hope you have a good time”? Perhaps my mother was going over her reply to the toast to the teachers, or perhaps, she, too, wasthinking how she looked in her fitted black satin dress with the shimmery green stripe through it—one of the yearly presents my father bought for her.
Orm’s parents had asked him to bring me by the house before the banquet. I had never met his father, and didn’t know that he was W. O. Mitchell, a famous writer. To me, he was simply Bill Mitchell who didn’t work regular hours and couldn’t pay his bills, including one at my father’s store, Way’s Grocery. Orm led the way down the steep basement stairs and, as I tottered after him in my unfamiliar pumps, I heard loud “hurrays” and “Judas Priests” overtop the TV hockey commentator. Petite, dark-haired Merna was curled up on the couch, cigarette in hand. W. O., in scruffy sweater and jeans, smelling of pipe tobacco, was sprawled out beside her, feet on the coffee table. I stood before them, wondering if I should move aside so they could continue watching the hockey game or sit down—but where? Every chair was cluttered with books, papers and laundry.
“Oh, my dear,” Merna burst out, “what a lovely dress!” “You look simply bee-you-tee-ful!” exclaimed W. O. “And your hair—it sparkles!” I had sprinkled it with glitter, which, forever, seemed to him a remarkable thing. I was Cinderella at the Prince’s Ball.
W. O. presented me with a flower, “an orchid,” he explained, “from my own greenhouse.” It was mauve with a frilled velvet magenta throat. “Look,” he demonstrated, “if you hold one of these big babies up to the light, there is an internal incandescence as though the petals are all crystal.” It was simply stunning. But how was I to wear it? The stem was immersed in water in a discoloured test tube with a red rubber stopper. “Don’t take it out of the water,” W. O. cautioned me, “and as soon as you get home put it in the fridge. It will keep for ten days, maybe two weeks.” At that moment,I didn’t think I could keep my dignity at the dance for even ten minutes with that yellowed tube hanging from my haute couture dress. Somehow Merna attached it with crumpled tinfoil and a pin. I was wrong. All my friends were in awe of such a gift—an
orchid
—right out of Hollywood glamour magazines!
I fell in love with Orm; I fell in love with his family. I was fascinated by the pageant of activity in the Mitchell family—hearing amazing stories, meeting famous visitors, listening to
Jake and the Kid
with the author right there, discussing literature, life. For me it was like going from black-and-white television to Technicolor movies. I was slightly abashed, though, by their emotionalism. Merna and W. O. hugged and kissed and lauded everyone—not just the family (and me—to my surprise), but neighbours, the babysitter, the CBC people who visited, even relative strangers. As a child I had been hugged, but I do not recall my parents’ arms around me when I was fifteen—perhaps my father’s chapped and roughened hand on my shoulder. Though I never felt unloved or unsupported by my family, displays of emotion—happiness or tears—were uncommon.
The Mitchells would effuse, “We love Barbara.” My parents would say, “We like Orm.” The Way lexicon was one of taciturn moderation, the Mitchells’ one of excess. “Love,” “the best,” “wonderful,” “beautiful” were common words in the Mitchell vocabulary. My family kept those words intact—burdened with a virgin purity. I don’t remember saying out loud to my mother or father, “I love you,” though I would sign my letters “with love,” and I did love them. But Merna and W.O. fell instantly “in love” with people. Later I realized that they sometimes expended a lot of “love” on people who turned out to be unworthy of it—a “brilliant” filmmaker who, in six months, plummeted to a “bastard.”Amazingly, they never
Orm’s parents had asked him to bring me by the house before the banquet. I had never met his father, and didn’t know that he was W. O. Mitchell, a famous writer. To me, he was simply Bill Mitchell who didn’t work regular hours and couldn’t pay his bills, including one at my father’s store, Way’s Grocery. Orm led the way down the steep basement stairs and, as I tottered after him in my unfamiliar pumps, I heard loud “hurrays” and “Judas Priests” overtop the TV hockey commentator. Petite, dark-haired Merna was curled up on the couch, cigarette in hand. W. O., in scruffy sweater and jeans, smelling of pipe tobacco, was sprawled out beside her, feet on the coffee table. I stood before them, wondering if I should move aside so they could continue watching the hockey game or sit down—but where? Every chair was cluttered with books, papers and laundry.
“Oh, my dear,” Merna burst out, “what a lovely dress!” “You look simply bee-you-tee-ful!” exclaimed W. O. “And your hair—it sparkles!” I had sprinkled it with glitter, which, forever, seemed to him a remarkable thing. I was Cinderella at the Prince’s Ball.
W. O. presented me with a flower, “an orchid,” he explained, “from my own greenhouse.” It was mauve with a frilled velvet magenta throat. “Look,” he demonstrated, “if you hold one of these big babies up to the light, there is an internal incandescence as though the petals are all crystal.” It was simply stunning. But how was I to wear it? The stem was immersed in water in a discoloured test tube with a red rubber stopper. “Don’t take it out of the water,” W. O. cautioned me, “and as soon as you get home put it in the fridge. It will keep for ten days, maybe two weeks.” At that moment,I didn’t think I could keep my dignity at the dance for even ten minutes with that yellowed tube hanging from my haute couture dress. Somehow Merna attached it with crumpled tinfoil and a pin. I was wrong. All my friends were in awe of such a gift—an
orchid
—right out of Hollywood glamour magazines!
I fell in love with Orm; I fell in love with his family. I was fascinated by the pageant of activity in the Mitchell family—hearing amazing stories, meeting famous visitors, listening to
Jake and the Kid
with the author right there, discussing literature, life. For me it was like going from black-and-white television to Technicolor movies. I was slightly abashed, though, by their emotionalism. Merna and W. O. hugged and kissed and lauded everyone—not just the family (and me—to my surprise), but neighbours, the babysitter, the CBC people who visited, even relative strangers. As a child I had been hugged, but I do not recall my parents’ arms around me when I was fifteen—perhaps my father’s chapped and roughened hand on my shoulder. Though I never felt unloved or unsupported by my family, displays of emotion—happiness or tears—were uncommon.
The Mitchells would effuse, “We love Barbara.” My parents would say, “We like Orm.” The Way lexicon was one of taciturn moderation, the Mitchells’ one of excess. “Love,” “the best,” “wonderful,” “beautiful” were common words in the Mitchell vocabulary. My family kept those words intact—burdened with a virgin purity. I don’t remember saying out loud to my mother or father, “I love you,” though I would sign my letters “with love,” and I did love them. But Merna and W.O. fell instantly “in love” with people. Later I realized that they sometimes expended a lot of “love” on people who turned out to be unworthy of it—a “brilliant” filmmaker who, in six months, plummeted to a “bastard.”Amazingly, they never
Similar Books
