Read Online The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Laurence
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could plunge his hairy arms among them, even when they swarmed, and they never stung. I don’t know why, except he felt no fear.
“Mother—are you all right? Didn’t you hear what I said?”
Doris’s voice. How long have I been standing here with lowered head, twiddling with the silken stuff that covers me? Now I am mortified, apologetic, and cannot for a moment recollect what it was I held against her. The house, of course. They mean to sell my house. What will become of all my things?
“I don’t want Marvin to sell the house, Doris.”
She frowns, perplexed. Then I remember. It was more than the house. The newspaper remains on the kitchen table. Silverthreads. Only the best. Remember the loving care she lavished.
“Doris—I won’t go there. That place. Oh, you know all right. You know what I mean, my girl. No use to shake your head. Well, I won’t. The two of you can move out. Go ahead and move right out. Yes, you do that. I’ll stay here in my house. Do you hear me? Eh?”
“Now, Mother, don’t go and get yourself all upset. How could you manage here alone? It’s out of the question. Now, please. You go and sit down in the living-room. We’ll say no more about it just yet. If you get all workedup, you’re certain to fall, and Marv won’t be home for half an hour.”
“I’m not worked up a bit!” Is it my voice, raucous and deep, shouting? “I only want to tell you—”
“I can’t lift you if you fall,” she says. “I simply cannot do it any more.”
I turn and walk away, wishing to be haughty, but hideously hitting the edge of the dining-room table, joggling the cut-glass rose bowl she uses now, although it is mine. She runs, rejoicing in her ill fortune, catches the bowl and my elbow, guides me as though I were stone blind. We gain the living-room, and as I lower myself to the chesterfield, the windy prison of my bowels belches air, sulphurous and groaning. I am to be spared nothing, it appears. I cannot speak, for anger. Doris is solicitous.
“The laxative didn’t work?”
“I’m all right. I’m all right. Stop fussing over me, Doris, for pity’s sake.”
Back she goes to the kitchen, and I’m alone. My things are all around me. Marvin and Doris think of them as theirs, theirs to keep or sell, as they choose, just as they regard the house as theirs, squatters’ rights after these years of occupation. With Doris it is greed. She never had much as a child, I know, and when they first came here, to be with me, she eyed the furniture and bric-à-brac like a pouch-faced gopher eyeing acorns, eager to nibble. But it is not greed, I think, with Marvin. Such a stolid soul. His dreams are not of gold and silver, if he dreams at all. Or is it the reverse—does he ever waken? He lives in a dreamless sleep. He sees my things as his only through long acquaintance.
But they are mine. How could I leave them? Theysupport and comfort me. On the mantelpiece is the knobbled jug of blue and milky glass that was my mother’s, and beside it, in a small oval frame of gilt, backed with black velvet, a daguerreotype of her, a spindly and anxious girl, rather plain, ringleted stiffly. She looks so worried that she will not know what to do, although she came of good family and ought not to have had a moment’s hesitation about the propriety of her ways. But still she peers perplexed out of her little frame, wondering how on earth to please. Father gave me the jug and picture when I was a child, and even then it seemed so puzzling to me that she’d not died when either of the boys was born, but saved her death for me. When he said “your poor mother,” the moisture would squeeze out from the shaggy eyelid, and I marveled that he could achieve it at will, so suitable and infinitely touching to the matrons of the town, who found a tear for the female dead a reassuring tribute to thankless motherhood. Even should they die in childbed, some male soul would weep years after. Wonderful consolation. I
“Mother—are you all right? Didn’t you hear what I said?”
Doris’s voice. How long have I been standing here with lowered head, twiddling with the silken stuff that covers me? Now I am mortified, apologetic, and cannot for a moment recollect what it was I held against her. The house, of course. They mean to sell my house. What will become of all my things?
“I don’t want Marvin to sell the house, Doris.”
She frowns, perplexed. Then I remember. It was more than the house. The newspaper remains on the kitchen table. Silverthreads. Only the best. Remember the loving care she lavished.
“Doris—I won’t go there. That place. Oh, you know all right. You know what I mean, my girl. No use to shake your head. Well, I won’t. The two of you can move out. Go ahead and move right out. Yes, you do that. I’ll stay here in my house. Do you hear me? Eh?”
“Now, Mother, don’t go and get yourself all upset. How could you manage here alone? It’s out of the question. Now, please. You go and sit down in the living-room. We’ll say no more about it just yet. If you get all workedup, you’re certain to fall, and Marv won’t be home for half an hour.”
“I’m not worked up a bit!” Is it my voice, raucous and deep, shouting? “I only want to tell you—”
“I can’t lift you if you fall,” she says. “I simply cannot do it any more.”
I turn and walk away, wishing to be haughty, but hideously hitting the edge of the dining-room table, joggling the cut-glass rose bowl she uses now, although it is mine. She runs, rejoicing in her ill fortune, catches the bowl and my elbow, guides me as though I were stone blind. We gain the living-room, and as I lower myself to the chesterfield, the windy prison of my bowels belches air, sulphurous and groaning. I am to be spared nothing, it appears. I cannot speak, for anger. Doris is solicitous.
“The laxative didn’t work?”
“I’m all right. I’m all right. Stop fussing over me, Doris, for pity’s sake.”
Back she goes to the kitchen, and I’m alone. My things are all around me. Marvin and Doris think of them as theirs, theirs to keep or sell, as they choose, just as they regard the house as theirs, squatters’ rights after these years of occupation. With Doris it is greed. She never had much as a child, I know, and when they first came here, to be with me, she eyed the furniture and bric-à-brac like a pouch-faced gopher eyeing acorns, eager to nibble. But it is not greed, I think, with Marvin. Such a stolid soul. His dreams are not of gold and silver, if he dreams at all. Or is it the reverse—does he ever waken? He lives in a dreamless sleep. He sees my things as his only through long acquaintance.
But they are mine. How could I leave them? Theysupport and comfort me. On the mantelpiece is the knobbled jug of blue and milky glass that was my mother’s, and beside it, in a small oval frame of gilt, backed with black velvet, a daguerreotype of her, a spindly and anxious girl, rather plain, ringleted stiffly. She looks so worried that she will not know what to do, although she came of good family and ought not to have had a moment’s hesitation about the propriety of her ways. But still she peers perplexed out of her little frame, wondering how on earth to please. Father gave me the jug and picture when I was a child, and even then it seemed so puzzling to me that she’d not died when either of the boys was born, but saved her death for me. When he said “your poor mother,” the moisture would squeeze out from the shaggy eyelid, and I marveled that he could achieve it at will, so suitable and infinitely touching to the matrons of the town, who found a tear for the female dead a reassuring tribute to thankless motherhood. Even should they die in childbed, some male soul would weep years after. Wonderful consolation. I
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