by Joan Barfoot
How stubborn and wilful Frances was: refusing food, kicking up a fuss at bedtime — where did she learn this? “Really, Mother,” June complained, “I wish you wouldn’t let her get away with whatever she wants. It makes it very difficult.”
“But I don’t. I just deal with her differently. I divert her. You know, I bet if you didn’t tell her she has to have her carrots, she’d eat them with no problem. She just gets her back up.”
“But she should do what she’s told.” Anyway, it seemed a terribly energetic undertaking, trying to seduce a child into obedience.
“If you wonder where her stubbornness comes from,” Aggie grinned, “just look in the mirror.”
“I was never like this.”
“Well, you were, but it came out differently. Let me tell you, carrots are easy compared with how you were stubborn.”
June thought Aggie must have her memories confused. Probably she made them up to suit herself.
At least she could try to balance Aggie’s influence, tilt one way as Aggie tilted the other. Maybe Frances would come down in the middle, then. It was hard, though, to outweigh her mother’s devotion. Love, like many other things now, was simply exhausting.
She did insist, however, on taking Frances to church with her, and she seemed to enjoy it, heading happily downstairs to the Sunday school, emerging later to retell, as they walked home, the Bible stories she had learned, or show a drawing she had made. There was a bit of an uproar one time when Aggie found out that Frances prayed for her, but otherwise she didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Another time she roared with laughter at a picture Frances did in Sunday school of Jonah. It showed a man’s thin legs dangling feebly from between the sharp white teeth of an enormous black whale, and Aggie said, “I’m sorry I laughed, honey, it’s just that it reminded me of your grandfather. Those poor little legs like toothpicks,” and roared again.
Frances’s drawings were pinned up all over the kitchen, wherever there was space on the walls, or the refrigerator. This too was different from when June was young, although she couldn’t precisely recall any drawings she had made that might have been pinned up.
There were, in fact, a great many things she couldn’t quite seem to recall. Looking at Frances, face alight with some discovery in a book, or panting and pink as she skipped rope, she couldn’t imagine having ever felt anything like such a wholehearted joy. But it was hard to tell; everything was changed and in a different light now.
Well, she supposed it must be like any break: a leg knitting itself through time. A question only of whether it mended properly or left a person a little crippled, with a little limp.
The great thing was never to be injured again.
Aggie said, “You know, if there are things you want to do, don’t worry about Frances. I’m here anyway. You don’t have to feel you should be home every night.”
Go out? Where? It was all she could do to get through a day, much less a night out. “I’m all right, Mother, leave me alone.”
“You can’t be all right. Look, I know it takes time, getting over something like what happened (how would Aggie know what had happened? How could she imagine?), but at some point you have to pull yourself together and make a new life. You’ve got thirty, forty years ahead, maybe. You should be making something of them.”
Forty years! She could barely get up in the morning, never mind imagining forty years of mornings.
“June, honestly, I’m not trying to nag. It’s just that I worry about you.”
Really? That would be a change. She might have worried and warned some years ago, when it might have done some good.
“What do you think I should be doing, then?”
“I don’t know,” throwing up her hands. “Something that interests you. Join a club, go out with friends. You know,” assessingly, “you might meet someone. But you certainly won’t, sitting here.”
Oh no. Go through all that again? The one good thing about her life now was the freedom from hands. Anyway, she lacked trust, had no faith any more.
“I know how you feel, June. Remember, I had to start again too.”
But that wasn’t the same at all. It had never been in June’s mind to make Herb vanish, the way Aggie had let her husband disappear.
“Look,” Aggie said firmly, “you’re the one who used to say life was a gift from God. Think of the trouble you’ll have, explaining why you didn’t do much with it.”
Oh, really, talk about laughing behind her hand, Aggie of all people trying to use an argument like that. Except June could recall saying that, and she could imagine Him telling her, on judgment day, “It’s not that you did anything wrong, heaven knows. But then, you didn’t do much of anything at all. Really, I’d have thought you’d have done better, considering the gifts I gave you to work with: faith and health. What more did you want?”
“Anyway,” Aggie went on, “do think about it. I may not have put it very well, but I mean it for the best.”
She sounded almost forlorn; June was almost touched. “All right, I’ll think about it. I’m sorry you’ve been worried.” She reached out to pat her mother’s hand, and found hers trapped between Aggie’s pudgy palms.
Nothing was more unbearable than tenderness. Tenderness could shred her will, which was all that kept her sitting upright in the chair. She was sorry, though, about the flicker of hurt, and then anger, that flashed in Aggie’s eyes when she pulled away. It didn’t seem possible to save yourself and not cause pain elsewhere.
Maybe that was what Herb had thought? Not likely, though. He acted on pleasure and sensation, never thought. He would at least have considered his daughter and his duties, if he’d been a thinking man.
But what might God be expecting of her, having tested her so far? At least she might join a church group, something appropriate that would also get her out of the house and out from under Aggie’s eye.
The couples club, of course, was out of the question, as was the young people’s group. She no longer qualified for either. The women’s group didn’t appeal, since its members seemed largely concerned with catering weddings and other church events, and June had no intention of getting involved in cooking and baking and similar sorts of drudgery. The only possibility she could make out, scrutinizing the church calendar, was a group that met twice a month to discuss various scriptures.
“Oh, well, if that’s what you want,” said Aggie. “At least it’s something.”
The group was led by the minister, the same one who had replaced the white-haired, piercing-blue-eyed man of June’s adolescence. There were no particular complaints about this one, who was soft-spoken, not riveting, but probably kind and certainly dutiful. He picked out a passage for the group to read, which would be discussed at the next meeting. The discipline of such assignments pleased June. She did not, however, speak out at the meetings, was content to leave words to the others. Anyway, there wasn’t a great deal to be said. It was not as if there were radically different interpretations. Mainly she stared down at the Bible in her lap.
So she was startled, pulling on her coat at the end of a meeting, to hear a voice at her shoulder, a hesitant low one; a man’s voice. “Mrs. Benson? I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced, but you probably know my name’s Bill Baker.” A small man, not much taller than she, with receding grey hair combed directly back from his forehead, no apologies or camouflage there. “I was wondering if you might be interested at all in having dinner with me. Perhaps this weekend, on Saturday?”
He’d rehearsed, she could tell. Had perhaps sat through this meeting with his eyes on her downcast head, speculating and worrying and hoping to be brave. “I don’t know,” she hesitated. After all, what did she know about him? Anyone could join a church group: although he looked harmless enough, and he’d been a member for a long time; she’d certainly seen him at meetings, without especially noticing him. His
size was reassuring, too.
“Just dinner,” he was saying. “I assure you, nothing more.”
Well, why not? She smiled and said, “That would be very nice, yes, thank you.”
“I’ll be going out Saturday,” she told Aggie with satisfaction.
“Are you going to marry him?” asked Frances, who was twelve and at an irritatingly blunt and insensitive stage.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” June snapped. “I’ve barely met him. In any case, I am married.”
He worked, he told her over dinner in one of the town’s fancier restaurants, which had licences to sell liquor (a change from the sort of place she used to go to during the war — where she’d met Herb), in one of the new plants in town. It manufactured boxes. He’d used to work for the same company in its former plant, in another, similar town, and had moved on here when the firm expanded and built this new factory. “These days,” he said, “it’s more automated than it used to be. All new equipment. So I was lucky to have a job when they offered me the one here.”
He thought the town pretty. He said he had never married, but hinted at a previous involvement. He asked her what she did and how she lived. “Then you’re a widow?” he asked. “For very long?”
She could hardly lie. “No. I’m married. My husband and I no longer live together.” She simply couldn’t say those words in any other than a forbidding way, couldn’t bear it if he inquired further. The result was that he flushed, embarrassed, and she felt clumsy.
She was very surprised when, as he left her in front of Aggie’s house, he asked, “Could we do this again next Saturday? Or perhaps take in a movie?”
“Certainly, that would be fine.”
She wondered later, though, why she had agreed. Not because he appealed to her, because she doubted that anyone would. Nor was he likely to become a friend, like Aggie’s Barney. She didn’t even think he was especially interesting. She thought perhaps she might have agreed mainly to show Aggie, to be able to say, “I’m going out Saturday,” as if it were a triumph.
But surely it was also flattering to think of him watching her at those meetings, becoming interested. It seemed she could still be wanted, if not, she hoped, desired. She hoped there would not be that sort of awkward moment to deal with.
“I’m sorry about the movie,” he said. “I should have checked before I suggested that.” There only was one theatre, although there were reports another was in the works as the town expanded. “I’m afraid it’s one of those Elvis Presley ones. Perhaps we should think of something else.”
Oh dear. There wasn’t much else to do, and she’d rather counted on the movie to fill a couple of hours without the need for conversation. “Do you bowl?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid I never have.”
“Would you like to learn? It’s a good game.”
She wasn’t a bit interested in learning to bowl. On the other hand, she had no other suggestions. The only alternative seemed to be going for a walk, which would require a terrifying degree of conversation.
He said he was a patient teacher, and it was a good thing because she couldn’t get the hang of it at all. Most of her balls rolled aimlessly and hopelessly into the gutter, or she managed to hit a single pin, but the wrong one. What was really worrying her was the shoes: having to rent them. Who knew who’d worn them before, the condition of their feet?
“We could maybe,” he suggested eventually, “go some place a little quieter and have a beer.”
“I’m afraid I don’t drink.”
“Coffee then, and a bite to eat after all this exercise.”
She thought, “I want to go home,” but it was too early. What a stupid situation, though, a daughter having to stay out late to keep a mother from fussing.
“So,” he said, nervously making conversation in the restaurant, “how did you come to join the group at the church?”
“Oh, I’m interested in Bible study, and then, it’s an outing, too. Everyone needs interests outside of work and home,” stealing Aggie’s argument.
He brightened. “Me too. I mean, that’s sort of why I go. That and the bowling keep me busy. I’m on the bowling team at work, and then I sometimes go on my own. Good bunch of people at the church, too.”
Probably they were. She hadn’t especially noticed.
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes, she’s twelve.”
“It must be nice, having a family,” he said wistfully. She heard an echo of Herb in there, although that wasn’t fair, and she was sure Bill did not resemble him in the slightest.
“My mother looks after her a good deal. I had to go back to teaching, just when Frances started school.”
“That was when, ah, your marriage ended?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s been some time.”
“Seven years.”
Seven years was longer then her marriage had been. A daughter who had been just starting school then would soon be off to high school, and she herself was middle-aged. She felt pale. While other people might feel themselves flushing, blood rushing to the face, she could feel the opposite, blood seeping away.
“You look tired,” he said. “You must have a busy life. Perhaps we should go.”
At least it was something, going out, and he seemed safe enough. She had a sense of time having been wasted this evening, but what would she have done with it otherwise? Read, marked papers, watched television with Aggie. Frances was out with a friend. Probably at the Presley movie (what a good thing she and Bill did not go there after all). He had filled a certain amount of time, and might do so again in the future. That seemed all right, not too strenuous or demanding.
They stopped, walking her home, for a red light. When it turned green and they stepped off the sidewalk, he cupped a hand beneath her elbow. It was like being shot. She whipped her arm away in a reflex movement that took her off balance, so that she stumbled and almost fell. Herb courting her, guiding and protective and aiming for more; so there was no difference, they were all the same, not to be trusted.
He was bewildered. “Did I do something wrong? I’m terribly sorry, what did I do?”
“Nothing at all.” Oh, she was cool now, cold. She knew where she stood. “But I can see my own way home from here, there’s no need for you to come with me.” She marched briskly away, but he followed, like a stray puppy, she thought, hoping for a good meal. “Please, tell me what’s wrong? I’ve made you angry, but I don’t know why.”
She turned and faced him. “I’m not angry. But I am perfectly capable of getting myself home. So I’ll say good night now, and thank you for the evening.”
“But will I see you again? How about next Saturday? There’ll be another movie on by then, maybe something good.”
“No, thank you for asking but I think not. Good night.”
Now that she’d discerned his hidden intentions, she was a little frightened, and walked more swiftly in case he tried to follow. But he didn’t.
The trouble, she realized later, was that now she couldn’t go to any more church group meetings; would not be able to sit in the same room with him, as if nothing had happened. She wondered just what had happened; perhaps she had over-reacted? Certainly she had behaved without grace. But no, she’d been right. And the important thing was having learned that a Herb could be anywhere, beneath any harmless face.
“You’re not going to those meetings any more?” Aggie asked.
“No, I’ve quit.” Aggie looked as if she would like to ask why, but for once did not.
“What happened to your boyfriend, Mother?” Frances asked, grinning.
“He was not my boyfriend,” June snapped. “And it’s not your business.”
“Oh, Mother, I was joking. Can’t you take a joke?”
What did Aggie and Frances think was so funny all the time? Their jokes, Ju
ne thought, were often just camouflage for cruelty.
And Frances, who had stretched up and slimmed down and was turning into a teenager (how did that happen so fast? Here was someone quite different from the child June remembered), this young girl was asking June’s permission to go out on a date.
“Certainly not, you’re far too young,” June ruled.
“But Mother, it’s not like a real date, there’ll be a whole bunch of us.”
“No, I told you, you’re too young.” She could at least try to protect her daughter from all those clutching, cupping, treacherous hands.
“Then,” Frances said, hands on hips, chilly eyes on her mother, “when will I be old enough?”
When? Never, please God. “Sixteen,” June blurted, with a feeling that surely that was sufficiently in the future that something might happen in the meantime to keep Frances permanently safe.
“Sixteen.” Frances nodded. “All right, I hope you realize you’re ruining my life, but you don’t likely care. But I’ll remember. I’m going to have a date on my sixteenth birthday, so don’t bother having a cake or anything. I’ll be out.”
“What a child,” June sighed later.
“Not a child, you know,” Aggie answered, glancing up from her book.
Aggie’s fault, all this, June was sure: opening up so many dangerous possibilities to Frances. And how would Aggie know what she was talking about? Only from books, and whose life was so neat?
What a storm, a tempest, a nightmare of emotions Frances’s adolescence was. How cold she could be, and how hot. She also had a long memory and, as promised, announced on her sixteenth birthday that she would not be home for dinner because she had a date. June’s mouth, opened to protest, closed again in the face of Frances’s defiant glare.
Thereafter she was often out, an airy “I’m off to the movie, see you guys later” as she ran down the stairs and out the door.
“Don’t worry about her,” Aggie advised. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders, she won’t do anything foolish.”