about it.”
“And he never visits?”
“No more than you ever did.”
“That’s not like Earl. What happened? Did you two have a falling out? Is that it?”
Monkman avoided meeting her eyes. “No,” he said.
“If you didn’t, it’s a miracle. The way you treated him.”
“I was drinking then,” said her father. “But I never run out on him. Just remember who was the one done that.”
5
“I f there’s a grass whip in there, pass that out, too,” Vera ordered, leaning into the doorway of the tool shed, a hoe in her hands.
“A what?” said Daniel.
“City boys. Is there a scythe then? You know what a scythe looks like, don’t you? You’ve seen pictures.”
It was her first Sunday in Connaught and Vera had decided to pay a visit to her mother’s grave. The decision had been made on the spur of the moment when her father announced after breakfast that he would be gone most of the morning, checking crops on the farm he had rented to an unreliable tenant. If Daniel and she hurried, they could be back home before he returned from his tour of inspection.
The long, awkward, rusty blade of the scythe poked, felt, sniffed its way out of the door of the shed. Behind it Daniel appeared, blinking his eyes and trying to wipe the ghostly, clinging sensation of cobwebs from his face.
Vera hefted the hoe. “All right,” she said, “these ought to do the trick knocking down weeds. Because if I know your grandfatherhalf as well as I think I do, he’ll have neglected to see to her grave. It’s likely ass-deep in nettles. A disgrace, which we will remedy.”
Daniel, who was not particularly eager to spend a Sunday morning grubbing weeds in a cemetery, especially after learning it was situated a considerable walk outside the town, said, “If you want to do this, why not wait until he gets back? He’d drive us out there.”
“Because I don’t want him involved.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my mother,” Vera stated with dreadful finality, “and I don’t want him involved. Get me ?”
He got her.
Shortly before ten o’clock they started for the graveyard. Vera led them off with an air of purpose, slapping a pair of work gloves against her upper thigh in time with every stride she took, her hoe shouldered like a rifle. Daniel lagged a step or two behind, the scythe cradled clumsily in his arms. The streets were deserted, sunny and silent, pervaded with the sweet, aching stillness of Sunday morning in a small town. Some still slept in their beds. In churchgoing houses, boys were spreading newspapers on the floors in preparation for polishing shoes to be worn to Sunday School. Other children were having their hair washed, their mothers dippering soft water from the reservoir in the wood stove in warm, soothing floods over bowed heads and hair stiffened and peaked with lather. Working men drank a second cup of coffee in their undershirts without hurry, drew meditatively on cigarettes while they listened to Uncle Porky Charbonneau on the radio read them the Saturday funny papers. Only occasionally was the deep, slow, steady quiet broken by the excited barking of a dog, or an automobile with a hole in its muffler.
Past the peaceful houses Vera and Daniel marched, past the yards hedged with lilacs and caraganas and smelling of grass and shade. They turned into Main Street and there the sun lay harsh and glaring on the cement sidewalks, the stucco storefronts, theplate-glass windows. The druggist had forgotten to roll up his torn awning and it was lazily puffing and popping in a breath of breeze. There was evidence the farmers had been to town the night before for Saturday night shopping. Plenty of cigarette stubs, Copenhagen snuff cans and Lucky Elephant Popcorn boxes lay in the gutters opposite wherever an auction poster had been tacked to a streetlight pole. Only a single car was parked on the street. It stood where it had all night, outside the hotel, directly in front of the beer parlour entrance.
“And he never visits?”
“No more than you ever did.”
“That’s not like Earl. What happened? Did you two have a falling out? Is that it?”
Monkman avoided meeting her eyes. “No,” he said.
“If you didn’t, it’s a miracle. The way you treated him.”
“I was drinking then,” said her father. “But I never run out on him. Just remember who was the one done that.”
5
“I f there’s a grass whip in there, pass that out, too,” Vera ordered, leaning into the doorway of the tool shed, a hoe in her hands.
“A what?” said Daniel.
“City boys. Is there a scythe then? You know what a scythe looks like, don’t you? You’ve seen pictures.”
It was her first Sunday in Connaught and Vera had decided to pay a visit to her mother’s grave. The decision had been made on the spur of the moment when her father announced after breakfast that he would be gone most of the morning, checking crops on the farm he had rented to an unreliable tenant. If Daniel and she hurried, they could be back home before he returned from his tour of inspection.
The long, awkward, rusty blade of the scythe poked, felt, sniffed its way out of the door of the shed. Behind it Daniel appeared, blinking his eyes and trying to wipe the ghostly, clinging sensation of cobwebs from his face.
Vera hefted the hoe. “All right,” she said, “these ought to do the trick knocking down weeds. Because if I know your grandfatherhalf as well as I think I do, he’ll have neglected to see to her grave. It’s likely ass-deep in nettles. A disgrace, which we will remedy.”
Daniel, who was not particularly eager to spend a Sunday morning grubbing weeds in a cemetery, especially after learning it was situated a considerable walk outside the town, said, “If you want to do this, why not wait until he gets back? He’d drive us out there.”
“Because I don’t want him involved.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my mother,” Vera stated with dreadful finality, “and I don’t want him involved. Get me ?”
He got her.
Shortly before ten o’clock they started for the graveyard. Vera led them off with an air of purpose, slapping a pair of work gloves against her upper thigh in time with every stride she took, her hoe shouldered like a rifle. Daniel lagged a step or two behind, the scythe cradled clumsily in his arms. The streets were deserted, sunny and silent, pervaded with the sweet, aching stillness of Sunday morning in a small town. Some still slept in their beds. In churchgoing houses, boys were spreading newspapers on the floors in preparation for polishing shoes to be worn to Sunday School. Other children were having their hair washed, their mothers dippering soft water from the reservoir in the wood stove in warm, soothing floods over bowed heads and hair stiffened and peaked with lather. Working men drank a second cup of coffee in their undershirts without hurry, drew meditatively on cigarettes while they listened to Uncle Porky Charbonneau on the radio read them the Saturday funny papers. Only occasionally was the deep, slow, steady quiet broken by the excited barking of a dog, or an automobile with a hole in its muffler.
Past the peaceful houses Vera and Daniel marched, past the yards hedged with lilacs and caraganas and smelling of grass and shade. They turned into Main Street and there the sun lay harsh and glaring on the cement sidewalks, the stucco storefronts, theplate-glass windows. The druggist had forgotten to roll up his torn awning and it was lazily puffing and popping in a breath of breeze. There was evidence the farmers had been to town the night before for Saturday night shopping. Plenty of cigarette stubs, Copenhagen snuff cans and Lucky Elephant Popcorn boxes lay in the gutters opposite wherever an auction poster had been tacked to a streetlight pole. Only a single car was parked on the street. It stood where it had all night, outside the hotel, directly in front of the beer parlour entrance.
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