Etta and Otto and Russell and James (7 page)

A
fter the students left on her first day of teaching, Etta stayed at the front of the class, facing the emptied desks, remembering, matching names to places. She went round three times, then wiped the chalk from her hands onto her skirt, picked up her things, and left the school, walking the fifty meters to the teacher’s cottage. To her cottage.

When she’d arrived the day before, she’d found neat piles of things laid out for her. A folded towel, kitchen linen, bedsheets. A teapot, a teacup, a teaspoon. Like an archaeologist’s carefully sorted evidence of civilization, of habitation, but whomever had laid it all out was gone. There was no one but Etta, the towels, the spoons. She considered leaving the door open so the wind could pass through, keeping her company with its humming and shuddering, but recalled the previous tenant and did not.

Now, after her first day’s work, everything was just as it had been. Careful piles, undisturbed. She took off her boots, sat at the table, and, in the dust that had gathered there—that gathered each time she went out, or came in—she drew a chart:

She ran her finger under each name, a thick smudge, and remembered: Mona: blond braids, can’t add yet. Stuart: missing teeth,
very silent. Josie: wonderful laugh, starting to count. And so on. Owen: curly hair, tries very hard. Otto: happy, sunburnt.

That night she lay in bed, not sleeping, listening to the gaps in the sound around her where she was used to footsteps, hushed voices, breath. The fullness of the silence here was heavy. The only sounds were her own. She listened to three thousand, one hundred and twenty of her own heartbeats before falling asleep.

She slept late. She had forgotten to open the bedroom curtains for the morning sun. Most of the students were already milling around outside the school when she got there. In her rush, she hadn’t had time to unpack her chest to find clean stockings, so her bare feet stuck at the leather of her boots as she walked through the students to unlock the school’s front door. She stood to the side and let the students pass her, filing in to their desks. Her students. Except, they weren’t. Or many of them weren’t; almost half of them were new, unknown, and almost half of the students from yesterday were gone. One of the new students, in the back, already had his hand up, before she’d even reached the front of the classroom.

Yes?

Hello, Miss. I’m Russell. New from yesterday. I just thought I should introduce myself.

After that six more hands went up, and Etta learned the names of six more new students. In her head she smudged out the old dust chart, and started a new one. Charts and lists. She was fine so long as she could make a chart or a list. Names, places, faces.

Okay then, she said, welcome to some of you and welcome back to the rest. Sarah, if you wouldn’t mind closing the door? Everybody else up too. It’s good to start the day singing, I think. We’ll start today with “The Maple Leaf Forever.”

All the students stood up, but Russell, despite his leg, stood up
the fastest and straightest of them all.

7

R
ussell drove and drove until his eyes wouldn’t let him anymore and he had to pull over and sleep. When he woke up, he assessed the situation. He was a fair ways across Manitoba. He would need to get gas again soon, and food for himself too. And, most important, he was going to have to refine his plan. Find a way to find Etta now that they were, hopefully, in the same region. A plan. Russell wasn’t so good with plans. Usually other people had them and he just rode along. He opened the glove box, just to check, but there were no maps. Of course not. He’d never had maps, never needed maps to know the way from his farm to Otto’s or to town. Well, east then, he figured. Until the next Shell station.

Half an hour later, starting into the outskirts of somewhere, there was a gas station with a diner. Russell pulled in.

The waitress was tiny. Ten years old, eleven, maybe. She held his plate of eggs and toast straight out in front of her as she walked it to him. No tomatoes today, she said. This normally comes with cooked tomato but none today. Sorry.

Oh, said Russell, that’s okay. There were no other customers in the diner yet; it was still very early. Thank you.

No problem, said the girl. You want something instead? Instead of the tomato? I think we have bananas in the kitchen, and carrots
and cookies . . .

Um, a carrot? said Russell.

For breakfast? said the girl.

Yes . . . well, with eggs and toast? No? Should I have the banana instead?

I’d have the cookie, myself.

So Russell had the cookie. The child went into the kitchen and brought it to him, arms straight out. It was oatmeal-raisin.

Thank you, said Russell.

Oh, no problem, said the girl. She rested one hand on the table, made no move to leave. Russell cut a bit of egg, put it on a bit of toast, and lifted it to his mouth. The girl watched him, a little bored.

Good? she said.

Yes . . . thanks, said Russell. Thank you.

It’s not hard, she said, to cook an egg. I’ve been doing it forever.

Oh, yes, said Russell. But still. He cut another piece of egg, accidentally piercing the yolk. It spread across his plate. Say, he said, shouldn’t you be in school today?

Nah, said the girl. I don’t go to school. Home-learning. Teach myself. Post it in. You know? So I have time to run this place. It’s important, though, I know, learning, especially math, for adding the price of eggs and the price of toast and the price of a hermit cookie, right? Then for figuring the amount you give me minus that amount for change. Then to figure out if you left a good tip or not. It’s important, I know, just not to be there. I can be around kids whenever I want. Wednesday’s kids-eat-free-with-paying-parents, for example. Lots of kids around then.

And your parents?

In Toronto. We’ve been running this place on our own for four
years now. Speaking of which, I guess I’ll go check on the pies. You won’t be lonely?

Oh, no, I’ll be fine. But, can I ask one more thing?

Yeah, course.

Have you seen an older woman, on her own, dusty, probably, walking through here or past here? . . . Wait, I’ve got a photo. Russell took his wallet from his back pocket and pulled a haggard black-and-white picture from between two five-dollar bills. That’s her, he said. A little while ago though. Just the lady, not the man.

In the photo, Etta was wearing a sort of ivory dress suit. Narrow skirt, blouse, tapered jacket. She was smiling. It was her wedding photo. Russell had taken the photo himself.

So, about sixty years older than this. But still, her, said Russell.

That’s not you, said the girl, pointing at the man in the photo, at Otto.

No, said Russell, that’s Otto.

How strange . . . said the girl. No, I haven’t seen her. But I don’t get out of here much. Hold on, I’ll get the dish boy and ask him.

Russell ate as much of his eggs and toast as he could while the waitress went back into the kitchen. When she appeared again, she had a little boy with glasses and freckles with her. His glasses were all fogged over. My brother, she said, he does the dishes. She turned to the boy. Tell him what you told me, she said.

My window, said the boy, by the sink, it looks over the road and the fields behind it. I see loads of trucks and tractors and combines and stuff. And animals sometimes too, sometimes deer—

Deer? said Russell.

Yes, yes, said the boy, mostly girl ones but sometimes also big ones with antlers and sometimes baby ones too, I know they’re babies and not just small because—

Monty! said the girl, punching him in the arm. Stop rambling! Tell him what you told me.

Oh, no, said Russell, it’s not—

—and, said the boy, and, and also I saw a lady, I think, yesterday morning. I thought she was maybe a witch or maybe a lady-Santa-Claus.

Russell’s chest clenched. A lady? An older lady? Did she look okay? Was she hurt or anything?

She was singing, I think. She was fine. She was magical.

Andwherewasshe? Russell’s words were racing his heart. He stopped, tried again, And, (breath) where was she going? (Breath.) Which direction? (Breath.) Could you tell?

East. Toward the sunrise.

That’s good, that’s very good. That’s great. Thank you. Thank you very very much, Monty. And you too . . .

Cordelia.

Cordelia.

The girl ushered her brother back toward the kitchen, but he stopped halfway. Um . . . he said.

Yes? said Russell.

Um, well, if you find her, when you find her, can you tell her I’ve been good?

Yes, Monty, yes, of course.

B
ack in his truck, Russell opened the map he’d bought in the gas station shop.
MANITOBA AND WESTERN ONTARIO
(to scale)—(Including Bike Routes and National Parks). What a lot of lakes Manitoba had. And Ontario even more. This country got bluer, wetter, the further east you went. Assuming Etta knew this, or had a
map, she would stay south, below most of the water. How far could she have walked in a day? Twenty kilometers? The days were pretty long now. Russell stared at the map a little bit more, calculating, then placed it on the passenger’s seat, still unfolded. He went back into the shop and bought an
OK MANITOBA!
backpack, five packets of salted peanuts, six bottles of juice, a family pack of crackers, two large chocolate bars, and a flashlight. He had a plan. He’d drive twenty more kilometers east along the fields adjacent the diner, and then he’d get out and walk. He’d tracked deer before. He knew how to find footsteps, how to follow.

From the window of the diner’s kitchen, Monty and Cordelia watched him drive away. Monty waved with a soapy hand.

E
tta and James had just finished eating lunch. Hot dog buns with peanut butter and wild berries for Etta, a caught mouse and a sleeping moth for James. They were resting in the shade until the sun calmed down a bit. Etta had out her papers, her pen.

What are you doing?
said James.

I’m writing a letter.

To who?

To Otto. But you don’t know him.

I might.

He lives far from here. A long, long way, even for a coyote.

But not for you?

A long way for me too.

Where?

Back in Saskatchewan. On the other side of the long lake. And then some.

But,
said James,
then you’re going the wrong way. We’re going the wrong way.

Etta thought about this for a moment. And then, It’s a loop, James, I’m going out this way, then coming back that way.

I see
, said James.
A long loop.

Have you seen the ocean, James?

No.

Me neither.

But we will.

Yes, we will.

Etta put away her papers and pen, brushed the hot dog bun crumbs off her lap for the birds, and they started walking again, away from the sun. They sang “Johnny Appleseed” and “A Fair Lady of the Plains” as they went. Sometimes Etta did harmony.

After a few hours, a forested lake began to come into view in front of them, to the north.

We’ll have to stay south, said Etta.

Yeah,
said James.
I’ll bet we’ll be coming into Ontario soon. Another day or so, I bet.

That’s good, said Etta, that’s very good. Her feet weren’t even hurting today.

Yeah, it is, but, Etta,
said James,
Ontario is not like the prairies
.
Things are bigger there.

I’m used to big things, our big sky, big fields.

Other big things, though. Rocks, bigger rocks. And lakes and trees.

How do you know all this?

The skunks
.
They move around a lot. They tell stories.

It will be fine, said Etta. Rocks are negotiable, and trees are friendly, and lakes, well, perhaps we’ll get a boat. One of the little inflatable ones, easy to carry. Can you go in boats?

I don’t know. I’ve never tried.

Well. We’ll see. I hope so. We’ll just have to be careful of your claws. It will be fine. Ontario will be fine.

Okay. It will. But, also, Etta, there is rain, there, more rain. Even in springtime and summer. You have to think about sleeping in rain
.

But you said the skunks said there were big rocks and trees?

Yes.

Well that’s shelter for night. And maybe we’ll get to cool down somewhat in the day. Rain is good, James, when we open our mouths to sing it will be like drinking.

Dear Etta,

I guess it’s worse to keep a secret from you than to spread a secret you’ve given me. What do you think? In any case, I’ve already done the latter, so I’m not going to do the former. I told Russell, Etta. I told him about what you’re doing and, as rough as I know, where you are. I’m sorry. It’s hard to keep closed-up to Russell. You know this. Now he’s upset, a bit, with me, and has left, gone east, to try and find you. He’s in his truck, the silver-gray; you know it. Look out for it. He wants to help you, he’s worried about you. I told him I’m not worried, not like that, and that if I’m not then he shouldn’t be, but still, he was. He got excited. More than I’ve seen him be in years. So, he’s out there, now, east, looking for you. I don’t know what you’ll make of that, but I thought you should know. I know he won’t stop you if you don’t want him to.

I am fine. Still here. I made the most beautiful Saskatoon-berry pie the other day. Sugar-glazed the pastry, flour-thickened the filling, everything. Will have to go to town tomorrow as we’re out of flour and butter.

I am waking up earlier and earlier. The sun comes up at five and I’m up to greet it. I sit in our kitchen with a decaf and wait for it to come up. And going to bed later and later. My eyes don’t like being closed when it’s dark out, I guess. My body aches with tiredness through the day, so I nap, sometimes, when things are in the oven. Sometimes even in the kitchen, with my head on the table where the sunlight hits. I know it’s not hygienic, but I always wipe it down before eating off that spot.

Okay. I’m going to check on the weeds. We’ve got thistles this year that pop up to your knees whenever you’re not looking.

I hope you’re well. Keep to the shade. Write when you have time. I read your letters out loud so there’s a voice in the house.

Yours, remember,

Otto.

Otto folded the letter into thirds and put it into an envelope, even though he had no address to send it to. He wrote his wife’s name on the front and put it with the others, in a neat stack on the corner of the table, beside the letters that came in from her.