“Oh dear.” They look at one another a moment, then Mercedes shakes her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t had one in quite some time either.”
Mercedes is both bewildered and embarrassed by what follows. Mrs Luvovitz squeezes Mercedes’ hands between her own and says, with her chin wrinkled in a smile against tears, “You’re a good girl, Mercedes, a wonderful girl.”
“Thank you, Mrs Luvovitz.” Mercedes drops the Ovaltine into her net bag and almost forgets the salt, adding, “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve heard from Ralph.”
But Mrs Luvovitz has turned back to the shelves and is carefully straightening a box of steel wool.
Three weeks later, the longed-for letter arrives. Mercedes carries it up to her room, taking the stairs an unaccustomed two at a time. She flings herself onto her bed, kissing the envelope before her head hits the pillow, and spends a moment lying on her side just caressing the seal. Dear Ralph. His features have smoothed and his voice has deepened in her mind over these past many months. She sighs, catches sight of her red cheeks in her dresser mirror and commands, “Don’t be such a silly chit, Mrs Ralph Luvovitz” — which makes her giggle and she hugs her pillow and buries her face in it at the same time. Finally she composes herself enough to open the letter. “Dear Mercedes” — dear Ralph — “I feel conceited even writing this to you because you are such a swell girl and could have any fellow in the world instead of settling for me anyhow, but I feel I had better say it because maybe you’ll think I’m a coward if I don’t. Here goes. I am terribly sorry if I ever led you to expect….”
When Mercedes can get up, she crosses to her dresser and removes Ralph’s picture from the frame to reveal the poem with which she replaced Valentino’s picture almost five years ago. She returns to her bed and sits perfectly still, willing all her leaping blood back to low tide until, even if she tried, she could not so much as make a fist. Little by little her temperature drops as she stares at the words of wisdom in the frame, erasing Ralph.
By evening she is perfectly calm. Lucid, in fact, for the first time since she conceived her little crush on the grocer’s son. A Hebrew. Heavens. Meanwhile there are those who need me whom I have neglected.
Mercedes walks downstairs with her head perfectly balanced on her neck, one hand lightly gracing the balustrade. Tonight Frances will get a bath, no two ways about it. Mercedes enters the kitchen, goes directly to the Lourdes tin and counts the money. Hmm. We’ll have to do better than that, now won’t we? She lights a burner on the stove and dispatches the crumpled photograph of the boy with sticking-out ears. She cooks a large supper for Daddy. It pains her to realize how she has neglected her culinary duties of late. And Daddy is so kind about it, saying only, “I’ll pick up some cold cuts on the way home, Mercedes, don’t you go to any trouble.” Mercedes plans to keep the table groaning from now on. Poor Daddy.
Mercedes has told no one of the letter, so when Mr and Mrs Luvovitz drive into Sydney for the joyous reunion with their son early in June they are unprepared to meet his wife. Marie-Josée is petite and plump in just the right way. Dark and pretty. Catholic and pregnant. This dire accident in no way obscures the fact that she and Ralph are very much in love.
Don’t Whine
Today I saw a lovely girl with golden hair,
envied her and wished I were so fair.
When she rose to go, she hobbled down the aisle.
She had one leg, wore a crutch and a smile.
Oh God forgive me when I whine
I have two legs, the world is mine.
Then I stopped to buy some sweets.
The lad who sold them had such charm.
I talked with him — my being late was no harm.
As I left he said to me, “You’ve been so kind.
You see,” he said, “I am blind.”
Oh God forgive me when I whine
I have two eyes, the world is mine.
Later, I saw a child with eyes of blue.
Watching others play, not knowing what to do.
“Why don’t you join the others, dear.”
He stared ahead, he could not hear.
Oh God forgive me when I whine….
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Dark Ladies
Frances is changing into her Guide uniform in the freezing back room of the speak one March night in 1932. Although she feels the cold more than many people, she welcomes it because it makes her outfits seem so fresh. Tonight she gets a bit of a start: a flaccid female voice plops against her like a jellyfish, “You’re no good.”
Frances looks up. The darker patch of gloom is unmistakeably Camille.
“Oh hi, Aunt Camille.”
“You’re trash.”
Frances pulls on her ripe woollen stockings. “We’re all sisters under the mink, honey.”
“Why don’t you kill yourself.”
Frances bursts out laughing and leaves.
At first glance, in her guide uniform, it’s hard to believe Frances is eighteen and not a child of twelve. At second glance, it’s hard to believe Frances was ever a child. Camille watches her go and wonders, what did my sister ever do to deserve that? But then, what did I ever do to deserve my life?
When Mahmoud’s eldest daughter Materia ran off with the enklese bastard, Mahmoud gave his second eldest daughter to Tommy Jameel, thinking that his being Lebanese was enough. It was not enough. Mahmoud knows that now; Jameel is no son-in-law of his.
Luckily there were three daughters left so he was able to make up for the first two. They’re all happy. Two married nice Lebanese Canadian boys from Sydney and the youngest married a doctor — enklese, but a good one. And his sons all married welclass="underline" three got wives from the Old Country, which is ideal. Three married Canadian girls: one Lebanese, two Acadian. One son is a priest, God is great. That makes forty grandchildren so far, twenty-four of whom are Mahmouds, and fifteen of those are male. Mneshkor allah.
Camille could have had her pick of husbands. She really was the most beautiful in that many-sons sort of way. She could have been Camille MacNeil, Camille Shebib or Camille Stubinski. Instead she is Camille Jameel. She doesn’t blame Pa — Pa she reveres. And how could she blame Materia, whom she idolized? So she hates Frances, the slut who lives only to dishonour the memory of poor Materia.
Camille is a simple woman who wanted a simple life. Instead she got a complicated one. She giggled and batted her eyelashes and where did it get her? Jameel’s gin joint. Pa gave Jameel a big dowry, God only knows where that money went. Camille is not talented. She would have been good at the things she was raised to be good at. The world should not be organized to require heroines, and when one is required but fails to appear we should not judge. We should just say, poor Camille, she turned into a bitch the way most people would have — and stay out of her way.
In her heart, though, there is still expectation. A clearing in the woods. Not when she looks at her five sons, who were absorbed by their father as soon as they were big enough to carry a crate or run with a message. Not when she looks at her husband, who never even bothered to shave on their wedding night — he examined himself and the bedsheet right after to make sure he hadn’t been cheated. No. The clearing in her heart is where Camille pauses like a deer, and waits for Pa to see her.