The Stubborn Season

by Lauren B. Davis

  Part V

  23

  December 1936

  It was Friday, December 4, and Margaret was in a frenzy of cookie baking. There was holly on the mantelpiece, and mistletoe hung from every doorway. The tree, a riot of brightly coloured baubles and bells and tinsel, stood in the corner of the living room with a new pink and white angel on top, her wings gold-coloured satin. There was a wreath on the front door and another in the front window. Red ribbons entwined the banister, and every surface was covered with candles in the shapes of Santa Claus or snowmen or evergreens.

  Margaret wore the pretty apron Irene had made her years ago and hummed as she took another sheet of shortbread from the oven. She’d made two fruitcakes, orange cookies, rum balls, cookies in the shape of stars, in the shape of wreaths, in the shape of angels. She had made chocolate macaroons and almond cookies. She might just finish by day’s end.

  This being their first Christmas without Douglas, Margaret knew she should be dreading the day without him, and she was sad, at least at times. Sometimes she’d walk past his chair and out of the corner of her eye she’d swear she saw him there. Or there would be the creak of a floorboard somewhere in the house when she was the only one home and for a second, just a second, she’d think he was upstairs, in another room, just down the hall. But she never longed for his return.

  She slid the cookies onto the rack to cool. She loved the smell of sugar and almond that filled the kitchen. The bright light reflected from the snow outside made the red kitchen look clean and crisp and warm. Christmas carols played on the radio. A cardinal pecked at a lump of suet Irene had hung from the tree in the backyard. Margaret sighed. It was good, this peace that had come upon her. Hush, hush.

  Life could be so sad and so hard, but weren’t she and Irene better off now? Wasn’t the house ordered and regulated, calm and predictable? And there was more money now. Not just the insurance money—she had to thank Douglas for that, even if it still rubbed her nerves raw to think he’d made Irene the beneficiary—but the store was doing well. She had to hand it to Irene. She was a smart one. Margaret had always said so.

  Irene didn’t talk about Harry anymore, never even mentioned his name. He would have hurt her in the end, no matter what, for didn’t they all, and it was better to pull the bandage off quickly and let the wound heal in the air.

  They’d be all right, the two of them. The two of them together.

  She heard footsteps on the porch and checked the wall clock. It was just past four and certainly couldn’t be Irene coming home. Margaret cocked her head and listened. Then the bell rang. She wiped her hands on the cloth slung over her shoulder and started down the hall. She had no intention of opening the door, but she wanted to know who was out there.

  She parted the curtain on the living-room window and peeked out. Standing on the porch was a dark-haired young man, shabbily dressed, with a pack over his shoulder. Looking for a handout, she thought, and has some nerve too, coming right to the front door, instead of around the back like he should. His face, from what she could see at this angle, had the tanned, wind-burned complexion of a man who’d been out of doors a long time.

  He knocked on the door again and peered in the little window, trying to see through the sheer curtain that covered it. He shifted the pack on his back and stamped his feet a time or two. The snow that had drifted on the porch last night squeaked under the man’s heels. He must be cold. Well, he’d move on.

  He knocked one last time, then stepped back and looked up at the house as though checking the number, and she pulled herself quickly away from the window to avoid being seen. She heard him take a step or two. She waited, expecting to hear his feet going back down the stairs, but the sound didn’t come. After a moment she couldn’t resist and looked out the window again.

  Margaret was surprised to see the man sitting on the front step, rolling himself a cigarette, calm as you please.

  Who on earth does he think he is?

  As though he could sense he was being stared at, he turned toward her. Margaret jumped back, but not quickly enough. She pressed herself against the wall. His footsteps on the porch were loud. A shadow fell over the window and Margaret’s heart began to pound. She scratched at the back of her hands, digging deep.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  She stayed very quiet.

  “Hello?” He tapped lightly on the window.

  Margaret bit her lip to keep the Other Margaret from screaming out something obscene. She heard footsteps going to the door and a light tapping again.

  “I’m not selling anything. I don’t want anything.”

  “Go away, then,” she yelled. “Go away!”

  “I don’t mean to scare anybody. Maybe I got the wrong house. Can you just tell me if I’ve got the wrong house?”

  “Yes. You have the wrong house. Go away!”

  “Is this the MacNeil house? Are you Margaret?”

  Her hand went to her throat. “What do you want?”

  “My name’s David. I was a friend of your brother’s,” he said. “A friend of Rory’s. I’m just passing through and thought I might stop by and say hello. Rory spoke about you many times.”

  “You’re a friend of Rory’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Stay there.” She had to think. She needed Irene to come home.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where is he?” she said, finally stepping toward the door. She could see him through the thin gauze. “Is he coming home?”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Well now, ma’am. I guess I don’t know. So, is your husband home, ma’am? Maybe I could just say hello to Mr. MacNeil.”

  He’s lying about something.

  “My husband is dead.”

  “Oh, shit! Oh, sorry, ma’am! Uh … I’m sorry to hear that, sorry to hear that, very sorry. Uh … Look, you think you could maybe open the door?”

  “No.” Her voice was high, the voice of the Other Margaret, poised and ready to pounce.

  “Okay, then, okay.”

  “How do you know my brother?” There was something here, flicking its angry tail around the edges of her mind. She did not want to look at it.

  “We met in a relief camp some time back. We did some organizing I guess you’d call it. He said if I was ever in Toronto I should come by and see his sister and her family.” She could hear him shuffling out there in the cold. “So, are you alone, Mrs. MacNeil? Is your daughter here? Irene’s her name, isn’t it? Maybe she’s home? I’d sure like to say hello if she’s there.”

  Why did he keep wanting to know if she was alone? He didn’t sound dangerous, but Margaret sensed there was much to be afraid of around him. The air was so cold, with the sun just a sliver of steely light on the horizon.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “David, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you move, David. I’m going to call my daughter.”

  Irene had planned to keep the shop open a little later that night. She was doing that more often these days. There seemed no reason not to. Other than seeing Ebbie now and again, since she and Harry had broken up she no longer had any social life. She’d brought in some Christmas decorations that were selling well, as were the little bottles of cheap perfume that children could buy for their mothers with pride, decorated with gaudy ribbons and imitation-gold caps, little wooden boxes with surprise toys inside, hand puppets, small bags of jawbreakers and gumballs that made, she assured her customers, excellent stocking stuffers. Better to have a stocking filled to the brim with lots of little things, for wasn’t it a time of frivolity, and forget the bikes and train sets and roller skates that so few could afford anyway.

  The phone rang, and her mother told her she’d better come home.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Irene closed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is something wrong or isn’t it?”

  “There’s a fellow here
. Young fellow.”

  Harry! Could it be Harry, after all this time?

  “He says he’s a friend of your uncle Rory’s.”

  “Oh my God! Is Uncle Rory coming?” Irene’s breath caught in her throat.

  “I don’t know. Come home, Irene. I can’t make head nor tail of this person. You need to come home now.”

  “Is he in the house?”

  “He’s on the porch.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She shooed out two boys giggling at the magazine rack and locked up the shop.

  Irene could see the man on the porch. He was sitting on the top step, smoking a cigarette. As she approached he stood and threw the cigarette away. A movement at the window caught her eye. It was cold, and the man’s breaths came in short foggy puffs.

  “I’m Irene MacNeil,” she said.

  “David,” he said, holding out his gloveless red hand. Even through her wool gloves she could feel how cold he was. “Look, I’m sorry. I think maybe I scared your mother.”

  “What can we do for you?” He wore only a thin wool jacket. He must be frozen.

  “Rory said I should stop by if I was around. I didn’t know about your father. I’m real sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, could you and I maybe have a talk?” He looked uneasily at the front door, which snapped open as if on cue.

  “What does he want?” said Margaret. Irene could see the fear graven in furrows on her mother’s forehead. The backs of her hands were scratched red.

  “I don’t know. I think he should come in.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he said.

  “Nonsense, it’s freezing out here.”

  “Irene …”

  “It’s all right, Mum. You can go upstairs if you want.” She stepped into the house and her mother moved back. She gestured for the man to come in. He looked pleasant enough, but so uncomfortable. There was a strange charge in the air, an electrical crackle, like before a storm is about to break. Irene was suddenly afraid of what had stepped in the door with this man. He entered and twisted his cap in his hand, then reached up and pulled on his earlobe.

  “I want to stay,” said Margaret, and she clutched at Irene. If she was alone the Other Margaret would take over, she knew that. Even now it was all she could do to keep her words in check, to not rave at the man, tell him to get the fuck out and your bad luck with you! For she could see the evil all around him like shadows.

  “Fine, Mother, but let go, you’re hurting me.” Margaret relaxed her grip a little. “Let me get out of my coat. Why don’t you go put the kettle on?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then come with us. Come through, please,” she said to the man, and she led the way down the hall to the kitchen. She put Margaret in a chair and hung her coat on the back of another. She got the kettle and turned to fill it at the sink. The man was standing in the doorway.

  “Please, David, please sit down.”

  “Thanks very much,” he said and sat at the chair nearest the door. “You’ve grown up some since your uncle last saw you, I guess … I’m very sorry to hear of your father’s death. Very sorry. Rory, he spoke highly of him.”

  “Thank you,” said Irene, filling the kettle. She doubted very much that her uncle had said nice things about her father, given the condition he’d been in when Rory saw him last. Still, it was a kind thing to say.

  “Where’s Rory?” said Margaret.

  “Last I saw him was in Regina, ma’am.”

  “When was that?” said Irene. “You’ll forgive me, but we haven’t heard from him in some time, and quite frankly we’ve been worried.”

  “It was July, miss, of 1935.”

  “That long! But you’ve heard from him since?”

  “You haven’t heard anything?” he said. “Nothing? Either of you?”

  They shook their heads.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know what to do here. Maybe you and I should go for a walk?” He pulled his earlobe again.

  “What is he saying?” said Margaret, looking from one to the other.

  “I don’t mean to be dancin’ around here, it’s just that I thought it might be better to wait until you got home, miss, to explain everything. And I’m sorry to mention it, but I know your mother has been … well, your uncle mentioned … Oh, God damn!” He tossed his hat on the table and punched a fist into his palm. “I’m no good at this. So, you’re telling me you’ve heard nothing?”

  “Just come out and say it, please.”

  “Irene?” Her mother whimpered and began chewing at her knuckle.

  “It’s all right, Mum,” she said, but of course she had known it wasn’t going to be all right, known it for the longest time, for Uncle Rory wouldn’t have gone all this time without a word, a card. She looked away from this man’s face and from his eyes, because they burned her. Her mother started to cry and reached out for her hand.

  David ran his hand through his dark hair. “I guess there’s no good way to say a thing like this, is there?”

  “My uncle’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “No! Irene, you mustn’t say such a thing!” Her mother’s hand was a sharp clutch on her own.

  “Yeah. He is. Yeah.”

  Her mother began to wail, her hands in her hair. Irene put her arms around her, but she arched backwards in the chair, like a child who would not be restrained. Margaret’s eyes were wide, locked onto Irene’s, and she let out a long, low moan.

  “Breathe, Mum, just breathe. We’re all right. We’re all right.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” said this stranger in their house.

  “Upstairs, in the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet. There is a prescription bottle. Pills. Could you get it, please?” He scrambled out of the room. “It’s all right, Mum, it’s all right. I’m here,” she said, when all she wanted to do was to break down and cry herself and she couldn’t or else who would tell her mother to breathe, just keep breathing.

  David stood before her. “Is this it?” He looked frightened, and held a small bottle in front of him.

  “Yes. Water, please.”

  Margaret began shrieking and pointing at David.

  Irene took the water glass and tried to get Margaret to drink, but she knocked the glass out of Irene’s hand. It fell to the floor but didn’t break. Irene grabbed at her mother’s flailing wrists while David got more water.

  “Open up, Mum,” she said. “You’ve got to take the pills.”

  Margaret opened her mouth as though to scream again and Irene tossed the pills in, being careful not to get bitten in the process. She poured water into her mother’s mouth, most of it spilling down her front.

  “You’ll feel better, Mum, you’ll be all right. Just relax.”

  David stood pressed up against the kitchen counter and watched during the long minutes it took the girl to wrestle her mother into stillness.

  Finally Margaret fell into a drugged sleep, her fists gripping the bedclothes. Irene sat in the living room with David, and she tried not to hate him, knowing it was irrational, knowing it was unfair, knowing it wouldn’t bring back her uncle.

  “So, she’s going to be all right?” said David.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there anything I can do? I feel terrible, being the one to bring the news this way. I was sure … People were supposed to have told you.”

  Irene began to cry.

  “Look, I’m really sorry.”

  She wished he would stop saying that.

  “I should go, maybe,” he said, as though reading her mind.

  “Yes. I think that would be best.” She wanted to know what had happened, but not now.

  He took a pencil stub out of his pocket and wrote on the torn scrap of an envelope. “This is where I’m staying. In the market. So, if you want to talk or anything. If there’s anything I can do.” He kept pulling at his ear and brushing the curls off his forehead.

  Irene took the piece of paper and
put it in her pocket.

  The next day, when Irene had left her all alone in the house with her ghosts, Margaret decided that corners were good places, and so she sat in the small dining room, on a high-backed walnut chair with a black leather seat, facing out into the room so that nothing could sneak up on her. Can you not spare me even this? The words repeated over and over in her head. She thought of Catholics and the easy comfort of their rhythmic phrases. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Yes, let her talk to Mary, who brought life into the world and was there to see it gone again. Bloody at birth and bloody in death. Can you not spare me even this?

  Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe God hid his true face there behind the blue skirts of an angel-raped woman.

  Cunning. But Mad Margaret would not be fooled.

  Margaret decided she had been wrong all these years. The danger did not come from being crazy. The danger was being unprepared, not paying attention to the messages Mad Margaret sent her. The clues had been there all along. A crow on the lawn. One crow sorrow, two crows joy. Never two crows. A shattered mirror last week. A cake that had fallen in the oven on a Tuesday. Yes. It was clearer now. Random acts? She thought not. God was never random with His terrible, swift sword. The danger came from one place, one omnipresent Face. The danger lay in the lap of God Himself, who lies and is cruel. God who shows no mercy or is indifferent. God who turns women into pillars of salt, who stones them at the gate in payment for the crimes of men, God who giveth and then always, always, taketh away. Mad Margaret understood then. Mad Margaret was at war with God. She saw that now, and would be on guard in the future. No one would sneak up on her again. She would leave nothing to chance.

  She walked into the living room and stood before the Christmas tree. She reached out and took an ornament, a green and silver glass bell that had been her mother’s, and she plucked it off the branch like an offending eye. She closed her fist around it until it shattered, and the slip of blood on her palm pleased her. She reached up and took another, a little bird on a spring. This she ground beneath her foot. She threw a gold ball over her shoulder, tossed another in the fire grate, and so on, until only the angel on the top remained. She had to tip the tree over to get at this last one. The tree fell, scattering needles and filling the room with the crisp scent of pine. She picked the angel up and tore its dress off, then its wings and finally its head, which she crushed beneath her heel.