The Seary Line (40 page)

“Why did you leave?”

“Leave where?”

“Bended Knee. Why did you leave your home? All those memories?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time. And Nettie's here.”

“I picture it, you know, and it all seems so quaint. That life that you had. Knitting and gardening. Puttering around. Making bread. Two small children.”

“It wasn't always so lovely. There was hard times too. Plenty of them.”

“Even being widowed. Working to raise your family. There's charm in that.”

Stella stifled a laugh. “If only I had of known that then. Might have made things easier.”

“Oh, Nan. I didn't mean no offence. It's just like something out of a book. Nothing like I know.”

“Well, you growed up without a father, too, in some ways.”

“It's different though. Mom gets her cheque the first of every month.”

“There's still struggle. Maybe not so obvious.”

“Hey, remember that first time I ran away from home?”

“And I found you.”

“And you asked me if I was coming home, plain and simple, and I said, ‘No. I'm going to live here forever.'”

“Yes, you had your mind set. Living in a swamp. Why did you run away again?”

“I haven't a clue. Only thing I remember is the feeling of the warm muck on my bare feet. You told me I looked like a motherless kitten kneading a blanket with my toes.”

“Did I say that? Lord, you've got a mind like a steel trap.”

“Yup. I never forgot it. 'Cause I felt motherless a lot of the time. And somehow you knew it. You saw it. Like it was written on me or something.”

“Ah. I was probably just trying to lure you back is all. Perhaps I should've offered cookies.”

“Mmm. The mind job was all right too.”

“Oh, honey,” Stella said. “Try to think about sweet things.”

“Sweet things.”

“Not things that are going to tangle you up inside. Taking God-only-knows how long to straighten out.”

“I guess you're right, Nan. No point dwelling on that.”

“That's the spirit.”

“Too much other stuff to dwell on.” Summer jumped up, shoulders hunched. “Do you want to go back to the car?”

Stella eased off the rock, and her body felt as though the rock were reluctant to let her go. Bones and joints and muscles stiff. “If I can make it.”

They back-tracked to the car, and Summer gripped Stella's arm to guide her in the pitch black that coated them.

“Nan, you're like a chunk of ice. Should we go get some chips and gravy?”

“Cup of hot tea?”

“Chips and gravy and hot tea. It's a date.”

They reached the car, and Summer twisted the key, patted the dashboard when the sputtering settled into a gentle hacking. “Good old Betty Blue. Knows when to kick up a stink. Knows when to come through.” Summer adjusted the volume on the radio, pressed buttons, said, “Ooo, I love this one too. Bob Dylan.”

“Oh my.” Stella put her hand to her cheek. “Sounds like a rusty screen door.”

Summer looked over at Stella, said, “One thing, Nan. Before we leave.”

“Go ahead.”

Summer got out of the car, came around to Stella's side, and opened the door. She held out her hands. “Will you dance with me?”

Stella laughed, shook her head. “My Lord. Second invite tonight.”

“Well?”

“No, no, my dearie. I'm far too old to dance. I haven't danced a step since I was your age.”

“Please, Nanny? I swear I won't make fun.”

After a moment, “Do you promise to stop tormenting yourself over nothing?”

“I can only say I'll try,” Summer replied, and helped Stella out of the car.

“All right then, but none of that old funny stuff. Just something slow and respectable.”

Dome light spilling out onto the wet pavement, Summer took Stella's dry hand in hers, hugged her, and guided Stella around in gentle circles. “I'm sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.”

“Take it easy, maid. Not too fast with me.”

“Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings . . . foggy ruins of time. . .” Humming now.

“Oh my, honey. Folks'll think we belongs in a mental institution.”

“Who gives a rat's ass?”

“Well, now. I don't suppose no one does.”

“Nanny E, can you promise me something?”

“If I can, sweetie.”

Summer rested her head on Stella's shoulder, the crisp fabric of Stella's coat creasing Summer's face. “Don't ever die, all right? Don't ever leave me.”

“I'll do my best, Summer. My best is all I can do.”

And as they turned, Bob crooned, “. . .in the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.”

Her friends had left, plates and glasses were washed, and the leftover chicken tomato casserole was completely
cold. Quite late, that was all she knew, though Elise wasn't certain of the time. On the wall behind the dining table was a large gold-coloured sun, pointed rays, gently ticking clock for a face. But, the shaft of light from the street lamp fell just below the numbers, and in the dimness, she couldn't make out the hands. For some reason, she did not want to rise from her spot, perched on the slender arm of a high-back chair, and look.

Most days, Elise tried to avoid thinking about Summer. Thinking about all the ways she had gone wrong with her daughter. Thinking about how different they were. But tonight, she couldn't sleep, and even though she'd had three ounces of cognac, the thoughts could not be kept at bay.

To begin with, she had rushed into marriage. There was no doubt about that. After leaving Bended Knee, life in St. John's wasn't how she'd imagined it at all. Grace, Nettie's daughter, was about as exciting as three-bean-salad, though she did help Elise get a job as a maid. Room and board and light meals were included, but the extra money was not enough to afford the hairclips and the dresses and the burgundy round-toed shoes that she craved. Still, she managed to fritter away her monthly allowance on what Grace curtly called “non-essentials.” And after several years of going nowhere, Elise turned her attention to her employer's unmarried eldest son. Joseph was shy and stern, but it took only a month of working her charms. Then, they were caught by Mrs. Lane in a compromising situation involving her perennial garden, pink phlox, a mound of crushed goldenballs that had been in full bloom. She encouraged her son to marry posthaste. “For decency's sake.”

At first Elise was proud of her small bungalow, proud to be the wife of a supermarket manager, proud of
strolling with her daughter. Early on, Joseph had given her permission to purchase a pair of red shoes, but they scuffed easily, and the heels wore down with her walking. He told her to make do. Make do with the shoes. Make do with the table set. Make do with her wardrobe of outdated clothes. Gradually she felt bored by it. Yes, bored. And she became acutely aware of everyone else around her: the women who had more, and nicer, and the men who held the door for her, smiled. She knew those men sensed her ability to stray before she even acknowledged it. She wondered if there was a smell to it, clinging to her. A wanton smell, rising up from dissatisfaction.

The garden hose finally did her in. Of course that might sound silly, but it was the truth. She had been planting marigolds in the backyard, needed to water her orderly bed, and she picked up the hose with one hand, twisted the spigot with the other. On her palm, she felt the water rushing through, one amazing pulse, a sputter, another amazing pulse. The entire green snake coming alive right in her hand. With that, she felt such an overwhelming sense of arousal that she dropped the hose, water still gushing, and started walking towards Tucker's Grocery. She pretended to herself that she would wait for Joseph in his cramped office, but now she could admit that she knew Joseph would not be there. Instead, she marched straight into the stockroom, leaned her back against the door, reached her hands up behind her and flicked the lock. Six months before, Mr. Tucker had hired the blond-headed teenaged son of a friend to organize the shelves, and the boy always winked at Elise as she tossed the cans in her cart from one hand to the other, and up onto the checkout table. In the storeroom, Elise could smell cardboard and dust. She could hear her own breathing. And she could hear the promise of a blond boy rustling packages behind a dimly lit shelf.

That had been a mistake. Elise knew it. Her A-line skirt hiked up around her waist, back pressed against a splintery shelf, canned goods tumbling, rolling across the floor. It was heady business for several passionate moments, but the boy stomped out any afterglow when he smirked at her, uttered, “Christ, man, you're old enough to be my freaking mother.”

In some divine form of intervention, Mr. Tucker, a bachelor, died shortly thereafter, and left that store (and four others) to Joseph. Their lives became more comfortable, and Elise learned to be much more discreet in her dalliances. When Joseph came to her one drizzly November evening, told her he was selling the stores, moving to Florida, she felt betrayed. Cheated upon. How dare he? Abandon her and her daughter. He stared at her, eyes like a dead fish's, and said, “Don't be dramatic. You abandoned us years ago.” He had wanted to take Summer, begged for the child, but Elise had refused. Wanted to hurt him. No court would ever listen, she assured him of that, and he exited her life as quietly as he had come into it.

Elise was the only one of her friends who was divorced. They pretended to envy her when they came by for coffee, the freedom of choice that was now available, but still, Elise knew, they would never switch places. There were plenty of romances over the years – shallow encounters, a few months or even a year of meaningful dates – but in the end, they never progressed past a certain point. Two men had wanted to marry her, but she couldn't manage it. Discovered that being alone, being untethered, suited her just fine.

Elise smiled sardonically at herself. How come she had started out thinking about her daughter, and ended up thinking about herself? What does that say about a mother? “It doesn't say very much.” Elise's voice sounded hollow in the darkness. She didn't want to concede that such a pattern of thought was the standard.

Elise pulled across the sheer in the window, pinched the fabric behind the bend in her knee, and watched the road. Where were they? The two of them, grandmother and granddaughter. Out having a good time. Having a good laugh at Elise's expense, no doubt. Their bond seemed so easy, and witnessing it made Elise almost nauseated with envy. Though when she saw them next, she would not let on that she was even bothered by their absence. By the snub.

She let the sheer fall away, once again covering the window. Early morning light was beginning to open the room, and Elise stood abruptly, knocked over the cigarette stand. The green glass tray tumbled out of its holder, and ashes and butts spilled across the cream-coloured carpet. She stared at the mess for a whole minute, decided to clean it in the morning. Without glancing out the window again, Elise turned and walked towards her bedroom. The clock on the wall was illuminated. But she did not look to see the time. She didn't want to know.

Eldred Wood. That was who.

The name came to Stella when she was making her way along Water Street, on a slow stroll with Nettie Rose. They stopped for a moment in front of F. J. Hines Piano Shop, and Stella was reminded of that old man who would play piano when she was a young woman in Bended Knee. She remembered how he would wander up and down the laneway, tripping over his feet, hands awkwardly positioned in front of him, fingers bent over eighty-eight invisible keys.

Stella shook her head. How strange to see a connection between two completely unrelated people.

“Did you want a cup of tea?” Nettie asked. “We could rest a spell, have a cup of tea.”

“We just had one,” Stella replied. “Not ten minutes past. I can still taste it on my tongue.”

Nettie smacked her lips. “Oh.”