When the Bough Breaks Page 2

  “I have been thinking about names…. There's the door – that's your father home early.” Mother's face lights up, as it always does when she sees him.

  “What are you two young ladies whispering about?” he asks.

  “Only names, William,” Mother says.

  “And who might these names be for?” Father loves to tease us.

  Hamish comes running in. “Can I stay out a bit longer, please? I've finished my chores, and the boys are going to play marbles.”

  “Button up your jacket, Hamish, and be home in half an hour,” Mother warns him. Hamish rushes out again. “A nice quiet little girl is what we need, Millie, my love, and of course we are not going to mention anything to Hamish for a while yet. William, I was thinking of naming the baby Maria, after my school friend, and if it's a boy, Edward, for the dear old king.”

  “Sounds fine to me and now, Mrs. Carr, let's take our walk. It's a fine March evening.”

  I run to get Mother's shawl, then sit down again to my essay. It's hard to concentrate. A new baby! I love babies. The Lindsay Post often prints news about the famous Dionne quintuplets, born last May. One of them is called Marie. The others are named Yvonne, Emily, Annette, and Cecile. How wonderful it would be to have a little sister to dress up and take for walks! I'll be almost old enough to be her mother!

  A LONG ROAD

  Idon't hear anyone come round the side of the house, and don't see the woman until I'm just about to push the door open with my wash basket. She appears from behind the lilac bush, which will be in bloom in a couple of months. She coughs, and speaks in a husky voice, as though it had not been used in a while: “Excuse me, miss, can you spare me a drink of water, please?” She's as thin as a broomstick. The man's jacket she wears over her skimpy faded dress has no buttons, and she's tied it around her waist with a bit of rope. She might as well be barefoot, her shoes are so worn and full of holes. I offer her a dipper of water from the rain barrel.

  Mother wanders outside and takes the wash basket from me. She looks at the woman and invites her into the house. That's the way my mother is – makes up her mind to do something in an instant. “I've brewed a pot of tea. Won't you come inside and have some?”

  The woman wipes her feet and asks Mother if she may first wash her hands at the pump. I see her looking at the sliver of soap on the scullery window ledge, so I pass it to her (you'd think it was made of gold, the way her fingers claw it), and offer her the frayed towel we keep beside the pump, when she's finished.

  The three of us sit at the kitchen table, and Mother pours our tea. She's put out the sugar bowl, which surprises me because, normally, we only have sugar for a special treat. Mother cuts three thick slices of bread, and asks me to fetch some jam from the larder. I bring her a jar of plum preserve that we made last fall, and she spreads the slices thickly before passing the plate round. Mother doesn't take one herself, just makes a big show of stirring her tea. I've seen her do that so often, when she wants to give Hamish or me an extra helping, pretending she's eaten earlier, or that she's not hungry.

  “Thank you, missus,” the woman says. I look down at my plate, so as not to seem to watch her cramming the bread into her mouth. Father says there's no shame in being hungry, but something about her makes me uncomfortable.

  “I'm Lillie Carr, and this is my daughter, Millicent,” Mother says.

  “I'm Elsie Bates,” she replies, her mouth half-full.

  “Have you come far, Mrs. Bates?” Mother asks her.

  The woman says, “Yes, from Carman, near Winnipeg. Things are pretty bad in Manitoba. Anger and hopelessness grow worse each year; there's been strike talk. We're headed to Port Hope, to my sister's. My man's cutting cordwood in the square. He'll be finished shortly. As soon as he picks up our relief food vouchers, we'll head out. He's not had steady work for four years.”

  Mother refills the woman's cup and slides the last slice of bread onto her plate. She never turns anyone away, or misses her turn to volunteer at the soup kitchen. Somehow she draws people out and they tell her all kinds of stories. One man said he barely survived through his first Ontario winter, with no work and no place to sleep. A farmer, who rode out from Saskatchewan on the boxcars, told her how he'd stood helpless, watching his land blow away. He said he'd lost everything he owned except the clothes he was wearing.

  I've gone with Mother twice to the soup kitchen to help serve meals to the homeless. She wants me to understand how things are – how people pass through our town hoping for something good to happen, for their luck to change. Hamish thinks it's all a great adventure moving from place to place, but he's only a little boy. Men have been killed falling off boxcars, mistiming the speed of the trains.

  “When hoboes come to the door, asking if there are chores that need doing, Mother always finds them something. After they finish digging, or cutting grass, or shoveling snow, they sit outside on the back step and eat the sandwich she gives them, or take it away for the road. We don't see women as often, coming to the door, asking for work.

  Mrs. Bates thanks my mother again, then asks, “Do you have any jobs you'd like me to do? Scrubbing, maybe?” I can see Mother try to think of something, but she says, “No, thanks, there's nothing. Sit and finish your tea.”

  I guess she doesn't want to hurt the woman's feelings. Father says chores are a fair exchange for a meal – no one wants to be thought a beggar. All the same, I can't help wondering what made Mother invite the woman to sit with us at tea….

  Elsie Bates looks at Mother and asks, “Shall I tell your future? I read teacups, palms too.”

  I desperately want Mother to say no. I want the woman to go; I don't like the way she's staring, her eyes burning in her long thin face.

  But Mother drains her cup and passes it to the woman, who turns it this way and that. Gazing at the pattern made by the tea leaves, she begins: “You've already traveled far in this life, but I see another journey ahead. You will take a long, long road on the farthest journey of all – a journey far from those dear to you.”

  If I didn't know better, I'd say she's looking at my mother as if she feels sorry for her. Sorry? What for? My heart beats faster. Mother hates to travel – she likes staying in one place.

  My cheeks grow hot, and Mother squeezes my hand. She speaks quietly, firmly, keeping hold of it to calm me, “Don't we all have a long road to travel, especially in times like these, Mrs. Bates? You are right, I have traveled a fair way, but I've gone about as far as I ever want to go.” She smoothes the front of her apron, and I know she's thinking of the new baby.

  The woman continues, “I see a fine, handsome, healthy child in your arms quite soon.” She puts the cup down, and deliberately avoids looking at Mother. Instead, she turns to me: “Give me your hand, young miss, and let me read your palm.”

  “No, thank you,” I say, wishing Father would come home. He doesn't hold with meddling with the future.

  “Go on, Millie,” Mother coaxes. “You might hear something wonderful.”

  I do as I'm told and hold out my hand, feeling more and more uneasy. The big clock on the mantel, Papa Joe's clock, ticks away. The woman studies my left hand.

  “There's a difficult time ahead, a time to test your patience and your strength, but you'll come through and be the richer for it.”

  Will she ever let go of my wrist?When at last she does, I wipe my hand on my skirt, thinking, I'll remember those bony fingers gripping my hand tightly as long as I live. My arms have goose bumps.

  The woman gets up, nods to us both, and Mother sees her to the door.

  I clear away the dishes and pour hot water from the kettle into the sink. I scrub my hands, washing her touch away. If I had to walk from place to place, begging my way like her, I don't think I could bear it.

  I should pity her, and I do, but I hate her too, for what she said and for what she didn't say; for how she stared, and for spoiling my peaceful hour alone with Mother.

  I'm getting to be every bit as mean as Denise.
My eyes fill with tears. I hope Mother doesn't see, but nothing escapes her notice, when it's about me, or Hamish.

  “Don't mind her, Millie. What a lot of nonsense she talked. Poor soul – she was trying to find a way to pay for her food the only way she knew. She probably says the same thing to everyone. Did you see her eyes? I wouldn't be surprised if she's gone through some great sorrow. She's not a real fortune-teller. I know the difference, because once, when I was about your age, a true Gypsy girl read my palm. She asked me if I wanted to join the Gypsy band. I thought about traveling in a wagon from town to town and wearing gold hoops in my ears, and I was tempted for a minute, but I knew that wasn't the life I wanted.

  “She told me a fair-haired man was waiting for me and that I'd marry him. She was right, I did marry him. And you and Hamish and Father and our new baby are all I want, so the farthest I aim to travel is to take you to Toronto one of these days and have tea on the fifth floor of Eaton's.” Mother begins to hum softly, putting an end to our conversation.

  When Father and Hamish come in, I notice she doesn't say a word about the woman and neither do I. Hamish carries a big ham and Father a gallon jar of new maple syrup. “How many horses are you going to have to shoe for all that?” Mother asks, giving me the ham to put on a platter.

  “It's payment for the team I shod last month for Farmer Price,” Father says, “as well as for today's work.” He chuckles. “He would have tripled that, if I'd let our Hamish stay with him, right, son?”

  “Ma,” Hamish says proudly, “he said he'd find room for me anytime I wanted, anytime I get tired of helping Pa in the forge.” I think of the blissful peace and quiet there'd be without Hamish, but even in my thoughts I'm only teasing.

  Mother ruffles Hamish's hair. “No one is going to take my boy away!” she says.

  We eat thick potato soup with bits of ham for supper, and afterwards we all listen to Amos and Andy on the radio. Hamish drives me mad, the way he laughs and repeats, “Holy mackerel,” every single time it's said.

  I'm upset all week long; worried that something is going to happen to Mother, even though she's perfectly well. I don't believe in omens or reading fortunes. Once, I heard Mother say, “Our Millie has her feet on the ground. She's the sensible one in this family,” and I was never quite sure whether she was praising me, or whether she wished I'd be more fanciful.

  It's not that Elsie Bates said anything truly bad, but then I see her again, loitering outside Lee Chong's laundry, and later that same day, peering through the window of Davies' Grocery on Simcoe. I get even more anxious about what she said about Mother and her possibly leaving us. Didn't the woman say she was going to Port Hope?

  I start watching for her. I can't concentrate in school. All the time I wait for something awful to happen.

  After class, instead of helping the teacher prepare for the next day's work, as I often do, I hurry to the library. Usually I spend a long time choosing my books, and sometimes I stay on to read, but now, I check my books out quickly. I can see the librarian is surprised, by the way her eyebrows shoot up into the crease in her forehead when she stamps my books. I tell her, “I'm needed at home,” and she nods. Everyone knows everyone else's business in Lindsay.

  On Friday, Sadie says she has a whole dime to spend and asks Grace and me to go round Woolworth's with her after school. We hardly ever have spending money, except once in a while to go to a movie, so I can't believe it when I hear myself making excuses not to go with them.

  When I arrive home, Mother is taking a batch of bread rolls out of the oven, happy as can be. I decide to go out to the chicken coop and give myself a good talking to, as I sweep the dirt floor hard, swishing my broom fiercely.

  Mother says that woman is not a true fortune-teller, just another poor soul down on her luck. All she wants is to go and live with her sister, to have enough to eat, and a roof over her head. She needs to earn a few pennies to get her there. She's just an ordinary person. I don't need to be scared of anything she says.

  Mother will never leave us, never. Of course I'm going to be tested: I'll have to get good grades if I'm going to business school when I'm sixteen. There's bound to be more competition in high school, but if I work and study hard, I'll be rewarded. The teacher has said so in class a thousand times.

  I've nothing at all to be afraid of; my job at the drugstore is as secure as it can be in these times. No one with an ounce of common sense believes in that foolishness of teacup reading and palmistry.

  Next day, I take a nickel from my Christmas savings and ask Grace and Sadie to help me choose some candy. We link arms and stand for at least twenty minutes, making up our minds what to buy. Everything feels comfortable again, the way it is supposed to be….

  AN ORDINARY DAY

  Iwas so sure the new baby was going to be a girl, but when I saw my brother Eddie for the first time, I lost all thought of the baby sister I'd been hoping for!

  The house seems different somehow. I listen for the baby's quiet whimper in the night – he sounds like the kitten Sadie found abandoned last year. The baby's perfect – no trouble at all, Mother says. Father is all smiles, but Hamish hasn't taken much notice yet, except to dismiss his brother as pretty small and red looking, and I'm worn-out with the excitement of it all. Visitors come to ask after Mother and to peek at my new brother. Mother says I should offer them a cup of tea. Most of them accept with a polite “if it's no trouble, dear.”

  Mother's teaching me how to change Eddie without sticking a pin into him, and she praised the scalloped potatoes I served for supper last night.

  The third morning after the baby's arrival, I come downstairs to cook breakfast, but Mother is already at the stove, stirring oatmeal. I am so relieved to see her up and about again. Now I won't have to run the house anymore!

  I put my arms around Mother's waist and hug her. Thank goodness this will be an ordinary day and we can get back to normal.

  “I've got nothing against your cooking, Millie,” Father says, spooning oatmeal and syrup into his mouth as if he hasn't eaten for a month, “but no one cooks like your mother.”

  “See, Millie? There aren't any lumps,” Hamish adds.

  “Don't talk with your mouth full,” Mother admonishes, as I'm about to tell him the exact same thing. Hamish's spoon clatters on his dish, splattering food all over the oilcloth.

  “Now, look what you've done! You're worse than your baby brother,” I blurt, though I know I shouldn't spoil Mother's first day downstairs with us by quarreling.

  Hamish sticks his tongue out at me and rushes over to Mother to hide his face against her shoulder, his words muffled in the fabric of her cotton dress and blue apron. “I hate it when you're not here; Millie is bossy. You aren't going to stay in bed anymore, are you?”

  “Now, Hamish, you are much too big a boy to make such a fuss about two little days in bed! Apologize to your sister, please. She's been working very hard for all of us.” She gives his hair a little tug. “And it's high time you had a haircut, young man. Father will cut it for you tonight, won't you, William?”

  “Indeed I shall, before he starts to frighten the horses,” Father says. Mother smiles at him over the top of my spoiled young brother's head – a look so loving and happy, I feel I shouldn't even be in the room with them and look away.

  After Father and Hamish have gone, I clear the breakfast dishes and wipe the blue-and-white check oilcloth. Mother, still at the table, picks up the newspaper Hamish brought home – the delivery boys are allowed to bring home a spare.

  “Come and sit down for a bit,” Mother says, “I want to talk to you about Hamish. I know he's difficult to handle sometimes, but it's because he's feeling a mite jealous, not being the youngest anymore; it's going to take him a while to get used to sharing me. And pay no mind to what they say about your cooking; they don't mean anything by it – it's just their way of showing they missed me. How I'd ever have had any peace without your help, I don't know; you've made all the difference, Millie.” S
he leans over, kisses my cheek, sighs, and says, “Poor lad.”

  “Do you mean Hamish, Mother?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, pointing to the headline on the front page: 14-year-old boy drowns in scugog river “How will his family bear it?” I don't know what to say. Mother doesn't seem herself this morning.

  “Listen to me, Millie, and remember this always: you are the strong one in the family, and I'm counting on you to hold them all together. My big girl, I know you will.” She takes my hand in hers. Our faces are close together and we look into each other's eyes.

  All at once I can read her thoughts as clearly as if I were reading the words in a book: I'm tired. I'd like to go to sleep soon. Will you let me rest, Millie? I'm just about to say, “As long as you want, Mother, I'm here to take care of things for you,” when I realize she has not spoken out loud.

  She pats my hand, and sounding her normal everyday self, asks me to bring Eddie to her. “He's not made a sound for two hours. What a difference from Hamish at that age! Goodness, the way that child screamed when he was hungry – don't you remember? Eddie is so quiet, I almost forget he's here. Well, he'll soon make his presence felt, we can be sure of that!”

  I run upstairs and pick Eddie up from his crib. He smells sweet and clean. When I touch his cheek, he looks right at me. He's only three days old and I swear he knows me already. I put him in Mother's arms, pour her the last drop of tea, and go upstairs again to straighten the bedrooms.

  I hear Mother talking softly to Eddie. I can't make out the words, but now she's humming a familiar tune to him. In the distance, a whip-poor-will cries – the first one I've heard this year.

  And then, the house falls silent. It is strangely quiet, too quiet. A gust of air blows in from the open window on this still, warm morning when nothing stirs. That's odd, there hasn't been even a hint of a breeze. All of a sudden I feel dizzy, as if every breath has been sucked out of my body.