“What’s a plague?” Greg asked, climbing down from the gate.
“Like measles, only worse.”
“You got something for us in your bag?”
“Sure thing.”
“We got something for you, too.”
“Well, how about that.”
“You want to guess what it is?”
“I guess it’s a cookie.”
“No.”
“An apple.”
“No. You can’t eat it. A human bean can’t eat it, I mean.”
“What does a human bean do with it?”
“Keep it as a pet.”
“Oh. Well, I’m just about ready to give up. What is it?”
“Let me tell him!” Marv shouted. “Let me! It’s an angleworm!”
The postman took off his cap and scratched his head. “An angleworm, eh? Let’s see it.”
The angleworm, now fairly moribund, was duly produced from Greg’s pocket and placed carefully in the postman’s hand.
“Well, now, isn’t he cute? I must admit no one’s ever thought of giving me an angleworm before.”
“You’ll take good care of him?” Greg said anxiously.
“You bet I will. I think I’ll put him in my garden where he’ll find other angleworms to play with. There’s nothing worse than a lonesome angleworm, so I’ve been told.”
“How do you know he’ll meet the kind of angleworms he likes to play with?”
“They’re not fussy.” The postman opened his sack and distributed the mail as impartially as possible to the two boys. “Well, I’ve got to be on my way now.”
“Someday,” Greg said, “can we come with you and carry the sack?”
“Someday, sure. So long, fellows.”
“So long.”
They watched him until he turned the corner, then they set out for the house. Usually they hurried at this point. It made them feel important to hand over the mail to their mother or Mrs. Browning. But this morning their feet lagged and they kept glancing back at the gate as if they half expected the postman to reappear and offer to take them along on his rounds.
Their mother was waiting for them at the front door. “What a lot of mail. It must be heavy.”
“I could carry the whole sack,” Greg said, “if I wanted to. Someday I will, he said I could.”
Marv put up an immediate protest. “He said both of us, me too.”
“That will be very nice, I’m sure,” Esther said and began glancing through the mail, putting the bills in one pile on the hall table and the circulars in another. There was only one letter.
For a long time Esther stood staring down at the handwriting on the envelope. Then she said in a cold, quiet voice, “You boys had better go to Annie.”
They were afraid of this voice, but they couldn’t admit it, to each other or to themselves.
“I hate Annie,” Marv shouted. “I don’t want . . .”
“Do as I say, Marvin.”
“No! I won’t! I hate Annie!”
“I hate her too,” Greg said. “We’re going to teach the new dog to bite her.”
“Boiiing!”
“Boiiing, boiiing, Annie gets bit.”
“Boiiing, boiiing, old Rudolph gets bit.”
“Stop it,” Esther said. “Please. Please be good boys.”
“Boiiing, boiiing, everybody gets bit.”
“ ’Cepting us.”
“Boiiing . . .”
“Oh God,” Esther said and turned and ran across the hall into the library.
Her sudden flight and the loud shutting of the door stunned the boys for a minute. Then Marv said, tentatively, “Boiiing?”
“Oh, shut up. You’re such a baby. Shut up.”
Marv began to cry. “I want Mummy. I want my Mummy.”
The letter postmarked Collingwood, was addressed to Esther in Ron’s handwriting.
She knew in advance that it would contain bad news and she tried to prepare herself for it by imagining the worst, that he’d left her for another woman and wasn’t coming back.
She was only half right.
Dear Esther:
By this time you may know the truth, that Thelma is carrying my child. I won’t try to excuse myself or explain,
I can’t. It happened, that’s all I can say. I didn’t know about the child until tonight. It was a terrible surprise, too terrible for me to face. My God, what I’ve done to you and Harry.
I don’t ask your forgiveness. I give you instead my promise that I will never hurt you or anyone ever again. I’m not fit to live. I’m sick in mind and body and soul. God help me.
Ron
She did not faint, or cry out, or weep. She stood like a stone; only her eyes moved, reading and rereading the words on the page.
She was not aware of the door opening and when she looked up and saw Annie her eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Annie seemed misty and remote as if she were surrounded by ectoplasm.
“Mrs. Galloway?”
“Please don’t—don’t bother me right—right now.”
“But I can’t do a thing with the boys. They’ve both gone wild, screaming and laughing and carrying on. And Marvin just bit me.” Annie exhibited her wounded wrist. “I’m not sure but what they’re coming down with something. Do you think I should phone the doctor?”
“All right.”
“You don’t look so good yourself, Mrs. Galloway. Maybe you’re coming down with the same thing. Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes,” Esther said. “Call the police.”
“The police?”
“I’ve had a letter. From my husband. I think he’s killed himself.”
Marvin came bouncing into the room, screaming, “Boiiing! Boiiing, boiiing!”
Esther turned with a sob and picked him up in her arms and held him tight. Too tight. There seemed to Marvin only one logical thing to do and Marvin did it. He bit her.
THIRTEEN
While the two Galloway boys were waiting for the mailman in Toronto, little Aggie Schantz was on her way to the small country school she attended near Meaford. In the winter when Aggie had to follow the road because snowdrifts made exploring foolhardy, if not impossible, she took the quick and direct route. But it was spring now, and the only snow left lay in crevices between rocks, in the hollows of tree trunks along the snow fences sagging under the weight of winter.
Aggie was a quiet child of eleven. She behaved decorously at school and obediently at home, and no one ever suspected what an adventurous spirit lurked behind her brown braids and black bonnet, or what itchy feet were buckled inside her canvas galoshes. Aggie came from a family of Mennonites whose outside contacts were limited and whose meager amount of traveling, to and from church or from one farmhouse to another, was done by horse and buggy. Aggie dreamed of a larger world. Sometimes when she was looking at a map in geography class, she grew quite dizzy thinking of all the hundreds, the thousands, of places she wanted to visit. They were all places of extremes—the highest mountain, the largest ocean, the biggest city, the oldest country, the hottest desert, the highest waterfall, the fastest rapids—Aggie intended to see each and every one of them.
While her dreams were wild, her plans for escape showed both common sense and resourcefulness. As a farm child she knew enough about horses to realize that they were a slow and unsatisfactory means of transportation. Horses had to be fed and watered and sheltered and rested and groomed. Trains and buses were equally impossible since she had no money. And so Aggie’s eyes turned to the lake, to the fleets of fishing boats and the passing freighters that were so large one small stowaway wouldn’t be noticed. She couldn’t stay away from the lake, she scanned it constantly as if she were shipwrecked on an island, waiting, cold and hungry, for rescue.
As soon as the
spring sun melted the snow from the cliffs above the lake, Aggie began taking an indirect route to school. Carrying her books and her lunch in a gray canvas bag, she climbed up to the top of the cliff and then down to the beach by a special steep path used only by agile children and venturesome dogs. The beach along here was very narrow, six feet at its widest, and strewn with boulders and rocks of all sizes. To keep from getting wet she was forced to leap from one boulder to another, but this proved tiring work and she sat down for a minute to rest, tucking her legs modestly under her long full cotton skirt. Her time sense told her she was going to be late for school, and her conscience warned her she’d better do something about it.
“There’ll be hell to pay,” Aggie said aloud, and the sound of the forbidden word was as intoxicating as a strange tropical drink. “Maybe I’ll go there. It’s the hottest place.”
Half-shocked, half-delighted with her own wit and daring, she began to giggle self-consciously, turning her face sideways so that it was almost hidden by the folds of her black bonnet. And it was then, out of the corner of her right eye, that she spotted the red and black plaid cap wedged between two rocks.
She often found things on the beach, especially in the summertime, sometimes a piece from an old tire, a soaked and dilapidated shoe, a rusty tin can, or an empty bottle, but these were all worthless things, discarded by the owners and battered by the waves. The cap was dry, and no one would ever have discarded it because it was brand-new. It had a plastic visor at the front and a scarlet pompon on the crown? and to Aggie, who had never owned anything bright-colored in her life, it was a thing of beauty. She pushed back her bonnet, letting it hang from her neck by its strings, and put the plaid cap on her head. It came down grotesquely over her ears and eyes, but Aggie did not know that this wasn’t correct. Nor did she, like most eleven-year-old girls, long for a mirror to see how she looked. Mirrors were banned in the house she lived in, and the only glimpses of herself she ever caught were chance and fleeting reflections in a sunny window or in the pond behind the barn on a still day. Therefore she didn’t realize that she looked foolish; she knew only that the cap was beautiful, and so it must look beautiful on anyone, anywhere.
But because it was beautiful, it was, by the same token, forbidden. She looked around to check her privacy, and finding it complete, she took off the cap, compressed it as carefully as possible and tucked it inside her waist blouse. Under her bulky clothes it was barely noticeable, and it might have escaped detection entirely if Aggie herself had not been so extremely conscious of its presence, partly from pride in its possession and partly from discomfort over its location.
By the time she reached the small brick schoolhouse the final bell was ringing and the pupils were already lined up to go inside. Red-faced and panting, holding her arms across her chest, Aggie slipped into her place in line, and began marching into the smaller of the two classrooms.
Here Miss Barabou taught, or tried to teach, the four upper grades. They were a mixed group, not only in age and ability, but in background and religion. Miss Barabou herself was a Presbyterian of French Canadian ancestry, and among her pupils she counted Anglicans, Baptists, Mennonites, Christian Scientists, Methodists, and even two Doukhobor children from Alberta. Like many teachers, Miss Barabou chose her favorites principally on the basis of their obedience. The Doukhobor children were wild and unruly, often disrupting the class or flouting authority, and with them Miss Barabou was sharp and critical and sarcastic. On the other hand the Mennonite children were quite docile, they never questioned adult authority or criticized adult behavior or expected adult privileges. While Miss Barabou disparaged the Mennonite religion, she was often grateful for its results, and Aggie was her special pet. Aggie’s position was not entirely enviable, however, for Miss Barabou expected a great deal from her special pets and easily became exasperated when she didn’t get it.
After the class had bowed their heads and mumbled the Lord’s Prayer in unison, they sat down at their double desks and began removing their books from their school bags.
Miss Barabou took her place at the front of the class. She was large and majestic, and though she seldom punished her pupils, most of them stood in awe of her.
“Spring is here,” Miss Barabou announced with satisfaction, as if she’d had a personal part in its arrival. “Did anyone see a robin on the way to school?”
Hands were raised and seven robins counted. An American eagle was offered by Boris, the Doukhobor boy, but was turned down on grounds of improbability.
“We do not have American eagles in this part of the country, Boris.”
“But I saw one.”
“Indeed. Describe it,”
Boris described the eagle with such complete accuracy that Miss Barabou was visibly shaken.
But she was also determined. “We do not have American eagles in this section of the country. Ever. Now will someone please mark our seven robins on the bird chart? You, Agatha?”
Aggie sat motionless and mute.
“Agatha, I am addressing you. Do you know where we keep the bird chart?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Will you kindly mark our seven robins?”
“I can’t.”
“Indeed, and why not?”
“I can’t find my crayons.”
“Well, stop squirming like that and take another look.”
“I can’t.”
“Which do you mean, you can’t stop squirming or you can’t take another look?”
Aggie didn’t answer. Her face was burning and her tongue felt fuzzy and dry.
“If you have an itch, Agatha, kindly go into the cloakroom and relieve it,” Miss Barabou said in exasperation, thinking, The awful way they dress their children, it’s no wonder they itch. I’ll bet she’s got on six layers of clothing at least. She added, more gently, “Agatha, is anything the matter?”
“No, ma’am.”
It was at this point that Miss Barabou noticed Aggie’s empty desk. “Where are your books, Agatha?”
“I—don’t know.”
“You lost your school bag, is that it?”
“I don’t know.”
The rest of the class had begun to titter and whisper behind their hands. Miss Barabou ordered them brusquely to start work on their book reports, and went down the aisle to Aggie’s desk, her heavy step warning the class to behave. She was positive now that something was the matter with Aggie; the child’s face was such an odd color and she was trembling. Maybe she’s coming down with something, Miss Barabou thought. That’s all I need right now is an epidemic. Oh well, if it gets bad enough they may close the school and I’ll have a holiday.
“Do you feel ill, Agatha?” Miss Barabou asked, somewhat heartened at the idea of a holiday. “Stick out your tongue.”
Aggie stuck out her tongue and Miss Barabou studied it with a professional air. “I can’t see anything wrong. Does your head hurt?”
“I guess so.”
“Let’s see, you had measles and chicken pox last year. No mumps yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, think of a lemon.”
“A what?”
“Pretend you’re eating a lemon. Or a pickle. Can you pretend that?”
“I guess so.”
“All right now, does your throat feel queer on both sides just under your chin?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you’re not pretending hard enough. Keep picturing that pickle, it’s very, very sour and you’re eating it. Now do you feel anything?”
“No, ma’am.”
Sylvia Kramer raised her hand to announce that she had a real dill pickle in her lunch box and would gladly offer it for the sake of research. Miss Barabou replied that that wouldn’t be necessary, and led Aggie into the cloakroom for further and more private diagnosis.
“Has a
ny of your brothers or sisters been ill, Agatha?”
“Billy has the toothache.”
“That’s not catching. Why are you squirming and clutching your chest like that?”
Aggie shook her head.
“Do you have a pain there?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Honestly, the way they dress you children, it’s a crime. Are you still wearing your long underwear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve a good notion to write a note to your parents. It’s hard enough teaching without having to teach itchy children. For all I know, you have lice.”
Tears welled in Aggie’s eyes. She blinked them away, hard. “Agatha,” Miss Barabou said quite gently, “now tell me truthfully, what is the matter?”
“I lost my school bag.”
“Perhaps you forgot and left it at home.”
“No. I lost it. On the beach.”
“When were you on the beach?”
“This morning on my way to school.”
“The beach isn’t on your way to school. Besides, all you children have specific instructions not to go near the beach by yourselves. A lonely spot like that, you can’t tell what will happen.” Miss Barabou paused, significantly. “Did anything happen?”
Aggie merely looked up at her in helpless bewilderment, and Miss Barabou realized that the child didn’t understand. She tried to explain patiently that little girls didn’t go to lonely beaches by themselves because there were some bad men in the world who might do nasty things to them. “Did you see any men down there?”
“No.”
“I hate to be suspicious, Agatha, or to nag. But I have the distinct impression that you’re not telling me the whole truth.”
Though Miss Barabou’s voice was kindly, her eyes burned with such intensity that Aggie had the feeling they were looking right through her waist blouse at the red and black plaid cap.
An Air That Kills Page 12
