will be glad to know they've had an impact on the young men in the area."
"Yes, mother," I said, pushing back from the table, thinking only of walking around the park for the few hours until dinner. But then I actually heard what she'd said.
"What ladies, mother? What are you talking about?"
Mother picked up the brown crumbs from her crust between her thumb and index finger and ate them. She'd painted her lips, and some of the rouge stuck to her fingernails.
"You know them, Eleanor! They're war wives from Toronto. They're the ones that have been taking the train down here to hand out the feathers. Did you know they told me that Kitchener has one of the worst recruitment rates in the province? They say it's because of all the German families around here..."
"Mother!"
I slapped my hands down on the table, rattling our plates again. Mother jerked back, her big, wide eyes shocked at my display. I couldn't help myself. She was inviting the very women who'd called Jeff a coward into our home for tea and a chat! How could she? That feather had been the proverbial straw. If he hadn't come to dinner that night looking all sullen and upset, clutching those feathers, I might have been able to sway him into fighting the draft letter.
"What's gotten into you, Eleanor? You should be happy. Those women are patriots!"
"I won't have them in this house! It's their fault that Jeff's on his way over there right this very moment!"
Mother pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that the lids wrinkled. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly breathed it out. She acted as though she were the long-suffering parent of a spoiled child, and had just reached the breaking point in her tolerance.
Things had long been coming to a head, and I knew that. Her nostalgia for father, her fervor for the war. They clashed with my own feelings. But she'd just kept on going, inviting those veterans over, talking to me about how nice it would be to have a soldier as her son in law. She'd carried on as though thinking that sheer attrition of will would convert me over to her way of thinking.
But this was too much. I wouldn't let her do this; I couldn't. The catcalls of "coward" that they'd thrown at him on the day we'd walked past them that day, so long ago it seemed, still stung.
"They're not coming into this house," I said, the words moving past my gritted teeth.
When she let go of her nose, her fingertips left two little round pressure marks. A small dot of rose-red rouge had smudged her skin as well. She didn't seem to notice.
She smiled up at me, her lips pulled so tightly that it looked more like a snarl.
"Sit down and finish your sandwich," she said, trying to brush the argument under the rug like some bothersome dust she'd been ignoring.
"No, mother. You don't understand. They can't come in here. I won't have it!"
Mother stood, tugging angrily at the waist of her dress to rid it of the wrinkles from sitting. Her face flushed almost to the color of that spot of rouge, and a large, dark vein poked out against the skin on her forehead.
I knew I couldn't look much better. It felt like a hundred degrees in that kitchen, and I had to take long, deep breaths to satisfy my body's sudden need for more air.
"You won't have it? Is your name the one on the deed for the house?"
It wasn't. Father had, of course, left the home to mother in his will. But I paid my own board, giving her a large portion of my small salary each month for my groceries. And I helped with the cleaning and cooking.
But I wouldn't let her have this. Those women had cost me too much already, and having them over was like having it all flung in my face.
Mother pressed her attack when she sensed my hesitation.
"That's right; it isn't! You may be an adult, but while you're living with me under my roof, you do what I tell you to. Not the other way around. Do you understand? Why, what do you think your father would say about all this?"
"He'd be too
"Yes, mother," I said, pushing back from the table, thinking only of walking around the park for the few hours until dinner. But then I actually heard what she'd said.
"What ladies, mother? What are you talking about?"
Mother picked up the brown crumbs from her crust between her thumb and index finger and ate them. She'd painted her lips, and some of the rouge stuck to her fingernails.
"You know them, Eleanor! They're war wives from Toronto. They're the ones that have been taking the train down here to hand out the feathers. Did you know they told me that Kitchener has one of the worst recruitment rates in the province? They say it's because of all the German families around here..."
"Mother!"
I slapped my hands down on the table, rattling our plates again. Mother jerked back, her big, wide eyes shocked at my display. I couldn't help myself. She was inviting the very women who'd called Jeff a coward into our home for tea and a chat! How could she? That feather had been the proverbial straw. If he hadn't come to dinner that night looking all sullen and upset, clutching those feathers, I might have been able to sway him into fighting the draft letter.
"What's gotten into you, Eleanor? You should be happy. Those women are patriots!"
"I won't have them in this house! It's their fault that Jeff's on his way over there right this very moment!"
Mother pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that the lids wrinkled. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly breathed it out. She acted as though she were the long-suffering parent of a spoiled child, and had just reached the breaking point in her tolerance.
Things had long been coming to a head, and I knew that. Her nostalgia for father, her fervor for the war. They clashed with my own feelings. But she'd just kept on going, inviting those veterans over, talking to me about how nice it would be to have a soldier as her son in law. She'd carried on as though thinking that sheer attrition of will would convert me over to her way of thinking.
But this was too much. I wouldn't let her do this; I couldn't. The catcalls of "coward" that they'd thrown at him on the day we'd walked past them that day, so long ago it seemed, still stung.
"They're not coming into this house," I said, the words moving past my gritted teeth.
When she let go of her nose, her fingertips left two little round pressure marks. A small dot of rose-red rouge had smudged her skin as well. She didn't seem to notice.
She smiled up at me, her lips pulled so tightly that it looked more like a snarl.
"Sit down and finish your sandwich," she said, trying to brush the argument under the rug like some bothersome dust she'd been ignoring.
"No, mother. You don't understand. They can't come in here. I won't have it!"
Mother stood, tugging angrily at the waist of her dress to rid it of the wrinkles from sitting. Her face flushed almost to the color of that spot of rouge, and a large, dark vein poked out against the skin on her forehead.
I knew I couldn't look much better. It felt like a hundred degrees in that kitchen, and I had to take long, deep breaths to satisfy my body's sudden need for more air.
"You won't have it? Is your name the one on the deed for the house?"
It wasn't. Father had, of course, left the home to mother in his will. But I paid my own board, giving her a large portion of my small salary each month for my groceries. And I helped with the cleaning and cooking.
But I wouldn't let her have this. Those women had cost me too much already, and having them over was like having it all flung in my face.
Mother pressed her attack when she sensed my hesitation.
"That's right; it isn't! You may be an adult, but while you're living with me under my roof, you do what I tell you to. Not the other way around. Do you understand? Why, what do you think your father would say about all this?"
"He'd be too
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