Before lunch, she’d hurried back to meet Jewel. A yellow breeze teased the branches, the cove and the glasshouse with its ironstone walls looming through the trees. Jewel was slow coming out; sniffling, he wiped his nose on her skirt, saying he wasn’t going back. In front of everybody she’d held him in her arms, though he was big for his age, telling him to be a brave soldier; everyone had things they didn’t want to do. The traveller was still next door when they passed, Jewel’s eyes lighting up at the sight of his wagon.
The house smelled too clean as he pulled out a limp sprig of chamomile and gave it to her. When she asked why he hadn’t given it to Sister, his teacher, he sulked, “I don’t got a sister.”
“Sister Rosa?” she’d prompted. When she asked what they’d done all morning, he said that “Father Circus” had visited, and that his nose resembled Mr. Babineau’s.
“Becka even said it did.”
Becka?
Then he’d asked, “Whose father is he, anyways?” mentioning how they’d heard about wisdom and fruit and a words, like axe-cement, like the time he’d gone through the ice. Then, with grim delight, he asked if she could guess what Becka did—“You know, Missus’s girl?”—and said she’d peed herself, in her seat. She was retarded, he said; he’d seen how she acted at Mr. B’s. The Marryatt girl. So much for Harry minding Jewel at home while she was at Mass!
Jewel balanced a marble on the tip of his tongue, and kicked the table. All the way back to school he whined and dragged his feet, till she bit her cheek so hard she tasted blood. When the bell rang, he tried to hide behind her. School had only been in an hour when they phoned, asking her to come right away. As she raced over, there was a noise like the Lizzie backfiring. The traveller was lounging in the schoolyard. Something red slicked the steps. Stepping over it, she’d gone inside, following the corridor to the office. A nun quite a bit younger than Sister Jerome answered her knock. Jewel was standing in a corner, a red-haired boy in another. Introducing herself, his teacher scribbled a note and slid it under a vase of wild asters. Slightly askew, the desk practically filled the dismal little room. “We don’t tolerate such behaviour,” Sister Rosa said sternly, in a voice that didn’t match her heart-shaped face. Then she asked Lucas, the redhead, to explain.
An Embrie, Lucy could tell, related to the Boutiliers. He had wet splotches on his shirt. “I seen everything,” he said: Jewel in the “warshroom” playing with the soap. “Squirtin’ it all over, cross my heart and hope to die.” The nun murmuring what a mess it made, soap everywhere for the custodian to clean up. Lucy asked to see the principal, but Sister Jerome was indisposed, said Sister Rosa, clearing her throat, and saying there’d been an accident. Lucas launched in, “Seen that too. Dog went right for her, didn’t he Jool?” Sister Rosa sniffed: “I’m sure you’ll agree, punishment was in order.” Lucas couldn’t stop himself, saying that as soon as Sister Jerome lifted the strap to Jewel, “whomp! Lucky striked!” nearly ripping her fingers off.
Jewel’s chin twitched; it was a struggle not to pull him to her. Lucas marvelled, “Her own dog, Sister J’rome’s!” saying how they’d watched her feed him at recess, out of her hand. “We seen the blood, too,” he said, and Sister Rosa blinked; on the floor was a spattering of red dots.
Murmuring that it wasn’t his fault, Jewel wanted to know where Lucky was now. Explaining that the custodian had taken care of it, the nun’s voice had warmed slightly: “the poor thing.” But when Jewel asked brightly if Lucky was in heaven, she barked that dogs didn’t have souls, only people did. And since the day was almost over anyway, he should go home and think about the state of his.
In the schoolyard, Ida Trott was lounging around with the traveller, spitting the seeds from an orange. She yelled, “You there, Missy! Fine then, be stuck up!” as Lucy kept walking, and hollered how Lucy should keep an eye on her son—“Boy like that; you don’t want no harm coming to him”—and how she’d seen an owl in Lucy’s cup, though she’d said nothing at the time, and a cat too, before Lucy’d crossed her. “Not good, missy!” she cackled, till the traveller finally shouted, “For the love of Christ, Ma, shut your gob.”
SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW SHE’D broach Jewel’s trouble with Harry, imagining his rant: Goddamn mickey school, that’ll be the last time they try laying a finger on my kid! But after work he just stopped long enough to change his clothes, in a rush to see a mandolin Boots—Edgar Boutilier—was selling. He must’ve noticed that something was wrong, “Your lip should be in a sling, girl,” but groused that there was no pleasing her. Pointing out their latest acquisitions, a table for the phone, a picture of a ship he’d wangled someplace, he said, “What do you want from me?” You, she’d wanted to blurt out, I want you to stay put and listen. Instead, she murmured cryptically how she wished Jewel didn’t have to grow up. “Cripes, not now,” he’d grimaced, asking how she figured he paid for all this stuff. “It doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”
At bedtime, Jewel said that Lucas Embrie was a liar, that he’d never touched that stinking old soap, and that Lucky’d saved his hide. “Shoulda seen Sister’s hand,” he said. “Like the time Mr. Boutilier’s dog killed a rabbit!” But he sounded frightened, saying they were still going to strap him, so for sure he couldn’t go back. Sister had it in for him, especially after Lucky “striked.”
“Struck,” she said as calmly as possible, and looking thoughtful, he’d mentioned that Lucky Strikes were Mr. Babineau’s favourite smokes. Then, pleading for a puppy, he asked if she believed in witches. “Don’t be silly,” she’d said, and, wanting to know the difference between a witch and a nun, he’d asked about the chicken lady, Old Backdoor Trotts. “She’s a witch,” he said, “don’t you believe in her?” She’d buttoned her lip then, smiling till his thoughts turned in a different direction, his voice tiny: “Lucky wasn’t lucky at all, was he?” And he asked what would happen if you swallowed a marble, the two of them eyeing each other at the sound of the Lizzie pulling in. Part of her had wanted to skitter free, like a pile of ashes. Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children alone…
By the time she stumbled downstairs Harry was lying on the couch, almost corpse-like, in a suit she hadn’t seen before. The stink of liquor oozed up. One lapel was stained, and his shirt open, his tie—a tie?—askew. Strangest of all was a bruise on his neck, a yellowish one with teeth marks. Tiptoeing upstairs, she’d found his fiddle and brought it down, dragging a shriek next to his ear fit to raise the dead, before shaking him. Not a bit of good it did, her efforts as useless as tits on a bull, as that damned Babineau and his kind would’ve said.
11
“IF THIS DOESN’T CALL FOR A PARTY, I dunno what does!” Rebecca shrieks into the phone, nearly taking Lucy’s ear off. She’s not ready for this; heaven knows when Rebecca gets something in her head there’s no stopping her. But Lucy tries anyhow, reminding her that it’s a hospital, and she doesn’t think…“Welcome back. Get well soon,” Rebecca charges on, “What would he like on the cake?”
Cake? “But he’s only just opened his eyes,” she says; it’s rest he needs, and what matters is that he can see their faces. Lordie, it’s like tiptoeing around an avalanche, being diplomatic, telling Rebecca she knows she means well, but…
Since when has she ever listened? “Stay right there,” Rebecca answers back. “Don’t move, we’re on our way.” The line clicks dead; that’s right, she can’t help thinking, go get Jewel all churned up. A party! Now watch, after getting everything in an uproar, who’s the one who usually disappears? Still, she feels a bit mean hanging up, remembering it’s a hospital phone, harbouring who knows what germs? Too late for her own benefit, she remembers the fresh tissue up her sleeve and gives the mouthpiece a wipe. For it’s as if angels are smiling down, the corridor aglow with benevolence. Harry, Harry, Harry, she cheers inwardly, like a fan at one of those matches that, God willing, he’ll soon be watching once again on the beloved boob
tube.
Despite Rebecca’s enthusiasm, it’s a dog’s age before they come trooping in, the whole family, even Robert. Rebecca leaves an imprint of her lips on Harry’s pasty brow, then bustles off. They can hear her in the hallway asking for directions. Jewel touches his father’s shoulder as if it belongs to someone else, then folds his hands, gravely gazing down while Robert nods at his grandpa in that way young fellas do, acting like men. An eighteen-year-old imitating some old goat: the thought deepens her smile. Dampening another tissue, she wipes the lipstick off Harry’s forehead. His eye follows her hand the way a dog would follow a cut-up wiener.
Soon, sitting around the bed, thanks to Rebecca they’re all drinking tea—even Harry—from Styrofoam cups that taste of plastic. Lucy holds Harry’s as he sucks his tea through a straw, sputtering like a tap when the pipes are frozen. His eyes squeeze shut with exhaustion as she mops his chin. The shifting light—birds passing the window?—brings back that dark time when she’d spooned soup into him. But Rebecca would have no inkling of that.
“There you go, Pop! Bet that tastes some good, what, after that godawful sugar water?” she cheers, and his eye opens, a wary slit. Then, quaking, his hand pushes the cup away, a confused yet obstinate look replacing suspicion. The nurses have left Q-Tips dipped in Vaseline; wiping his chin again, Lucy swabs his lip still caked with blood from those dreadful gauze stays.
“Now don’t you go to sleep on us,” Rebecca coos down at him, then slips into the teensy bathroom. “Surprise!” she hollers, emerging with a cake still in its Sobeys box, hastily picking off the price tag. It’s white, with hard-looking blue roses and little silver balls like BBs; mercifully, though, it’s been left blank. All they had, she says, on such short notice. A nurse peeks in, an unfamiliar one, and asks whose birthday it is; her busy cheer makes Lucy feel inadequate. Wiping away tears, Rebecca beams at Harry, eyeing Robert as if he should explain. At his glower she sighs, “Well, now that you mention it, guess you could say…” It’s a resurrection cake, Lucy hears herself murmur as a floor polisher rumbles by, and maybe they’ve misheard, the nurse blinking when Robert cracks a grin, and grinning too but looking baffled, Rebecca calls out giddily, “Congratulations, Pop! Today’s the first day of the rest of your life.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Robert coughs, slumping on a footstool, a giant with his legs thrust out. “Hey, Grampa,” he says, taking a big swallow of tea then crushing his cup. Only Jewel has kept quiet. Using the bed for a table, Rebecca cuts the cake with a tongue depressor, handing out slices on tissues. Luckily she’s rustled up a spoon from somewhere, and Lucy loads it with icing for Harry to lick. But he lets out a hiccup, and then a moan.
“See?” Rebecca jumps in. “You’re liking that, aren’t you, Pop? Aren’t you, Harry?” If only she could keep the dismay out of her voice; it’s as though she’s wobbling on the edge of something; and why does she have to shout?
“Honey,” Jewel finally speaks, “the stroke didn’t hurt his hearing.”
“You dig that, Ma?” Robert lights into his mother, licking his fingers. “I know it’s heavy.” He’s teasing her? Ignoring him, Rebecca slouches back, picking at her cake.
Lucy can’t help it—better late than never—and reminds him, “Manners, darling.” Someone has to, if his parents won’t.
Rebecca sucks icing from her teeth, blinking, annoyed? “Wait a sec,” she sniffs, “I almost forgot. Jewel, hit it, would you?” What now? Jewel flushes, mumbling about toning things down, and how she needs to think of his dad’s nerves. The way he says it makes Lucy feel bad for not going along with Rebecca a bit more; she’s only trying to help, after all, and it’s not her fault, maybe, that nothing registers till it’s a national event! “Fiddle-faddle,” she clucks dismissively, which fills Lucy with a little wave of relief, as if she’s been let off the hook. As Rebecca squats to put on the record, her skirt rides up and there’s a ripping sound—nylon?—and a flash of bare thigh. She’s well-intentioned, if not always appreciated.
“Watch it, Ma!” Robert shoves his mother out of the way and carefully lowers the needle; the record wobbles like a flat tire. But a reel jumps out, and closing his eyes as if trying to dream himself somewhere, anywhere else, the boy moves his head slowly, fingering what must be the frets of a pretend guitar. Well, he always did have a good imagination. But then a curiosity, maybe even nosiness, hits her; what’s going on behind those lids? Blouse-less hippie girls dancing, their long wet hair swinging in the rain? In his smirk she can almost see naked skin slicked with mud. Oh, glory. Not that there are girls like that in this part of the world, none she can think of, anyhow; they’re only that way in the States, or maybe in Vancouver.
Barring speculation, Harry’s pale hand lifts suddenly from the blanket and falls, lifts and falls again. Rebecca slaps her knee, picking up on it. “See? ‘Got my dancing boots on, got my Sunday best,”’ she parrots the singers on Don Messer, nudging him. “Hey, Harry?” Her eyes full of something that makes Lucy look away. You frigging doom-and-gloomers, that smile seems to gloat. As if he’s her own.
THOUGH HARRY’S IMPROVEMENT MIGHT SEEM small potatoes, to her it’s a blooming miracle, and the first chance she gets, Lucy hauls herself off to Mass. There’s hardly anyone there, mostly just ladies from the league, and it’s not easy dodging their looks. It’s not as though Harry’s home free, exactly. Call her superstitious, but it’s early to bubble over with relief: it might be bad luck.
The new priest acts like a master of ceremonies, and doesn’t seem to mind the lack of an audience for his homily. It’s too bad there aren’t more listening, she thinks, though he has an irksome habit of adding k’s to his ing’s, and of rocking back and forth on his toes, saying what it is to seek the “kingkdom” of heaven. Ah, but the visions of rightness this conjures: Harry happily dozing in front of the TV, his beer virtually untouched. And Robert, yes Robert, shaking someone’s hand and collecting a diploma. His mom marching past the perfume counter, telling herself she’s sweet enough already, and thinking twice about flashing that infernal Chargex card, poor Jewel footing the bills. Lucy’s mind drifts, then hooks itself around the words “mustard seed.”
“Sproutingk and takingk root right under our noses,” the blushingly young man enthuses; his excitement almost vibrates. “The smallest seed on the planet. Growingk and spreadingk its branches, all the birds of the air nestingk there, and the snakes of the field,” his eyes needle her, and once more she’s imagining Harry, only this time he’s watching Untamed World or whatever that show is, and grinning as if he’s got all of humankind pegged. Donkey, ape, dingo. Goddamn chihuahua! Lil Marryatt had died too soon to get a name, the thought wafts down like dust from the rafters, enough to make her sneeze. A rabbit, maybe? A skunk? No, Lil’s scent had drawn men, not repelled them. Maybe she’d have been better tagged in the plant kingdom: some sort of prickly shrub, with Lord knows who or what nibbling on its buds. Or a Venus flytrap, that would’ve been Lil—though equating her likes with a green, growing thing was distasteful. Stop.
Tuning herself once more to those ingk’s, she forces herself to think piously of twigs turning woody, leaves unfurling in fast motion the way they do on TV. Lord only knows what a mustard plant looks like; easier just to picture an apple tree. Blossoms. But next she imagines someone lying under one. A child, maybe; a little girl in a pink dress? Staring up through the branches, her limbs outstretched like the points of a star. A little girl with a dirty face; no, worse, a man’s face. Alone and lost as that prisoner, oh dear God, how many years ago? That poor Mr. Heinemann scrounging around for wormy fruit. Glory, how the brain meanders! The ingk’s lasso and corral her thoughts, but only for a moment. Except, except, she decides, resolute: the sky overhead would be clear, wouldn’t it? The sky above the tree. A cloudless, transparent blue, the blue of forget-me-nots. As if it’s part of a dream, she imagines Harry’s shirt, its faint smell of sweat, even after she’d washed and pressed and given it awa
y… Stop it.
“Imagine, brothers and sisters!” the priest intones, looking barely old enough to shave. “While you and I are eatingk and sleepingk…” And he blesses himself, and mercifully, it’s time for Communion, which she sits out, eyes shut in a pose of prayer. Like the ostrich, its head conveniently buried: if she can’t see the league ladies, they can’t see her, so she won’t have to explain, or brook their murmured encouragement. Their encouragement just now, she realizes, would be like getting dunked in a claw-footed tub of ice cubes. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the one to limbo must be steamrolled with the need to smile and nod as other people’s troubles get offered up as examples meant to succour or “boo-ee” the spirits, as Rebecca would say.
At the end, Father Langille nails her just as she thinks she’ll slip past, asking how things are. A ridiculous thought creeps in as he blushes, clearing his throat. As if he hasn’t had the last word! But she shouldn’t be so critical; it’s not every young fella chooses the life; imagine Robert in that robe and collar. Still, her mind whips round to Harry; he’s never been more with her—What critter, what critter is Father Langille, do you think? Harry’s voice plays inside her head. An otter, maybe, with those wet black eyes?
Glass Voices Page 16
