by David Bergen
“No, it’s true.”
“And you talked to Penny.”
“Yes, and she confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?”
“That she touched David. Down there. And he touched her.”
“Nonsense. Girls her age make up stories. You frightened her, Hope, and she had to make something up.”
“I walked in on them, Doreen. They were on her bed. This isn’t just a case of two children the same age playing doctor.”
“Why did it take so long for her to tell you this? And where were you all this time?”
She had feared it would come down to this. Her own sanity would be called into question. She said, “This isn’t about me. I’ve been back from the hospital for over a year now, and really my sanity is not the concern, and the fact that your son is touching my daughter has nothing to do with my sickness. Besides, I’m not sick. If I were, I wouldn’t be standing here in your house.”
“Hope. Hope. Your whole family was here for a family gathering at Christmas. Ian and Roy are cousins. They sit on town council together. David works pumping the gas at Roy’s business. Why are you doing this?”
“I know all those things, Doreen. Don’t talk down to me. I’m doing this for Penny, who is eight years old, not fifteen. The fact is we won’t be coming to your house for Christmas anymore. David is not welcome at our house from now on, and I will talk to Roy about all of this.”
She turned and left, and as she walked down the sidewalk to her Biscayne, she thought that what she had just done and said was completely uncalled for and she feared that Roy would be very angry, and she imagined that Penny might be more damaged by her mother’s behaviour than any kind of sexual play with a second cousin. She was a failure.
That night, in bed, she held Roy’s hand and told him the whole story. She finished with the visit to the Goosen house, and Doreen’s outrage, and her own shame. “I felt bad, Roy. For you. For Penny. I should have talked to you first. I’m sorry.”
Roy cleared his throat and asked softly, “Doreen took no responsibility? She said that David was innocent?”
“She didn’t say he was innocent. She said that Penny had some responsibility for this as well. If any of this was even true. She didn’t believe me.”
“So the fact is, she didn’t believe Penny.”
Hope hadn’t thought of it in that way. “Yes,” she said. “She didn’t believe Penny.” She waited. “What will we do? Should we give David a second chance? I feel sorry for him.”
“This isn’t about David. This is about Penny. We need to help her.”
“She didn’t seem ashamed at all. Though she did say that I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Why should she be ashamed, Hope?”
“I don’t know. I feel so embarrassed. I feel as if I can’t protect my own children.”
“Nonsense. I’ll speak to David tomorrow and give him his two-week notice. There are lots of other jobs in town. I’ll talk to Ian and explain why David will no longer be working for me. And why David should not visit our house anymore. And we should both talk to Penny and help her understand that this is not her burden. That she should not be ashamed.” He took her hand. “And you have no reason to be embarrassed.”
“She’s my child, Roy. I raised her.”
“A child, yes. Exactly.”
“I thought you would be angry with me.” She squeezed his hand.
“That’s an insult, Hope, to think I would want to call Penny a liar. Who do you think I am?”
“You’re right. I know who you are.” Though she thought, as he fell asleep and she lay there, that she didn’t know him in every way. His vehemence, his clarity, had been unexpected.
She fell asleep clutching him to her, grateful that he could surprise her, yet still worried that Penny had acquired her mother’s nature.
She loved Roy. When they first married, she was smitten by his kindness and his soft nature. Even now, after many years of marriage, she still loved him, though she wondered sometimes if she didn’t simply admire him because he had so few flaws. He was a good boss, one of the first businessmen in Eden to set up an employee pension plan. He paid overtime, incorporated an employee complaint system, held regular staff meetings and parties, and handed out Christmas bonuses. Being stingy was not the path to success—satisfied workers and customers was. Failure, of course, was always possible, and both Roy and Hope knew that failure was not looked upon favourably. When Hope became sick, there was an underlying sense, conveyed through conversations and hints, that she was perhaps not strong enough in her faith, and that both of them were in some way tainted. As if to prove it wrong, Roy threw himself with increased gusto into his business, and because of this added energy and vision, the business grew and Roy spent more and more time at the dealership and she became more and more lonely. She had her mother, but this was not like having a friend. Emily rarely came back to Eden, and Hope was too busy these days to visit her in Winnipeg. As for the women in Eden her age, they too were occupied with children and keeping house and shopping for groceries and cooking large dinners. The few times Hope had attempted to insert herself into a Ladies’ Auxiliary or Wednesday evening Bible study, she had come away feeling inadequate and different. She was different. She had had a nervous breakdown, and this was perceived as “dangerous,” as if it were a disease that others might catch.
And so, once a week, in the evening after dinner, when Roy went out to town council meetings or returned to the dealership, she tucked the younger children into bed, asked Judith to keep an eye on them, and went to visit Emily’s ex-husband, Paul Shroeder, who spent his evenings in his woodworking shop building end tables and hutches and smaller pieces he gave to the Goodwill store. She would sit in a lawn chair that Paul provided and watch him bend towards the lathe or the drill press, and because the machines were quite loud, the conversation was often broken up, though neither seemed to mind. She loved the smell of freshly cut wood and she liked to see a piece of furniture come together, section by section.
Following the first visit, when she left with sawdust on her slacks and woodchips stuck to her sweater, Paul presented her with a pair of coveralls. The coveralls were grey and orange and slightly large for her, but she wore them in any case, rolling up the sleeves so that her thin white wrists protruded like two bare branches of a tree. When they spoke, it was at first of Paul’s work, and when that subject was exhausted, she talked about the children and Roy, never divulging much, keeping it safe, and then she sat, quietly waiting. She did not know what she was waiting for, but she did not mind the silences, and she liked the manner in which Paul moved so surely about his shop, his hands picking up a tape measure, and then a chisel, and then a piece of rough oak, readying it for the planer. Sometimes he asked for her assistance in clamping two pieces of wood, and during those moments, when he was spreading the glue and telling her which end of the wood to hold, she wondered if she too could possibly build something. She asked him this, and he seemed surprised, though in the end he suggested she might want to build a breadboard, how about that?
That evening before getting to work, they had talked about Emily and Angela. Paul said that Emily had a lover now, and the way he said it indicated that he was angry and bewildered. “Did you know?” he asked.
“I did. I knew this quite a long time ago. I thought you were aware.”
“Why should I be? I work, I pay the bills, I give Emily money, I help out with Angela. Nobody tells me anything.”
Hope, attempting to mollify, said, “Well, Paul, nobody’s stopping you from finding someone. You’re young and handsome. And available.” She smiled. She herself didn’t find Paul particularly handsome—his face was bulbous—but he was kind and generous, though agonizingly shy.
He didn’t respond, simply handed Hope her coveralls and turned away as she slipped into them, as if allowing her some privacy, even though she was pulling them over the clothes she was wearing. This amused her, his modesty. Perhaps his imagination was greater than h
e let on, otherwise he wouldn’t be so careful with her. And at the end of the evening he did the same thing, turned away as she removed her coveralls. “Okay,” she said, perhaps too lightly, “I’ve got my clothes on,” and she laughed. He turned back to her and she saw something dark in his eyes and then he reached for her and took her jaw in his hand and he leaned forward and kissed her. It was a rough intemperate kiss, very clumsy, and she felt his teeth bang hers as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. She tried to shove him away and mumbled, “Paul, stop, don’t,” but he was very strong and his left hand held her right forearm, clamping it, and his breath was hot and she felt his evening whiskers against her lips and mouth. She was leaning back against the table saw and her left hand scrabbled about, seeking support. She felt the hard square of the tape measure and she gathered it up and swung and hit Paul on the side of the head. He let go of her and put a hand to his head, turning away.
“What are you doing, Paul? Why?”
“I’m sorry.”
She was shaking. “That’s just stupid. Did I say something? Did I ask you to kiss me? Is that why you let me come here, because you thought this was more than it was?”
He turned to face her and she saw a trickle of blood on his temple. He said, “You should be more careful, Hope. You flirt and laugh and you leave your husband once a week to spend time with me and then you talk about having your clothes on. What am I supposed to think? That you’re simply naive?”
“We ‘re friends. That’s all.”
He waved a hand, then turned away again. She took this to mean that she should leave, and so she slipped out of the woodshop. She drove around town, not going home quite yet, aware of her beating heart and the humiliation that floated at the edges of her confused thoughts. Perhaps she was naive, going over to another man’s house in the evening, talking and laughing with him. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to recognize the feelings Paul produced in her, of being appreciated. He had paid attention to her. And she had accepted the attention.
That night, after Roy came to bed, she waited until he had settled in, and then she said, “You’re gone too much. I want you to be at home more in the evenings. The kids miss you. I miss you.” She had showered but she imagined that the smell of sawdust still hovered in her nostrils and she wondered if Roy could smell it as well. “Everything feels topsy-turvy.”
“Are you taking your pills, Hope? Are things dark?”
“No darker than usual. And I am taking those pills. Though I’m gaining weight, haven’t you noticed?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe if you were here, watching me get ready for bed, you would see that I’m fatter.”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Hope.”
“Am I? Melodramatic? Hmm. Am I a flirt as well? When you see me talking to other men, do you think I’m a flirt?”
“I don’t know. When do I see you talking to other men?”
“Oh, Roy. You’re impossible.” She went up on one elbow and turned towards him and saw the dark shape of his head against the pillow. He was looking at the ceiling. She knew that he hated these late-night talks. He was tired and wanted to sleep. She said, “Men find me attractive, you know.”
He chuckled. “Sure they do. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She was seated on the bed now, legs crossed. “When you meet other women, at work or at meetings, or you’re served by a certain waitress, do you wish you were with them instead of me?”
“Don’t be silly, Hope.”
“Oh, now I’m silly. Have you ever kissed another woman, Roy? Since we were married?”
“Judith, Penny, Melanie, your mother. Just on the cheeks though. Hah.”
“Emily has a lover, a man with lots of money and his own restaurant.”
“Is that what this is about? You want to be Emily, to have her life?”
“When I was in the hospital for three months, you must have been lonely.”
“I was too busy to be lonely.”
“And now? You never get lonely?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry.” He sighed. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“Sure. Go to sleep.”
She sat there and did not have to wait long for Roy to fall into a deep sleep. She wondered again what she had said or done to Paul to make him act like that. Perhaps she was a flirt. Perhaps she did not know the strength of her own sexuality. She was thirty-five years old. The years were picking up speed, beginning to fly by. How long had it been since she bought a new bathing suit? She recalled that lovely romantic week in Hawaii with Roy. Or was it just romantic in hindsight? Was everything better when tinged with nostalgia? There was even something nostalgic about her time at Winkler. It was a shadowy corner of her life, a dark painting that had lost its darkness with time, become even a little unreal. She had come to understand that everything in life, even sadness, eventually flattened out and floated away.
In the morning Roy had a men’s breakfast and had left the house by the time she rose and walked downstairs. The week following, on a Thursday evening, she opened the front door to go outside and place the garbage cans at the front of the driveway, and she found a breadboard leaning against the doorjamb. There was a little note attached that read, “To Hope. From your friend, Paul.” She saw him on the streets of Eden as well. It was inevitable, the town was small and crowded. Once, she saw him walking towards her and she scuttled into a nearby shop. She felt bewilderment and shame, as if she had done something wrong, though she wouldn’t have been able to say what her error had been.
As the children grew over the next five years, they became more and more foreign and at times downright intractable, and Hope longed for the time when they had been innocent and malleable. Judith, now a young woman of seventeen, brought home various boys who sometimes ended up at the dinner table, and Hope did her best to make each consecutive boy welcome, though they frightened her, with their long hair and monosyllabic grunts. For a time, she disallowed these boys entrance to Judith’s bedroom, insisting that the rec room was a fine place to hang out, but inevitably Judith would end up in her bedroom, and there were times, late at night or after school was out, that Hope would stand outside her eldest daughter’s closed bedroom door and listen to the music from the stereo and strain her ears for the sound of voices. She imagined that if her daughter wasn’t talking, she was having sex. She arranged for Judith to see Doctor Krahn, in order to receive a prescription for the Pill. She had told Doctor Krahn that Judith suffered horribly from menstrual cramps, and it was he who had suggested the Pill. When she spoke to Judith about this, she told her daughter that she shouldn’t see this as licence for licentiousness. She actually used this phrase and smiled as she spoke, hoping that Judith would appreciate the humour. She didn’t.
Judith had become callous. If she was ruthless with the boys, she was even more so with her mother, whom she saw as the enemy. She had little respect for wisdom or experience. At some deep and unspoken level, Hope applauded her daughter’s rebelliousness, though she would have vigorously denied it. She wondered if she was envious of Judith’s freedom.
Hope, after all, was only forty. She was not dead yet. She was still beautiful. At 3 p.m. every afternoon during the school week, she changed into a blouse and skirt and rearranged her hair and put on makeup, and then she descended to the living room where she landed on a chair, bare legs up on the ottoman, and picked up a book and pretended to read. And always, though it happened only once or twice a week, she found that she was excited when Judith entered with one of her boys. And inevitably, because the boys were polite and well brought up, they called out, “Hello, Mrs. Koop,” and she raised her head, as if in surprise, and she waved hello, or she asked if Darren or James or Cass or Daniel would like something to drink, perhaps some pop, and if he wanted, he could stay for supper. She rose and walked to the kitchen and stood at the edge of the linoleum, as if she had been banished from her own personal space, and she presented herself. Judith ignored her. And the boy, awar
e that Hope was extraordinary in the way that mothers of forty are to teenagers, hovered for a while and addressed her in an enthusiastic manner until Judith pulled him impatiently towards her bedroom.
She found that it was best not to be too analytical about all of this. She had brief and fleeting images of Judith’s small breasts in the hands of Darren or James or Cass or Daniel, and she knew the various designs of Judith’s underwear because she had helped her purchase them, but this is where her mind stopped, at the design of the underwear, and perhaps the colour. What was the point in driving yourself crazy? She asked Judith one day, as they were driving into the city, if she was, you know, active with boys.
“What are you talking about?” Judith asked.
“Are girls your age having sex?”
“You mean, am I having sex.”
“Yes, I guess that’s what I mean.”
Judith looked at her in horror and said, “If I were, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.”
“Of course not. I’d be surprised if you did.”
“But you thought you’d ask anyway?”
“It was hypothetical, in a way. Sort of like, ‘If you were having sex, even though you probably aren’t, are you aware of what you are doing?’“
“You’re not making any sense, Mom. I don’t want to talk about it.”
And so, based on that short and absurd conversation, she assumed that Judith was sexually active.
She told Roy none of this. He was building a brand-new dealership at the edge of the highway that led out of town, and so he was too preoccupied to have thoughtful discussions about the children, though had he known that Judith might be sleeping with Darren or James or Cass or Daniel, he would be nonplussed and then he would try to foist himself upon the situation, as if it were some sort of business problem, and then, failing to get anywhere, he would throw his hands in the air and call it impossible. And then forget about it.
She understood that Roy, like all men, believed circumstances and events could be controlled. This is why men went to war, and this is why they married, and this is why they invented machines, and all of this in order to stave off a fear of failure. The failure of a marriage or a business, or the failure of a child, was a symptom of some deeper personal collapse. Hope, on the other hand, was quite capable of accepting her limitations, her insignificance—though it wasn’t exactly insignificance, which implied irrelevance. She wasn’t irrelevant. She just wasn’t that important in the larger world, which was spinning faster. She felt helpless. True, she had her children, but Judith ignored her, and when she didn’t ignore her, she treated her as invasive and disgusting. And Conner was always outside riding his dirt bike or snowmobile, or he was down in the basement tearing an engine apart. And Penny deliberately and neatly disappeared between the cracks of the house, silently sliding from room to room, always with a book in hand. And so Hope tried to focus on Melanie, who was six and had just started school, and who seemed willing to listen to her mother talk. Hope made a point of baking cookies and making tea for an after-school snack, and when Melanie arrived home, the two of them would sit at the kitchen table and talk about their days.
