A few days after Phoebe and I had seen Mr.
Birkway and Mrs. Cadaver
whacking away at the rhododendron, I walked
home with Phoebe after
school.
She was as crotchety and sullen as a three-legged
mule, and I was
not quite sure why.
She had been asking me why I had not said
anything to
my father about Mrs. Cadaver and Mr. Birkway,
and I told her that I was
waiting for the right time.
'Your father was over there, yesterday,' Phoebe
said.
'I saw him.
He'd
better watch out.'
The truth is, I was getting worried.
I promised myself that I would speak to
him that night.
'What would you do,' Phoebe said, 'if Mrs.
Cadaver chopped up your
father?
What would you do?
Where would you go?
Would you go live with
your mother?'
It surprised me when she said that, reminding
me that I had told Phoebe
nothing about my mother.
I don't know why I did this, but I said, 'Yes,
I
suppose I would go live with her.'
That was impossible and I knew it, but for
some reason I could not tell Phoebe that,
so I lied.
'You don't seem very worried about it,' Phoebe
said.
'I would certainly be
worried if my father started going over to
Mrs. Cadaver's.'
Phoebe's mother
was sitting at the kitchen table when we walked
in.
In front of her was a pan
of burned brownies.
She was blowing her nose.
'Oh, sweetie,' she said to
Phoebe, 'you startled me.'
We dumped our books on a chair, and Mrs.
Winterbottom asked, 'How was it?'
'How was what?'
Phoebe said.
'Why, sweetie, school of course.
How was it?
How are your classes?
How
was it?'
She blew her nose.
'It was OK.'
'OK?
Just OK?'
Mrs. Winterbottom suddenly leaned over and
kissed
Phoebe's cheek.
'I'm not a baby, you know,' Phoebe said, wiping
the kiss off her face.
Mrs. Winterbottom glanced at me.
'I know that, Phoebe,' she said.
Phoebe kicked her shoe against the table.
'I don't suppose I could get
another pair of loafers?' she asked.
'Another pair?
Why sweetie, we just bought you a pair.'
She looked down
at Phoebe's shoes 'Don't they fit?'
'They're a little tight,' Phoebe said.
'Maybe they'll stretch.'
'I don't think so.'
Mrs. Winterbottom was stabbing the brownies
with a knife.
'Want one?'
she asked.
'They're a little burned, aren't they?'
Phoebe said.
'Besides, I'm too fat.'
'Oh, sweetie, you're not fat,' Mrs. Winterbottom
said.
'I am.'
'No, you're not.'
'I am, I am, I am!'
Phoebe shouted at her mother.
'You don't have to bake
things for me,' she said.
'I'm too fat.
And.
besides, you don't have to wait
here for me to come home.
I'm thirteen now.
Phoebe marched upstairs.
Mrs. Winterbottom offered me a brownie, so
I
sat down at the table.
What I started doing was remembering the day
before
my mother left.
I did not know it was to be her last day home.
Several times
that day, my mother asked me if I wanted to
walk up in the fields with her.
It
was drizzling outside, and I was cleaning
out my desk, and I just did not feel
like going.
'Maybe later,' I kept saying.
When she asked me for about the
tenth time, I said, 'No!
I don't want to go.
Why do you keep asking me?'
I
don't know why I did that.
I didn't mean anything by it, but that was
one of
the last memories she had of me, and I wished
I could take it back.
Phoebe's sister Prudence breezed into the
house, slamming the door behind
her.
'I just blew it, I know it!' she wailed.
'Oh, sweetie,' her mother said.
'I did!'
Prudence said.
'I did, I did, I did.'
'Prudence, your father does not like you to
use that phrase "blew it".
'Why not?'
Prudence asked.
Mrs. Winterbottom looked tired and sad.
'Oh, I don't know,' she said.
'I
suppose he thinks it doesn't sound - very
respectable.'
Mrs. Winterbottom
half-heartedly chipped away at the burned
brownies and asked Prudence if
she would have another chance at cheerleading
try-outs.
'Yes, tomorrow.
But I know I'm going to blow--'
Her mother said, 'Maybe I'll come along and
watch.'
I could tell that Mrs.
Winterbottom was trying to rise above some
awful sadness she was feeling,
but Prudence couldn't see that.
Prudence had her own agenda, just as I had
had my own agenda that day my mother wanted
me to walk with her.
I
couldn't see my own mother's sadness.
'What?'
Prudence said.
'Come along and watch?'
'Yes, wouldn't that be nice?'
'No!'
Prudence said.
'No. no, no.
You can't.
It would be awful.'
'Awful?'
Mrs. Winterbottom said.
'Awful, awful, awful.'
As I was wondering why she didn't tell Prudence
to jump in the lake, Mrs.
Winterbottom burst into tears and left the
table.
Prudence glowered at me
and stomped out of the kitchen.
I sat there looking around at the walls.
I
heard the front door open and shut and I heard
Phoebe call my name.
She
came in the house waving a white envelope.
'Guess what was on the steps?'
she said.
Mrs. Winterbottom reappeared and took the
envelope.
'Have you opened
it?' she asked Phoebe.
'Not yet.'
'I'll open it,' her mother said.
She turned the envelope over and over before
she slowly unsealed it and slipped out the
message.
She held it close to her
so that we couldn't see.
'Well?'
Phoebe demanded.
'Oh,' Mrs. Winterbottom said.
'Who is doing this?'
She held out the piece
of paper.
On it was written:
In the course of a lifetime, what does it
matter?
Prudence joined us 'What
the heck does that mean?' she asked.
Her mother said.
'Where are these coming from?'
'I honestly couldn't say,' Phoebe said.
Prudence flopped down on the sofa.
'Well, I have more important things to
worry about, I can assure you.
I know I'm going to blow those cheerleading
try- outs I just know it.'
On and on she went, until Phoebe said, 'Gripes,
Prudence, in the course of
a lifetime, what does it matter?'
At that moment, it was as if a click went
off in Mrs. Winterbottom's brain.
She put her hand to her mouth and stared out
the window.
She was invisible
to Prudence and Phoebe, though.
They did not notice.
Prudence said, 'What is that supposed to mean?'
Phoebe said, 'I was just thinking.
Are these try-outs such a big deal?
Will
you even remember them in five years?'
'Yes!'
Prudence said.
'Yes, I most certainly will.'
'How about ten years?
Will you remember them in ten?'
'Yes!'
Prudence said.
As I walked home, I thought about the message.
In the course of a lifetime,
what does it matter?
I said it over and over.
It seemed odd that Phoebe found
a way to use that saying right after it arrived.
I wondered about the
mysterious messenger, and I wondered about
all the things in the course of a
lifetime that would not matter.
I did not think cheerleading try-outs would
matter, nor shoes that were too tight.
I wondered if yelling at your mother
would matter.
I was not sure about that, but I was certain
that if your mother
left, it would be something that mattered
in the whole long course of your
lifetime.
18.
The Good Man
I should mention my father.
When I was telling Phoebe's story to Gram
and Gramps, I did not say
much about my father.
He was their son, and not only did they know
him
better than I but, as Gram often said, he
was the light of their lives.
They had
three other sons at one time, but one son
died when a tractor flipped over on
him, one son died when he skied into a tree,
and the third son died when he
jumped in the freezing cold Ohio River to
save his best friend (the best
friend survived but my uncle did not).
My father was the only son left, but even
if their other sons were still alive,
my father might still be their light because
he is also a kind, honest, simple
and good man.
I do not mean simple as in simple-minded - I
mean, he likes
plain and simple things His favourite clothes
are the flannel shirts and blue
jeans that he has had for twenty years.
It nearly killed him to buy white
shirts and a suit for his new job in Euclid.
He loved the farm because he could be out
in the real air, and he wouldn't
wear work-gloves because he liked to touch
the earth and the wood and the
animals.
It was painful for him to go to work in an
office when we moved.
He did not like being sealed up inside with
nothing real to touch.
We'd had the same car, a blue Chevy, for fifteen
years.
He couldn't bear to
part with it because he had touched - and
repaired - every inch of it.
I also
think he couldn't bear the thought that if
he sold it, someone might take it to
the junk yard.
My father hated the whole idea of putting
cars out to pasture.
He often prowled through junk yards touching
old cars and buying old
alternators and carburettors just for the
joy of cleaning them up and making
them work again.
My grandfather had never quite gotten the
hang of car
mechanics, and so he thought my father was
a genius
My mother was right when she said my father
was good.
He was always
thinking of little things to cheer up someone
else.
This nearly drove my
mother crazy because I think she wanted to
keep up with him, but it was not
her natural gift like it was with my father.
He would be out in the field and
see a flowering bush that my grandmother might
like, and he would dig-the
whole thing up and take it straight over to
Gram's garden and replant it.
If it
snowed, he would be up at dawn to trek over
to his parents' house and shovel
out their driveway.
If he went into town to buy supplies for the
farm, he would come back
with something for my mother and something
for me.
They were small
things - a cotton scarf, a book, a glass paperweight
- but, what- ever he
brought, it was exactly the thing you would
have selected yourself.
The only time he drank was when he and Gramps
had a glass of whiskey
together occasionally.
I had never seen him angry.
'Sometimes I don't think
you're human,' my mother told him.
It was the sort of thing she said just
before she left, and it bothered me, because
it seemed as if she wanted him
to be meaner less good.
Two days before she left, when I first heard
her raise the subject of
leaving.
she said.
'I feel set rotten in comparison.'
'Sugar, you're not rotten,' he said.
'See?' she said.
'See?
Why couldn't you at least believe I am rotten?'
'Because you're not,' he said.
She said she had to leave in order to clear
her head, and to clear her heart
of all the bad things She needed to learn
about what she was
'You can do that here, Sugar,' he said.
'I need to do it on my own,' she said.
'I can't think.
All I see here is what I
am not.
I am not brave.
I am not good.
And I wish someone would call me
by my real name.
My name isn't Sugar.
It's Chanhassen.'
She had not been well.
She had had some terrible shocks, it is true,
but I
did not understand why she could not get better
with us.
I begged her to take
me with her, but she said I could not miss
school and my father needed me
and, besides, she had to go alone.
She had to.
I thought she might change her mind, or at
least tell me when she was
leaving.
But, she did neither of those things.
She left me a letter which
explained that if she said goodbye, it would
be too terribly painful and it
would sound too permanent.
She wanted me to know that she would think
of
me every minute and that she would be back
before the tulips bloomed.
But, of course, she was not back before the
tulips bloomed.
It nearly killed my father after she left,
I know it, but he continued doing
everything just as before, whistling and humming
and finding little gifts for
people.
He kept bringing home gifts for my mother
and stacking them in a
pile in their bedroom.
On that night that he found out she wasn't
coming back, he chipped away
at the plaster wall and discovered the brick
fireplace beneath.
The next day
he flew to Lewiston, Idaho, and when he came
back, he did nothing for three
days but chip and chip until every last piece
of plaster was removed from
that fireplace and every brick was scrubbed.
Some of the cement grouting
had to be replaced and I saw that he had written
her name in tiny letters in
the new cement.
He wrote Chanhassen, not Sugar.
Three weeks later he put the farm up for sale.
By this time, he was
receiving letters from Mrs. Cadaver, and I
knew that he was answering her
letters Then he drove up to see Mrs. Cadaver
while I stayed with Gram and
Gramps When he came back, he said we were
moving to Euclid.
Mrs.
Cadaver had helped him find a job.
I didn't even wonder how he had met her or
how long he had known her.
I
ignored her whole existence.
Besides, I was too busy throwing the most
colossal temper tantrums I refused to move.
I would not leave our farm, our
maple tree, our swimming hole, our pigs, our
chickens, our hayloft.
I would
not leave the place, which belonged to me.
I would not leave the place to
which, I was convinced, my mother might return.
At first, my father did not argue with me.
He let me behave like a wild
boar.
At last, he took down the For Sale sign and
put up a For Rent sign.
He
said he would rent out the farm, hire someone
to care for the animals and the
crops, and rent a house for us in Euclid.
The farm would still belong to us
and one day we could return to it.
'But now,' he said.
'We have to leave
because your mother is haunting me day and
night.
She's in the fields, the
air, the barn, the walls, the trees.'
He said we were making this move to learn
about bravery and courage.
That sounded awfully familiar.
In the end, I think, I merely ran out of steam.
I stopped throwing tantrums.
I didn't help pack but, when the time came,
I climbed in the car and joined
my father for our move to Euclid.
I did not feel brave, and I did not feel
courageous.
When I told my story of Phoebe to Gram and
Gramps, I mentioned none of
this.
They knew it already.
They knew my father was a good man, they knew
I did not want to leave the farm, they knew
my father felt we had to leave.
They also knew that my father had tried, many
times, to explain to me about
Margaret, but I wouldn't hear it.
On that long day when my father and I left
the farm behind and drove to
Euclid, I wished that my father were not such
a good man, for if he were not,
then there would be someone else to blame
for my mother's leaving.
I didn't
want to blame her.
She was my mother, and she was part of me.
19.
Fish in the Air
Gram said, 'Where did we leave off with Peeby?
What was happening?'
'What's the matter, gooseberry?'
Gramps said.
'Did that snake bite your
brains?'
'No,' she said.
'It did not bite my brains I was just trying
to refresh my
memory.
'Let's see,' Gramps said.
'Mr. Birkway and Mrs. Cadaver were whacking
a
rhododendron, and they put it over the dead
body, and then Peeby's mother
burned the brownies--'
Gram said, 'and Peeby and her sister were
acting like spoiled chitlins, and
they got another message: "In the course of
a lifetime, what does it matter?"
I like that message.
Gramps said, 'And didn't Peeby want you to
tell your daddy about Mrs.
Cadaver and Mr. Birkway hacking up her husband?'
Yes, that is what Phoebe wanted, and it is
what I tried to do.
One Sunday,
when my father was looking through the photo
albums, I asked him if he
knew much about Mrs. Cadaver.
He looked up quickly.
'You're ready to talk
about Margaret?' he said.
'Well, there were a few things I wanted to
mention--'
'I've been wanting to explain--' he said.
I plunged on.
I didn't want him to explain.
I wanted to warn him.
'Phoebe
and I saw her slashing and hacking away at
the bushes in her back yard.'
'Is there something wrong with that?' he asked.
I tried another approach.
'Her voice is like dead leaves blowing around,
and her hair is spooky.
'I see,' he said.
'And, there is a man who visits her---
'Sal, that sounds like spying.'
'And, I don't think we should go over there
any more.'
Dad took off his glasses and rubbed them on
his shirt for about five
minutes.
Then, he said, 'Sal, you're trying to catch
fish in the air.
Your
mother is not coming back.'
It looked like I was merely jealous of Mrs.
Cadaver.
In the calm light of
my father, all those things that Phoebe had
said about Mrs. Cadaver seemed
foolish.
'I'd like to explain about her,' my father
said.
'Oh, never mind.
Just forget I mentioned her.
I don't need any explanations'
Later, when I was doing my homework, I found
myself doodling in the
margin of my English book.
I had drawn a figure of a woman with wild
hair
and evil eyes and a rope around her neck.
I drew a tree, fastened the rope to
it, and hung her.
The next day at school, I studied Mr. Birkway
as he leaped and cavorted
about the classroom.
If he was a murderer, he certainly was a lively
one.
I
had always pictured murderers as being mopey
and sullen.
I hoped Mr.
Birkway was in love with Margaret Cadaver
and would marry her and take
her away so that my father and I could go
back to Bybanks
What I found most surprising about Mr. Birkway
was that he increasingly
reminded me of my mother - or. at least, of
my mother before the sadness set
in.
There was a liveliness to both Mr. Birkway
and my mother.
and an
excitement - a passion - for words and for
stories
That day, Mr. Birkway talked about Creek mythology
and how exciting
and thrilling it was going to be to have the
opportunity to study a slew of
wonderful Creek stories.
When Mr. Birkway passed out the new books,
he
said, 'Don't you love the smell of a new book?'
and, 'Treat them gently,
gently.' and, 'What treasures lie within.
In the midst of this, I started day-dreaming
about my mother, who loved
books almost as much as she loved all her
outdoor treasures She liked to
carry little books in her pocket and sometimes
when we were out in the
fields, she would flop down in the grass and
start reading aloud.
My mother especially liked Native American
(she said 'Indian') stories.
She knew legends from many tribes: Navaho,
Sioux, Seneca, Net Perce,
Maidu, Blackfoot, Huron.
She knew about thunder gods, earth makers,
wise
crows, sly coyotes, and shadow souls Her favourite
stories were those about
people who came back, after death, as a bird
or a river or a horse.
She even
knew one story about an old warrior who came
back as a potato.
The next thing I knew, Mr. Birkway was saying,
'Right Phoebe?
Phoebe?
Are you awake?
You have the second report.
'Report?'
Phoebe said.
'Lucky you!
We're letting you go second!'
'Report?'
Mr. Birkway clutched his heart and said to
the class, 'Apparently, Miss
Phoebe Winterbottom did not hear me explain
about the reports Perhaps you
can enlighten her, Mr. Finney.
Ben turned slowly around in his chair and
cast his sparkling black eyes in
Phoebe's direction.
He said, 'I'm doing an oral report on Prometheus
this
Friday.
You're doing one on Pandora next Monday.'
'Lucky me,' Phoebe muttered.
Mr. Birkway asked me to stay after class for
a minute.
Phoebe sent me warning messages with her eyebrows.
As
everyone else was leaving the room, Phoebe
said, 'I'll stay with you if you
want.'
'Why?'
'Because, Sal, because.'
'Because of what?'
I said.
'Because of him hacking up Mr. Cadaver, that's
what.
I don't think you
should be alone with him.'
He did not hack me up.
Instead, he gave me a special assignment,
a 'mini
journal'.
'I don't know what that is,' I said.
Phoebe was breathing on my shoulder.
Mr. Birkway said I should write about something
that interested me.
'Like
what?'
I said.
'Heavens!' he said.
'I don't know what interests you.
Anything you like.
Anything at all.'
Phoebe said, 'Could she write about murderers?'
Mr. Birkway said, 'Goodness!
Is that something that interests you, Sal?
Or
is it something that interests you, Phoebe?'
'Oh, no, sir,' Phoebe said.
'I think.'
Mr. Birkway said, 'you should keep it more
simple.
Write about
something you like - a place, a room.
a person - don't worry about it too
much.
Just write whatever comes to mind.'
Phoebe and I walked home with Mary Lou and
Ben.
My brain was a mess,
what with trying not to flinch whenever Ben
brushed against me.
When we
left Ben and Mary Lou and turned the corner
into Phoebe's street, I wasn't
paying much attention.
I suppose I was aware that someone was coming
along the sidewalk in our direction, but it
wasn't until the person was about
three feet away that I really took notice.
It was Phoebe's lunatic, coming toward us,
staring right at us.
He stopped
directly in front of us, blocking our way.
'Phoebe Winterbottom, right?' he said to Phoebe.
Her voice was a little
squeak.
The only sound that came out was a tiny 'Erp...
'What's the matter, Phoebe Winterbottom?'
he said.
He slid one hand into
his pocket.
Phoebe pushed him, yanked my arm, and started
running.
'Oh - my - God!'
she said.
'Oh - my - God!'
I was grateful that we were nearly at Phoebe's
house, so if he stabbed us in
broad daylight, maybe one of her neighbors
would discover our bodies and
take us to the hospital before we bled entirely
to death.
I was actually
beginning to believe he was a lunatic.
Phoebe tugged at her doorknob, but the door
was locked.
Phoebe beat on
the door, and her mother suddenly pulled it
open.
'Whatever is the matter?'
Mrs. Winterbottom said.
She looked rather pale and shaken herself.
'It was locked!'
Phoebe said.
'Why was the door locked?'
'Oh, sweetie,' Mrs. Winterbottom said.
'It's just that - I thought that--' She
peered around us and looked up and down the
street.
'Did you see someone,
did someone frighten you--?'
'It was the lunatic,' Phoebe said.
'We saw him just now.'
She could hardly
catch her breath.
'Maybe we should call the police.
Or tell Dad.'
I took a good long look at Phoebe's mother.
She did not seem capable of
phoning the police or Mr. Winterbottom.
I think she was more scared than
we were.
She went around locking all the doors.
Nothing more happened that evening and, by
the time I went home, the
lunatic did not seem quite so threatening.
No one called the police, and, to
my knowledge, Mrs. Winterbottom had not yet
told Mr. Winterbottom.
Right before I left Phoebe's house, Phoebe
said to me, 'If I see the lunatic
once more, I will phone the police myself'
20.
The Blackberry Kiss
That night, I tried to write the mini journal
for Mr. Birkway.
I had a
terrible time coming up with some- thing to
write about.
First, I made a list
of all the things I liked, and they were all
things from Bybanks - the trees,
the cows, the chickens, the pigs, the fields,
the swimming hole.
It was a
complete jumble of things, and when I tried
to write about any one of those
things, I ended up writing about my mother,
because everything was
connected to her.
At last, 1 wrote about the black- berry kiss.
One morning, on the farm, when I awoke and
looked out the window, I
saw my mother walking up the hill to the barn.
Mist hung about the ground,
finches were singing in the oak tree beside
the house, and there was my
mother, her pregnant belly sticking out in
front of her.
She was strolling up
the hill, swinging her arms and singing:
Oh, don't fall in love with a sailor boy,
a sailor boy, a sailor boy -
Oh, don't fall in love with a sailor boy,
cause he'll take your heart to sea -
As she approached the corner of the barn where
the sugar maple stands,
she plucked a few blackberries from a stray
bush and popped them into her
mouth.
She looked all around her - back at the house,
across the fields, and
up into the canopy of branches overhead.
She took several quick steps up to
the trunk of the maple, threw her arms around
it, and kissed that tree
soundly.
Later that day, I examined this tree trunk.
I tried to wrap my arms about it,
but the trunk was much bigger than it had
seemed from my window.
I
looked up at where her mouth must have touched
the trunk.
I probably
imagined this, but I thought I could detect
a small dark stain, as from a
blackberry kiss
I put my ear against the trunk and listened.
I faced that tree squarely and
kissed it firmly.
To this day, I can smell the smell of the
bark - a sweet,
woody smell - and feel its ridges, and taste
that distinctive taste on my lips
In my mini journal, I confessed that I had
since kissed all different kinds of
trees, and each family of trees - oaks, maples,
elms, birches - had a special
flavour all of its own.
Mixed in with each tree's own taste was the
slight tang
of blackberries, and why this was so, I could
not explain.
The next day, I turned in this story to Mr.
Birkway.
He didn't read it or
even look at it, but he said, 'Marvelous!
Brilliant!' as he slipped it into his
briefcase.
'I'll put it with the other journals'
Phoebe said, 'Did you write about me?'
Ben said, 'Did you write about me?'
Mr. Birkway was bounding around the room as
if the opportunity to teach
us was his notion of paradise.
He threw open the windows and sucked in the
air.
'Ah, September,' he said.
He pulled out a book and read a poem by e.
e,
cummings.
The poem was titled 'the little horse is newly'
and the reason why
the only capital letter in the title is the
'Y' at the end of newlY' is because
Mr. Cummings liked to do it that way.
'He probably never took English,' Phoebe said.
To me that 'Y' looked like the newly born
horse standing up on his thin
legs.
The poem was about a newlY born horse who
doesn't know anything but
feels everything.
After that, I couldn't make a lot of sense
out of anything
except that this horse feels amazing and lives
in a 'smooth beautifully folded'
world.
I liked that.
I was not sure what it was, but I liked it.
Everything
sounded soft and safe.
Thus far, it was not an unusual sort of day,
purely normal as far as school
goes.
I started walking home alone, because Phoebe
had left early for a
dentist appointment.
I was supposed to meet her at her house at
five o'clock.
I didn't even mind too much when Ben came
running up behind me, because
I was in a good mood and besides, I didn't
really want to walk home by
myself.
I was completely unprepared for what happened
on the way home, and of
course for what happened later.
Ben and I were simply walking along and he
said, 'Did anyone ever read your palm?'
'No.
'I know how to do it,' he said.
'Want me to read yours?'
We were passing a
bus stop and there was a wooden bench on the
sidewalk.
Ben said, 'Come
on, sit down.
I can't do it while we're walking along.'
He took my hand and
stared at it for the longest time.
His own hand was soft and warm.
Mine was
sweating like crazy.
He was saying, 'Hmm' and tracing the lines
of my palm
with his finger.
It gave me the shivers, but not in an entirely
unpleasant way.
The sun was beating down on us, and I thought
it might be nice to sit there
for ever with him just running his finger
along my palm like that.
I thought
about the newlY born horse who knows nothing
and feels everything.
I
thought about the smooth beautifully folded
world.
Finally, Ben said, 'Do
you want the good news first or the bad news?'
'The bad news.
It isn't real bad, is it?'
He coughed.
'The bad news is that I can't really read
palms'
I snatched my hand away, grabbed my books,
and started walking away.
'Don't you want to know the good news?' he
asked.
I kept walking.
'The good news is' he said, 'that you let
me hold your hand for almost ten
minutes and you didn't flinch once.'
I didn't know quite what to make of him.
He walked me all the way to my
house, even though I refused to speak to him.
He sat down on the porch.
'I
can't invite you in,' I said.
'That's OK,' he said.
'I'll wait.'
'For what?'
'Aren't you going to Phoebe's at five o'clock?
I'll wait.
You don't want to
walk over there alone.
I'll sit here and do my homework.'
He pulled out his
mythology book.
I went inside and walked around.
I looked out the window.
He was still
there.
'Are you doing your mythology report?'
I asked.
'I guess I might as
well sit out here and do mine, too.'
He didn't say anything.
In fact, neither of us said anything.
He was reading
his book and taking notes I tried to read
mine, but it was difficult to think
with him sitting there.
I was relieved when it was time to go to Phoebe's.
When we passed Mrs. Cadaver's house, someone
called my name.
I didn't
see anyone at first, but then I spotted Mrs.
Partridge sitting in a lawn chair
beside the house.
'Hello,' I said.
'Who's that?'
Ben asked.
'Mrs. Partridge.
She's blind.'
He gave me a queer look.
'Then, how did she know who you were?'
It was
a good question, but I did not know how to
answer it.
When I knocked at
Phoebe's door, Ben said,' I'll be going now.
I took a quick look at him and turned back
to the door, but in the instant
that I was turning my head, he leaned forward,
and I do believe his lips
kissed my ear.
I was not sure this was what he intended.
In fact, I was not
sure it happened at all because, before I
knew it, he had hopped down the
steps and was walking away.
The door inched open and there was Phoebe's
round face, as white and
frightened as ever you could imagine.
'Quick,' she said.
'Come in.'
She led
me into the kitchen.
On the kitchen table was an apple pie, and
beside it
were three envelopes: one for Phoebe, one
for Prudence, and one for their
father.
'I opened my note,' Phoebe said, showing it
to me.
It said, keep all the
doors locked and call your father if you need
anything.
I love you, Phoebe.
It was signed, Mom.
I didn't think too much of it.
'Phoebe--' I said.
'I know, I know.
It doesn't sound terrible or anything.
In fact, my first
thought was.
'Well good.
She knows I am old enough to be here by myself."
I figured she was out shopping or maybe she
even decided to return to work,
even though she wasn't supposed to go back
to Rocky's Rubber until next
week.
But, then.
Prudence came home and opened her note.'
Phoebe showed me the note left for Prudence.
It said, Please hear up the
spaghetti sauce and boil the spaghetti.
I love you, Prudence.
It was signed,
Mom.
I still, didn't think too much of it.
'She's probably just working late,' I said.
'I don't know,' Phoebe said.
'I don't like it.
I don't like it one bit.'
Prudence heated up the spaghetti sauce and
boiled the spaghetti, while I
helped Phoebe set the table.
Phoebe and I even made a salad.
'I do feel sort
of independent,' Phoebe said.
Phoebe's father came home.
'Where's Norma?' he said.
Phoebe showed him
his note.
He opened it and sat down, staring at the
piece of paper.
Phoebe
looked over his shoulder and read his note
aloud: I had to go away.
I can't
explain.
I'll call you in a few days.
It was signed, Norma.
I had a sinking, sinking feeling.
Prudence started asking a million questions.
'What does she mean?
Go
away where?
Why can't she explain?
Why didn't she tell you?
Did she
mention this?
A few days?
Where did she go?'
'Maybe we should call the police,' Phoebe
said.
'The police?
What for?'
Mr. Winterbottom said.
'I think she was kidnapped or something.
'Oh, Phoebe.'
'I'm serious,' she said.
'Maybe a lunatic came in the house and dragged
her
off-
'Phoebe, that is not funny.
'I'm not being funny.
I mean it.
It could happen.'
Prudence was still asking
questions.
'Where did she go?
Why didn't she mention this?
Didn't she tell
you?
Where did she go?'
'Prudence, I honestly cannot say,' her father
said.
'I think we should call the police,' Phoebe
said again.
'Phoebe, if she was kidnapped, would the lunatic
- as you say - allow he; to
sit down and write these notes?
Mm?'
'He might--
'Phoebe!
That's enough.'
He sat there staring at the note.
Then he stood up,
removed his coat, took off his tie and said,
'Let's eat.'
It was only then that he
seemed to notice I was there.
'Oh,' he said.
He looked quite embarrassed.
'I'm
sorry about all this, Sal--'
'I have to go,' I said.
At the door, Phoebe said, 'My mother has disappeared.
Sal, don't tell
anyone.
Don't tell a soul.'
At home, my father was slumped over the photo
album.
He used to close
the album quickly when I came in the room,
as if he were embarrassed to be
caught with it.
Lately, however, he didn't bother to close
it.
It was almost as
if he didn't have the strength to do that.
On the opened page was a photo of my father
and mother sitting in the
grass beneath the sugar maple.
His arms were around her and she was sort
of
folded into him.
His face was pressed up next to hers and their
hair blended
together.
They looked like they were connected.
'Phoebe's mother went away,' I said.
He looked up at me.
'She left some notes.
She says she's coming back.
but I don't believe it.
I went upstairs and tried to work on my mythology
report.
My father came
to the doorway and said.
'People usually come back.
Now, I can see that he was just talking in
general, just trying to be
comforting, but, then - that night - I heard
in what he said the tiniest
reassurance of some- thing I had been thinking
and hoping.
I had been
praying that a miracle would happen and my
mother would come back and
we would return to Bybanks and everything
would be exactly as it used to
be.
21.
Souls
At school, the next day, Phoebe wore a fixed
expression: a sealed, thin
smile.
It must have been difficult for her to maintain
that smile, because by
the time English class came around, her chin
was quivering from the strain.
She was extremely quiet all day.
She didn't speak to anyone but me, and the
only thing she said to me was, 'Stay at my
house tomorrow night.'
It wasn't a
question; it was a command.
In English class, Mr. Birkway gave us a fifteen-second
exercise.
As fast as
we could, without thinking, we were to draw
something.
He would tell us
what we were to draw when everyone was ready.
'Remember,' he said.
'Don't
think.
Just draw.
Fifteen seconds.
Ready?
Draw your soul.
Go.'
We all wasted five seconds staring blankly
at him.
When we saw that he
was serious and was watching the clock, our
pencils hit the paper.
I wasn't
thinking.
There wasn't time to think.
When Mr. Birkway called 'Stop!', everyone
looked up with a dazed
blankness.
Then, we looked down at our papers A buzz
went around the
room.
We were surprised at what had come out of
our pencils.
Mr. Birkway was already zipping around, scooping
up the papers.
He
shuffled them and began tacking them up on
the bulletin board.
He said, 'We
now have everyone's soul captured.`
We all crowded around.
The first thing I noticed was that every single
person had drawn a central
shape - a heart, circle, square, or triangle.
I thought that was unusual.
I mean,
no one drew a bus or a spaceship or a cow
- they all drew these same shapes.
Next, I noticed that inside each figure was
a distinct design.
At first it
seemed that no two people had drawn the same
thing inside.
There was a
cross, a dark scribble, an eye, a mouth, a
window.
Inside Phoebe's was a teardrop.
Then Mary Lou said, 'Look at that - two are
exactly the same.'
People were
saying, 'Geez' and, 'Wow' and, 'Whose are
those?'
The duplicate designs were: a circle with
a large maple leaf in the centre,
the tips of the leaf touching the sides of
the circle.
One of the maple leaf circles was mine.
The other was Ben's.
