Dear Life: Stories by Alice Munro

not been well. I’d had a cold. But then I remembered that colds in this place were a serious business, involving masks and disinfectant, banishment. And soon I understood that there was no hope of hiding my visit to the doctor’s house, in any case. It was a secret from nobody, not even, surely, from the nurses who said nothing, either because they were too lofty and discreet or because such carryings-on had ceased to interest them. But the aides teased me.
    “Enjoy your supper the other night?”
    Their tone was friendly, they seemed to approve. It looked as if my particular oddity had joined up with the doctor’s familiar and respected oddity, and that was all to the good. My stock had risen. Now, whatever else I was, I at least might turn out to be a woman with a man.
    Mary did not put in an appearance all week.

    “Next Saturday,” were the words that had been said, just before he administered the kiss. So I waited again on the front porch and this time he was not late. We drove to the house and I went into the front room while he got the fire going. There I noticed the dusty electric heater.
    “Didn’t take me up on my offer,” he said. “Did you think I didn’t mean it? I always mean what I say.”
    I said that I hadn’t wanted to come into town for fear of meeting Mary.
    “Because of missing her concert.”
    “That’s if you’re going to arrange your life to suit Mary,” he said.
    The menu was much the same as before. Pork chops, mashed potatoes, corn niblets instead of peas. This time he let me help in the kitchen, even asking me to set the table.
    “You may as well learn where things are. It’s all fairly logical, I believe.”
    This meant that I could watch him working at the stove. His easy concentration, economical movements, setting up in me a procession of sparks and chills.
    We had just begun the meal when there was a knock at the door. He got up and drew the bolt and in burst Mary.
    She was carrying a cardboard box which she set on the table. Then she threw off her coat and displayed herself in a red-and-yellow costume.
    “Happy late Valentine’s Day,” she said. “You never came to see me in the concert so I brought the concert to you. And I brought you a present in the box.”
    Her excellent balance allowed her to stand on one foot while she kicked off first one boot, then the other. She pushed them out of her way and began to prance around thetable, singing at the same time in a plaintive but vigorous young voice.
            
I’m called Little Buttercup
,
            
Poor Little Buttercup
,
            
Though I can never tell why
.
            
But still I’m called Buttercup
            
Poor Little Buttercup
            
Dear Little Buttercup I—
    The doctor had got up even before she began to sing. He was standing at the stove, busy scraping at the frying pan that had held the pork chops.
    I applauded. I said, “What a gorgeous costume.”
    It was indeed. Red skirt, bright yellow petticoat, fluttering white apron, embroidered bodice.
    “My mom made it.”
    “Even the embroidery?”
    “Sure. She stayed up till four o’clock to get it done the night before.”
    There was further whirling and stomping to show it off. The dishes tinkled on the shelves. I applauded some more. Both of us wanted only one thing. We wanted the doctor to turn around and stop ignoring us. For him to say, even grudgingly, one polite word.
    “And lookit what else,” Mary said. “For a Valentine.” She tore open the cardboard box and there were Valentine cookies, all cut in heart shapes and plastered with thick red icing.
    “How splendid,” I said, and Mary resumed her prancing.
            
I am the Captain of the
Pinafore.
            
And a right good captain, too!
            
You’re very, very good, and be it understood
,
            
I command a right good crew
.
    The doctor turned at last and she saluted him.
    “All right,” he said.