A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [29]
“I didn’t know that.”
“No, of course. I mean, of course you wouldn’t know.”
“What is there to do here in the summer?” Nick asks.
“I don’t – well, not a great deal, I guess.”
“Would you come to a movie on Friday night, Rachel?”
“Oh. Well – I guess – well, thanks. I – yes, I’d like to.”
“Good. Fine. Eight?”
“Yes. That’s – fine.”
“See you, then. Oh, wait, Rachel. I don’t know where you live.”
“In the same – you remember? My father had the –”
“Yes. I remember.”
“The man who took over the business didn’t want the upstairs flat, so we – my mother and I – we’ve kept it on.”
“I see.”
“You can’t miss it,” I am shrilly saying. “There’s a neon sign.”
He laughs, but I cannot tell whether it is done in puzzlement or what. Then he walks on, saying “So long,” and I must walk on quickly as well, not remain standing here.
At home, Mother has the table set and is waiting for the lamb chops for lunch.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so long.”
“It’s quite all right, dear. I did begin to wonder a little, that’s all, what could possibly have kept you so long, or if you’d had some kind of accident –”
“Oh Mother. For heaven’s sake. It’s only half past twelve. I was talking to someone. Nick Kazlik, actually. He’s back for the summer.”
“Who dear? I don’t believe I know him.”
“Nick Kazlik. You know.”
“Oh – you mean old Nestor’s son?”
“Yes. He’s a High School teacher. In the city.”
“Really? How did he manage that?”
“I couldn’t say. Some miracle, I suppose. Divine intervention, maybe.”
“Really, Rachel,” she says, exceedingly perturbed. “There’s no need for you to speak to me like that. If you please.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I’m not sorry. And yet my anger is childish. It’s not her fault. Half the town is Scots descent and the other half is Ukrainian. Oil, as they say, and water. Both came for the same reasons, because they had nothing where they were before. That was a long way away and a long time ago. The Ukrainians knew how to be the better grain farmers, but the Scots knew how to be almightier than anyone but God. She was brought up that way, and my father too, and I, but by the time it reached me, the backbone had been splintered considerably. She doesn’t know that, though, and never will. Probably I wouldn’t even want her to know.
How shall I tell her I’ve agreed to go out with him? This is what I keep on wondering through our evening, the TV clanging and bellowing, and Mother belching softly on the sofa and gnawing peppermints for indigestion.
I wonder why he asked me out. I suppose he didn’t have anything better to do, and thought he might as well.
Why in God’s name did I say that about the neon sign? The first time I ever went to a movie with a boy, I was fifteen. The adult price wasn’t charged until sixteen. The boy was sixteen. I stood beside him on the winter street, outside the ticket window, shivering, obsessed with one thought – how would I ever walk past the ticket girl and face the usherette if he bought a child’s ticket for me? He didn’t, of course, so I had upset myself needlessly.
“Where are you going, Rachel? Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.” I should have told her before, I know. “I’m going to a movie.”
“Oh. What’s on? Maybe I’ll come along.”
“I mean I’m going with someone.”
“Oh. I see. Well, you might have said, Rachel. You really might have told me, dear.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I just –”
“You know how glad I am, dear, when you go out. You might have mentioned it to me, that’s all. It’s not too much to ask, surely. After all, I do like to know where you are. I would have thought you could have said, Rachel.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s quite all right, dear. I’m only saying if you had let me know, it would’ve been better, that’s all. I could have invited one of the girls in, maybe. Well, never mind. I shall be quite fine here by myself. I’ll just slip into my housecoat, and make some coffee, and have a nice quiet evening. I’ll be just dandy. Don’t you worry