Children of the Day

by Sandra Birdsell

  A thin falsetto, boo hoo, rose up from a classroom below, someone crying, the sound winding up to a full-blown wail. Boy or girl? Alvina couldn’t tell, as they sometimes sounded the same. Judging from the direction, it was one of the younger students. And there was nothing put on about the crying; this was not a seeking for attention, but a mixture of hurt and anger.

  The wailing intensified the dismal appearance of the schoolyard, which looked abandoned, as it would be within months, the rock-hard path between the bases on the diamond overgrown with pigweed and thistles. The eleven years Alvina had toiled in the sinking edifice would vanish when the wreckers came and smashed it down and carted off the rubble for salvage. Alvina would be recalled by former teachers as having been a brick, a co-operative and diligent student. A chubby-cheeked and wistful-looking child who, in the first grade, had unfortunate accidents that required mopping up. Alvina “Saggy Pants” Vandal. The source of her nickname being a nervous bladder and the navy fleece bloomers an aunt had provided by the dozen. While the bloomers did sop up a considerable amount of wetness, they grew heavy and drooped beneath the hemline of Alvina’s skirts.

  The teachers couldn’t know that the brick, Alvina, was an ancient grandmother awakened in the night by spirits running from room to room, knocking on doors and bumping into walls. She woke to any tension building in the house, and heard Sara’s groans, snorts, her sighs, coming from the bedroom. A twisting and turning in bed that meant she’d been awake for hours, waiting for Oliver to come home, and that sometimes ended with her feet meeting the floor in a thud. Alvina recognized the sound of Sara dressing hurriedly, felt her presence in the doorway of the girls’ bedroom, her shadow falling away. Alvina held her breath in order to hear when, downstairs, the key unlocked the door.

  She had learned not to turn on a light, as the darkness enabled her to better see beyond the yard and into the tunnel of the street, where the branches of crooked and stunted trees hoarded the night. The trees attended the street and the yards of several houses, the vacant lots in between them. Within moments the hiders appeared, slinking from tree to tree, their long black coats grasped tightly around their narrow bodies. Alvina counted to a hundred to ensure that her sisters and brothers would not awake. Two hundred, at most three, brought Sara the seeker back, a small figure hurrying towards the house, while behind her the hiders emerged, darting from trunk to trunk.

  Alvina had learned to count in order to make the time pass, to protect Sara, to keep from crying. The sting of Sara’s crabbiness when she found her daughter up and waiting was diffused by her light touch, her fingers cool against Alvina’s face. Can’t you sleep? she would ask, her voice going lullaby-soft, as it was when she sang to a baby while towelling it dry after a bath. German songs. Naughty songs about pooping and farting. As naughty as the way she paper-trained the babies, grasped them beneath the knees, their bums suspended over a piece of newspaper, while she commanded that they go uh, uh. Go uh, uh, she urged, the sound like a grunt that the baby might imitate, while the rest of the children crouched round the paper adding their grunts. They crooked their heads to better see the baby’s pink flower-bud anus unfolding, and reported the progress of an emerging turd, cheering when it dropped to the paper. Sara nuzzled the baby’s neck, fondled the creases of its legs. Oiling, powdering, smooching the babies until they began to walk and talk, and then she turned them over to Alvina. If you can’t sleep, Alvina, just say your prayers, Sara would say when she returned and found Alvina up and counting. That’s what I do.

  Alvina searched through the drawstring bag at her waist, her fingers shaking as she pushed aside a folded sanitary napkin to get to the bottom of the bag. Finding and discarding a bundle of bobby pins, a Chap Stick and several coins. Downstairs, the crying went on and on and on. As it did sometimes at home, Sara shutting out the sound with pillows while Alvina lay in bed seething, expecting to be called. Alvinnaaa? Waiting for the summons became in itself unbearable, so she would swing down from the bunk and go to the crier before she was told to go. She soothed away nightmares, rubbed stomachs, whispered Tooralooraloora, tooralooralee, spoke the words to the Irish lullaby until the child fell asleep—spoke and not sang, as she believed she couldn’t hold a tune.

  She found what she was looking for, a small tin that held tiny pink pills that rattled as she drew it from the bag. The nerve pills were a gift from Florence Dressler, to smooth out the bumpy spots in Alvina’s life until she could make her getaway. One a day kept the shakes away.

  Don’t think I don’t know what goes on over there, Florence had said as she stepped down from a kitchen chair, bringing a sugar bowl whose lid she removed, and took out the tin of pills. The pills had carried Florence through some tough spots, and although they were old she believed they’d still work their magic.

  I’ve been thinking about you, Florence said. Instead of going to the refrigerator for the butter Alvina had been sent to borrow, she invited her to sit down. This was new since last winter, the first of what would be many short chats between them. A conspiracy that sent Alvina scurrying home through the highbush cranberry, carrying a cinder block of guilt for having listened to Florence say, Lots of women have large families. My own mother had thirteen. But she managed quite well, without there needing to be so much hollering and screaming. Without keeping certain girls home from school to help out. You have to think about your future. Start planning, Florence said. On the day she offered Alvina the pills she asked, What do you want for yourself? The question was not dissimilar to the familiar What do you want to be when you grow up?

  Alvina wanted to remain what she was. A virgin. That was as far as she’d got in determining her future. In goes the prick, out comes the shitty little papoose. That was a law. When she didn’t answer, Florence sat down at the table across from her. She resembled Tugboat Annie, broad-faced and plain-looking. Plain-speaking, too. Florence said, I’ve got something to steady your nerves. But you’ve got to promise not to take more than one a day. I think you can be trusted.

  Alvina licked a finger now and pressed a pill up from the tin. She pooled spit on her tongue, set the pill into it and swallowed. One a day kept the shakes away, but this extra one was for the sake of the shorthand test yet to come. To iron smooth the wrinkles of the crying downstairs. To take the edge off her worry for Emilie. Then she left the room and went along a dark hall towards a rectangle of light shining in the window of the fire-escape door. The crying grew louder, and then ceased for a moment and continued anew, louder, as though the child had needed to stop to take in air.

  The closed classroom doors vibrated with the absence of the voices of her classmates. A class of six students hadn’t warranted hiring another teacher, after the previous high school teacher resigned in order to enter dentistry college. As she passed by an empty room, she imagined Edward’s deep baritone; his broad shoulders stooped over his desk, his smiling face turning towards her, slick with oil, and a rash of pimples blooming on his generous forehead. He limped now, a steel brace fixed to his withered leg. The other silenced voices were those of her friends Ruth and Shirley, who, like Sonny Boy and George, were driven each day to the high school at Alexander Morris.

  Alvina intended to go out onto the fire escape and look towards town on the possibility she might see Emilie. She worried about the kibosh, about the shorthand test yet to come, about diphones. Two vowel sounds, one coming immediately after the other, are expressed by the sign or . is used where the first of the two vowels is a dot vowel. She reviewed in her mind, words such as along, alone—where the outline begins with a vowel and L is followed by a simple horizontal stroke, L is written downwards.

  Absolutely, of course Alvina should complete high school, Oliver had said, agreeing one hundred percent with Miss White when she came round to the hotel, wanting to talk. I’m all for it, he assured the young teacher. Surprising himself with his gusto, and being pleasantly surprised when, several days later, Katy sided with him.

  Sara had been anticipati
ng Katy’s arrival, was anxious to voice her indignation that the young teacher had gone behind her back to sweet-talk Oliver. On the occasion of an infrequent mid-week visit by her sisters, Sara had instructed Emilie to freshen the threshold with a coat of white paint. Alvina washed the door frames, light switches; she upended chairs and scraped pads of dust from their feet, while Sara poured lemon into pie shells and beat egg white into a stiff glossiness, glancing out the window, fearing that her sisters would arrive sooner than expected, as they sometimes did. Hoping to find her and the house in disarray, no doubt. To catch sight of beer bottles lined up on the porch windowsill.

  The sisters were late that day, let off in front of the house by a neighbouring farmer who had business in Union Plains. They brought a pint of heavy cream and speckled eggs, a bundle of leaf lettuce they’d picked that morning. Sara received their gifts and regrets at not having arrived on time with an uncertain smile, while motioning to Emilie that she should go and fetch Oliver. Acts of kindness, the bestowing of gifts, made Sara awkward, left her flailing for a fitting way to respond. She had changed into a dress of cotton sateen that was patterned with flowers, the colours matching the bouquets of flowers on the table.

  The aunts’ faces were softened by their inherent kindness, Annie quietly jubilant for some reason, and flustered as she kissed Alvina. Katy drank in Alvina’s features, took her hands in her own and squeezed. So, Alvina, what does it? Katy asked, meaning, how are you doing?

  Shitty, Alvina thought, but smiled and ducked her head. How did she know that her life was excrement? By the world around her, naturally. Ruth and Shirley. Cool bedrooms, cool mothers. Hollywood-style, diamond-tufted pink vinyl headboards, satin quilted spreads. A wall of shelves in Shirley’s bedroom holding a collection of seventeen dolls, one for each birthday. Untouched, unspoiled by grubby hands. Their mothers—one a former teacher who spoke evenly and in full sentences, the other a chubby bubbling presence, her sentences laced with terms of endearment. There were families out there comprising as few as three children. Alvina, Sonny Boy and George. That would have been perfect.

  She’s such a fine girl, Katy said to Sara, and failed to notice Sara’s drawing inward, a flicker of irritation in her grey eyes.

  When the greetings petered out, Sara led her sisters into the dining room, while Alvina remained in the kitchen. When it became necessary, she was expected to replenish the china pot with coffee from the battered aluminum percolator on the Rangette. She was to bring the china pot into the kitchen and fill it there. She was required to head off a child screaming into the house with a bloodied nose, a skinned knee, a whining complaint of unfairness, all of which would usurp the aunts’ attention and turn Sara tight-jawed and critical.

  Oliver entered the kitchen, sweating, short of breath and bringing the odour of the hotel, a mustiness that made Alvina want to sneeze. He turned to the mirror above the washstand and drew his fingers through his hair; then, seeing Alvina’s reflection, he grinned. So, the sourpuss, she’s here, eh? God bless her. He winked and slapped his pockets and said, Now, where did I put my sardine-and-onion sandwich? Oliver loved to tease Annie, but he seemed to almost fear Katy. Okay, let’s get this show on the road, he said. When he entered the dining room, the aunts’ voices rose in genuine pleasure to greet him.

  Sara had mentioned the teacher’s proposition as soon as they were seated, and once Oliver joined them, Katy said grace and waded in, not taking the time to admire the table. The wedges of lemon pie set on plates, their meringue perky and evenly browned and beaded with droplets of sugar. An arrangement of pickles, salty buns and cheddar on a star-shaped plate. The white and mauve lilacs and sprigs of Boston fern, set at each end of the dining table in identical etched-glass vases. Ida had polished the silverware, and the dessert forks gleamed against starched linen napkins, their satin-stitch corners embroidered with the initials S & O, the handwork of Alvina. Morningstar knives, teaspoons, a butter knife, arranged in the way Penny, the downstairs maid, had set afternoon tea at the home of Emily Ashburn.

  There’s no future in keeping house, Katy said. Alvina is much too smart a girl to wind up housekeeping.

  There was a moment of charged silence, Sara’s eyes brightening, her chest rising, while Oliver sat at the head of the table craving a smoke, sensing that his wife and Katy were about to have a set-to. Annie sensed it too, and quickly rummaged through a knitted satchel as though working on a piece of smocking would stave it off.

  Of course there’s no future in keeping house. Tell me something I don’t already know, Sara replied. I was too smart a girl for housekeeping too. She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. At least Alvina doesn’t have to go down the road and stook hay for Low German peasants, she said. I had to work for people who couldn’t speak English any better than I did, even though they were born here. Don’t I ever know what it’s like to be taken out of school too soon, yes? I went from the second grade to the sixth in two years. Two years. That’s how fast I learned. But was I allowed to continue? No, I was not. Your Kornelius could afford to buy more land, cars and whatnot, but still, he sent me to work for peasants. The word peasant was spat out in a puff of sound.

  Then I was made to empty piss-pots for the rich, while you stayed home and kept house for your dear Kornelius. Washing his back. You think I didn’t know what was going on behind that curtain in the middle of the day? I was wearing my fingers to the bone in your kitchen, while you were laughing. Both of you, all the time, laughing. I could barely stand to be there. And I’ll have you know, I was the smallest person working in that field. Hardly taller than this table, and it was a job to lift a stook, not to mention throwing it up onto the hay wagon. And where were you? Washing his back.

  Sara, what has this to do with Alvina? Katy interrupted in astonishment.

  From outside came a loud rattling. The wagon one of the boys pulled through the yard was filled with stones, and Katy seemed relieved at the diversion.

  But when the noise passed, Sara continued. Instead of going to school, I was sent to do a man’s work, and for the kind of people we wouldn’t have stood for at home. Papa never would have approved of that. He wouldn’t have approved of my not continuing school, either. Unlike her sister Annie, who had completed high school, she didn’t say. The fact that her young sister now worked in a bank in the large town of Steinbach was a stone in Sara’s shoe.

  Listen here, who emptied piss-pots for the rich? Oliver interjected.

  Katy became larger with indignation, interrupting Oliver when it appeared he wanted to say more. Ja, ja, there’s lots of things Papa wouldn’t have approved of, she said, while Annie’s eyes filled.

  I beg your pardon, Sara said. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare blame me for that.

  Who, then? Katy said.

  It was you who made me come home. You decided that I shouldn’t work for the Ashburn’s any longer. She liked me. She said that if I ever wanted to return, I should come and see her. That’s likely the real reason you wanted me to come home. You thought, there must be something wrong with that woman, if she appreciates Sara so much.

  Sara got up from her chair, as though she wanted to run away but couldn’t decide in which direction.

  Alvina listened to the ensuing silence, electricity humming in the wall clock, Annie’s sniffling. Oliver repeating, Who emptied piss-pots for the rich?

  There’s some truth in what Sara says. Annie spoke quietly, the words interrupted as she began to hiccup. I, for one, didn’t think that such a fuss should have been made over Sara wearing earrings. Even the pastor’s daughters wear cosmetics now and then. Her voice grew in conviction as her hiccups subsided. There was no reason to send Sara to work in Winnipeg in the first place. Kornelius could afford to pay our passage fees.

  Sara interjected, But think of it. If I had stayed in Winnipeg, I likely wouldn’t be here now, would I? But no, you couldn’t do without my help. So what gives you the right to say that I should do without Alvina’s help?

&nbs
p; Katy got up and went over to Sara, reached for her as though to embrace her, but Sara jerked away. Ja, ja, Katy said. She sighed and returned to her chair, unfolded the napkin and spread it across her lap. She said softly, to no one, I didn’t need your help. I was better off without it, but I thought you needed mine.

  Wait a minute, Oliver said. He chose to ignore the implications of what Sara had said. The fact that, if she hadn’t been made to return to the farm, they would not have met again, they would not have married. Instead he went on to say, I understood that you were a store clerk.

  Sara turned her back to them, and Katy’s sorrow became palpable.

  Sara, Sara. What next? What else? You’re like a windmill in a storm. We have so much to be thankful for. If it wasn’t for this country—

  We’d all be living in a hole in the ground, in Siberia, Annie finished, in a wry tone that Katy missed.

  Yes, a hole in the ground. Look at what you have here. Katy indicated the room, the house around them. You’ve been blessed with wonderful children. She hesitated, and then she said, And you’ve been blessed with a good man. Papa would have approved. Our future was decided by others, but at least our children have a chance. We should give them that, yes?

  What Alvina wants to do is a good thing, Alvina heard Katy say.

  Hold on a darn minute. You told me that you worked in Ladies’ Wear at the Bay store, Oliver persisted.

  Sara continued to ignore him.

  Impulsively, he picked up a plate of lemon meringue pie and set it on his head. I used to be in the circus, he told Annie with a wink, as she looked on in astonishment. He crossed his arms against his chest and began to wiggle his scalp. The sisters gasped as the plate wobbled.

  Sara cried out, Eeeeeeee, then leapt and caught the plate in mid-air. For a moment it appeared she might throw the pie at him. Oliver, for Pete’s sake, she said. If you ask me, I’m the circus performer around here.