When I Was Young and In My Prime (13 page)

Honest to goodness I never saw anything to beat it. That woman would push her plate out in front of her—just like this—and hunker down—look I'll show you. Like this. On her elbows! Not a word of a lie! And then she'd shovel the food into her mouth, not lifting at all. Look. And she held the fork like this—for all the world like an oar! Just like this, not even lifting her arm one bit. Not a word of a lie. Well. I couldn't eat at the same table with her. Had to take my meal afterward standing at the sideboard in the kitchen. Now let that be a lesson to you. Honest to goodness.

things that still have not left her

1 chewing

with her mouth closed

2 disdain
 

for the strength of my grandfather's
 

coffee

3 the ability to sound out words

from whatever's on the coffee table—articles on
 

bear attacks in
Reader's Digest,
 

sexual assaults in the local paper,
 

the sanctuary roof leaking in the church bulletin—

each word falling apart behind her the moment
 

she moves onto the next

4 the ability to return a compliment

for example: when Uncle Nick says,

What a nice dress you have on Mom

she says in return,
And yours is nice too

5 sight-reading the melody line from sheet music

when put in front of a piano, she can still
 

play the right
 

hand
 

6
 
smiling
 

when kissed

The kiss James gave me on his way out to give a guitar lesson this morning was different somehow. A hint of a stranger. I wanted badly to know what gave it this flavour of newness. A certain restraint? A new tongue technique? Something in his bearing said,
I could surprise you.
His hand, on its way to my back, brushed my breast only glancingly, almost as if by accident, as if there were lines we hadn't yet crossed together. His other hand holding his guitar case. Something in the way he kept a slight distance made me feel unexplored—curious and worthy of curiosity.
 

To hold back. Not say. Leave untouched. Camp out nearby. Admire from a distance. Go to the edge but not enter. Heidegger's pilgrimage to the Greek island of Delos: when he finally got there he found he'd imagined the sacred site so clearly and so often and the sight of it from the boat so matched and even surpassed his imaginings, that he couldn't bring himself to disembark.
 

To not get off the ferry. To not set foot on shore. To stay at sea.
 

We need more kisses like that one.

Lois King, on the chrysanthemums

I think for a long time none of us admitted even to ourselves what was happening. Then there came a point you couldn't deny it anymore. It was in the spring when it dawned on me. Or the summer. When do mums bloom? She brought chrysanthemums that day. From their garden, of course. Peter always had such a lovely garden. I passed by there the other day, by their old place on Silver Street. Such a shame it's all gone to seed now. Any-hoo, I remember it was a UCW meeting and I was hosting—it was my turn. Peter must have dropped her off, but she didn't even knock. I just happened to open the door because I'd burnt the orange loaf and I wanted to let in a little fresh air. Lord knows how long she'd been standing there with that big bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in her arms, the ends all wrapped in damp paper towels. I could tell right away by the look on her face when I opened the door and saw her standing on the front stoop with an armful of mums, her forehead tight and her eyes on the doorbell, well, I could tell that she was having one of her bad days. That's what we'd been calling it, she and I,
her bad days
. So before taking her inside I just stepped out onto the porch with her and took the flowers and gave her a little hug with one arm and whispered in her ear,
Just try to keep a stiff upper lip, Mary—it'll be fine, just fine.
I don't know how I knew what to say. Normally I'm plain useless in those kinds of situations. I clam right up. But somehow the words just came to me. She looked at me with a kind of—relief. A kind of devoted relief, and we went inside, arm in arm. I remember thinking it was the kind of look you get from a hurt child or a dog or a man who's just fallen in love with you. That was when I knew she was never going to be the same. She sort of stuck nearby me that day and didn't say much, but when she did it wasn't anything out of order. I remember when Peter came to pick her up, I made a point of praising his chrysanthemums.
   

Peter Peter pumpkin

eater Mary Mary quite
 

contrary had a wife and
 

 
how
 

does your garden grow?

When Mary was still home, she'd soak her teeth in a water glass overnight. Had all her real teeth pulled years ago—dentist in Brantford said it'd be easier in the long run. On nights I couldn't sleep, I used to look at her beside me sometimes. Sleeping away there. Toothless. Face sunken like a landslide. Whole landscape changed. Middle-of-the-night thoughts, you know.

Lost her teeth at the nursing home last week. Nurse on duty just shrugged her skinny shoulders and told me,
You keep valuables here at your own risk.
Bitches, all of 'em. Want to know how much I pay every month to the goddamn crooks who own the place? Orientals now. Well, let's just say it put me in a state. Worst part of it was nobody willing to give me a bloody straight answer as to what I should do. Had me walking around all week debating this way and that whether or not to replace the things. Costs hundreds to replace a whole set of dentures. Hundreds. I called Ruth long distance and she wasn't any help. Ran into Lois King in the grocery store on Thursday, and she wouldn't say a thing either, not even when I asked straight out,
Do you think she even knows the goddamn difference?
All of them just shrugging their shoulders.
It's up to you, Dad. Whatever you think is best, Peter.
By the end of the week, I caught myself talking right out loud about it as I was digging up the glads.
Christ,
I said to myself,
all the food in the place is mush anyhow—the bastards are afraid of being sued for choking—what does she need teeth for?
But then I'd walk the block and a half to visit her and her face was a different face, not hers, not her own you know—more like a goddamn natural disaster than a face—and I'd end up going home early so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore.
 

Then this morning I woke up even earlier than usual. Hours until the light. I was staring at the whatsisname. Group of Seven man. Lawren Harris. The Lawren Harris picture in the bedroom. The one of the iceberg or whatever the hell it is. The one I never liked. Always thought it was too cold, but she had a soft spot for it. All I can say is, staring at that painting, something came clear in me. Just like that. It was like I'd been looking at a small part of the thing, and now all of a sudden I saw the whole of it. I don't know. All I can say is the hours I had to wait then until the dentist's office opened at nine o'clock and the receptionist finally answered the phone, well, I'd be lying if I didn't say they were some of the longest hours I've lived.