by Alice Munro
“Squawks, calls, screeches, and cries echo throughout this bush,” she read. “Do you recognize any of them? Most are made by birds.” What else would they be made by? she wondered.
“A man went into the Hullett Swamp and remained there,” Albert said.
Wilfred made a mess of his ketchup and gravy, then dipped his french fries into it with his fingers.
“For how long?” he said.
“Forever.”
“You going to eat them?” said Wilfred, indicating Mildred’s french fries.
“Forever?” said Mildred, dividing them and sliding half onto Wilfred’s plate. “Did you know him, Albert?”
“No. It was too long ago.”
“Did you know his name?”
“Lloyd Sallows.”
“Who?” said Wilfred.
“Lloyd Sallows,” said Albert. “He worked on a farm.”
“I never heard of him,” Wilfred said.
“How do you mean, he went into the swamp?” said Mildred. “They found his clothes on the railway tracks and that’s what they said, he went into the swamp.”
“Why would he go in there without his clothes on?”
Albert thought for a few minutes and said, “He could have wanted to go wild.”
“Did he leave his shoes, too?”
“I would think so.”
“He might have committed suicide,” Mildred said briskly. “Did they look for a body?”
“They did look.”
“Or might have been murdered. Did he have any enemies? Was he in trouble? Maybe he was in debt or in trouble about a girl.”
“No,” said Albert.
“So they never found a trace of him?”
“No.”
“Was there any suspicious sort of person around at the time?” “No.”
“Well, there must be some explanation,” said Mildred. “A person, if they’re not dead, they go on living somewhere.”
Albert forked the hamburger patty out of his bun onto his plate, where he proceeded to cut it up into little pieces. He had not yet eaten anything.
“He was thought to be living in the swamp.”
“They should’ve looked in the swamp, then,” Wilfred said. “They went in at both ends and said they’d meet in the middle but they didn’t.”
“Why not?” said Mildred.
“You can’t just walk your way through that swamp. You couldn’t then.”
“So they thought he was in there?” Wilfred persisted. “Is that what they thought?”
“Most did,” said Albert, rather grudgingly. Wilfred snorted. “What was he living on?”
Albert put down his knife and fork and said somberly, “Flesh.” All of a sudden, after being so hot, Mildred’s arms came out in goose bumps.
“Did anybody ever see him?” she asked, in a more subdued and thoughtful voice than before.
“Two said so.”
“Who were they?”
“One was a lady that when I knew her, she was in her fifties. She had been a little girl at the time. She saw him when she was sent back to get the cows. She saw a long white person running behind the trees.”
“Near enough that she could tell if it was a boy or a girl?” said Wilfred.
Albert took the question seriously.
“I don’t know how near.”
“That was one person,” Mildred said. “Who was the other?”
“It was a boy fishing. This was years later. He looked up and saw a white fellow watching him from the other bank. He thought he’d seen a ghost.”
“Is that all?” said Wilfred. “They never found out what happened?” “No.’’
“I guess he’d be dead by now anyway,” Mildred said.
“Dead long ago,” said Albert.
If Wilfred had been telling that story, Mildred thought, it would have gone someplace, there would have been some kind of ending to it. Lloyd Sallows might reappear stark naked to collect on a bet, or he would come back dressed as a millionaire, maybe having tricked some gangsters who had robbed him. In Wilfred’s stories you could always be sure that the gloomy parts would give way to something better, and if somebody behaved in a peculiar way there was an explanation for it. If Wilfred figured in his own stories, as he usually did, there was always a stroke of luck for him somewhere, a good meal or a bottle of whiskey or some money. Neither luck nor money played a part in this story. She wondered why Albert had told it, what it meant to him.
“How did you happen to remember that story, Albert?”
As soon as she said that, she knew she shouldn’t have spoken. It was none of her business.
“I see they have apple or raisin pie,” she said.
“No apple or raisin pie in the Hullett Swamp!” said Wilfred raucously. “I’m having apple.”
Albert picked up a cold piece of hamburger and put it down and said, “It’s not a story. It’s something that happened.”
MILDRED HAD STRIPPED the bed the visitors had slept in, and hadn’t got it made up again, so she lay down beside Wilfred, on their first night by themselves.
Before she went to sleep she said to Wilfred, “Nobody in their right mind would go and live in a swamp.”
“If you did want to live someplace like that,” said Wilfred, “the place to live would be the bush, where you wouldn’t have so much trouble making a fire if you wanted one.”
He seemed restored to good humor. But in the night she was wakened by his crying. She was not badly startled, because she had known him to cry before, usually at night. It was hard to tell how she knew. He wasn’t making any noise and he wasn’t moving. Maybe that in itself was the unusual thing. She knew that he was lying beside her on his back with tears welling up in his eyes and wetting his face.
“Wilfred?”
Any time before, when he had consented to tell her why he was crying, the reason had seemed to her very queer, something thought up on the spur of the moment, or only distantly connected with the real reason. But maybe it was as close as he could get.
“Wilfred.”
“Albert and I will probably never see each other again,” said Wilfred in a loud voice with no trace of tears, or any clear indication of either satisfaction or regret.
“Unless we did go to Saskatchewan,” said Mildred. An invitation had been extended, and she had thought at the time she would be as likely to visit Siberia.
“Eventually,” she added.
“Eventually, maybe,” Wilfred said. He gave a prolonged, noisy sniff that seemed to signal content. “Not next week.”
The Moons of Jupiter
I found my father in the heart wing, on the eighth floor of Toronto General Hospital. He was in a semi-private room. The other bed was empty. He said that his hospital insurance covered only a bed in the ward, and he was worried that he might be charged extra.
“I never asked for a semi-private,” he said.
I said the wards were probably full.
“No. I saw some empty beds when they were wheeling me by.” “Then it was because you had to be hooked up to that thing,” I said. “Don’t worry. If they’re going to charge you extra, they tell you about it.”
“That’s likely it,” he said. “They wouldn’t want those doohickeys set up in the wards. I guess I’m covered for that kind of thing.”
I said I was sure he was.
He had wires taped to his chest. A small screen hung over his head. On the screen a bright jagged line was continually being written. The writing was accompanied by a nervous electronic beeping. The behavior of his heart was on display. I tried to ignore it. It seemed to me that paying such close attention—in fact, dramatizing what ought to be a most secret activity—was asking for trouble. Anything exposed that way was apt to flare up and go crazy.
My father did not seem to mind. He said they had him on tranquillizers. You know, he said, the happy pills. He did seem calm and optimistic.
It had been a different story the night before. When I brought him into the
hospital, to the emergency room, he had been pale and close-mouthed. He had opened the car door and stood up and said quietly, “Maybe you better get me one of those wheelchairs.” He used the voice he always used in a crisis. Once, our chimney caught on fire; it was on a Sunday afternoon and I was in the dining room pinning together a dress I was making. He came in and said in that same matter-of-fact, warning voice, “Janet. Do you know where there’s some baking powder?” He wanted it to throw on the fire. Afterwards he said, “I guess it was your fault—sewing on Sunday.”
I had to wait for over an hour in the emergency waiting room. They summoned a heart specialist who was in the hospital, a young man. He called me out into the hall and explained to me that one of the valves of my father’s heart had deteriorated so badly that there ought to be an immediate operation.
I asked him what would happen otherwise.
“He’d have to stay in bed,” the doctor said.
“How long?”
“Maybe three months.”
“I meant, how long would he live?”
“That’s what I meant, too,” the doctor said.
I went to see my father. He was sitting up in bed in a curtained-off corner. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said. “Did he tell you above the valve?”
“It’s not as bad as it could be,” I said. Then I repeated, even exaggerated, anything hopeful the doctor had said. “You’re not in any immediate danger. Your physical condition is good, otherwise.”
“Otherwise,” said my father, gloomily.
I was tired from the drive—all the way up to Dalgleish, to get him, and back to Toronto since noon—and worried about getting the rented car back on time, and irritated by an article I had been reading in a magazine in the waiting room. It was about another writer, a woman younger, better-looking, probably more talented than I am. I had been in England for two months and so I had not seen this article before, but it crossed my mind while I was reading that my father would have. I could hear him saying, Well, I didn’t see anything about you in Maclean’s. And if he had read something about me he would say, Well, I didn’t think too much of that writeup. His tone would be humorous and indulgent but would produce in me a familiar dreariness of spirit. The message I got from him was simple: Fame must be striven for, then apologized for. Getting or not getting it, you will be to blame.
I was not surprised by the doctor’s news. I was prepared to hear something of the sort and was pleased with myself for taking it calmly, just as I would be pleased with myself for dressing a wound or looking down from the frail balcony of a high building. I thought, Yes, it’s time; there has to be something, here it is. I did not feel any of the protest I would have felt twenty, even ten, years before. When I saw from my father’s face that he felt it—that refusal leapt up in him as readily as if he had been thirty or forty years younger—my heart hardened, and I spoke with a kind of badgering cheerfulness. “Otherwise is plenty,” I said.
THE NEXT DAY he was himself again.
That was how I would have put it. He said it appeared to him now that the young fellow, the doctor, might have been a bit too eager to operate. “A bit knife-happy,” he said. He was both mocking and showing off the hospital slang. He said that another doctor had examined him, an older man, and had given it as his opinion that rest and medication might do the trick.
I didn’t ask what trick.
“He says I’ve got a defective valve, all right. There’s certainly some damage. They wanted to know if I had rheumatic fever when I was a kid. I said I didn’t think so. But half the time then you weren’t diagnosed what you had. My father was not one for getting the doctor.”
The thought of my father’s childhood, which I always pictured as bleak and dangerous—the poor farm, the scared sisters, the harsh father—made me less resigned to his dying. I thought of him running away to work on the lake boats, running along the railway tracks, toward Goderich, in the evening light. He used to tell about that trip. Somewhere along the track he found a quince tree. Quince trees are rare in our part of the country; in fact, I have never seen one. Not even the one my father found, though he once took us on an expedition to look for it. He thought he knew the crossroad it was near, but we could not find it. He had not been able to eat the fruit, of course, but he had been impressed by its existence. It made him think he had got into a new part of the world.
The escaped child, the survivor, an old man trapped here by his leaky heart. I didn’t pursue these thoughts. I didn’t care to think of his younger selves. Even his bare torso, thick and white—he had the body of a workingman of his generation, seldom exposed to the sun—was a danger to me; it looked so strong and young. The wrinkled neck, the age-freckled hands and arms, the narrow, courteous head, with its thin gray hair and mustache, were more what I was used to.
“Now, why would I want to get myself operated on?” said my father reasonably. “Think of the risk at my age, and what for? A few years at the outside. I think the best thing for me to do is go home and take it easy. Give in gracefully. That’s all you can do, at my age. Your attitude changes, you know. You go through some mental changes. It seems more natural.”
“What does?” I said.
“Well, death does. You can’t get more natural than that. No, what I mean, specifically, is not having the operation.”
“That seems more natural?”
“Yes.”
“It’s up to you,” I said, but I did approve. This was what I would have expected of him. Whenever I told people about my father I stressed his independence, his self-sufficiency, his forbearance. He worked in a factory, he worked in his garden, he read history books. He could tell you about the Roman emperors or the Balkan wars. He never made a fuss.
JUDITH, MY YOUNGER DAUGHTER, had come to meet me at Toronto Airport two days before. She had brought the boy she was living with, whose name was Don. They were driving to Mexico in the morning, and while I was in Toronto I was to stay in their apartment. For the time being, I live in Vancouver. I sometimes say I have my headquarters in Vancouver.
“Where’s Nichola?” I said, thinking at once of an accident or an overdose. Nichola is my older daughter. She used to be a student at the Conservatory, then she became a cocktail waitress, then she was out of work. If she had been at the airport, I would probably have said something wrong. I would have asked her what her plans were, and she would have gracefully brushed back her hair and said, “Plans?”—as if that was a word I had invented.
“I knew the first thing you’d say would be about Nichola,” Judith said.
“It wasn’t. I said hello and I—”
“We’ll get your bag,” Don said neutrally.
“Is she all right?”
“I’m sure she is,” said Judith, with a fabricated air of amusement.
“You wouldn’t look like that if I was the one who wasn’t here.”
“Of course I would.”
“You wouldn’t. Nichola is the baby of the family. You know, she’s four years older than I am.”
“I ought to know.”
Judith said she did not know where Nichola was exactly. She said Nichola had moved out of her apartment (that dump!) and had actually telephoned (which is quite a deal, you might say, Nichola phoning) to say she wanted to be incommunicado for a while but she was fine.
“I told her you would worry,” said Judith more kindly on the way to their van. Don walked ahead carrying my suitcase. “But don’t. She’s all right, believe me.”
Don’s presence made me uncomfortable. I did not like him to hear these things. I thought of the conversations they must have had, Don and Judith. Or Don and Judith and Nichola, for Nichola and Judith were sometimes on good terms. Or Don and Judith and Nichola and others whose names I did not even know. They would have talked about me. Judith and Nichola comparing notes, relating anecdotes; analyzing, regretting, blaming, forgiving. I wished I’d had a boy and a girl. Or two boys. They wouldn’t have done that. Boys couldn’t possibly know so
much about you.
I did the same thing at that age. When I was the age Judith is now I talked with my friends in the college cafeteria or, late at night, over coffee in our cheap rooms. When I was the age Nichola is now I had Nichola herself in a carry-cot or squirming in my lap, and I was drinking coffee again all the rainy Vancouver afternoons with my one neighborhood friend, Ruth Boudreau, who read a lot and was bewildered by her situation, as I was. We talked about our parents, our childhoods, though for some time we kept clear of our marriages. How thoroughly we dealt with our fathers and mothers, deplored their marriages, their mistaken ambitions or fear of ambition, how competently we filed them away, defined them beyond any possibility of change. What presumption.
I looked at Don walking ahead. A tall ascetic-looking boy, with a St. Francis cap of black hair, a precise fringe of beard. What right did he have to hear about me, to know things I myself had probably forgotten? I decided that his beard and hairstyle were affected.
Once, when my children were little, my father said to me, “You know those years you were growing up—well, that’s all just a kind of a blur to me. I can’t sort out one year from another.” I was offended. I remembered each separate year with pain and clarity. I could have told how old I was when I went to look at the evening dresses in the window of Benbow’s Ladies’ Wear. Every week through the winter a new dress, spotlit—the sequins and tulle, the rose and lilac, sapphire, daffodil—and me a cold worshipper on the slushy sidewalk. I could have told how old I was when I forged my mother’s signature on a bad report card, when I had measles, when we papered the front room. But the years when Judith and Nichola were little, when I lived with their father—yes, blur is the word for it. I remember hanging out diapers, bringing in and folding diapers; I can recall the kitchen counters of two houses and where the clothesbasket sat. I remember the television programs—Popeye the Sailor, The Three Stooges, Funorama. When Funorama came on it was time to turn on the lights and cook supper. But I couldn’t tell the years apart. We lived outside Vancouver in a dormitory suburb: Dormir, Dormer, Dormouse— something like that. I was sleepy all the time then; pregnancy made me sleepy, and the night feedings, and the West Coast rain falling. Dark dripping cedars, shiny dripping laurel; wives yawning, napping, visiting, drinking coffee, and folding diapers; husbands coming home at night from the city across the water. Every night I kissed my homecoming husband in his wet Burberry and hoped he might wake me up; I served up meat and potatoes and one of the four vegetables he permitted. He ate with a violent appetite, then fell asleep on the living-room sofa. We had become a cartoon couple, more middle-aged in our twenties than we would be in middle age.
