ending up like him was enough to squeeze the appetite from my stomach and give me nightmares that left me cold and sweating.
I received two letters in the mail from Jeff. Both were brief, telling me about the excited mood of the base. He had some trouble with all the yelling. He'd never been much for getting screamed at. And the lack of sleep troubled him, as well. But he remained optimistic. In the second letter, he even mentioned how with the extra money he'd be getting, he'd be able to afford a better ring.
These letters stayed hidden in the pockets of an old coat hanging at the back of my closet. I didn't need to add any more fuel to the growing fires of my mother's patriotism.
Chapter 7
Then came the day that Jeff was to finish training. He'd be given no leave, and instead be sent directly by train with the rest of his fellows to Halifax to board a liner for the trans-Atlantic journey.
Since he couldn't come home, Marie had sent me a polite letter inviting me to join her again for dinner. I responded quickly that I would be glad to.
It rained outside that day, the sky a uniform grey with the clouds an impermeable damp blanket hanging over Kitchener. The humidity played havoc with my hair, frizzing it.
Everything felt wet, sickly, and miserable. The horses clopping down Weber Street moved with their heads low, and the city seemed to retreat in on itself, unable to shake its malaise.
I sat at lunch with mother at the small table in the kitchen. She nibbled on a sandwich, bits of the brown crust flaking off and landing gently on her plate. Her fingers were long and bony, the knuckles like knots tied in a length of rope. She'd pulled her hair back in a tight bun at the back of her head. The silver streaks shot through the bunched hair like lightning bolts across a pitch-colored sky.
I took a bite of my own sandwich. The bread had begun to turn, and the bit of mustard she'd spread over it had made the inside soggy. Not wanting to eat anymore, I put it down and dabbed at the corners of my mouth with a white linen serviette.
"Eat up! We're having company, dear," mother said.
I had wondered why she'd put on that nice dress. It was an even ivory color, the high neck exposing as little skin as possible. The type of dress you might wear to a church picnic to impress the priest with your modesty.
"Oh? Who's coming?" I asked.
It was probably another of my father's friends. Since mother had caught the war fever, she'd done her best to get in touch with as many of them as possible. She'd even made the trip up to Toronto to visit with a retired English colonel.
I had no interest in hanging around the living room as some cigar-puffing man regaled mother with tales of fighting.
For one, I found her sudden acute interest disturbing. Hadn't she seen poor Shelley Clarkson in church? She'd certainly clucked her tongue and put on a sad expression when the news about Clarkson's brother had come through. She saw the casualty lists. Were they just numbers to her?
For two, as the older men talked about the boom and bluster of cannons, and the volleys of rifle fire, the sounds narrated terrible visions of Jeff. He'd be standing in the line of fire, or raising his rifle to shoot some German boy before he got shot in return.
"How nice, mother. I think I'll go over to Victoria Park and see if the swans are in. I probably won't be back until the evening; I'm going to see Marie for dinner again. Jeff's done training today, and he can't come down on account of the need for men, so I thought it would be nice to see her."
My toes curled in my flats under the table. He'd be in Halifax soon, then out of the country with an entire ocean separating us. Marie and I would have to console each other, and together renew our faith that he'd come back home alive.
Mother dropped her sandwich on her plate. The dish clattered, and I jerked back at the sudden noise.
"Oh! He's done already? Wonderful, that training is, isn't it! Yes, the ladies
I received two letters in the mail from Jeff. Both were brief, telling me about the excited mood of the base. He had some trouble with all the yelling. He'd never been much for getting screamed at. And the lack of sleep troubled him, as well. But he remained optimistic. In the second letter, he even mentioned how with the extra money he'd be getting, he'd be able to afford a better ring.
These letters stayed hidden in the pockets of an old coat hanging at the back of my closet. I didn't need to add any more fuel to the growing fires of my mother's patriotism.
Chapter 7
Then came the day that Jeff was to finish training. He'd be given no leave, and instead be sent directly by train with the rest of his fellows to Halifax to board a liner for the trans-Atlantic journey.
Since he couldn't come home, Marie had sent me a polite letter inviting me to join her again for dinner. I responded quickly that I would be glad to.
It rained outside that day, the sky a uniform grey with the clouds an impermeable damp blanket hanging over Kitchener. The humidity played havoc with my hair, frizzing it.
Everything felt wet, sickly, and miserable. The horses clopping down Weber Street moved with their heads low, and the city seemed to retreat in on itself, unable to shake its malaise.
I sat at lunch with mother at the small table in the kitchen. She nibbled on a sandwich, bits of the brown crust flaking off and landing gently on her plate. Her fingers were long and bony, the knuckles like knots tied in a length of rope. She'd pulled her hair back in a tight bun at the back of her head. The silver streaks shot through the bunched hair like lightning bolts across a pitch-colored sky.
I took a bite of my own sandwich. The bread had begun to turn, and the bit of mustard she'd spread over it had made the inside soggy. Not wanting to eat anymore, I put it down and dabbed at the corners of my mouth with a white linen serviette.
"Eat up! We're having company, dear," mother said.
I had wondered why she'd put on that nice dress. It was an even ivory color, the high neck exposing as little skin as possible. The type of dress you might wear to a church picnic to impress the priest with your modesty.
"Oh? Who's coming?" I asked.
It was probably another of my father's friends. Since mother had caught the war fever, she'd done her best to get in touch with as many of them as possible. She'd even made the trip up to Toronto to visit with a retired English colonel.
I had no interest in hanging around the living room as some cigar-puffing man regaled mother with tales of fighting.
For one, I found her sudden acute interest disturbing. Hadn't she seen poor Shelley Clarkson in church? She'd certainly clucked her tongue and put on a sad expression when the news about Clarkson's brother had come through. She saw the casualty lists. Were they just numbers to her?
For two, as the older men talked about the boom and bluster of cannons, and the volleys of rifle fire, the sounds narrated terrible visions of Jeff. He'd be standing in the line of fire, or raising his rifle to shoot some German boy before he got shot in return.
"How nice, mother. I think I'll go over to Victoria Park and see if the swans are in. I probably won't be back until the evening; I'm going to see Marie for dinner again. Jeff's done training today, and he can't come down on account of the need for men, so I thought it would be nice to see her."
My toes curled in my flats under the table. He'd be in Halifax soon, then out of the country with an entire ocean separating us. Marie and I would have to console each other, and together renew our faith that he'd come back home alive.
Mother dropped her sandwich on her plate. The dish clattered, and I jerked back at the sudden noise.
"Oh! He's done already? Wonderful, that training is, isn't it! Yes, the ladies
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