by Caro Soles
Normally we play games, sending messages by Hermes—usually Janet, who leaps from one roof to the next to deliver the missive to Zeus. I play Zeus and hurl a lot of thunderbolts to show my displeasure at whatever she says. But today she’s too full of her own reality.
As she talks, describing the real play her class is staging, I think of the pathetic pageant the sight-saving class is practising … or trying to. Between Eddie convulsing and Wanda muttering and spitting, not to mention yesterday when poor Rosemary fell off the platform, her steel leg clattering and knocking over the stool where Wise Owl is supposed to sit, we aren’t getting very far. I’m Owl. Luckily I wasn’t perched on the stool at the time. I was still waiting for my cue, which Maisie usually forgets. Pathetic.
“So what’s your class doing?” Janet finally asks, hugging her scraped knees up under her chin. “Is it a play?”
“More like a commercial,” I say. “You know on the radio when they sing those silly songs about ‘You’ll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent’ and ‘Lucky Strike means fine tobacco?’”
“That one’s not a song,” Janet says.
“Yes, well, that one’s more like what we’re doing. Kids hold up cream Bristol board and chant about how this colour is easier on the eyes, oh yes. Someone points to the green chalkboard and says more or less the same thing. I perch on a stool wearing owl ears and recite drivel about saving our sight. It’s embarrassing.”
Janet laughs. “That’s just because you’ve got really young kids there, too,” she says. “They probably couldn’t do a real play.”
“You can say that again.”
“Ca-a-all fo-or Phillip Morr-aise!” Janet shouts, dragging out the syllables the way they do on the radio and jumping to her feet.
I jump up too. “Ninety-nine and forty-four, one hundred percent pure. It floats!”
And we run around the roof, shouting radio commercials at each other.
I have a hard time not talking about the Sunday soirée to Janet, but Mother said we can’t invite her without including her mother and father, too, because they invited us to Janet’s party. Things are getting complicated. We have lots of people coming already, and everyone has to eat and drink. And there aren’t enough chairs. Somehow the group has grown to include Brian’s mother, Mrs. Pierce, and our neighbour, Mrs. Smyth, who is lending Jonathan several music scores. When it’s all over, I can tell Janet they were all Jonathan’s friends, which is true anyway. Still, I wish she was coming to hear me sing.
Sunday morning I stay home from church to help Mother clean the living room and bake in our tiny oven. Jonathan promises to bring home all the information about the Corpus Christi procession next week. It seems my note to Daddy worked! We bring all the pillows across the hall and put the special fancy covers on them so they look like cushions. You can’t tell they are mostly just basted together and pinned in place with safety pins. Mother bought a piece of upholstery material to use as a cover for the daybed, with actual piping on the corners so it looks like a couch with all the pillows arranged across the back. Now people can lounge like Julius Caesar, though the only one I can imagine actually doing this is Brian. I stop dusting and think about this for a moment: Brian stretched out full length on our daybed, propped up by pillows, his golden curls bright like a halo around his head. He hands me a bunch of grapes, except we don’t have any. But nonetheless, it’s fun thinking about it, imagining how it could be, with me kneeling beside the couch, my hair bound up with gold ribbons and jewels while Brian lolls in his purple toga, dropping luscious sweetmeats in my mouth. I pat the cushions tenderly in place and smile.
Baggy Bones seems to have sensed something is going on and is on patrol. At one point, I’m afraid Mother is going to invite her, too. She says she feels sorry for her, but I guess she remembers the scant larder and restrains herself. After all, if we’re inviting Lame Ducks, I think Miss David should come first. She’s way nicer. And she brings candy.
“Poor soul,” Mother says. “She has a son, apparently. I don’t think he ever visits. How sad to be so bereft.”
“When you’re old, I’ll visit you every day,” I say. “So will Jonathan,” I add, watching her face. Her eyes smile when I mention his name.
She gathers me to her and hugs hard, the powdery lavender smell so familiar, so secure. “You know what they say: A daughter’s a daughter all your life; a son’s a son till he takes a wife.”
“Don’t worry, no one will ever marry Jonathan,” I say into her softness. I hug her back really hard till she gasps and pulls away, breathless.
The rain starts just after lunch. I hope it’s not an Omen. I stand at the window and watch the slate-grey lines of water slice through the pewter air, hitting the square panes on an angle, driven by the wind. I hope people won’t decide to go home instead of coming here.
I’ve cleaned my Oxfords using Daddy’s shoe polish and brushes. They don’t look as good as when he does them, but Mother says they sparkle. I wish I had patent leather Mary Janes like Janey Drew. I’m wearing white knee socks and my good dress, and I have ribbons on my pigtails, the bows big and stiff with newness. I flash on the notions counter at the Five and Ten: ribbons spilling everywhere; taffeta and velvet and satin; plaid, polka dots, even stripes. My stomach twists, and I go over to the table and rearrange the flowers. Some are from our window boxes and some from the bushes hanging over the fence of Rona Layne’s Secret Garden. Mother picked them, so I guess it’s all right.
Seth strikes the half hour.
They’re here.
There’s a burst of chatter, and damp air enters our living room as Jonathan comes in with Geoffrey and the girl who must be Helen. She shakes back her dark page-boy hair and laughs, flashing big teeth. She’s wearing shiny silver barrettes. I put the umbrella on the porch, taking some time to tie the handle to the door of the icebox in case the wind takes it away, sending it flying over the rooftops like Mary Poppins, only by itself without the nanny attached. When I come back in, Baggy Bones is in the hall, standing lopsided outside our living room door, looking as if she’s about to fall over. She has forgotten to bring her brown paper bag, the usual excuse for the trip. When she sees me, she startles, doesn’t even try to go to the garbage can. She turns around and scuttles back to her lair. Brian and his mother pass her on their way to our place, nodding politely.
“Hello, Vanessa,” says Mrs. Pierce.
“How do you do?” I hold out my hand. My other hand goes to the door to open it, and for a moment I’m confused as to which I should do first. Then Mother opens the door from the other side, and suddenly everyone is talking at once. The living room looks different with all these people in it, feels different. Light bounces off things oddly. Sounds wash over me like waves, not making much sense. Mrs. Smyth is here, too. She must have come while I was on the porch tethering the umbrella. She holds one hand clasped in the other. A lace hankie is stuffed inside the cuff of her mauve silk blouse. The few times I’ve seen her, she’s been wearing the same one. It has tiny pleats down the front. I wonder if she’ll tell her husband in his urn about our party when she goes home.
Mother worked out the seating plan with us in advance, and I watch as Mother and Jonathan subtly manoeuvre people into their appointed places. I drop to my spot on the piano bench, waiting for the music part to start. Helen talks a lot, her voice strong like her teeth. She’s wearing a white blouse and pearls, navy-blue pleated skirt, grown-up nylons, and red shoes. I love red shoes. I asked for some for my birthday. Mother said I’m too young, but I think they just cost too much.
Geoffrey is talking to Helen a lot. I’m used to seeing him in his choir outfit, so he looks really different in a regular shirt and grey pants. I imagine a whiff of incense still attached to his clothes, trapped under his robes all morning, now finally able to escape.
Brian is talking to Mother, but I can’t really follow
what they’re saying from here. He’s holding his recorder in his hands. It’s a long one, and his fingers run restlessly up and down the length of the instrument. It must be a tenor. Helen has two recorders in an open case on the daybed beside her: a soprano and a treble. Jonathan has told me all about recorders, but I’ve never seen them except in the museum. Brian’s face, his golden hair, his hands, the way he holds himself—it all looks like a painting. Helen spoils the picture.
I can feel that Mother is nervous. Her fingers move too, but not obviously like Brian’s. Probably no one else would notice, but I know where to look, what to look for. This electric energy sparks directly from her to me, running along my nerves, winding me tight as a spring. I glance at Jonathan and wonder if he feels it, too. My throat begins to close under the pressure, and I make quick clearing noises. The talk suddenly dies down. Everyone looks at me.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mother says.
I feel my face hot with embarrassment. I nod mutely.
“Clearing the frogs out of your throat?” Geoffrey asks. “I often do that before I sing.” He demonstrates. Everyone laughs.
I wish they would all just ignore me. I wish Daddy were here. Things are usually less tense when he’s around.
“Did you find out about Corpus Christi?” I ask Jonathan. I meant to whisper, but my words drop into a pocket of silence, and everyone looks at me again.
“There’s a rehearsal on Thursday,” Jonathan says in his normal voice, “but I can’t take you because I’m tutoring that night.”
I look at Mother, moistening my dry lips with the tip of my tongue. I see myself in a long white veil, processing solemnly through the incense over the deep-red carpet of the church, turning every few steps to cast rose petals in front of the monstrance, while the choir’s chant soars around me.
Mother sighs. “I guess it won’t work out this time, dear. I have to go to a late appointment that day. It’s the only time Dr. Hazel can fit me in.” She reaches over and pats my knee.
It’s over.
I blink, praying I can keep the tears away.
“I wish I could help,” Geoffrey says. “I have to be there anyway. Choir practice night, you know. But I wouldn’t have time to come all the way over here after school and then get back to the church on time.”
“I can take her.” Brian says.
Mrs. Pierce looks startled, and for a moment I think she may protest. She opens and closes her mouth like a fish running out of air.
Mother looks at Brian uncertainly. “Are you sure, dear? It’s not an imposition?”
“Not at all. It’ll be fun, won’t it, Vanessa?”
I nod mutely, afraid to speak, afraid that words from me will shatter the dream.
“Besides,” he goes on, “I’ve always wanted to meet Dr. Willan.”
“I’ll introduce you,” Geoffrey says.
“It’s settled then.” Mother pats my knee again. “Thank you very much.” She turns to Helen. “And what are your plans after school is over, dear? Are you pursuing your music studies, too?”
“I’ve been accepted at the university here, but also at a music school in the States. I haven’t made up my mind, yet.”
“I don’t know why everyone thinks they have to go to the States,” Mrs. Pierce exclaims, startling everyone. “We have perfectly good teachers here, don’t we, Mrs. Smyth?”
“Unless it’s the Juilliard,” Mrs. Smyth murmurs. “She’d be a fool to turn them down.”
“Oh, the holy Juilliard is not to be gainsaid!”
Brian has turned a bright pink. He shifts farther away from his mother and looks at Geoffrey, then down at the floor.
“It’s not the Juilliard,” Helen says. She looks as if she’s going to cry.
“Well then, why bother?” Mrs. Pierce says. “You’re going to get married anyway, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t decided about that either,” Helen says, looking right at Mrs. Pierce, her eyes very bright and fierce. I sit up straighter.
Mother laughs, but it comes out too high. “In any case, dear, I’m sure there’s a brilliant future ahead of you.” She stands up. “Just look at all the young talent in this room! All these bright futures! Why not give us a sample now? Then we’ll have tea.”
Jonathan jumps to his feet and dumps me unceremoniously off the piano bench. The music he wants is all arranged inside. I know because I watched him do it. But now it looks as if he’s just taking out some pieces and choosing them on the spur of the moment. I wonder why he’s doing this, but I don’t say anything. The others are gathering around, holding recorders, talking about the pieces. I hope they don’t do Orpheus. It’s too hard for me, holding those long notes. My voice begins to warble and shake. To my relief, the Orpheus isn’t in the chosen group. Instead, Geoffrey starts off with another Handel, “Oh, Had I Jubal’s Lyre,” singing in a light sprightly tenor, even though I think it should be alto. Everyone has changed the key to accommodate him, I guess. I’m lost, but luckily I don’t have to sing this one.
Just as I’m beginning to think Jonathan has forgotten his promise, he chooses “Barbara Allen.” As I sing, the recorders twist around the tune, echoing my notes, enhancing the melody. I feel so full of the music I think I may burst. When we go on to “Sheep May Safely Graze,” Geoffrey joins me. I’ve never sung with anyone else before, except in church, of course, and for a moment I hear my voice waver, then gain strength, rising to shine beside his. I can see it sliding up, up in the air, a bright wire of sound, taut and true. It is wonderful. I have never been so happy. I close my eyes to concentrate, to revel in the pure sounds of the music.
When I finish and open my eyes, Mother and Mrs. Smyth clap. My face is hot with excitement. Mrs. Pierce is looking at one of our books, flipping through the pages as if bored. She closes it with a little snap and gives Brian a tight smile.“Don’t you think the recorder is a little childish for someone at your level, dear?” she says, dusting her hands together as if our books are dirty.
“It’s hard to play the recorder well,” Geoffrey says. “You handle it beautifully,” he adds, turning towards Brian.
“You must all be thirsty after that wonderful performance,” says Mother, standing up, her hands clasped in front of her. “Let’s have tea.” She throws her bright smile at everyone in the room.
Once they all leave, Mother plunks down on the wing chair in an exaggerated collapse, arms and legs splayed like a rag doll. She reaches out and catches me and pulls me in with her.
“You sang like an angel,” she says, giving me a quick squeeze.
Jonathan makes a sputtering noise. “You must mean Lucifer, the fallen angel.”
“Don’t be rude,” I say.
Jonathan begins to collect the cups and saucers, serviettes, and plates, piling them carefully on our one tray.
Mother stands up and gathers the crumbs from the table in her hand, throwing them into the fireplace. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?” she asks, seriously this time.
Jonathan agrees.
“And Helen is a lovely girl, very talented. It’s clear she’s smitten with you, dear.”
Jonathan blushes. “She’s just a friend,” he says.
“She talked most to Geoffrey,” I point out.
“Ah, but she had eyes only for Jonathan,” Mother says, and winks.
“Really, Mother!” Jonathan says, shaking his head. His face is flushed.
Mother begins fluffing the pillows. “It did go well,” she says thoughtfully, almost to herself. “In spite of that rather inebriated Mrs. Pierce. Now there’s a woman whom life has disappointed.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
Mother pauses, a pillow clasped to her chest. “Oh, I know,” she says, staring out the window. “I’m an expert.”
16. CORPUS CHRISTI
AT SCHOOL, I TRY TO ST
AY AWAY from Cedric, but it’s hard. I try to stay with Rosemary inside during recess, and mostly it seems to work. Rosemary tells me Cedric is my guardian, but I don’t believe it. On the other hand, Eddie doesn’t try to give me Chinese burns anymore, so maybe she’s right. It makes me nervous, the way Cedric watches me, turns up beside me, brings me little presents. I wonder if the lollipops are stolen, if the red ribbons he gives me on Wednesday were taken from the Five and Ten. I give them to Rosemary, who is really pleased. But Cedric isn’t.
“That’s supposed to be your present,” he says to me at lunch, standing on the bottom step in front of the school, towering over me. He has the ribbons in his hands.
I don’t say anything. I’m holding the hem of my tunic between two fingers, twitching the cloth back and forth. My mouth is dry. I look around but don’t see anyone I know except Maisie, standing with one hand on her hip, watching. She’s not a friend.
I look back at Cedric, still at a loss for words.
“You think I stole it, don’cha?” he says, leaning closer. “You’d be wrong. I bought them ribbons with the money from my paper route. So there. What do ya say now?”
“I can’t accept gifts,” I say. “My mother doesn’t allow me to take gifts from people she doesn’t know.” I watch Cedric’s face relax, the redness fade from his cheeks.
“Well, that’s just plain dumb, ain’t it?” he says, but he’s smiling, the gap between his front teeth plainly visible.
“Told you she’s stupid,” Maisie says.
“Lay off.” Cedric scowls at her. She steps back. “So, guess I better get to know your Mum, eh?”
I have a brief vision of Cedric meeting Mother, the strained exchange of pleasantries, Mother’s gentle laugher afterwards. I clear my throat. “Usually these days, it’s my big brother who picks me up,” I say.