Grist

by Linda Little

  The next day she might complain, “He’s just a shadow. Then all of a sudden he fills the room, larger than life. He’s everywhere. Then he’s gone again.” There were days when she was hyper-vigilant, and inched away from him when she spoke to him.

  Then, “It’s terrible what he’s been through, Mother. We just can’t imagine. He jumps out of bed in the middle of the night. He flattens himself against the wall. He looks like he’s screaming but no sound comes out. Thank God he has his family at last.”

  Laughlin offered nothing about his fighting days. “Mud,” he said. “And rats.” The boys pestered him until he confided in each of them separately a story of how he lost his eye and his fingers. Each story was riveting, dramatic, heroic. Each boy glowed with pride at the daring of his father and at being the chosen son to receive this confidence. Of course no boy could keep such a prize to himself and very soon each discovered both his brothers had also received a story. Each tale was so completely different that each negated the truth of the other two. The boys attacked each other with a physical viciousness I had never seen in them before, each defending the desperate belief that his own version was the one true story—that he alone had been exempted from the betrayal of their father’s lies. I noted how expertly Laughlin played out his game. He may have been carrying horrors we could not imagine, but his wits had not been dulled and he loved a good game as much as he ever had.

  Old carousing chums and customers Laughlin had entertained in the past came by the mill to gawk and to discover, I suppose, when the fun would resume, when the singing and dancing and stories would start. But I am being unnecessarily harsh. Many came to welcome him home and to see his rumoured injuries out of concern as well as out of prurient interest. He remembered their names, shook hands that were presented to him. Those brave enough to speak of his injuries tried to dismiss them.

  “You won’t miss those two fingers at all except when you’re counting your money.” “You’re still more handsome with one good side than most of us are with two.”

  He remembered well enough where he had found his rum in the past and he renewed strategic acquaintances. Unlike his pre-war days he did not seek out sprees and balls and dances, he simply sought the liquor. The first time he wandered off and returned home drunk and clutching a jug, Charity put up a fuss. He looked at her through narrowed eyes, tipped over a chair, and left the house. Later that morning I discovered him in the barn, crouched by the corner. The damaged half of his face was lit by sunlight streaming in the window, which may have magnified my impression of his maniacal expression. He was laughing a slow, joyless laugh that wrenched his mouth into a sneer. His one eye glowed hollow as he jabbed at something with a stick—something I could not see. When he turned he held my gaze as though daring me to admonish him. Then, without a word, he got up, tossed his stick into the corner and brushed past me into the house. I heard a muted scrabble in the straw and when I approached I saw that he had impaled a rat with the manure fork with such force that the tines were stuck into the floorboards. The wretched thing had not been killed but simply skewered by a tine and pinned to the floor, twisting in wild desperation. It swung its body as best it could to face me, vicious with fear, its hindquarters mangled and bloody. Beside it lay the stick, one end dark and damp with blood where Laughlin had stabbed at it. At my feet lay fresh shavings where he had crouched coldly and patiently sharpening the stick into a bayonet. The deliberate, calculated nature of the torture chilled me through to my soul. I ran for one of Ewan’s mallets to dispatch the suffering creature.

  The image of that wretched rat set me trembling every time I thought of it. Nevertheless I tried to put it behind me. We’re not the only family with soft patches to manoeuvre around, I told myself. “There’s no yolks without eggshells,” I remembered my own mother saying. If we had our times of treading on shells, well, we would just have to make the best of it. Laughlin split some wood. He fixed the fence. He visited the mill and hoisted a few sacks of grain.

  HE WOULD WAIT UNTIL CHARITY HAD HER ARMS FULL, IN THE MIDST of some chore or other and then demand a slice of bread and jam or a wedge of cheese. He watched her closely as she left her work to do his bidding then took no more than a nibble of his prize and left the rest on the plate. When I finally objected she pulled at my sleeve with whispered desperation. “Mother, please, I beg you. He was only making a little joke.” She developed a rash and I made up a calamine paste for her. It would soothe her for a little while and then the rash would flare up again. Her face grew haggard and her eyes took on a haunted look. Her old melancholy stalked her.

  Spring came. Laughlin got a couple of fields planted with more or less the same stumbling, just-good-enough performance he had before the war. In June school ended and I sent the boys to help him with the haying. While Laughlin’s inattention around horses and machinery made me anxious, I was glad of some male company for the boys. Despite his faults I worried about the dearth of men in the boys’ lives. How would they manage the push and shove of the world beyond the kitchen when all they knew were women’s voices and the golden rule? When I looked out to the north field I was encouraged to see Laughlin pitching hay onto the wagon and Yoo-hoo building the load. Charity was not encouraged, nor could she be convinced of the value of male company. But she would not elaborate on her feelings.

  Her spirits lightened only when Laughlin grabbed a handful of the milling money and rode off. On these evenings Rachel would climb onto my lap and Charity would gather her sons around her and smile a sad smile and weave stories. “When you three brothers are old enough to go…” All her stories began with these words. “When you three brothers are old enough to go, there are harvest trains that carry men and boys, boys just like you, so far out west the sun sets in their laps. There is work in the fields for the harvest and then all the West opens for adventures for three boys together…

  “When you three brothers are old enough you can take a schooner to Boston or Montreal where there are jobs of every sort, one for each of you. There are tall buildings and electric lights and streets full of horses and carts and motorcars and stores with oranges and chocolate in the windows at every time of the year. And there are three of you so you will never be lonely and you can watch out for each other.”

  The seeds fell on fertile ground with Yoo-hoo. “We could be cowboys,” he offered.

  “Oh yes! Wouldn’t that be handsome?” Charity kept her boys enraptured with tales of their possible futures far away.

  “Perhaps they won’t all want to leave,” I interjected one night as a story began. “Perhaps there is a miller in the lot and he’ll want to stay and learn the trade.”

  “No! There are three and three will go. As soon as they are able.” Her ferocity stunned me. I was sorry I had spoken.

  ONE BUSY HARVEST EVENING YOO-HOO AND I WERE KEPT LATE AT THE mill finishing up an order of oatmeal. By the time we climbed the hill to the house we were both tired and hungry. Yoo-hoo had gone ahead of me into the kitchen. I heard him kick off his boots and complain to his mother, “Not a drop of soup even!” There were mumbled sentences about bread and butter then Samuel was sent to the pantry for cheese. I recognized Laughlin’s voice in the background. I don’t know exactly what transpired but just as I approached the doorway I heard Yoo-hoo turn a saucy tongue on his father. Laughlin appeared impervious but rose from his place on the daybed and shuffled across the kitchen floor in his sock feet as if to fetch a piece of pie from the pantry. He turned abruptly and grabbed Yoo-hoo by the hair, tugging his head back, exposing his throat. Yoo-hoo’s eyes bulged in surprise and fear.

  “You think you’re more of a man than your father? Maybe we’ll see who’s the boss here. Ask your mother. Ask her if she thinks it’s a good idea for the big shot to be sassing his father.” He shoved the boy across the room towards Charity. “I’ll ask her too.”

  I slipped into view, ready to intercede if needed. Charity, white as wax, reached out to her son, but when she took a step her legs simpl
y melted under her and she sank to the floor in a puddle. I cried out and ran to gather her up, shocked to find she weighed little more than a child. I sent Samuel off for the salts, called Alec to bring water, Yoo-hoo to fetch a chair. What happened to Laughlin I don’t recall, I remember only the dullness in Charity’s eyes when she regained consciousness and her body quivering as she leaned on me as we struggled up the stairs to her bed. I remember the sallow clamminess of her skin as I tucked her in and the way she rolled away from me, tightening herself into a ball. I lit a lamp against the advancing gloom and sat with her while she slept. I noted her skin rash had flared up again. There was no glossing over the ravages of nervous exhaustion. Bed rest, I thought, but did not have the energy to think further. Laughlin’s clothes were splashed around the room—socks, handkerchiefs and a dirty shirt. Simply tidying, I gathered them up and dropped them outside the room, headed for the laundry, but as I stared at the pile, fear for my daughter overwhelmed me. Perhaps I knew more than I had been prepared to admit to myself. I spent the night beside her and in the morning I sent Yoo-hoo down over the Coach Road to call for the doctor.

  I was in the kitchen boiling the kettle when they returned. Laughlin was sprawled on the daybed. Immediately it was apparent that the doctor and Laughlin had met before. They looked at each other like two dogs colliding at a food bowl, hackles raised.

  “Doctor,” Laughlin said. It was more a taunt than a greeting.

  “Private Wainwright.”

  “I suppose my wife will have a fine holiday now—doctor’s orders? We’ll see, eh?”

  “Could I prevail upon your hospitality to see my horse gets some water?”

  Laughlin gave a short, humourless laugh but pulled on his boots nonetheless and made himself scarce.

  I led the doctor upstairs to Charity’s room where he examined her carefully. When he was done he packed up his instruments and sat on the hardback chair by the east window that looked out across the barnyard. He watched Laughlin leaning against the side of the barn, smoking a cigarette. He sat a long time in silence, sighed deeply before he began to speak.

  “She’s exhausted. Melancholia. Bed rest, of course. But I suppose you knew that before you called me. Doctor’s orders aren’t what they used to be. People do what they like nowadays it seems.

  “That’s an awful rash she’s got,” he continued. “I image you’ve heard there’s scarlet fever in the village. The Langilles lost a young fellow just last week. I just ordered the hair cut off D’arcy Cameron’s girl—it saps the strength, you know. Scarlet fever is very contagious. A terrible thing. Fever and rash.”

  The doctor spoke to the windowpane. I struggled to take in the words scarlet fever.

  “But she has no fever,” I said. Her skin was cold, if anything.

  He continued to sit in silence until I wondered if he had heard my objection at all. Before I could repeat myself he turned and looked directly into my eyes. “She needs rest. She cannot be disturbed. We don’t want her bothered. Not at all. We don’t want anyone barging in thinking he can have his way.”

  I revisited each of his statements. I took apart the whole of his message, hearing each sentence as separately as he had delivered them. He hadn’t actually claimed Charity had scarlet fever.

  “Yes,” I said, “I heard there have been several cases of scarlet fever. It is contagious. Charity cannot be disturbed.”

  “That is correct. I believe we understand each other. There is no need to quarantine the house, just this room. I assume you can tend to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “These cases…” He stared at Charity’s frail body huddled under a mountain of quilts. “These cases can be difficult. But perhaps you know this?” He sighed again as he handed me a bottle of pink pills. He bent his head towards me, his voice low and kind. “Talk to her about her children. Have her take in a bit of sunshine if you can get her out when he’s not around. I will stop in from time to time, shall I?”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “We met in France, Private Wainwright and I. But perhaps he didn’t mention it.”

  “No.”

  “No, I suppose not.” The doctor shrugged himself into his jacket and fastened his bag shut. “There are some awful feisty girls come out of a war. Well, terrible things go on. Terrible.” He held out his two smallest fingers on his right hand, brushed his right eye with his palm, glanced at me and looked away.

  Laughlin’s injuries?

  “I’ll let myself out. I’ll just remind him how contagious scarlet fever is.”

  I remember listening to his feet on the stairs, straining to hear the kitchen door close behind him. Now it was my turn to stand by the window and watch the deception in the yard below. The two men spoke briefly, the doctor nodding towards the house then shaking his head. I watched until the doctor climbed into his buggy and clicked his horse off down the laneway to the road.

  I COAXED HER WITH BROTH, WITH WARM HONEYED MILK. I slept in the little bed in the nursery like a sentry guarding her door. I spoke to her about the children as prescribed. I described, reminisced, speculated, always trying to draw her in. They’re better off without me, is all that she could say. I hushed her foolishness. I spent as much time as I could muster at her bedside, brought tea and messages from the children. When the boys were at school and Laughlin off gallivanting somewhere, I might steal the opportunity to slip Rachel into the room to curl up with her mother. A little five-year-old girl sworn to silence on her mother’s life. Mostly Charity lay quiet although often I found her cheeks wet with tears. Some days I could coax her out of bed to walk around the room at least or to stand a while in the fall daylight at the window. Then one day I found her at the window on her own, standing, leaning a little on the back of the chair for support.

  “Send the boys away from Laughlin as soon as they are able. Don’t let them stay. Don’t let them near him. Don’t let them know him.”

  “You are up, my dear! How wonderful. Isn’t the sun bright today?”

  “Promise me. When I die…”

  “Hush. Don’t be foolish. Look at you—up and around!”

  “No, listen to me, Mother. Promise me. Get them away.”

  “No one is dying, for heaven’s sake! You’re only having a little rest. To regain your strength, as you know.”

  Charity said nothing more but she ate most of the oatmeal and cream that I brought her. She spent more time by the window over the next two days. Although she still seldom spoke, I saw a spark of determination in her eyes, a smile, and I burst forth in optimism.

  “Is the doctor coming tomorrow morning?” she asked.

  “Yes. He’ll be pleased to see you up. Let’s bundle you up and get you out onto the verandah today for some real sun.”

  Then that night, after I’d settled her in and extinguished the lamp her voice drew me back. “Don’t leave the boys to Laughlin. When I die.”

  “That’s ludicrous, Charity. You’re not dying!”

  “I must tell you so that you know. So that you will promise me. So that you will never break your promise.”

  “Shhh.”

  “Mother, listen.” She drew the quilts tight around her and spoke into the darkened stillness. “You know their father has a silver tongue. The Devil’s tongue—wicked artful speech. He sets them there, with his words, paints them into the room. As he lowers himself onto me at night. ‘Perhaps I should fetch them? It would be an education for them to see what their mother is good for,’ he says. Their own father! He conjures them with his words until I can almost see their eyes round with innocence, my three beautiful boys shivering in their nightshirts, lined up by the bed. And not enough to paint them there, watching. He tells me he will have this one do this and that one, that. ‘Little Alec wants his Momma’s titty? Reach up in there for Poppa’s prize.’ The words he puts in their mouths, such filthy hatefulness that I can’t bear to look at their innocent faces in the daylight. If I knew it was all wretched feckless cruelty maybe I could sta
nd it. But he is capable. I know that. Sometimes he wants money or to be sure his beer is brewed or his chores done for him. Or he wants me to … please him. Sometimes he teases me just for his amusement. ‘Yoo-hoo might enjoy an evening show. Shall I fetch him?’ And then wink as though it were some silly game. The boys are getting bigger now, and they challenge him … He will use me to destroy them. Don’t leave the boys to Laughlin, Mother. They must never know. They must never have to think of that part of him is hidden in them. And Rachel—keep Rachel with you always. Every moment. By your side. Always.”

  I could hardly take in her words. There is no such barbarity. There is no such depravity. She spoke through the haze of her melancholy, she was delirious, she would remember none of this when she recovered. But even as I groped at straws I knew that Charity had spoken the truth. How could she, how could anyone, concoct such a story? She would never have revealed such degradation except to save her children.

  “Promise me.”

  I could not speak.

  “Promise me.”

  “You’re not dying.”

  “Promise me.”

  I struggled to keep my voice from trembling. “Yes.”

  She turned her head, shrunk deeper into her pillow. I lay beside her on the bed and listened to the blood pumping through my body. Sometime in the night exhaustion claimed me and I slept.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  RACHEL

  RACHEL WOKE IN THE NIGHT FROM SOME BUMP IN HER DREAM. The wind was kickin’ up a fuss. That’s what Yoo-hoo always said and she repeated it aloud to hear her own voice in the dark. Moonlight brought out the white and yellow in her quilt. She’d never noticed it before, not quite like this, the way the light colours seemed to have their own secret lamps inside. I bet the moon is big to make so much light, she thought. She pulled back her covers and tiptoed across the floor to the window. A penny of cold formed at the tip of her nose where it touched the glass. The air was cold, but not freezin’-yer-pants-to-yer-backside cold. Her brothers always made her laugh with that one though Nana didn’t like it. “Backside,” she said and giggled. There was the moon and it was big—not the whole round open mouth of moon, but nearly. Moonlight caught the undersides of poplar leaves and made them glisten like sprinkled salt. Then the moon caught something else: a flutter of white in the yard below. Her mother’s white nightdress! There then gone, it had skipped off, hand in hand with the wind. She craned her neck to see it again but the angle of the house blocked her view. It was her mother out there in the wind. Surely it was. Mama was not sick anymore. Mama had got out of bed like Nana wanted and now everything would be better, like it had been before.