girls had quarreled and Sam badly wanted to make it up to Jess.
“She'll come to dinner,” Kate said immediately.
“She doesn't have to …” Margaret hesitated.
“She needs to learn to suck it up and act like a normal kid,” Kate said sharply. “I'll drop her off in an hour.” Then she hung up.
Margaret stood there for a moment staring at the phone, shaking with anger. She knew it wasn't her business, wasn't her child, but her heart swelled with a great protective anger for Jess. She hung up and went back into the kitchen. “Okay. Kate's dropping Jess off in an hour, and then you two can make up.” She paused. “Oh. And so you don't hear this from anyone else … Gene and I are dating. It's no big deal.”
“I know,” Sam said calmly. “I saw you in the barn last week. Well, if you call that dating.”
Margaret smacked her forehead. “I, uh … sorry about that.” She couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of that. “Thanks for not telling.”
“No problem.”
Margaret took the next hour to just talk to Sam, something she didn't get to do often enough. When she heard the car pull up the drive, she followed Sam outside. Jess climbed out of the car, and Margaret and Sam both stared blankly. Instead of her usual practical jeans, Jess was dressed in tights and a neat denim skirt. A bow was tied around her head, and the face beneath the bow was anyth
ing but happy. Jess looked like she wanted to sink into the earth.
Kate gave a quick wave and drove off, and Margaret said the first thing that came into her head. “For God's sake, come in before you freeze your legs off in those dumb tights.”
A tiny spark of hope lit Jess's eyes then, and she hurried towards the porch, though she didn't look at Sam quite yet. Inside, the two girls were awkward and mute, and Margaret said, “Sam, why don't you take Jess upstairs and loan her something uh … warmer?”
“'kay,” Sam said, and the two girls trudged upstairs. Margaret hoped that would be put right soon—both of them needed the other's friendship badly.
***
The dinner table that night was crowded and merry. Carla had brought a couple of bottles of wine, and it seemed after all the trouble and sorrow the family had been through, they agreed to a truce for the night to enjoy themselves. Margaret sat beside Gene and, after a couple of glasses of wine, even relaxed enough to hold his hand without hiding it.
When the meal was done and cleared away, Margaret left the girls to clean up while she walked out to the bunkhouse with Carla and Gene. She felt strange being so open in her behavior, and she considered that perhaps she and Christopher had more in common than they'd ever thought. She wondered what Christopher was doing, whether he was in his laboratory hiding with his microscope, or if he was shouting at his father, or lying in bed trying to sleep and dreading the next day.
Carla yawned at the door. “I will call Christopher now, and then I think I shall sleep a year.”
“Good night,” Margaret said. “Sleep well.”
Inside Gene's room, Margaret was restless, though, pacing a little on the worn floorboards and picking things up and putting them down. Gene watched her patiently. “You're antsy tonight.”
“I am,” she admitted. “You still want to buy me that drink?”
“You want to head down to the Spur? Probably be crowded this time of night.”
“I don't care—I just want to get out of here for a while.” Sometimes Sandy's Acres seemed to have a force field that magnified Margaret's stress.