Tags:
Fiction,
Literary,
Historical fiction,
Coming of Age,
Family Life,
Pregnancy,
Immigrants,
Saskatchewan,
tornado,
women in medicine,
Pioneer women,
Homestead (s) (ing),
Prairie settlement,
Harvest workers,
Renaissance women,
Prairie history,
Housekeeping,
typhoid,
Unwed mother,
Dollybird (of course),
Harvest train,
Irish Catholic Canadians,
Dryland farming
moment would come. I was almost five months on and had just endured a Christmas as lonely and bleak as the winter landscape. And all the while Iâd worried only about how Iâd respond, rehearsed language measured and eloquent, proof of how very respectable I was so he might, on sober second thought, ask me to stay on. But the words fled.
âPlease, sir, Iâll be destitute. Iâve nowhere to go.â
âWell, thatâs not my problem now, is it?â He looked contemptuously at my belly bursting its camouflage. âMaybe you should have thought about that before you got yourself in trouble.â
Myself.
âIâll stay out of the way when you have guests.â The words tripped over each other. âI mean, I can set out the tea. And then stay in my room. You could do the shopping. No one would know.â
âPeople are already talking about your bastard.â He slunk out from behind his desk to stand beside my chair, the fingers of his hand closing over the back of it close to my neck. It seemed the hairs on his knuckles must be gently reaching for my skin. I shuddered. He snorted, his eyes heavy on my head. And I wanted to smash his smug face, pictured with satisfaction his soft, fleshy nose disappearing behind the force of my fist.
âYou have until the end of the month,â he said with a self-satisfied nod.
âOh no.â I quickly calculated the days and how much money I might save before then.
âYou stay any longer and the gossips are gonna wonder if Iâm keeping you on âcause its mine.â
I didnât know if Iâd heard correctly until I looked up to see his suggestive grin.
âYours,â I snorted. âWouldnât that be a sweet revenge?â
âWhat?â
âI could drop them hints, keep them guessing.â
âYou wouldnât dare.â
âWhy not?â Reckless abandon filled the pit where fear had boiled for weeks. âIâve got nothing to lose.â I thought it was true. A laugh rolled up and out of my throat and the tension slipped from my shoulders.
Mr. Pennyâs small, confused eyes narrowed to slits.
âDonât worry though.â I stood to face him. âI could never let anyone believe Iâd have anything to do with a fat, sweaty...â
His puffy skin turned red.
âStinking...â
His body trembled with rage.
âSwine,â I shouted.
His stubby fingers clenched into fists. âGet out.â His voice was murderously soft. âNow.â
i i i
The money in the jar would pay for two weeks at the rooming house. My suite was tiny, a cot and bedside table almost filling the space. Narrow wooden shelves hung on the wall above the bed. Cracked white paint flaked away from the walls and windowsill, while outside the grimy second-floor window was the most impressive array of grey backyard outhouses.
âAnd the bath?â
The scrawny, grey-haired landlord pointed down the hall. âYou share with all the women on this floor.â He was surprisingly sympathetic. âItâs all Iâve got for what you can pay.â
âItâll be fine.â Mr. Pennyâs hate-filled eyes still loomed large. âJust fine.â
The shelves were small, so I sacrificed more practical items in order to display the blue china pieces. They gleamed in the drab room. My clothes hung on hooks on the wall, the family picture taking up most of the space on the bedside table. I wanted them near me, to see them, especially my father, on waking every morning. The cot sagged under my weight, the mattress hardly thick enough to hold down the warped plywood it rested on. My few possessions cluttered the small space, incongruent yet heartening.
A tenuous sense of well-being was invaded by sounds from the house â shuffling feet, squeaking bedsprings, chairs pushed away from tables. A moment later a knock startled me and I froze. Iâd wanted to sit in the
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