No, it doesn’t.
He patiently stuck it out as I went at him, Dr. Bondurant, who had been nothing but good and kind to me. I battered him terribly.
My columns hurt people. I told the truth at the expense of feelings. But people want to be thought of as truthful so they seldom refused to be interviewed. They even invited me to do them.
I still read history books; I can’t help myself. Sometimes I fill in the blanks or change things to the way I figure it would have been. I spend a lot of time on these projects—rewriting books—and again, certain of my friends think I’m wasting my time. But I enjoy it and that’s worth something.
Who is the bigger failure, Nora or me? As I put this to paper I find I don’t know the answer to that.
The more I read of her journal the less inclined I felt to work on my column. I had set up an interview for a Wednesday afternoon in mid-July with Mitch Podolak, the founder of the Winnipeg Folk Festival. I’d met Mitch before and liked him. I wasn’t entirely sure if I would be up to my usual methods and even if I was, I could picture him flattening me instead of the other way around.
So I phoned on the afternoon before the interview and cancelled. He laughed and tried to set up another time. I hemmed and hawed and he laughed some more.
“Are you chickening out?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
We left it that I’d call him in the fall when “things had settled down.”
“What things?” he asked. “What settled down?”
“I’ll talk to you in the fall, Mitch,” I said and hung up.
He may have still been talking when I put the phone down, but I was seriously unable to continue the conversation.
I poured myself a gin and tonic and sat down with the journal.
September, 1939
The men were coming for cards. I hid in the barn so Luce couldn’t find me. Then I listened from under the porch to the talking that went on. Where’s the littlen? Darcy Root said. It was quiet for a minute before Luce said asleep.
That littlen looks about ready for pluckin, you ask me Darcy said. Nobody asked you. That’s Mr. Dickson Trent talking now. He laughed, though, and that made him sound like he was on Miss Root’s side. You’ll just have to do with me. That’s Luce. I barely heard that last part. It was like she was talking into her sleeve.
My mother, the littlen. I shivered in the heat.
The ice cubes had melted in my drink and Spike was asleep upside down at my feet when I closed Nora’s journal for another day.
CHAPTER 15
Nora was cool toward Henry for a while after the car accident. I guess she figured she was supposed to be upset about him undoing a light bulb and kissing her daughter passionately. But it was just an act, like her flower garden and her church circle. And it didn’t last long. He was impossible not to like, with his polite ways and his ability to talk to parents. Once he showed up at the door with chocolate on his chin and Nora actually hugged him, something she never did to Pete or me. She’d had several rye and Cokes, but still.
Henry and I fizzled out. We didn’t even make it till Christmas. It was my fault; I didn’t have any energy for him. And the university and the gigs where O Henry played were bursting with young women who did. We said goodbye in early December and wouldn’t see each other again for a couple of years. It was Henry’s idea to cut off all contact. He didn’t think he could be just friends, which was what I suggested. I could have slit my own throat for saying it; if a man ever said that to me I’d slit his for sure.
I missed him for a long time, but I didn’t give in to the urge to get in touch. I didn’t even go to see O Henry play in the pub at the St. Vital Hotel. I missed some great nights from all accounts, but it wouldn’t have been fair to him, the state I was in. Henry deserved better. I felt chill and hard inside, like I imagined Nora to be. He needed someone soft and warm.
The winter was cold. All winters are cold in
He patiently stuck it out as I went at him, Dr. Bondurant, who had been nothing but good and kind to me. I battered him terribly.
My columns hurt people. I told the truth at the expense of feelings. But people want to be thought of as truthful so they seldom refused to be interviewed. They even invited me to do them.
I still read history books; I can’t help myself. Sometimes I fill in the blanks or change things to the way I figure it would have been. I spend a lot of time on these projects—rewriting books—and again, certain of my friends think I’m wasting my time. But I enjoy it and that’s worth something.
Who is the bigger failure, Nora or me? As I put this to paper I find I don’t know the answer to that.
The more I read of her journal the less inclined I felt to work on my column. I had set up an interview for a Wednesday afternoon in mid-July with Mitch Podolak, the founder of the Winnipeg Folk Festival. I’d met Mitch before and liked him. I wasn’t entirely sure if I would be up to my usual methods and even if I was, I could picture him flattening me instead of the other way around.
So I phoned on the afternoon before the interview and cancelled. He laughed and tried to set up another time. I hemmed and hawed and he laughed some more.
“Are you chickening out?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
We left it that I’d call him in the fall when “things had settled down.”
“What things?” he asked. “What settled down?”
“I’ll talk to you in the fall, Mitch,” I said and hung up.
He may have still been talking when I put the phone down, but I was seriously unable to continue the conversation.
I poured myself a gin and tonic and sat down with the journal.
September, 1939
The men were coming for cards. I hid in the barn so Luce couldn’t find me. Then I listened from under the porch to the talking that went on. Where’s the littlen? Darcy Root said. It was quiet for a minute before Luce said asleep.
That littlen looks about ready for pluckin, you ask me Darcy said. Nobody asked you. That’s Mr. Dickson Trent talking now. He laughed, though, and that made him sound like he was on Miss Root’s side. You’ll just have to do with me. That’s Luce. I barely heard that last part. It was like she was talking into her sleeve.
My mother, the littlen. I shivered in the heat.
The ice cubes had melted in my drink and Spike was asleep upside down at my feet when I closed Nora’s journal for another day.
CHAPTER 15
Nora was cool toward Henry for a while after the car accident. I guess she figured she was supposed to be upset about him undoing a light bulb and kissing her daughter passionately. But it was just an act, like her flower garden and her church circle. And it didn’t last long. He was impossible not to like, with his polite ways and his ability to talk to parents. Once he showed up at the door with chocolate on his chin and Nora actually hugged him, something she never did to Pete or me. She’d had several rye and Cokes, but still.
Henry and I fizzled out. We didn’t even make it till Christmas. It was my fault; I didn’t have any energy for him. And the university and the gigs where O Henry played were bursting with young women who did. We said goodbye in early December and wouldn’t see each other again for a couple of years. It was Henry’s idea to cut off all contact. He didn’t think he could be just friends, which was what I suggested. I could have slit my own throat for saying it; if a man ever said that to me I’d slit his for sure.
I missed him for a long time, but I didn’t give in to the urge to get in touch. I didn’t even go to see O Henry play in the pub at the St. Vital Hotel. I missed some great nights from all accounts, but it wouldn’t have been fair to him, the state I was in. Henry deserved better. I felt chill and hard inside, like I imagined Nora to be. He needed someone soft and warm.
The winter was cold. All winters are cold in
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