Etta and Otto and Russell and James (4 page)

A
lma the now-nun wrote letters to her parents and to her sister, Etta, from across a slip of water and so much dusty land. Two a week at least. One to Mother and Father, in a regular, pale brown envelope, and one tucked inside that, in a smaller, but sealed, blue envelope, for Etta, only.

Dear Mother and Father,

Much love to you, Etta, the house. Things are well here, everyone is very kind, very quiet, though we do sing in the mornings. There is more than enough food, even if much of it is fish, which I am not yet used to eating. I have met a girl here called Patricia Market who has cousins in Bladworth; I told her you would surely know the family.

When we’re not praying or singing or eating fish, we knit, mostly socks, for those that need them. Cold feet are a horrible thing, especially here, where it can be so wet. Big socks and small socks, but mostly big, for men, or boys who are nearly men. More and more are coming through, in their matching shirts, trousers, caps. But their socks don’t match, as we knit with whatever wool we get on donation, sometimes orange sometimes green or red or white. So the boys only look the same until they take off their boots.

Although I know you don’t mind one way or the other, I pray for you each day, between dinner and bed.

Your loving daughter,

Alma

And, inside, in the blue envelope,

Dear Etta,

I’m not throwing up so much anymore. Food tastes so good now that I know I’ll (usually) get to keep it. Etta, I love food. Even fish, now. You should try it sometime, if you can find any, out there. Don’t let the eyes scare you.

Your Sister,

Alma

After this, Etta went to her bureau and opened the drawer second from the top and lifted a small jar out from under two sweaters. She twisted off the lid and upended its contents, one fish skull, into her hand. She held it to her ear, very close.
Ne me mangez pas.

O
r,

Dear Mother and Dad,

Did you know you can get a cramp just from knitting? A terrible cramp. And it won’t be prayed away, even.

(Find, enclosed, socks. Three pairs.)

Your Daughter,

Alma

And,

Dear Etta,

I am huge. I am so much bigger than I ever thought I could be. I never thought of myself as a big person, in any way. Not only my belly, but other things. My feet. My hair. My chest. It feels like my whole body is not mine right now.

The nuns are good at seeing none of it. They have trained for years, I suppose, at seeing nothing. I am training too.

But I still see some things. These boys who are passing through our tiny island by the hundreds now, weighing it down, taking our socks gratefully like they were from their own mothers, these boys all remind me of Jim. Of course they look nothing like him, but, still, I can’t stop seeing him in them. We pray, heads down, at the window, from 2 p.m. to 3 p.m., and, while I keep my head down, my eyes stay up, watching them walk past, in twos, in threes. I don’t know if I want to see him there for real, or not at all.

But I’m happy, I think. Or maybe not happy, I’m just here, and this is where I am. And that’s Good. There is nowhere you can go on this island and not hear the rhythm of the water.

I miss you, of course. I know you are taking care of yourself and being smart and and being Good. Tell me about home, and you, when you get a moment.

Your Sister,

Alma

And,

Dear Mom, dear Dad,

I am thinking about coming home for a visit. We don’t have much money, here, but what I do have, combined with the little you send me, should cover the return train and ferry fare. One month from the post date of this letter? Does that sound good to you? If you say yes, I will go and buy the tickets right away. I hope you will find me not too much changed, but holier, of course. And perhaps a little fatter, from all the fish. (And lobster. Lobster! Sometimes there is so much of it that we find them crawling up, out of the water, onto our dock or lawn. I would bring one back, for you to try, but I’m sure Etta would want to keep it as a pet and companion.)

Your Daughter, with love,

Alma

And,

Etta,

Very, very, very close now. In fact, we have passed over close, as I’m now one week and two days overdue. The nuns are keeping a quiet but close eye on me, all the time. They have assigned Sister Margaret Reynolds to sleep with me, in my room, beside my bed on a tiny, and one can only assume uncomfortable, mattress on the floor. I have offered to share my (also tiny, but, still) bed with her, but she has refused. Perhaps she thinks, with my current enormousness, she wouldn’t fit. Or perhaps she thinks other things. She doesn’t say much. Just waits silently until she thinks I’m asleep each night before sleeping herself. But I’m too huge and strange and hot to sleep now, so I lie there and pretend to sleep while she does the same. In the morning she is always first up, with her mattress folded and pushed under my bed, praying next to my sink.

I am so, very, completely ready for this to be done now. I have tried to think of it not as a child but as something that is happening to my body, just my body, not me, something that will be over soon, but the longer it draws out, the more I think about what it really is. I think of names, Etta, while I pretend to sleep, listening to Sister Margaret Reynolds’ attentive, awake breathing. I have realized what a nice name Etta is. Or James.

There’s a rock I found on the beach that’s so ocean-smooth it’s almost soft. I keep it under my quilt, usually, but, sometimes, if Sister Margaret is late or away in the bathroom, I’ll lift its round coolness to my face or neck or chest. It’s the size of, maybe, two fists together. It is so small but so heavy.

I hope to visit soon. Mother and Dad might have told you. In just over one month. Everything will be wonderfully normal then, and maybe, if we can find somewhere to do it, I will teach you to swim.

Love,

Alma

The next letter was from the same address as all of Alma’s others, with the same type of stamp and postmark, even, but it wasn’t from her. There was only one envelope this time. It was addressed,
To the Immediate Family of Sister Alma Kinnick
.

Toxemia
. A word that starts so harsh and ends so gently. A word whispered from Etta’s mother to her father before they had a chance to recognize all that they were learning. A word carried by Etta’s father up the stairs, oh so carefully, like a baby bird, to Etta’s room. He gave it to her more softly than she’d ever heard him speak. Etta took it and held it in her ears at first, and then her head, and then, suddenly, and horribly, her heart. Her mother crept through the door
and they, all three, realized how little it meant to know things, to know the truth of things, now.

It took them longer, a week or so, to notice the hole in their language that this new word had made. To grasp that there was no term for a parent without a child, a sister without a sister.

Etta signed up at the teachers’ college one month after this.

5

S
he had been in Manitoba for three days, three dry days, when Etta’s boots started leaking. Not letting liquid in, but letting it out, leaving a rust-colored trail behind her. In the morning it was just a mist of fine dots, hardly distinguishable by sight, only slightly more noticeable by scent, for those that notice scent. But by noon the dots had become a constant, if thin, trickle: the trail of them conjoining into two fine lines, like spider silk pulling from Etta’s feet. And by midafternoon the trail-lines had spread into tracks like a burgundy cross-country ski path. The scent, for those that live by scent, was overwhelming. At six o’clock in the evening, Etta noticed that her feet hurt. These are good boots, she whispered to nobody, to Manitoba, these are very good boots. But her feet hurt. And the boots were leaking, and she was starting to feel faint. Damn, she said. Etta didn’t think there was any part of herself stronger than her boots. If her boots broke, anything could. She sat down, and untied her laces. The boots slid right off, wet. Her feet red with blood. Like Saint Francis, thought Etta, but she did
not pray to him. She didn’t pray to anyone. Instead she wrapped her feet in spare socks, wiped her hands off as best she could without water, and ate a bun; the top half with a sachet of relish and the bottom half with a packet of sugar. She imagined butter and cinnamon, the long, thick snake of cinnamon buns she made for Otto on Sundays.

Now that they were out of the boots, Etta’s feet swelled up so they’d never go back in. And the boots were broken, now, in any case. Okay, thought Etta. Tomorrow I’ll go to a town and get something new. Okay.

That night she slept in a mustard field and dreamt. She dreamt of water. And boats and boys and men and boys, breathing in the water, spitting out the water, and everything loud and so much color, but darkened and getting darker and this is no place for a woman you better get down get right down, down, deeper, deeper, deeper and the water lapped her feet and ankles, warmer than you’d expect, rhythmic, comforting. But I am not a woman, she reassured herself, but I am strong and surviving.

When Etta woke the next morning there was a coyote licking and licking and licking her feet. Her socks had fallen off and the bleeding had stopped. Hello, said Etta, not sitting up, not wanting to disturb things. Are you helping me or eating me? The coyote looked at her. Amber eyes. Dog’s eyes. Well? said Etta. The coyote went back to licking. Thank you, said Etta. Either way.

The coyote stayed by her while she got up and peed and rinsed her mouth and her teeth, still her own teeth, every one, with water from a bottle and gathered up her things. It followed her as she started walking, carefully, slowly, in bare feet. It followed her, like this, for hours. It followed her to the outskirts of a town, and then into the town, along the sidewalk, moving carefully around broken glass and gum to the downtown, and into the sports shop.

No dogs in the shop, said the worker, standing beside racks and racks of white shoes.

It’s not mine, said Etta.

But it came in with you.

I know. But it’s not mine.

Well, said the worker.

Well, said Etta.

The worker moved toward the coyote. Go! Get! Get out!

The coyote stayed. It lifted its top lip, showed yellow-white teeth.

The worker stepped back. Madam, he said.

He’s not mine, said Etta.

So the coyote stayed and watched while Etta looked at the rows and rows of sneakers, all of which were white, until she bought a pair. Stepping in them was like stepping on fresh moss. The coyote followed her out of the shop, along the sidewalk, through the outskirts and back into the fields. Well, said Etta, I don’t know if you’re wanting me as a pet or to eat me when I sleep, but as you’re still here we might as well give you a name. The coyote stayed two steps behind her. She could hear it even when she couldn’t see it. We’ll call you James, she said. They both kept walking.

That night James did not eat Etta, just slept a little bit away from her feet. The next morning he ate a gopher while Etta ate mayonnaise on crackers. When they were both done, they starting walking again. East, always east. Come along, James, said Etta.

Yes, yes, coming
, said James.

Will you be joining me for the entire journey, you think?

We’ll see.

O
tto went to bed that night without a proper meal. Just butter and sugar on bread. You wait and you work, he told himself while he undressed. His throat twitched, wanted to cough. Spinach grows up fast, and so do the weeds around it. You wait, and you work.

But the next morning, he did not go out and weed the spinach. The next morning, he got up after thick sleep, no dreams, and stood in front of the kitchen cupboard, unimpressed. Alphabet cereal. Corn cereal. Rice cereal. Nothing real left here, and nothing in the freezer anymore either. He was starving for real food. He had always been skinny; now he was becoming hollow. His skin getting thinner, more transparent. Etta’s recipe cards were still where he had left them, arranged in perfect rows along the half of the kitchen table he didn’t use. Beside the letters. They were faded; she hadn’t needed them for decades, the balances of flour, butter, sugar, ingrained in her mind and hands. Otto picked a card out of the
breakfast/snacks
division:

CINNAMON BUNS.

(from Aunt Nondis)

NEEDED:

1 tbsp. yeast

1½ c. milk

¼ c. w. sugar

2
tb
tsp. salt

½ c. shortening (butter is best)

1 egg, 5–5½ c. w. flour (all-p)

1½ c. b. sugar, 1½ tsp. cinnamon

INSTRUCTIONS:

Proof yeast. Scald milk and pour into a large bowl. Add sugar, salt, shortening. Stir until melted then cool to room t. Add proofed yeast, along with egg. Stir again, well. Beat in 3 c. flour, then remaining 2(½) c. until feels right. Turn onto floured board and knead into smooth ball. Rise. (Double) (PTA)

Punch down risen ball and divide into two equal, smooth balls. Rest (10 min). Roll each ball down into a rectangle and brush with melted butter (lots). Combine the b. sugar and cinnamon and sprinkle over the dough-rectangles. Roll and seal. Cut into 1-inch pieces and nestle close but not squished into baking dish or tray (tray messier). Brush tops with milk (and more butter/b. sugar, if for Otto). Rise. (Double) Bake at 375° for about 25 min.

In a drawer, beside the beige box where the recipes used to live, was an apron, folded. Otto took it out and let it drop out of its fold pattern. Etta’s smell cast up, and then was gone. He put the top loop over his head and tied the center ties around his back, then picked the recipe card back up off the counter and squinted at it, moving it a little closer to his face in case some secret, clearer instructions might surface. Some smaller writing beneath the writing, maybe. But no. Just:

Proof yeast.

And the rest. Okay, thought Otto. We speak the same language, Etta and I; this should be legible, this should be easy. He put the card back down on the counter, opened a cupboard, found and pulled out the yeast. There it is, he whispered to himself, proved.

Otto’s first batch came out extremely tough. Like jerky. The dough sitting dead in its bowl during each of the rise
periods. Okay,
said Otto, to himself, to the recipe card. More research required. Okay. He ate them with pouring cream and applesauce to soften them as much as possible.

Before his second try, a few days later, Otto looked over the grease-stained cards, organized alphabetically, he now realized, until he got to the second to last card,

YEAST, PROOFING

(For dry. To prove it’s alive and get things moving.)

NEEDED:

dry yeast

warm water

w. sugar

INSTRUCTIONS:

Put yeast in a small glass of warm water. Add two/three pinches of sugar. Wait 5–10 min. Alive = bubbles and smells warm, dead = dead.

Otto got out the yeast and the sugar and heated some water. He combined them all and waited fifteen minutes. Nothing. He waited fifteen more, just to be sure. Nothing. And then five more. Still nothing. Okay, said Otto. Now we know. Dead = dead. Instead of baking that day he went to the Co-op and bought some new yeast, along with a bit of bread, cheese, and pickles for dinner.

Batch two-point-five was better, the yeast proofed and smelled wonderful and the dough rose in the bowl for him to punch back down. Kneading, Otto thought as he moved his hands up and down in the dough, was the best part. It was the connection point, between
you and the food. It was gentle and brutal at once, punching, but gently, carefully. Rhythmic, like marching. Once you got started, it was automatic and comforting. On, and on.

This batch was better, but still too tough, like the buns were three days old, even when they were still oven-hot. These went to the birds.

How long you knead ’em for? asked Sheryl. She was checking the expiry dates on cigarettes. She had them all out on the Co-op counter, sorted according to brand, so that the colored packets made layered stripes in front of her like a rainbow.

I’m not sure, said Otto. Maybe fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty?

Twenty! cried Wesley. He was in the back by the baked goods, sweeping crumbs.

That’ll be your problem there, said Sheryl. No question. She held up one hand, five fingers. Five minutes, tops, she said.

Yeah? said Otto.

Tops! called Wesley.

Otto’s third batch was soft and risen and sweet. He watched the orange-hot window of the oven like a film. Once they were cooled, he walked across the field and knocked on Russell’s door. Some time, some noise, and then Russell answered,

Oh, hello, Otto. His body blocked the doorway so Otto couldn’t see inside.

Hello, Russell, hot out there today?

Awfully.

Any deer?

Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Yep. That’s what I say.

Well . . . I baked.

Russell didn’t respond, took a moment, so Otto continued,

I baked. I brought you some cinnamon buns. They’re fresh.

Russell eyed the bundle under Otto’s arm, wrapped in a blue and white cotton towel. He shuffled back a bit. Well, he said, you’d better come in then. He moved aside just enough for Otto to pass.

Russell’s kitchen was tiny, with boxes of things everywhere. Boxes of car and truck and tractor parts, boxes of books on animals, boxes of screws and nails and tacks. Russell moved a box of cleaned-out jars to get to the oven so they could warm up the buns. They ate them plain, without butter.

They’re good, said Russell. Thanks for bringing them.

Well, Etta brings you these things, sometimes, I know. So.

They’re almost as good as hers.

They ate in silence, both watching the window; the sun was going down in orange and red. They finished eating and Russell got up to turn on the overhead kitchen light.

Otto, he said, I know. I know Etta’s gone away.

Otto turned from the window. You do?

She wrote me a letter, weeks ago. Russell pointed over Otto’s shoulder to a bulletin board. The letter was tacked there, faded a little.

My dear Russell

it said,

I have to be away for a while. Please watch over Otto. I know that’s something you know how to do.

Your

(friend)

Etta

Just like that. Beside the letter, also pinned to the board, was the envelope it had come in, with Russell’s name and address written in Etta’s hand, postmarked Strasbourg, twenty-two days ago.

But. But, you didn’t say anything, Russell. You let me lie about it.

I didn’t want you to feel awkward. And, I was angry.

That I didn’t tell you?

That you let her go.

Are you still angry?

Russell thought. Yes, he said. But less so. You’re thin, Otto. He hesitated for a beat, and then, Will you tell me where she is?

Otto couldn’t. He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know and he didn’t want Russell to know either. So, instead, he told him about the first letter, about Etta’s walking, about the water.

And if she forgets? asked Russell. Her name, her home, her husband? To eat or drink or where she’s going?

People don’t forget to eat or drink, said Otto.

It’s like before, said Russell. It’s like before but swapped. You and her, swapped. And me, I’m always just here.