by David Bergen
She sat, the floor cold beneath her legs. The dog rested its snout on her lap. She talked to the dog and asked its name and she said that it must be cold. She decided then and there that a blanket was necessary and so she rose and patted the dog on the head and promised to return. In her house she took the bathroom rug with its rubber undercoating, and she rolled it up and carried it under her arm and trudged back across the yard to the shack. She laid the rug out for the dog and settled it down and rubbed its ears and said that this would be better and warmer and now the night would not be so cold. When she left the dog an hour later, it whimpered and she said that she would come back in the morning with milk and scrambled eggs.
There were the laws of the community, and there were natural laws, and she recognized that though she might rebel against the laws of the community, she could not fight the laws of nature. She was alone, and her heart was colder now, and that coldness was simply a matter of saving herself. If she could not achieve happiness, then at least she would measure herself against the yardstick of her mind. Heart and mind. Mind and heart. She was like the dog, waiting for someone to come along and lay out a bathroom rug for warmth. And food to eat. And a voice in the ear. A pat on the head.
The following afternoon, in the egg room, she told Frantz that she had fed his dog.
“I noticed,” he said.
“I gave him scrambled eggs with cheese this morning. And a piece of toast. And a bowl of milk.”
“Don’t let Johan see you. He’ll shoot the dog.”
“Or me,” she said. And as soon as she said this, she was sorry. And now Frantz was looking at her.
“Does he hurt you?” Frantz asked.
“Oh, no. Not at all. That would be paying attention.”
She felt that her words had betrayed Johan and she was sorry. She said that she would work now, and she left Frantz in the egg room and headed out into the barn.
The dog’s name was Schlacks. Frantz had named him this because he was gangly and loose. She visited Schlacks every day after supper, when Johan went to his parents’ place for dessert. One evening, while sitting with Schlacks, the door opened and she looked up and saw Frantz. He closed the door. He stood over where she was sitting on a wooden stool, brushing Schlacks. He was carrying a bowl of dessert, apple crumble with ice cream, and he handed it to her. She gave it to the dog, who ate it quickly, the bowl sliding across the floor.
“It was for you,” Frantz said.
“I don’t eat sweets,” Lily said.
Frantz squatted beside her and lit a cigarette. She saw the shape of his hand, and the arch of his nose as the match flared. His wide unlucky mouth.
“Do you have money?” he asked.
She didn’t understand the question, or the reason for the question. She wondered if he wanted her money, though she had nothing. She said that Johan kept the money and gave it to her should she need some.
“And he does?”
“If needed.”
“It seems you don’t need much.”
She thought about this, and had no answer. She stood and said that she would go.
“Is someone calling you?”
“No. But I have dishes to wash. And Johan will wonder.”
“You think so? Johan is right now sitting on his mother’s lap and eating crumble while his sisters stroke his head.”
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night, Lily.”
That night she dreamed that Frantz was kissing her knuckles with his large mouth. And she did not stop him, for she was happy. When she woke she was ashamed because she had been happy. Afraid to sleep because she might dream, she turned on the bedside lamp and she picked up a book and she read. This was a book of poetry that Aunt Dolores had delivered to her. The insistence in Dolores’s voice as she said, “Here. Read this.” She didn’t know poetry. She didn’t understand it. But the shortness of the lines. And the feelings. Feelings for no good reason. She thought that there might be rules for poetry, as there were rules for everything else. She wanted to know what the rules were, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Sometimes the poems rhymed, sometimes they didn’t. The poems she read were not long. They were written by a woman who was now dead. This she knew.
Before I got my eye put out —
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes —
And know no other way —
But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me —
The Meadows — mine —
The Mountains — mine —
All Forests — Stintless stars —
As much of noon, as I could take —
Between my finite eyes —
The Motions of the Dipping Birds —
The Morning’s Amber Road —
For mine — to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead —
So safer — guess — with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes —
Incautious — of the Sun —
She read the poem three or four times, but did not know what to make of it. She liked that first line. Was this her? You could put out a fire, and you could put out a cat from the house, and you might put out a candle. But an eye? Like a tongue? And only one eye? What about the other eye, which would still see? And the soul, pressed against the windowpane. And safer? Why safer? Was the soul more important than the eyes?
She heard Johan snoring in the next room. Her eyes closed.
This was the winter she worked for the neighbour family, Gretchen and Carlos and their three children. It had been Johan’s idea, and he had done all the arranging. He came into the house one evening and he began to talk. He did not talk because there had been a thaw in their relationship, this she knew. He only talked when he had to hand out information, or when he had to give orders, and when the commandments were finished, so was his talking. On this evening, he said that Gretchen Wall was looking for someone two days a week, on Thursdays and Fridays. Gretchen was teaching a midwifery course in the city, and she needed a woman in the house to help with the children, especially the nine-month-old. The two older children were of school age, but they were homeschooled by Gretchen. This was a family that had moved to the country from the city in order to homestead. They wanted a quieter life for their children, fewer outside influences, and they wanted the experience of the countryside, of growing food, of raising sheep, of putting their hands into the soil. Lily was reminded of her own life, and how she had been raised, though the Wall children had more freedom, and they had books, and they did not have religion.
And so Lily went to work for the Walls. Their house was adjacent to the Gerbrandt yard, and it took five minutes to walk the path through the stand of poplars. The house was rundown and dirty, and there were children’s toys everywhere, and there was laundry that needed ironing, and because Carlos didn’t have a machine shed there were tools scattered about, and in the mud room there were animal traps for beaver and wolves and there was a roll of 22-gauge copper wire for rabbit snares. Lily knew snares. Her father had taught her as a girl.
The thing is, Carlos, the father of the children, was always around when she worked, but he was not domestic, and so it was like having one more child, and it turned out that Lily in the end was taking care of four children. She cooked lunch, and she prepared supper—sometimes chili, sometimes noodle casserole—and she tried to get the cooking done when Oscar, the nine-month-old, was down for his nap. When her hands were free. But then the older children, Astrid and Aldo, demanded attention as well, and so these were the times when she sat with them on the couch by the woodstove and read to them while Carlos strummed his guitar in the next room an
d smoked marijuana. At least she thought it might be marijuana. It stank like a car that has, a week earlier, hit a skunk on the road. This was different than the smell of Frantz’s cigarettes. Carlos asked her one time if she partook, and she said that she wasn’t allowed to smoke. He nodded and smiled. He spoke Spanish. When Gretchen came home she always spoke English with Carlos, and she spoke English with the children, and Carlos spoke Spanish with everyone, and the children responded in English, and they all understood each other.
The children were completely happy with their lives. They were fed tons of raw vegetables, which were the staples in the house, and they sat willingly at the table to do their math homework, and they had few complaints about the clothes they wore, which had been purchased at the MCC store in town, and they ate no sugar, and for fun they put on little theatre shows organized by Astrid, who was eight, and they did not do battle with each other, and sometimes, in the afternoons, as Oscar slept in his crib, the older children made art while Lily tackled the pile of laundry and Carlos strummed his guitar in the next room, and in those moments, any stranger walking in would have seen a happy family, with Lily the mother of that family.
Lily liked the sound of the guitar. In her community the only musical instrument was the voice, given by God. Lily’s voice was clear and beautiful, and the first time she sang with the children it was in the living room, when Astrid had put a record on the player and the song “I’ll Fly Away” was one that Lily knew. She thought she was alone with the children, and so she was loose and playful, and she was not afraid to lift her voice. When the song ended she heard someone clapping and Astrid called “Papa,” and she saw Carlos standing in the doorway. He nodded and said that her voice was fine. Where did she learn to sing? In church, she said. She looked away, embarrassed. He said that church was good for something then.
The following week Carlos showed her three chords on the guitar: C, G, and F.
He taught her how to strum, using a pick. She was clumsy at first and he had to place her fingers on the frets, using his own rough hands, and she was aware of him touching her, and she was aware of his chest against her shoulder. He said, “There,” and then he said “Good,” and then he took the guitar from her and began a song that she knew, “Farther Along,” and she sang softly along with him. His English was very good when he sang, not so good when he spoke. This was curious.
One afternoon she baked oatmeal cookies with the children as Oscar slept. Astrid played some rock and roll on the stereo and the children danced in the living room. The world in this house was so different, so strange, so contrary. Lily’s heart was big at that moment. The children wanted her to dance with them. She said that she didn’t know how to dance. Astrid cried, “Lily, we’ll show you.” And she dragged her out into the middle of the living room, and against her own will, but for the sake of the children, Lily moved her feet slowly and maybe even snapped her fingers slightly. The song was inside her, and it was outside her, and it was around her. They were dancing like this when Gretchen came home. She dropped her bag at the door and joined them. She held Lily’s hands and closed her eyes and mouthed the words. The kids screamed. They loved it when their mother danced. Lily was in a maelstrom. This was not her life. She stepped back and watched the children and their mother dance. She went to find Oscar, who was standing in his crib, shaking the side, wanting freedom. She picked him up and laid him on the change table and changed his diaper. He kicked his fat legs. She smelled his head. Picked him up. In the living room, when he saw his mother dancing, his feet thumped and he began to cry and Gretchen came to him and took him and sat and opened her blouse and gave him her breast. Gretchen’s other breast was bared as well because Oscar like to play with the free nipple as he fed. Lily went into the kitchen to stack the cookies. When she was finished she put on her coat and peeked into the living room to say goodbye. The older children flanked their mother now, who had closed her blouse, and Oscar sat on her lap. Milk ran down his chin.
Gretchen said that she had planned to pay her. She should look in the purse, in the wallet for the money. She told her what to take, and Lily did as directed. She slipped the money into her jacket pocket. She said goodbye and stepped outside and as she walked the path through the poplars she ran into Carlos, who was heading home, a rabbit in his right hand.
“Supper,” Carlos said, and he held up the rabbit for her to see. He always looked her in the eyes when he talked to her, and she was always aware of the blackness of his eyes, and she was aware of his intensity, and how he didn’t look away. And so she looked away. And when she looked back, he was still looking at her.
“Goodbye,” she said, and she passed him by.
At home, she put the money on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t her money. It was the household’s.
This was the same winter that she stopped wearing her head covering. And when she was alone in the house she wore jeans underneath her dress during the day, just to see. She removed the jeans before Johan came in for lunch and supper. One time she took a dark pencil crayon and wet the tip under the tap and touched the colour to her eyelids and lashes. She spent an hour in front of the mirror, experimenting, washing away her efforts and then reapplying the pencil crayon. She left the crayon on for lunch, to see if Johan would notice. He did not. He concentrated on eating his soup and bread, and then he left. Another time she unpinned her hair and let it fall to her waist, and when she cleaned the toilet and washed the kitchen floor her hair was everywhere and wild and she felt loose and wanton. She wore her hair in that manner throughout the morning and then pinned it up before lunch, even though there was no expectation that Johan would notice or say anything. One night, going to bed, she found her head covering lying on her pillow and she realized that Johan had put it there for her to find.
This was also the winter that Aunt Dolores spent time with her. Every Tuesday, Dolores picked her up at nine o’clock and together they drove the roads that cross-hatched the countryside and they talked, and often they ended up at a small restaurant in a small town where they ate lunch together. Dolores always paid, for it was a fact that Lily had no money. Aunt Dolores wore a mink coat and she wore pink leather gloves and her hair was always perfect and she wore pumps and stockings and around her neck was a string of pearls. Unlike Lily’s mother, and Johan’s mother, Dolores did not purse her lips when she heard of some sin that had been committed. In fact, it was immediately clear that Aunt Dolores did not believe in sin. Or if she did, she dismissed the judgement of that sin. And because of this, it was easy to speak to Dolores of doubt and God and clothes and rules and sex. There was no subject that was verboten or out of bounds.
One day, at lunch in Landmark, in a tiny restaurant where they shared a bowl of vegetable soup and a ham sandwich, Dolores said that she had, after the birth of her final child, suffered deeply. “So lost I was that I wandered around the house calling out ‘What should I do? What should I do?’ I ended up in Winkler, in the hospital there. This was a necessary move, but horrible. We were expected to play games, and we were expected to do crafts, which I hated. Popsicle sticks and white glue that stuck to my fingers. And so one day I refused, and everyone was upset. The nurses especially. Nurses like order. They like to be obeyed. And I didn’t obey. And so I was relegated to my room during craft hour as a form of punishment. Only it wasn’t a punishment. I was finally alone. I could sit on my chair and look out the window at the rabbits hopping through the snow. I loved the sight of those rabbits going going. Where were they going, I wondered. And in the afternoon I was taken for my shock therapy and I promptly forgot everything in my life. I forgot the names of my children. I forgot that my husband, your Uncle Henry, liked butter rather than margarine, or that he liked his eggs over easy. For six weeks, this was my life.” She stopped talking. Smiled. “But now I am here. And I recall the names of my children. And I know about butter. And I know about over easy. How about you, Lily? Do you have someone to talk to?”
; “You, Aunt Dolores. And I work for Carlos and Gretchen. They talk to me. And their children. And I talk to Frantz.” Lily shrugged. “Frantz thinks that Johan is crazy to ignore me.”
“Of course he is. Absolutely. Throwing away a beautiful wife. But then, he is ruled by rules, and he is ruled by the church, and he is ruled by his family. First his family.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. I know this. I can see this. His mother is very fearful. Always has been. She wouldn’t let her little boy get away with anything. I’m surprised she allowed him to marry you.”
“Oh, I was different then. They didn’t know what they were getting.”
Dolores laughed. “Oh Lily,” she said. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and then twisted her pearls. “Marcie asks about you,” she said.
“Does she?” Marcie was travelling and working in Holland for the year and Lily missed her.
“Of course. I don’t know why she went to that country. She gets terribly homesick. She calls me and cries horribly and then she goes away happy and rides her bicycle to the bakery and she leaves me with her sadness.”
Lily was quiet. Then she said, “Marcie’s lucky. To have you as a mother.”
