Children of the Day

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Children of the Day Page 30

by Sandra Birdsell


  You bring me one of those patates, Ulysse called, when she finished stoking the fire.

  He smelled like the mouldering potato bin himself, the sprouts fingering the air for light. He cut the potato in half with a penknife and Emilie thought he meant to eat it. She was surprised when he set the pieces on the ground.

  Give us your hand, he said.

  She extended it and flinched as Ulysse stripped off the Band-Aids. She felt naked, and shivered the way she did when she got out of a washtub set down in a circle of towel-draped chairs. Like the warts, the parts of her body normally kept covered were more sensitive to the air, which seemed to underline Sara’s admonition that her daughters must keep their seats and chests covered at all times. Seats, chests, she said, as though those body parts were pieces of furniture. She required that they wear underpants beneath their pajamas and that the underwear itself never be seen. Except when hung out on a line, and then only on the middle lines, so the apparel was concealed from the yard and street, and whisked into the house the moment it dried.

  The sensation of air passing over the warts made Emilie think of insects, their feelers waving to read the direction home.

  You want to keep those things? Ulysse asked. His eyes swam with cloudiness. Cataracts, Oliver had said.

  Another stupid question. When she didn’t answer he rubbed the cut potato on the warts, the starchy wetness making her skin contract. Then he gave the half-potato to her and told her to bury it in the garden.

  She dug a hole with her heel, dumped it in and covered it with earth. When she returned Ulysse had finished eating the other half. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then opened his hand to reveal a pool of coins. He stirred through it and gave her several. The warts now belonged to him, he told her. He’d just bought them, and within a short time they’d take up house in the potato she’d buried.

  Her knuckles tingled as she stirred the embers with a stick to cover the roasting potatoes more deeply. She thought, the ugly duckling is about to turn into a swan. She was too old to believe in fairy tales, but she felt awake all of a sudden, as though Oliver was nearby. She imagined him coming along the highway in the darkness, whistling.

  Emilie would not have believed that at that moment Oliver was going farther away from them, the lit-up town of Emerson beckoning. There was a small hotel there, he knew, and a café where he would get something to eat. Then he thought perhaps he would bypass the town and cross the border, go to Pembina, where he’d heard there was a tavern. Leastways, there had been years ago, and a woman named Ma Shorts who ran it. She had a room at the back, and for a price she would let people sleep off a drunk or have a quick romp, whether or not the couple was married. The night air had chilled him through, and he was no longer inclined to sleep under the stars.

  Headlights swung onto the highway and bore down on him, the vehicle approaching swiftly. He felt caught in the sweep of light as the car passed. Going no place in a hurry, he thought. The squeal of brakes made him turn. The car had stopped and was coming back towards him. The ditch was broad and shallow, and the grass not grown tall enough to conceal him. People spoke about the danger of picking up hitchhikers, but he felt exposed and vulnerable.

  The car came to an abrupt stop beside him, its door opened and the interior light came on to reveal his cousin Danny.

  I thought I was seeing things. What in God’s name are you doing way out here? Danny called.

  I had me a walk, Oliver said, feeling foolish, as well as relieved.

  Some walk, Danny replied, as Oliver came over to the window. You could get hit. It happens. Get in, you’re so darn close it would be a shame if you didn’t pay us a visit.

  Country and western music twanged from the car radio as Danny and Oliver headed towards Emerson. Twilight, a pink band of silt, had settled on the horizon, and Oliver gazed at it, only half listening as Danny elaborated on the car bingo taking place at a curling rink in town. As many as two and three hundred people attended some nights. The loudspeaker broadcast the bingo numbers to the cars parked in a field around the curling rink. You win, you honk the horn, Danny explained. So far, he’d won an ironing board and a kitchen clock. Cashwise, fifty bucks on a four-corner game. If you want to go, just let me know. I’ll drive up and get you. Next one’s on Thursday.

  Soon Oliver was seated on a couch among warm and accepting bodies in Danny’s darkened living room, at ease on a sofa, surrounded by Danny and his wife and their four children. Light flickered in their faces as they watched television, the program being I Love Lucy. The intensity of their attention was contagious and few words had passed between them since the comedy had begun. A toddler cradled in Danny’s arms was mesmerized, her eyes swivelling towards the screen while she nursed on a bottle of milk.

  The signal came from North Dakota, Danny had said. The border town of Emerson, where he lived and worked as a customs officer, was too far south to bring in Winnipeg. He explained how he’d aimed the antenna on the roof so that its arms scooped the images from the air and gave them I Love Lucy and Milton Berle, whose show, The Texaco Star Theatre, was his favourite program. The wife preferred Toast of the Town. Of course, Oliver had seen television before. There were TV sets in appliance stores in Winnipeg, and a garage in Alexander Morris had one going in its show window. But he’d never sat down in a living room to watch a program, much less while eating a meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a picture show, had enjoyed the zany antics of Charlie Chaplain, laughed until he could have died. His sides ached from laughing now. The humour of Lucille Ball tickled his funny bone, and the cramped living room, Union Plains, the hotel, the man in the white Cadillac, Sara, his children, all had disappeared.

  His stomach was satisfyingly full of roast pork, mashed potatoes and apple pie, and the several beers Danny had pressed on him. Snack tables were pushed to one side of the chairs and the couch, dishes left unattended until the program was over. No need for hurry, to jump up and pull the plates out from under a person the moment they’d swallowed the last morsel.

  Laughter broke out around him, prolonged and agreeable. Oliver realized that, except for Christmas morning, he hadn’t ever sat down with all his kids in the living room for the purpose of entertainment. Its clutter of doilies, the polished varnished surfaces discouraged relaxation, unless a person was desperate. Sometimes he played Chinese checkers at the kitchen table, the kids arguing among themselves over whose turn it was to play with him. His girls pulled long faces on the occasions he took the boys fishing. They went across the river in pairs on summer vacations to Katy’s farm. Or to St. Boniface.

  Unlike Romeo, he hadn’t been able to take them all on a vacation, much less sit down in the evening as these people were doing. All these years he’d been hitched to a dowdy, toothless old woman—married to the hotel, as Sara had once put it—while his kids were growing away from him. Sara had recently heard about a church summer camp and had wanted to send at least three of the kids, get them out of her hair for a short time, if the money could be found. They were all going off somewhere on their own. They would soon all be gone. Once again the room filled with laughter as Lucille Ball struggled to free her foot stuck in a bucket.

  The headlights of Kornelius’s car came on, and this time they remained on. The lights beamed through the hedge, casting a mosaic of shadows across Florence Dressler’s lawn. Perhaps Sara’s sister and brother-in-law were leaving, she thought, although she hadn’t seen either of them come out of the house. The car’s engine started and revved, long and high. The sound brought Emilie to her feet and Katy over to the bedroom window. The car lurched forward and then suddenly stopped. The trunk lid slammed shut, awaking Ruby, who had curled up inside and fallen asleep. Kornelius woke with a start on the couch in the living room, and batted away the newspaper collapsed about his head.

  The engine roared and his car shot backwards, streaked off from the house and out of the yard, narrowly missing Romeo returning from the hotel. Romeo, paralyzed with as
tonishment, watched the seemingly driverless car snake backwards into the ditch then up onto the street, across and down into the opposite ditch. A breathless moment later, there was a solid thud!, the sound of glass breaking as its tail-lights shattered. The headlights beamed across the face of the Vandals’ house, bathing the girls’ room in light. The engine stalled and Ruby began to scream.

  Honk the horn! Simon yelled. He reached across the stunned Manny and punched the horn to bring someone quickly. He’d banged his head on the dash and feared he might bleed to death. Ruby might suffocate and it would be their fault. At any moment the car would burst into flames. Through his terror, he saw Romeo’s face at the car window. And then Kornelius, as he pushed Romeo aside and opened the door.

  What the devil’s going on here? Kornelius shouted in German. I have told you boys a hundred times to stay out of my car. He grabbed Simon by the arm and dragged him outside, lifting the petrified boy off his feet as he took a swing at his backside. Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me! Simon screeched as he twirled about his uncle’s legs, drowning out Ruby’s muffled screams. The harder Kornelius swung, the more Simon turned and the less effective was the wallop.

  Hold on, mister, Romeo shouted, his features dark with anger. He yanked at Kornelius’s arm and was shrugged off.

  You little devils. It’s time someone taught you a lesson, Kornelius said in English, the harshness of the words measured out between swats as Simon thrashed and his uncle struggled to remain upright in the slippery muck.

  Claudette and Alvina came running from the back of the house, Alvina in the lead. She stopped dead at the sight of the car tilted into the ditch and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were large with fear as Claudette joined her.

  By Jesus Christ! Romeo shouted at Alvina. Go to the basement and get the goddamned gun! Go on, go and get it!

  And then what? Claudette muttered. She tugged at Alvina’s skirt. Don’t you go. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just making a show.

  As Simon’s howls grew louder, Romeo ripped off his jacket and threw it to the ground, raised his fists and jabbed the air, startling Kornelius. Simon broke loose and fell to the ground between the two men, his face streaked with tears.

  Romeo! Don’t be a fool, Claudette called out. He’s going to get creamed, she said to Alvina, when he failed to answer.

  Ruby’s screams got louder and Alvina took off for the car at a run, her feet shooting out from under her as she went down the slope of the ditch. She slid the rest of the way on her behind, soaking her skirt and smearing her legs with mud. Cold water oozed into her loafers as she rescued Manny from the car, took the keys from the ignition, and freed Ruby from the trunk. She gathered her sister and brothers around her, pulled their shivering bodies into her own. It’s okay, don’t be scared, she comforted Simon, who’d scrambled out from between the men to run round the car to the safety of his oldest sister. Don’t be scared, she’d said, for her own benefit, as she took in Romeo, whom she had known as soft-spoken and good-natured. He’d become a crouching menacing stranger, a dog baring fangs.

  You’ve got more to answer for than you know, mister, Romeo snarled, as Kornelius turned away from him, went over to the car and shut its door.

  Or maybe you do know, eh? Maybe you don’t give a good God damn about the people who were here long before you came. You took what belongs to someone else. Land that rightly belongs to Oliver and me, eh? Our family farmed that land for years. You gave our house to pigs!

  Kornelius was stopped by Romeo’s words. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Put away your fists and I’ll listen, he said.

  Cowards, Romeo spat. The whole damned bunch of you, you Deetch, getting fat on other peoples’ land. Some of our people gave up their lives for this country while you got rich. But what do you care, eh? All you people care about is yourselves and your big fat purses. You’re nothing but skin flints and cowards.

  Say what you want, Kornelius said wearily. His shoulders sagged as he stepped away from Romeo’s jabbing fists.

  Romeo lunged and swung and Kornelius’s head snapped back with the impact and the squishy sound of his nose being broken.

  They were both stunned for a moment. Romeo rubbed his knuckles while blood gushed over Kornelius’s mouth. Kornelius swiped at his face, his hand coming away smeared red, his shirt spattered.

  His face buzzed as he dug in a trouser pocket and brought out a crumpled hanky, which he pressed against his nose. Go ahead, have your say and be done with it, Kornelius said. You won’t get a fight from me.

  No, you’d rather have a go at a kid, eh? Someone who can’t fight back. Romeo lunged again, this time punching Kornelius in the stomach. Kornelius doubled over and clutched himself.

  Stop it! Alvina cried, and Ruby began sobbing anew, while Manny and Simon turned their faces into Alvina’s stomach and clung to her skirt.

  Kornelius came up for air, pain swelling in his cheekbones. His way to the house was blocked by this bobbing scrawny bantam rooster. What possessed the man, why was he so angry? Let me be, Kornelius said.

  Let’s see you do more than talk, Romeo taunted, as Claudette came ploughing through the mud towards him. She flung herself at him, wrapped her arms about his ribs and hung on. Instinctively Romeo jerked loose and sent her flying. She fell backwards, crying out, water splashing as she landed flat on her back, her dress flipping up about her hips, revealing her white rayon mound.

  Romeo shook his hair from his eyes and swiped at snot running from his nose. You prefer to hit little kids, he said, not realizing that Kornelius’s stolid demeanour had given way to disgust.

  Go and take care of your woman, Kornelius said sharply.

  Romeo followed his gaze and saw Claudette floundering in the mud, and found himself locked in a bear hug. Then Kornelius’s knee jabbed at the back of his, and he fell onto the ground.

  Claudette struggled to her feet and implored them to stop. For God sake, look at what you’re doing, she said, pointing at the road where Emilie and Ida stood watching, their arms wrapped around each other. The car headlights bored through the darkness illuminating Sharon’s small white face framed by the window in the girls’ bedroom, peering down at them.

  And then Sara came bursting out the front door, crying, Oh God, Oh God, as she sprinted across the yard and down into the gully of the ditch and up onto the road. She was bathed in the glare of the headlights, her hair undone and sticking out around her head as though she had pulled it loose. She saw Alvina, Ruby, the two boys clinging to Alvina’s skirt, their faces pressed into her stomach. Sara remembered: an axe swinging, blood the colour of molasses splashing to the ground. The horror in Margareta’s face as she backed away from the sight of a man being butchered, the small brothers hanging on to her nightdress. Sara remembered the animal sounds of violence, the cries of the women and children, her father’s contorted features as he screamed at her to run away.

  Papa!

  Sara’s wrenching cry froze them. They watched as the long darkness of the road took Sara away, away from Katy up in the bedroom covering her face with her hands, Katy thinking, it isn’t possible for her to remember. She was only five years old.

  Sara ran headlong into the darkness, the calves of her legs flashing white like the heaving underbelly of a fish caught and dragged onto land.

  Oliver left the access road where Danny had dropped him off and entered town, carrying an apple pie wrapped in newspaper. As he grew nearer, he noted that his house was one of the few with its lights still beaming. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to find ice cream in the freezer compartment. He’d get the kids out of bed. Wake up the whole famdamily and treat them to a piece of pie and ice cream. My cousin’s wife made it. You’d be pleased to meet her, she’s quite a jolly person.

  Probably they’d heard about the hotel and were waiting up for him. He’d tell them first thing that his next big purchase would be a television set. Any fool could see that there were good things to be gained from watching it, a belly laugh
, for one. And television could prove to be educational, to be sure. A TV could take you places you hadn’t been. Then he thought, holy, something’s coming. He could hear a sound, a humming.

  The humming became a high, singing wail. A banshee. He stood still, the hair on his arms prickling, heart going to beat the band. A cloud passed from the face of the moon and he saw Sara running towards him.

  They had a moment before the sun rose beyond the curtains, a moment to lie in each other’s arms, their bellies spilling together. My little pig, Oliver murmured into Sara’s hair, fighting against sleep, which wanted to at last claim him. She shuddered and turned her face into the pillow, which was damp with her tears. Her ribs ached from crying.

  Sara had liked to say, to the point of crowing, that she never cried. It might have been better if she hadn’t started, as her crying was hard to listen to. Its sound was as rough as the splintered doorsill, bitter as the taste of earwax, but never-theless it evoked sympathy. A tightness gripped Oliver’s throat as he thought of his own loss; a child’s marvelling at the world he found himself in; his own small wavering voice saying, Oh God, oh God, while the stars wheeled across the heavens.

  Whose house is this? Sara had wanted to know right off the bat.

  It’s ours, Oliver thought. She’s ours.

  EIGHTEEN

  Moving day

  TAGE COACH ROAD follows the course of the Red River, a yellowish clay-heavy channel that curves inland near Aubigny and glimmers through the trees. A municipal truck leads the convoy of vehicles inching along the highway, its lights on and flashing. WIDE LOAD, a sign on a second truck proclaims, front and back. Alvina supposes that a house is a wide load. The Vandal house has been pried from its footings and perches precariously on a flatbed, hanging over its sides. It’s being dragged down Stage Coach Road and into the twentieth century.

 

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