Good To A Fault Part 4

"Oh, no-I'm sorry for the girl, it must have been hard to lose her mother so suddenly." Why say such stupid things? No easier to lose her slowly.

"She had to do all the work when they moved. Her father couldn't do anything, like get the phone hooked up or anything, he was too sad." Darlene's voice was flat and quick, almost mocking, as if she thought she'd sound older that way.

"How old was the girl?"

"Twelve. She babysat us when my mom worked. She had to go down to see her mother at the place. The police place. She felt her mom's face. It was all cold."

Still the quick words without proper feeling attached. Too risky to let deep feeling loose, maybe especially in childhood. "Darlene, do you want to talk about something a little less sad?"

"Everything is sad."

"Yes, you feel that, don't you?" Clara could remember that so clearly, how there was nothing in the world that was not sad. "What a heavy feeling. Do you need some dessert to lighten you up? Ice cream?"

Distracting a child with food-a recipe for obesity, Clara thought. But ice cream appeared to be just the ticket. Darlene's sundae came in a tulip gla.s.s, with whipped cream and a cherry. It made them both happy, briefly, and when they went back to the car the sun seemed to have come out, or a breeze had picked up. The air was clearer.

The impound lot was at the end of a paved road with so much dust and dirt packed over it that it looked like gravel. Driving along with the windows up, Clara tried not to think about the end of this malevolent cancer, of all these people who would be so sad. But she couldn't pretend to herself that she expected Lorraine to recover, because it was clear to her that Lorraine would not. Although she hoped that she was mistaken.

The high fence had outward-jutting barbed wire at the top. Clara felt she should have come alone to this depressing junkyard. But Darlene yelled, "There it is! There's the Dart!" Threading her narrow hand through the fence, straining her finger to make Clara see.

The attendant let them in, and gave Clara an envelope and a clipboard with a form on it to sign. He didn't offer to come back to the car with them. He was what her mother would have called "rough"-grizzle-haired with strong-smelling clothes. She smiled at the man to make up for her mother's opinion, as she had so often done in her company.

Darlene dashed ahead through the warren of paths, around the corpses and ghosts of cars. How much life we pack into our cars, Clara thought, missing her own. And missing her mother's car, that Clayton had now. Who knows in what town he's selling it, she thought. Good riddance. Time to get rid of some of her mother's baggage.

The Dart had keeled over to the left, both wheels gone on the crumpled driver's side. Darlene was already around on the pa.s.senger side, yanking on the front door.

"Wait!" Clara said. "I've got the key here, I think..." Yes, in the envelope. On a Playboy Bunny keychain. How could any man?

Darlene slipped it from her hand and into the lock, jiggled it as if she knew the secret, and it opened for her. It was a heavy door. The car smelled stale, smoky, of rubber and burning. Darlene leaned forward and up onto the seat, to flip open the glove compartment. But it stayed shut.

"It won't-it won't open!" she said, too loudly, pulling harder to show Clara. Her sharp young voice sliced through the still air.

The man at the gate called something, and Clara turned, letting the door slip out of her hand. Just in time she turned back and caught it, before it slammed shut.

"Oh!" Clara pushed the door wide open again and leaned on it, her stomach leaping. She could have broken Darlene's hand.

"Yikes," Darlene said, not particularly worried. "The thing's broken, the thing that makes the door stay open."

The gate man, beside Clara, had brought a short crowbar and a rubber mallet.

"Times things're stuck," he said. "Might need these."

"Thanks," Darlene said.

She took the crowbar and pried the sharp end in at one edge of the glove compartment.

"Should you?" Clara was saying, when the little door popped open.

"Okay," Darlene said, giving the gate man as big a smile as her mouth would make. "Go now."

He grinned back at her, ignoring Clara's hand-flap of apology. Off he went.

"You can't be so-" Clara hesitated to say rude. "He might have been insulted."

"Why?"

Clara decided it would be stupid to try to explain. Darlene had pulled out the maps, four or five separate provinces and the one larger book of all Canada. She flipped through it, but quickly, as if she didn't want Clara to see. Clara made a business of looking for her notebook in her purse, to find the list. "Map book, yes, registration folder."

The interior of the car was a mess, but no worse than any vacation trip. A garbage bag must have gone flying in the crash, full of wrappers and orange peels. Clara was shocked to see a burned patch on the back seat, blurred by cherry juice.

Darlene looked past her. "That's not from the accident, that's from the laundromat. We were doing the laundry in Yorkton, and Gran was smoking in the car."

"She burned the car?"

"She fell asleep. No more smoking in the car ever, my mom said. Pearce was in the front seat sleeping, and my mom freaked when she saw smoke coming out of the window. And you should of seen Gran jumping around in the parking lot, putting out her skirt!" Darlene laughed out loud, with a mean gleam in her eye.

Clara was suddenly worn out with all this eventful life.

After laughing Darlene was quiet, her hand on the warm gold vinyl of the front door. Then she slid into the front seat and pried out a small orange corduroy log, the size of a doll bed pillow.

"My mom likes this little one under her neck," she said, stroking the corduroy with the welt, the velvety way, and then back, her fingernails dragging the pile up. "It's not dirty, look." She scrubbed her cheek against it, then climbed out and handed it to Clara, who tucked it in her bag and carefully crossed out Pillow on her list. Darlene slammed the car door as hard as she could. A huge sound in the silent impound lot.

The trunk was packed like a jigsaw puzzle, boxes of every shape. The kitchen box was crammed with pots and an old plastic jug filled with cutlery. Other boxes, shoes and boots were stuck here and there: the whole thing given a hard shake by the accident and the tow. When they'd pulled out the duffle bags, and her mother's little box, Darlene balanced the kitchen box on them.

"You don't have to open these," she said. "You have enough stuff."

"Of course," Clara said, unmiffed. She put the Playboy Bunny key back in its envelope.

Darlene stared out the back window even after she could not see the Dart any more. It had not been bad, being in the car, even though Gran complained. Better than some of the places they'd lived-better than Espanola, last winter. She didn't have to come, anyway, Darlene thought. She could have stayed in Winnipeg, if she hadn't fought with Mrs. Lyne. Who wouldn't fight with Mrs. Lyne, though, and who could stand her stinky trailer?

She did not want to think about where her dad might be. Instead, she thought about going to sleep in the back of the Dart while they drove through the darkness, Trevor and her lying on each other's laps, twisting around to get more comfortable. Her dad whistling for a while in the mornings, or his face pressed against the window pretending to scare them when he came back with doughnuts-but she wasn't thinking about him. She loved sitting on the floor of the back seat, with the vibrations humming in her bones, and the ticking the motor made when they'd finally stopped late at night, the heavy feeling of stillness after moving for so long. Like the night in the parking lot, with the big moon, when they all lay out on the hood of the car, staring up at the sky, looking for satellites and shooting stars. Except that was the night that her dad was gone for a long time, and they woke up in the middle of the night when those scary guys rocked the car, looking for him. Her mom locked all the doors and whispered to stay still, not talk, not breathe, until they went away.

That was a long trip, to Saskatoon. They had stopped ten miles outside town so her mom could try to tidy everybody up, and then Pearce spat up on her last clean top, so they went to the Saan store to buy a new top so they could go see Darwin at her mom's cousin Rose's house. But Darwin was not at the house any more. The people who lived there now had never heard of her, or Darwin, so they'd lost him. Her mother had cried when they came out of the house, because she missed him. And then was the crash, and now here they were, parked at the hospital again, the parking lot that Darlene was getting to know very, very well. She tried to focus her eyes on Clara but it was too hard. She walked beside her, not even trying any more, carrying her mother's box and the orange pillow.

Lorraine was asleep. Darlene slid the box into the bedside table cupboard carefully, not making any noise. She put the orange corduroy pillow on the bed beside her mother's arm and looked at Clara-what should they do?

Clara had managed office staff for twenty years, but she found it strange to be the authority for a child. She tore a page from her notebook. "We'll write her a note," she said.

Dear Lorraine, she wrote. We've left what you asked for in your bedside cupboard, and the nurse will have the key. Please don't worry about the things in the car, they'll be keeping the car in the lot for a few months. I've asked my parish priest to come by when he's in for his visits, and he can tell you that I'm a good citizen. I've got a couple of weeks off work, anyway, and I promise I'll look after the children. So you don't have to worry What a stupid thing to say. She added, about them. Leaving Lorraine free to worry about herself as much as she might like. Clara usually had nice clear handwriting, but for some reason the pen was not co-operating, and the letter looked scrawly and irresponsible.

I'll be back to see you later, she put. Clara Purdy.

When they got home, they found the baby trapped in a cage made of dining room chairs. Trevor was trying to keep Pearce happy by feeding him crusts of bread between the bars. A soap opera blared through the house from where Mrs. Pell snored on the couch in the TV room. The boys had been crying, but they'd worn out their tears. Pearce had smears of gummy bread crusted on his cheeks. Clara caught him up and soothed him, his arm gripping fiercely around her neck in his relief.

She washed everyone's face, gave Pearce a bottle to calm him down, and made grilled cheese sandwiches. Mrs. Pell managed to stay sleeping even when Clara snapped off the television, and didn't wake, or allow herself to be seen to be awake, till Clara brought her a sandwich and a cup of coffee. She took them with an ill grace and shut her door tight.

Clara took the children out to the back garden in the bright summer evening, asked Mrs. Zenko next door to watch them for half an hour, and raced over to the mall. She bought new shorts and running shoes for Trevor and Darlene, in a frenzy of efficiency, and a folding playpen for Pearce. The diapers would last a few more days. The groceries would hold till tomorrow. She found a case of formula on the way to the checkout, and was back within forty minutes. Mrs. Zenko and Trevor were watering the flowerbeds while Darlene lay on the gra.s.s with Pearce, tickling his knees with a long thread of gra.s.s. He was kicking, exercising, not laughing but calmly pleased to be fussed over. He reached his arms out for Clara, his huge face smiling, glowing in the lowering light. What a beauty he was.

Mrs. Zenko had brought over a large plastic container of the plain cookies she called angel cookies and a pretty wooden high chair, in perfect condition. "None of my children want this old thing," she said, as if she was embarra.s.sed to offer something so slight.

Clara thanked her gratefully.

"Not the easiest thing to do," Mrs. Zenko said. "Taking on a family like this. I heard them yesterday, and this afternoon-I nearly came over to help, but I thought she wouldn't take it too kindly, so I just listened."

The noise must have been very bad, Clara thought. She and Mrs. Zenko knew each other well enough. "I'm not going to be able to leave the children with her," she said quietly. "Not for any length of time."

"No."

"I like their mother, Lorraine," Clara said. "He's deserted her." She leaned her cheek against the bird-feeder pipe her father had put up. It needed seed. Tomorrow she'd let Trevor climb the stepladder and fill it. "I'm going to need a book on looking after babies."

"You can read up, but most of it's just good sense. It's only ordinary to be with babies, after all. I've got a jar of chicken soup for you to take her tomorrow," Mrs. Zenko said. She coiled the hose neatly and went back to her own garden.

6. Opposite action.

Paul Tippett hated hospital visiting. Clara Purdy, talking quickly to persuade him because she saw that it was against his will, had seen that-he must hide his will better. The corridors had been quiet around them in the relief of the evening. The blanket of the dark, or at least the dimmed fluorescent lights.

He pulled a notepad from the paper towers on his desk. Lorraine Gage. Well. Three children, according to Clara. Nothing he'd said had spurred her to the generous action she had taken. Except by opposite action, an effect he believed he often had on people. Not a flattering thought, but worth examining, while not examining Lorraine Gage. If he had said to Clara, "Open your house to these people, you must take Christian action in the world!"-what would she have done? Found a hundred reasons not to. But he had tried to comfort her, to say she was already doing enough...It was not enough. As a running continuo underneath conversation, louder when he was alone, Paul heard his wife's voice saying things to him, short sentences which were hard to bear. Not enough. Not good enough. Hopeless.

He was having a bad few days, that was all. Poetry could sometimes keep it at bay.

Foolish and ineffectual. Hypocrite. Priest. An example of similar action, he thought. Lisanne told him he was foolish, and he told himself the same. He was, after all, professionally opposed to opposition. He moved the papers cluttering his desk to one side. It was simpler than that, of course. Not opposite, or similar-it was the truth. Clara was right: visiting the hospital sympathetically was not enough. Lisanne was right: he was a fool. Divine Spinoza, forgive me, I have become a fool... Divine Lisanne, forgive me.

He had a sudden flas.h.i.+ng memory of their third anniversary party: his sister Binnie, twelve years old, with tears in her eyes, listening as Lisanne mocked him for some failure. "He's not stupid, you know," Binnie had called, too loud, from her chair far down the table. Daring to enter the lists for him.

The children, that's where he'd come un-railed. He made a note at the top of the yellow pad. Three children. The proximity of death makes us remember our own insignificance, that no one will remember us, that we are animate atoms, at most; our lives don't matter. But the children do. If there are any children. A chicken: an egg's way of making more eggs.

He was tired, and confused. A woman lives, and then she no longer lives. Easy enough. The part before "and then" is the difficulty, those long days and nights where people stagger in twilight, dying at different lengths, hard or easy. It would not be easy in this case, as he understood from Clara and from his own knowledge. Dear Binnie. If only it was diabetes, or lupus, or something else. She lost the fight. Cancer not being a gentle decline, but a ravaging, an invasion. Phrases from the homily he had given at Binnie's funeral, because his mother had asked him to, and it was his profession. He did not want to do another funeral homily as long as he lived, and he wanted none at his own funeral. No tea, no baked meats, either. Let them find their own supper, all people who on earth do eat.

He did not want to come to this poor woman carrying the baggage of death. We are not worthy to come to this Thy table, but Thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy. When Binnie s.h.i.+fted, uneasy beneath the sheet, he had seen her naked to the waist, had been unable not to see her. Pearly skin. Not disturbing, it was only death. ("There is no G.o.d, no G.o.d," she raged.) Turn it aside. Hopeless. (And in her next breath, "Jesus, Mary, Joseph.") He would have to telephone Clara and find out what she knew, at least. Not to put it off any longer, Paul pulled the phone from under a stack of bulletins and found Clara's number on the parish sheet pinned to the wall. Patchett, Prentice, Purdy.

He dialed and waited, unable to keep himself from hoping that she was not in.

"h.e.l.lo?" It was a child.

"May I please speak to your-" He paused, at a loss.

"Gran?" A helpful guess from the high voice.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to speak to Clara Purdy, please."

"Clary!" The phone clattered down. He could hear the boy bellowing off into the distance. "Clary! There's a phone for you!"

A moment pa.s.sed, and Paul heard footsteps towards the phone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"This is Paul Tippett. About the woman you asked me to visit?"

"Of course, Paul." She was distracted, having left Pearce standing in the newly a.s.sembled playpen. Paul was silent so long that she wondered if she'd said the wrong thing, if with his over-sensitivity he'd heard her impatience.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was organizing what pa.s.ses for my thoughts." He meant her to laugh, so she obliged. "I thought I should get some information from you before I go up to the hospital. The chaplain is away, and I won't have the usual form. But I thought I should have the children's names. And any details of her ordinary life would help. Could her mother-?"

"Mrs. Pell is not-" Oh, too much to explain. "She's not communicative," Clara said.

"No, I understand, certainly."

Did he? Clara was tired of talking. She wanted to lie down. She should never have taken this on, it was ridiculous. She had to find some way to get out of it. But that would mean finding Clayton, and that would probably mean charging him with car theft, and then he'd be in jail and the children would have nowhere to go. She was stuck. The clock clicked over to 5:00, bedtime was hours away.

"Will you be in your office for a little while?"

"I'll be here," he agreed. No urgency toward his home that she could hear. But maybe that was just professional patience.

Clara found Darlene was.h.i.+ng her face in the bathroom, which she seemed to be doing too often. Perhaps it was a phobia, or some kind of obsessive-compulsive-Clara knew nothing. She must read up. In the mirror Darlene's narrow face looked like a flower, emerging from the green towel, one of the Flower Fairies from childhood books. She must be too old for those.

"Come into my-your bedroom for a moment," Clara said. But Trevor was lying on the bed on his stomach, colouring with washable markers. How washable were they, exactly?

Darlene led Clara instead to Clayton's room, where Mrs. Pell glowered in the recliner, watching a soap opera with the earphones plugged in. They sat on the sofa, Darlene taking charge and patting for Clara to sit beside her.

"The priest needs to know a few things about your mother," Clara said. "So he can talk to her in the hospital. Anything you can think of, really."

"Okay," Darlene said.

She seemed older this afternoon than this morning. Clara's hand went out to smooth back her hair, but she stopped herself, and waited.

"She's a good skater. She used to clean houses for people when we lived in Trimalo, when my dad was in the mine. It was, like, her own business."

"That's hard work," Clara said.

"She used to take me and Trevor with her when we were babies, she'd take the playpen and sit us in there while she worked. And she would give us a gla.s.s of juice from their fridges."

Clara remembered her own mother taking her along on a visit. She remembered sitting on polished wood in some strange English house, playing with broken toys. A tall girl taking a bite out of an orange, right through the bitter skin-the spray of orange oil misting up as her teeth bit down, and the bright smell breaking into the air. Ages ago.

"What does your mother like, that would make her feel happier?"

"She likes to draw. When we're driving along she draws pictures of us, or of things we see. She draws us a story."

"Do you have any of her drawings? Maybe in the things from the car?"

"I don't have anything that's hers." Darlene began to cry, as easily as she might have laughed in another situation. Tears spouted from her eyes and ran down her face, and instead of wiping them she let them fall.

"I know," Clara said, terribly sorry for her, not knowing what to say or do. "But you have Trevor, and Pearce, and your granny, and..." She could hardly say Clayton. And she could not bring herself to say that Lorraine would be home soon, or be better soon.

Darlene nodded. No Kleenex nearby-Clara wiped the tears away with her bare fingers.

Mrs. Pell looked up and saw Darlene crying, and made as if to take out her earphones. But the program changed, the ad she liked came on. That cat. She pushed the clicker at it for more volume...more.