Read Online The Box Garden by Carol Shields - Free Book Online Page B

over fifty then. He just stood there with his mouth open. And his hands reaching out for his hat. Finally she took it and kind of swept it under his nose—that was the worst part—and then she banged it on top of his head.”
    “Oh, Eugene.”
    “He grabbed hold of it and ripped it off his head. And threw it on the ground and stomped on it. Then he took hold of my arm, hard, and pushed me on out through the whole damned bunch of them. Right out the doorway. Past the next bunch of suckers lining up outside for the next show. God.”
    “And what did he say? Afterwards?”
    “Nothing. Not one damn thing. I didn’t either. We just walked fast all the way to the other end of the fairground where my mother was waiting. He walked so fast I had to run to keep up. I wanted to say something, to tell him it was okay, that I didn’t mind all that much about the hat thing, but we never said anything, either of us. Not then or ever.”
    “Ah, Eugene. And that was your sex education.”
    “I’m almost sure that’s what he intended it to be. Because he sure as hell would never have blown two bits just for the fun of it. He never wasted money. There was never any to waste. I think it was all for me. And she blew it for him, the poor old guy, by grabbing his hat. And so did I by not saying anything.”
    Eugene shakes his head and, looking out the window, remarks flatly, “It seems a long time ago.”
    We sit quietly. When Eugene talks about his life, it is always with a sorrowing regretful futility as though the thin distances of his childhood could produce nothing better. But for me there is something compelling about his family, a sort of decency which surfaces unconsciously. I see them in prairie gothic terms, stern but devoted, humble but softened by an unquestioned tradition of love. Nevertheless, at the same time, I find myself listening for something more robust and redeeming, a note of valour perhaps; in Eugene’s stories he seems deliberately to choose for himself a lesser role. I yearn for him to demonstrate an aptitude for heroism, and I don’t know why. I must ask Brother Adam about that—why do I require bravery from Eugene when I don’t possess it myself?
    I rest my hand in his lap. We are racing past tiny towns raised to significance by brightly painted grain elevators. Beyond them, fields, a sullen sky, a pulsing lip of brightness behind the clouds. Our train, shooting through air, is the slenderest of arrows, a hairline, a jet trail; it cares nothing for the space it splits apart and nothing for us; all we are required to do is sit still and watch it happen.

    From Winnipeg I phone Seth. There is only twenty minutes, but luckily the call goes right through. And it’s a good connection.
    “Hello. Is that you, Doug?”
    “Yes. Charleen! Where are you?”
    “Winnipeg. We’ve just got a few minutes, but I thought I’d phone and see how everything was.”
    “Everything’s fine here. We’re all getting along fine.”
    “Is Seth there?” I ask, and suddenly realize that it is two hours earlier on the coast; Seth might be asleep.
    But surprisingly Doug says, “Sure he’s here. Hang on a minute, Char, and I’ll get him.”
    I hang on for more than a minute, two minutes, unbelievable! Here I am calling long distance. Long distance—I remember how my mother used to say those two words, her voice stricken, worried and worshipful at the same time.
    “Hello.”
    “Seth,” I say, “where were you just now?”
    “I was just here,” he says maddeningly.
    “Well, how are you getting along?”
    “Fine.”
    “How come you’re up so early on a Saturday?”
    “I just woke up now.”
    “And you’re getting along fine?” I ask again.
    “Yeah, just fine.”
    “You sound all out of breath.”
    “Oh? I guess I’m just surprised to hear from you.”
    “I had a few minutes in Winnipeg and I thought I’d just make sure everything was okay.”
    “How are you?”
    “Oh, fine. We get in tomorrow night. Aunt