Obscure
, which he put into her hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
She carried the book home and set it on her small desk, aware that Parley’s fingerprints were on every page. Shehad already ploughed her way through
Jude the Obscure
. But instead of saying so, she had accepted his copy, caught in an act of insincerity spawned by the desire to keep things simple, when things were anything but simple. All around her was the curdled essence of this clever man, who found ways to bind you to him, to get you into his pot, where you simmered.
8
May 11
She remembered the leafy Ontario light on her mother’s face, the perfumed air in the one-hundred-tree orchard of McIntosh Reds, Snows, Wealthys, Tallman Sweets, and Pippins, and she wished very much that her classroom windows faced east instead of west. He weighed on her heart, this strange man who hadn’t learned how to tell time until he was eleven, a recent confession that had paved the way to a larger boast, that he mastered Latin in a year. She saw the artfully humble braggart he had become. She also saw the eleven-year-old boy, outfoxed by a clock.
Michael pulled her back to the present. “You look sad when you’re not talking.”
She turned from the window and went back to her desk where he was waiting, touched that he would noticesuch a thing, and impressed that he was so bound and determined to improve. It was after four o’clock. He was here for extra help. And here for her, of course. She was aware of that.
He would never be a speller. His sister was the one who could spell.
But the next day Susan got caught cheating on a French test. Several words inked on her palm. Her cupped hand was a dead giveaway. Any teacher, let alone Parley, would have spotted it.
He took hold of the long wooden pointer and indicated the carved plaque high on the wall above the maps. “What does it say, Susan?”
She stood beside her desk and read the words aloud.
Honesty is the best policy
.
Unless honesty is impossible. And then you try other means.
“I’m surprised at you.” His voice was icy.
He kept her at her desk after everyone else had left. The days were long now, adolescent, bursting their buttons with light. She heard children calling to each other outside and Mabel barking across the road. Her father must have come home.
Mr. Burns worked at his desk and she sat with folded hands, waiting.
Michael was pouring himself a glass of water from the enamel pitcher on the table when his sister came sobbing through the kitchen door. It was about five o’clock. Hismother was at the table, serving coffee to a neighbour, Mrs. Peter. His father - he’s not sure where his father was. He seemed to loom and fill the whole kitchen, but he was probably sitting at the table with his smallest child, his pet, on his knee. Susan’s face was wild, and so was her hair, so was her dress. She swayed and her voice when it came out was choked and cracked. “Mr. Burns,” she got out. “Mr. Burns.” Then hiccups took over.
His mother went to put her arms around her, but his father blocked the way. He laid his hand on Susan’s shoulder and marched her up to her room, away from the shocked eyes of Mrs. Peter, who left them then to sort out their sorrows.
They waited a long time for his father to come back down, and when he came, he came alone. He told Michael to take his little sister outside. They would call him when they were ready for him to bring her back in.
The air was hot and dry and windy. Michael took Evie over to the pump and they filled a bucket and played at pitching stones into the water. And all the while he was thinking of Susan. What had she done?
Half an hour went by before they got called in for supper. It was dead quiet in the kitchen. His parents said nothing. His mother was serving out the food, her face blotched and strained.
“Where’s Susan?” he said.
His father replied without looking at him. “She’s going to stay in her room.”
After supper
, which he put into her hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
She carried the book home and set it on her small desk, aware that Parley’s fingerprints were on every page. Shehad already ploughed her way through
Jude the Obscure
. But instead of saying so, she had accepted his copy, caught in an act of insincerity spawned by the desire to keep things simple, when things were anything but simple. All around her was the curdled essence of this clever man, who found ways to bind you to him, to get you into his pot, where you simmered.
8
May 11
She remembered the leafy Ontario light on her mother’s face, the perfumed air in the one-hundred-tree orchard of McIntosh Reds, Snows, Wealthys, Tallman Sweets, and Pippins, and she wished very much that her classroom windows faced east instead of west. He weighed on her heart, this strange man who hadn’t learned how to tell time until he was eleven, a recent confession that had paved the way to a larger boast, that he mastered Latin in a year. She saw the artfully humble braggart he had become. She also saw the eleven-year-old boy, outfoxed by a clock.
Michael pulled her back to the present. “You look sad when you’re not talking.”
She turned from the window and went back to her desk where he was waiting, touched that he would noticesuch a thing, and impressed that he was so bound and determined to improve. It was after four o’clock. He was here for extra help. And here for her, of course. She was aware of that.
He would never be a speller. His sister was the one who could spell.
But the next day Susan got caught cheating on a French test. Several words inked on her palm. Her cupped hand was a dead giveaway. Any teacher, let alone Parley, would have spotted it.
He took hold of the long wooden pointer and indicated the carved plaque high on the wall above the maps. “What does it say, Susan?”
She stood beside her desk and read the words aloud.
Honesty is the best policy
.
Unless honesty is impossible. And then you try other means.
“I’m surprised at you.” His voice was icy.
He kept her at her desk after everyone else had left. The days were long now, adolescent, bursting their buttons with light. She heard children calling to each other outside and Mabel barking across the road. Her father must have come home.
Mr. Burns worked at his desk and she sat with folded hands, waiting.
Michael was pouring himself a glass of water from the enamel pitcher on the table when his sister came sobbing through the kitchen door. It was about five o’clock. Hismother was at the table, serving coffee to a neighbour, Mrs. Peter. His father - he’s not sure where his father was. He seemed to loom and fill the whole kitchen, but he was probably sitting at the table with his smallest child, his pet, on his knee. Susan’s face was wild, and so was her hair, so was her dress. She swayed and her voice when it came out was choked and cracked. “Mr. Burns,” she got out. “Mr. Burns.” Then hiccups took over.
His mother went to put her arms around her, but his father blocked the way. He laid his hand on Susan’s shoulder and marched her up to her room, away from the shocked eyes of Mrs. Peter, who left them then to sort out their sorrows.
They waited a long time for his father to come back down, and when he came, he came alone. He told Michael to take his little sister outside. They would call him when they were ready for him to bring her back in.
The air was hot and dry and windy. Michael took Evie over to the pump and they filled a bucket and played at pitching stones into the water. And all the while he was thinking of Susan. What had she done?
Half an hour went by before they got called in for supper. It was dead quiet in the kitchen. His parents said nothing. His mother was serving out the food, her face blotched and strained.
“Where’s Susan?” he said.
His father replied without looking at him. “She’s going to stay in her room.”
After supper
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