The Stubborn Season. Lauren B. Davis
cry on, just a little. She had taken such a risk coming here, telling him her secrets, but perhaps she hadn’t told him enough.
“I can be, impatient, irritable with Douglas, my husband.”
“Does he beat you?”
“Heavens, Reverend! No, of course not.” His voice, his big, sonorous voice, was terrifying.
“Does he commit adultery?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Margaret felt a little dizzy and couldn’t catch her breath.
“Does he drink?”
“Well, yes, sometimes he does.” There was that at least, surely now he would soften toward her, drop his disapproving stare.
“I see. Well, although alcohol’s the Devil’s cordial, I don’t think your husband is an evil man, Mrs. MacNeil. It’s your duty as a Christian wife to obey him and create a place for Jesus in your heart and home. Your husband is in danger, but that is our responsibility, is it not? To bring in the lost sheep? Impress upon him the importance of God in his life. Impress upon him the benefits of living his life within the boundaries of the Church. You must bring him into the fold.”
“Douglas will never come to church. He’s not that kind of man.”
“Still, he is your husband and you must never stop trying. I believe you understand, Mrs. MacNeil. I will remember you in my prayers.”
And with that she knew she was dismissed. Almost on cue, the minister’s wife popped open the study door, and Margaret realized with horror that she had been eavesdropping. As she stumbled blindly to the front door her mind conjured pictures of the minister and his pigeon wife chirping with laughter at her as they sipped their tea. Back on the porch, her face burning, Margaret grabbed Irene by the arm and yanked her down the steps. It was only when the girl cried out that Margaret realized how tightly she was holding her. The red marks of her fingers were clearly visible on Irene’s wrist. She knelt down on the sidewalk and hugged her and murmured, “I’m sorry, so sorry” until they both believed it. The pebbles under her legs cut into her painfully and this was just as she deserved. She ground her knees this way and that. When she stood, blood dribbled down her legs, and the little pieces of stone that had torn her stockings were embedded in her skin.
How hard she had prayed that night, to keep her faith, to hear some small voice of reassurance, but her words fell lifeless from her lips. It must be her fault. Reverend Fuller was a man of God, after all. Her rage and unkind thoughts had been no more than hurt pride. What had she expected him to say? She knew Reverend Fuller was right. She must try harder. She must be a better wife, a better mother, a better Christian.
But why should she? Ah, there was the voice again, the small nagging voice behind her left ear, always ready to whisper evil thoughts in her head, always ready to argue. Why humiliate herself in front of a man who was convinced of his own superiority with no evidence to support it except a black suit and a white collar? Surely that was no sign of divine inspiration. And so the question repeated itself. Why? Why get out of bed? Why get dressed? Why bother at all? And on days like this, days that stripped off her flesh and left her exposed, a throbbing burst of nerve endings in a needle storm, on days like this, she agreed. Why bother?
She could have sworn she heard laughter, a dry rasping giggle from a corner somewhere. She wanted to slap someone, to feel the solid crack of flesh on flesh. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Crazy, I’m going crazy . . .
6
Irene took her time getting home for lunch, even though there was a chilly, persistent drizzle and she had no umbrella. Rainwater trickled down the back of her neck so that her arms broke out in goose bumps. As she walked she mapped out a strategy for asking her mother if she could stay overnight at Ebbie’s.
She scuffed her shoes in the puddles and last year’s leaves clumped up by the sewer. She walked heel to toe. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back, she thought as she carefully avoided the fissures in the sidewalk.
The problem was complex. Should she ask directly, as though it was the most normal thing in the world? Should she try to provoke her mother into saying what a bother she was, and then offer to go to Ebbie’s for the night? She didn’t think that would be very hard. But then her mother might also be angry and say no to punish her. She thought of approaching her father first, but her father was never around these days. Perhaps Mrs. Watkins should call? No, that would only annoy her mother. Why did everything have to be so complicated?
She looked up and found herself in front of the house.
She stood at the door and chewed her thumb. She checked under the flowerpot for the key. Nothing. Irene hugged her history book tightly and thought. Perhaps she should wait for another day. She strained to hear sounds inside the house. You could tell a great deal from sounds. If the radio was on, that was a good sign. If the record player was playing Cole Porter, that was even better, unless it was “Love for Sale,” which was bad. The smell of cooking was also good. Now the house was silent, and the only smell was the floury scent of paste from her notebook. The curtains to her parents’ bedroom on the second floor were pulled open though, and that was a good sign. Maybe her mother was in the back garden. That would be good too.
She couldn’t stand on the front step forever. The neighbours might see her and wonder what was wrong. She tried the doorknob just in case; just on the off chance it might be open. It didn’t budge. There was no choice. She rang the bell.
It took what seemed like forever for the sound of her mother’s footsteps to reach her. They were the wrong footsteps. Her mother was wearing her tired old leather slippers. They made an uncaring slap, slap, slap on the floor.
The door opened. Margaret wore her plain brown button-up-the-front housedress. Irene knew she wore it only when she didn’t care what she looked like. Maybe she’d been cleaning? Sometimes she wore it for buffing the floors or cleaning cupboards. But she had a coffee mug in one hand and no rag, so that didn’t seem likely. Her mother’s hair had not been washed yet this week and she hadn’t bothered to put it in pin curls last night and so it was lank and flat on one side.
“Hi,” said Irene.
Margaret looked down at her for a moment, took a sip from the mug and without saying a word disappeared back into the dark house. Irene stepped in and closed the door behind her.
She walked along the hall into the kitchen and sat at the table, swinging her legs but being careful not to make any noise by banging the chrome. Her mother stood at the counter. She picked her cigarette up from the heavy glass ashtray and inhaled deeply, her eyes narrowing against the smoke. Through this veil she looked steadily at her daughter, as though trying to form a conclusion. Irene studied the hem of her tunic, waiting.
Margaret turned her back to Irene and opened the icebox to get a bottle of milk. Irene watched her. You could tell a lot of things by how loudly doors were closed, by how carefully things were placed on a counter. Margaret cut up a tomato, slopped butter onto bread and made a careless sandwich. After pouring milk into a glass, she put the milk bottle back in the icebox. She closed the door and leaned her head against the cool surface. Irene could not see her face, but noticed the jerky movements in her shoulders, as she was meant to. Then Margaret turned back and looked straight at Irene, knowing Irene would be watching her.
Margaret was crying. She rubbed at her nose and then wiped her hand on the seat of her housedress. She looked at Irene as though daring her to speak. Irene hated this part, when the charge built like a thunderstorm coming until you could almost see sparks on the end of your fingertips.
Her mother picked up her coffee mug and drank. She picked up the cigarette and took another puff. Then she threw the cigarette toward the ashtray. It landed on the counter and rolled onto the floor.
“I cannot take this anymore!” she cried. Her hands knotted in her hair. Her voice was that of a seagull shrieking into the wind.
Irene’s heart was pounding.