After River

by Donna Milner

  ‘I’m just looking for Boyer,’ I told her. Normally I would have asked Boyer about a new word, hoping it was a ten-penny one, but something told me that this wimpy sounding word had little value. So I asked Mom. ‘What does homely mean?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ she asked, her brows knitting together in a frown.

  Afraid I’d stumbled on a forbidden word, I told her what Ma Cooper said. My mother’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, the muscles of her cheeks twitched as she clamped her mouth shut. Then she smiled and touched my face, ‘Well, it could mean many things, honey. My guess is that it means you’re good around the house. She knows what a help you are to me.’

  I wondered for a moment what that had to do with a mud fence, then decided that this was probably one of those Santa Claus fibs. So I chose to believe her. It almost made sense. Later I could look it up in Boyer’s dictionary.

  Before we left, Mom walked over to Ma Cooper and Widow Beckett. The smile never left Mom’s face as she spoke, but Ma’s smile melted down. I could not make out Mom’s words, so I went and stood beside her in time to hear Widow Beckett say, ‘But Nettie, we only meant it in the kindest of ways.’

  ‘There is nothing kind about insinuating,’ my mother started, enunciating each word in a voice so brittle, so unlike her, that I grabbed her hand. She stopped and looked down at me, clamped her mouth shut, and squeezed my hand. She then nodded to her friends, spun around and marched away straight-backed with me in tow.

  For the next few weeks my mother did the Monday ironing by herself. ‘Where’s the steam team?’ my father asked at lunch on the first Monday Ma Cooper and Widow Beckett were absent.

  ‘I told them not to come,’ Mom said. ‘They needed a break.’

  A few weeks later, on Christmas Eve, they showed up at our door just as all my parents’ friends and neighbours did each year. They stood on the enclosed porch stamping snow from their boots and looking a little sheepish. As my mother ushered them in, hugged them, and wished them Merry Christmas, I swear that I saw stern old Ma Cooper blink back tears. Widow Beckett’s voice caught as she said, ‘We’re so sorry, Nettie.’

  Mom shushed her and said, ‘That’s forgotten.’ And she meant it. ‘Forgive and forget,’ that was Mom’s credo in life.

  ‘It’s okay if you bruise easy,’ she often told me. ‘As long as you heal quick.’

  Chapter Nine

  THINGS WENT BACK to normal after that. Monday’s ironing and gossip days continued and the incident was never spoken about again. But every time I ran into Ma Cooper, she found some reason to throw a compliment at me, while Widow Beckett nodded agreement. Most of her compliments revolved around the other thing I heard her say about me that night, which was that I was brilliant. Brilliant. That was a word I knew. It felt so good to be called brilliant that I chose to ignore the sympathy I had heard in their voices at the Christmas concert.

  The only other person who ever called me brilliant back then was Boyer. From the time I could hold a book my oldest brother was my mentor. But I was not brilliant. I had a good memory. That’s all. I could memorize anything: facts, numbers, names, words, and nursery rhymes. ‘It’s like taking a snapshot, Nat,’ Boyer taught me. ‘And then you keep going back to it, checking the picture often, until as soon as you see the first word or two, the others will follow like a series of mental dominoes.’

  Still, it was not brilliance. It was nothing more than the mental gymnastics I learned from him.

  It was Boyer who was brilliant; Boyer who had the analytical mind that craved knowledge. And it was Boyer who saw it as his mission to pass along that love of learning. Mom told me once that after Boyer’s first day of school he raced into the house and announced he was going to be a teacher when he grew up.

  ‘A teacher?’ Dad laughed. ‘You don’t need to be a teacher. We’re farmers.’

  ‘Boyer’s face fell,’ Mom said, ‘“Can’t I be both?” he asked. When your father didn’t answer I told him ‘“of course.”‘

  So Boyer began to bring his books home from school every night to practice teaching on Morgan and Carl on the wooden apple crates he hauled up to their shared bedroom.

  Not long after, when I was old enough to join Boyer’s makeshift classroom, Morgan and Carl started school and lost interest. I never did.

  Do all little girls think they will marry their older brothers when they grow up? I did. Up until I was six years old I assumed it was the natural order of things, that one day Boyer and I would be just like Mom and Dad. It was not until a week before I started school that Morgan and Carl put an abrupt end to that childish notion.

  Boyer was an altar boy for a number of years. When he was thirteen he began spending time in discussions with our parish priest, Father Mackenzie. They met each week, either at St Anthony’s or at our house.

  Everyone in our town knew and loved Father Mac: Catholics and Protestants alike. He could often be found sharing a shot or two of Captain Morgan’s rum with the locals in the Atwood Hotel. Mom said sometimes she believed he heard as many confessions from his barstool – where he had patience for even the most inebriated souls – as he did in the confessional. But the most trying test of his patience he himself would joke was his friend and bridge partner, Dr Allen Mumford.

  According to Mom, the relationship between those two men was the most unlikely of friendships. Dr Mumford, the town doctor and a self-proclaimed agnostic, was the polar opposite of the priest. He was a loud, outspoken, and opinionated man. He fought with his bridge partners so much that his wife refused to play with him. Finally, it was only Father Mac who had the patience to be his partner.

  Even though they were both a few years younger than my father, to me they often looked like bickering old men. ‘If you would pay as much attention to your bidding as you do to praying for my immortal soul,’ Dr Mumford would tell the priest during their spirited debates, ‘we might do better at the bridge table.’

  ‘And if you put half as much thought into your play as you do into your disbelief,’ Father Mac would reply, ‘you might not have need for my prayers.’

  They were a strange sight, those two, hunkered over their chessboard in the park, or at the community centre, arguing theology and the other’s foolish play between moves. They were fierce competitors and not above a wager on their games. Every once in a while, Dr Mumford appeared at Sunday mass. He sat scowling, his arms folded over his chest, in a pew at the back of the church. He grudgingly endured Father Mac’s welcoming of their ‘guest to the fold’ at the end of the service. Then he made his escape, but usually not before some parishioner asked him, ‘Lost another chess game, eh, Doc?’

  One evening a month, Mom and Dad went into town to play bridge with them. And on many Sundays Father Mac joined us for dinner.

  He had no shortage of dinner invitations. Yet, it was our table the priest chose most often to grace. ‘It’s my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ Mom told anyone who questioned his preference. Dad said it was really because they always watched the priest’s favourite television show, Bonanza, after the milking on Sunday nights. ‘I think Father Mac is beginning to believe what people say about his voice sounding just like Lorne Greene’s “voice of doom”,’ Dad teased.

  One Sunday evening, just before I turned six, I stood anxiously in the sunroom doorway. I peered out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of Boyer and Father Mac returning from a walk. Behind me Mom, Dad, Morgan and Carl settled themselves in front of the television. Suddenly I heard Morgan ask, ‘Mom, is Boyer gonna become a priest?’

  A priest? Boyer a priest? I knew very little about priests, but I did know they lived alone and had no family.

  Before Mom could answer, I spun around and blurted, ‘Boyer can’t be a priest, he’s going to marry me.’

  Morgan threw himself against the back of the couch and screeched, ‘Dummy, you can’t marry your brother.’ He jabbed Carl in the ribs. Carl rolled on the couch, holding his side, ‘What a dummy,’ he hooted. ‘Marry
your brother!’

  Mom leaned forward in her recliner. ‘Boys,’ she said and shook her head at them. I couldn’t read the expression on her face as she chastised Morgan and Carl. Beside her, Dad sat in his recliner, a stream of blue smoke rising from the cigarette hanging from his lips. He stared straight ahead at the television, as if the conversation and all the commotion my brothers were making was not happening.

  Panicked, I ran to my mother. ‘Is it true?’ I demanded.

  ‘Well, it’s true Boyer is talking to Father Mackenzie about many things,’ she said. ‘But the decision about entering the priesthood is a long way off.’ She smiled and pulled me onto her lap. ‘And yes, it’s true that brothers and sisters don’t get married. But no matter what, Boyer will always be your brother. He’ll always be family, and always love you.’

  My brothers sat wiggling on the couch trying to stifle their hysteria. Neither of them ever let me forget the foolishness of the idea that I would marry Boyer.

  Except for that conversation, the subject of his becoming a priest was never openly discussed in our family. I said nothing to Boyer. I guess I was afraid he would tell me it was true. I couldn’t imagine life without him, so I pretended it would never happen.

  Then one afternoon in the spring of my first school year, I sat on the steps to Boyer’s room while I waited for Father Mac to leave. The murmur of their voices leaked down into the hall. I caught the odd word like, ‘commitment’, and ‘calling’. After a while I heard Father Mac ask Boyer a question. I could not make all of it out, but heard the last few words, as an excuse to avoid the real world?’ Then Boyer’s door opened. Before the priest came down the stairs he said, ‘You will have to wrestle with those feelings yourself, my son. But not in the seminary.’ His voice was kind, but I heard finality in his words.

  At dinner one night a few weeks later Morgan, who held nothing sacred, asked where the priest was these days. Boyer quietly announced he would no longer be an altar boy.

  My father could barely disguise the smile that came to his lips. It was harder to read my mother. I wasn’t sure if it was sadness, or relief, I saw in her eyes as she nodded silently at Boyer then rose and busied herself cutting bread at the sideboard.

  ‘Does that mean you’re not gonna be a priest?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘No, Morgan,’ Boyer said not unkindly, ‘I am not “gonna” be a priest.’

  ‘Guess that means you can marry Natalie now, eh?’ Carl chimed in, then poked Morgan in the ribs.

  ‘Good one,’ Morgan laughed and pushed him back.

  I didn’t care about their teasing. I was just relieved to hear Boyer wasn’t going away. That everything would stay the same. I stuck my tongue out at my brothers across the table as Boyer ruffled my hair and said, ‘Natalie will always be my girl.’

  Even after I entered grade one, I continued to go up to Boyer’s new room in the attic on rainy afternoons, or snowy winter evenings to read and play his penny word games.

  The game started out with spelling simple words for a penny. As I grew so did the words. At some point, Boyer added ten-penny words, difficult and unusual words, words I not only had to spell but define as well. Over the years, long past childish games, it remained a challenge for both of us to find words that the other did not know.

  During my childhood I spent most evenings at his homemade desk. With dictionaries open beneath the glow of the lamp he taught me the power of words while the rest of the family sat two storeys below in front of the television.

  ‘Don’t lose yourself in that little box, Natalie,’ Boyer said when the television first appeared in the living room. His warning was unnecessary. I never learned to love the Mickey Mouse Club or Howdy Doody shows that Morgan and Carl became so caught up in. What I did love more than anything else then was Boyer.

  Sitting in his attic room, surrounded by his books, spelling words for pennies, or reading silently while he studied, was a privilege I clung to. Listening to his voice as he read to me from The House at Pooh Corner and Heidi meant more to me than any images flickering downstairs in the darkened living room while my brothers jockeyed for position on the lumpy sofa and my parents sat in matching his-and-hers recliners.

  Thanks to Boyer, I learned to read long before I received my first yellow copy of Dick and Jane. Unfortunately I thought everyone else should be able to as well. One of my earliest memories is of my grade one teacher, Mrs Hammet, asking Bonnie King to read.

  Bonnie stood up beside her desk. She stared intently at her open book before she finally stuttered, ‘S—s—see, s—Sa—Sally—’

  Elizabeth-Ann Ryan sat at the desk in front of me. I admired her – for nothing more than the fact that she had an unheard of box of sixteen Crayola crayons – and I wanted to impress her. I tapped her on the shoulder and leaned forward to whisper, ‘Isn’t she stupid.’

  Mrs Hammet put an end to Bonnie’s torturous reading and turned to me, ‘Natalie Marie Ward, stand up!’

  I thought she was going to ask me to read, to show Bonnie how words were supposed to sound. I picked up my book and stood.

  ‘Now, Natalie, tell us what you just said to Elizabeth-Ann,’ the teacher demanded.

  The proud smile left my face. I hesitated, then in a shaking voice I repeated my three-word opinion of Bonnie’s reading. The classroom filled with titters and giggles. I looked at Bonnie, her face reddened, but she held her chin out and glared at me.

  ‘Come to the front of the class,’ Mrs Hammet said, her voice harsh. I picked up my reader still believing there was some hope that I would be asked to read. ‘Leave your book,’ she said as she walked around to the front of her desk and picked up her wooden ruler.

  I hid my hands behind my back as I stood before her with my head down. I could hear the impatient tap of the ruler against her open palm. ‘Palms up!’ she ordered. Moments later I watched the black blur of the inch marks on the ruler smack down three times on each of my trembling hands while the rest of the class, including Elizabeth-Ann Ryan, snickered behind their books.

  Word of my punishment never did reach my parents. But Boyer missed little. That was the thing about my brother. When he looked at me it felt as if he knew everything about me. When we were together I believed there was nothing in the world more important to him than I was. I am certain he made everyone he was with feel the same way.

  That evening, as I sat in his room, with a pile of pennies and a dictionary on the desk between us, he reached across and picked up my hands.

  His eyes softened as he turned them over, ‘What happened, Nat?’ he asked.

  The fading evidence of the red marks on my palms stung far less than my confession about calling Bonnie stupid.

  ‘The thing about words,’ Boyer said when I finished, ‘is once they’re said, they’re like spilled milk, impossible to retrieve. Words are too powerful to use carelessly. You had two chances not to let your words have the power to hurt. When you first said them and then when your teacher asked you to repeat them. Sometimes telling the exact truth is not as important as sparing someone’s feelings.’

  ‘A lie?’ I gulped back the tears that were threatening. ‘I should have told Mrs Hammet a lie?’

  ‘Not exactly a lie, but perhaps if you had used a little discretion, taken a moment to think, before you spoke in the first place,’ he said, all the while holding my hands. ‘Well, that and a little white lie might have avoided some hurt. For you and for Bonnie.’

  Then, as if to take away the sting, he said, ‘Then you could have done a few Hail Marys as penance.’ He winked. ‘Remember, a little white lie, and a little discretion.’

  Discretion. For a six-year-old that was a ten-penny word. And a lesson I would take far too long to learn.

  Chapter Ten

  THE BUS HUMS along Highway 97 South. We pass rolling fields edged with orange and yellow, frost-touched trees. The clear autumn sky is blue, crisp, and clean. I have always loved the open sky of the Cariboo and Chilcotin plateaus, where it takes an honest
day for the sun to pass from east to west. Such a contrast with Atwood.

  When I was growing up I paid little attention to the fact that the mountains dominated the landscape. I didn’t know anything else. I didn’t notice the absence of sky. Now I have to brace myself for the suffocating claustrophobia that grips me once I am in the shadows of those alpine slopes.

  The mountains, the sheer abundance of them, crowding and blocking the sun for a good portion of the day, can be overwhelming. Each time I return I feel hemmed in, smothered. When I lived there I hardly noticed when the sun disappeared prematurely behind the granite outcroppings and forest-covered hills, pulling its blanket of shadows behind. I gave no thought to the fact that to look at the horizon, I had to look up.

  The mountains that loomed over our farm were as familiar to me then as family. I knew their shapes, their locations, their size and elevations. I knew their names. Mostly thanks to Boyer.

  From as early as I can remember I rode his shoulders whenever he went hiking through the surrounding woods.

  ‘I’m the queen of the mountain!’ I hollered from my perch one afternoon. A weak echo tried to reverberate across the slopes.

  ‘Well, princess, maybe,’ Boyer laughed.

  He stopped to catch his breath on a mountaintop clearing. We sat side by side in the meadow grass and warmed ourselves in the sun as we gazed down at our farmhouse and the meandering patchwork of fields and pastures cut into the narrow valley below.

  Boyer pointed out landmarks and taught me how to orient myself by finding Robert’s Peak, which loomed over our farm. ‘On the other side of that mountain is the United States of America,’ he told me with a note of wonder in his voice. ‘Imagine, Natalie, a whole other country just miles away.’