safe. I leaned over, put my arms around her, and hugged her hard.
The phone rang in the kitchen.
You want to stare down the hole some more, I asked, or do you want to play school?
Harriet crawled back up onto her knees. School, she said. The phone kept ringing.
Hanging up, I could still hear Robbie’s voice inside my ear, like a train away in the distance. Then Harriet came home from school, letting the screen door bang. Look, Mother! she cried, dropping her satchel and sweater, showing off a small black box with metal clasps.
Harriet, dear, you must —
No, look!
Surprising complexity inside the box, black and silver nestled in blue velvet. Machinery or jewellery, it was hard to say.
It’s an oboe, Mother. The music teacher chose me to play it. Me!
Her first term at Royal Park Collegiate. My little girl was growing up fast. Not many friends yet, but she’d never been much of a mixer. No boys, of course. If only she had let me do something with her hair, but she was always busy, and she didn’t mind what she looked like. She worked so hard. So hard.
See Mother, you put it together like this. And you stick the reed in the end. See?
I nodded, not really paying attention.
And then you blow like this. I mean, like this.
Fingers clamped down, cheeks puffed out, she looked ridiculous. No sound came out. The end of the instrument quivered like a — like something. She took the reed out of her mouth to gasp for air.
Your father just called from Halifax, I said. He’s got a week’s leave. He’ll be home tomorrow.
Hurray! Then she gasped some more. Will he be home for dinner? she asked.
I think so, I said.
Can we have macaroni and cheese?
I think so.
Good.
Her cheeks puffed again.
Is Harriet’s father here? asked another tea-drinking professor, a younger man than the last one, in an older gown.
Harriet’s father — that is, my husband was killed. During the war, I said.
Funny way to put it: during the war, rather than in the war. Made Robbie seem like a conscientious objector or something. He was in the navy, I said.
The young man in the gown frowned sympathetically. How brave of you, he said.
Me? I choked on a sip of tea. Brave of me?
He took my hand. Alone, in wartime, he said. Just you and your daughter. Both of you wondering where your husband was. Wondering how he died.
Oh, we knew that, I said. We buried him out of the home.
Mother? Mother? Harriet running up. She ran smoothly, good wind — maybe from all that oboe playing. Not like me. I used to run with a curious knock-kneed grace, melting hearts and losing footraces. I can’t run at all now, of course, with my broadloom. Damn it, what is it called? It aches like a train going up and down your leg. Mother? called Harriet.
I open my eyes. Are you still here? I say. She doesn’t say anything. Or is this another visit? I say. I can’t remember her saying goodbye.
Are you all right, Mother? You were moaning.
The pain in my leg, I say.
What was that? she says. She can’t hear me.
The pain, I say.
Poor Mother.
Harriet has a scarf on her head. She didn’t have a scarf last time, did she? Maybe it’s another visit.
And your father, I say. I was remembering the time the staircase came down and we were stranded at the top. And your father rescued us with a ladder from the house next door with the two widow ladies.
She isn’t paying attention.
I try to swallow and can’t. My throat sucks together like the inside of a bag with no air. I fumble for a drink. Harriet holds it for me, and I sip. Actually, I don’t. I don’t seem to get anything at all. But I feel wet. I look down.
Oh, Mother, she says.
I’m wet down my front. Isn’t that drinking, when you do that with your mouth? Damn it all, you’d think a skill like drinking would be there whenever you wanted it.
Sorry, I say. She brings the drink back. Concentrate, concentrate. Got it. That’s not bad. A word drifts across my memory, like the clouds that used to drift past
The phone rang in the kitchen.
You want to stare down the hole some more, I asked, or do you want to play school?
Harriet crawled back up onto her knees. School, she said. The phone kept ringing.
Hanging up, I could still hear Robbie’s voice inside my ear, like a train away in the distance. Then Harriet came home from school, letting the screen door bang. Look, Mother! she cried, dropping her satchel and sweater, showing off a small black box with metal clasps.
Harriet, dear, you must —
No, look!
Surprising complexity inside the box, black and silver nestled in blue velvet. Machinery or jewellery, it was hard to say.
It’s an oboe, Mother. The music teacher chose me to play it. Me!
Her first term at Royal Park Collegiate. My little girl was growing up fast. Not many friends yet, but she’d never been much of a mixer. No boys, of course. If only she had let me do something with her hair, but she was always busy, and she didn’t mind what she looked like. She worked so hard. So hard.
See Mother, you put it together like this. And you stick the reed in the end. See?
I nodded, not really paying attention.
And then you blow like this. I mean, like this.
Fingers clamped down, cheeks puffed out, she looked ridiculous. No sound came out. The end of the instrument quivered like a — like something. She took the reed out of her mouth to gasp for air.
Your father just called from Halifax, I said. He’s got a week’s leave. He’ll be home tomorrow.
Hurray! Then she gasped some more. Will he be home for dinner? she asked.
I think so, I said.
Can we have macaroni and cheese?
I think so.
Good.
Her cheeks puffed again.
Is Harriet’s father here? asked another tea-drinking professor, a younger man than the last one, in an older gown.
Harriet’s father — that is, my husband was killed. During the war, I said.
Funny way to put it: during the war, rather than in the war. Made Robbie seem like a conscientious objector or something. He was in the navy, I said.
The young man in the gown frowned sympathetically. How brave of you, he said.
Me? I choked on a sip of tea. Brave of me?
He took my hand. Alone, in wartime, he said. Just you and your daughter. Both of you wondering where your husband was. Wondering how he died.
Oh, we knew that, I said. We buried him out of the home.
Mother? Mother? Harriet running up. She ran smoothly, good wind — maybe from all that oboe playing. Not like me. I used to run with a curious knock-kneed grace, melting hearts and losing footraces. I can’t run at all now, of course, with my broadloom. Damn it, what is it called? It aches like a train going up and down your leg. Mother? called Harriet.
I open my eyes. Are you still here? I say. She doesn’t say anything. Or is this another visit? I say. I can’t remember her saying goodbye.
Are you all right, Mother? You were moaning.
The pain in my leg, I say.
What was that? she says. She can’t hear me.
The pain, I say.
Poor Mother.
Harriet has a scarf on her head. She didn’t have a scarf last time, did she? Maybe it’s another visit.
And your father, I say. I was remembering the time the staircase came down and we were stranded at the top. And your father rescued us with a ladder from the house next door with the two widow ladies.
She isn’t paying attention.
I try to swallow and can’t. My throat sucks together like the inside of a bag with no air. I fumble for a drink. Harriet holds it for me, and I sip. Actually, I don’t. I don’t seem to get anything at all. But I feel wet. I look down.
Oh, Mother, she says.
I’m wet down my front. Isn’t that drinking, when you do that with your mouth? Damn it all, you’d think a skill like drinking would be there whenever you wanted it.
Sorry, I say. She brings the drink back. Concentrate, concentrate. Got it. That’s not bad. A word drifts across my memory, like the clouds that used to drift past
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