As though testing the stability of the house, Lewis banged the walls with his fists. The sound echoed through the hollow home, and Elise thought she also heard desire mixed amongst the reverberation. A desire to be lived in. To be useful. She sighed.
“Do you think they was boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“Who?” Elise asked.
“Widow May and that queer old feller that was living there.”
“Oh. Eldred Wood.”
“That’s he. Wood.”
“I doubts it. I think he just stayed with her. Helped her out a bit. I believes he was a bit soft in the head.”
Lewis plunked himself down on the cold ground between two dogberry bushes, dried leaves still clinging to the reddened twigs. Elise did the same, sitting a few feet away, legs bent, skirt tucked underneath her knees.
“Did you know,” Lewis said, looking up at the sky, “that when my mother was young, folks used to come out here, listen to that feller play his piano? This was quite the spot for courting.”
“A bit of entertainment, I suppose.”
“He played and played, I heard, to get over a girl. She stole his heart right out of his chest, then took off with it.”
Elise resisted the urge to bite away a hangnail she could feel on her thumb. “I always had dreams about him.”
“About who?”
“That feller. Eldred Wood.”
Lewis puffed up his chest, grinned. “Now, is you trying to make me green-eyed, maid?”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head, hands clasped around her knees. “Terrible dreams, I means. I always hated the way he stared at me. Like he knowed me.” She paused. “Like he owned some part of me.”
Sliding closer, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Well, he don’t own no part of you, maid. That’s for darn sure. You don’t got to have no more of those old thoughts.”
“I never told no one about that before, Lewis.” She turned her face towards him, then crinkled her brow. “Do you want more water? Your eyes is a bit weepy.”
He smiled. “That’s cause I’s right heartbroken.”
Jolt of anger stabbed her stomach. “Over what? Over who?”
A quiet, “You, maid.”
Heat in her cheeks that would ease a wrinkled shirt. “Me?”
“I seen you looking at me.”
She was silent.
“But you don’t never talk to me. And Lord knows, there’s no chance of stealing a kiss off you.”
“Ummm.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t go saying that.”
Her head throbbed when he leaned towards her, his eyes closing, tears glistening on his cheeks. Elise quickly shut her eyes as well, and in that instant while she waited, she remembered the potato, how its position had been just so, Lewis’s face right where it needed to be. As though an authority from beyond had brought them together. Then, the courage in her own legs, how she marched up to him, forgot her promise to remain reserved, not entertain her heart. How she led him away. Gave him water to help his pain. And now, their first kiss was about to happen, and it would be over in an instant. If only she could control time, harness the stars, slow their drift. She would make these moments between her and Lewis last forever.
A moth striking her lips. That was how it felt. His mouth against hers. But before she could lean back, appreciate the fluttering sensation, he kissed her again, forcefully, hurting her. She resisted shoving him. After all, Lewis was the one she loved, and she would do her best to be obliging. “Ah, Elise,” he murmured, pulling his face back several inches. She could feel his breath on her face, could smell the smoke on their skin, their hair. “You and me,” he continued. “Can you imagine it? This worn house would suit us fine. We could fix it up.”
These magic words registered in Elise’s neck, and her head thrust forward, she kissing him this time, her hands in his hair. He clambered onto her, pressing her down into the overgrown grass, her head scraping against the clapboard of the house where they might one day live. “Lewis?” she said, and tried to shift out from underneath him. She wanted to hear him speak again, make certain the night air was witness to their future plans. But Lewis blocked her movement, pinned her with the weight of his chest, then reached one hand, one godly big hand up underneath her woolen skirt. The same style skirt worn by Marg and Bee. Cut on the bias.
“Lewis?”
He grunted, and her body stiffened as that hand pushed up the band of her skirt, gripped the top of her underwear.
“Lewis!” She tried to shift sideways, but he was a fallen tree, pinning her.
“Shhhh.”
His mouth covering hers now, face pressed sideways, the flesh of his smoky cheek blocking her nostrils, smothering her. She turned her head, inhaled sharply, spit. “Don’t you ever shush me, Lewis Hickey,” she screeched into his ear. “Let’s get that straight right from the start.”
Meaty forearm over her mouth now, burnt tasting fabric touching her tongue, her teeth cutting into her own lips. A deep growl. “Shut your trap up, you good for nothing whore. Shut. Your. Trap. Up.”
And she did. Shut her trap up. She lay still, never made a sound, even as he fumbled with her clothes, his clothes, kept the weight of his chest on hers, his eager feet slipping on the damp, dead grass, parts of her burning, parts of her freezing, salt water gliding out of her eyes, her right knee bloodied from scraping against the sharp edge of a rotting board over and over again. “Elise, Elise, Eeeleeeesssssssse.” She stared at the sky as he hissed her name. She had gotten her wish. The million stars, glistening now, had stopped moving.
After what seemed like forever, he sprung away from her, jumped up and fixed his trousers, cleared his throat hard. Exposed, she sensed the night air on places that should have been covered, and hauled up some fabrics, yanked down others.
“Well, well,” he said, hand cupped over his mouth, lighting a cigarette. “Talk about surprises.”
Elise managed to mew, “I thought we would wait.”
He took a long drag, then spit. “Wait? What’s you talking about?”
“You knows.” She stood, skirt scrambled at the back. Placing both hands on the wood of the house behind her, she considered that however unpleasant it had been, maybe this event between her and Lewis was only part of a bigger picture. Her palms searched for some assurance from the old house, but they discovered only coldness.
Lewis pitched his cigarette and started laughing, a throaty, happy chortle. Then he came up to her, held her face in his two grimy hands, kissed her full on the lips. “Oh, I loves it. You are such a card. Heard that, I did. Heard you was a good time.”
Something burst within her, spread like infected heat throughout her core, traveled down her shaking limbs. Buzzing in her ears then, rising and falling, as though someone was holding two enormous conch shells there. Offering a dry ocean for her head. Just like that, in the moment it might take a burdened branch to snap, she had become a fool. And this ocean lolling about inside her head only taunted her, no opportunity for drowning.
“Elise, Elise,” he said, nodding slowly. That reverential calmness had returned. Playfully, he repeated, almost singing, “Oh, Elise. Elise.”
When he placed one of his hands on the crown of her head, began to stroke it, she jumped, leaving strands of her hair knotted in his fingers. “This don’t got to–” he started, but before he could finish his self-preserving statement, she ran, leaping over decaying fences, flattened rows in longfallow fields, through shadowy shrubs and open patches of too bright moonlight, ran and ran and ran until her legs stumbled, and she fell, striking the hard-packed dirt on the edge of the laneway.
Far away from Lewis and Marg and Bee and James and Chester, she permitted herself to walk. On the hill behind her, she knew the fire was still smoldering, smoke and flames wavering up towards the inky sky. Distorted sounds of hooting and hollering stayed firmly on her back, pushing her away from the communal joy every other child was experiencing. While bits of her were bruised and burni
ng.
Rounding the road, almost home, she stopped, exhausted. She hadn’t the energy to lug herself another inch. Her arms were sealed to her body, legs, adhered to the earth beneath her feet. Through clenched teeth, she said aloud, “Why do I feel so heavy, God. How come I’s so heavy? I’m sinking.” She listened carefully. Heard the voice when it came into her head. You is made of stone, my child. Don’t you know that already? You is made of stone.
There was nothing left to clean. She had run her brush so many times over that single spot, the wood was beginning to complain. Hand (or bare foot) appraising it, she could feel the layers lifting, surface damaged with the soaking and scrubbing.
She moved out of the kitchen and went to Elise’s room, stood in the doorway. A lantern, sitting on the nightstand, offered up a weary light, and she could see Elise flopped diagonally on her bed wearing only an off-white quilted robe, skirt and cardigan crumpled in heap in the corner. Her face was turned towards the wall, head resting on folded arms.
“I knows you’re there, Mother. I feels you watching me.” Her voice was thick, as though she were pinching her nose.
Stella never stepped forward, and Elise made no invitation. “I weren’t trying to hide.”
Sniffing, Elise lifted her head, wiped her nose across her forearm. “Did I say you was?”
Stella glanced about the room, at the wallpaper, faded poppies on twisted vines. She eyed the hooked rug, the thinning bedspread, curtains that needed to be taken down and washed. Even though Stella had stood in the doorway many times over the past years, she had forgotten to look, forgotten how to see. What a pretty room she had created for her daughter. All so familiar, comfortable. She recalled making the choices with Leander shortly after Elise was born, remembered being delighted when he had an opinion.
“Elise? I’d like to say something to you.”
. . .
“I’m leaving.” Words smacked down. Flattened.
“What? At this ungodly hour?”
“No, tomorrow. First thing in the morning. I’m going to St. John’s. To live.”
“To live where? Who in God’s name do you know in the city?” Stella sensed her body falling towards the doorframe. “And what with the state of the world? Can’t you wait until it calms down a bit?”
“Grace. That’s who.”
“Nettie’s Grace?”
“I got a letter from her. She told me to come on anytime I wants.”
“You shouldn’t let tonight play into such a big–”
“I idn’t letting nothing play into nothing. He don’t make no difference to me. Not one pinch. They got jobs for women, you knows.”
“Jobs? What do you mean, jobs? What kind of jobs.”
“There’s stuff to do there. Really, Mother. They got stuff there that we don’t. They thinks in ways we don’t.”
“Like what? How do you mean?” Upper arm pressing into the doorframe, hurting a little.
“I can do things, you know. Got no clue what it is, but I’s betting I can do something. Aunt Nettie was always telling me I was a good helper.”
Elise sat up now, swung her feet over the side of the bed, bathrobe gaping. And Stella realized she hadn’t looked at her daughter in a long time either. Hadn’t noticed the legs and the breasts and the solid shoulders. Mouth pulled out in a pout that never seemed to go away.
Elise cocked her head, stared at her mother. “I wants to own a dress with shoulder pads.”
“With what?” All of Stella’s weight was now against the doorframe, and she wondered what her feet were standing on. “You knows we can’t afford every whim.”
“’Tis not a whim. ’Tis a small wish. A tiny wish. Almost nothing at all. Is that so wrong, Mother?”
Stella shook her head.
“Well?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Elise. I was never much one for vanity. I always took what I had, tried not to want more.”
“And that’s where we’s different.” Feet squarely on the floor, tapping with her toes. “I wants more. Everything is changing, Mother. We don’t got to stay in the house now. Strapped to the stove. Having all kinds of babies you don’t really want. Women got more worth nowadays than they used to.”
“Your worth don’t got nothing to do with a shoulder pad, Elise.”
Head back, sardonic laugh. “I’s wasting my breath on you. You got no clue what I’s trying to say.”
“Just ’tis not good to want, Elise.”
“Will you stop saying my name over and over again? I can’t stand the sound of it. Like a bloody dirty word.”
“All right, E–. All right.”
Elise looked down at her feet, rubbed one with the other, said, “You says ’tis not good to want, but I knows you wants sometimes, Mother. Everybody wants.”
Stella stood straight now, back of her head prickling as the conversation was turning in a spongy direction. “Not I, then. I haven’t never wanted nothing I didn’t already have.”
“You’re lying again.”
“Lying? What a thing to say to your mother.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“How can you live like that? Always telling lies. Is it right lovely grand inside that cocoon? I really hopes it is – you spent your life in there.”
Stella stared at Elise, then closed her eyes. Since her children were born, she had tried to paint the best picture, the sweetest representation of a wholesome existence. Of course it might not have been entirely accurate, but how could she ever share her longings or her failures with Elise or Robert? Burdening them. Surely that wasn’t the job of a mother.
And now, here was her only daughter, filled with contempt, accusing her. Part of Stella wanted to embrace Elise, while a deeper part wanted to slap her, tell her just enough to burn away her ignorance.
Stella glanced about the room again, and then at Elise. So unfamiliar, this cheeky girl, tucked inside this familiar room. The two no longer belonged together, that was painfully clear. Stella would not let it sadden her, this progression of life, and she kept her face strong and stable.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning, Elise.”
Elise flopped backwards, bare feet slapping the floor, knees spread. Stella lowered her head and closed her eyes once more. Then she turned, repeated, “Yes, in the morning, Elise,” even though she knew they would speak not another word about it.
In the days after Elise left, Stella cleaned the room. Instead of pasting over the wallpaper, she stripped away every layer right down to the naked board. Folded up the bedspread, began in earnest to make a new hooked rug. The room remained blank for months, uninhabitable, and in springtime, Stella decided to replace it all in friendly shades of yellow.
Almost a year later, Robert could be found crouching between two pine trees. Fingers on the earth, he felt rotting humus, twigs, an earthy coolness moving up over his arms. In front of him was a mound of blueberry bushes, empty twigs where berries once resided. He hated this time of year, a time of constant weeping from a sky the colour of stone. A time when trees were still full of dead damp leaves, the weight buckling the branches. He no longer felt a sense of fullness when he stared across the fields. Once a lush green, shuddering in the breeze, they were now barren, only pockmarks remained where turnip and carrot had resided.
A shaft of moonlight illuminated the path directly in front of him, and so as not to be seen, he kept his head low, shoulders hunched. After dinner that evening, he had removed the white shirt he’d worn while working at Crane’s Grocery, pulled on his navy wool sweater, made note of the dullness of his grey trousers. He would be invisible to someone strolling down the path towards home. But he needn’t have worried. The person he was waiting for was not someone who would search the shadows.
Crunching. Confident steps approaching. And Robert’s heart began beating, his eyes blurring. He knew who it was. Jaunting towards him, light on his feet. Lewis Hickey. Tomorrow Lewis would be leaving for St. John’s to attend Queen’s College.
When he returned, Lewis would be a Reverend, a man who would claim absolute respect in Bended Knee. The very thought of it made the salt fish and balled-up bread churn in Robert’s stomach, press at the base of his throat.
Though he tried, Robert couldn’t let it go. Only vaguely did he recall when Elise walked away from the smoldering mound of dried stalks about a year ago. Deafened by his own hooting and hollering, he barely realized that someone had been burnt by an exploding potato. He never thought to offer a hand.
And while he laughed, bit into burnt potato skin, spit it to the ground, his sister slipped away. He blamed himself, of course. He should have kept a closer eye on her. Protected her. Taken steps to ensure her name never emerged from the mouths of the local boys. But he hadn’t. And the last time he saw her, her eyes were so swollen, they looked like winded sails. Her mouth was bruised, and when she lifted her hand from her knee, Robert saw the bloody mess beneath. She would barely look at him, and he could barely look away.
In the weeks that followed, Robert heard the snickering, the boasting. He witnessed the nudges, the appraising swipes of a sweaty palm across a soft-bristled chin when they spoke of her. He overheard one boy telling another that Easy Elise was “quick to get on her back.” Someone said she did whatever was asked of her for a few cigarettes. A paper bag holding a handful of peanut butter kisses. She was stupid. And nothing was better than a stupid broad who didn’t know if her skirt was meant to go up, down, or sideways. Too bad she had to up and leave. Ruin the good times before the rest of them could have a go.
Lies. All of it lies. He knew his sister well. She was not perfect, no doubt, but she was not this person they described. She had her own way, and most folks wouldn’t understand it. More than once, she only pretended to deposit her collection money in the wooden plate at church, and instead, bought him Captain Marvel adventures. At Christmas, she always encouraged him to gobble down his apple and then taunted him with her own, still shiny, red, untouched. But in the end, she would share. She always did. In the end.
When he thought about her, he imagined her as a sea urchin. Beautiful when he discovered one in the blue water, painful if he stepped on it, easy enough to injure if he turned it over and prodded. How could these boys, on the cusp of manhood, ridicule someone like that? Crushing her, heavy rubber boots, without even noticing how wonderful she could be. If she wanted.
The Seary Line Page 22