Читать книгу The Stubborn Season - Lauren B. Davis - Страница 13

It was a sticky-hot August and even the flies buzzed at the windowpanes without much interest. A ceiling fan moved thick air around the small drug store. Douglas arranged the bottles carefully on wooden shelves behind the register. He liked to have things orderly. There was music to symmetry. Blue bottles of Epsom salts and bromides, arranged tallest to tiniest. Green bottles of foot powder. Clear bottles of headache tablets. Dental cleansing powders in tall yellow tins and Dr. West’s toothbrushes. Odorono deodorant. Ointments and salves in flat silver tins. Bottles of cough syrup and small vials of smelling salts. Under the counter rested the items of a more intimate nature. Prophylactics. Feminine cleansing apparatuses. In the back room narrow shelves were lined with prescriptive medicine.

Douglas polished a small amber bottle of antacid. He didn’t like dust, believed it was a disease that must be battled the same way he battled coughs and rashes and boils and bad nerves. The notion of bad nerves led him, as so many things did these days, to troubling thoughts concerning Margaret. He had tried every remedy possible on Margaret and nothing worked. Women, he knew, were prone to hysteria, and needed a firm guiding hand, but the firmer he was, the more she retreated into her private world. And so he had tried kindness, cajolery, but she only smiled weakly and gazed at him blankly, as though he were a stranger.

He straightened a row of Mistol Rub, making sure the edges were exactly even. He said to himself that perhaps Margaret was getting better after all. It had been two months since the day he had come home and found her in inconsolable tears, vowing she would be a better, more understanding wife and pulling out hair from her head, one single strand at a time. It had taken hours to get her calmed down, and he had been forced to resort to laudanum. Still, that had been the last truly bizarre incident. And she had stopped the endless canning and preserving, which was good, since their cellar and garden shed were packed to the rafters with more food than they could eat in three years.

She hardly ever nagged him when he didn’t come home on time these days. He would not go so far as to say she preferred it when he stayed away, but she did seem to have accepted that a man was entitled to his own life outside the home.

“Good morning, Mr. MacNeil.”

Mrs. Watkins was standing before him, all teeth and good intentions. She gave off a scent of eagerness, a slightly powdery, freshly scrubbed smell.

“Good morning, Mrs. Watkins. How are you this fine bright morning?” Douglas unconsciously folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, we’re all well at our house. Melting a bit in this heat, but surviving. Ebbie, Izzy, Lisa, all growing by leaps and bounds. Just like weeds, those kids.”

“Ah, that’s fine, fine indeed.”

“And how about Irene? I haven’t seen her lately.”

“No complaint there. Grades through the roof last term. Smart as a whip, and yes, as you say, growing like a little weed.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I thought maybe she’d been ill.”

“No, touch wood.” He tapped the oak countertop. “No more than the sniffles now and then. A robust child.”

Mrs. Watkins opened her purse and then shut it again, the clasp making a sharp little snapping sound. “We don’t see Irene around much anymore. Ebbie invited her over several times, but it seems her mother’s feeling a little low these days. I have tried to drop by, to see if there’s anything I can do, of course, but perhaps she doesn’t hear me knock.”

Douglas noticed several of the magazines on the rack were improperly placed. The Ladies Home Journal was upside-down and the edges turned back. He frowned. He must stop the neighbourhood boys from coming in and looking without buying. This was all they were after, pictures of ladies in their slips and girdles. Little imps.

“It’s not anything serious, I hope,” said Mrs. Watkins, leaning forward.

“Serious? Is what serious?”

“Why, Mrs. MacNeil’s illness.”

“Mrs. MacNeil is just a little tired, is all.”

“What a shame. Perhaps I can bring her by a casserole?”

“Is there something I can get for you today, Mrs. Watkins? I have some of that lavender water you’re so partial to.”

“Oh. Well, yes, I suppose I could use a bottle of that. And a small tin of aspirin, Mr. MacNeil.” She raised her plump hand to her throat. “I hope you don’t think I’m prying. I’d never think of prying, as I’m sure you know. I’m the soul of discretion my husband always says. A secret would go to the grave with me. But some of the ladies couldn’t help but notice that your wife isn’t as social as she once was, and little Irene, well, it’s not healthy for a child to be in the house all the time, especially now, in the summer weather. Don’t you agree, Mr. MacNeil? A child should be with other children . . .”

“I’m sure you’d never dream of interfering, Mrs. Watkins.” Douglas put her purchases in a paper bag.

“Never! Of course not!” Mrs. Watkins blushed deeply.

“I assure you, everything at my house is as it should be. Your concern is appreciated, but quite unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. That will be ninety cents, please.” Douglas held out the bag, with his arm straight and firm. “I’m sure you’ll excuse me—I have inventory to arrange in the stock room. Good day to you.”

“And to you. Please give my best to your wife,” said Mrs. Watkins, but Douglas had already disappeared behind the heavy dark blue curtain.

Nosy old bitch. His hands were trembling slightly. Why did people have to stick their nose in? That was exactly the sort of talk that must be nipped in the bud. A medical man, such as himself, almost a physician really, must be seen to have a healthy and well-adjusted family. The community expected it.

Douglas heard a dignified and indignant snort from Mrs. Watkins and then the tinkle of the bell over the door. He reached behind the Annual Pharmacists Reference volumes and dabbled his fingers about until they settled on the smooth glass of the whisky bottle. As he unscrewed the lid, the peat and heather scent made him feel better immediately. He raised the bottle to his lips. Just a little toot. And another.

Margaret would snap out of it, as she always did, and there would follow a period of gaiety and good humour. Douglas treated himself to a wee nip more. She was not terribly ill. Everything at home would be just fine.

He pulled the day’s newspaper off the shelf where he kept it for quiet moments such as these, first pouring himself a last drop into a small tin cup he kept handy.

The paper had been full of economic encouragement ever since July, when the Conservatives had won the federal election. R.B. Bennett was, in Douglas’s opinion, an arrogant blowhard whose predictions concerning the imminent end of the Depression were nothing more than election rhetoric. He sighed, chuckled to think how some people couldn’t see their own hands at the ends of their sleeves, and turned to the comics, eager to see what Moon Mullins was up to today.

Ebbie plunked herself down on the stoop and munched on an oatmeal cookie, not caring about the crumbs that dropped on her overalls. She had hoped that after her mother’s talk with him, Mr. MacNeil would let Irene come over and play, and she was mightily disappointed in her mother’s failure. Ebbie was not the most popular girl in school, or out of it for that matter. Summer vacation was half over, and without Irene, Ebbie was left out. It had been bad enough when school was still in session and Irene had to go home every day right after school, but at least they'd had classes together and recess. Irene had taught Ebbie how to skip double dutch. Without Irene she would have stayed under the elm tree, picking the scabs on her knee and chewing the ends of her hair. The kids never asked her to join in on anything. Only Irene asked her. Irene didn’t care what the other kids thought of Ebbie. Her mother had told her to leave it be, that there were some things you just couldn’t change and that if people didn’t want help you couldn’t force it on them. Maybe not, but for heaven’s sake, loyalty should be rewarded.

Ebbie finished her cookie, stood up and dusted off the seat of her pants. She marched along with strides as long as her legs would allow. Her hands were in fists and her arms bent, flailing at the air like a pint-sized prize fighter. She had made her mind up. She would march right up to the house and ring the bell.

Ebbie turned on to the pathway at 51 Homewood Avenue without slowing her step and mounted the stairs. She rang the bell and waited, her hands shoved deep inside her pockets, fraying the inside seams.

The door opened slightly and Irene herself peered around the door jamb. Her hazel eyes looked bigger than Ebbie remembered. The dress she wore was as neat and tidy as if she was on her way to school.

“Irene! Hi!”

Irene put her index finger up to her lips. She came out onto the doorstep and pulled the door shut very gently. She balanced on the step, as though not sure she should come out. Her mouth was squinched as small as could be.

“Ebbie, I’m so glad to see you,” she whispered.

Ebbie took her friend’s hand. It was small and still, hardly a live thing at all. “Are you okay? How come you’re all dressed up? Are you going somewhere?”

“We have to be quiet,” Irene said, still whispering. She nodded toward the window. “My mother’s lying down.”

“Well, then, why don’t you come out?”

“I can’t. I just can’t.”

“She won’t mind if she’s asleep.”

“No, not really asleep, I don’t think. But she’s lying down. She told me not to go out of the house. She might need something.” Irene’s eyes darted left and right, up and down the street.

“She won’t mind. I’m sure she won’t.”

Irene bit her lower lip and her eyes began to fill up with tears.

“I can’t, Ebbie. I just can’t come out.”

“Well, all right, then. Why don’t I come in and we can play Parcheesi or checkers or something?”

Irene brushed away her tears with the back of her hand.

“We’d make noise. She’d hear us. She doesn’t want anybody in the house.”

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Come on.”

“Irene! Who are you talking to?” Margaret’s voice was a sharp bark. Irene jumped, and her hands curled up against her breastbone. She reached out with one hand and opened the door a crack.

“Nobody, Mummy. Just Ebbie. She stopped by. Just for a minute.”

“Hi, Mrs. MacNeil!” Ebbie called out with a big grin on her face, even though she couldn’t see Irene’s mother. She craned her neck, trying to see around Irene’s shoulder and into the dim house. She felt a thrill like when she sat up late and listened to radio plays about spooky houses. “I just came to get Irene and go play for a while. We won’t be long.”

“Ebbie! No!” Irene shook her head wildly.

“Irene can’t go out,” came back the flat answer.

“Oh, please, just for an hour? Please?” Ebbie wheedled as Irene tried to clamp a hand over her mouth.

Mrs. MacNeil swung open the door and looked straight at Irene, as though Ebbie wasn’t even there. Irene instantly stepped back and stared down at her shoes, but Ebbie smiled up at Margaret like nothing in the world was wrong. Mrs. MacNeil wore no makeup, and her dark hair was dull and uncombed. Ebbie’s mother would never come to the door this way. Maybe Mrs. MacNeil really was sick. Her skin looked grey, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“How are you, Mrs. MacNeil?”

“Irene can’t come out and play. I need her at home. Isn’t that right, Irene?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Well, how about if Irene and I just go into the back garden for a while? She’ll still be home then, in case you need her. And we won’t disturb you at all. I can be quiet as a mouse. We’ll just talk and be quiet and you won’t even know I’m here at all.”

Mrs. MacNeil entwined her fingers and held them together tightly, so that the knuckles became white and red.

“Is that what you want, Irene?”

Ebbie poked Irene in the small of the back and then took her hand, held it where Mrs. MacNeil couldn’t see. Irene squeezed.

“It might be nice. Just for a little while.”

“I see,” said her mother.

The girls waited.

“Yes, I see now,” said Mrs. MacNeil. Irene dropped Ebbie’s hand. “It’s very clear. Fine. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s okay, Mummy. Ebbie doesn’t have to stay.”

“No. If that’s the way you want it, I insist. Ebbie will stay today.” She raised her eyebrow. “One hour. No more.”

“Thanks, Mrs. MacNeil. We’ll be so quiet you won’t know we’re there.”

“Oh, I’ll know.” She stepped back and slammed the door.

Irene’s lips twitched.

Ebbie took both Irene’s hands in hers and jumped down the step, pulling Irene with her. She hopped up and down and danced around, her feet going every which way and her head flopping back and forth, her wheat-pale hair flying, until Irene smiled at how foolish she was.

“Okay, come on, we might as well. I’m going to get what-for anyway.” Irene led the way through the side alley to the back garden, never letting go of Ebbie’s hand, even when she had to reach over the gate to unhook the latch.

Irene said she thought it might be best if they made themselves useful, and so they began weeding the garden. They pulled out dandelions and milk thistle and stray clover and put the loamy-smelling scraps in a tin bucket between them. Ebbie jabbered on about the newborn kittens and the bat they’d woken up to in the house two weeks before that scared everyone half silly until her father had finally walloped it with a tennis racket, which was the only thing you could hit a bat with, on account of their special radar ears. She told Irene about the week they’d spent with cousins on Beaver Lake near Peterborough, where they saw a real beaver lodge and heard loons and it would have been practically paradise except for the outhouse and its terrible stink and the spiders that lived on the dock and were big as dessert plates.

Every few minutes Irene glanced up to the kitchen window.

“Irene, you’re not listening.” Ebbie sat back on her haunches in the dirt, wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and left a trail of dusty grime. Irene didn’t sit in the garden. She bent over, careful of her shoes.

“Yes, I am. You said there were spiders.”

“Yes, as big as oranges. Aren’t you frightened of spiders?”

“No. They don’t scare me.”

“So what does scare you?”

Irene put down the trowel and rubbed her hands together to get the dirt off, being careful not to smudge her dress or her white socks. She didn’t say anything.

“Something must scare you. Everybody’s scared of something. Me, I’m scared of snakes and the root cellar. I hate the root cellar. I won’t even go down there to get potatoes for Mum. I’d pay Lisa to go for me if I had to. Yuck. I heard about a boy once, he put his hand in the potato box and there was a snake in there! Can you imagine? I’d just die. So tell me. I told you.”

“I don’t know. I get nightmares sometimes.” Her voice was very low and she kept glancing up to the window. “I dream awful things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things about people coming to get me. Someone . . . It’s awful. I dream it over and over. This lady . . . she’s terrible. . . ”

“What does she do?” Ebbie hugged herself. Irene stared off at something Ebbie couldn’t see. “Irene?”

“Nothing. It’s just a silly dream.”

The back door opened and Margaret called to Irene. Their hour was up.

“Can I come back another day, Mrs. MacNeil?”

“Perhaps, dear.” Irene’s mother smiled. “If that’s what Irene would like. Come in now, Irene. Say goodbye to your little friend.”

“Goodbye, Ebbie.”

Ebbie dusted off the seat of her pants and hugged Irene. “I’ll see you real soon. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I’m glad you came by today, Ebbie. Real glad.”

“I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. MacNeil. My mom says hi.” She waved as she went out the side gate.

Ebbie stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. She didn’t really think she wanted to go back there again. It felt like a betrayal to feel that way. She dragged her feet, scuffing the tops of her shoes without caring. She scuffed them for Irene, who she was sure would get locked up in her room for the rest of her life if she ever dared to scuff a shoe.

Irene knew she would have to pay for her hour with Ebbie. There was always a price to pay for nice things. She quickly put the trowels and the pail away in the shed. She patted her hair and smoothed her dress, then ran up the steps and into the kitchen. Her mother leaned against the kitchen counter, tying a red scarf around her head so the bow flopped down like rabbit’s ears.

“Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“Sort of.”

“With Ebbie Watkins? Really. I’m surprised.”

Irene didn’t want to play along. She pulled at a piece of dead skin next to her thumbnail, and a small spot of bright red blood appeared. She rubbed at it until it disappeared.

“Why?” she said finally, angry with herself.

“Well, she’s such an ugly girl, isn’t she? And so bad mannered. That whole family’s low class. I’ve always said that.” This was not true. Her mother used to say that Mrs. Watkins was a lady of good breeding.

“She’s my friend.”

“You don’t really want to play with that girl, do you?” Margaret laughed. “She’s the bottom of the barrel. Just look at her. She only wants to be your friend because no one else will have her. But I suppose you prefer being with her than spending time with your mother?”

“No, Mum.”

“I can see it in your eyes. I always know when you’re lying, you know. Well, now I know where we stand with each other. Stand up straight. Look at me.”

Irene raised her face to look at her mother, but she kept blinking and her eyes skipped off to the right and left.

“Yes, I can see how duplicitous you are. You’re not a very good girl after all.”

“I try.”

“Well, we’ll see how hard you try.” Margaret turned to the sink and snapped the ends off green beans. Snap. Snap. Snap. Like small bones cracking. “You may go to your room now, Irene.”

Irene went up to her room. She knew that when Ebbie came knocking tomorrow, she wouldn’t answer the door. But she hadn’t cried today. And that was something to be proud of.