A Good House by Bonnie Burnard Page A

to say it was likely his turn to carry her out to the kitchen for supper. At her call, he hurried into the living room and scooped her from the bed easily, taking a firm grip on her back and her thin thighs so she would feel his confidence through her housecoat. He held her tight to his chest as he turned to get her through the door.
    I N the time before Sylvia died the family often sat around after supper talking, their empty plates pushed toward the middle of the table to make room for their elbows or their folded arms. All her life Sylvia had been a better-than-average mimic. From the time she was a very young girl she had been able to cancel her own voice and bring someone else into the room, someone with an easily recognized cadence, an easily scoffed opinion. Although her face was thin now and her Wedgwood-blue eyes unnaturally large, she could still do a few people dead on, among them Katharine Hepburn and the town’s shy young mayor and, with relish, her hopelessly cheerful sister-in-law, who had firmly established herself as the kids’ least favourite aunt. All of the impersonations brought applause.
    If Paul’s height was mentioned, and it often was mentioned as one way to lighten the talk, Sylvia would say he must have been a foundling, a switch, brought to her hospital bed by mistake. She would describe some very tall mother somewhere puzzling over her short kid. But no one believed that this had actually happened because it was Paul and Paul alone who could do his mother’s trick. Like a monster from a horror movie he could claw his hands, he could bend the top knuckles of his long fingers and keep the otherknuckles locked straight. Paul and Sylvia often performed their trick together, smiling across the table at each other, pleased to be giving the others the creeps.
    Two or three times in these months Sylvia called up some energy and tried to say what was actually on her mind. One night, with a deliberation only partially camouflaged by her casual approach, she said she was going to describe each one of them, their skills and their particular talents. She was going to explain why they’d been put on this earth.
    After she said, “Patrick is quiet but steady. He can steady other people when they most need it. This has always been true and always will be,” Patrick stood up from the table and bowed.
    After she said, “Daphne has a mystery about her, something to remind people if they are capable of being reminded that things are not necessarily what they seem,” Daphne got out of her chair to stand in the middle of the room and curtsy in all four directions, as if an attentive crowd surrounded them.
    After she said, “Paul moves fast and thinks fast. And he is funny, and that is a wonderful and useful thing, never to be underestimated,” Paul assumed the exaggerated modesty of a truly humble man, lowering his head solemnly, which made them snort with laughter because what Bill sometimes called his newfound cockiness had once or twice prompted a necessary reminder to Paul that his glorified status as the centre on the Bantam hockey team didn’t automatically carry over.
    Not finished, because under no circumstances would she have left him out of this, Sylvia turned to Murray. “Murray,” she said, “is just good. Good as in, born that way.” Believing he knew the truth about himself, Murray stayed right where he was, turned his face away, and shrugged his narrow shoulders.
    Bill had been nodding yes while Sylvia spoke, as if they’d talked it over and decided together what was true. The kids knew full well that this kind of testimony was rare. Other kids whose mothers had not been moved down to the living room didn’t get to hear themselves described so kindly. But in spite of their clowning they soaked it up, believed what their mother told them, took the wordsand stacked them away for future use against other words, a few of which they’d already heard.
    Sometimes when supper was finished