The Seary Line

by Nicole Lundrigan

  “Sounds like his head is stuck inside a fishing cask, if you asks me.”

  Summer giggled quietly. “Oh, Nan.”

  “Who on earth would want to sing something like that? Or who would want to listen to it?”

  “It’s hard to explain why. It just. . .it just pushes my soul closer to the surface.”

  “Well, my soul can stay right where it is.” Stella reached up and flicked the volume button counterclockwise. “My soul idn’t in no rush to be pushed.”

  Summer giggled again. “Woman, how did you get to be such a card?”

  Outside the window, Stella noted the return of the rows of houses, the sidewalks, the occasional burst of forsythia illuminated by a streetlight. Though Bended Knee never looked like this, she had grown used to the square order of the city, and took great comfort in it. Everything had its proper place.

  “Why,” Stella said, putting her fingers up to touch her side window. “Why on earth would you ever go to such a place?”

  “I don’t know, Nan. It’s no good, you don’t have to tell me. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Beyond that, honey. I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my day. I’ve lived through two wars. I’ve known good men to destroy themselves with the drink and God only knows what else.” Her voice trailed off. “Ah,” she half-snarled, “I’m not one to preach. Never was, and I don’t mind to start now.”

  Summer never spoke for several minutes. Then, she said, “It makes me feel better.”

  Gently, “Better than what, honey?”

  “Better than I do.”

  “How do you feel then?”

  “Like a book with all its pages torn out. Two covers.” Gulping sound. “Hollow.”

  Stella looked over at Summer as she slowed the car at a stop sign. Robert’s old sweater hung off her arms, and her shoulders were thin like sickles. Stella remembered holding her, that first time in the nursery. Something blocked the light from entering the window, thick spruce growing outside, maybe bulky curtains inside. She couldn’t recall, though she did have a clear memory that the room was poorly lit. Full of shadows. And that Summer was nearly weightless in the heaviness of the room. Swallowing her. Stella remembered how, with no concrete reason, a sadness had crept into her heart. To this day, it lingered still whenever she looked upon her granddaughter.

  “Do you want to stop somewhere for an ice cream?”

  “Oh, Nan,” Summer replied, reaching up to hold her braid. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at you half the time. I swear you think ice cream is a cure-all.”

  “It usually goes with happy times.” Her brother Amos arrived in her mind then, how he’d brought her to Old Man Morgan’s back step, handful of children already there, waiting for a spoonful of ice cream made from the last chunk of ice found in the sawdust. Stella looked down at her hands, blinked.

  “Maybe another time, all right?” Then, as they neared the turn-off for Elise’s house, Summer moaned, “I don’t think I can do that tonight either. Do you want me to drop you?”

  “Drop me off?”

  “Yeah. I just can’t listen to it tonight. Yammering on about petty bullshit. Hair dye and bottled moose.”

  “They’ll probably miss us.”

  “Mother and her friends? They’ll miss me now, like they’d miss a wart on their backsides. Only something to complain about. And you? No offense, Nanny E, but you are just a required invitee.”

  A short unintended “Hm” darted from her throat. Stella coughed lightly, said, “Well, I guess there’s no harm in it. Us carrying on like we is.”

  Summer pressed down on the gas, looking at Stella now, shaking her head. “How come I knew you were going to say that?”

  “Watch the road, honey,” Stella said, wagging her finger at the windshield.

  “We’re just so damn alike, Nan. Believe it or not. Twins born fifty-odd years apart.”

  “Now, now. You’re way too young to be old like me.”

  “You’re not old in your head, Nan.”

  Images of the scene inside that shed burst onto Stella’s inner eye, and she winced at her own discomfort, said, “Oh, I believes I’m plenty old in the head. Old-fashioned.”

  After criss-crossing streets aimlessly for an hour, Summer made her way down along the water. Stella watched the men walking away from the hulking boats, foreign words printed across great rusting hulls. On the opposite side of street, two women traipsed up and down the sidewalk, wobbly heels, skirts too short for the damp spring weather. Summer turned up a steep side street, past a handful of houses clinging to sheer rock, and then began the lazy ascent up Signal Hill. She parked at the very edge of the lot, away from the handful of other cars with chugging motors, steamy windows.

  “Do you want to take a walk?”

  “I suppose,” Stella said, as she hoisted herself from the seat. “Not too far though. I don’t trust my legs on wet grass. Especially so when cliffs and waves is involved.”

  They made their way along a well-worn path, stopped near the end of a low rock wall, sat down side-by-side facing the ocean. Summer stretched, removed the bands securing her hair, and undid her braids. Watching her, Stella reached up to touch her own curls. Earlier fluffed with a plastic pick, they had now returned to their orderly sausage rows. Dampness would do that to a style. And dampness was readily available. Moss-covered rocks and earth beneath her felt almost swollen with moisture, and wisps of fog crept inwards, splaying and scattering distant lights. Lonely horns, begging for a dry day, cried out to anyone who might listen.

  “It’s all so sad,” Summer announced.

  “What’s that, honey?” Stella crossed her feet at the ankle.

  “Life. So sad.”

  “There’s good times too. Got to think of those.”

  “Don’t you find everyone is desperate? Even those horns sound desperate. Don’t you think, Nan?”

  Stella nodded slightly, shivered as the rock released some of its cold agony up through her sloping spine. “I do. Sometimes I do too. Think that.”

  “Why is it? Why does everyone bang up against each other, then act like they don’t even feel it?”

  “I don’t know, honey. I wish I could tell you, but I don’t.”

  Simple laughter. “That’s one thing I know about you, Nan E. You won’t lie to me, even when it’s harder to tell the truth.”

  “I try. With you. Though I’m not very good at it.”

  “Well, you’re better than any other person I know. Lots better.”

  Stella pursed her lips slightly, not sure whether to frown or smile.

  “What do you think they’re doing now?”

  “Who?”

  “Mother and her friends?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Eating dinner?”

  “Ah, c’mon. Something better than that. Guess.”

  “I’m not much one for guessing.”

  “Well, I bet they’re talking about me. What a waste I am. How Margo’s daughter’s about to become a teacher. Probably win some stupid awards. Impact the future generation of our province and all that shit. Poor kids.”

  “I doubts that, honey. Your mom wouldn’t do that.”

  “Pouff.” Summer shot air from her mouth, knotted her fingers together. “I reckons you stayed in that shack a little too long, Nanny E.”

  Stella reached around and put her hand on Summer’s shoulder. The entirety of Summer’s shoulder bones could be cupped in Stella’s hand. “At least I likes to think she wouldn’t. You two are black and white.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Well.”

  “I think about Mom sometimes, you know. How could she be the way she is when she had a mother like you?”

  “I don’t know, maid. We all lives our own lives.”

  “You know, she never tells me a single thing. I ask her about stuff, and she says it’s none of my concern.”

  “She might some day.”

  “I doubt it. She’s all sealed off.�
��

  “I’m sure she don’t mean to be. I know she cares about you.”

  “I think she got secrets, Nan. Lots of them.”

  “Most folks do.”

  “I think she’s a bee box.”

  Stella fastened the top button of her coat, shivered. “What’s that?”

  “A bee box. I was reading this poem this woman wrote, talking about how she ordered herself up a bee box. A box filled with bees, buzzing up a storm.”

  “Now that’s a bit queer. Never saw nothing like that in the catalogue. What sort would ever want such a thing?”

  “I don’t think it’s real. I think she was talking about all the bees that live inside her. All locked up tight inside this lovely perfect box. So nice on the outside, but swarming on the inside. She thinks an awful lot about her bees, and she’s trying to convince herself of stuff, and she’s going to let them out, even though they’ll probably sting her real bad. I don’t think she’s got much choice about it. Or else the sound’ll torture her.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t go in much for poetry, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, neither do I, Nan. I might’ve read it all wrong. I just wonder about her sometimes.”

  “And I reckons she wonders about you too, honey.”

  “I doubt that.”

  After several moments, Stella replied, “Sometimes a mother might find it hard to love someone who is so different from herself. Love them out in the open. Love them like the other one needs to be loved.” She waited for a moment for Summer to react, but Summer never did. And Stella wondered if she’d actually said those words out loud, or if only her mind had spoken. “It idn’t easy.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Leave where?”

  “Bended Knee. Why did you leave your home? All those memories?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time. And Nettie’s here.”

  “I picture it, you know, and it all seems so quaint. That life that you had. Knitting and gardening. Puttering around. Making bread. Two small children.”

  “It wasn’t always so lovely. There was hard times too. Plenty of them.”

  “Even being widowed. Working to raise your family. There’s charm in that.”

  Stella stifled a laugh. “If only I had of known that then. Might have made things easier.”

  “Oh, Nan. I didn’t mean no offence. It’s just like something out of a book. Nothing like I know.”

  “Well, you growed up without a father, too, in some ways.”

  “It’s different though. Mom gets her cheque the first of every month.”

  “There’s still struggle. Maybe not so obvious.”

  “Hey, remember that first time I ran away from home?”

  “And I found you.”

  “And you asked me if I was coming home, plain and simple, and I said, ‘No. I’m going to live here forever.’”

  “Yes, you had your mind set. Living in a swamp. Why did you run away again?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Only thing I remember is the feeling of the warm muck on my bare feet. You told me I looked like a motherless kitten kneading a blanket with my toes.”

  “Did I say that? Lord, you’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”

  “Yup. I never forgot it. ’Cause I felt motherless a lot of the time. And somehow you knew it. You saw it. Like it was written on me or something.”

  “Ah. I was probably just trying to lure you back is all. Perhaps I should’ve offered cookies.”

  “Mmm. The mind job was all right too.”

  “Oh, honey,” Stella said. “Try to think about sweet things.”

  “Sweet things.”

  “Not things that are going to tangle you up inside. Taking God-only-knows how long to straighten out.”

  “I guess you’re right, Nan. No point dwelling on that.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Too much other stuff to dwell on.” Summer jumped up, shoulders hunched. “Do you want to go back to the car?”

  Stella eased off the rock, and her body felt as though the rock were reluctant to let her go. Bones and joints and muscles stiff. “If I can make it.”

  They back-tracked to the car, and Summer gripped Stella’s arm to guide her in the pitch black that coated them.

  “Nan, you’re like a chunk of ice. Should we go get some chips and gravy?”

  “Cup of hot tea?”

  “Chips and gravy and hot tea. It’s a date.”

  They reached the car, and Summer twisted the key, patted the dashboard when the sputtering settled into a gentle hacking. “Good old Betty Blue. Knows when to kick up a stink. Knows when to come through.” Summer adjusted the volume on the radio, pressed buttons, said, “Ooo, I love this one too. Bob Dylan.”

  “Oh my.” Stella put her hand to her cheek. “Sounds like a rusty screen door.”

  Summer looked over at Stella, said, “One thing, Nan. Before we leave.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Summer got out of the car, came around to Stella’s side, and opened the door. She held out her hands. “Will you dance with me?”

  Stella laughed, shook her head. “My Lord. Second invite tonight.”

  “Well?”

  “No, no, my dearie. I’m far too old to dance. I haven’t danced a step since I was your age.”

  “Please, Nanny? I swear I won’t make fun.”

  After a moment, “Do you promise to stop tormenting yourself over nothing?”

  “I can only say I’ll try,” Summer replied, and helped Stella out of the car.

  “All right then, but none of that old funny stuff. Just something slow and respectable.”

  Dome light spilling out onto the wet pavement, Summer took Stella’s dry hand in hers, hugged her, and guided Stella around in gentle circles. “I’m sleepy and there is no place I’m going to.”

  “Take it easy, maid. Not too fast with me.”

  “Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings . . . foggy ruins of time. . .” Humming now.

  “Oh my, honey. Folks’ll think we belongs in a mental institution.”

  “Who gives a rat’s ass?”

  “Well, now. I don’t suppose no one does.”

  “Nanny E, can you promise me something?”

  “If I can, sweetie.”

  Summer rested her head on Stella’s shoulder, the crisp fabric of Stella’s coat creasing Summer’s face. “Don’t ever die, all right? Don’t ever leave me.”

  “I’ll do my best, Summer. My best is all I can do.”

  And as they turned, Bob crooned, “. . .in the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.”

  Her friends had left, plates and glasses were washed, and the leftover chicken tomato casserole was completely cold. Quite late, that was all she knew, though Elise wasn’t certain of the time. On the wall behind the dining table was a large gold-coloured sun, pointed rays, gently ticking clock for a face. But, the shaft of light from the street lamp fell just below the numbers, and in the dimness, she couldn’t make out the hands. For some reason, she did not want to rise from her spot, perched on the slender arm of a high-back chair, and look.

  Most days, Elise tried to avoid thinking about Summer. Thinking about all the ways she had gone wrong with her daughter. Thinking about how different they were. But tonight, she couldn’t sleep, and even though she’d had three ounces of cognac, the thoughts could not be kept at bay.

  To begin with, she had rushed into marriage. There was no doubt about that. After leaving Bended Knee, life in St. John’s wasn’t how she’d imagined it at all. Grace, Nettie’s daughter, was about as exciting as three-bean-salad, though she did help Elise get a job as a maid. Room and board and light meals were included, but the extra money was not enough to afford the hairclips and the dresses and the burgundy round-toed shoes that she craved. Still, she managed to fritter away her monthly allowance on what Grace curtly called “non-essentials.” And after several years of going nowhere, Elise turned her attention to her employer’s
unmarried eldest son. Joseph was shy and stern, but it took only a month of working her charms. Then, they were caught by Mrs. Lane in a compromising situation involving her perennial garden, pink phlox, a mound of crushed goldenballs that had been in full bloom. She encouraged her son to marry posthaste. “For decency’s sake.”

  At first Elise was proud of her small bungalow, proud to be the wife of a supermarket manager, proud of strolling with her daughter. Early on, Joseph had given her permission to purchase a pair of red shoes, but they scuffed easily, and the heels wore down with her walking. He told her to make do. Make do with the shoes. Make do with the table set. Make do with her wardrobe of outdated clothes. Gradually she felt bored by it. Yes, bored. And she became acutely aware of everyone else around her: the women who had more, and nicer, and the men who held the door for her, smiled. She knew those men sensed her ability to stray before she even acknowledged it. She wondered if there was a smell to it, clinging to her. A wanton smell, rising up from dissatisfaction.

  The garden hose finally did her in. Of course that might sound silly, but it was the truth. She had been planting marigolds in the backyard, needed to water her orderly bed, and she picked up the hose with one hand, twisted the spigot with the other. On her palm, she felt the water rushing through, one amazing pulse, a sputter, another amazing pulse. The entire green snake coming alive right in her hand. With that, she felt such an overwhelming sense of arousal that she dropped the hose, water still gushing, and started walking towards Tucker’s Grocery. She pretended to herself that she would wait for Joseph in his cramped office, but now she could admit that she knew Joseph would not be there. Instead, she marched straight into the stockroom, leaned her back against the door, reached her hands up behind her and flicked the lock. Six months before, Mr. Tucker had hired the blond-headed teenaged son of a friend to organize the shelves, and the boy always winked at Elise as she tossed the cans in her cart from one hand to the other, and up onto the checkout table. In the storeroom, Elise could smell cardboard and dust. She could hear her own breathing. And she could hear the promise of a blond boy rustling packages behind a dimly lit shelf.

  That had been a mistake. Elise knew it. Her A-line skirt hiked up around her waist, back pressed against a splintery shelf, canned goods tumbling, rolling across the floor. It was heady business for several passionate moments, but the boy stomped out any afterglow when he smirked at her, uttered, “Christ, man, you’re old enough to be my freaking mother.”