by S. Rose
“Ah, ya . . . ya sure, Morfar,” I fibbed. It just seemed like the right thing to do. He sighed as if relieved of a heavy burden, then held his hand out to me.
“Vell, den come now. It’s time ve go for dinner.”
I jumped up and took my grandfather’s hand, still calloused from a lifetime of work, although he hadn’t worked in some years. His skin was dry and pleasant to touch. We went into the dining room just as Tante Gudy was coming from the kitchen to announce that the meal was ready. It was a baked fish in a lovely butter-cream sauce, small boiled potatoes with parsley, slightly overcooked asparagus, and homemade buns.
My mother held out the chair as her father took his place at the head of the table, then waited on him, carefully dishing out his portions before seating herself. Of course, no one touched the food until grace was said. I usually recited the traditional Norwegian table prayer, but on that particular Sunday, my grandfather cleared his throat and subtly glanced about at the family to indicate his intention to speak. We folded our hands and bowed our heads. Even my agnostic father was subdued as my grandfather’s voice, usually so humble, rang out strong and determined like a preacher from his pulpit.
I Jesu navn går vi til bords
å spise, drikke på ditt ord.
Deg, Gud til ære, oss til gavn,
Så får vi mat i Jesu navn. Amen.
In Jesus’ name to the table we go
to eat and drink according to His word.
To God the honor, us the gain,
so we have food in Jesus’ name.
I think sometimes the simplest words are the best.
After the chorus of amen, the forks clinked in earnest. Out of habit, we never spoke while eating fish since talking could lead to choking on a fishbone. As he relished his meal, I surreptitiously stole a look at Morfar and still pondered his curious epiphany in the parlor—only to find him looking right back at me with a twinkle in his eye, which gave me pause. He usually kept his attention fixed upon his plate.
WE NEVER GOT to play another game of dominoes. The following Thursday, Morfar’s heart ceased to beat. I was left to puzzle alone over his strange words spoken to me in private and devoid of any context.
After Grandfather Sigurdsson was laid to rest, my aunt owned the whole house, up and down. My mother took six months to inform me, and then it was succinct and to the point: the house had been bequeathed entirely unto Gudrun. I learned a new vocabulary word. She also told me that we’d been left a certain sum of money but didn’t say how much. From her tone, I gathered she felt it was the short end of the stick. My mother’s dissatisfaction with her inheritance was obvious from the start. Much later, I realized that her curt explanation of the particulars was a prelude to our relocation. It was perhaps my first clue, although it would have taken a psychic to determine it at the time. I think anger and jealousy were the real reasons she so readily agreed to uproot to Blackstone. She didn’t even like Blackstone. Grandfather Sigurdsson’s legacy provided both the bitter impetus to leave and the money to do so.
From then on, there was an increasing sense of uneasiness between my parents and my aunt. It was intangible at first, something akin to the change in the air just before summer turns to autumn but amassed in force until it blew like the first bitter gales that signal winter has begun. I knew a storm was brewing, and I had to be prepared. As a matter of self-preservation, I succumbed to the universal, time-honored practice of children everywhere: I took to listening in on my secretive parents. They probably did the same thing when they were kids, so you’d think they’d be wise to it, but my folks must’ve forgotten what it was like to be left in the dark about matters that concern you. They were oblivious.
I hid around corners and on the other side of closed doors, much like a rabbit stands on his hind legs and sniffs the air to scent out danger. But the best channel by far was a grate on the bathroom wall where the hot air flowed from the furnace. It was only a few feet away from its counterpart in my parent’s bedroom; the dead space between the walls made their voices carry. I could hear every word.
From time to time, my father grumbled about living with his in-law; or how it galled him, having to do things a certain way because it was another woman’s house; or, declaring that they had absolutely no privacy. Once I heard him shout at Mom that he was sick and tired of living in a hen house. I couldn’t imagine what he meant because we’d never kept chickens.
For the most part, I went through a lot of effort for no useful intelligence. Twice I was locked in the bathroom so long that my mother came around and knocked on the door, asking if I needed a dose of Phillips. “Uhh,” I grunted. “I’m almost done.”
At last I heard something worthwhile, but disturbing.
“It’s that damned hair,” my father said. “You never should have allowed it in the first place.”
“What could I say? She cried about it, for God’s sake. I never thought it would go on all these years . . . I assumed she’d grow tired of it.”
“You could’ve said no, for starters. You’re her mother. I tell ya, I didn’t sign up for this!”
“Shh!”
“Don’t shush me. It’s just so goddamned intrusive. I can’t even eat breakfast in my own kitchen without her looming over me. One of these days I swear—I’ll be ready with the kitchen shears . . .”
“George!”
“I’ll jump up in the middle of it and hack off those stupid curls before she can say boo.”
“George, that’s a terrible thing to say. You don’t really mean it.”
“Oh, I mean it, yesiree. And she’s damned lucky it won’t go on much longer, because by God, I’d do it!”
I looked up intrusive in the dictionary. From then on, I kept one eye on my father while Tante did my hair, ready to leap from my chair at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t dare reveal what I’d heard lest he carry out the sinister plot to keep his sister-in-law out of our kitchen.
4
“But, Gudrun, there must be some misunderstanding.”
“No, Tina, I’m sure of it. It was Martha McCauley herself told me . . . I spoke to her at the library.”
“Perhaps she heard wrong.”
“She’s Walter Pendleton’s sister, don’cha know? She’d have heard if her own brother were closing his insurance business.”
“Maybe he didn’t tell her. He probably didn’t want her gossiping.”
“Ya, Martha is given to gossip, you betcha—she gave me an earful of it.”
“What about?”
“Oh, Tina . . . I don’t know how to tell you—but then I’d better do it before she gabs all over town and someone else tells you.”
“Tells me what? Just come out with it, Gudrun!”
“It’s about your George.”
“That much I’d gathered. I suppose you’re going to say he’s gone and quit his position? I had a funny feeling in my stomach when he told me the office was closing. There was something about the way he said it . . .”
“No, Tina, I’m afraid it’s even worse than that.”
“What could be worse than quitting and making up a . . . an excuse?”
“Oh, Tina, but it is much worse.”
“You don’t mean to say . . .”
“Ya. George got let go.”
“No!” Mom gasped.
What’s let go? I stood quiet as a cat in the back hallway, listening intently to the private conversation in Tante’s kitchen. No one had heard me come home from school.
“George got himself fired,”AuntGudrun qualified.
I knew what that meant. I had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.
“Oh my God! Gudrun, are you surethat’s what she said?”
“Ya sure, Martha was quite plain spoken about it.”
“Did she say why?” Mom’s breathless voice quavered.
“Ya, and that’s the worst part . . . it was the drinking, don’cha know, and in the middle of the day, too. Martha thought it her Ch
ristian duty to inform me; she said that George’s behavior was becoming more and more erratic.”
“Dear God, not this again. And to think he’s kept up the lie with me all these weeks.”
“You mustn’t tell him I told you.”
“No, that won’t help things any. You’re right—it was better to hear it from family. Oh, how could George do this to me? I wonder who else knows. Probably the whole neighborhoodby now. I could just dieof embarrassment.”
“Ya, it’s a terrible disgrace.”
“Thanks for the words of encouragement.”
“I was only commiserating. Oh, Tina, I wish you’d listened when I warned you against marrying an Englishman, and an Episcopalian to boot.”
“Don’t be absurd; his nationality has nothing to do with it.”
“The point is, you were only nineteen, and you didn’t know a thing about the man. I tried to tell you . . .”
“Just stop right there. You of all people should talk.”
“Tina. That has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh, it certainly does, Gudrun. You accused me of not knowing enough about George before . . . ah, things got serious. We’d gone steady for two months. But you went and—”
“Ya, I suppose you’re right,” Gudrun interrupted. “At least you got married. My sin was far worse. Papa was so angry, so ashamed . . .”
“We really don’t need to rehash it now.” Mom sounded apologetic.
“He threatened to put me out of the house, even though I begged on my knees.”
“You forget—I was on the carpet begging right beside you.”
“Papa said he was only thankful—”
“Thankful that our poor mother was in her grave.” Mom finished her sentence.
“Ya, he was glad she didn’t live to see my shame.”
“Gudrun, if you didn’t go and miss the boat, there would’ve been no shame.”
“I was afraid! You’re right, Tina, I didn’t know anything about the man. And I didn’t want to leave my family. I already had to do that once—I never saw my grandmother, never saw dear Farmor again. You don’t know what it’s like to go through it. Oh, how I’ve missed Uncle Lars all these years. I should have told him straight away. Uncle Lars would’ve helped me. Mama’s brother always was so kind,” Tante added fondly, in the special tone reserved for Uncle Lars. Suddenly she shouted, “Never mind the boat to Brindisi. I should have taken that baby and jumped on a ship to Stavanger.”
I wanted to rush into the kitchen and shout, What baby?
“Maybe you should have. Maybe then you would’ve been happy.”
“My God, Kristina. How can you say such a thing? Aren’t you glad to have her?”
“That’s part of the problem. I mean, I’m not sure I ever really had her. You signed the papers, but you never gave her up.”
“That’s nonsense. Of course, you are Cassandra’s mother . . .”
They’re talking about me?
“But George hardly takes notice of her anymore. I know how much he’dhoped for a boy, and I really can’t blame him, after all; but he should never have agreed to it if he couldn’t accept a girl.”
That explains a lot.
“Maybe he sees me in her? God knows George doesn’t like me. I think he hates me.”
“Gudrun, you’re being hysterical. George doesn’t hate you.”
“He’s angry about my inheritance, so he’s taking her away for spite.”
“That’s absurd, but since you bring it up, frankly, Papa’s will was a slap in the face.”
“How can you think about material things? My heart is breaking, and now you tell me I should’ve have run away to Norway with her.” She choked on a sob.
“Gudrun, never doubt my love for Cassandra, not for a single minute. All I meant is that perhaps you missed your one chance for happiness.”
“But I have been happy . . . until now. Besides, I couldn’t go off and leave Papa all alone. Even after what he did, I still had a duty.”
“Alone? You talk like you’re the only daughter. I lived here too, don’ cha know? Papa would’ve had me.” My mother’s voice was shrill.
“You? Papa fell ill three years ago and except for Sunday dinners, you hardly bothered with him.”
“Maybe you were always in the way, and there was no room for me to do anything.”
“In the way? That’s outrageous.”
“No, it’s true. You’re so capable. You always know just what to do under any circumstance. You’re far more clever than me and I know it.”
“Me, clever? You’re the one with a high school diploma. I feel stupid compared to you.”
“Never mind the diploma; you’re much smarter than me, and it shows.”
“Well, I’ve done quite a bit of reading to try and make up.”
“You’re a wonderful cook, too,” Mom added.
“I tried to teach you—you weren’t interested.”
“Why bother? I could never cook as well as you. You do everything bigger and better than me; you’re just so . . . so incredibly . . . tall.”
“What on earth does that have to do with anything? I can’t help being tall. In fact, I hate it. Papa always said I took after poor dead Uncle Sjurd, but it’s a curse for a woman to be so large—even taller than my own father. When I was young, everyone we met looked me up and down as if I were a prize Holstein then remarked what a nice big girl I was. They always said what a little beauty you were. Sometimes it was hard not to be jealous.”
“That was your own fault. I’ve seen the pictures—you wore the drabbest things, but kept me dressed up like a doll.”
“We had very little money, and you were growing. I didn’t mind making do so you could have nice dresses, but just once, I wanted to be a pretty girl, not a big girl. Next to you, I always felt like a moose.”
“But, Gudrun, you carry yourself so well—you’re not at all ungainly like some tall people. You have an air of authority that inspires confidence. Cassandra looks up to you. Everyone at church looks up to you. In the end, even Papa looked up to you. I’ve been looking up since I was a little girl, and I still have to look up. I feel like a child next to you, like I never got to be a grownup in the eyes of the family.”
“You certainly didn’t act like an adult; you left everything up to me in Papa’s old age.”
“Well then, you should be very happy now. Your sole dedication to Papa for the past three years has been richly rewarded.” My mother’s brittle voice snapped like a dead branch.
“Three years? You selfish, selfish girl!”
“I’m not a girl. I’m a grown woman.”
“Okay, so you’re a selfish woman. It’s been a lot longer than three years, don’cha know. I raised you. I watched you grow up spoiled, never having to work like I did. I was a teenager through the depression, but when you were sixteen . . .”
“I had everything.”Mom was melodramatic. “I’ve heard it a hundred times.”
“But it’s true, Tina. You had high school and friends and beaus . . . pretty dresses . . . and dances. I never even learned to dance. All these years, I’ve kept this place scrubbed and cooked his dinner. Up until now, I got nothing for it.”
“Well, you did get the marble shrine in the parlor,” Mom retorted.
“That ostentatious sarsen? You must be joking?”
“Yes, of course I am. It’s a monstrosity.”
“It’s really not funny. I have to look at it every day—can’t exactly get rid of it. And over the years, there were so many useful things Papa might have bought to make my work easier, but he held the purse strings tight. He finally gave me the Electrolux for my twentieth birthday—then I never heard the end of how much it cost, or how Farmor managed all her life with brooms and rags. I didn’t even have the old wringer washing machine until you started school. Before that, I washed all our clothes and your diapers by hand—in the kitchen sink. Do you know where I was when I was sixteen, the same age as when you were out
having fun? Up to my elbows in your poopy diapers!”
“How is that my fault? You make me sick, Gudrun. I wished you’d gone and drowned me in that goddamned sink.”
“Oh! To say such a thing, and to your sister. What a terrible sin.”
“Gudrun,” she sighed with exhaustion, “what is it you want from me?”
“All I want is a little appreciation, a little understanding. You think it’s unfair that I got the house, but if it had been split between us, George would have sold it for the money. Papa knew that very well though he never came out and said it. Now I have to rent out the upstairs—you got almost all the cash, and I have no way to pay the bills. But this way, you and Cassandra will have a home to come back to; no matter what happens, you can always live here with me,” she finished with tenderness.
“I don’t need your charity, Gudrun,” my mother answered curtly. “Everything will work out just fine. My husband is going to make good on this business venture; we’ll be able to buy our own home soon enough. And I’m sure that once George feels happy and successful again, he’ll be a better father to Cassandra . . . like he used to be.”
“I sincerely hope so, for all of you.”
“Speaking of Cassandra, what time is it? She should have been home by now. Maybe she came in the front door? She’s probably upstairs looking for me.”
A chair scraped the linoleum, rousing me from stupefaction. I’d catch it for sure if I got caught eavesdropping, so I whirled around and opened the back door again to shut it with a good loud bang.
“I’m home!” I announced with false cheer. Mom came out from the kitchen and looked at me questioningly, almost suspiciously. “I, uh, I had to turn around and go back for my lunchbox,” I explained, rattling the metal container with the picture of Cinderella in her pumpkin. “I forgot it,” I added, which was perfectly true. I’d forgotten it on several occasions—just not on that particular day.
