by Alice Munro
Rose replied that she knew the poem already, though she was not perfectly sure that this was true.
“Do you really?” said Miss Hattie. “Stand up and face the back of the room.”
Rose did so, trembling for her boast.
“Now recite the poem to the class.”
Rose’s confidence was not mistaken. She recited without a hitch. What did she expect to follow? Astonishment and compliments, and unaccustomed respect?
“Well, you may know the poem,” Miss Hattie said, “but that is no excuse for not doing what you were told. Sit down and write it in your book. I want you to write every line three times. If you don’t get finished you can stay after four.”
Rose did have to stay after four, of course, raging and writing while Miss Hattie got out her crocheting. When Rose took the copy to her desk Miss Hattie said mildly enough but with finality, “You can’t go thinking you are better than other people just because you can learn poems. Who do you think you are?”
This was not the first time in her life Rose had been asked who she thought she was; in fact the question had often struck her like a monotonous gong and she paid no attention to it. But she understood, afterward, that Miss Hattie was not a sadistic teacher; she had refrained from saying what she now said in front of the class. And she was not vindictive; she was not taking revenge because she had not believed Rose had been proved wrong. The lesson she was trying to teach here was more important to her than any poem, and one she truly believed Rose needed. It seemed that many other people believed she needed it, too.
The whole class was invited, at the end of the senior year, to a lantern slide show at the Miltons’ house. The lantern slides were of China, where Miss Mattie, the stay-at-home twin, had been a missionary in her youth. Miss Mattie was very shy, and she stayed in the background, working the slides, while Miss Hattie commented. The lantern slides showed a yellow country, much as expected. Yellow hills and sky, yellow people, rickshaws, parasols, all dry and papery-looking, fragile, unlikely, with black zigzags where the paint had cracked, on the temples, the roads and faces. At this very time, the one and only time Rose sat in the Miltons’ parlor, Mao was in power in China and the Korean War was under way, but Miss Hattie made no concessions to history, any more than she made concessions to the fact that the members of her audience were eighteen and nineteen years old.
“The Chinese are heathens,” Miss Hattie said. “That is why they have beggars.”
There was a beggar, kneeling in the street, arms outstretched to a rich lady in a rickshaw, who was not paying any attention to him.
“They do eat things we wouldn’t touch,” Miss Hattie said. Some Chinese were pictured poking sticks into bowls. “But they eat a better diet when they become Christians. The first generation of Christians is an inch and a half taller.”
Christians of the first generation were standing in a row with their mouths open, possibly singing. They wore black and white clothes.
After the slides, plates of sandwiches, cookies, tarts were served. All were homemade and very good. A punch of grape juice and ginger ale was poured into paper cups. Milton sat in a corner in his thick tweed suit, a white shirt and a tie, on which punch and crumbs had already been spilled.
“Some day it will just blow up in their faces,” Flo had said darkly, meaning Milton. Could that be the reason people came, year after year, to see the lantern slides and drink the punch that all the jokes were about? To see Milton with his jowls and stomach swollen as if with bad intentions, ready to blow? All he did was stuff himself at an unbelievable rate. It seemed as if he downed date squares, hermits, Nanaimo bars and fruit drops, butter tarts and brownies, whole, the way a snake will swallow frogs. Milton was similarly distended.
Methodists were people whose power in Hanratty was passing, but slowly. The days of the compulsory Bible Class were over. Perhaps the Miltons didn’t know that. Perhaps they knew it but put a heroic face on their decline. They behaved as if the requirements of piety hadn’t changed and as if its connection with prosperity was unaltered. Their brick house, with its overstuffed comfort, their coats with collars of snug dull fur, seemed proclaimed as a Methodist house, Methodist clothing, inelegant on purpose, heavy, satisfactory. Everything about them seemed to say that they had applied themselves to the world’s work for God’s sake, and God had not let them down. For God’s sake the hall floor shone with wax around the runner, the lines were drawn perfectly with a straight pen in the account book, the begonias flourished, the money went into the bank.
But mistakes were made, nowadays. The mistake the Milton ladies made was in drawing up a petition to be sent to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, asking for the removal from the air of the programs that interfered with church-going on Sunday nights: Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy; Jack Benny; Fred Allen. They got the minister to speak about their petition in church—this was in the United Church, where Methodists had been outnumbered by Presbyterians and Congregationalists, and it was not a scene Rose witnessed, but had described to her by Flo—and afterward they waited, Miss Hattie and Miss Mattie, one on each side of the outgoing stream, intending to deflect people and make them sign the petition, which was set up on a little table in the church vestibule. Behind the table Milton Homer was sitting. He had to be there; they never let him get out of going to church on Sunday. They had given him a job to keep him busy; he was to be in charge of the fountain pens, making sure they were full and handing them to signers.
That was the obvious part of the mistake. Milton had got the idea of drawing whiskers on himself, and had done so, without the help of a mirror. Whiskers curled out over his big sad cheeks, up toward his bloodshot foreboding eyes. He had put the pen in his mouth, too, so that ink had blotched his lips. In short, he had made himself so comical a sight that the petition which nobody really wanted could be treated as a comedy, too, and the power of the Milton sisters, the flax-mill Methodists, could be seen as a leftover dribble. People smiled and slid past; nothing could be done. Of course the Milton ladies didn’t scold Milton or put on any show for the public, they just bundled him up with their petition and took him home.
“That was the end of them thinking they could run things,” Flo said. It was hard to tell, as always, what particular defeat—was it that of religion or pretension?—she was so glad to see.
The boy who showed Rose the poem in Miss Hattie’s own English class in Hanratty High School was Ralph Gillespie, the same boy who specialized in Milton Homer imitations. As Rose remembered it, he hadn’t started on the imitations at the time he showed her the poem. They came later, during the last few months he was in school. In most classes he sat ahead of Rose or behind her, due to the alphabetical closeness of their names. Beyond this alphabetical closeness they did have something like a family similarity, not in looks but in habits or tendencies. Instead of embarrassing them, as it would have done if they had really been brother and sister, this drew them together in helpful conspiracy. Both of them lost or mislaid, or never adequately provided themselves with, all the pencils, rulers, erasers, pen nibs, ruled paper, graph paper, the compass, dividers, protractor, necessary for a successful school life; both of them were sloppy with ink, subject to spilling and blotting mishaps; both of them were negligent about doing homework but panicky about not having done it. So they did their best to help each other out, sharing whatever supplies they had, begging from their more provident neighbors, finding someone’s homework to copy. They developed the comradeship of captives, of soldiers who have no heart for the campaign, wishing only to survive and avoid action.
That wasn’t quite all. Their shoes and boots became well acquainted, scuffling and pushing in friendly and private encounter, sometimes resting together a moment in tentative encouragement; this mutual kindness particularly helped them through those moments when people were being selected to do mathematics problems on the blackboard.
Once Ralph came in after noon hour with his hair full of snow. He leaned over and shook
the snow onto Rose’s desk, saying, “Do you have those dandruff blues?”
“No. Mine’s white.”
This seemed to Rose a moment of some intimacy, with its physical frankness, its remembered childhood joke. Another day at noon hour, before the bell rang, she came into the classroom and found him, in a ring of onlookers, doing his Milton Homer imitation. She was surprised and worried; surprised because his shyness in class had always equalled hers and had been one of the things that united them; worried that he might not be able to bring it off, might not make them laugh. But he was very good; his large, pale, good-natured face took on the lumpy desperation of Milton’s; his eyes goggled and his jowls shook and his words came out in a hoarse hypnotized singsong. He was so successful that Rose was amazed, and so was everybody else. From that time on Ralph began to do imitations; he had several, but Milton Homer was his trademark. Rose never quite got over a comradely sort of apprehension on his behalf. She had another feeling as well, not envy but a shaky sort of longing. She wanted to do the same. Not Milton Homer; she did not want to do Milton Homer. She wanted to fill up in that magical, releasing way, transform herself; she wanted the courage and the power.
Not long after he started publicly developing these talents he had, Ralph Gillespie dropped out of school. Rose missed his feet and his breathing and his finger tapping her shoulder. She met him sometimes on the street but he did not seem to be quite the same person. They never stopped to talk, just said hello and hurried past. They had been close and conspiring for years, it seemed, maintaining their spurious domesticity, but they had never talked outside of school, never gone beyond the most formal recognition of each other, and it seemed they could not, now. Rose never asked him why he had dropped out; she did not even know if he had found a job. They knew each other’s necks and shoulders, heads and feet, but were not able to confront each other as full-length presences.
After a while Rose didn’t see him on the street anymore. She heard that he had joined the Navy. He must have been just waiting till he was old enough to do that. He had joined the Navy and gone to Halifax. The war was over, it was only the peacetime Navy. Just the same it was odd to think of Ralph Gillespie, in uniform, on the deck of a destroyer, maybe firing off guns. Rose was just beginning to understand that the boys she knew, however incompetent they might seem, were going to turn into men, and be allowed to do things that you would think required a lot more talent and authority than they could have.
There was a time, after she gave up the store and before her arthritis became too crippling, during which Flo went out to Bingo games and sometimes played cards with her neighbors at the Legion Hall. When Rose was home on a visit conversation was difficult, so she would ask Flo about the people she saw at the Legion. She would ask for news of her own contemporaries, Horse Nicholson, Runt Chesterton, whom she could not really imagine as grown men; did Flo ever see them?
“There’s one I see and he’s around there all the time. Ralph Gillespie.”
Rose said that she had thought Ralph Gillespie was in the Navy.
“He was, but he’s back home now. He was in an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“I don’t know. It was in the Navy. He was in a Navy hospital three solid years. They had to rebuild him from scratch. He’s all right now except he walks with a limp, he sort of drags the one leg.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Well, yes. That’s what I say. I don’t hold any grudge against him but there’s some up there at the Legion that do.”
“Hold a grudge?”
“Because of the pension,” said Flo, surprised and rather contemptuous of Rose for not taking into account so basic a fact of life, and so natural an attitude, in Hanratty. “They think, well, he’s set for life. I say he must’ve suffered for it. Some people say he gets a lot but I don’t believe it. He doesn’t need much, he’s all on his own. One thing, if he suffers pain he don’t let on. Like me. I don’t let on. Weep and you weep alone. He’s a good darts player. He’ll play anything that’s going. And he can imitate people to the life.”
“Does he still do Milton Homer? He used to do Milton Homer at school.”
“He does him. Milton Homer. He’s comical at that. He does some others too.”
“Is Milton Homer still alive? Is he still marching in parades?”
“Sure he’s still alive. He’s quietened down a lot, though. He’s out there at the County Home and you can see him on a sunny day down by the highway keeping an eye on the traffic and licking up an ice cream cone. Both the old ladies is dead.”
“So he isn’t in the parades anymore?”
“There isn’t the parades to be in. Parades have fallen off a lot. All the Orangemen are dying out and you wouldn’t get the turnout, anyway, people’d rather stay home and watch TV.”
On later visits Rose found that Flo had turned against the Legion.
“I don’t want to be one of those old crackpots,” she said.
“What old crackpots?”
“Sit around up there telling the same stupid yarns and drinking beer. They make me sick.”
This was very much in Flo’s usual pattern. People, places, amusements, went abruptly in and out of favor. The turnabouts had become more drastic and frequent with age.
“Don’t you like any of them anymore? Is Ralph Gillespie still going there?”
“He still is. He likes it so well he tried to get himself a job there. He tried to get the part-time bar job. Some people say he got turned down because he already has the pension, but I think it was because of the way he carries on.”
“How? Does he get drunk?”
“You couldn’t tell if he was, he carries on just the same, imitating, and half the time he’s imitating somebody that the newer people that’s come to town, they don’t know even who the person was, they just think it’s Ralph being idiotic.”
“Like Milton Homer?”
“That’s right. How do they know it’s supposed to be Milton Homer and what was Milton Homer like? They don’t know. Ralph don’t know when to stop. He Milton Homer’d himself right out of a job.”
After Rose had taken Flo to the County Home—she had not seen Milton Homer there, though she had seen other people she had long believed dead—and was staying to clean up the house and get it ready for sale, she herself was taken to the Legion by Flo’s neighbors, who thought she must be lonely on a Saturday night. She did not know how to refuse, so she found herself sitting at a long table in the basement of the hall, where the bar was, just at the time the last sunlight was coming across the fields of beans and corn, across the gravel parking lot and through the high windows, staining the plywood walls. All around the walls were photographs, with names lettered by hand and taped to the frames. Rose got up to have a look at them. The Hundred and Sixth, just before embarkation, 1915. Various heroes of that war, whose names were carried on by sons and nephews, but whose existence had not been known to her before. When she came back to the table a card game had started. She wondered if it had been a disruptive thing to do, getting up to look at the pictures. Probably nobody ever looked at them; they were not for looking at; they were just there, like the plywood on the walls. Visitors, outsiders, are always looking at things, always taking an interest, asking who was this, when was that, trying to liven up the conversation. They put too much in; they want too much out. Also, it could have looked as if she was parading around the room, asking for attention.
A woman sat down and introduced herself. She was the wife of one of the men playing cards. “I’ve seen you on television,” she said. Rose was always a bit apologetic when somebody said this; that is, she had to control what she recognized in herself as an absurd impulse to apologize. Here in Hanratty the impulse was stronger than usual. She was aware of having done things that must seem high-handed. She remembered her days as a television interviewer, her beguiling confidence and charm; here as nowhere else they must understand how that was a sham. Her acting was another
matter. The things she was ashamed of were not what they must think she was ashamed of; not a flopping bare breast, but a failure she couldn’t seize upon or explain.
This woman who was talking to her did not belong to Hanratty. She said she had come from Sarnia when she was married, fifteen years ago.
“I still find it hard to get used to. Frankly I do. After the city. You look better in person than you do in that series.”
“I should hope so,” said Rose, and told about how they made her up. People were interested in things like that and Rose was more comfortable, once the conversation got on to technical details.
“Well, here’s old Ralph,” the woman said. She moved over, making room for a thin, gray-haired man holding a mug of beer. This was Ralph Gillespie. If Rose had met him on the street she would not have recognized him, he would have been a stranger to her, but after she had looked at him for a moment he seemed quite unchanged to her, unchanged from himself at seventeen or fifteen, his gray hair which had been light brown still falling over his forehead, his face still pale and calm and rather large for his body, the same diffident, watchful, withholding look. But his body was thinner and his shoulders seemed to have shrunk together. He wore a short-sleeved sweater with a little collar and three ornamental buttons; it was light blue with beige and yellow stripes. This sweater seemed to Rose to speak of aging jauntiness, a kind of petrified adolescence. She noticed that his arms were old and skinny and that his hands shook so badly that he used both of them to raise the glass of beer to his mouth.
