by Caro Soles
25. MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY
TODAY IS MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY, and Daddy has finished her present. This afternoon, he and I are going over to Hunt’s Bakery to pick up the special cake he ordered and a bottle of ginger ale. Before we even get ready, there is a knock at the door, and Mrs. O’Malley shoves her red face into the living room.
“You people are on borrowed time here,” she sputters when Mother asks politely what she wants.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Mother says.
“You think you can lord it over everyone, treat people like dirt, and get away with it, but let me tell you something: no one gets away with insulting an O’Malley.”
“And they shouldn’t,” says Mother, still politely smiling.
Mrs. O. glares at me. “You’ll rue the day, young missy.” She turns on her heel and clumps off down the hall.
“Rue the day?” Jonathan says, smirking. “What did you do, piglet?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t ‘rue the day’ over nothing.” He looks at me closely, but Mother shushes him and bursts out laughing.
“That poor woman. I don’t think she’s quite right in the head, do you?”
But Jonathan is still scrutinizing me. He knows. He must know how mean I’ve been to Patricia, but he doesn’t say another word.
Daddy and I walk over to Church Street to pick up the birthday cake. Usually Mother bakes the special-day cakes for our family, but Daddy has insisted this time. “One should not have to bake one’s own cake,” he says to me. “Your mother is a special person. She deserves something really special.” And it is. It’s round and high, with a cluster of pink roses along one side and yellow scalloped icing all around the edge. There’s even a spray of green leaves nestled in the candied flowers, and her name is written in looping red writing in the middle: Happy Birthday Mother. I remember when we used to celebrate Jonathan’s birthday on the same day as Mother’s. She says he was her birthday present. She brought him home from the orphanage that day, so what she was celebrating was how long he had been part of our family. But that stopped years ago, and now he has his own cake in August on the date he was actually born. I guess he wanted a day just for him.
There are no guests at Mother’s party this year. She says she wants it that way. Mrs. Dunn has gone to visit her daughter in Montreal, so she couldn’t come anyway, and she’s the only one Mother visits in the Music House. For a while, she was thinking of inviting Miss David, whom Daddy is helping fix up Lame Duck Lodge, but she changed her mind, so it’s only us. It seems a pity we have this lovely cake and no visitors to share it with, but in another way I’m happy knowing I can have seconds and maybe even thirds. I don’t say anything about this, of course.
I give Mother the booklet of illustrated sayings I have been working on for a long time, and she loves it. Daddy gives her the cedar-lined chest he made, and she exclaims in delight and pretends she didn’t find it hidden under the table in the Everything Room last week. Jonathan gives her a book, a first edition of Walter de la Mare’s Memoirs of a Midget. She loves this author, so this is a really good present and a genuine surprise too. She doesn’t mention Mrs. O’Malley once.
In the days that follow, it’s as if everyone is holding their breath. Smothered emotions swirl in the air. I can feel them, and it makes me nervous, makes everything uncertain and a little shaky. Nobody talks about the Threat, and it’s almost as if the Recital never happened. Or as if we are just ignoring what happened there, what Jonathan said at dinner that night, what Brian said at the reception. Things have changed in some nebulous way. One thing I’m sure of: I am staying well away from Patricia.
Janet has gone to stay for a month in the country with some relatives. They have a farm, she says, and she gets to help with milking and making cheese and feeding the pigs. There’s a big vegetable garden too, and she’ll be doing a lot of weeding, I expect. Even our window boxes need weeding. I try to visualize Janet and her sister Magda in the country, wearing yellow boots like Christopher Robin, and in overalls too. She showed me the overalls the last time I was at her house. They have a bib attached and metal loops that fit over the buttons, sort of like the garters on my garter belt. I told her she would look like Tom Sawyer, and she liked that idea. I miss her. I want to talk to someone about going to school and maybe about seeing a movie together. Fantasia is playing now. Jonathan said he would take me, but I think he’s forgotten in all the excitement of getting ready for college and the summer job he’ll be going to soon. Anyway, I’d rather go with a friend like other girls do. That would be grand.
Late one afternoon when Jonathan is out, Mother is with Dr. Hazel, and Daddy is helping at Lame Duck Lodge, I wander onto the porch and stand for a while, staring down at Rona Layne’s secret garden. No one is caring for it, and it is getting a bit parched looking for want of watering. Someone has tidied up the red brick paths, though, so maybe help is coming and it will be resurrected, like the one in the book. But somehow I don’t care about this the way I did. I climb up into the crow’s nest and peer about, one hand shading my eyes, but the sun is hot and saps the magic out of everything. I wonder if Brian is up on the roof, reading in the shade near his window. Or maybe he is packing for New York City.
Maybe he needs help.
I swing around to the front of the ladder, climb up the rest of the way, and crawl onto the roof. No one is there. I inch my way over to the window and peek in. I’m glad they always leave the curtains open. Mrs. Dunn has this theory that it is cooler with the curtains closed, but that makes everything dim and gloomy in her place. Mother doesn’t like it this way either, and the last time she visited Mrs. Dunn, she told us at dinner it was like visiting a house of mourning.
Inside the Pierces’ large room, I can hear murmuring voices. A suitcase and Brian’s brown leather music bag stand near the door. I guess he must be leaving soon. I have been making a goodbye present for him and it’s almost ready, so I’m relieved he’s still here. Mrs. Pierce is mixing tall drinks that look like sparkling water, but they have slices of lime in them so I guess it’s G and T. There is ice in the drinks, and I wonder if she has been chipping ice from our icebox again. She has tears on her cheeks, and her face looks polished like marble. Brian looks very tired. His eyes are sad and bruised-looking.
“Indulge me,” she says, handing him one of the drinks. “You’ll be gone soon enough. You’ll never have to see me again.”
Brian sighs, takes the drink, and moistens his dry lips. “Don’t talk like that,” he says. He takes a long drink from the glass and grimaces a little as if it’s unexpectedly bitter.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t talk at all,” she says. She reaches over and strokes his arm. He shakes her off. “I love you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry things got … out of hand,” he says. “I never meant for that to happen.”
“It’s all right. I know you never meant it. It’s just that I’ve sacrificed everything for you.”
Brian stood up abruptly and slammed down his glass. “Not that broken record again!”
“You don’t want to hear this, I know, but it’s true. I can’t go back. Surely you realize that? I’ve burned all my bridges.”
“I can’t stay.” He walks out of sight, and I can’t hear what he says next. I see Mrs. Pierce wince as if he hit her.
She wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Come and sit down,” she says softly. “Finish your drink. I won’t say another harsh word.”
Brian reappears and sinks back into the armchair. “I’ve sold the harpsichord,” he says. “They’ll pick it up on Monday at three o’clock. Is that all right?”
“Perfect,” she says. She leans forward and watches his face intently as he takes another long drink from the glass.
“Refreshing, isn’t it?” she says. “Want another?”
“Why not? Easy on the bitters this time.”
Mrs. Pierce walks across the room to the table, which is shoved up against the opposite wall. There are no decanters there with little necklaces with the names on them like the one we have, just several bottles standing along the back and a small glass for measuring. She pours gin into the glass without bothering to measure, adds another slice of lime. She opens a small bottle and shakes something else into it. Bitters?
I hear voices from the Secret Garden so I crawl over and lie on my stomach so I can see who is down there. Miss Jones is talking to a man in overalls, leaning on a spade. They’re going to bring the garden back to life! They really are! It’s almost as if they have heard my thoughts. Maybe Rona Layne saw the movie too, and got inspired. I watch for a long time, but mostly he just walks around, making notes in a small notebook. He’s estimating how much he has to do, I think, like Daddy estimating a building job for a bridge, the work he used to do in the old days before the Great War. When the man goes inside, I inch back to the window to see what the Pierces are doing.
Mrs. Pierce is helping Brian across the room to the bed in the alcove. He seems very tired now and not able to stand up properly. Maybe he’s drunk. I remember him sipping from his silver flask during the reception, his cheeks getting red, his voice loud. Now he just seems worn out. Mrs. Pierce lowers him to the bed, smooths his hair on the pillow. She lies down beside him and slides one arm around his shoulders, cradling him like a baby.
“Oh, Brian,” she says softly. “Oh, my dear, dear boy.”
He murmurs something I can’t hear. Butterflies flutter unpleasantly in my stomach as I watch her stoke his hair with her long fingers. I wish she would stop. After a moment, she gets up and comes to the window. I crouch out of sight as she closes the sash. Curtain rings rattle as the drapes close, too. I crawl away to the ladder, my heart beating painfully hard in my chest.
As I step down on the porch, I hear Daddy in the Everything Room, back from Lame Duck Lodge. He opens the window. “Don’t go up on the roof,” he says. “Leave the Pierces alone.”
“All right,” I say. “I’m just going to read for a while.”
I go inside and find my copy of The Water Babies. I’m too old for it, but it’s comforting, like an old friend. But I’m too restless to read for long. My skin feels prickly, but not with heat.
Last week I had friends: Janet to play with and to call now and then on the telephone, and Brian to talk to sometimes on the roof. I loved the feeling that he trusted me, valued me. And now I am bereft. Janet has already gone, and by tomorrow, Jonathan will be gone too. Brian is about to leave, and he hasn’t even said a proper goodbye yet. I see the canvas suitcase at the door, the shabby brown leather music bag leaning against it—two old friends. Maybe he plans to say goodbye just before he goes. That would make sense. And he’ll send me postcards from New York, brightly coloured shiny postcards of big city streets and famous buildings—one of Washington Square, perhaps. I close my eyes and imagine his handwriting. He has written a message just to me. Studying music at the Juilliard. I’m sure it will be the Juilliard. Having a great time. Wish you were here. Love, Brian.
I get out the bookmark I have made for him as a farewell gift and set about adding a few final elegant curlicues. This will make the motto really stand out: Ars longa, vita brevis. Tomorrow I’ll run upstairs and slip it under Brian’s door. He’ll take it with him to New York, and this way, part of me will go along too.
26. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES
UNION STATION IS GRAND, full of echoing noise and crowds of people. We are all here to say goodbye to Jonathan. Helen is with us for a while too, and she gives him a book to read on the train as a going-away present. Mother thinks they are more than just friends, but Daddy shakes his head and smiles and says nothing. Mother looks annoyed. I think of Brian and when I can give him my going away present. I haven’t had a chance to slip it under the door yet.
We stand in the line-up for a long time with all these people waiting to get on the train going up north. Some sit on bulging suitcases. A baby somewhere down the line is crying monotonously. Children run about shouting. Mother purses her lips. I know she is thinking that they ought to be taught how to behave in a public place. I stand quietly, showing how it should be done, this waiting. In front of us, an Italian family is having a sort of picnic, sitting on their suitcases tied in the middle with belts made of webbing and passing around food wrapped in wax paper. My mouth waters. Eating in public is something I am not allowed to do. But it smells so good, and I envy them.
Finally a man’s voice begins to call out the stations where Jonathan’s train will stop. It’s a long list, and most of the names are muddied by the echo. We try to guess what they are until the disembodied voice concludes with “Now boarding,” and the line inches forward.
Finally we get to the front where stairs go up to the train track, and we all hug and say goodbye over and over.
“Write!” Mother says. “Write to me!”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Jonathan looks embarrassed and finally pushes his way up the stairs. Mother stands looking up into the crowd jostling their way up to the platform until long after we can’t see Jonathan anymore.
Daddy takes Mother’s hand and squeezes it as he steers her back to the street. The garbled announcements from the loudspeaker echo above us. I can still smell the enticing odours of onion and garlic and salami from the Italian family’s picnic. We never have those things in our house. Mother says there’s no food value in salami. I sometimes wonder if Mother says there’s no food value in things she doesn’t like.
As we ride the streetcar up Yonge Street, rocking gently from side to side on the wooden seats, I wonder if Brian has already left. I see the image of his suitcase by the door, try to remember when he said he was going. I hope I haven’t missed him. I haven’t had a chance to drop off my present yet.
We get off at Wellesley and walk back home to the Music House. No one is talking. I can feel Mother beside me, stiff and wound up tight. Every now and then she squeezes my hand hard. I hope she doesn’t start to cry. I hope she writes some sad poetry in her Testament instead.
Outside our living room door, Mother leans down to pick up a square white envelope. I catch my breath. Maybe it’s a goodbye note from Brian. But it’s addressed to Mother, and she opens it as we walk into the living room and I take off my good shoes.
Mother throws the note on the table and sinks into a chair. “My cup overflows!” She flings out her hands dramatically. Her cheeks are pink. “What in God’s green earth have I done to offend Him so utterly?”
“What now?” Daddy picks up the letter, adjusts his glasses, reads it slowly. “It’s not even signed,” he says. “Just ignore it.”
“Ignore it? Ignore it?! It says Rona Layne right there at the bottom.” Mother lunges over and points to the bottom of letter, her finger trembling with rage. “So your suggestion is we ignore it and just get evicted? Have what’s left of our goods and chattels flung out the window?”
“They won’t do that,” Daddy says. His face is getting pink too, and that’s not good for him. I take a deep breath, but there is nothing I can do. I see Mrs. O’Malley’s fat face glaring at Mother on her birthday. Turning to glare to me. No one gets away with threatening an O’Malley. Did I do that? Am I to blame? I move closer to Mother’s chair, but she suddenly pushes it back hard, hitting me on the arm. She doesn’t notice. She begins to pace back and forth between the table and the cupola windows.
“That bitch!” Mother says. “That petty little tyrant, Rona Layne, is getting back at us because Jonathan decided not to continue studying with her.”
“Lil, that is ridiculous.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? You think she’s a shitty little saint about to be beatified by the bloody Pope and this note is all an illusion? Some feat of léger de main? You imbecile!”
I back away, making myself small as I hunker
down against the cool tiles of the fireplace. I hate it when Mother lashes out like this, her words turning sharp like razor blades, tearing at the air. A fist tightens in my stomach. Mother’s face stretches into odd angles like a hideous mask. Daddy is red-faced, too, but on him it looks less scary. As I watch, he loosens his regimental tie and sinks into a chair. The high colour drains from his face, and I wonder if he will faint. He clears his throat.
“Lil, that’s enough,” he says.
“Have you forgotten how hard it is to find a place to live in this hellhole?” Mother rages. “Someplace above the level of a rat hole that we can afford? That will take children? And the piano? It was the merest stroke of luck we heard about this place!”
“Hard, yes, but not impossible.”
“That woman cannot be allowed to disrupt people’s lives like this for no other reason than spite.”
“You’re assuming that Rona Layne actually wrote this thing,” Daddy says. He scratches absently at his wrist.
“She just forgot to sign it. Or do you mean that Jones woman wrote it?”
“It’s typed, and without a signature we don’t know who wrote it, do we? And Miss Layne is an educated woman. Does this sound like the writing of an educated person to you?”
For the first time, Mother stops moving. Her fierce silver-grey eyes focus on the note, still lying on the table where she had flung it. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“Ignore it,” Daddy says. His voice is tired now, sounding hoarse.
“I will not be caught unawares again,” she shouts. “One eviction is enough in one lifetime. I will not be a naïve victim again!” Mother tosses her head and grabs the note. She pauses, straightens her shoulders, and checks her face in the mirror over the fireplace. Then she puts on more lipstick and marches out the door.
“God almighty,” Daddy says and closes his eyes.