“That’s a Methodist birthday for you,” said Ray. It may have stirred up memories, for he became snappy and critical, as he never was at home. He stood up for Quebec, saying there was a lot of good in a place where a man could have a beer whenever he felt like it, and no questions asked. In Quebec, you could buy beer in grocery stores. The rest of Canada was pretty dry, yet in those parched cities, on a Saturday night, even the telephone poles were reeling-drunk. Nora was proud of him for having all that to say. On their last evening a few things went wrong, and Ray said, “Tough corn and sour apple pie. That’s no meal for a man.” He was right. Her mother would never have served it. No wonder he had stayed in Montreal.
On a warm spring afternoon the war came to an end. Nora was fifteen and going to an English high school. She knew who George Washington was and the names of the Stuart kings but not much about Canada. A bunch of fatheads — Ray’s assessment — swarmed downtown and broke some store windows and overturned a streetcar, to show how glad they felt about peace. No one knew what to expect or what was supposed to happen without a war. Even Ray wasn’t sure if his place on the city payroll was safe, with all the younger men coming back and shoving for priority. Uncle Victor decided to evict all his tenants, give the flats a coat of paint and rent them to veterans at a higher price. Ninette and Aunt Rosalie went to Eaton’s and stood in one of the first lines for nylon stockings. Nora’s mother welcomed the end of rationing on principle, although no one had gone without. Geraldine had been moping for years: she had yearned to be the youngest novice in universal history and now it was too late. Ray had kept saying, “Nothing doing. There’s a war on.” He wanted the family to stick together in case Canada was invaded, forgetting how eager he had been to leave at the very beginning, though it was true that in 1939 the entire war was expected to last about six months.
Now Gerry sat around weeping because she could leave home. When Ray said she had to wait another year, she suddenly stopped crying and began to sort the clothes and possessions she was giving up. The first thing she turned over to Nora was the black velvet ribbon Ninette had unfastened all those years ago. It was as good as new; Gerry never wore anything out. To Nora it seemed the relic of a distant age. The fashion now was curved combs and barrettes and hair clips studded with colored stones. Gerry went on separating her clothes into piles until the last minute and went away dry-eyed, leaving an empty bed in the room she had shared with Nora all Nora’s life.
The next person to leave was Ninette. She came down with tuberculosis and had to be sent to a place in the Laurentians — not far from Gerry’s convent. She never wrote, for fear of passing germs along by mail. If Nora wanted to send a letter, she had to give it, unsealed, to Aunt Rosalie. The excuse was that Ninette had to be shielded from bad news. Nora had no idea what the bad news might be. Ninette had never married. Her education had gone to waste, Nora often heard. She had inherited her father’s habit of waiting, and now life had played her a mean trick. She had slapped her little brothers around for their own good and given private French lessons. Her favorite book was still her own “Marie-Antoinette.” Perhaps she secretly had hoped to be martyred and admired. Ray had thought so: “The trouble with Ninette was all that goddamn queen stuff.”
“Was,” he had said. She had fallen into their past. After a short time Nora began to forget about her cousin. It was impossible to go on writing to someone who never replied. The family seemed to see less of Aunt Rosalie and Uncle Victor. Tuberculosis was a disgraceful disease, a curse of the poor, said to run through generations. Some distant, driven ancestor, a victim of winter and long stretches of émigré hunger had bequeathed the germ, across three centuries, perhaps. The least rumor concerning Ninette could blight the life of brothers and cousins. The summer after she vanished, Aunt Rosalie had a second stroke and two weeks later died.
One person who came well out of the war was Ray. He was in the same office, an adornment to the same payroll, and still had friends all over. He had devised a means of easing the sorrow of childless couples by bringing them together with newborn babies no one wanted to bring up. He had the satisfaction of performing a kindness, a Christian act, and the pleasure of experiencing favors returned. “Ray doesn’t quite stand there with his hand out,” Uncle Victor had been heard to say. “But a lot of the time he finds something in it.” Ray had his own letter paper now, with “Cadaster/Cadastre” printed across the top. “Cadaster” had no connection to his job, as far as anyone could tell. He had found sheaves of the paper in a cardboard box, about to be carted away. The paper was yellowed and brittle around the edges. He enjoyed typing letters and signing his name in a long scrawl. He had once said he wanted his children to have names he could pronounce, and to be able to speak English at his own table if he felt like it. Both wishes had been granted. He was more cheerful than any man Nora had ever heard of and much happier than poor Uncle Victor.
Nora had to herself the room she had shared with her sister. She placed Gerry’s framed high-school graduation portrait on the dresser and kissed the glass, and spread her belongings in all the dresser drawers. Before long, her mother moved in and took over the empty bed. She was having her change of life and had to get up in the night to put on a fresh nightgown and replace the pillowcases soaked with sweat. After about a week of it, Ray came to the door and turned on the overhead light. He said, “How long is it going on for?”
“I don’t know. Go back to bed. You need your sleep.”
He walked away, leaving the light on. Nora went barefoot to switch it off. She said, “What does it feel like, exactly?”
Her mother’s voice in the dark sounded girlish, like Gerry’s. “As if somebody dipped a towel in boiling-hot water and threw it over your head.”
“I’m never getting married,” Nora said.
“Being married has nothing to do with it.”
“Will it happen to Gerry?”
“Nuns get all the women’s things,” said her mother.
The August heat wave and her mother’s restlessness kept Nora awake. She thought about the secretarial school where she was to begin a new, great phase of her life on the Tuesday after Labour Day — twelve days from tomorrow. Her imagination travelled along unknown corridors and into classrooms where there were rows of typewriters, just delivered from the factory; the pencils, the erasers, the spiral notebooks had never been touched. All the girls were attractive-looking and serious-minded. At a front-row desk (should they be seated in alphabetical order) was Miss Nora Abbott, with her natural bilingual skills and extensive wardrobe — half of it Gerry’s.
As children, she and Gerry had taken parental magic on trust, had believed their mother heard their unspoken thoughts and listened from a distance to their most secret conversations. Now her mother said, “Can’t you get to sleep, Nora? You’re all impressed about taking that course. Are you wanting to leave home with your first pay cheque? Papa wouldn’t want that.”
“Gerry was eighteen when she went away.”
“We knew where she was going.”
“I’ll be over nineteen by the time I start to work.”
“And starting off at fifteen dollars a week, if you’re lucky.”
Nora said, “I’ve been wondering how Dad’s going to manage to pay for the course. It’s two hundred dollars, not counting the shorthand book.”
“It’s not for you to worry about,” said her mother. “He’s paid the hundred deposit. The rest isn’t due until December.”