A frown creased his kind face. “I’m sorry to hear that, Libby.”
“Mr. Forth said it would be for two weeks.”
William Thomas raised himself and pulled his wallet out of a back pocket. “Let me lend you enough to tide you over,” he said. “Till you get back on regular hours. You can even pay me back if you want to.”
“I’ll be okay.” I waved the offer away. “As long as it’s not for too long. I can use a holiday, I guess.”
“That’s the right attitude. I wish I could take a holiday myself.” He took his seat again and laced his fingers behind his head. “Been doing any more writing?”
“Well, since you ask, I was working on something last night.” I opened my purse and handed him the folded sheets of paper. “You can read it if you like. It’s still a bit rough, because I planned to work on it some more before I brought it over. But I would like to know your opinion.”
“Well, thanks, Libby.” William Thomas smiled and took the papers from me, laying them on top of a wire basket where there was a pile of more of the same. “I don’t have time to read it right now, but I will take it home with me tonight.” He removed his glasses and sat with his fingers pressed to his temples. “If I ever get home. It looks as if I’ll be here quite a while, unless I pull something off the wire service.”
“Is there anything I could help you with?” I asked.
“No, but that reminds me. Marge wanted me to tell you she was going to the nursing home to do some letter writing, and she wondered if you were still interested in visiting the Countess.”
“I sure am!” I sat up straight. “When is she going?”
“Well, it’s usually mornings,” William Thomas said.
“That’s okay. It looks like my mornings are open for the next two weeks.”
“Perfect,” he nodded. “I’ll have her call you and she can pick you up.”
Ten
After she dropped her husband off at the Pinkney Mirror on Wednesday morning, Marjory Thomas had the use of the family station wagon for the rest of the day. I discovered when she came to call for me, that we were also delivering newspapers along the way.
“If I can do this once in a while to help out,” Marjory puffed, hauling a bundle of papers over the tailgate, “it’ll ease William’s work load a little. He hasn’t been feeling well lately, and I worry about him.” She heaved herself back in under the wheel and pushed her damp hair off her forehead. “That last bundle goes with us to the nursing home,” she said.
Anxious as I was to meet the Countess, I was a little apprehensive about my first visit to a nursing home. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would there be, as I’d heard somewhere, blood curdling noises and bad smells? Alex used to say Nan was fortunate that she got her wish and escaped such a fate in her old age. My grandmother had died instantly of a heart attack, doing something she loved—standing in her perennial garden, staking the delphiniums.
We stopped at the receptionist’s desk inside the front door of the nursing home to ask where I might find the Countess. “She’s on the second sitting for breakfast, dear,” the young woman behind the desk smiled. “They aren’t out of the dining room yet. Come on, and I’ll take you to her table.” Seeing that I had been attended to, Marjory Thomas headed off down the hall, on her own.
I think I could have picked the Countess out of the crowd myself; she was just as I remembered her, tiny and hunched. Her hair was still quite black and twisted severely into a small knot at the back of her neck, emphasizing the length of her nose, the pendulous ear lobes. The receptionist pulled a chair forward from the wall for me, and I sat at a table ringed by wheelchairs.
“Good morning.” I smiled nervously at the residents around the table. The Countess was tearing a slice of toast into bite-size pieces. “My name is Libby Eaton,” I said, addressing her. “I met you once a long time ago. My mother was Alex Eaton. She interviewed you at your house in town, and I came with her. I was just little.”
The dark eyes turned towards me. They were a little less penetrating than I remembered, but she seemed to know me. “Measles,” said the Countess, chewing.
“Chicken pox,” I said.
A waitress was making the rounds of the tables with a teapot. She right-ended the Countess’ cup onto its saucer and poured some tea for her. Holding it in two gnarled hands, the old woman lifted the cup to her lips.
I looked around me at the others in the dining room. Given the number of people in the room, it was surprisingly free of conversation. There was not much small talk as the residents concentrated on the business of eating, and the attentive staff moved among them.
“And how is your mother?” the Countess asked suddenly. The cup rattled into the saucer.
I leaned towards her. “My mother died at the end of last summer,” I explained. “She had cancer; she was only forty-two.” The Countess merely nodded. I guess living in a place like this one got used to dying.
The attendants had begun collecting the residents to take them from the dining room, and the Countess too started to wheel herself away from the table. “I came to visit you,” I spoke up. “If it’s all right with you.”
“Is all right. You may push me to my room,” she acknowledged. “I show you which one.” She settled her hands in her lap, and I moved to the back of the chair.
When the Countess said the word, we turned in at a room painted a cheerful shade of yellow, near the end of a long hall. The room’s other occupant lay curled on a bed behind a half-drawn curtain, a breakfast tray untouched on the stand beside her.
I swung the Countess’ chair around to the position she suggested, and the old lady reached down herself to set the brakes. Seeing no other chair in the room, I half leaned, half sat on her bed.
“I knew your mother?” the Countess queried, looking doubtful now.
I nodded. “Actually, you were friends with my grandmother Nancy, and you taught my Aunt Irene to dance.”
The Countess’ eyes lit up at the mention of Irene. “My star pupil. My only pupil. Ah, Nancy, yes, such a good person. I do not know how I could have got on without her.” The wrinkles at the corners of her mouth pleated themselves into a smile. “So nice of you to visit me.”
“I came with a friend who volunteers here, writes letters for the residents,” I told her. “I wanted to see you and maybe hear more about your interesting life? I know from my mother’s interviews that it wasn’t an easy life. Do you mind talking about it?”
“Ho, no. Always, I love to talk. The stories I could tell you! I am Russian, you know,” she said with pride. “Life in Russia was good—parties and plays and concerts. Over here, not so good. Sergei, my husband, he was dead.” She pulled a lace handkerchief out of the cuff of her blouse.
“I know. I’m sorry. You came here to Canada to be with your brother,” I prompted.
“Dimitri, yes,” she said fondly. “He was working in mine. He had place for me too, as cook there. But when big boss saw me, he said no. I was like this.” With her hands she indicated a large mound over her midsection. “Ready to have baby. So,” she shrugged, “no job. I come to Pinkney Corners instead. I get room in boarding house. All we can afford. But I was lucky. They need me to work at canners. One day, big joke too, I am running house with rooms to rent! So I did okay.”
“I’ve been reading some Russian history,” I said, wanting to guide this conversation in the direction of Anastasia’s story, “about the last Tsar and his family, the Romanovs? Do you know some people say that Anastasia, the youngest daughter, did not die with the others?”
The old lady smiled and shook her head. “Rumours,” she said.
“You don’t think it’s true?”
“Of course, it is what we all hoped,” she admitted, twisting the handkerchief around her fingers. “Those Bolsheviks, they tell big lie. That only Tsar had been executed, that family was safe. But finally, they admit truth, and then we know.”
She hunched forward in her chair and crooked a ye
llow finger, beckoning me closer. “Listen,” she hissed, putting the finger to her lips, “I tell your mother secret. Now I tell you.”
“What is it?” I whispered, bending closer in anticipation. Had she heard from Anastasia?
“My baby girl,” the Countess confided. “I had no money. What could I do? I couldn’t look after her.” (I knew this secret already.) “I would find friend to take her. Maybe someone close by. Then I watch her grow to be big girl.”
A nurse bustled into the room then to pick up the other resident’s tray and the Countess, to my surprise, put out a hand to waylay her. “I am feeling tired,” she announced.
“You want me to help you onto your bed, dear?” The nurse glanced at me, and I hopped quickly to my feet. “She sometimes has a nap in the morning,” she explained.
The nurse set the tray down again, and I stood aside while she put her arms around the Countess in her chair. The old woman’s arms encircled the nurse’s neck and, with one practised movement, she was lifted onto the side of the bed. My visit was over.
While the nurse adjusted the drapes over the window, I turned to say goodbye, disappointed that I’d learned nothing new. Unexpectedly, the Countess reached for me. “You know my Irina?” she whispered.
I hesitated. “I don’t think so. Does she still live in town?”
“You do know! You do!” she insisted. The vise-like fingers gripped mine. “But it is secret. My friend, she had little daughter already, but she said she would take Irina. She could be little sister to her own child, to her Alexandra.”
I froze, open-mouthed.
“Coming?” the nurse queried and left me no choice but to follow her out into the hall. “Come again anytime,” I heard her say. “It’s good to have people dropping by. Some of these folks don’t get any visitors at all. The Countess, though, is one of the lucky ones, especially now that her nephew is in the area.”
I stumbled down the hall towards the lounge where I was to wait for Marjory Thomas. My head swimming, not watching where I was going, I slammed shoulders with a man who was turning into the hall.
“Oops, sorry,” he said, although it was clearly my fault. In my agitated state, I had the fleeting thought that he looked familiar.
Irina, the Countess had said. And I knew her? Of course I knew her! How could I have missed the truth for so long?
At some point, Marjory Thomas must have come to fetch me and drive me home again. I really don’t remember.
I had trouble concentrating on anything else for the rest of the day. Bobby Baker might have had cause for complaint, had he been at Savaway during my shift. My mind was whirling. How do you tell a member of your family that she has another family she doesn’t know about? That she is actually the daughter of a Russian Count and Countess?
At nine-thirty that evening I unlocked the back door of my little house and went inside. No wonder Alex never wrote her story! It hurt to think that my mother went to her grave with the weight of this secret. How I wished she had shared this knowledge about our family with me. Or with Irene, at least.
I was dawdling over breakfast the next morning, deep in thought, when the phone rang. It was William Thomas, telling me how much he liked my last piece of writing. It took a few moments for me to recall what it was that I’d written.
“It’s good, Libby,” he repeated. “Darn good. I want to use it.”
“You mean, put it in your paper?”
“That’s right. That’s why I’m calling. For your permission. I know you said it really wasn’t finished.”
I was laughing, feeling giddy almost. “Of course, you can use it. Thanks very much!”
Hanging up the phone, I slid slowly down the wall to the floor and sat there grinning and hugging a bewildered Ernie. This was wonderful!
Then, after I came to my senses and remembered the subject I had tackled in the essay, I began to think about possible repercussions at the store. The Irene/Irina thing had clouded my mind just now when I said yes to Mr. Thomas. I looked up the Thomases’ number in the phone book and dialled the man back.
“He’s already left, Libby,” Marjory informed me. “Give him ten minutes and call him at the office.”
I must have caught him the minute he came through the door. William Thomas was breathing heavily when he picked up the phone.
“I’m a little bit worried about what I said in that article,” I admitted. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“I won’t publish anyone’s name, of course,” said Mr. Thomas. “Nor the name of the store. I’ll be careful. I feel strongly about the topic you’re addressing here, Libby—the unfair treatment of vulnerable young women. I think the public needs to know about it.”
It gave my ego a boost to be taken so seriously. “Okay. If you’re sure there won’t be any names.”
“I promise. Would you like to read it before I publish it? I tidied it up a little.”
“That’s not necessary,” I assured him. My joy at the prospect of being a published author knew no bounds. “Oh, I forgot to ask how you were,” I remembered, at the last minute. “Marjory said you hadn’t been feeling well.”
“Just a little shortness of breath,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”
No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang again. I said a little prayer before lifting the receiver that it wouldn’t be Irene. Armed now with the knowledge that she was not who she thought she was, I needed some time to consider how I was going to break the news to her.
To my surprise, it was Michael Pacey. “I hope I didn’t call too early,” he began, tentatively.
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I’m usually up with the roosters.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got chickens too! How do you do it?”
“No,” I laughed. “I meant the McIntyres’ rooster.”
“Say, Libby,” he said, “I hope those fellas the other night didn’t drive you crazy.” I loved the sound of concern in his voice. “They can be such wise guys. Especially around a pretty girl.”
Did he say that? “Oh, no. It was fun,” I said. I didn’t tell him I had hoped the evening would never end.
We chatted back and forth for a few minutes, and I began to wonder if he’d just called to make small talk. Then, out of the blue, Michael asked, “If you aren’t busy on the weekend, would you like to go to the show?”
“What’s on?” I asked. As if it mattered! He was asking me on a date!
“It’s some Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movie. Should be good for a laugh. I have to work late Friday night, but maybe Saturday?”
“Sure,” I said, “that would be nice.” Nice! The most overworked word in the English language.
“Good. D’you mind if I pick you up on the motorcycle?” Michael asked.
“No,” I said, “but I have to tell you I’ve never ridden on one before.”
“Oh, you’ll get the hang of it.” He sounded pretty confident. “I’ll show you how to lean to the side when you have to.”
“If you’re sure,” I said. I pictured myself sitting close behind him, my hands on his waist, like Anna’s. “I’m working two till six on Saturday. I’ll bike home and . . .”
“Oh. I forgot. You’ll have your bike.”
“Not if you pick me up here,” I said.
“Listen,” suggested Michael, “why don’t we do this? You have to eat after you get home anyway, so why not just stay in town, and we’ll grab a bite at the Blue Bonnet. Then, we’ll go to the show and afterwards, I’ll put your bike in the trunk of Dad’s car and drive you home.”
Just before closing time on Saturday I looked up to see Michael, leaning against the lamppost outside the Savaway, his hands in his pockets. He was wearing black slacks and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat. My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of him. Michael Pacey was waiting to be with me!
I’d managed to keep my skirt and blouse reasonably clean all day, and I’d brought some talcum powder from home to sprinkle into my white, flattie
shoes at the last minute. A squirt of Blue Grass cologne from the tester bottle on the cosmetics counter, and I’d be ready.
Gloria kept finding excuses to go past the front door to sneak a look at my date. She obviously approved.
At six o’clock I skipped past the scowling Bobby Baker and sang out for his benefit, “Bye, Gloria. See you Monday. Michael’s waiting for me.”
Sitting across from each other in a booth at the Blue Bonnet, Michael and I ate hamburgers and shared a plate of the restaurant’s speciality—chips and thick, brown gravy. I was so full that I had to decline the buttered popcorn at the show. I sat clutching the handle of my little box purse in both hands, feeling very nervous and aware of Michael next to me. I could smell the starch in his clean shirt. I had a sudden vision of Fern Pacey carefully ironing it, hanging it in his closet. Did she know about Michael and me, I wondered?
I tried not to think about Anna Nobles. Michael had probably dated plenty of girls in the last year, and I just wanted to enjoy the fact that tonight he chose to be with me.
Between the cartoon and the feature, Michael gave an exaggerated stretch and let one arm slide across the back of my seat. I held my breath, and when the arm remained there, I shifted over, very slightly, into the shelter it provided. I smiled up at him and Michael gave me a knowing wink. I wished the whole world could see us together.
The show over, Michael and I filed out of the theatre with the rest of the noisy crowd, blinking in the bright lights of the marquee. We collected my bicycle from the rack in front of Savaway and, as night fell around us, we walked very slowly over to the Pacey house, Michael gallantly wheeling the bike.
At the house, I remained like a visitor in the front hallway while Michael went to speak to his parents. From the living room on the right I heard the gentle murmur of voices, the rattle of a newspaper. Should I poke my head around the corner and say hi? I decided against it. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Michael.
“I’m taking the car keys, Dad,” I heard Michael say. “I won’t be long.”
Finding My Own Way Page 11