Children of the Day

by Sandra Birdsell

  Ruby thought of the rope that was strung between two trees at the side of the yard, and she said, I’m a type-rope walker, and she teetered along the hall one foot in front of the other, aiming for the sunlight shining in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom. She expected that at any moment she would lose her balance, that at the end of the hall she would come face to face with an argument: Alvina said I should come and get the baby. When it’s time to get the baby, I’ll be the one to tell you, and not Alvina.

  Her heart thumped faster than the clock ticking on the bureau in the room beyond. Like the other children, she never entered her parents’ room without hesitating, and she was propelled now only by the affection she had for Patsy Anne and the anticipation of her sister’s hot hands against her neck, the clutching and hanging on, as though Ruby’s freeing her from the crib meant she had saved her life.

  Ruby pushed through the doorway, her inner music stopped as her eyes adjusted to the outpouring of sunlight. She squinted against it and noted a shopping bag lying on the floor, shoes tumbling from it. New second-hand shoes to be added to the jumble of footwear at the bottom of Sara’s closet. The shoes were expensive and frivolous, and almost small enough to fit Ruby’s foot.

  An overstuffed maroon chair in a corner, a matching hassock and the floor lamp on one side of the chair were for the convenience of Oliver, who endured long hours when he couldn’t sleep by reading Field & Stream, Reader’s Digest. The hassock was where Oliver sat when he shaved Sara’s armpits. She claimed not to be able to do it, and so, monthly, Oliver obliged. She carried a basin of water up to their bedroom and he joined her while she stripped to her petticoat and perched on the arm of the chair. Oliver sat before her on the hassock, drew her pebbly underarm skin taut and said, Kootchy, kootchy, coo, as he brushed up a lather of suds. He scraped away the hair and said it was getting curlier. Lately he’d been telling her that it was not as thick as it used to be.

  When he finished shaving Sara’s armpits, he said, So what’s next, eh? I’m just getting warmed up. He threatened to have a go at her pubic hair, should she so choose, her laughter girlish as he chased her around the chair brandishing the razor, knowing that Ruby and several other Vandals crouched outside the door, listening. Their curiosity overcame their apprehension of intruding, the closed door being an invitation to come sniffing about, just as a locked diary was an outright invitation to invade privacy.

  An ancient sewing machine beneath the window provided an hour or so of quiet for Sara, whose children knew she was out of bounds when she mended, unapproachable while she bent over the machine, sometimes singing a song in German.

  There were the familiar heaps of clothing on chairs and draped over the open closet doors, and Ruby was engulfed by all the various adult odours emanating from the closet. Perspiration, tobacco, a musty smell of dried roses—roses that, according to Alvina, Oliver had sent to Sara when he was away barbering during the war. The bouquets were delivered from Winnipeg on a mid-afternoon Greyhound bus, and dropped off beside Stage Coach Road, along with various other packages and the usual bundle of daily newspapers.

  In the closet on a shelf was a chocolate box holding pots of rouge gone chalky and rancid-smelling, hair combs and velvet bows. The box held the blue silk scarf Sara had borrowed from Emily Ashburn, and several bottles of nail varnish Oliver had purchased when Sara fretted about the look of her hands, which had never been opened.

  Unlike her older sisters, Ruby hadn’t reached the age when her inquisitiveness would not be denied. She had yet to come upon the box containing packets of letters that smelled of her parents’ fingers. My dearest Sara, my beloved pigeon, how I wish I could stroke your breasts, and that you were here to warm my lonely cot. Dear Oliver, don’t forget that you promised the boys, on your next leave you said you would see to it that they got a wagon. Sonny’s too small to be carrying the newspaper bag all over town.

  Ruby didn’t know that the closet held the entire history of her parents’ lives. A hand mirror tucked beneath a stack of bed linen on a shelf on Sara’s side of the closet was the sole keepsake of her dead mother; a homemade fiddle whose strings were missing had once belonged to Oliver’s grandfather. In a jacket pocket of Oliver’s army uniform there was a wad of papers folded down into a square, official documents he had come upon in a tobacco tin in his mother’s house after her death. The documents had been issued by the Government of Canada some seventy years ago, when Manitoba became a province.

  With these documents the government had hoped to settle the land question of what to do about the Metis nation that had come into being along the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. The bearer was entitled to either land or money, but few claimed either right, mistrusting the intent, or they were hornswoggled by land speculators, or they went to claim the land and found others, usually English-speaking settlers, already farming it. I am a half-breed head of a family resident in the Parish of Ste Agathe, in the said Province, on the 15th day of July, AD 1876, and consisting of myself and wife and children and I claim to be entitled as such head of family to receive a grant of one hundred and sixty acres of land or to receive Scrip for one hundred and sixty dollars pursuant to the Statute in that behalf.

  There she was, Ruby thought. There was Patsy Anne, the diddle, diddle dumpling, sitting in the crib that was jammed into a far corner of the bedroom. Patsy Anne, in person. When she reached the age of two, or if in the meantime another baby came along, she would be ousted from the crib to join Ruby, Emilie and Sharon on the made-up bed on the floor. On the outside edge of it, so there wasn’t the danger of someone rolling onto her. Until Patsy learned to stay put, as Ruby had done, she would crawl off across the room during the night, to be found in the morning, a chilled damp heap in a corner of the room, or tucked away under the bunk bed, her diaper lumpy with the night deposit.

  What little hair Patsy had was pasted against one side of her head and stuck out the other. She peered through the rungs at Sara, her baby face a study of glumness at the sight of her mother leaning over the space between the bed and the crib. Sara’s hand grasped the rungs, and the other clutched her forehead as she dry-heaved into the wastebasket.

  At the sight of Ruby, Patsy Anne squealed with relief and scrambled to her feet. Sara reared up, sweeping hair from her eyes in order to see who had come into the room. Her complexion had a yellowish tinge and gleamed with sweat. She belched loudly and long, and then lunged for the side of the bed and began retching anew.

  Ruby asked, Should I get some water?, which was the prescribed treatment for stomach upset, fever and colds. For growing pains, toothaches and whooping cough. Depending on the degree of illness, the water was sometimes topped up with grape juice.

  Either Sara hadn’t heard, or she was too busy to reply. Roll, roll, roll your boat, gently down the stream. Beyond the window the sky was the same blue as the ocean pictures Emilie made, sunsets on water, clouds, boats. She taped the drawings on their bedroom walls. Ida complained, as she had been born with a fear of water. Alvina wanted one wall for the photographs she cut from movie magazines. Bickering, always bickering, Sara said. The boys didn’t bicker when Sonny Boy plastered their walls with Joe Palooka comic strips.

  Alvina said I should—Ruby thought, not finishing that thought, as Sara came up for air. She gathered a corner of the sheet and pressed it against her face, as though wanting to shut out the room. The muffled sounds coming from the bed sounded like crying, and the idea tore a hole in Ruby’s desire to speak.

  Patsy Anne’s mouth begin to quiver. Yah, yah, Ruby’s coming, Ruby assured her sister silently, and anticipated the warm stickiness of her chubby body, her bum shining with wetness when Ruby peeled the sodden diaper away, Patsy Anne eagerly lifting her bottom so Ruby could slide a fresh diaper under her.

  There was movement beyond the bedroom window, which proved to be Florence Dressler coming out from her house carrying a basket of wash, which she began hanging on the line. They all ran after the farmer’s wife, and she cut off t
heir tails with the carving knife. Did you ever see such a fright in your life?

  Sara slid down in bed and lay on her side, the sheet bunched beneath her chin, her hands curled there in gentle fists, in the same way she had slept since being a child the age of Ruby, as though she was protecting her throat. There was nothing left in her stomach to bring up except for bile, which was harsh-tasting and green.

  That whore, Sara thought. The woman had used the shoes as a way to keep her hooks into Oliver. She pictured Alice Bouchard as she’d seen her only days ago, when happening upon her in the city—her carefully painted kewpie-doll features, the flare of recognition in her face, small brilliant eyes flickering across Sara’s stomach before she turned away. No, I’m not pregnant, Sara had wanted to shout. As she sometimes wanted to shout while pushing a carriage along the street in Union Plains, her children hanging on to it on all sides. She felt eyes turning in her direction. There goes the baby manufacturing plant. Why don’t you try crossing your legs?

  We’re just friends, Oliver had said last night, admitting that he’d gone to see Alice. All these years, while I waited up half the night, you went to see that woman, Sara said, and at the same time she had wished, hoped, willed that Oliver would say that wasn’t so. But he hadn’t. With his silence he’d as much as admitted that he’d been to see the Bouchard woman all those nights when she had hoped that he truly was out stretching his legs, had stayed past closing to have a game of cards with the old fellas. Is all, is all, he said. Had me a walk, is all.

  With his silence, Oliver had stolen her refuge of uncertainty. Knowing left her shaking and confused about what to do next, except to stay where she was, in bed, struck down by what might be a gallbladder attack, but more than likely it was jealousy.

  Mom, Ruby called, and watched a ladybug crawl across the oiled veneer of the sewing machine under the window. Alvina said I should bring the baby downstairs, Ruby dared to continue, and held her breath, expecting to be buffeted by objections.

  Well take her! Take her, for Pete’s sake, just take the baby downstairs! Sara cried out, her voice sounding as though she had the croup.

  All right, Ruby would take Patsy Anne downstairs. But how could she? She couldn’t get at her. There wasn’t enough room to squeeze into the narrow space next to the crib to let its side down, without coming too near to Sara.

  As if realizing Ruby’s dilemma, Patsy Anne pulled herself over to the end of the crib and held up her arms and wrinkled her nose to make herself more appealing. Sara lay curled in bed recalling Alice’s mincing step, her hips shifting beneath her narrow skirt as she lifted the lid of the trunk of her car and set the packages down inside. Sara cringed, seeing herself as she’d seen her reflection in the shop window that day, her suit crumpled from the bus trip, the hat she’d put on before the bureau mirror that morning, which had made her feel stylish and sophisticated, so obviously a cheap imitation of the real thing. Sara groaned now, experiencing the desire she’d had to kick her shoes off in the street, unable to pretend any longer that they’d come from a woman whom time had rendered a faceless stranger.

  Okay, okay, Patsy. Ruby’s going to take you downstairs, yah, yah, Ruby said. She needed a chair. That was about the only way she’d be able to lift Patsy Anne over the end of the crib.

  I’m strong, Ruby reminded herself as she swept clothes from a chair and carried it across the room. There wasn’t enough space between the sewing machine and the crib to set the chair down, so she set the chair off to the side and climbed up.

  The yard beyond the window seemed farther away as she stood on the chair, like a picnic set down on a blanket. Toys and roller skates littered the huge pancake circle of the water cistern. She might clear off the cistern later, put on skates and practise on the cement surface, although it was only large enough for two short glides before she stumbled off the edge into stringy weeds that got stuck in the wheels. One day soon, Oliver had said, I’ll take you kids to Alexander Morris and you can skate on the car dealership lot. This time we’ll ride the goddamned bus, he’d said. And not in the back of the water man’s truck, as they had done the last time.

  Ruby riding with two others in the cab, struck silent to see her father shifting gears, the engine revving and blowing blue smoke, the differential squealing as the truck jounced along the highway. We’ll be coming around the mountain when we come, yahoo! We’ll be coming around the mountain when we come. Only they weren’t riding six white horses but the water man’s rusty truck, and maybe the television in the garage window would be turned on. They were almost there, almost at the sign that said, Welcome to Alexander Morris, population 1,350 and growing! Drive carefully.

  Then, poop, along came the constable, his police siren screaming, sticking his sweaty face in the truck window. Don’t you know, mister? Didn’t anyone ever tell you that when the light’s turned on you’re supposed to pull over? If you care about your kids, then don’t take them riding on the highway in the back of a truck. Don’t take them riding six white horses. I don’t want to see this happening again. You betcha. The next time they’d go on the bus.

  Patsy Anne snuffled and yanked impatiently on the crib railing.

  I’m strong, Ruby reminded herself, her attention once again fixed on the task of freeing her baby sister from the crib. If she grit her teeth she could lift a mountain, and mountains were made of rocks, as most people knew. She believed she could do anything she wanted to, except tell time. Her sisters had tried to teach her, but she couldn’t understand how to count by fives, although she should have been able to, they told her, given that she was five years old. They had said, Now Ruby, you don’t want to be a dunce when you start school, do you?

  Just as Alvina had taught her young sisters, they in turn were bound to teach Ruby to read. They’d cut letters from a magazine and taped them to the refrigerator door, formed words such as CAT, DOG, ICECREAM, RUBY, POOP. Which was in keeping with what the Vandals were known to do. They could read and spell and tell time, run the fastest and jump the highest when they entered the first grade. Their artwork dominated the wall above the blackboards, their singing voices were true of pitch and sweet of sound. They set track-and-field records, following in Sonny Boy’s footsteps. At five Ruby could read the newspaper, and she was strong. But she couldn’t tell time.

  She pulled at Patsy’s arms and felt her rise from the crib. The baby’s expectant grin became a surprised O as her belly slid across the cold metal railing, and she wound her arms about Ruby’s neck. One more little tug, one more tug, and just as Ruby thought, the baby swung down and thudded into her chest. A firecracker of triumph exploded in Ruby’s ribs, and then she felt the chair tip backwards.

  Sara called out from the bed, a screeching eeeek!, but was unable to move. Frozen, as she usually was in an emergency, although, as a child the same age as Ruby, she’d been quick to act. In a slashing white moment of terror, she’d known what to do, while her sister, Katy, had not. Now, as a grown woman, she froze and made this childish, cartoon-characterlike sound, and relied on others to come to the rescue.

  When Ruby realized they were falling, she tightened her hold on the baby, resisting the reflex to flail to try to break their landing. They were going to hit the floor hard, Patsy Anne’s weight might knock the wind from her lungs, but she knew what that felt like. She’d once fallen off the shed roof and lain on the ground gasping. She knew from experience that the sudden inability to breathe was frightening, but eventually her lungs would open and fill.

  The air parted as they went down, the room dropped away, a Palm Sunday leaf on the wall above the bed vanished. Ruby felt a smack of pain as her head struck the iron wheel of the sewing machine, felt it, solid, a ringing sting behind her ear.

  She opened her eyes and found Patsy Anne lying on her chest, her brown eyes startled, apparently unharmed. It’s okay, Patsy’s okay, we’re okay, Ruby said loudly, to cover the threat of tears in her voice. She struggled to her feet, grunting extravagantly with the effort to lift h
er sister and hoist her onto a hip.

  See? No one got hurt, Ruby claimed, although the side of her head had begun to throb. Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes. Oliver sang the song to tease those of his kids who didn’t have brown eyes, which was almost all of them, except for Patsy Anne, Ruby, Manny and The Other One. Oh, beautiful, beautiful brown eyes, I’ll never love blue eyes again, Oliver sang, which made Ida hide in the closet and weep. What a baby. What a, what a baby.

  I’m sick. Tell Alvina I’m not coming down, Sara said, while Ruby puffed and grunted to make herself strong enough to haul Patsy Anne across the room to the closet and a shelf of folded diapers. For every bear that ever there was. Ow, ow, ow, ow, Ruby thought, in order to keep from crying, because she knew that Sara hated tears.

  FIVE

  Sara now and then

  HE SUN ROSE, its rays slanting through the window of Sara and Oliver Vandal’s bedroom, turning a picture of a windmill hanging beside the doorway shades of grey. Earlier in the morning there had been the suggestion of a clay-coloured sun pressing through storm clouds, but in the diffused light, it was no longer visible. Sara lay across the bed and massaged her ribs, studying the foreboding and gloomy print and puzzling as to why she had ever found it appealing. She was thankful that her stomach had settled, but disquieted by the unusual stillness in the house; through it she could hear her ears ringing. A dismal sound that aroused loneliness. The sound of sickness. Gallbladder, likely, Florence Dressler had suggested days ago. Fair, fat and near to being forty, she said, Sara, that’s two out of three.