A Story In Two Parts (2)

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

PUBLIC PLACES

"Look, Stupid ... have at Geneva, but lay off Sybil!"

"Geneva's a dog!"

"She'd let you do anything."

"Big deal, I've had her."

"You know Sybil's not like that."

"They all are, just some of them need encouragement."

"I'll be held equally responsible, anything happens. Remember what Dad said."

Finally, a promise. Not that he believed Hans, but he'd tried. "Christ! alright, alright, what the hell's the difference? She's nothing special."

Both girls lived in the main house. Geneva slept downstairs in a room off the parlour, with her mother. Mrs. Paull did the housekeeping for the Hulleys, cooked for them. Mrs. Hulley wasn't exactly sick but she never seemed well either, wandering around the big old farmhouse, a housedress-sloppy wraith.

Sybil played the flute and sometimes Curtis would see her practising outside, sun glancing off the silver rod as her fingers plied the keys. She practised between the boundary of the apple orchard and a grazing field where her father kept his steers. Curtis watched from the second story of the barn as she arranged herself on the grass, played scales, the sound floating thinly on the breeze. The sound there, yet not there. He strained to hear the eerily wispy strands and it seemed she might be teasing him.

Something about the reedy sound of the flute attracted the animals. Invariably, a group would sway ponderously through the field beyond to form a half-circle on their side of the fence, stupid heads lowered, twitching ears and tails against the everpresent flies.

In his dreams Curtis became a steer, was transformed to a bull, the appendage hanging hot, heavy with lust; he rammed the fence and ravaged Sybil. Clearly, he could see her face drenched with tears as she eluded him running, screaming and finally evaporating. He awoke mumbling, sweating, disgusted.

Mr. Hulley used the fixed-house method for his cattle in the winter, didn't bother to clean the barn throughout the cold months, so when spring came the building was a stinking morass. Curtis and Hans had the job of forking the offal-splattered hay onto a flat-bed wagon. Later it would be used to fertilize the fields, the sumptuous stench breaking down into the dirt, encouraging another cycle of growth.

There was a scoop running on a pulley, to pick up the stuff as they shovelled it into the centre lane of the barn. They came out splattered, clothes reeking, Curtis certain his pores were permanently clogged with offal. He'd never be able to wash clean.

When they trudged up to the bathhouse, if Geneva saw them she'd laugh. Once, Hans ran after her, grimy with ordure. She squealed like a panicked pig as he gained, finally threw her to the ground, covered her with his filthy clothing. Mrs. Paull flew out of the house, large and angry, shouted at Hans, told him he'd eat in the bunkhouse.

That night Curtis dreamed of tumbling Sybil on the manure-wagon. Wasn't she humbled? Lost her cool. Brought down to his level. Dainty Sybil who wouldn't soil her hands. Didn't she change? Pleaded with him to love her, didn't she? But nothing; the dream was inconclusive. He woke, couldn't recall what had happened. Stupid, really, to think of her like that. She was pure, virginal. Innocent and above or rather beyond, his puerile fantasy. Different, she was. Right, Curtis?

"What do you suppose's wrong with Mrs. Hulley?"

"Don't know, don't care. We're here for a summer job Hans, not to get involved with those people."

"Yeah, yeah. But aren't you curious?"

"No."

"Jeez, I bet you believe that shit Dad tells us about hard work and being in the country is character-forming, eh?"

"That's got nothing to do with it. I don't like them, can't be bothered. Now shut up and let me read."

Should have been asleep long ago. Had to get up early enough. Put in two hours before they even got breakfast. Shut bloody well up, Hans.

"Nothing wrong with wondering. I think she must have T.B. or something, the way she's always going around hacking. A rack of bones."

"Fine. Now we've diagnosed her, go to sleep."

"Hell, why should I? You're reading."

"I'm trying to read!"

"Hey, you really get off on that stuff, huh? Dad'd kill you if he ever saw you reading stuff like that. S'what he calls smut, isn't it?"

"Shut up!"

"Like I was saying, there's nothing to her, right? Right. Well, look at Mrs. Paull. A big woman like that. Jeez, let me tell you what I think...."

"Christ! I don't want to know!"

"...what I think, fact what I know is the old man's banging off Mrs. Paull. Now what do you think of that?"

"Shut up."

***************************************************************

It was a huge old barn, with a stone foundation. Boards so wide the size of the trees they were torn from must have been staggering. The boards had contracted slightly in some places so slender wires of light shone through into the barn during the day. Grain was stored in great bins upstairs. Field mice scuttled around in the bins. Rats too. Once, Hans pitchforked a huge black rat and they marvelled at the size of the noxious thing, joked about the Black Death. It had squealed ear-piercingly until Hans bashed it to jelly on one of the pine supports.

No real reason to be there in the loft that time of evening. Looking for privacy, that's all. Intended to light one of the kerosene lamps, do some reading, unmolested. Mr. Hulley would kill him if he found out. Always telling them about how easy it was to catch fire in the barn. But he'd be careful.

He was careful, quiet and stealthy, groping up the ladder. Careful not to arouse any of the brooding hens over on the other side. They'd cackle in their mindlessly panicked way and Mr. Hulley would hear the racket, might think a fox got in. He was quiet, all right. So quiet he could hear the rodents rustling in the grain.

But that was straw rasping around, not grain. And it was the husky voice of Mrs. Paull he heard not the scratching of a rat. Warm, not harsh the way it always was, the voice. Giggling, gurgling. What was she doing?

Hell of a thing if he got caught. No, they were the ones, not him. Making so much noise he wouldn't be heard if he fell down the ladder. Mr. Hulley's voice, asking nicely, not like it sounded when he ordered them around, but wheedling with her, guffawing when she giggled.

What's the hurry, Curtis? Stick around, maybe you'll learn something. think about it, what it might be like, hmmm? No use. He swelled all right, but the thought of himself thrashing about over the woman's huge flaccid body revolted him.

************************************************************

Town was nothing special, just a break from the farm. A hardware store, feed-and-grain store, lumberyard, fabric shop, supermarket. Two churches on dusty streets; the same edifices that steeple every small Ontario town, beside them the manses. One greasy-spoon, one poolroom.

In the fall, when the binder-twine festival called for celebration the town came alive, everyone happy, bashed. Banners strung across Main Street marking whatever anniversary was hallmarked; baking, sewing contests, plowing matches. Ordinarily though, dull, depressing. Streets running off the main thoroughfare where people lived, never coming out of their houses. Like Mrs. Hulley, wandering dully behind curtained windows. Sometimes a pot of bright red geraniums hanging on a wooden porch added a forlorn touch of cheerfulness.

Younger kids hung around the entrance of the pool hall, waiting to grow up. Older ones with surly mouths, challenging them; anything to relieve the boredom, the stiflingly cloistered, ingrown atmosphere.

At the community park Curtis left Hans and Geneva sitting under a willow dipping slender branches into the stream that bisected the town. Same stream that meandered through the farm, broadened out, ran off for miles, a ribbon of brightness.

"Aw, stay with us", Geneva pouted, asked as he walked away "what's the matter with him, anyway?"

"Jeez, he's queer, didn't you know?"

What's the matter, Curtis? Why so hot, so mad, so dissatisfied? Hey, what's the matter, Curtis?

Up the long heat-filled road, stones turning under sneakers, hardly any traffic, stepping on beetles, hearing them crunch. No good in anything, no satisfaction anywhere. What the hell is the matter? What's the matter with me, anyway?

A large arched gateway, wood, a sign: "Gracey Parklands". Nice cedar hedge, nice aroma; cedar. Rotten mosquitoes. Count them; killer.

All right, give it a try. See what lies beyond. Private property - so what, let them throw him out. Up the gravel road, into a park-like setting, the stream running through here too, sentried by willows hunched over the water, their leaves tumbling green, hiding the stream. But you could hear it.

Nicely tended grass, not the usual rank scrub. The road winding up the hill, and what's over the hill? Steps here fall soft, soft on the grass, in a hollow here, Curtis; nice. Wind picking up, tossing voices over there, over the hill. Like a dream, huh?

Have a look at the stream, wind through the trees, and there's a waterfall. Small, but a waterfall anyway, the water cascading in a silver flume. So that's why the water sounds so loud.

Sybil? Sitting there? No, not her. This girl has dark hair. Unreal, everything. Imagining things? Hey, is that someone sitting there, or nothing at all, through the curtain of leaves? Step on twigs, make some sound, so you won't surprise her, whoever she is.

Surprised anyway.

"It's all right." But she stands up, looking at him with the undecided, startled eyes of a doe.

She might feel threatened, he standing so much taller. Better to sit down, turn face to the water, hug knees as she had.

"What is this place?"

"Gracey Parklands."

"I read the sign. What's it mean?"

"It's a girls' summer camp. There aren't any boys here."

"I was just walking by. I'm working on a farm for the summer, not far from here. It's nice here."

"Yes."

"So that's all the noise I hear over there, then, campers."

"Yes. They've having games competitions."

"Not you?"

"No. I don't like to do those things. Besides, no one likes me. I'd rather be by myself."

If you want to look, then turn slowly. Hair pulled back in braids so tight her skin has a taut look, that's why her eyes look so big. Smile, Curtis, she'll smile back. See?

"I like to be alone too. Usually."

See? Nothing to it. She's reassured. Your intentions are merely friendly. Oh, cunning Curtis, and now you have a meek and mild companion, a little girl, oh what say, about thirteen? Those lumps are fairly undeveloped, she's tall and skinny, the shorts and tee shirt don't do much for her, but nice looking. And sitting right close beside you too, isn't that companionable? Voices over the hill thinner now, straining thinly through the leaves.

What's that? A rabbit? A hare. Nice, isn't it, just sitting here in quiet communion with nature and a nice girl for company. Oh, study the landscape Curtis, weigh the sounds, the smells, the textures and colouration of the arras. A remarkable composition, wouldn't you say?

"What's why I sit here. I see things when I'm still. Rabbits come out all the time. Groundhogs too. They browse, don't seem to mind if I'm sitting here as long as I'm still."

"Why doesn't anyone like you?"

"Why? Because I read too much and don't want to be with anyone. They said I can't get any books out of the camp library for the rest of the week. They said I have to get along with everyone."

"Oh. Who said?"

"The counselors. They're all right, but they say I've got to learn to socialize. I don't want to."

"I don't blame you. But what are you doing here at a camp, then?"

"My mother said it would be a good experience. That's what she always says when she thinks I should do something I don't want to do. She's just glad to be rid of me. I bug her. She doesn't much like me around."

"Maybe it only seems that way."

"Nope. I know how she feels about me. I like it here all right. But I don't like sleeping in a dormitory and I don't like eating in a long hall at a big table and I don't like not being alone when I want to, and not being able to read whenever I want to."

"Neither would I."

"My name is Alix. I hate my mother."

"Hmmm."

"Anyway, you better go now. No boys are supposed to be here."

Oh, not so quick, not just yet. Permit your eye to rove over the landscape Curtis, appreciate it. What a magnificent and solitary landscape. Impale the memory of it on your inner lens, paint it on the canvas of memory.

If he moved, quickly..." No one would hear, the spot so secluded.

God, what was he, anyway? What was the matter with him! Was he sick? Or was there something like this in everyone?

"You going?"

"Soon."

"You better. If they find you here...."

They? Camp authorities. Counselors. Someone in charge. But there was no one near. The sounds from over the hill gone, nothing now but the sound of the water, some bird calls; the silence of trees thick in a conspiracy to shield him, them, from watchful eyes.

Bet she doesn't trust you, eh Curtis? Probably watching sideways out of the corner of her eyes while she's picking at the grass, there. Seems nervous, don't you think?

"Yeah, I'm going. Time for me to get back, I guess." Ask, why not ask, what can you lose, Curtis?

"Alix ... would you be interested ... if I came back next week. Would you be here?"

"Why? Why should I? And you're not supposed...."

"No one would know. I'll bring some books." Curtis, you're lonely, right? The other thing, that's what they call a momentary aberration. See? No more swelling, no ache, nothing. This skinny little kid couldn't turn anyone on.

"You don't look like someone who - like my mother's always saying, would molest me."

"Molest you?" Throat dry, feel strangled, swallow...come on!

"What do you ... forget it, what I said, about next week. It's not such a good idea, after all."

Laughing? At him?

"Molest! Like that? Stupid word! She can't even say rape or anything like that, my mother. Too crude. She thinks maybe the word would strain my imagination. Shows how stupid she is, telling me to look out for myself, not talk to anyone I don't know, not hang around parks, go out after dark, because none of those things helped and it was her own brother who looked after me. Good old Uncle Barnie. He was supposed to look after me. Well, he did that all right."

God! Her own uncle.... "That's sick! Didn't you tell anything? Your mother....?"

"My mother? Tell her anything? She'd say I made it all up. Punish me. Anyway, what's the difference, I'm telling you so you know I'm not as innocent as you may think. I can look after myself."

"Oh."

"What kind of books?"

"What...?"

"The books. You said you'd bring some books. What kind?"

******************************************************************

A bird rose in panic through the air bruised with the agony of her silent suffering. Her mouth huge, but no eruption of sound, nothing came out. Could she have screamed and I didn't hear it? No, no scream. Fast Curtis, you're damn fast.

Better leave now, Curtis. Boys aren't supposed to be here.

c. 1979 Rita Rosenfeld