More in Anger by J. Jill Robinson Page A

Jimmy’s belongings and box them up for the Goodwill. May, wonderful daughter that she was, offered to get them both a lemonade and meet her mother in the summer house. Opal entered her back garden through the gate at the side of the house and began crossing the lawn, when she was stopped in her tracks by the smell of cigarette smoke, which seemed to be coming from the summer house. Perplexed, Opal approached. When her eyes met her daughter’s, Pearl lifted the cigarette to her lips. “Hello, Mother,” she said.

    The entire world, including her body, seemed that much heavier for Opal to carry around these days. Now that he had retired, Mac was at home all of the time except on the blessed days he played golf or went fishing. He helped her in the garden a little, and read copiously, but still there wasn’t enough for him to do,and his nitpicking was driving her crazy. Her territory had been invaded, and they fought constantly.
    â€œThere were few enough complaints before about how I ran the house,” she said.
    â€œI hadn’t the time to notice what was going on,” he said.
    â€œWell, I wish you would go and play some more golf.”
    â€œWish away.”
    There was a litany of her offences that she endured listening to at least once a month. Every time the bill from the Hudson’s Bay arrived, Mac had something to say about her stupid extravagances or her extravagant stupidity. Her driving was another topic: Mac believed women were too stupid to drive, and it was better for everyone concerned if they didn’t. But Opal liked driving, and until Mac had retired and started hogging the car, she had gone out nearly every day shopping or visiting. But it seemed Mac found there was something offensive about his wife’s getting into his car and pulling out of his driveway and driving away, leaving him home alone, poor man, abandoned and carless. Why did she have to go out anyway? he complained. He decided he would drive her everywhere, but then he complained about that, and when he came to pick her up, often well past the agreed-upon time, it was terribly embarrassing, because he would lay so long and hard on the horn until she appeared. The experiences became so humiliating that she stopped wanting to go anywhere at all except places they were going together. Her licence expired and she didn’t renew it. She would just stay home.

    Of her two daughters, it was no surprise that it was Pearl who almost never wrote or called. It was understandable, to a point: now Pearl had children to look after, and with her and Tom’s recent move to the coast, no doubt finding the time was a bit of a challenge. But after all they had done for her, surely Pearl could make a small effort. If, as Pearl said, telephone calls were too expensive, then a short note would be better than no letter at all. Opal wanted to hear about her granddaughters! On this point she and Mac agreed: the only time Pearl could be sure to write was if they had written first suggesting they come for a visit, and then they were assured an answer by return post, trying, though thankfully not always succeeding, to nip the suggestion in the bud and dissuade them. Or if she wanted money. Why she should still need money when she was well over thirty years old and married to a doctor was a good question, but there it was. “She doesn’t like us,” Opal lamented. “Our daughter doesn’t want us within five hundred miles of her.”
    â€œTell me something I don’t know,” said Mac.
    May, now living in Seattle with Fred, was much better. She at least responded, often at length, and she always answered questions. She and her father, especially, had a thriving correspondence. Since May had gone to take library science in Edmonton, she and Mac had great discussions by letter about books. Admittedly there had been rocky times right after May married Fred, when they had refused to visit