Road to Thunder Hill

by Connie Barnes Rose

  Now he had me really scared. I’m smart enough to know that I’m no genius, but I’ve always felt just as smart as Ray. So where the hell was he going with this?

  “Trish,” Ray said, in the patient voice he uses with Gayl, “when you’re talking, you have a habit of saying … ‘I seen’ instead of ‘I saw’.”

  I’m sure I gawked at him for a full minute before shaking my head. “I do not.”

  “Yes you do, Trish. Last night when you were telling Bear about the eagle you saw circling over his cabin, you said, ‘I seen an eagle over your place yesterday’.” He quickly added, “It’s not like you say other things wrong. You never say, ‘I done it’ or ‘they was’.”

  I cleared my throat. “People say ‘I seen’ all the time.”

  “It’s a common mistake.”

  “Well, excuse me for being so ignorant.” I folded my arms across my chest and turned away from him.

  “You see,” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You have to put in the ‘ve’ after ‘I’ when you’re talking about something you’ve seen more than once. Like, ‘I’ve seen eagles up on Thunder Hill many times.’ But when you’re talking about what you saw only once in the past, then it’s, ‘I saw an eagle yesterday’.”

  “But I have seen more than one eagle in the past!”

  “See? That’s it exactly! Now shorten the ‘have’ to ‘’ve’ and you’ve got it. ‘I’ve seen more than one eagle in the past.’ Now say it!”

  “But I was talking about the one I seen yesterday!” I cried.

  “The one you saw yesterday.”

  “Did you ever stop to think you might be wrong about this?”

  Ray shook his head. “I’m positive about this. Your father says ‘I seen’ too. That’s likely who you picked it up from.”

  “And my mother?”

  “No. She says it right.”

  “My mother would have told me if I was saying something wrong.”

  “She probably didn’t notice it. I don’t even notice it half the time, I’m so used to it.”

  “But you noticed me using it last night.”

  “Yes. Like you noticed the tongue thing.”

  “That’s because you haven’t done that in so long.”

  “You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Trish. I never stopped doing it. You just stopped being bothered by it.”

  We sat there for a while, listening to the east wind whistling through the house. I thought about my father and how he had made his fortune in blueberries. How he knew every politician in the province and even a lobbyist in Ottawa too, and how he had landed a major exporting contract with Germany only the year before. The fact that he used “seen” instead of “saw” hadn’t hurt him any. I wondered what he would say if someone ever pointed out the big mistake that he’d made all his life, the big mistake that he had passed onto his daughter. He’d likely say, “All part of my charm.” My father was that sure of himself.

  Then I remembered that receptionist job at the advertising agency in Toronto. And how, after only two days, my father’s friend approached my desk to tell me that his former receptionist decided to return to work. Not for one second did I consider that my father’s friend might have been lying just to get rid of me. But now, after hearing about my great grammatical sin, I wondered if it had been ‘I seen’ that had really put me out of that job. I looked at Ray sitting there on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees and his hands drooping between his knees and suddenly I hated him. Not for telling me about “I seen,” but more because he hadn’t told me about it sooner.

  I forgave him, though, that very night. He was a very grateful boy, I could tell, just by how skillfully he used the same tongue that got him into so much trouble. But that’s not why I forgave him. It had to do with the fact that it dawned on me that he was the only person to ever tell me about “I seen.” Since then I’ve said it right. But now I have to stop myself from correcting anyone who says, “I seen.”

  13. Pool Table Bed

  NOW BEAR IS SHOWING me some simple card tricks. They are easy to see through and I tell him so. He looks quite hurt, so I ask him to show me another. I also tell him he is sweet to try and entertain me.

  “Entertain you? I’m just trying to keep myself awake. And warm. It’s freezing in here.”

  “Maybe you should go sleep in Perry’s kitchen,” I suggest, just as my teeth start clacking and a great big shiver almost knocks me off my chair.

  Bear laughs. “That wasn’t just someone stepping on your grave, it was more like they fell right in on top of you.”

  “That’s a fun thing to think about,” I say between chatters.

  “Look at you,” Bear says. “We have to figure out a way to get warm.”

  We look around the room. Other than the couch that Clayton occupies, there are only a few chairs, the cement floor, and the pool table. We look at each other, and then back at the pool table.

  He smiles.

  “You’re joking.”

  “We’ll be off the floor, at least.” He pulls off his sheepskin vest, rolls it up and hands it to me.

  “Your pillow, Madam?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” I say, before grabbing it. “What’ll you use?”

  He tiptoes over to the couch where Clayton is snoring, and slowly slides a cushion out from under his head. He holds his finger up to his lips when I begin to snicker. Then he takes a stack of old newspapers and carefully spreads them over Clayton.

  “Very thoughtful of you,” I whisper when he returns.

  He whispers back, “I thought so too. Besides, we wouldn’t want him crawling into bed with us during the night.”

  “Bed?”

  “That’s right. Here’s your side.” He takes my “pillow” and sets it down on the table. Then he places the stolen cushion next to mine. “And this, is my side. So see that you stay on your own side.”

  “That goes for you too.”

  Bear spreads open a crumpled piece of tinfoil onto the pool table’s bumper. “I’ve been saving this for special occasions. Like a nightcap.”

  We smoke. I never could resist a toke of hash, let alone that of the finest quality. This will surely take the edge off the nasty headache that’s creeping up on me. Sure it will, I repeat to myself, deciding to forget that it will lead to an even worse hangover. For now, at least, the sharp edges of the headache are growing fuzzy. And that candlelight gives off such a warm glow to Hog Holler. That pool table looks pretty welcoming, so here I go, crawling over the side. It’s so nice to be off that cement floor. I think I’ll curl up on my side.

  Bear has just now draped his parka over me. It smells like him and feels heavy and soft at the same time.

  “What’ll you use for a blanket?” I mumble, because he has crawled onto the pool table beside me.

  “We’ll share,” he says, slipping his arm over mine and snuggling up to my back. “Ah, finally, after all these years, here’s my big chance to sleep with Trish Kyle.”

  “Whoa!” I say, struggling to sit up on the table.

  “Just kidding,” he laughs, and eases me back down to the felt. “We’re freezing, right?”

  He hugs me once and then all is quiet until we hear Suzie whining as she circles around the table. I catch glimpses of her nose reaching up and over the edge.

  “Poor Suzie,” I say. “Even a year ago she could have jumped right up here with us.”

  Bear sighs and pulls away, swinging his legs over the side of the table. “Come on Suzie girl, we’ll keep you warm too.”

  He picks up all fifty pounds of Suzie and plunks her down beside me and she settles in, her tail tickling my face, her long snout resting across my leg. It’s getting pretty crowded here on the table, but with her on one side and Bear on the other, I’m finally fe
eling warm.

  Outside Hog Holler, the ice still pelts at the windows but now it sounds gentle and soothing. Behind me, Bear’s breathing has slowed down. I try to match my own breathing to his, something I always used to do when Ray was sleeping and I wasn’t able to.

  “Can’t sleep?” Bear whispers.

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Bear says, “You want to know what I’m thinking? About how funny it is that the two of us are lying here on a pool table, but how it feels like we’ve been doing this forever.”

  “We have in a way. Remember that day in the tree house when we … we went to sleep?”

  He gives me a hug in response, and for a second I think I might actually fall asleep.

  But then Bear starts rubbing my shoulder and I jar myself awake. What the hell is going on here? This is Bear James spooning with you tonight. Not almost twenty years ago, but now. This is Ray’s best friend. Hell, this is one of your best friends! Okay, calm down, it’s not like he’s humping you or anything. Bear is lying so close because tonight is an emergency, and emergencies call for drastic measures. And obviously, this snowstorm is a big emergency, because isn’t that why Ray didn’t make it home to you this weekend? Or the last three weekends either for that matter?

  Into the darkness I whisper to Bear, “You know what I hate?”

  Bear stops rubbing my shoulder like he’s seriously considering the question. He clears his throat and whispers back, “I’d rather hear about what you love.”

  I am suddenly filled with so much desire it makes me want to cry. Desire also makes me want to squirm, but I resist that too.

  He says, “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “What I love? It’s warmth. That’s what I was thinking. I want to feel warm.”

  He holds me even closer and in a flash I feel an ache surge up the core of my body. So I press back at him, but ever so slightly, as if I’m not even aware. And then I wait. Twenty years of sleeping beside a man has taught me that it doesn’t take much encouragement. I’m still waiting … and waiting. I press against him with more encouragement. Where the hell is it? There would be no missing it on a man like Bear. Back at our high school dances he used to press up against us girls so hard that we’d laugh later about getting zipper imprints up to our bellies. Yeah, I know, there’s a big difference between a teenaged boy and a middle-aged man, but we’re talking about Bear who continues to stroke my arm like it’s something precious.

  I have to know. Now. So I twist around in his arms until our noses are touching. His face feels cool and soft against my own. I kiss his mouth and run my tongue between his teeth and when he kisses me back I am greatly relieved. So this is not some big brother thing. Bear still wants me as badly as I want him. I press against him harder, already thinking about how wide my legs will have to part, how he’ll probe and tug, how we’ll have to work at it until … I am already wet knowing it’s about to begin. And there escapes another low moan. I press against him, again. It’s hard evidence I am after, but for some strange reason it’s not there. Suddenly I’m aware of how pathetic this is, and how desperate, and wrong, but still some nagging force tells me to keep working at it anyway, until … without warning he pulls his body away from mine.

  “Trish?” he says, his voice sounding lusty and low.

  “Oh, hi, Bear,” I say, wishing my face wasn’t pressed so firmly against his.

  “I don’t think…”

  I cut him off before he finishes the sentence. “Hey, don’t mind me, okay? I just felt like kissing someone tonight, and you were here, right?”

  “I’m glad you kissed me,” he says, murmuring into my hair.

  “Me too. Sometimes you just have to kiss somebody, right?”

  “I’m a great believer in kisses,” he whispers. “Good night, Trish.”

  PART III

  14. Kyle House

  IT’S SUNDAY MORNING AND here I am lying in this old clawfoot tub, remembering when I was ten and how the tips of my toes barely reached the other end. Now, adult knees rise out of the water like scaly sea monsters.

  It’s true what my mother says about long-term memory growing sharper with age. I can barely recall what happened last night at Hog Holler, yet I remember how my child body looked in this tub. Sharp little pelvic bones stuck up from the sides of a belly that sunk so low I’d have to arch my back to see the bead of water sparkling in my navel.

  Now I open my eyes, fully expecting to see the stretch marks and dimpled fleshiness of my forty-plus body, but somehow, today, in this old tub, my body doesn’t look so changed. Maybe it’s the light through the stained glass window over the head of the tub. I’m glad Olive decided to leave that window when she renovated this old house. I’d always liked how the small squares of colour danced over the bathwater.

  “We are so fortunate to have this great stove at a time like this!” Olive had said, when we walked through the back door into the warmth of Kyle kitchen. For once I had to agree with her as my body dove for the kitchen couch and my head sought the relief of a real cushion, and not some rolled-up coat. Just like the tub and stained glass window, at least Olive had the good sense to keep a couch in her kitchen.

  I watched her lift the lid of the water reservoir. Steam billowed up to the ceiling.

  “We have plenty of hot water for a bath. Who needs a nice hot bath?”

  The twins shouted, “I do! I do!”

  “Girls, girls, remember we said we would be storm rescuers today? And since we rescued your Aunt Patricia, we’ll do everything possible to make her feel at home. So, who would like to carry buckets of water to the bathtub?”

  “I will! I will!”

  “Great. You’ll take turns, okay? And Patricia, we want you to let us take care of you. After your bath, we’ll have some nice hot curry, and then later you can rest in your old bedroom. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great, but don’t bother,” I said, wondering how the hell she manages to get those girls to do chores.

  “Oh, let us, just for today. The girls and I want to, don’t we girls? And besides,” she lowered her voice. “You look like you could use a bath, Patricia.”

  “I do?” I said, knowing full well that I did. Hung-over and unwashed, I likely stunk of rum and smoke. A hot bath, good meal, and a night in my old room above the kitchen sounded good.

  I’ve been at Kyle House many times since Olive and Arthur moved in, but I haven’t felt as connected to it as I do in this tub at this moment. In the past, whenever Olive had led her guests on a tour of the house, she insisted I come along as well. She’d march her guests through the great upstairs hall like we were in some museum and then through the passage to the back of the house and we’d stop in front of what used to be my old bedroom. As if it had some historical significance, she’d say, “This is where Patricia slept as a child. We even kept some of her old books and things! And don’t you love the dormer window? If you’ve ever been to the Anne of Green Gables house over in PEI, you’ll notice we’ve decorated this room in much the same fashion. Muslin curtains were very fashionable then, as were quilts, of course.”

  I commented once that all that was missing was the rope barrier in front of the door to keep the tourists out. Olive didn’t find that so funny, but her Toronto friends did.

  She always ended the tour in the kitchen. If the bathroom off the kitchen and my bedroom have stayed pretty much the same as when I lived here, the kitchen sure hasn’t. Olive had the ceiling exposed to the beams and boards and she replaced the old linoleum with battered looking softwood floors. Choosing the right look had seemed important to her, and before renovating she asked me over to look through countless magazines. My input was critical, she’d said, as no one had a stronger feeling for the place than I did. A Kyle kitchen cal
led for a Kyle opinion. I said I liked natural wood. But instead she ended up finishing the cupboards in what she called distressed paint.

  I couldn’t care less about what Olive did with the kitchen. My feelings haven’t changed from the day my family turned the key and our backs on Kyle House. As far as I was concerned, all we were leaving behind were ghosts. Friendly ghosts, my father would say and he’d tease me about the noises I heard at night, the pencils and things that fell off my bureau, and the cold drafts that seemed to follow me from room to room.

  “You must get that from your mother,” he’d say about Bette, who often complained about another kind of ghost, the spirit of Bernie’s first wife. Once she actually shivered after crossing the threshold into the front parlour. She put her hand to her chest and said, “I feel like Phyllis Kyle just walked over my grave.”

  My father laughed and reminded my mother that his first wife was still alive and enjoying his hard-earned alimony money up in Toronto.

  On my last visit to the palliative care unit, I fluffed my father’s pillows and got him to sip at peach juice. Twice he tried to get his cracked lips to close around the straw. I wet his lips with with little drops of juice at the end of the straw. When he’d had enough, he said, “Ahh. Now that was to die for.” He opened one eye. “I hope you’ll tell everybody I was still making jokes on my deathbed.” He said his back was sore. I offered to rub it, but he wanted to wait until Bette returned from smoking in the visitor’s lounge.

  “Do you want the nurse to give you something for the pain?”

  He looked worse than the week before. I hated seeing his spindly arms that used to be so strong. When I was little he’d toss me up so high in the sky that my breath would catch before falling back to the safety of his arms.

  Now my father struggled say, “I used to worry about all the drugs you were taking. Funny, huh? Now I’m the one who is as high as a kite. Help me to the window, would you?”