Swing Low

by Miriam Toews

  eighteen

  When I travelled I was happy. When I’m with strangers I’m calm and garrulous.

  The slant of the sun, the smile of a pretty waitress, birds singing, blue skies, I liked. And perhaps that’s why I so rarely allowed myself to leave. I felt that I didn’t deserve to relax. Every time Elvira suggested we go on a holiday I’d dig my heels in and come up with excuses for why it was a bad idea. Or I simply wouldn’t say a word. After a while she stopped asking me if I wanted to go. She’d simply buy the tickets, book the hotels, take the car in for a tune-up, study the road maps, pack the bags, and inform me that we were ready to go!

  My girls have grown up, Elvira is gone, and I’m alone in a hospital room, I don’t know whether I’m sad or puzzled or both, awake or dreaming, dead or alive. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Elvira is dead and I’ve been in this hospital too long. My girls are working on my case and they will bring me to Elvira. They have told me that everything will be fine again soon. They have told me I will be transferred to the city soon, to where Elvira is, or elsewhere but eventually with Elvira. With home care this time, so she won’t get so tired. I don’t want to be in the city. I don’t want to be in the town. Sometimes I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown. Where I want to be is in my pink house, my dusty rose house at 229 First Street, listening to the sounds of my family in the kitchen, collecting papers for my family file, and that’s where I intend to go.

  I remember my dusty rose house and Marjorie playing the piano, Schubert’s “Largo,” the wedding song, and conversation, the phone ringing, Elvira answering Hello! Miriam laughing in a tree outside my bedroom window, jumping onto the roof of the house and scrabbling about like a squirrel, and then … her face, upside down, Hello, she’s nine years old and peering at me from the other side of the screen, it’s summertime, it’s warm and her blond hair flops around her grinning face, she’s upside down on the roof looking into my room and I’m in bed, and I’m worried she’ll fall off the roof, but I don’t tell her that, I grin back at her from my bed. Hello there, how’s my bombshell blond? I say. Just hanging around, she answers.

  That horrible year of silence that began with my daughter’s birth and ended twelve months later. Marjorie began to wonder why I never spoke and whether it was because of something she had said or done. Elvira knew that I was in a very rough patch, as they say.

  But Marjorie, six years old, remained baffled. I hadn’t abandoned my students but I felt that I had abandoned her. At home I sat so quietly at the kitchen table, occasionally looking over at her in her chair, perhaps forcing a smile, but not saying a word.

  Elvira did her best to give Marjorie extra attention, but what with taking care of the baby who cried non-stop, and her near catatonic husband, she had little energy left at the end of the day for a small girl who, it seemed, was weathering the situation admirably anyway.

  Some afternoons when Marjorie and I were at school and Miriam was finally asleep in her crib, Elvira would run to Mrs. I.Q. Unger’s house and cry at her kitchen table the way my father had when Mother’s drinking got bad, and the way I had as a boy when I needed to escape Mother’s silent anger and disapproval. This time, however, I was the one being cried over, the one being fled from.

  It so happened that Mrs. I.Q. lived just a few doors down from us on First Street, so, in the warm summer months when windows were left open day and night, Elvira was able to sit at Mrs. I.Q.’s kitchen table and still hear the angry wails of Miriam when she woke from her nap. Then it would be time for Elvira to dry her own tears and race to the house to tend to our baby, who, perhaps to balance things out, screamed non-stop throughout my year of silence.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, that horrible year ended. The next spring, when Miriam turned one, I began to speak. And Miriam stopped screaming. Elvira relaxed and made fewer trips to Mrs. I.Q.’s kitchen table, and little Marjorie, in her eighth year, started piano lessons.

  I purchased the empty lot behind our backyard and with the stroke of my pen and a few thousand dollars our property doubled in size. The new yard was filled with fruit trees and rose bushes and of course I planted hundreds of red and white petunias as well. I built a sturdy swing for Marjorie and replenished the sandbox for Miriam. I even made a vegetable garden for Elvira, forgetting in the process that she hated rooting in the dirt for food and that she relished her daily trips to Penner Foods where fresh vegetables were cheap and clean and easy to pick at waist level, and where she was bound to meet a friend or two with whom she could enjoy a little spitziring and a good laugh. Mel, she said to me one summer evening as we surveyed our beautiful backyard, I hate gardening with all my heart and soul.

  I tried to grow the vegetables myself, but I had little heart for it. I couldn’t stop thinking about my flowers, my petunias and tiger lilies and tulips and crocuses and roses and pansies and gardenias and … When I woke up in the morning I would rush to the kitchen window to look at my flowers. Just a glimpse of them gave me a feeling of hope and absolute relief, akin perhaps to the feeling a shipwrecked survivor has when he first spots land in the distance and knows he is saved.

  That summer we camped with friends (rather pathetically in the rain in a pup tent that covered almost two-thirds of my six-foot-two frame) and had a wonderful time later as we recounted the typical camping horrors of the trip. Miriam learned how to walk, Marjorie fell in love with the piano and provided a rich and progressively less choppy, more polished soundtrack to our lives of Bach and Beethoven, Haydn and Mozart, Schubert and Chopin, and Elvira and I … talked!

  Oh, what a feeling that can be. A conversation with a beautiful, spirited woman in a yard filled with hundreds and hundreds of life-affirming flowers and two happy children frolicking about! Call me old-fashioned, but that summer I was in heaven. I was a whole man finally, a normal person. The two warring factions inside my head had reached a tentative agreement, the army generals of Mania and Depression reaching across the great divide of my ravaged mind and shaking hands.

  nineteen

  And then occurred yet another windfall in my life. I was asked by the local school board if I would be interested in a principal’s position at Southwood, another elementary school in town. In addition to my duties as principal I would be expected to teach grade six. The school board informed me that I had built, in a very short time, a solid reputation as an innovative and effective teacher, and that in addition to that I had exhibited the leadership and problem-solving skills necessary for the job of principal. The job would provide new challenges, greater room for innovation, more responsibility, and of course a higher salary. Was I interested?

  I was, very much so. Elvira and I discussed the pros and cons of such a move and concluded that it would be a good thing to do, a wonderful opportunity. I was very pleased that I had been considered capable of being a principal, although I had never really harboured any desire to become one and I wouldn’t have taken the job if I hadn’t also been able to teach in the classroom. A few weeks later I met Mrs. I.Q. outside. I had been teaching Marjorie how to ride a two-wheeler, running back and forth along the sidewalk, reluctant to take my hand off the back of her bike seat. Mrs. I.Q. shuffled out onto the sidewalk and hollered at me. Mel, she said, let go once! I did, and of course Marjorie maintained her balance and that was that, she could ride a two-wheeler. Mrs. I.Q. stepped into a square of sunlight on her front yard and waved me over. Well, Melvin, she said, I hear you’re going to be a principal now, pretty big deal, nay? I smiled and shrugged. Who knows? I said, I’ll try it. So now you’ve stopped trying to run away from home? she asked, bending over to yank a few dandelions out of her lawn. Well, I have a new one, I said quietly. That’s right, said Mrs. I.Q.

  We stood and watched Marjorie ride her bike back and forth. I smiled as much as I could, yelling out occasional words of encouragement. At one point Mrs. I.Q. lifted her hand to wave at Marjorie, and I said, No, no, don’t. I was afraid Marjorie would wave back and lose all control. O
kay, said Mrs. I.Q., stuffing her hands into her apron, no waving. She punched me lightly on my shoulder and chortled to herself. Well, Melvin, she said, there are lots of ways to run, yo? I suppose so, I said, not sure what she was getting at. I think you’re safe now, she said, it’s time to stop running. She laughed and punched me on the shoulder again. Right? she said. Right, I replied.

  That fall, I said good-bye to the students and staff at Elmdale, who wished me well and hoped that someday I’d be back, and began my new job at Southwood School. The various ingredients of a happy life were coming together beautifully, I thought. Miraculously, I had found life’s easy two-four rhythm. I would have made a Faustian pact to have lived the rest of my days this way. My brother and his family now lived in a different town, where he was busy building a career that would eventually culminate … right here! (Like mine!) My sister and her family bounced around the mission field saving Latin souls and occasionally landing in Steinbach for some church-sponsored R and R.

  Mother continued to have her bouts of getting drunk on vanilla and to write her gossip column and attend church services dressed with her usual flair, wearing any one of twenty or so fancy hats and always, always perched erectly like a nervous bird on the same pew, a little to the left and up front, year in and year out. Occasionally, when her drinking got very bad, we would take her to the hospital to spend some time drying out. She never, not once, acknowledged that she had a drinking problem or that she’d ever had even one single drink in her life, so these drying-out times were rather awkward for her. Hello! she’d cry out when we came to visit, Hello, hello, hello. If Elvira would attempt to talk to her about the problem, or simply to inquire after her well-being, she’d repeat her simple greeting, Hello! hello, hello, hello … Which we knew was her way of saying, Not a word! a word, a word, a word … And so we sat at her bedside in total silence, while she lay there grinning from ear to ear, her eyes darting from Elvira to me and back to Elvira, ready to screech Hello! if either one of us dared open our mouths.

  Thank goodness for the relative normalcy of Elvira’s family. Her brothers and I had a genuine respect for one another. I, for their ability to make money hand over fist, for their unabashed delight in spending it, and for their infectious joie de vivre, and they, for my modest degree of education, my passion for teaching school, and my quiet studiousness. Even our physical appearances seemed to convey our different personalities: the brothers were short, none of them over five foot seven, fat, bald, and handsome in the defiant manner of Mafia overlords. I, on the other hand, towered over them, skinny as a rail, like a sick tree. At that time, before my medication made me puffy, I weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds.

  The brothers knew of my illness but I rather think they regarded it as a natural affliction of the sensitive, bookish individual, and in a strange and simplistic way, they understood. None of them had attended school beyond grade twelve, and if any of them had ever read a book, I’d be shocked to hear of it. Later, in the early seventies, I was a part of the committee formed to establish the first public library in Steinbach, and my brothers-in-law, though they’ve never in all these years seen the inside of it, thought it was a marvellous idea.

  It wasn’t easy to convince town council that the people of Steinbach would benefit from a public library. We had requested that the library be housed in the town civic centre, but some of the councillors were concerned about the type of “undesirable traffic” it would attract. We all know about the kind of people who hang around the curling rink, the hockey rink, and the post office. Do we want that type of crowd hanging around in the civic centre? Several councillors chastised our group for misrepresenting ourselves. “You said when you came to us two years ago that you would be happy with anything, the most humble facilities, if only we would let you have a library. Now you are talking about deluxe accommodations.” The to-ing and fro-ing between town council and Friends of the Library was duly recorded and published in the Carillon News. One editor even admonished town council for treating the Friends of the Library “like deadbeat relatives looking for a handout, rather than concerned citizens working diligently for a much needed community facility.”

  Eventually, after hitting the streets with petitions and garnering the number of signatures (360) necessary to call for a regional referendum on the library issue, and with much persuasion, and with our agreeing to locate in the old Kornelson School rather than push for “deluxe accommodation” in the civic centre, even though its original building plan had reserved space for a town library within its walls, we were given the green light. There were four of us who formed the nucleus of the library board and we met twice monthly for more than twenty years, during which time the library grew and thrived and became the busiest, most used in the province.

  Teenage girls whispered and bickered and giggled at large oak tables, pretending to be working on school projects. Boys fought with each other over the latest Stephen King novel. Earnest Mennonite historians from the Bible school pored over thick volumes of pioneer life and family genealogies, housewives ran in and out with a few paperback murder mysteries shoved in their purses, young couples kissed furtively in dark corners, children played hide-and-seek between shelves, conservative senior citizens roamed the aisles hunting for offensive material (Ernest Hemingway, J.D. Salinger, Judy Blume), and through it all the friendly, steely-nerved, tough-as-nails Gladys Barkman, head librarian, kept everybody in line.

  With my library board responsibilities, my teaching, and my new job as principal of Southwood School, I was a busy man, and as fulfilled as I’d ever be. My dreams of homelessness continued, but I chose to ignore them. There wasn’t enough time in the day to brood over dreams. I didn’t want to be that type of a person anyway. I wanted to stop navel gazing and meeting with my psychiatrist and obsessing over the past. I wanted to become more like my brothers-in-law, more worldly, more confident. I wanted to accomplish things, create things, make a name for myself. I wanted to become as carefree as Elvira and as wise as Mrs. I.Q. I wanted to be well. I wanted to grow up. I wanted to stop being ashamed of every last thing in my life.

  It was during this time that I began to take notes. Every morning and every evening before bed I would jot down what I thought were the key points of effective teaching, of boosting morale among staff members, of being civil, decent, and good. I have boxes and boxes of lined recipe cards with notes to myself on how to live, on how to be a role model, on how to bring the very best out of people, on how to educate, to encourage self-expression, to open minds. I reviewed my lessons at the end of each day like an athlete going over every aspect of his game. What worked, what didn’t, what captured the attention of my students, what left them cold, which information mattered, and which didn’t. I would cull from these lessons the finest ingredients and over time distill them into one smooth golden recipe for success. I was developing my style and honing my craft. I was utterly obsessed with being the best, the absolute best I could be.

  Sometime in 1966, during my first year as principal and teacher at Southwood School, the staff decided to produce a play and I was asked to direct. Naturally I assumed these duties with enthusiasm, obsessive attention to detail, and my characteristic good humour. The play, a romantic comedy that is likely no longer in print, was called “Wanted: A Housekeeper.” The gist of the plot is simple. A bachelor requires a maid and proceeds to interview several women for the job. (Remember, the year was 1966.) Every day for three weeks, the teachers and I would meet after school in the multipurpose room for rehearsals. Elvira would occasionally come to watch us practise, leaning up against the wall and howling with laughter at our gaffes and earnestness. Can’t hear you! she’d call out to the actors if they were mumbling, or Don’t turn your back to the audience! There was a role for a young boy in the play, the son of one of the potential maids, and I recruited Marjorie, who was eight, to play the part. Every day, during those three weeks of rehearsals, she’d run the five or six blocks from Elmdale School to Southwood S
chool, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear, proud to be playing a part in an adult drama. For the actual performance, which was a huge success and attended by all the teachers and their spouses of the Hanover School Division, she wore a grey wool suit borrowed from one of her cousins.

  After the play, when life resumed its normal course, I would invite Marjorie to my class at Southwood School, sit her at a desk, and give her grade six tests to write. She loved the challenge. When she was finished I marked them and gave her a grade. She insisted I make no special concession for her age, and even though she consistently came up with marks of 38 percent or 43 percent or perhaps the odd 51 percent, she was thrilled to have been tested at the higher level.

  Then the two of us would walk home together, along Reimer, across the parking lot of the Evangelical Mennonite Brethren (or E.M.B.) church, past the cemetery where Elvira’s six brothers and sisters were buried in a neat row, and her parents too, and down First Street to our beautiful dusty rose house, where Elvira would greet us cheerfully at the door, a tired grin on her face, Miriam on her hip, and dinner sometimes on the table.

  And so two years at Southwood passed. That spring I began thinking about my own rather limited education. In those days a year or two at normal school was all that was required, but I knew that times were changing. I knew that I’d require more education, more than a teaching certificate, to be the best that I could be, and although I was very happy at Southwood and would have been content to remain there forever, I decided I would take a year off and go back to university for my Bachelor of Education.

  When I made mere mention of the possibility of moving to Winnipeg and pursuing my education, Elvira jumped for joy and said, Hallelujah — thank you, God! Throughout her life one of Elvira’s burning desires has been to move to the city, to live amidst the hustle and bustle, to experience the sights and sounds and concert halls and theatres and restaurants and crowds and festivals and commerce and shops and grit and crime and politics and universities and everything else that a city has to offer.