Miles To Go

by Beryl Young

  “Gram’s the only grandparent I see. Mom’s parents live in England.”

  The bus driver comes out of the school and calls, “Hop in, kids! We’re late.” Anna waves as she boards the bus with the others.

  I take my usual route home, walking along Third Avenue, across Maple, and up Fourth. The pioneers who settled here in Deep Creek kept it simple. The streets that run east to west are named after trees—Aspen, Maple, Birch, Alder, and Cottonwood. The avenues run north to south—First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth. Then there’s Front Street, which is the main street by the railway tracks.

  I’m still enjoying the attention I got telling the kids about the prisoner. No one has a story quite like that, even though Ruth’s mother was once in a bank when it was robbed.

  I climb the outside stairs to our apartment. Mom’s waiting at the door. “Why do you dawdle on the day you have your piano lesson?”

  I choose not to answer, grab my music books, and rush out the door again. Mrs. Dougherty’s house is the other side of town, and she gets snippy if I’m two minutes late.

  I’ve taken piano lessons for four years, and here’s why I hate it. First of all, Mom makes me get up at six-thirty every morning and practise until seven. The upright piano with its dark polished wood sits like a monster waiting for me in the living room. The row of ivory keys are the monster’s giant teeth. I have to sit on the hard piano bench and try to concentrate even before breakfast.

  I believe a person’s fingers need juice and toast before they can move over the keys. Toast with lots of jam.

  “Back straight,” Mom reminds me.

  The other reason I don’t like the piano is that my teacher, Mrs. Dougherty, never smiles or says, “Well done.”

  Today she goes on again about keeping my fingers bent a certain way. “Fingers poised over the keys,” she says sharply.

  A very weird word. Poised. Like she’s saying “poisoned over the keys.” The next thing I know, Mrs. Dougherty is hitting my knuckles with a ruler. The metal part! There are red marks on my knuckles. How dare she hit me!

  When the lesson is over, I don’t say goodbye. I rush home to tell Mom what Mrs. Dougherty has done.

  MOM LOOKS UP from stirring soup on the stove. “Maggie, I just don’t believe that. Mrs. Dougherty is a lovely person. I see her all the time in our bridge group.”

  “But it’s true, Mom. She hit my hands with a ruler. Look at them!”

  Mom gives a quick look and shakes her head. Of course, the red marks have gone.

  “Why would you lie about that, Maggie?” Her lips are tight. “It’s a struggle every day to get you out of bed to practise.”

  She turns away and starts drying a saucepan. Her elbows stick out like chicken bones. “Now you’re trying to get out of piano lessons by telling a lie about your teacher.”

  Why doesn’t she believe me? Why can’t she take my side? I plan to tell Dad about being hit by the ruler, but when I think about it later I decide not to. He never makes trouble with Mom. He’d say, “Don’t worry about it, Mags.”

  From now on I’ll remember to keep my fingers poised, poised, poised, trying to make them like Mrs. Dougherty’s witchy claws. In addition, I decide to hate her. And also my mother. Hate them both. Big time.

  I’m not knitting anymore on that scarf. I get my book. I’m sitting reading on the chesterfield when Tommy comes into the room.

  “Look at these muscles,” he says, wandering over to me. He pulls up his sleeve and flexes his arm.

  “I don’t see any muscles. Just your scrawny arm.”

  “See that muscle there?” He waves his arm in front of my book.

  I push him away. “Get your puny arm out of my face.”

  “My arms aren’t puny. I’m strong for my age.” He marches around the room, punching an imaginary foe.

  “No, you’re not!” I yell. “You’re a weakling. Not only that, you’re short for your age!”

  I turn back to my book, but Tommy’s red face is coming toward me. Breathing hard, he pummels me with both fists. My glasses are knocked sideways.

  “Stop it, you shrimp!” I shout.

  Tommy leans his face in close and spits. The wet glob of spit lands on my cheek. I reach out, full of rage, and shove him as hard as I can. He falls, and his forehead hits the edge of the coffee table.

  “Mom!” Tommy screams so loudly it scares me.

  Mom hurries in from the kitchen. “What happened here?”

  “She pushed me!” Tommy yells.

  To my horror, there’s blood on Tommy’s forehead.

  “Come into the kitchen, Tommy.” Mom leads him away. “Maggie, get the first aid kit.”

  I run to get the box from the shelf in the bathroom and put it on the kitchen table beside Mom.

  “Out!” she says to me, pointing to the door. “Your father will talk to you later.”

  It seems like a long wait in my room until I’m called for supper. At the table, Tommy has a small bandage on his forehead. He looks at me like I’m a criminal. He looks at Mom like he’s a wounded calf.

  Dad’s eyes go from one to the other of us. “What’s going on here, you two?”

  “He asked for it, Dad. He spat at me!”

  “She called me a shrimp!” Tommy yells.

  “What nonsense,” Dad says. “You two better learn to get along. You live in the same house and we need some peace around here.”

  “Make him leave me alone, Dad,” I say.

  “Tommy, you do bait your sister. I don’t want you to do it anymore. But, Mags, you’re almost thirteen. Tommy’s just five. You pushed your brother so hard he’s cut his head!”

  “Sorry.” I’m almost sorry.

  “Off to your rooms, both of you, right after supper,” Mom says.

  “What? You know I always go to bed later than Tommy.”

  “Why do you talk back to everything I say?” Mom looks furious.

  “I say what’s true.”

  “What’s true, my girl, is that you are going to your room this minute!”

  On my way down the hall, I hear her say, “I don’t know why that girl’s so snippy all the time. She’s like a spark looking for kindling.”

  Like it or lump it, Mom. That’s me.

  Anna

  TUESDAY, MARCH 16

  MRS. COVEY IS sitting in the kitchen with Mama when I get home from school. She’s our closest neighbour and has three children under seven. I always feel badly about her middle boy who has a club foot.

  “Hello, dear,” Mama says. “Pour yourself a cup of tea and fill the kettle for more, will you?”

  Lucy and Helen are playing with our cat on the carpet. Helen’s named the cat Boo. I take my tea and sit beside them.

  I hear Mrs. Covey ask Mama where Papa is.

  “Joseph’s in Stoddart right now, selling cows,” Mama says.

  “That’s hard for you, Isabella. Joseph should be around more.”

  Mama pours more tea. “He does his best for us.”

  She always stands up for Papa. But he’s away too often. As well as his trips to the big city, he’s in Deep Creek all the time—and that’s not selling cows. He comes home smelling of beer.

  Mrs. Covey’s a good friend to Mama, and she’s delivered lots of babies in the neighbourhood, but she’s nosy. I think she asks too many questions.

  When Mrs. Covey’s leaving, she asks me to come with her. We walk on the path beside the creek that’s lined with trees.

  Mrs. Covey looks serious. “Anna, I hope your father’s planning to be around when this baby comes.”

  “I’m sure he will be.”

  I’m not sure at all, but I won’t tell her that.

  “Come and get me as soon as your mother goes into labour. This baby could arrive quickly. My John will stay with our children when I’m needed.”

  “I will.”

  “Your mother had a hard delivery last time with Lucy.”

  “I know.”

  I guess I look alarmed,
because Mrs. Covey says, “We’ll see your mother through. Just let me know when her labour starts.”

  WHEN WE’RE MAKING supper, I ask Mama why Papa has to be in town so much.

  “Your father’s a good man,” she says, “but he needs male company now and then. To take his mind off his troubles.”

  “Are we his troubles?” I ask.

  “No, he loves his family. He must make money to keep us all.”

  “I wish he’d help you more, Mama. He could take the girls when I’m at school and give you a rest. He could fix the broken door on the outhouse, too.”

  “Papa is doing his best, Anna,” Mama says.

  Will my father’s best be good enough?

  Maggie

  SATURDAY, MARCH 27, AND SUNDAY, MARCH 28

  ON MY BEDROOM dresser I have a picture of my dad in his scarlet tunic and wide Stetson hat. He’s even more handsome than Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind.

  It’s the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who catch the criminals in Canada. Everyone says that the Mounties always get their man, and I guess they do. I asked my dad if he’d ever had to shoot anyone, and he said, “Luckily, Mags, I’ve never had to. I hope I never do.”

  There’s a late frost and a thick snowfall today, and Mom sends Tommy and me outside in our winter clothes. We race to stamp on the ice patches, and the ice cracks like breaking glass. Cold air stings my nose. I blow out long puffs, pretending to hold a cigarette. My breath hangs like milky smoke in the heavy air.

  We get the flattened cardboard we’ve stashed under the side stairs. We line it up at the top of the steep slope and slide down, bumping with a smack into the caragana hedge at the bottom. The bump sends icy snow as sharp as pin pricks into my face.

  When we climb back up near the front of the barracks, Dad’s secretary, May, is at the door. “Looks like fun!” she calls out to us.

  Just then we hear the crunch of car tires on the driveway and see Dad drive up with another policeman. They help a man wearing overalls out from the back seat. His head is down. Snow lands on the handcuffs around his wrists. He shuffles along, as if he’s too tired to put one foot in front of another. May scurries back inside.

  “For sure Dad’s going to lock the guy up,” Tommy says.

  “He doesn’t seem drunk,” I say. “Wonder what he did?”

  After supper, I’m spying from the hall while my parents smoke at the kitchen table. I hear Dad saying to Mom, “I feel sorry for the poor fellow. Apparently he was so depressed he killed his wife and baby.”

  I’m shocked. What kind of a person would kill a baby? It’s the worst thing anyone could do.

  IN THE MORNING, I’m still thinking about the prisoner. I’d like to get a look at him. There might be something in his face to show me how he could do such a thing.

  I sit in my room, trying to finish the scarf for Mom. My knitting isn’t getting any neater. Some of the holes where I dropped stitches are so big you can poke three fingers through them.

  The house is quiet, and I figure it’s a good time to see the prisoner. I go down the stairs to the basement and stop beside the cells. It’s a shock to hear the prisoner crying. Not just crying, but sobbing. I stand there listening. It’s the first time in my life I’ve heard a grown man cry.

  Then Otto comes along the hall, carrying a tray with the man’s lunch, and I hear him slide the tray along the floor under the bars.

  “You eat now. Good food,” he says in his thick voice.

  I’m behind the hall, so Otto doesn’t see me, but I’ve missed my chance to see the prisoner. Crying like that, he sounds so sad. Would someone who murders a baby feel terrible about what they’ve done? Dad says the man was depressed. If you’re depressed, does it mean you can’t control what you do? If you can’t control what you do, are you still to blame? I don’t know any of the answers.

  When I come back into the kitchen, Mom is ironing Dad’s shirts. “What were you doing down there, Maggie?”

  “I wanted to get a look at the prisoner.”

  “You know the basement’s out of bounds. Don’t let me catch you going there again.”

  Then Mom sighs. “What’s wrong with you that you’d want to look at a prisoner anyway? Tommy would never sneak down like that.”

  “Well, I guess he’s the prince and I’m the ugly stepsister.”

  “I’m tired of that kind of talk, Maggie.” She stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray.

  I feel like the ugly stepsister, so I might as well say it. “Sometimes I think I don’t even belong in this family.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you belong with us.”

  I go to my room and lie on my bed. When you think about it, “You belong with us” could mean anything. Like, you belong here because we adopted you? Not necessarily because I gave birth to you. That kind of statement makes me wonder even more if I was adopted.

  I know Tommy’s not adopted. He came along seven years after me and I remember him as a baby, especially the crying and the way Mom adored him.

  I bicycle my legs in the air, building up my muscles, then lie back on the pillows. I like to imagine a story about my real mother. She is an exceptionally warm person with light freckles across the top of her nose, like me. She had a good-looking boyfriend in high school. It was a shame when she found out she was going to have a baby. Maybe the boy’s parents disapproved of her because she came from a poor family. She’s the tender, maternal type, but keeping a baby would have interfered with her dream of becoming a nurse. So she had to give me up. She was heartbroken and cried for weeks. Deep inside I have a feeling she still thinks of me. She would be upset to know that I ended up with this cold, mean person for a mother.

  I shake my head. There must be a devil in me to make up a story like that.

  About the only thing I can look forward to is Gram’s visit in a week. After Gramps died, she moved from the farm into town, not Deep Creek but not far away in Tumbrill. She often comes to stay for a few days.

  This time when she’s with us I’ll ask her if I’m adopted. I’ll promise not to say anything to my parents, although that may be a hard promise to keep.

  Anna

  MONDAY, APRIL 5

  WE’RE EATING OUR lunch in the lunchroom.

  “Bet you’re excited about your grandmother coming to stay, Maggie.”

  “Mom says she’ll be having treatments at the hospital.”

  “Why does she need treatments?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anything serious.”

  I hope Maggie’s right. Treatments doesn’t sound good to me.

  Lunch is over and we go back to the classroom. I wish I could spend more time here in Miss Alexander’s peaceful room. Above the blackboard she’s put posters of famous places around the world. I'd like to go to those places some day.

  Miss Alexander almost never raises her voice, not even when the boys are fooling around. We all know that when she gives us a test, she wants us to pass. I’m taking a mental note of everything Miss Alexander does for when I’m a teacher.

  But I can’t stay in school all the time. I have to get back to my life on the farm.

  MAMA’S AT THE stove making soup when I get home. She’s huge these days. You’d think by her size the baby was due any day, but there’s still more than a month to go.

  I tell Mama to sit down, and I take over chopping the carrots and potatoes. The girls are fussy and whiny around us while Mama sits with both hands resting on her stomach. She can’t seem to concentrate on anything except this new baby growing inside her.

  Papa’s away in town. He’s just returned from selling cattle in Stoddart, something he does three times a year. The first thing he does when he gets back is head into Deep Creek. He has money to buy groceries for us and drink for himself.

  The boys are quiet at dinner. I look at Joe. “I heard from a girl on the bus that you’ve got a girlfriend at school.”

  Joe grunts, his face still down at the soup bowl.

&
nbsp; “Baseball season’s coming up, Berny. Are you playing first base again this year?”

  “Yep,” Berny answers.

  That’s it for conversation around our table. Lucy’s rubbing her eyes, and Mama says, “Looks like someone’s tired. Let’s put our girls to bed.”

  Berny gets up to take the soup bowls to the sink while Mama and I lead the girls upstairs. Just as we’ve got them settled, I hear the door open.

  Papa comes noisily up the stairs to their room. He’s weaving around and mumbling, and he smells of liquor. I hate that stink.

  “Hey, liddle girls.” He tucks Helen in and gives Lucy a kiss and says, “Dobry wieczor, ptaszek.” He calls Lucy his little bird.

  Papa’s never mean when he’s drunk. He’s just kind of clumsy and slow. I don’t mean he’s not smart, because he is. He just never learned to speak English very well.

  Papa used to be good-looking, but he hasn’t shaved and he’s still in his work overalls. There’s a space where he had a front tooth pulled because he couldn’t afford to have the cavity filled. He said it was more important for us to have our teeth fixed.

  Papa puts his arm around Mama and leads her to bed. I go back down to the kitchen to do the dishes.

  Maggie

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 7, AND THURSDAY, APRIL 8

  GRAM IS TIRED. Dad has to take her arm to help her up the steps to our place.

  At supper, Tommy sits at the table, hogging the conversation. I feel guilty seeing the red mark on his forehead, but it’s irritating when he babbles on and on.

  When Gram comes to stay with us, she always sleeps in my bed and I sleep on the pull-out chesterfield in the living room. Tonight Gram goes to bed early. I sit on the edge of the bed beside her.

  “How are things with you, my girl?” she says, propping up the pillows behind her. Her silky white hair drifts over the white pillowcase. It looks as though she’s sleeping on a cloud.