As she ate she looked out the window. The sun glowed just above the horizon and it was calm and beautiful. She felt safe and warm floating through this new landscape, this foreign land, a hot cup of tea in her hand. The sun’s rays began to slant in through the windows and more tousled heads appeared. Their owners murmured, yawned and stretched, looked for their shoes. Now that she had spent the night with these people, that they had all shared in the discomfort and forced intimacy, Annabel felt a kinship with them. As if they had all survived an ordeal together. She smiled at some of them as they went by.
That young couple with the baby: they looked awfully young. Younger even than Blaise when he had Lucy. And the baby must be cold, wearing only that little sleeper and nothing on his head. She wanted to go over there and put a blanket on him. She imagined them having to move out of a basement apartment because they couldn’t pay the rent, maybe going to live with her parents. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe they were happy.
The new passenger, if you could believe everything he said, was more of an open book. As he went from seat to seat looking for a partner at cards, he told everyone he had just gotten out of jail. Finding no takers – Annabel was extra-nice turning him down and kept an eye on her purse – he decided to dye his hair and moustache. How he managed to accomplish this in the tiny lavatory sink was a mystery to Annabel, but there he was, walking up and down the aisle with midnight blue smears around his hairline and under his nose. She looked forward to telling Curly. One thing about Curly, he was a good listener. And he didn’t mind, or even seem to notice, if she told him the same story twice. This was a good thing because Annabel loved to talk. And because she spent most of her days alone – she did not drive and was too proud to be seen walking to town on the side of the highway – Curly was the chief recipient of her thoughts and feelings.
First thing in the morning she recounted her dreams and reported on the quality of her sleep. If Curly came home for lunch she told him all about her day so far. She had washed the floors. She wanted to make a pie but she was out of shortening. Maisie had called she said that Normie MacKay was slack. There was something wrong with the washing machine.
On some days the red flash of Curly’s pickup rum-bling by the pantry window was followed by another vehicle: Curly was taking a prospective buyer to the barn. After showing them the horse or item for sale, and especially if a deal was sealed, Curly would sometimes bring the customer in for tea. He knew that she enjoyed this. She liked meeting people and hearing their stories. And she prided herself on her hospitality. She always had something ready. Had learned, because of Curly’s erratic hours, to prepare meals that kept – stews and soups and boiled dinners – and to always have the fixings for a quick sandwich: roast beef and real ham, not that pink foam you peeled off a tray. She made her own pickles and chows and jams, headcheese and white pudding. She baked twice a week – biscuits and squares (or cookies, pie or cake) on Thursday and two loaves of bread on Saturday. She was a housewife and a homebody, ‘the worst visitor in the world,’ she said to people. She enjoyed short outings: to the Co-op and bingo, and visits with her twin brothers in Blue River. A few times a year Curly took her to the mall in Port Hawkesbury or to see her brother Francis in Reserve Mines.
Coming home from those journeys she felt so relieved, and so grateful to live where she did. She’d stand in the yard for a moment and breathe in the peace and quiet. The song of birds and poplar leaves, of water gurgling over the rocks in the little brook. She’d look at everything with new eyes. The grey-and-brown striped hills in the distance. The green or gold or white fields. The three U’s of the horseshoes Curly had tacked above the porch door, one for each of them. The ugly back step, its grey crooked boards splitting with age, hollowed where the feet of her loved ones had worn the wood, and she’d think, How nice they are, how sweet and familiar – why on earth had she ever wanted Curly to replace them? Entering the kitchen she felt a deep contentment. She’d turn on the lights, walk over to the stove and open the vents. Stir the coals, get a dry stick or two, put the kettle on for tea.
‘Home sweet home,’ she’d think. ‘Home sweet home.’
Blaise’s apartment didn’t feel like home at all. Annabel didn’t know what to do with herself. She tried to help with the cooking but she wasn’t used to Wendy’s pots and pans and she miscalculated quantities and burned things. She didn’t know where to put away the dishes after she dried them. Wendy kept saying, ‘Just leave them on the rack, that’s what we do’ but it looked as if the dishes hadn’t been done at all and it bothered her. She would have liked to scrub the floor and clean the refrigerator, which badly needed it, but did not offer to do it for fear of offending Wendy.
She was not close to her daughter-in-law. In part because they had spent so little time together. But there were other reasons: the fact that she was probably an atheist, that she smoked and drank like a man. Not just beer or wine but hard stuff. One summer when they were visiting, she had pulled out a quart of tequila when Blaise’s friend Gordie dropped in. She sat at the table with the men drinking it straight (licking salt from their fists and drinking lemon juice; it was like watching drug addicts on TV). When Annabel saw the empty bottle on the table the next morning she hadn’t known what to expect. But the whole family had come down bright as anything and Blaise had cooked up a big scoff of bacon and eggs. (Which was another thing about Wendy: she always had something else to do when it was time to help out in the kitchen.)
Then there was the dream Annabel once had. It went a little like this:
SCENE I:
A sunny day in late spring on the wide green lawn of a university campus. Colourful groups of happy people stand laughing and talking. Curly is there, wearing a new suit, and Annabel is in brand-new everything: hairdo, dress, purse and shoes. With them is Blaise, wearing a cap and gown and holding a diploma. The camera zooms to the gold ring on his hand with the big black X.
SCENE II:
Ruth MacLean (or sometimes Anna Mae Beaton, but usually it was Ruth) stops Annabel in front of the meat cooler at the Co-op. She saw Blaise’s graduation picture in the Times Star (Congratulations from Mom and Dad), Annabel must be so proud and ‘My, he’s good- looking but he always was, he was a beauty-full baby.’ Sigh. ‘Where did the time go?’
SCENE III:
Blaise, wearing a shirt and tie and dress pants, is standing in front of a high school classroom, holding a chalk. The camera pans to the sign on the door: Mr. MacLeod / Geography.
SCENE IV:
A paved driveway just off Annabel and Curly’s own gravelled lane leads to a brand-new Cape Cod with a brick fireplace chimney on the outside wall. A school bus arrives. The door opens and happy little children spill out. They run down to Annabel’s house where she is waiting with hugs and cookies.
That’s what she had wanted for Blaise.
And Wendy was the one who had gone and ruined it.
As to the child, she was a wild little thing who spoke mainly in shrugs. Up would go the pale wisps of eyebrows, the bony shoulders and arms so white and angular they reminded Annabel of the kindling she kept in the back porch. Her hair was also white, and fine as angel hair on a Christmas tree. Some of it had tangled up into a ball on the back of her head. Wendy called the thing Milton.
‘How’s Milton today?’ she would say to Lucy when she got up in the morning, thumb in mouth and pyjama pants all twisted around her waist. Annabel thought this was a big mistake. The girl would start thinking it was some kind of pet, for heaven’s sake. She’d never want to get rid of it.
Annabel had tried to make friends with the girl the usual ways: with fudge and cookies and smiles, conspiratorial winks. And finally, by ignoring her, a tactic that worked with most children. But Lucy remained wary. Maybe she resented losing her bedroom to her grandmother. Annabel had seen the little bed Wendy had made for her in the spare room, among stacks of boxes and bags, the ironing board and sta
tionary bicycle, the dismantled crib. She imagined their dark shapes looming over the girl at night.
Annabel was just about to get up from the couch and make herself useful somehow when Lucy appeared in the doorway, holding an open picture book. Annabel smiled at the girl, and then, not wanting to scare her off, returned her gaze to the window. So she felt more than she saw the girl climb up on the couch, sit a little ways off, wriggle slowly towards her and thrust the book on her lap.
‘You want me to read this, is that it?’
Lucy nodded.
Other than reading the odd passage in the Times Star to Curly, Annabel had not read out loud since school. She had been asked to read at church but she always declined, thinking it was something for the higher-ups and the show-offy. She had never read to Blaise. Nor had she ever bought him a book. It had never occurred to her.
‘It was a beautiful sunny morning on Fairweather … Farm,’ she began, ‘and Mrs Rabbit was the only one … awake. ‘ “I think I’ll surprise Peter and Pod with some fresh lettuce for –” ’
‘No,’ Lucy said, stopping her hand from turning the page.
‘ “– breakfast.” ’Annabel waited while Lucy looked at the picture. ‘So she took her little brown basket …’ Even to her own ears Annabel’s delivery was flat and stilted. She didn’t know how to make the story interesting the way Wendy and Blaise both did, changing their voices and using funny accents.
‘Aaarch!’ Annabel said. ‘This book’s no good.’ She closed the cover. ‘I’ll tell you a real story.’
‘Once upon a time there was a boy named Rory and he lived on Mount Young. Rory was a big strong boy. Every morning he got up early to help his mother do the milking. He’d put on his boots and little coat and go to the barn to give the cows their feed and their hay and water. He had to pump the water into a bucket and carry it to the cows. It was hard work. You wouldn’t believe how much water a cow drinks. Guess how much? Oh it’s a lot more than that! That would be like a thimble of water for you and me, about as much as you could put in your Mickey Mouse spoon. Cows need buckets and buckets of water to make milk.
‘After that Rory would help his mother carry the milk inside. Then he’d change out of his barn clothes and sit down at the table and have a big bowl of hot porridge with cream. He did this every day before going to school.
‘Well, one morning when he and his mother got to the barn, they saw that a little calf had been born during the night. It was a bull. His mother had been hoping for a heifer (that’s a girl-calf) so she was disappointed.
‘Rory felt bad for the little calf. It wasn’t his fault he was a bull. He was a beautiful little calf, a Holstein – do you know what colour a Holstein is? It’s black and white. I’ll have to show you one when you come visit.
‘So every day now, while the calf ’s mother was getting milked, Rory would go to its pen. He’d pick him up and carry him all around the barn. He’d show him the other cows and the cats and the chickens that came in to eat the grain. The little calf didn’t seem to mind one bit. He seemed to like his walks in Rory’s arms.
‘After a few days Rory started to take him outside. They’d walk around the house and the garden and the pigpen. After school he’d take him for another walk. Rory was twelve years old but he was a big boy for his age. He could lift that calf like it was nothing. But every day the calf was getting bigger and bigger. Calves aren’t like babies, you know, they grow up really fast. So every day Rory’s arms made new muscles so he could keep lifting the little calf from his pen and carry it around the yard. Every day the calf was a little heavier, and every day Rory was a little stronger. His family thought it was funny the first few times they saw him with the calf but then they got used to it. Then one day a visitor came and he couldn’t believe his eyes! A boy carrying a big bull calf around like it was a dog or something. And people on Mount Young started talking about it and even the teacher came to the farm to see the boy who could carry a bull.’
Lucy was silent. She had not moved a finger during the story. She looked up at Annabel.
‘Then what happened?’
THE BEST DAY OF HER LIFE
Annabel had convinced Blaise and Wendy to let her take the girl home to Cape Breton for ten days. Anyone could see that Wendy needed a break. She had dark circles under her eyes and her clothes were hanging off of her. Annabel thought it would be good for them to have time alone. To lie together in bed and cry if they wanted, without worrying about Lucy hearing.
She had spent her last afternoon in Sudbury with Blaise while Wendy was in MacFarlane Lake visiting her mother. (Annabel had met her, finally; she was a round little woman with thin legs who looked as if she liked a drink.)
Annabel made fish cakes for lunch and they ate together, Blaise on a tray on his knees, she sitting beside him in a chair, holding her plate. After he had his tea he lay down again and she stayed with him. They talked. About the weather. About Curly. What he must be eating while Annabel was away: eggs fried to rubber; pork chops and bread every night.
‘Remember when I went to Uncle Roddie’s funeral and he decided to make spaghetti sauce and – ’
But Blaise forestalled most conversations about the past. He had no interest in his former life as their child.
‘Do you know what Lucy did last night?’ Annabel said. (Blaise could talk about Lucy all day.) ‘I promised her a game of War before she went to bed – she knows every card in the deck, and boy-oh-boy does she love to win! Just like her grandfather: I’ll have to tell him. For a while we were taking turns winning but after I went to my room to get some Kleenex I noticed she was winning all the hands. “Wait a minute!” I said. “Let me look at those cards!” And wouldn’t you know it, she had stacked the deck while I was gone!’
How good it made her feel to hear Blaise laughing. There was still something she could do for him: make fish cakes and biscuits and make him laugh. After that the talk turned to her nephew Michael, who had dropped in the night before with the three little boys he was raising alone, his wife having left him for a drummer in a band she’d met at the Coulson. ‘And good riddance,’ Blaise said. But Annabel wasn’t so sure. The youngest boy had something wrong with him, he was hyperactive or something, and Michael looked tired and old.
They were both quiet then, Annabel looking out the window at a bank of still grey clouds. She played with her blouse, rolling and unrolling the hem. She still felt uneasy in this room. Walking in the first time, knowing that she would see her son ill, was the hardest thing she had ever done. She knew that there would be no going back after that. And that it would break her heart. She also felt uneasy because it was that most private of places, the marriage chamber, charged with secrets, nudity and sex. She remembered the guarded forbidding place that had been her parents’ bedroom and thought of her own secrets back home: the jar of Vaseline that they had to use since she went through the change, the love letter Hoppy MacKay had slipped into the pocket of her coat a week before her wedding (she had never told Curly about it), the cash in the safety deposit box – money that Curly did not declare on his income tax.
Annabel looked at her hands on her lap. Her fingernails needed trimming. And those pants could use a wash; she should have thought of that before, now there wouldn’t be enough time for them to dry, she didn’t like to put her good things in a dryer. Looking up again she saw that the rack of clouds had still not budged. There was rarely any wind here; Blaise said it was always like that. It was one thing she liked about Sudbury. There was a cobweb in the top corner of the window, all speckled with the husks of dead flies. She thought back to when those flies were still flying around. To that anxious bitter summer after they learned of Blaise’s cancer. But at least they still had hope then. Now even that had been taken away.
Blaise had fallen asleep. She looked at his arm on top of the coverlet, his hand so thin now, and small, the muscles having shrunk from disuse. Still, she w
ould have recognized it anywhere – by the position of the thumb in relation to the fingers; the shape of the fingernails (he had lost the habit of chewing them after he married); that check-mark scar on one of the knuckles. It had been a lifetime since she could bring this hand to her lips, kiss it a hundred times. Since she had trimmed the soft little fingernails with her teeth, as she had seen her own mother do. Since his hand fit around her index finger (the wisp of bruised lint when you unfolded the moist little fist). Since she had removed a sliver, bandaged a cut, held burned fingers in a bowl of ice water so he could fall asleep.
Since the day of his baptism.
Blaise had fussed the whole time they were at church but as soon as Curly started the truck for home he fell right to sleep. Annabel carried him up the stairs to her bedroom, laid him down as carefully as she could in the new crib and covered him with the light blue blanket her cousin Joan had given her. She returned to the room often, worried that she wouldn’t hear him when he woke: the house was full of people – Curly was pouring drinks in the parlour and her sisters-in-law were in the kitchen slicing the ham and taking potato salad out of the fridge. Each time Annabel entered the bedroom she removed her new high- heeled shoes and tiptoed to the crib. She was wearing a silvery jade dress with a matching bolero she had bought special at Henderson’s. Around her neck was the thin gold chain and locket that Curly had given her on their first wedding anniversary.
Lucy Cloud Page 7
