Dollybird (3 page)

Back at the hotel, while I was waiting in the restaurant for a supper I could ill afford, a large balding man in a faded black suit and bow tie walked with slow, swaggering strides to my table. crossed my mind – snout, small pink eyes, tightly stretched belly – and I had to hide a chuckle behind my napkin. Without invitation he pulled up a chair and I drew back, ready to object. Up close, he seemed more a swine, and far less amusing.

“Your cousin tells me you need a job.”

CHAPTER 3

i
i
i

Mr. Penny's buggy
rattled into the tiny community of Ibsen. We'd travelled almost two hours, yet he whipped the horses hard the last mile as if needing to make an entrance. I'd kept my mouth shut and held on, relieved I'd had to insist only once that he allow me off to pee and retch out of his sight while he continued to stumble loudly and drunkenly through details of his grand life as Ibsen's most successful businessman.

“I own Ibsen. The general store, the lumberyard, the hotel. And everybody else owes me something.” His eyes narrowed and he leered. “I like it that way. It keeps ‘em humble.” His Adam's apple danced with a soundless laugh.

I'd had to take the swine's offer – room and board plus one dollar a day – because it meant I'd have a roof over my head and, if I worked hard and proved myself, a job when my condition became obvious. I had to believe it. I couldn't have stepped into his buggy otherwise.

Now, leaning away from his putrid breath, I looked at my new home. Ibsen was a small protrusion of life on the flat, treeless plain of southern Saskatchewan. The dust of Main Street settled over the wagon as we moved past the grain elevator, the grocer, blacksmith and livery, a tiny barbershop. Penny hadn't mentioned if he owned these. I glanced sideways to see his eyes drooping even as he urged the horses down the street.

A saloon occupied the ground floor of a two-story building called the Ibsen Hotel. Nearby signs attempted to dissuade patrons from entering. One read, DRINKING IS THE DEVIL'S ORK, the W faded grey and lifeless like the whole town. Another implored readers to sign a petition, proclaiming ALCOHOL BE PROHIBITED IN TOWN, as though the drunken and morally impoverished of the countryside were not worthy of their attention.

“Idiots,” slurred Mr. Penny. “Halfwits don't know it's rum money built this town. Moose Jaw too.”

I nodded, hoping he didn't expect an answer.

“We'll go in for a drink before I take you home.”

I couldn't imagine it. “I'm really quite tired, what with the long trip and all. If you direct me to where I'll be staying, I'll just get settled.”

“Third house on the left there.” He pointed vaguely. “Attic is yours.”

He retrieved my luggage, grabbed a passing boy by the ear and told him to help me with my bags, tossing him a coin as he turned to go. The boy couldn't have been more than ten, but he ran ahead, dragging my bags through the dust. Too tired to protest, I followed like a sheep until he stopped on the doorstep of a small two-story. It appeared Mr. Penny had built himself up bigger than his house. Inside was a mess, dishes with bits of congealed food on the table, pots on the stove. Clothing was randomly shed throughout the parlour and up the stairs. I gingerly stepped over Mr. Penny's things, the boy following, until we came to a door on the second floor that led to the attic.

“This will be fine.”

His large brown eyes were so ingratiating, I reached into my purse for small change. “Thank you, ma'am.” He beamed and ran down the stairs. The door slammed. It was a relief to be alone.

The attic was small and sparsely furnished with an unfinished wooden table and two chairs, a dresser and a small bed. The air was stifling and musty, though the previous inhabitant had made some effort to leave the room clean and in order. One window looked out over the street. The field beyond shimmered pink in the dying rays of the sun. Opening the window proved small relief.

Damp curls leapt from the confines of the pins I'd used to set my hair, sweat trickling down my back and under my arms. I dragged my belongings upstairs, hung my dresses on hooks on the back of the door and laid the rest of the clothes in the dresser.

Ripping the stitches of the trunk's false side, I freed the blue china from its hiding place. Holding a teacup, turning it over and sliding swollen fingers over delicate curves, I marvelled at how far it was from the life it once led. Amidst an array of beautiful things in Mother's cabinet, the Coalport had been ignored and mostly forgotten. In this place, in this room, it was precious again, made lovely by its contrast to the surroundings. I set the pieces carefully on the dresser.

Last I set the family picture alongside the china. It had been taken only months before. I'd mostly forgotten the odd quality of light in the photograph. We'd been arranged outdoors, the sun low in the west, a shadow falling over only some of the faces, while the rest were brightly lit and squinting. There was Mother in black, her face unmoved, a slight wrinkle at the side of her mouth as she tried to smile; Father, back straight, shoulders round with worry. His hat sat squarely on his head, though moments before the flash I'd tried to set it at a jaunty angle, but he'd pushed my hands away. It wouldn't have suited him anyway.

The girls were seated in front, Deirdre, the youngest, dressed in Sunday best, hair pulled back to reveal her small round face, perfect upturned nose and careless, vapid eyes. Flirting constantly, always dreaming about her next beau, she avoided being home as much as possible. The family had expected it would be Deirdre to end up in a predicament, her adventurous social outings strangely encouraged by our parents, much to the consternation of Aileen, who feared for Deirdre's soul.

Poor, pale Aileen. Her sallow complexion was made worse in the picture by the washed-out colour of the dress she wore. She smiled a weak appreciation of this small attention, but her face remained pinched, wrinkles creasing the brow between worried eyes, shoulders tightened against the onslaught of her days. She was old in the picture, made older than God with looking after Mother. Aileen bore the brunt of our mother's tyranny, listened to the unceasing complaints, worked tirelessly to run the household and nurse Mother through recurring episodes of blinding headaches that kept her in bed for days.

I felt a twinge of guilt. Aileen had suffered with me through the silence that roared around the house when I told Mother and Father of my pregnancy. For two days they closeted themselves in their bedroom, Mother's angry weeping sliding out under the door, Father's soft voice comforting her, choosing to believe her motives were pure.

“
But the neighbours, they can be so harsh dear, even cruel, to people in Moira's condition. I love my daughter. I can't bear to see her scorned. She'll be back after it's adopted out. She can start again.”

But when she deigned to glance my way, Mother's eyes were cold and grey and vindictive. “You will not ruin my life here. Nor your father's. We have worked too hard.” She held her hand up, dismissive.

“And what have you worked at, Mother?” It popped out.

She slapped my face. Tears sprang up, though I bit down to
keep from crying.

“Moira, you will leave at once.”

Aileen had quietly collected my hairbrush and comb, the ribbons I wore on special occasions, my sister's eyes welling with tears at this unique injustice.

Poor Aileen.

In the portrait I sat in the middle of the family, though it always took me a moment to find myself. Are my cheeks really that full? My hair that thick and curly? I'd never noticed before how the escaped tendrils of hair framed my face in a pleasing way, how the neckline of my dress flattered my figure. White gloves were folded in my lap. I loved those gloves. They hid my hands, which I'd never loved, hands too large and easily calloused. But I liked my grin. It made me look as though I knew more than the other women in the picture: a grin of triumph at having become part of a world where I was more than the berated and ridiculed daughter of a sick woman. I would be a doctor like my father. I'd already been introduced to the sad reality of other people while on calls with him. I'd seen life beyond the walls of Mother's anger. In the picture I knew what I was. And what I was not. I would not become Aileen.

And so I vowed to make the best of Mr. Penny and this situation, went to the ill-stocked kitchen and found lard to slather on stale bread. Mr. Penny arrived after I'd retired to the attic. He made a terrific noise, cursing, dropping things. I lay stiff in the bed, covers pulled to my chin, and anticipated his footsteps, his glaring face. Instead the house grew quiet and I drifted in and out of sleep all night.

CHAPTER 4

i
i
i

Every morning
I wondered how I could continue as Mr. Pen
ny's housekeeper. But destitution was more frightening than exhaustion, and so I hauled water to the kitchen from the well out back, a necessity consuming much of the morning. The rest of the day was spent shovelling wood into the hungry mouths of the two stoves – both stayed lit all day – one for cooking, the other for heating water and the irons. Washing his clothes the day before, I'd gagged at the sweaty stench of them. Today I would press the clean shirts.

“There can't be no wrinkles. And everything's gotta be starched.” Mr. Penny was on his way out the door. “I have an appearance to maintain.”

“Yes sir.” I hated the ingratiating tone in my voice. I couldn't imagine how I'd save any money from the pittance he paid.

He fixed me with a hard stare. “Mind you don't steal anything or it'll be the tank for ya.”

My face grew instantly hot. “Mr. Penny, I have never stolen anything in my life.” I swooned with anger. “And I don't intend to start.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep it that way.” He nodded with contempt and left.

My whole body shook as I threw his wrinkled shirt on the table. The man was truly the pig I'd thought him to be. He had no right assuming such things. My father could buy his assets and more. His was a dump, his Ibsen a joke, the man an idiot. I wanted to chase after him, fling a torrent of proper vocabulary in his face to show off my education and status. Instead I sagged under the weight of his insinuation, choked on a mix of rage and despair. I couldn't imagine what would happen when he learned the truth of my pregnancy, could only hope Mr. Penny remained as blind as he was vain.

Swallowing hard, I tested the iron and fought the urge to burn a hole in the fabric. On folding the third shirt, I discovered a note in one of the front pockets that must have gone through the wash. On it was written and . Disgusting. The paper arched into the trash.

At three o'clock I took off my apron, straightened my hair, smoothed my dress and headed outside. People on the street nodded a curious hello and a moment of pleasure washed me clean of Mr. Penny's house. There were decent people in this town too. At the Chinese laundry a small woman eyed me from where she sat on the bench outside. She was tiny and wore a white fitted shirt and black pants with an apron wrapped over them. The Chinese were the only women I'd seen in trousers. I'd envied them in St. John's and I envied this woman too. How much simpler life must be unrestricted by corsets and layers of undergarments and overgarments.

“The doctor?” I raised my eyebrows to emphasize the question, not sure of the woman's English.

The words she offered in a short sharp tongue were at odds with the smile on her face. Finally she jerked her head toward the back of the store.

“Thank you,” I murmured, aware too late of the benevolent half smile plastered on my face, the same smile my mother reserved for those she barely tolerated. As I passed the woman I turned to offer more, but she'd vanished inside. Hurrying around the corner to the back of the building, I spotted the shingle. Dr. P. Berkowski, MD.

“I'm about three months along,” I informed him, stumbling over the words in my haste to get it over with. I'd seen the crucifix above the window, feared a lecture on the evils of fornication and the imperilled state of my immortal soul. “The morning sickness has abated a little, but I knew to expect relief after the first trimester.” His eyes widened. I drew myself tall. “I am studying medicine with my father.”

He nodded, a smile beginning to crease his hefty cheeks. “All right then, Moira, what is troubling you so much you would seek my humble advice?”

His candour was unsettling. “I have quite a bit of pain in my lower abdomen.”

“Would you mind an exam then?”

When I shook my head he left me alone to undress. It was cold and uncomfortable under the thin sheet, my nipples pointed to the ceiling, the small mound of my stomach covered in goosebumps.
The instruments I'd known in Father's office hung on the walls and rested on the desk – stethoscopes, scalpels, drug bottles of the trade. An odd sort of homesickness gripped me.

Every day of my life I'd watched Father rushing off in black coat and cap to the next emergency. In recent years he'd taken to helping people in the backwoods around St. John's, poor souls who could rarely pay. But he didn't mind, took pleasure instead in their grateful eyes and offers of prayers for him. “For me!” he would chuckle. He'd delivered their babies, performed their surgeries, comforted their bereaved, all without fanfare. He was a practical man. And he'd groomed me, hoping one day I might take over when he could no longer keep up the gruelling pace. Mother wasn't happy about it, displaying a muted envy at the collegial friendship grown between us, dismissing us. And Father stood back. He had, it seemed, endless capacity to put up with his wife's petty and facile nature.

“More time for his patients than his own family.” It was Mother's ritual complaint.

He might have just arrived home from watching an entire family succumb to diphtheria, yet he would apologize for being late, peck her on the cheek and sit silently eating his cold supper while she spoke of the poor selection of beef at the local grocer's, told how the neighbours were fighting over the indiscretions of a certain cat, or complained no one appreciated the good work she did at the church.

“Why don't you tell her about your life? The important work you do?” I'd asked Father while on the way to deliver a baby. “She is utterly self-centred and thoughtless.”

“My dear, she is your mother and I won't let you speak of her that way.”

I was stung. I'd miscalculated, assumed our relationship had gone beyond his scolding protection of her position.

“But Father...”

“There are some things you don't know about your mother. And I don't intend to tell you. But she didn't have it easy. She's had her suffering. If she seems harsh now it's only because she wants so badly to hang on to what she has.” We were driving up to an all-too-familiar house. Seven babies had been delivered in the tiny back bedroom. “Now let's get in there and help Mrs. McGiver. I hope she can survive another one.”

I jumped down and collected Father's bags and the things we'd need – sheets, towels and Mother's rosary. Mrs. McGiver
prayed the beads while in labour and was determined everyone
in the room do the same. The sound of children quarrelling in the house was backdrop to Hail Mary ringing out amidst screams and groans, until, on cue with the final sign of the cross, the baby was born. I'd been there for two of the more recent births, sat and held the woman's hand, marvelled at her timing. I'd been encouraged to sponge Mrs. McGiver's forehead, to coax her to breathe and push. It was embarrassing, but I felt it my duty to offer up the occasional Glory Be or Our Father until the cord was snipped and there was a chorus of hallelujahs with the baby's first cry.

Until that last one. Another ill-conceived infant born to a woman whose faith dictated length of labour and time of birth. This time I caught the baby, a boy born with a beatific face and curly blond hair who never uttered a cry, never, in fact, learned to say one word or to take care of himself. For this one the sign of the cross came too late.

i i i

The doctor's knock was startling. I hadn't expected the tears and quickly wiped them away. He poked and prodded my belly, used an uncomfortable finger to check for cervical abnormalities, and announced he believed the baby was just fine, though I should try to eat more to sustain myself.

“And if you have these pains, you should probably avoid lifting.”

I almost laughed out loud, instead whispering, “I'll try.” Lifting was most of my work in Mr. Penny's employ. But I didn't want to burden the kind doctor with my sad story. He left again to allow me to dress.

“Thank you.” I walked through to where he shuffled papers on his desk. “It's good to know everything is all right.”

“Yes, well.” He stared at his desk, absently tapping a pencil. “You know, you'd be a big help here, what with your experience.” He looked at me then, compassion in his eyes. “But I really can't afford it. The damn medicine show taking people's money and luring them to their deaths. And...you're a woman. A pregnant woman.” His face turned pink, his eyes averted. “I don't know if my wife would approve.”

“Thank you, doctor.” I wasn't at all sure it was his wife's approval that mattered. Perhaps he was just like my father's colleagues. The silence stretched awkwardly. I glanced up and his eyes met mine. “I do understand.”

The grocer's name stencilled onto the middle panel of the sign might have given the impression he was a leader of men. But a military man would have wiped the dust and stain from the glass windows and replaced the rotting wood of the door frame. A bell jangled when I opened the door and heads turned briefly. A huge black stove drew my eye, its pipes stretched like arms, one straight up, the other sideways to the wall before tracking up and through the roof. I wandered by flour barrels, cases of canned goods and mysterious wooden crates; followed the small pathways snaking between floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with everything from blankets to fabric, shiny new kettles to fancy china.

Two men sat on stools at the counter, sipping coffee and chatting with the man on the other side, General Mercer himself. Three or four women bustled around the store selecting items from piles or shelves.

“Why hello, Mrs. Berkowski. Those twins keeping you busy as usual?” The grocer's voice was loud.

She barely nodded and went about her business, but not before eyeing me with a shrewd glance. Perhaps her husband had been sincere. Whatever she'd heard about me kept her at a distance. I was new, alone and unwed, working for a man with a reputation for drink and women. I caught her looking again, judging me with my mother's eyes. I walked home to Mr. Penny's house, where I could hang my head, like she expected me to.