Read Online A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) by Terence M. Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terence M. Green
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verandah chairs, we carry them home, put them to bed. They lie there, beads of perspiration on their upper lips, their brows, skin perfect, ours.
Perhaps it is the heat, the beer. I touch Maggie the way we used to touch each other, and she softens, is there for me. Finally. It's all right, she says. It's a good time of the month, my cramps are just starting. It's safe.
I hear her as if from a distance, wish she would stop worrying, planning. I kiss her mouth, her neck, tremble. It's been so long. So long. I touch the small of her back where I have pulled her blouse loose. Her hands cup my face. She breathes into my mouth.
It is October, the heat long gone, the trees yellow, red, when Maggie, folding the newspaper in her lap, says, "Norway has given women the right to vote."
I look up from my own piece of newsprint, say nothing. I barely know where Norway is. I picture Norwegian women, tall, blond, emancipated, casting ballots, discussing politics.
I think of the children. I try to understand. I try.
In November, Maggie reads to me from McCall’s magazine. The Ladies' Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, Life, Collier's. Maggie reads everything she can get her hands on. "There is an Italian educator named Maria Montessori who has a fascinating article in here about educating children."
"Margaret is only three," I say.
"That's not too early, according to her. Even Jack."
It is evening. The children are asleep. I take a cigar from my vest pocket, roll it between my fingers.
"She speaks of educational toys. Says children can learn from toys, from color, from proportion."
I think about this. "What kind of toys?"
"Numbers, letters, pasted on cards—alternate rough and smooth paper—so that the child learns to distinguish between the smooth and rough texture, without realizing that the letters and numbers are also being learned."
I strike a match, puff the cigar to life. I think back to Elora, to St. Mary's School, remember no toys. All that comes to mind is Dewey, my rag doll, clutched while I slept.
"They become familiar with forms long before they know any purpose for them. She calls it sense training."
I listen, fascinated, think about Margaret and Jack, and through the blue smoke see the dream called the future, see them in wonderful brick houses with fine clothes and shoes, their families about them, healthy, educated, all reading books.
On Friday, December 20, instead of going directly home with the small brown envelope the size of a playing card that holds my weekly pay, I trudge back and forth in the snow between Simpson's and Eaton's, riding the escalators to the toy departments. I buy a circular alphabet board made of metal and fiber, twelve inches in diameter. It has eighty letters and characters and a drawing slate in the middle and costs me $1.39.1 buy wooden alphabet blocks, a set of jacks, an Erector set. A toy milk wagon, twelve-by-four inches, with red-spoked wheels, twisted wire loop handles, rubber tires, and metal wheels, costs me fifty-nine cents. The front wheels turn. And then, picturing Margaret with it in her hands, I buy a toy piano, eleven-by-sixteen inches, with fifteen keys and a lithographed front consisting of birds in a tree and the word "Symphony." The $2.98 price is more than a day's pay, and dizzy with the excitement, I have to stop the wild spending.
But before I leave, on the main floor of Eaton's, thinking of Maggie, I buy a perfume atomizer for thirty-seven cents and a manicure and toilet set for $1.69.
Nine dollars, I think. I have spent more than nine dollars. It is Christmas, I tell myself. Jack and Margaret will be excited. And swaggering through the snow to the streetcar, picturing their reactions, their faces, I am euphoric.
"We don't have nine dollars to spare," Maggie says.
"It's Christmas."
"What will we do for the groceries, for the rent?"
"I'll borrow some."
"From who?"
I do not know. "From mother. From Mike."
She shakes her head, touches her
Perhaps it is the heat, the beer. I touch Maggie the way we used to touch each other, and she softens, is there for me. Finally. It's all right, she says. It's a good time of the month, my cramps are just starting. It's safe.
I hear her as if from a distance, wish she would stop worrying, planning. I kiss her mouth, her neck, tremble. It's been so long. So long. I touch the small of her back where I have pulled her blouse loose. Her hands cup my face. She breathes into my mouth.
It is October, the heat long gone, the trees yellow, red, when Maggie, folding the newspaper in her lap, says, "Norway has given women the right to vote."
I look up from my own piece of newsprint, say nothing. I barely know where Norway is. I picture Norwegian women, tall, blond, emancipated, casting ballots, discussing politics.
I think of the children. I try to understand. I try.
In November, Maggie reads to me from McCall’s magazine. The Ladies' Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, Life, Collier's. Maggie reads everything she can get her hands on. "There is an Italian educator named Maria Montessori who has a fascinating article in here about educating children."
"Margaret is only three," I say.
"That's not too early, according to her. Even Jack."
It is evening. The children are asleep. I take a cigar from my vest pocket, roll it between my fingers.
"She speaks of educational toys. Says children can learn from toys, from color, from proportion."
I think about this. "What kind of toys?"
"Numbers, letters, pasted on cards—alternate rough and smooth paper—so that the child learns to distinguish between the smooth and rough texture, without realizing that the letters and numbers are also being learned."
I strike a match, puff the cigar to life. I think back to Elora, to St. Mary's School, remember no toys. All that comes to mind is Dewey, my rag doll, clutched while I slept.
"They become familiar with forms long before they know any purpose for them. She calls it sense training."
I listen, fascinated, think about Margaret and Jack, and through the blue smoke see the dream called the future, see them in wonderful brick houses with fine clothes and shoes, their families about them, healthy, educated, all reading books.
On Friday, December 20, instead of going directly home with the small brown envelope the size of a playing card that holds my weekly pay, I trudge back and forth in the snow between Simpson's and Eaton's, riding the escalators to the toy departments. I buy a circular alphabet board made of metal and fiber, twelve inches in diameter. It has eighty letters and characters and a drawing slate in the middle and costs me $1.39.1 buy wooden alphabet blocks, a set of jacks, an Erector set. A toy milk wagon, twelve-by-four inches, with red-spoked wheels, twisted wire loop handles, rubber tires, and metal wheels, costs me fifty-nine cents. The front wheels turn. And then, picturing Margaret with it in her hands, I buy a toy piano, eleven-by-sixteen inches, with fifteen keys and a lithographed front consisting of birds in a tree and the word "Symphony." The $2.98 price is more than a day's pay, and dizzy with the excitement, I have to stop the wild spending.
But before I leave, on the main floor of Eaton's, thinking of Maggie, I buy a perfume atomizer for thirty-seven cents and a manicure and toilet set for $1.69.
Nine dollars, I think. I have spent more than nine dollars. It is Christmas, I tell myself. Jack and Margaret will be excited. And swaggering through the snow to the streetcar, picturing their reactions, their faces, I am euphoric.
"We don't have nine dollars to spare," Maggie says.
"It's Christmas."
"What will we do for the groceries, for the rent?"
"I'll borrow some."
"From who?"
I do not know. "From mother. From Mike."
She shakes her head, touches her
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