The Moons of Jupiter - Alice Munro [87]
That was the beginning of Mrs. Cross’s takeover of Jack. She got him to sit and watch the card game and to dry up, more or less, and make a noise which was a substitute for conversation (an-anh) rather than a desperate attempt at it (anh-anh-anh). Mrs. Cross felt something stretching in her. It was her old managing, watching power, her capacity for strategy, which if properly exercised could never be detected by those it was used on.
Mrs. Kidd could detect it, however.
“This isn’t what I call a card game,” she said.
MRS. CROSS soon found out that Jack could not stay interested in cards and there was no use trying to get him to play; it was conversation he was after. But trying to talk brought on the weeping.
“Crying doesn’t bother me,” she said to him. “I’ve seen tears and tears. But it doesn’t do you any good with a lot of people, to get a reputation for being a cry-baby.”
She started to ask him questions to which he could give yes-and-no answers. That brightened him up and let her test out her information.
Yes, he had worked on a newspaper. No, he was not married. No, the newspaper was not in Sudbury. Mrs. Cross began to reel off the name of every city she could think of but was unable to hit on the right one. He became agitated, tried to speak, and this time the syllables got close to a word, but she couldn’t catch it. She blamed herself, for not knowing enough places. Then, inspired, she ordered him to stay right where he was, not to move, she would be back, and she wheeled herself down the hall to the Library. There she looked for a book with maps in it. To her disgust there was not such a thing, there was nothing but love stories and religion. But she did not give up. She took off down the hall to Mrs. Kidd’s room. Since their card games had lapsed (they still played some days, but not every day), Mrs. Kidd spent many afternoons in her room. She was there now, lying on top of her bed, wearing an elegant purple dressing-gown with a high embroidered neck. She had a headache.
“Have you got one of those, like a geography book?” Mrs. Cross said. “A book with maps in it.” She explained that she wanted it for Jack.
“An atlas, you mean,” said Mrs. Kidd. “I think there may be. I can’t remember. You can look on the bottom shelf. I can’t remember what’s there.”
Mrs. Cross parked by the bookcase and began to lift the heavy books onto her lap one by one, reading the titles at close range. She was out of breath from the speed of her trip.
“You’re wearing yourself out,” said Mrs. Kidd. “You’ll get yourself upset and you’ll get him upset, and what is the point of it?”
“I’m not upset. It just seems a crime to me.”
“What does?”
“Such an intelligent man, what’s he doing in here? They should have put him in one of those places they teach you things, teach you how to talk again. What’s the name of them? You know. Why did they just stick him in here? I want to help him and I don’t know what to do. Well, I just have to try. If it was one of my boys like that and in a place where nobody knew him, I just hope some woman would take the same interest in him.”
“Rehabilitation,” said Mrs. Kidd. “The reason they put him in here is more than likely that the stroke was too bad for them to do anything for him.”
“Everything under the sun but a map-book,” said Mrs. Cross, not choosing to answer this. “He’ll think I’m not coming back.” She wheeled out of Mrs. Kidd’s room without a thank-you or good-bye. She was afraid Jack would think she hadn’t meant to come back, all she intended to do was to get rid of him. Sure enough, when she got to the Recreation Room he was gone. She did not know what to do. She was near tears herself. She didn’t know where his room was. She thought she would go to the office and ask; then she saw that it was five past four and the office would be closed. Lazy,