Claude-demeanour. I let her work at it for a couple of seconds—in fact, we’re both struggling minutely, fumbling for what to say.
“Dekker will tell him all about it,” I grope. “I had to take off and meet you, but I’m sure they’re talking about it right now.”
Now Sherrie has her chance. “Did you say you were meeting me?”
“Um,” I say. “Oh yes. I think I did.”
We are both adjusting ourselves in the booth, attempting to get comfortable, when it occurs to me to pass Sherrie the edited version of our letter with Dekker’s suggestions. He suggests we keep things “positive.”
Never accuse
, he has written in the margins,
never make it sound as if you’re blaming
them for anything
. Say “we encourage” instead of “we demand.” We are “sincerely hopeful,” as opposed to “deeply disappointed.” Brenda brings my fries. Sherrie sees them and decides she wants some too.
We drink our tea and dip our fries in a rather companionable silence after that. Sherrie wants to talk poetry by way of changing the subject, but because I don’t care for her poems it strikes me as awkward terrain. She talks about Margaret Avison a lot, and Margaret Atwood, and I start to wonder if it’s all a bunch of Margarets writing orgasm poetry in Canada these days. Maybe Sherrie should change her name to Margaret. She should change it to something, last if not first, because Sherrie owns perhaps the worst name for a poet this side of Adelaide Crapsey. Her last name is Mitten. She signs her poems Sherrie Ann Mitten.
“Why the Ann?” I interrupt Sherrie. She stops talking about
The Journals of Susanna Moodie
and switches conversational gears without even a flap of her lashes.
“I thought it would look more serious,” she admits. “Sherrie Mitten. Sherrie Mitten. It just looks like some girl’s name on the page. It has no authority.”
“So you stuck ‘Ann’ in there?”
“I felt it needed something to sort of
temper
the kind of … yearbook-picture sound of it. ‘Ann’ has a seriousness.”
“Why not just Ann? And drop the Sherrie?”
“I thought of that. I don’t like the meter.”
“The meter?”
“Ann Mi-tten. Ann Mi-tten,” she recites, emphasizing the rhythm for me with a lilt of her hand, like a music teacher. “It’s too—” she shakes her head “—staccato. It’s harsh, somehow. I don’t want to be harsh.”
More companionable silence, during which I feel sorryfor Sherrie. The problem, really, is all in the
Mitten
—there’s just no getting around it. She could be a Margaret and it wouldn’t help—the alliteration would make it all the more ludicrous.
“What does Mitten mean?” I ask. “Is it French-derived or something?” I figure if I can help Sherrie with her name—if we can work together to get it just right—I won’t feel quite so awkward about the fact that Jim invited me to his home for dinner before I left Dekker’s office this afternoon.
6.
I HAVE THIS COUSIN NAMED JANET . She’s here, in Timperly, in her last year at Westcock. She started out in a General Arts program but in second year switched to Political Science, and then to Psychology mid-term. My parents were keen for me to spend time with Janet when I first got here because of course it was the big bad town of Timperly and my first time going to big bad university, and the sophisticated and worldly-wise Janet, who’d been living and studying here an entire two years already, could act as my guide and mentor. Therefore I made it my business to avoid Janet whenever possible. On my first day in town, she and I and my parents all had dinner together at the Crowfeather Inn. Janet went on and on about the library’s new catalogue system and how unbelievably complicated it was and how it took her forever to figure out, reassuring my parents she would walk me through it however many times it took to sink into my pulpy high-school brain.
Meanwhile, all I could think about was my weird childhood
“Dekker will tell him all about it,” I grope. “I had to take off and meet you, but I’m sure they’re talking about it right now.”
Now Sherrie has her chance. “Did you say you were meeting me?”
“Um,” I say. “Oh yes. I think I did.”
We are both adjusting ourselves in the booth, attempting to get comfortable, when it occurs to me to pass Sherrie the edited version of our letter with Dekker’s suggestions. He suggests we keep things “positive.”
Never accuse
, he has written in the margins,
never make it sound as if you’re blaming
them for anything
. Say “we encourage” instead of “we demand.” We are “sincerely hopeful,” as opposed to “deeply disappointed.” Brenda brings my fries. Sherrie sees them and decides she wants some too.
We drink our tea and dip our fries in a rather companionable silence after that. Sherrie wants to talk poetry by way of changing the subject, but because I don’t care for her poems it strikes me as awkward terrain. She talks about Margaret Avison a lot, and Margaret Atwood, and I start to wonder if it’s all a bunch of Margarets writing orgasm poetry in Canada these days. Maybe Sherrie should change her name to Margaret. She should change it to something, last if not first, because Sherrie owns perhaps the worst name for a poet this side of Adelaide Crapsey. Her last name is Mitten. She signs her poems Sherrie Ann Mitten.
“Why the Ann?” I interrupt Sherrie. She stops talking about
The Journals of Susanna Moodie
and switches conversational gears without even a flap of her lashes.
“I thought it would look more serious,” she admits. “Sherrie Mitten. Sherrie Mitten. It just looks like some girl’s name on the page. It has no authority.”
“So you stuck ‘Ann’ in there?”
“I felt it needed something to sort of
temper
the kind of … yearbook-picture sound of it. ‘Ann’ has a seriousness.”
“Why not just Ann? And drop the Sherrie?”
“I thought of that. I don’t like the meter.”
“The meter?”
“Ann Mi-tten. Ann Mi-tten,” she recites, emphasizing the rhythm for me with a lilt of her hand, like a music teacher. “It’s too—” she shakes her head “—staccato. It’s harsh, somehow. I don’t want to be harsh.”
More companionable silence, during which I feel sorryfor Sherrie. The problem, really, is all in the
Mitten
—there’s just no getting around it. She could be a Margaret and it wouldn’t help—the alliteration would make it all the more ludicrous.
“What does Mitten mean?” I ask. “Is it French-derived or something?” I figure if I can help Sherrie with her name—if we can work together to get it just right—I won’t feel quite so awkward about the fact that Jim invited me to his home for dinner before I left Dekker’s office this afternoon.
6.
I HAVE THIS COUSIN NAMED JANET . She’s here, in Timperly, in her last year at Westcock. She started out in a General Arts program but in second year switched to Political Science, and then to Psychology mid-term. My parents were keen for me to spend time with Janet when I first got here because of course it was the big bad town of Timperly and my first time going to big bad university, and the sophisticated and worldly-wise Janet, who’d been living and studying here an entire two years already, could act as my guide and mentor. Therefore I made it my business to avoid Janet whenever possible. On my first day in town, she and I and my parents all had dinner together at the Crowfeather Inn. Janet went on and on about the library’s new catalogue system and how unbelievably complicated it was and how it took her forever to figure out, reassuring my parents she would walk me through it however many times it took to sink into my pulpy high-school brain.
Meanwhile, all I could think about was my weird childhood
Similar Books
