to point out — in a confusion of self-justification and defence of Lannie — that after all Lannie is only her niece, it’s not as if she’s her daughter. In the end, she doesn’t; Angela must understand how much they once meant to each other. Still, she feels a pang of guilt at precisely what she isn’t sure — that Lannie’s failure to write is somehow Iris’s fault? That Iris hasn’t tried very hard to locate her?
Angela has had to ask her twice, “How’s Barney?”
“Oh,” she says, too quickly. “He’s fine. He’s gaining weight, too. I’m going to persuade him to see the doctor as soon as he finishes calving. He looks tired out.” Beside them the door is opening and closing steadily as people enter, stomp their feet to shake off clods of mud, and crowd toward the coat racks.
“I heard about that! What a funny thing for him to do. But there’s no accounting for … whatever,” she finishes, looking away.
“No, there isn’t indeed,” Iris says briskly. She hesitates, then moves close to Angela and plants a kiss on her warm cheek. “Thanks for still caring about Lannie,” she murmurs, although she means to say — she feels — much more than this. How can it be that Angela who’s so much younger, seems to know more than she does about the world? Is it because of her children? “I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
Time passes, more people arrive, pay their money at the door, leave their coats and rubbers in the cloakroom, and slowly fill the tables. There are, as always, mostly old people here, Iris notes from her positionin the centre where she’s filling cups of tea from the silver teapot that Audrey has to scurry to keep full. Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and infidels alike are buried in the town’s one cemetery; every family that has been in Chinook more than twenty years has somebody buried there; thus, most families come to the tea. Iris sits demurely, filling cup after cup to be passed to the members of her community, people she has known her whole life. In an unguarded instant, they feel to her like a huge, extended family. Small plates heaped with cake, strawberries spilling over its sides, and a mound of whipped cream on top of the berries sit in front of each person, and servers place cups of tea and coffee on trays and distribute them efficiently among the tables.
“Come and sit with us, Iris,” a quiet voice says. She glances up to see her mother-in-law standing beside her. She’s short and thickset, wearing that same dark red polyester dress with the rhinestone buttons marching down the front that she has been wearing for years. She’s put on weight, Iris notices, the dress pulls slightly across her bosom and stomach.
“Mary Ann! I didn’t see you come in. I bet the roads out your way were a nightmare. I’m supposed to be pouring —”
“Somebody will take over for you,” Mary Ann insists, with authority born of years of experience at women’s work. Iris catches Mavis’s eye, who comes over at once, eager to take her place. Iris follows Mary Ann to a table near the cloakroom where she sits down kitty-corner to tall, spare Luke Christie, her father-in-law.
“Hi, Luke,” Iris says. He’s eating cake grimly and doesn’t look up.
“Barney showed up yet?”
“Oh, I don’t expect him,” Iris says cheerfully. “He’ll never leave his heifers to come to a tea,” she adds, making her voice sound humorously disparaging. Luke doesn’t answer.
“I’m just waiting for the mud to dry up so I can put some new artificial flowers on Wesley’s grave,” Mary Ann explains. Wesley was Barney’s older brother, born mentally handicapped, dead a couple of years earlier of a heart attack. Iris had forgotten that of course it would be Wesley’s grave that would bring the two of them, fighting mud all the way, from their ranch where Barney was raised, far off the beaten track to the north.
“Deer ate the last ones,” Mary Ann says. “Thought they
Angela has had to ask her twice, “How’s Barney?”
“Oh,” she says, too quickly. “He’s fine. He’s gaining weight, too. I’m going to persuade him to see the doctor as soon as he finishes calving. He looks tired out.” Beside them the door is opening and closing steadily as people enter, stomp their feet to shake off clods of mud, and crowd toward the coat racks.
“I heard about that! What a funny thing for him to do. But there’s no accounting for … whatever,” she finishes, looking away.
“No, there isn’t indeed,” Iris says briskly. She hesitates, then moves close to Angela and plants a kiss on her warm cheek. “Thanks for still caring about Lannie,” she murmurs, although she means to say — she feels — much more than this. How can it be that Angela who’s so much younger, seems to know more than she does about the world? Is it because of her children? “I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
Time passes, more people arrive, pay their money at the door, leave their coats and rubbers in the cloakroom, and slowly fill the tables. There are, as always, mostly old people here, Iris notes from her positionin the centre where she’s filling cups of tea from the silver teapot that Audrey has to scurry to keep full. Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and infidels alike are buried in the town’s one cemetery; every family that has been in Chinook more than twenty years has somebody buried there; thus, most families come to the tea. Iris sits demurely, filling cup after cup to be passed to the members of her community, people she has known her whole life. In an unguarded instant, they feel to her like a huge, extended family. Small plates heaped with cake, strawberries spilling over its sides, and a mound of whipped cream on top of the berries sit in front of each person, and servers place cups of tea and coffee on trays and distribute them efficiently among the tables.
“Come and sit with us, Iris,” a quiet voice says. She glances up to see her mother-in-law standing beside her. She’s short and thickset, wearing that same dark red polyester dress with the rhinestone buttons marching down the front that she has been wearing for years. She’s put on weight, Iris notices, the dress pulls slightly across her bosom and stomach.
“Mary Ann! I didn’t see you come in. I bet the roads out your way were a nightmare. I’m supposed to be pouring —”
“Somebody will take over for you,” Mary Ann insists, with authority born of years of experience at women’s work. Iris catches Mavis’s eye, who comes over at once, eager to take her place. Iris follows Mary Ann to a table near the cloakroom where she sits down kitty-corner to tall, spare Luke Christie, her father-in-law.
“Hi, Luke,” Iris says. He’s eating cake grimly and doesn’t look up.
“Barney showed up yet?”
“Oh, I don’t expect him,” Iris says cheerfully. “He’ll never leave his heifers to come to a tea,” she adds, making her voice sound humorously disparaging. Luke doesn’t answer.
“I’m just waiting for the mud to dry up so I can put some new artificial flowers on Wesley’s grave,” Mary Ann explains. Wesley was Barney’s older brother, born mentally handicapped, dead a couple of years earlier of a heart attack. Iris had forgotten that of course it would be Wesley’s grave that would bring the two of them, fighting mud all the way, from their ranch where Barney was raised, far off the beaten track to the north.
“Deer ate the last ones,” Mary Ann says. “Thought they
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