“What the hell was that?” Roger barked.
“I was just testing the whistle.”
He laughed. “You’re scared shitless, aren’t you?”
“Don’t use bad language.”
He laughed again. This time, nastily. Roger always turned mean when he was cornered. He didn’t like anybody to know what he was thinking or feeling, though it was usually as plain as the nose on his face. She rolled over to face him.
“One thing we don’t have to be scared of,” she said. “What’s that?”
“Albert Fine.”
“Why should we be afraid of that old coot?”
“In case he might be hiding out in the woods and come after us.”
She heard him swallow. He said: “Do you think he is?”
“What?”
“Hiding out in the woods.” “No, definitely not,” she said.
“How do you know?”
By the thin tone of his voice, she was pretty sure the idea of Albert Fine roaming the woods lay in Roger’s mind. All she had to do was poke the embers. She counted to ten, waited. Finally, he whispered: “Are you awake?” “Hey, I was almost asleep. What do you want now?”
“How do you know Albert won’t be coming around?”
“Because he’s dead,” she said, as if it were common knowledge.
He turned over, jiggled her shoulder. “How do you know?”
“I heard them talking about it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, either Gran or Mum.” She faked a yawn.
“How could you get those two mixed up? You’re lying.”
“No. They were on the phone. Well, one of them. It’s hard to tell.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay then, shut up and fall asleep.” She shifted position. He grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked.
“It was dark. I snuck downstairs to pee. Somebody was on the phone with the lights off. Either Mum or Gran. You know how their voices sound alike? Probably it was Gran. I’m pretty sure.”
“What did she say?”
“She was talking to Albert’s brother Mathias. He was calling from Baptiste Lake. He wanted to come over and get Albert’s bicycle.”
“How do you know who was calling?”
“ ’Cause she said, ‘Oh, Mathias, he’s better off where he is. God help his poor soul. Don’t you worry now, Len’ll deliver the bicycle.’ Then she hung up.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Because you’re making it up.”
“I’m not. He died in the barn. Or, he was killed. That’s why he never said goodbye. Because he couldn’t speak.”
It seemed like a long time. Roger was quiet, his breathing shallow, as if he were holding it in. She could hear his thoughts whirling. She held the whistle so tight her hand hurt.
Finally, he threw off his sleeping bag, got up. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit. It’s too hot. Let’s go back.” So they did.
Gran was waiting with a pitcher of lemonade in the fridge. She served Neapolitan ice cream and let them stay up for the Bing Crosby movie she was watching. Miraculously, Patty Kate slept through it all.
The next morning, they went back to get the remains of their adventure. It had rained overnight, a real thunderstorm, although neither of them had heard. The fort had collapsed. They had to drag the sleeping bags out from under a mound of soaked logs and leaves.
Marlene looked forward to teasing Roger about how hard he’d fallen for her tall tale. But when she saw the way he stared at the barn, at Albert’s trailer, as if expecting to find clues, she decided to keep quiet. Let the lie sink in. See how long it would last.
Flo’s successful summer of kitchen duty put an end to her farm chores. In September she started senior year, her last in the schoolhouse, a two-mile walk from the Walmsley farm. At Thanksgiving, Roger and Marlene went alone with their father to help with the annual search for wood. The remains of their adventure produced half a cord, much appreciated during what turned out to be one of the coldest winters on record.
FLORENCE
1
FLORENCE WALMSLEY'S WEDDING took place on the last Saturday of August, 1969. The day was a scorcher even before the sun rose. She woke up with her cheek pressed against the bare mattress, damp nightgown twisted around her waist. Sometime during the night the sheet had fallen on the floor. She reached down, gathered a handful and pressed it against her nose, hoping a whiff of laundry soap would settle morning sickness.
Marlene was still asleep in the other twin, not a care in the world. It was the last night they would spend together. Patty Kate had her dolls dressed and ready for the journey from her nook behind the stairs to the big girls’ room. As soon as Flo was gone, their father intended to convert the alcove into a bathroom. Modernity would steamroll through the house. It made Flo weak to think of change at her heels. Still, she was glad to be going, moving into her own place. She was looking forward to setting up the kitchen, unpacking the spoils from the bridal shower: a stack of crisp tea towels, oven mitts, a revolving spice rack, turkey baster, measuring spoons. A set of china canisters had sunflower designs, yellow and blue. People had gone out of their way to respect her colour scheme. Winter clothes and personal effects had been taken to the apartment already but the gifts would wait until after the honeymoon. The hampers smelled of good will, gave her courage. She had never imagined dread could live side by side with excitement. She was crying quietly into the crumpled sheet when Marlene sat up and said: “What’s the matter, Flo?”
As if the question had woken her up, she answered through a yawn. “Must have been a bad dream.”
“What was it about?”
“It’s gone.”
“Then how do you know it was bad?” She pretended not to hear.
By rights the maid of honour should have been Ann Sutherland, Flo’s best friend through high school. But just as the wedding plans were being made they’d had a falling out, and in a fit of spite she asked Marlene, who jumped at the chance. By the time Ann came around to an apology for the mean things she’d said, it was too late. There was no taking an offer like that back.
Marlene was undoing her bobby pins, releasing clumps of thick black hair into ringlets. She’d had it thinned out in anticipation of the perm their mother said she could get one as soon as she turned sixteen. But her birthday was three weeks after the wedding, and Helen was a stickler for details. Marlene was skinny, no figure to speak of. She’d caught up in height but remained a gangly child beside her eldest sister, who was sturdy and fair. Even in mid-winter Marlene looked like she had a tan. Gypsy blood, she liked to say, a family secret.
As she shook out the mass of curls, Flo said she should have left the pins in. “Your hair’ll be wilted by noon.” Marlene’s spine stiffened. She began twisting the strands into tight circles, pinning them back to her head.
Flo rolled over and faced the wall. Her mouth filled with spit. She bit down on the rumpled sheet and waited for the wave of nausea to pass, hoping it would be the last. All she wanted was to fall asleep and wake up married.
An incident involving her father had done nothing to settle her jitters. Ten days before the wedding, she’d been folding a basket of clean clothes when he walked into the back kitchen and closed the door. Len Walmsley’s private chats were few and far between. Most of the time, what he had to say was either a joke or an order delivered around the supper table, or on his way out the door. She was matching up socks when he stood beside her, cleared his throat and said: “Just so you know — Flo, are you listening?”
“I’m listening.” She kept on searching for mates in the heap of windswept laundry.
“You don’t have to go through with this.”
He was leaning against the panelled wall, supporting himself with an outstretched arm as if he might keel over. “Your mother and I had a talk. It’s fine by us if you want to have the baby here at home, then wait and see.”
>
“Wait and see what?”
“Well, how you feel about things in a few months’ time.”
“Dad, I feel I want to get married the end of August. We’ve already booked the hall.”
“I understand, Flo. But you don’t have to. That’s all I want to say. Don’t let yourself get railroaded into something you can’t do anything about later. You’re a good girl. Nothing’s changed that in our eyes.” “Thanks,” she said.
She stopped folding and stood still, staring at the pile. The gesture seemed to convince Len his message had gotten through. He laid a hand on her shoulder briefly and shuffled out of the room. It was awkward.
She’d known exactly what he meant, what he’d tried so hard to not say. Len Walmsley loathed the ground Jimmy Lake Keith walked on. She’d known it since the first time Jimmy drove down the lane in his Mustang. Her father had been working on a piece of machinery in the back yard. He looked up long enough to scowl. Jimmy strode over and insisted on shaking his hand, which didn’t exactly put Len at ease. He noticed the way Jimmy’s gaze swept the dilapidated barn, the surrounding scrapyard of broken down farm implements. A gaggle of surly heifers stared back, their dead eyes delivering Len’s message: if you’ve come here looking for something, get back in the car.
Jimmy’s father, a former military man turned real estate agent, was known to just about everybody in the area as a slippery character. Local people rarely put a house on the market unless the owner’d died and nobody in the family wanted it. Bob Keith dealt with cottagers, newlyweds and contractors. He drove a Lincoln Continental and wore a suit for work. As soon as Jimmy started coming around, Helen had warned Flo about running with a fast crowd when she should be studying, keeping her marks up. It was the only subject the two of them had ever disagreed on, whether Jimmy and teacher’s college were mutually exclusive futures. Flo couldn’t remember whose idea it was that she would become a teacher, but it had been around so long it was stale. Getting married was a relief. Something new.
The talk over laundry had upset her. She could not imagine her parents having a conversation about calling off the wedding. Helen was a Daly, of Irish Catholic immigrant stock, and vice-president of the Catholic Women’s League. A few days after Flo dropped the bombshell, Helen’s true feelings had come out as tears, shouts. She blamed herself for being too lenient, said she should have laid down the law. How could a Walmsley girl be so, so . . .
“What?” Flo said.
“So stupid.”
The word stung. She’d prepared herself for a lecture on morality, damnation, a restatement of the rules against sex before marriage. She was ready to admit she’d committed a sin by “getting in trouble.” But in the back of her mind, she figured she could confess, marry and be forgiven. Wasn’t she the one who studied without being forced and always got top marks? She had feared telling her father, but as it turned out, that was easy. It was her mother’s response that cut. Now, when she stood up in front of a hundred people and gave herself to a man and motherhood, she would no longer be the brains of the family. She’d be the stupid one.
* * *
Marlene had argued for valentine red with flared skirts and crinolines. Flo said red was too hot for August. A summer wedding has to go with pastel. Marlene couldn’t understand why a once-in-a-lifetime occasion should be dictated by weather. Think of the pictures, she pleaded. Red and white for girls, men in black suits. “Wouldn’t that be stunning?”
Chatelaine Magazine advised women with jet-black hair to opt for solids and bold colours. She’d made the mistake of showing the article to Flo, who was a mousy blonde and admittedly looked better in floral prints. But in the greater scheme of things —
“Don’t talk to me about the greater scheme,” Flo snapped back. “This is my wedding. You’ll wear what you’re told to wear.” She chose their dresses from the Simpsons-Sears catalogue. Blue for the maid of honour, pink for the flower girls, knee-length skirts with crinolines and large bows tied behind their backs. The bride’s dress was long with an empire waist, white lace over satin, and a train.
When the day came, Marlene was excited to zip into her gown, grateful for the ties that made it snug around the waist. She had a new tube of bright red lipstick and black mascara, which she kept to herself until the last minute, in case her mother stepped in. She was nervous about walking up the aisle with the best man, Jimmy’s brother. Lorne was the quiet one, not as good-looking as Jimmy, but smart, at least according to Flo, who knew the family.
He was a head taller than Marlene, and took her arm at the back of the church without even looking her in the eye. She hoped her perfume wasn’t too strong. Her first step was wider than his. He tightened his grip, whispered, “Slow down,” and counted softly as they bobbed past a string of white bows marking pews full of relatives. Midway up the aisle their steps settled into a rhythm. Marlene remembered her Aunt Dot’s advice: smile and keep your eyes open when the cameras flash.
Jimmy was waiting at the altar, standing in front of a wreath of candles. His breath reeked of rye, he teetered. Lorne took a look and muttered an oath Marlene had never heard in church before.
“Sorry,” he whispered, and leaned over to say something into his brother’s ear. Jimmy straightened his shoulders, stopped grinning.
Her face was hot. She wondered if her hair had collapsed in the heat. There was no way of telling. As Lorne steered her into the place marked out at rehearsal and let go of her arm, she caught a blur of pink. Patty Kate and their cousin Carole, hands joined, stepped into their spots, followed by the bride and their father.
Flo’s only defiant choice in the wedding plans had been to reject the traditional processional, “Here Comes the Bride,” (a sickening piece of music, she said), in favour of “Amazing Grace,” which she found more uplifting. Her first choice had been “How Great Thou Art,” the Elvis version, but Helen said it was too Protestant for St. Margaret’s. The organist had questioned Flo’s choice, and went so far as to turn up at rehearsal to give them a taste of what it would be like to fill the cavernous space with a spiritual. But they’d been too excited to notice. The rousing strains of a hymn to divine glory begging for forgiveness and redemption brought a church full of people to their feet. Marlene felt her chest tighten. The music rolled over her like thunder, seemed to lift her pale blue shoes off the floor. She was standing at water’s edge, Flo about to walk up the gangplank of a tall ship and sail away. They would never see each other again, she was sure. She bit her lip. Pain helped.
The song ended, leaving an uneasy silence.
* * *
At the last minute, Helen had decided on her navy blue suit and matching pumps. The new dress she’d intended to wear, a loud print, didn’t feel right. She’d been in another mood when the salesgirl talked her into it. As Len and their eldest daughter swept past the pew, she looked at the ceiling, a mural of angels and clouds. Florence Margaret, a beautiful unspoiled child, a good girl, and wise. She’d been cute like most toddlers but the silly stage had seemed to come and go overnight. From the time she could carry a saucer without risk of it falling, she’d helped around the house with baby Roger, then Marlene. At nine she’d wanted her ears pierced like the Italian girls in choir. All Helen had to say was no, and she dropped the idea. In adolescence, Flo was her confidante, her second self. After the others went to bed, they’d stay up drinking tea. She had never imagined a future other than Flo away at teachers’ college for a while, then settling down nearby with a shadowy figure for a mate, and afterwards their lives would continue, full and good. Still so young, she was leaving home of her own volition, with a stranger. Whenever Helen thought of Jimmy Keith, foul language came into her head. Words she was sure Flo couldn’t imagine she knew. As the youngest of four girls, Helen had seen and heard things. She was pure when she married, but knew her way around the urges that drove young men crazy. Len was a wild one, in his day. When he drank, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. The fever in his eyes when he touched her
was thrilling, better than anything that happened after the wedding. She had only ever spoken to Flo in vague terms about the sanctity of the human body, never about anything useful. She had assumed too much, forgotten what it was like to be a girl.
The music ended. As the priest stepped forward to perform his duty, Helen caught sight of Marlene in profile: a mass of dark curls falling over eyes outlined in black, lips swollen by an atrocious red lipstick. She had left the house with a clear scrubbed face that morning. How had this happened?
Flo was gone, the barn doors closed. Marlene was clever, headstrong. Helen made a vow: from now on, there would be no more unspoken expectations. No more surprises.
Len slid into the seat beside her. Sweat dripped from his scalp. His heart was pounding. The collar of his white shirt was soaked. She reached into her purse and handed him a crumpled Kleenex.
He leaned back, felt his blood slow down. The sudden silence of the church was a relief. The worst was over. All he could think of was a tall glass of cold beer. He hadn’t had a drop of liquor since the night Patricia Kathleen was born. Almost seven years, walking through molten lava, pulling his weight, pushing one foot ahead of the other. He closed his eyes.
A blast of organ music snapped him awake. Flo and Jimmy were kissing, to hearty applause.
2
The dinner and dance would have been held at the parish hall but the venue was booked up a year in advance. The only place available on short notice was the Legion, a former bowling alley on the edge of town, transformed in the early fifties into a meeting place for war vets. The kitchen was minimally equipped. The ceilings, low. A bar stretched across the far end telegraphing the organisation’s main mission, which was to provide ex-servicemen with a comfortable place to drink themselves into oblivion. One of the cooks had had her husband empty three cans of air freshener, but a cloud of musk proved no match for the beer-soaked dance floor.
While the bridal party posed for pictures on the church lawn, guests gathered at the bar for cocktails. The women drank chilled Baby Duck, men stuck to rye and Coke or beer. It was Len’s responsibility to foot the bill, but Bob Keith had wanted to invite a slew of business associates from the world of real estate, and so insisted on making a contribution. Len drew the line at a hundred guests, mostly relatives, adults and children. The bride and groom’s friends were invited to the dance after the meal. Weddings were the last gasp of parental authority.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 5