I’ve considered thoroughly.”
Morag knows it will be her. Or maybe it will, anyhow. At least, there’s a chance. Maybe.
“I want to read you a poem today, children,” Mrs. McKee says, when they are all around the table again.
Morag’s heart quits beating. Hers? She will faint. A talented poem written by one of our members, class. The others will stare. Who’d have thought it? Old Morag. Gee.
“It is by the English poet, Hilaire Belloc,” Mrs. McKee’s gooey voice says, and she opens a book.
When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.
And yet with these He would not play,
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away….
There is more, and some words in Latin, which Mrs. McKee explains, but Morag isn’t listening now. At home, Morag takes off her galoshes and coat. Goes to the stove.
“What’s that you’re burning, Morag?” Prin asks, alarmed.
“Nothing. Just nothing.”
Morag goes to her room. Sits thinking. Wants to cry, but will not, must not. Blessed them till they flew away. Oh. How could anybody write anything that good?
She has shown “The Wise Men” to Mrs. McKee, and there is no way she can unshow it.
Next Sunday, the verdict. Vanessa MacLeod will sing the solo.
Vanessa MacLeod! A crow with a sore throat could sing better than what she could. An old bullfrog honk-honking out there in the Wachakwa could sing better, even. It isn’t fair.
“It’s not fair, Christie,” Morag rages, at home.
Christie cleans his horrible teeth with a straw out of the broom, a wonder his gums don’t rot, dirty old broom like that.
“If you expect things to be fair, you’ll be waiting until hell freezes over. Anyways, has she got such a lousy voice, then?”
“Well. I guess not. But mine’s just as good.”
Would Mrs. McKee think Morag would look okay, standing up there alone in the choir loft? Would Mrs. McKee be that way? Sure. You bet. Any of them would. Wouldn’t they?
On the night, Morag decides to go and be in the choir after all. Vanessa, all gotten up in a pleated tartan skirt with straps over the shoulders and a white blouse with a frill at the front, rises to sing. Her hands, Morag sees, are trembling. She’s nervous. Ha ha. Morag hopes that something really awful will happen to Vanessa. But it doesn’t. She sings a crappy song but she never misses a note.
Christ was once a little baby
Jus’ like you an’ me
Boy, whoever wrote that song was sure plenty dumb. Serve Vanessa right, having to sing a dumb song like that.
It is a month later. School. Roll call. Vanessa MacLeod? Absent. Morag listens to the recess-time whispers.
“Her dad’s died.”
At home, Christie blowing his nose on his fingers, stepping outside to throw the snot on the snow already dirtied with yellow dog-piss, comes back into the kitchen and says it.
“Well, then, Doc MacLeod’s gone to his ancestors. Pneumonia. He was quite a man, there. You could of had many a worse.”
Morag sits at the table in the warm stove-crackling kitchen. But has to go upstairs to the freezing bedroom.
She never meant never meant never meant and a long time ago what was it when and Dr. MacLeod was there and
God knows what you are thinking. He knows, all right all right. But is mean. Doesn’t care. Or understand.
Vanessa returns to school. Morag neither looks at her nor speaks to her. Want to but cannot. Vanessa does not notice. She has never spoken to Morag much, anyway. Vanessa does not talk much to anyone, now, for quite a while. Morag watches. From a long way off.
Memorybank Movie: Christie and Red Biddy
and Piper Gunn and Clowny MacPherson
Christie has a jug of red biddy. Prin has waddled off to bed, not approving. Morag is doing her homework. The ceiling bulb isn’t very bright and she has to bend close over the geography book to read the print which flickers in front of her eyes.
Morag knows it will be her. Or maybe it will, anyhow. At least, there’s a chance. Maybe.
“I want to read you a poem today, children,” Mrs. McKee says, when they are all around the table again.
Morag’s heart quits beating. Hers? She will faint. A talented poem written by one of our members, class. The others will stare. Who’d have thought it? Old Morag. Gee.
“It is by the English poet, Hilaire Belloc,” Mrs. McKee’s gooey voice says, and she opens a book.
When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.
And yet with these He would not play,
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away….
There is more, and some words in Latin, which Mrs. McKee explains, but Morag isn’t listening now. At home, Morag takes off her galoshes and coat. Goes to the stove.
“What’s that you’re burning, Morag?” Prin asks, alarmed.
“Nothing. Just nothing.”
Morag goes to her room. Sits thinking. Wants to cry, but will not, must not. Blessed them till they flew away. Oh. How could anybody write anything that good?
She has shown “The Wise Men” to Mrs. McKee, and there is no way she can unshow it.
Next Sunday, the verdict. Vanessa MacLeod will sing the solo.
Vanessa MacLeod! A crow with a sore throat could sing better than what she could. An old bullfrog honk-honking out there in the Wachakwa could sing better, even. It isn’t fair.
“It’s not fair, Christie,” Morag rages, at home.
Christie cleans his horrible teeth with a straw out of the broom, a wonder his gums don’t rot, dirty old broom like that.
“If you expect things to be fair, you’ll be waiting until hell freezes over. Anyways, has she got such a lousy voice, then?”
“Well. I guess not. But mine’s just as good.”
Would Mrs. McKee think Morag would look okay, standing up there alone in the choir loft? Would Mrs. McKee be that way? Sure. You bet. Any of them would. Wouldn’t they?
On the night, Morag decides to go and be in the choir after all. Vanessa, all gotten up in a pleated tartan skirt with straps over the shoulders and a white blouse with a frill at the front, rises to sing. Her hands, Morag sees, are trembling. She’s nervous. Ha ha. Morag hopes that something really awful will happen to Vanessa. But it doesn’t. She sings a crappy song but she never misses a note.
Christ was once a little baby
Jus’ like you an’ me
Boy, whoever wrote that song was sure plenty dumb. Serve Vanessa right, having to sing a dumb song like that.
It is a month later. School. Roll call. Vanessa MacLeod? Absent. Morag listens to the recess-time whispers.
“Her dad’s died.”
At home, Christie blowing his nose on his fingers, stepping outside to throw the snot on the snow already dirtied with yellow dog-piss, comes back into the kitchen and says it.
“Well, then, Doc MacLeod’s gone to his ancestors. Pneumonia. He was quite a man, there. You could of had many a worse.”
Morag sits at the table in the warm stove-crackling kitchen. But has to go upstairs to the freezing bedroom.
She never meant never meant never meant and a long time ago what was it when and Dr. MacLeod was there and
God knows what you are thinking. He knows, all right all right. But is mean. Doesn’t care. Or understand.
Vanessa returns to school. Morag neither looks at her nor speaks to her. Want to but cannot. Vanessa does not notice. She has never spoken to Morag much, anyway. Vanessa does not talk much to anyone, now, for quite a while. Morag watches. From a long way off.
Memorybank Movie: Christie and Red Biddy
and Piper Gunn and Clowny MacPherson
Christie has a jug of red biddy. Prin has waddled off to bed, not approving. Morag is doing her homework. The ceiling bulb isn’t very bright and she has to bend close over the geography book to read the print which flickers in front of her eyes.
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