(1993) The Stone Diaries

by Carol Shields

  Alice Bloomington, Indiana, December 20, 1956

  Hope this reaches you by Christmas. Happy holiday cheer to all.

  Beans and I are thinking of New Orleans for February. How ’bout it?

  It’s all over with Georgio. I got tired of holding in my stomach all the time and pretending I was his girly-girl.

  Peace, joy, etc.

  Fraidy Ottawa, January 15, 1957

  Dear D., The Recorder staff loved your piece on how to graft cacti—the perfect topic for winter gardeners. Pinky Fulham’s done a few drawings (which I’ve enclosed for your approval) since he thought it might help readers follow the more difficult steps. He’s a cactus man from way back, he tells me. Also very good on trees.

  Affectionately, J.

  Ottawa, February 7, 1957

  Dear Mrs. Flett, Thanks for your kind words about the cactus illustrations. I think, not to pat myself on the back too much, that our readers really went for them, it kind of jazzes up the page. And as for covering the column while you’re in New Orleans, it would be a pleasure. I’m always glad to pitch in. A person can get pretty sick of writing about local elections and school board hassles.

  Sincerely, Pinky Fulham Ottawa, June 30, 1957

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb, Loved "Getting Tough With Phlox." I’ve clipped it out for my files, and bought an extra copy for my sister-in-law in Calgary who’ll get a real kick out of it.

  Sincerely, Rose Henning, a timid-but-determined-gardenerin-training Hanover, College, September 19, 1957

  It’s so noisy in the dorm I can’t think, but wanted to let you know I’m settled in and surviving. Great weather down here. Great news about Beverly doing the commerce course, she’ll do great.

  Love to all, especially Vicky.

  Warren P.S. You said postcards were okay.

  Ottawawawa, December 2, 1958

  O dear mrs green, my dear mrs thumb how i love you love you for your goodness your greenness your thumb-readiness your watering can your fertilizer pellets and o how i love rustling these limp pages and finding you there always there between stamps and bridge between recipes and religion there forever there with your greenness your kindness and o last week with your dampened cloth wiping clean the green green leaves shining and polishing o so gently and opening the green pores to the air it was like washing the hands of a little child you said dear mrs greenthumb o if i could only be your child scrubbed clean and pure to light and goodness i too would be happy i too would need nothing and o how i love you need you sweet keen clean mrs green thumb Anon Bloomington, Indiana, January 15, 1958

  Daze—you’re going to kill me, but I can’t make Florida in Feb.

  Guess why—I’m getting married. Yep, married! Hope you’re still standing up and breathing. Beans says I’ve misplaced my brains, but I think you’ll like Mel. He’s a lab instructor, divorced, nice hair, sings baritone in a barber shop quartet, that says it all. So instead of soaking up the sun in Florida, why don’t you get yourself down here to Indiana for the wedding. It’s gonna be a five-minute quickie in court, no fancy dress, but the biggest party you ever saw afterwards.

  Buckets of champagne. Oceans.

  Love, Fraidy

  Bloomington, Indiana, January 17, 1958

  Just a scribble. You’ve just gotta come for THE WEDDING, and then we two old maids (toi et moi) can head down south for a week in Florida. (Fraidy says you’ve got over your fear of airplanes.) I need some gee-dee sunshine. Hope Mel works out for Fraidy, he’s sweet but has already had TWO divorces!!!

  Beans Ottawa, March 4, 1958

  Dear D., Wonderful piece on palms, "The Mystery Tree," and we’ve had a great response to Pinky’s drawings too.

  Wondered if you would care to see a performance of Tea and Sympathy. I’ve been given two tickets for March 15th.

  J.

  Ottawa, June 2, 1958

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb, Your tribute to geraniums touched the middle of my heart. These sturdy, stout-hearted darlings have kept me company for the fifty years of my married life, sitting on the window sill and cheering me on while I peeled the supper spuds. My hubby was one of those who could not conceive of supper without potatoes on the plate. Well, now I’m in what they call a retirement home, Sunset Manor if you can believe it, so no more paring knife duty, but I still have my window sill full of bright little beauties. Like you, I like to rub the dead flowers between my fingers and smell the fragrance, only I never told anyone I did such a thing, it sounded so crazy.

  Sincerely, Mrs. Alice W. Keefer

  Ottawa, April 27, 1959

  Dear Dee, Thank you so much for inviting me to Easter dinner. What a handsome family you’re blessed with: Alice with that cloud of red hair, shy Warren, sweet Joan, and your niece Beverly and little Victoria. I had almost forgotten the pleasure of sitting down with a real family for a holiday meal—and a splendid meal it was! And please don’t think I was embarrassed about Alice demanding to "look me over."

  Yours, J.

  P.S. Hope next Tuesday is still all right.

  Bloomington, Indiana, November 14, 1959

  Daze—Your lawyer phoned the other day about the Lake Lemon property.

  He’s got a buyer interested at last, but only if they bulldoze the pyramid and re-fill the area. Can you let me know how you feel about this. Should we go ahead? Apparently they don’t need Maria’s signature for the sale.

  If she ever surfaces, they can work out some sort of compensation.

  Love, Fraidy (Mel says hello)

  Bloomington, Indiana, December 13, 1959

  Daze, Merry Christmas from Mel and me. I passed on your comments to the real estate people, and, no, I don’t think you’re crazy. Why rush into a sale if you don’t need the money, though I probably should warn you that the pyramid seems to have attracted vandals, either that or frost damage. All best wishes in the next decade. Who ever thought I’d become "the little married woman" and you’d be the "career gal." Anyway, it suits you. Beans and I are in agreement on that, if nothing else—you’ve found your metier!

  Love ya, Fraidy

  Ottawa, April 3, 1960

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb, Wow, you really told it like it is in "Plant Food—Yes or No." My wife and I’ve been bickering over this particular issue for years. So, in gratitude I’m sending you my recipe (attached) for getting the algae off your lily pond (if you have one), and keeping it off! Tell your readers they can buy copper sulphate at any nursery or hardware store.

  So long and thanks, Roman Matrewski Ottawa, August 12, 1960

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb, Really enjoyed your dramatic struggle with the ant colony. Also your words of enlightenment on the European leaf beetle. You’ve got a real gift for making a story out of things.

  Gratefully yours, Fed-Up-With-Weeds-And-Bugs-in-South-Ottawa Bloomington, Indiana, November 4, 1960

  Hi, Just got Alice’s wedding invitation. I’ll be there with bells on.

  I’m taking you at your word about bringing "a guest." We’re going to fly instead of taking the train. He’s loaded.

  Beans Ottawa, December 15, 1960

  Dear Dee, Just talked to Pinky who said he’d be glad to take over the column until your daughter’s wedding is over. I understand these affairs can take a lot of organizing. Pinky’s got some interesting material on ferns which seem to be making a comeback. Let me know if there’s any way I can help out.

  Yours, J.

  Ottawa, January 22, 1961

  My dear Dee, Forgive me, but I must put this in writing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  J.

  Hampstead, England, April 20, 1961

  Dear Mother, We’re so happy in this little house. I never dreamed I could be this happy. Even the address sounds like a poem: 1, Brewery Lane.

  How about that! I think I’ve been a little crazy all my life and now suddenly I’m not any more. I’m going to stay here forever and have babies and write about Chekhov and keep snug and sane. Thanks for wonderful snaps of Victoria. It makes my
heart swell, just thinking of her. Glad to hear you and Beans and Fraidy have decided on Bermuda this year. Ben sends his love along with mine.

  Alice Bloomington, Indiana, May 25, 1962

  Daze, So glad we could make it for the christening. Alice looked gorgeous—my, she’s mellowed—and Ben Junior is beautiful. (I suppose they’re already back in Hampstead.) And it was nice meeting Jay at last. Yes, you were right, he does have a nice rich, worldly laugh.

  Also there’s something endearing about a man who knows all the words to "Ivan Skavinsky Skavar." I couldn’t help being pleased he and Mel had so much in common. Isn’t it bizarre, all of us having beaux at our age, though I guess Mel doesn’t quite qualify as a beau now that he’s a husband. By the way, Beans and Brick are talking wedding bells. Wish I could warm to him, but can’t somehow. What do you think? It isn’t just his name and those godawful neckties is it? Maybe it’s the way he sneers at the Kennedys. Maybe it’s that Sigma Chi ring. Maybe it’s everything.

  Love, Fraidy

  Ottawa, June 6, 1963

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb I agree absolutely that peonies are beautiful but stupid. The dumbest thing about them is the way they resent being moved—which is why my husband and I welcomed your suggestions last week. Many thanks. You’re the greatest.

  Audrey LaRoche (Mrs.)

  Ottawa, August 15, 1963

  Dear Mrs. Green Thumb, Your piece on hollyhocks was terrif. I liked the part about their "frilled dirndl skirts," and their "shy fuzzy stems." I haven’t had hollyhocks in the yard for years, but after reading your column I ran straight out and bought a bunch of seeds, even though it’s too late for this year.

  Thanks a bunch, Lydia Nygaard Ottawa, November 25, 1963

  Dearest Dee, Couldn’t reach you by phone, hence this quick note. Most of the Sports and Home section will be cancelled next week because of the Kennedy coverage—so we’ll be using your rock garden piece the following week. What a world this is, everything falling to pieces.

  Yours, J.

  Ottawa, January 25, 1964

  Dear Dee, I’m so sorry about this misunderstanding. I realize now, of course, that telling you on the phone was a mistake. I knew you’d be disappointed, but I had no idea you would take it this hard. You’ve been talking about wanting more time to yourself, more time to travel, maybe a trip to England to see your daughter. Hope we can get together as usual on Tuesday and talk this over like two sensible people.

  Yours, J.

  Ottawa, February 6, 1964

  Dear Mrs. Flett, I’ve read your letter carefully and I can assure you I understand your feelings. But I believe Jay explained the paper’s policy to you, that full-time staffers have first choice of columns. As you well know, I’ve been filling in with the gardening column from time to time, all those times you’ve been away, and, to tell you the honest truth, I’ve had quite a lot of appreciative letters from readers who especially like the fact that my columns are illustrated and take the male point of view. Personally, I like the feel that a regional newspaper is a living, breathing organism that resists falling into rigid patterns. Think of it this way: our readers are always changing, and so must we. After nine years of being Mrs. Green Thumb, I feel sure you too will welcome a change.

  With best wishes, James (Pinky) Fulham February 20, 1964

  Dear Dee, I am so terribly sorry about all this, and I do agree the policy of the paper is ridiculous, but it’s a policy that has been in force since the time of my predecessor. None of this has anything to do with your competence as a contributor, you know better than that. The issue is that Pinky, as a full-timer, has a prior claim to any regular column as long as he can demonstrate capability in the area. I can’t tell you how much I regret all this, but I’m afraid my hands are tied.

  Please let’s get together soon and talk of other things. You are, if I may say, taking this far too personally.

  Your J.

  February 28, 1964

  Dear Mrs. Flett, Thank you for your letter. I am afraid, though, I am not at this time willing to change my mind. Frankly, I’ve been covering city politics for some ten years and am in need of a change. Even my personal physician has advised a change. I should think you would be eager for a change too after so many years. Change is what keeps us young.

  Yours sincerely, Pinky Fulham P.S. As I said to you earlier, I hope this disagreement won’t interfere with our friendship.

  Bloomington, Indiana, March 28, 1964

  Daze, Beans and I are just wondering if you’ve broken your wrist. Neither of us has heard from you in ages—how about a line or two?

  Fraidy Hampstead, England, April 10, 1964

  It’s weeks since you’ve written. Hope all is well. Spring has come to England, glorious, and Judy’s already up to twelve pounds. Is everything okay? I’m a little worried. There hasn’t been a letter from you for weeks. Is anything wrong?

  Love, Alice, Ben, and Benje and wee Jude

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sorrow, 1965

  1965 was the year Mrs. Flett fell into a profound depression.

  It happened overnight, more or less. Her family and friends stood by helplessly and watched while her usual self-composed nature collapsed into bewilderment, then withdrawal, and then a splattery anger that seemed to feed on injury. She was unattractive during this period. Despair did not suit her looks. Goodness cannot cope with badness—it’s too good, you see, too stupidly good. A person unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time and whose eating patterns are disordered—this type of person soon dwindles into bodily dejection—you’ve seen such people, and so has Mrs. Flett, shambling along the edges of public parks or seated under hairdryers. Their facial skin drags downward. Their clothes hang on them unevenly and look always in need of a good sprucing up. You want to rush up to these lost souls and offer comfort, but there’s an off-putting aura of failure about them, almost a smell.

  The spring and summer of 1965—those were terrible months for Mrs. Flett, as she slid day by day along a trajectory that began in resignation, then hardened into silence, then leapt to a bitter and blaming estrangement from those around her, her children and grandchildren, her many good friends and acquaintances.

  What was it that changed Mrs. Flett so utterly?

  The phenomenon of menopause will probably leap to mind, but no. Daisy Flett is fifty-nine years old in 1965, almost sixty, and her hormonal structure, never particularly volatile—according to some—has been steady as a clock—according to others—since her forty-ninth birthday. Nor does she appear to be suffering from "delayed mourning," as some of her family would have it. She remembers her dear sweet Barker fondly, of course she does, she honors his memory, whatever that means; and she thinks of him, smilingly, every single time she rubs a dab of Jergens Lotion into the palms of her hands, floating herself back to the moment—a very private moment, she will not discuss it with anyone, though she records it here—in which he had extolled her smooth-jointed fingers, comparing them to wonderful flexible silken fish.

  Fish? A startling idea; it took her by surprise; at the time she hadn’t completely warmed to the likeness, yet she apprehended, at least, her husband’s courageous lurching toward poetry. But does she actually pine for this dead partner of hers? For the calmness offered up by the simple weariness of their love? How much of her available time bends backward into the knot of their joined lives, those twenty connubial years?

  To be honest, very little. There, I’ve said it.

  Her present sinking of spirit, the manic misrule of her heart and head, the foundering of her reason, the decline of her physical health—all these stem from some mysterious suffering core which those around her can only register and weigh and speculate about.

  Alice’s Theory

  Something happened to me. At age nineteen I was on the verge of becoming a certain kind of person, and then I changed, and went in another direction.

  The self is not a thing carved on entablature. Not long ago I read—probably in
the Sunday papers—about an American woman who got up one morning and started practicing a new kind of handwriting, sloping all her letters backwards instead of forwards, concentrating on smaller and denser loops. It was almost like drawing. She wrote her name a dozen times in this variant way. She wrote out the preamble to the Constitution and then the Gettysburg Address, and by noon she had become someone else.

  The change that happened to me went deeper than penmanship and far, far beyond such superficialities as a new hairstyle or dietary regime—although I did at age nineteen decide to let my hair grow long, which was not a popular style in the mid-fifties, and I did give up meat and white sugar and the smoking of cigarettes.

  It was summertime. I had just returned after my first year away at college. It was the first morning back, in fact, and I woke up early in our family’s large, quiet, shabby Ottawa house and looked straight up at the ceiling where there was a long circular crack shaped like the hunch in an old crone’s back, high and rounded at the top, then tapering down. That selfsame crack had been there ever since I could remember, since earliest childhood. It was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing at night, this menacing inscription in plaster that roofed me over with dread.

  Not that I feared the witchlike configuration, good Christ no—I knew perfectly well that such anthropomorphizing is fanciful and solipsistic; I also knew that other people, happier people, might see a river instead of a diseased spine, or a map of a buried subcontinent or, with a little imagination, a mountain topped by a Chinese pagoda, in turn topped by a knob of whipped cream. We see what we want to see. Our perceptions fly straight out of our deepest needs, this much you learn in Introductory Psych, a required course at my college. No, what I dreaded about the ceiling crack was its persistence. That it was always there. Determined to accompany me. To be a part of me.

  I dragged the stepladder up from the basement, hoping it would reach. (The ceilings in that old house of ours were ridiculously high.) On a shelf in the garden shed I found a box of plasterer’s putty and mixed myself up a large sticky batch which I spread the length of the ceiling crack, using a spatula from the kitchen drawer, and moving the ladder forward foot by foot. I’d never done this kind of work before, but I read the directions on the box carefully and made a neat job of it. I’ve always been exceptionally neat.