“You take your chances in life,” he said. “Things usually work out for the best.”
I wanted him to talk about me in that moment; about how fate drew us together. I wanted him to use the word
love
. But he has trouble talking about those sorts of things.
“Most men aren’t good with emotions,” Helen said once with an authoritative nod. She’s always making pronouncements like this. Grand overviews. Hard-and-fast rules about life and men and marriage. I think she feels it’s her responsibility to set me straight. She wants to teach me.
I met Charlie at the dance pavilion one summer night. He was shy and I was lonely. By that point, I believed what Helen had told me—that my expectations were too high; that love wasn’t some kind of explosion. And even if it were, it wouldn’t endure. Life was moving steadily along, so what was the point in chasing after the idea of something that didn’t even exist?
Charlie and I were married six months later. Helen was my maid of honour. Dickie was the best man. I remember walking down the aisle on my father’s arm and seeing Charlie waiting at the altar in the suit he’d borrowed from a friend at work. I was thinking about the luncheon menu, my parents, my dress. I wasn’t thinking about him. It was only in the months after, once all the commotion died down and a silence settled in between us, that I began to wonder what we had in common.
Not that he’s a bad man. He comes from a good family, although I’m not sure how they feel about me. His mother and sister came for the wedding. It was the first time I’d met them. His father left Mrs. Sparks and the children at some early stage in the marriage. Charlie didn’t offer many details. Only that the last he’d heard, his father was somewhere in Manitoba.
His sister, Irene, was tall with a twisted front tooth.
“You can practically smell the wheat coming off her,” my mother whispered.
His mother was older than I expected. She walked with a limp and her white hair was tightly curled against her head, revealing a grid of pink scalp. She treated her son cordially, as though he was someone she’d just met. Everything was “please” and “thank you” and she seemed to feign interest in his stories of life “out East” as he referred to it and how Balsden was an up-and-coming city on account of its refineries.
“It’s a city of the future,” he said as we drove past the massive oil drums and tall smokestacks like smouldering cigars. “People are calling it the Yukon of the south.”
I noticed a desperate edge in his voice, and the look Mrs. Sparks and Irene shared told me they had detected it as well. I realized for the first time what it had meant for him to come here, to leave behind the only world he knew.
“It’s so hilly,” Irene commented later.
“Really?” I asked. I couldn’t think of a single hill in Balsden.
I was anxious to make a good impression on Charlie’s family. I didn’t want them to think that he’d made a mistake in moving east. And even though he assured me that they liked me, their stone Prairie faces did little to convince me.
“Do you ever think about your father?” I asked once. I wanted to tell him that although I’d never been abandoned in that way, I knew about loss. In the eight years since I last saw Freddy, I’d never so much as breathed his name. I’m afraid that if I ever tell Charlie about him, he’ll ask me if I still have feelings for him and I won’t know how to answer. I’m not in
love
with Freddy. I never was. But he offered me something different, exciting. The crack of an open door.
Charlie considered my question about his father. I knew it was the first time he’d been asked.
“You don’t miss the things you never had.”
“Let me get this straight,” Helen says. The three of us are sitting in my backyard, keeping one eye on the children over the horizons of our coffee cups. Helen’s eight-year-old daughter, Marianne, is playing with John in the sandbox. Mark, her five-year-old, is asleep on the lawn. “What did the teacher say again?”
“She said that John had been a good student but that he exhibited behaviour throughout the year that concerned her.”
“The kitchen set?” Helen’s eyes widen. She recently had her brown curls cut short and dyed red. It makes her complexion too washed out, but she says that’s the point. It’s all about alabaster skin.
“Among other things.” I shouldn’t have said anything to her. It will come back to haunt me. I glance over at John, who is scooping sand into a bucket. He’s the spitting image of me. Brown hair, stern face, long arms. He catches me staring and waves.
“Are you and your cousin making sandcastles?” I call out.
“Sand
houses
, Mommy,” he says with irritation.
“Don’t get too dirty.”
“I personally don’t see what the fuss is about,” Fern says, shifting in her lawn chair. “Most of the world’s greatest chefs are men.” With her index finger and thumb, she pinches out her top. She does this all the time so that her clothing doesn’t catch in the folds of her stomach. She’s put on weight this past year and blames it on her mother’s cooking.
“Were there other things?” Helen inquires, leaning towards me.
“Not really. I think she’s blowing it out of proportion. She was very snooty to me.” I don’t mention Miss Robinson’s other comment.
“Teachers can be like that,” Helen says. “No offence, Fern.”
“None taken,” Fern says, but her tone says otherwise. She’s about to finish her first year of teaching.
“I almost went crazy,” she confessed to me. “They’re horrible little creatures. All snot and smelly feet and pestering questions.”
“Then why did you go into teaching?”
“It was either that or sit at home with Mother all day. I picked the lesser of two evils.”
I look over at John. Miss Robinson was younger than me, with pouty red lips like glue bottle dabbers. Her nylons made whispering
whish-whish
sounds each time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. How much happiness can be found in a pair of perfectly shaped calves? Everywhere I looked in the classroom, there were rectangles: the green chalkboards, the beige desks, the melamine backs of chairs.
“About John,” Miss Robinson began.
“John,” I repeated, tucking my legs under the seat.
She assured me he was a good student. “Just the other day, he held the classroom door open for me.” She laughs lightly. “The perfect gentleman.”
“He’s very considerate.”
“But I have concerns.” She twisted around, her legs jutting towards me. She gestured behind her back with an index finger. I saw a miniature oven, a sink. Shapes that looked like plastic fruit. “John likes spending play time in the kitchen area.”
“He helps me at home,” I explained.
“I’m sure he does.” Miss Robinson cleared her throat. “There are other things, Mrs. Sparks. John also enjoys playing with dolls.”
Did this woman think she was revealing things I didn’t already know? “He likes taking care of people. He’s … he’s a very caring soul.”
Miss Robinson nodded. I was hot under my jacket. The warm June morning was building to a hot afternoon. I was glad Charlie wasn’t there.
“I’m not questioning John’s intentions,” she said, pressing the pads of her fingertips together. Her fingernails matched her lips. “I’m concerned about the end result of those intentions. Most boys in this class couldn’t care less about the kitchen set and they certainly aren’t playing with dolls.”
Dolls and kitchens. Kitchens and dolls. Was that all she could focus on? What about his spelling?
“I’m sorry, Miss Robinson. But I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to tell me.”
She looked up. “If I see a child exhibiting abnormal behaviour, I have a responsibility to address it, Mrs. Sparks. My conscience won’t allow me to turn a blind eye.” She leaned in. “Is everything all right at home?”
“Of course.”
“No upheavals or change in the environment that might cause John to act out in peculiar ways?”
“Nothing that I can think of.”
I watched her tongue poke the inside of her cheek. A large clock above the chalkboard ticked the seconds away.
“When the children play tag at recess,” Miss Robinson finally said, “John lines up with the girls. He wants to be chased by the boys. You’ll need to keep a close eye on him, Mrs. Sparks.”
I say nothing to Charlie. There’s no reason to get him involved. I try to keep certain things about John a secret; things I know Charlie wouldn’t be good with. Besides, he’ll only blame me.
“You coddle him too much,” he tells me. “He can’t keep running to you whenever he’s got a problem.”
“What do you expect me to do? Turn my back?”
“I see the way he is around you.”
“You never give him the time of day.”
“You won’t let me near him.”
“You’re too critical.”
“You make excuses.”
You. You. You. I don’t know when this blame game started. It’s a jagged piece of glass between us.
I buy celebrity magazines when I go grocery shopping, glancing over my shoulder before tucking a rolled-up copy between the items on the conveyor belt. It’s not as though I’m doing something shameful or unusual. These magazines are created for women like me, looking for escape, for straight-toothed glamour and perfumed necks, for comfort when fantasy gets run over by reality. The cashiers see right through me.
You want to find Freddy
, their eyes say.
I keep the magazines hidden under my mattress. When John is at school and Charlie is working, I’ll take them out and pore over every inch of every photograph, reading all the articles, even the advertisements in the back, searching for him.
Rising star Freddy Pender has just signed on with 20th Century Fox to headline in the studio’s next major motion picture
.
This is what I’m expecting to read, even though I’ve never come across the actual words. I’ve even dug out the magnifying glass to scrutinize the party pictures. He may be in the background, smiling or laughing or tapping someone on the shoulder. Is his hair still blond? Has he outgrown his freckles? Does he even go by his own name?
He’s in Hollywood now. Mrs. Pender told me. A few years back, I ran into her in the grocery store, in the canned goods aisle. She wore a pleated skirt and black shoes with fat soles. As soon as I saw her, I came to an abrupt stop. My heart froze.
“Joyce Conrad,” she said. Her eyes travelled to the stroller where John was sleeping. “I see you’ve been busy.”
I managed a sound resembling a laugh. “This is John.”
She bent over to peer into the stroller, and I resisted the impulse to pull it away. Her once bleach-blond curls had gone back to their natural shade of brown. Her black shoes were scuffed at the toes. She had a run in her pantyhose, a thin trickle down her right shin. Her earlobes dangled like pale berries.
“He’s a fine-looking boy,” she said.
“Thank you. I got married a couple of years ago.”
“Oh? And who is the lucky fellow?”
“Charlie Sparks.”
Her mouth curved downwards. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s not from here. He grew up in the West and moved here a few years ago. We met at the dance pavilion and hit it off right away.” Why was I telling her this?
“And what does he do?”
“He works at one of the refineries.”
“I don’t know what this town would do without that industry. Say what you like about pollution, but it’s giving people the means to earn a living and there’s no crime in that.”
“We just bought a house on Marian.”
“I’m not familiar with that street.”
“It’s on the east side.”
“I see.”
I didn’t want to ask the question, but couldn’t help myself. I cleared my throat and hoped I sounded casual. “How’s Freddy?”
She looked over her shoulder before leaning closer. A pink-peach line of foundation ran along her jaw, a morning horizon. “He’s in Hollywood, if you can believe it.”
“Hollywood? I thought he was going to New York.”
“Broadway wasn’t for him. He got tired of the repetitiveness. He was on stage for eight performances a week. It was too much and not the best use of his talents. So he packed up and headed for ‘La-La Land,’ as he refers to it. He’s getting into movies.”
“Movies,” I repeated, as though it was the first time I was hearing the word.
Her chin tilted up. “My boy is on the road to stardom. He even has an agent. Freddy said that when he lands his first starring role, he’ll send a white limousine to whisk me away. Needless to say, I keep my curtains open and a packed bag by the front door.”
A shadow slipped across her face.
“I worry about him being on his own, though. Especially in a place like that. I write him every day to keep him in line. I need to keep an eye on him.”
John began to stir.
“It must be difficult for you,” I say. “Being on your own.”
“I have friends, Joyce.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And my church.”
“Of course. Are you still teaching?”
She nodded. “Grade four this year. It’s a good age. Right before they turn all saucy.”
I heard John yawn. “I should be going. He’s not usually in a good mood when he wakes up. Please send my regards to Freddy.”
“Keep an eye out for the limousine,” she said and turned her shopping cart to leave.
Since then, I haven’t come across a single picture of Freddy or a mention of his name in any of the magazines. But that doesn’t stop me from buying and hiding them.
Sometimes, when the weather is nice, I’ll sit out on the front porch and watch for the flash of white tearing down the street. Ridiculous, I know. Mrs. Pender doesn’t live anywhere near us.
From where I sit, I can see John’s school. The sight of those yellow bricks reassures me.
He’s in there right now
, I think. Safe. Contained.
When I pick John up from school today, he passes me an envelope. There’s a clown on it. Balloons. Another birthday party invitation.
“Who’s Benjamin?” I ask.
“He’s in my class,” John says.
“Are you friends with him?” I think parents spread the net too wide with these invitations. It’s all for show. They’re setting their children up for disappointment later in life. Still, I shouldn’t complain. Better too many invitations than none at all.