A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) (7 page)

I am speechless. I stare at her in wonder. Slowly, I raise my cup to my lips, savor its abundant warmth.

"I've scared you, haven't I, Martin Radey?"

"Not at all." I hold the cup aloft. "You fascinate me. You don't scare me."

"You're sure?"

"Quite."

"I have a habit," she says, "of mounting an occasional soapbox. It scares men off."

"I must be tougher than most."

"Glad," she says, "to hear it." The smile, still tinged with the hint of irony, relents, seems to accept. We have apparently crossed a bridge.

She pours herself a second cup of tea. "To answer your other question: yes, it is a good job. I know this because I have had much with which to compare it. Before I was at Simpson's, I worked at Townsend Steam Laundry and at the Princess Laundry. I also worked briefly at Reedow Caterers, out in the west end. We catered weddings, dances, banquets, conventions, and the like. I even worked for the Davidson & Hay, Limited, importers and packers of Kurma Tea. We sold it to grocers in pounds and half pounds, black or mixed. Do you know Kurma Tea?"

"No."

"British. Very nice. This," she says, indicating what is on the table, "is not Kurma."

"Mm."

"And then, just before joining Simpson's, I worked for Creelman Brothers Typewriter Company."

"Really? I've seen it. It's on Adelaide, right near where I work."

"You're absolutely right. It is." She smiles. "You should've come in to see my typewriter demonstration."

"I should've."

"Men cannot handle them. Perhaps it is their fingers. I think it is more basic than that. Women and typewriters were made for each other."

"I guess I haven't given it enough thought."

"I learned quickly. I was their demonstrator. Did you know that there are probably over one hundred fifty thousand lady typewriters in America and Canada today?"

"I had no idea."

"And an office girl can make ten dollars a week. More than twice what she could earn in a laundry or kitchen."

The salary shocks me. It is more than I make.

"So you see, Mr. Radey—"

"Martin."

She stops, smiles. "So you see, Martin, I have a very good idea of whether my job is a good one or not."

"I'm glad you have found a good job."

"But it isn't that good." She sips.

"I thought you said—"

"That I could tell a good job from a bad one."

"Ah."

"My job is acceptable. That's a long way from good."

What she says rings true for me. Much of my life has been acceptable. Yet it, too, has been a long way from good.

Through the restaurant window, I watch a string of black birds—feathery, puffed pearls beaded along the roofline of a storetop across the street.

Maggie Curtis follows my gaze. "They're European starlings," she says. "There were a hundred of them released in New York's Central Park back in the 1890s. Now they're everywhere." She looks at me. "Immigrants," she says. "Like us."

I stare at her, into her assuredness, wanting, against hope, for this to be the crossroads we all await.

"Do you like to read?"

"Newspapers. I like to read the newspapers," I say.

"Books. Do you read books?"

"Not many." I think. "A biography of Napoleon, when I was in school. Mother had a Booth Tarkington novel at home that was given to her. I started it. It didn't interest me. I read some of
House of the Seven Gables.
It was around the house. Quite imaginative, but not quite my cup of tea." A pause. "I guess I'm not much of a reader."

"I'm reading one now called
Sister Carrie.
It's about a girl who goes to Chicago and becomes a man's mistress. When it first came out it was deemed immoral." She smiles.

"Where did you get it?"

"Eaton's. I bought it."

I have never bought a book, and have trouble digesting the idea.

"It's like a breath of fresh air," she says.

"Why did you want to meet with me, Martini Did you recognize me?"

"Only when I heard your name." Why, indeed. I cannot articulate it. I am not sure myself. I am driven. "You're a lovely woman," I say. "Who wouldn't want to meet with you?"

"Nonsense."

"Pardon?"

"I am not a lovely woman. In point of fact, I am somewhat unlovely. I have to watch my waist, especially since I refuse to wear a corset, and I am astute enough to be fully aware that I am unremarkable in most other ways as well. I have no money, I come from a common, workaday family as you well know, and I am far past my prime."

"Maggie—"

"It is true." A pause. "Do you know where I was born?" She does not wait for an answer, and I do not know the answer anyway. "Burnhamthorpe. A village of one hundred people, at Dixie Road. It has a blacksmith shop, wagon shops, a shoemaker shop, a general store, and a post office. Farmers from the north stay overnight at the Puggy Huddle Hotel at the Second Line east on their way to market in the city. I come," she says conclusively, "from nowhere."

"I don't know what you're talking about." And for a moment, I do not. This strange self-assessment has derailed me.

She waits a few seconds. "How old are you, Martin Radey?"

"I'm twenty-seven." Close enough, I think.

"I am twenty-nine. Most women my age have been married for a decade, and have a brood of children. Do you know that life expectancy for a woman is fifty-one? For a man, forty-eight?"

I am stunned. She is moving too fast, cutting away layers of the game. "I did not."

"I read it in the newspaper. But because you are a man, you can father children until you die, while I, on the other hand, have seen my prime years disappear. So don't tell me that I am lovely. Or that I am desirable. Or any other of that romantic claptrap."

"But," I say, I implore, "it is true."

She tilts her head on an angle, places her fingers against her cheekbone, purses her lips, contemplates me anew, as if another layer of skin has been peeled away, exposing a rawer, simpler truth.

"It is true," I say. Again.

And then we are silent. We sip our tea.

Maggie pours me a second cup. I let it warm me, do not want it to end.

She lets me see her home. We ride comfortably on the Queen car, pointing out stores, landmarks, making small talk, listening to the clop of hooves. I point out Brookfield Street, where I live, as we pass, before realizing that she must know of it from Teresa and Peter. At Dufferin, we transfer to a northbound car that wends its way onto Dundas, where she lives, she has explained, with her parents and remaining unmarried brother and sister.

It is far past where I have to go, but I do not mind. In fact, I want to delay returning home.

At her front door, I doff my Homburg, hold it in my hand, ask it. "Are you working tomorrow?"

Her eyes meet mine. Hazel. Older than mine. Already, she has shown me that she is much more than I have ever known in a woman. "As a matter of fact, no. I have one Saturday a month off, and tomorrow is the one."

"Do you have plans?"

"One always has plans."

I am disheartened.

"But nothing that cannot be adjusted."

The space between us seems immense. I have not touched her.

"Can I see you tomorrow?"

A beat. A decision. "What would we do?" she asks.

I don't know. I don't care. "Have you seen
The Great Train Robbery
at the nickelodeon?"

"I have. Yes."

"So," I admit, "have I."

She smiles.

"We could go for a picnic. It is June." She does not appear unlovely to me, especially the smile, the corners of her mouth turned up with promise, with hope. When she does not protest, I forge ahead. "To the Island, perhaps. The sky looks clear. It should be a nice day."

I cannot believe that I have done this. I cannot believe that I have set myself up so blatandy for disappointment. I am standing here with this woman who has drawn me like a magnet to a far corner of the city, for whom, at this moment in time, I would do anything, and do not know why.

I hear only the night crickets.

She reaches, takes my hand in both of hers. I feel the small bones, see, even in the faint lamplight from the street, the fine veins on their backs.

She knows, I think. Knows me. Maggie.

"That sounds very nice."

When I get home, Gramma is asleep. But I stop by her room, step inside, and tell her anyway.

The following Monday, I buy my first book. I buy a copy of
Sister Carrie
at Eaton's.
That night, by gaslight in the kitchen, I read:

Here was neither guile nor rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy.

3

190 Michigan Ave.

Detroit, Mich.

August 30, 1908

166 Crawford St.

Toronto, Ont.

Dear Martin & Maggie,

Your wedding was a blast! I am still recovering. Maggie's parents served up a feast fit for kings, and Maggie, Martin certainly showed good sense when he decided to hang onto you. You have my permission to box his ears anytime he shows a lack of appreciation. I expect that you two are comfortably nested in your new quarters and happy as pigs in poop right now, and well you should be.

I was right back at work within two days and we haven't let up since. We've got a power-driven conveyor belt at the plant now on which the car frames are set and we managed to average 93 minutes for each car assembled! And if you think that's fantastic you should hear the rumors buzzing around about how we'll soon have a new car assembled every ten seconds of the working day and the Tin Lizzies as we call them will only cost a few hundred dollars apiece. I hope it happens soon as I want to own one just like everyone else. Instead of looking after all that I did previously my job now is only to fasten on the right rear wheel. Walter Norton beside me bolts the mudguard brackets to the frame. At the tenth station the engine is dropped in and the body bolted on and it's ready to roll. All of Detroit is talking about us.

Wish I could have given you a Tin Lizzie for a wedding present, then you could have tossed a few camphor balls into the gas tank for pep and driven us home. Cora and I think of you both often, and Cora says hello to you both and thanks you for including her in your reception as she had never been to Toronto and was quite impressed. The heat surprised her even though it was August as she said that she thought Canada would be much colder.

All the best for now to you two and remember what they say about the Ford, that it is the best family car as it has a tank for father a hood for mother and a rattle for baby.

Your vaudevillian Best Man,

Jock

* * *

166 Crawford St.

Toronto, Ont.

Sept. 21, 1908

98 Portland Ave.

Rochester, N. Y.

Dear Emma 61 John,

A small thank you from Martin and me for the wedding gift of the beautiful glass bordeau lamp, but your presence at our wedding was the real gift. I hope the trip home was pleasant and that we will see each other more often in the future. Martin is indeed fortunate to have such a sister and brother-in-law.

Fondest regards,

Martin and Maggie

* * *

166 Crawford St.

Toronto, Ont.

Sept. 21, 1908

Monastery of the Precious Blood

118 St. Joseph St.

Toronto, Ont.

Dear Sr. Bernadette,

I'm sorry to have taken so long to respond to your letter and gifts, as they deserved a more appreciative thank you. But things were so hectic leading up to the wedding and settling in to our new flat that I only now feel that I can make the time. The scapulars will be worn fondly and Martin's watch lining is grand. He sends his thanks as well.

I trust all is well with you and hope that we shall see you soon. I remain

Your good friend,

Maggie