Finding My Own Way (5 page)

“Don't know. I've been keeping an eye on it for you, like you asked. Everything looked good last time I checked.”

“So how do you know?”

He raised himself slightly to get more comfortable behind the wheel. “I set some traps around for the
muskrats this spring 'cause I could see where the little rascals had been digging things up a bit. But, lo and behold, last week when I was cutting the grass out behind, I saw the lock on the back door had been smashed. Don't know how long it had been that way.”

I was speechless as he continued, taking his time. “Everything looked okay inside. Might've happened during the cold, because whoever it was used some of the stove wood from the pile out back, chopped some kindling. But then, you'd think I'd have noticed the broken lock before now.

“Anyhow, I went into town and dropped by the cop shop, asked Mert to take a swing out by here. And I bought you another lock.” He glanced over at me. “Whoever it was, a drifter most likely, has moved on.”

“Thank you for the lock,” I said, weakly.

“We found boot prints in the dried mud around the privy. We had heavy rain the end of May, so it could've been then.”

I nodded. “The water's off inside. They'd have to use the outhouse.”

“Well, it's on now,” he told me. “After we got your aunt's letter I came over and got things running again. Turned on your electric for you.”

We bounced into the lane at the side of the house. Ernie was yelping with excitement, running back and forth the length of the truck box.

“Mert said you should take a look around,” Henry advised as he eased his girth out from under the steering wheel. “Be sure nothing's missing. Like I said, everything looked okay to us.”

From here, I had to agree. Nothing appeared any different. As I climbed down, I could see where Henry McIntyre had cut the grass, grown to hay during my absence. It lay in long rows down to the river's edge.

Mr. McIntyre opened the door and we entered through the back kitchen, following a trail of muddy footprints into the house. Going through to the front room, I unlocked the front door and swung my suitcase inside, feeling the rush of warm, sweet air.

After a quick inspection, it appeared to me that the intruder had confined his living to the kitchen, where the cookstove would have provided the only source of heat. There was an oil burner in the corner of the front room, but Alex and I had used the last of the oil, and Irene had seen no reason to refill the tank that sat at the side of the house.

The room across the hall from the kitchen had been my grandmother's bedroom. During her own final illness, Alex had hired someone to convert part of it to a tiny bathroom. Everything there and in the big bedroom upstairs was just as I had left it.

“I guess it was a good thing Alex and I didn't have much worth stealing,” I remarked, rejoining Henry McIntyre in the kitchen. I had taken Alex's portable typewriter with me to Toronto, where it would remain until Irene could bring it and the rest of my belongings down sometime by car.

“We had a little radio, and Alex's publisher gave her an electric frying pan once,” I remembered.

“Isn't that your radio on the counter there?” observed Henry. “Better check that the fry pan is still here.”

I rummaged in the cupboard under the sink. “Probably the only thing we owned that's worth more than fifteen dollars,” I remarked, withdrawing the shiny appliance.

“There you are; just like new,” declared Henry McIntyre with satisfaction.

“No wonder,” I said. “Every time Alex tried to use it, it blew a fuse.”

“Place probably doesn't have heavy enough wiring,” the man surmised. “So, what d'you think? Seen enough? Come back with me now. Your dog is right at home at our place.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “We're going to stay here.”

He frowned. “Tonight?”

“Tonight and every night,” I vowed.

Henry McIntyre hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” There was no doubt in my voice, and being a man who knew his own mind, he respected that and left a minute or two later in the truck.

I had never considered the possibility that someone might break into my house. But some stranger with mud on his boots had tracked up the linoleum and used my firewood, not to mention the outhouse. I could very easily mop the floor, but I looked askance at the daybed beside the stove. How many nights had some stranger stretched himself out there to sleep? And how did I know if this person had cooties, or worse?

I pulled the mattress off the daybed and turned it over. Then I swept and mopped the floor. While I waited for the linoleum to dry, I sat on the back step and pondered my situation.

I decided I didn't have to let this incident take the edge off my joy at being home. Whoever had entered the house, uninvited, had not destroyed anything that I knew of, except the padlock. He didn't seem to have been a thief. It could even have been some poor stranger seeking a roof over his head during a storm.

I had a sudden picture of that person, a woman now, trudging along the road through blinding snow, clutching her threadbare coat to her throat, discovering the opening in the hedge—the promise of a house! But there were no lights on inside, she realized; no one was home. She couldn't move a step further. She must have shelter. My imagination provided the peace of mind I needed. If I thought about it long enough, I might even imagine she had left me a note somewhere, apologizing for having to break in.

I roused myself. This place was where I wanted to be. And this was where I would stay. Ernie was standing knee deep in the lazy river, his intelligent head cocked to one side, contemplating frogs. I could tell he was glad to be home.

Later, when I was upstairs putting sheets on the bed, I heard a truck in the driveway. Henry McIntyre had returned. Ernie went clattering down the stairs, barking furiously, but he became an old marshmallow when he saw who it was and that Mr. McIntyre was carrying a bag of table scraps for him.

“The wife's upset I didn't bring you home for supper,” Henry announced. “Sent you down some grub and insists you come and use our spare room.” He drew a basket across the seat of the truck towards him.

I assured him again that everything was fine.

“You aren't nervous about staying here?” he asked, scratching the top of his head with the hand that held his cap.

“No, I'm not. We know that the break-in happened months ago. How long's it been since anyone needed to light the woodstove?”

“Well, they couldn't use your stove with no electric,” he pointed out.

I took a deep breath. He was not going to dissuade me. “Tomorrow Ernie and I are going into town to see the Paceys. Margaret Pacey was my best friend. They have lots of room at their place, and I could stay there if I really needed to.”

Resignedly, Henry McIntyre handed me the basket containing something wrapped in tea towels. “Well, this here plate's still hot,” he said. “There's some milk here too. I didn't bring you much, 'cause I didn't check your fridge out yet.”

“It works,” I told him. “I plugged it in, and it's humming away in there.” Even if it hadn't worked, Nan's old icebox still crouched in the corner of the back kitchen. I'd just buy some ice somewhere if I had to.

When Alex had finally replaced the icebox with a second-hand Frigidaire, it was not because we needed it, but because ice was no longer delivered to our door. The iceman had been a regular caller when I was little. I used to wait at the front gate for him, knowing he'd ask me to watch his horse while he carried the chunk of ice into the house. The obedient animal never moved from the spot where he'd slowed to a halt.

Before the iceman climbed back up into the wagon, he'd chip off a sliver of ice for me. Then I'd stand on the gate and watch the pair head away down the road, the water trickling from the back of the wagon and bouncing in the dry, red dust.

Mr. McIntyre gave me the keys for the new lock on the back door that I would secure whenever I left the house. I leaned back against the door, smiling, as I heard him drive away.

I took the the picnic basket into the front room and opened it on Alex's writing table. Ernie crawled underneath to his customary spot, settling himself with a long sigh. I was hungrier than I thought and was grateful for the plate of lukewarm tuna casserole and the heel of home-baked bread.

After I had finished my meal, I sat back in the chair, dropped my hand to where the dog lay and idly stroked his fur. The writing table under the window was one of my favourite places. The dusty quart milk bottle that Alex used to keep filled with wildflowers from the roadside still sat where it always had. Tomorrow I'd gather a fresh bouquet. And sometime soon, if I wanted to be able to see the road when I sat here, I'd have to root out the clippers from the back kitchen.

There were three hardboiled eggs still in the bag with the thermos of milk. I decided to keep them for my breakfast. Before it was totally dark, Ernie and I went upstairs, and for the first time in nine months, I collapsed onto my own bed.

The crowing of the McIntyres' rooster woke me the next morning. I leapt out of bed, eager to begin Day One of Life on My Own. Ernie roused himself and shook vigorously, sending a flurry of hair onto the floor at my feet.

My plan for the day included a trip to Pinkney Corners to buy groceries, to see Margaret, and to try contacting someone at the pickling factory. If I could plant some cucumber seed, the money I earned would pay for my telephone. Aunt Irene could not really afford to pay for any extras.

I hadn't seen Margaret Pacey since leaving last September, although for a while the letters between us had flowed back and forth frequently. I think she was the one who stopped writing, but now that I was back, I hoped she would be as eager to resume our friendship as I was.

Before I started school at the age of six, the only young people I knew were the characters in Alex's novels. The school my mother walked me to that first day was the same little schoolhouse she had attended herself. The teacher, Miss Dempster, taught all eight grades in one
room. Judy Dempster wore pleated skirts with sweater sets and pearls and kept her blonde hair in a smooth, pageboy style. I adored her. I couldn't wait for it to be my turn to be monitor so that I could do whatever she asked of me—fill the ink wells, bang the chalk dust from the blackboard brushes against the brick wall outside or visit the supply cupboard for the stacks of foolscap.

We girls took our skipping ropes to school as soon as the snow cleared and played feverish games of Seven-up with our India rubber balls. When it was the season for allies, we carried our treasured collections in little cloth bags we had sewn ourselves.

But best of all was meeting Margaret, who sat behind me in first grade and became my very best friend. Margaret wore her chestnut hair in braids, tied with ribbons that matched her knee-high socks. She always looked immaculate. Everything she owned fit her perfectly. There were no fallen hems, no darned elbows or heels, no holes in the soles of her shoes. The year we entered high school, Margaret's braids were replaced by the latest style in short hair—the pixie cut, with little feathers of hair framing her face and neck. Her mother, Fern, had adopted the same style.

Margaret Pacey's family intrigued me, particularly her three older brothers. Her father was the town druggist, and her mother was a committeewoman. That meant she went to a lot of meetings.

“Sometimes,” Margaret informed me, “Mother is so busy she doesn't even have time to take off her hat when she gets home for dinner, before she goes out again to the next meeting.” I'd never seen anyone eat with her hat
on. And dinner in our house was called supper.

The first time I visited the Pacey household was for Margaret's birthday party. It was a boisterous, happy place, and I tried afterwards to spend every moment I could there. My own house was so quiet you could practically hear the dust gathering.

My favourite among Margaret's brothers was the youngest, Michael. A pink-cheeked cherub of a boy, he was just two years older than his sister. The other, older brothers I admired from afar, but Michael was usually around the house, underfoot when we were, scrounging brown sugar sandwiches from the pantry, sharing the coloured comics from the Saturday paper as we lay together on our stomachs on the floor of the living room. Michael's favourite pastime was gluing plastic models together. He had hundreds of them, including several aircraft that hung from the ceiling of his bedroom by lengths of fishing line.

By the time I left for my year in the city, Michael had graduated from high school. I had a purloined picture of him in his new suit on graduation day—a tall, lean young man by then, blonde hair slicked back on the sides and a lock that rose up in front before falling over one eye. During the lonely months away from Pinkney Corners, my friendship with Michael Pacey had been transformed into a chest-aching crush.

The Paceys lived in the best part of town, in a three-storey red-brick house, with a wraparound porch called a verandah complete with two cushioned swings, and there were hardwood floors inside. Our floors at home were linoleum. In places, they were worn through to the
black underneath, especially in front of the kitchen sink and under Alex's writing table.

When television first came to Pinkney Corners, most people only got to see it through the window of the local appliance store. The Paceys bought a set for their own living room.

At that first party, there was real money in Margaret's birthday cake, tucked between the layers. That spoiled me for the buttons and curtain rings Alex used to wrap as surprises in my own cakes.

Margaret's father showed movies for the guests. Six little girls sat in front of a bed sheet hung against the wall in the parlour to watch Laurel and Hardy try to move a piano out of an upstairs apartment. The movie must have been hilarious because everyone laughed, but I focused on Margaret's father behind the projector. As the light flickered over his face, he smiled indulgently at the fools in the film and played with the tidy beard on his strong chin. I decided then that if I could choose a father, he would be just like Margaret's.