Homesick (27 page)

“I’m not sure,” Vera had replied tentatively, beginning to feel more and more wasteful of time and patience. “All I know is that it isn’t novels.”

“Not very helpful, I’m afraid,” said the woman, “seeing as there are so many authors who don’t write novels. Really, I’m sure we don’t have it. I’m quite familiar with all our stock and for the life of me I don’t recollect any Mountain.”

Vera, however, was stubborn. When she wanted something, she wanted it. Besides, she didn’t have much time; she was expected at the theatre where she had a matinee to work. “You have to have it!” she blurted out. “He’s a famous writer!”

She had been too loud. Several patrons had turned from the study of their books to see what the commotion was about. “I’m sure I don’t know what to suggest, miss,” said the clerk coldly, “except that you search our shelves. All our books are arranged alphabetically by author within categories. Just possibly you may find what you are looking for.”

“Thank you very much,” said Vera. “I’ll just do that little thing, if it doesn’t inconvenience.”

After forty-five minutes of hunting Vera thought she might have found what she was looking for in the section labelled Philosophy. The name wasn’t Mountain but it was close. Vera opened the book. The frontispiece was an etching of a grave, sombre man bristling with a huge ruffed collar. He looked exactly like someone who might interest Stanley Miller.

Vera decided to take a chance and buy the book, gamble that she had guessed right, even though the price was steep. She held it up to her nose and smelled it. Real leather. The price alone proved it.

Vera couldn’t help registering the superior smile of the old dragon who had first helped or hadn’t helped her when she rang up the sale. The smirking continued while she wrapped the book in brown paper and tied it in strong cord. Passing it across the counter to Vera, she said, “Just so you know, dear. It isn’t Mountain. It’s
Montaigne
. In case you’re ever looking again. Saying the name correctly will save you time.”

At that moment it didn’t matter to Vera that the old piece of starch and her biddy friends would be laughing and shaking their heads over her mistake all day long. What mattered was that as soon as she heard the name pronounced she knew she had the right one. That’s what Stanley had said the other night. Montaigne, not Mountain.

She couldn’t wait to see his face. Although the doors of the theatre would soon be opening to the public, Vera flew off in the opposite direction, coat open and billowing behind her as she ran down the sidewalk on her long, strong, young legs.

Stanley was alone in an empty store. He looked different dressed in a navy blue double-breasted suit. Vera judged it could do with a dry-cleaning.

“What’s this?” he said, when she thrust her package into his hands.

“Open it,” she said eagerly. “It’s a little something to make up for the other night.”

It took him forever to pick apart the knot. When the book was finally unwrapped he turned it over, examining it carefully.

Vera could not stand his silence. “Do you have it?” she inquired, doing her best not to sound overly anxious.

“Not this. Not the Florio translation.”

“Then it’s all right?”

“It’s beautiful,” he declared. “A beautiful book.” Then he did exactly as she had done earlier, held the book up to his nose and sniffed the binding. Regretfully, he laid it back down on the counter. “But I can’t accept it,” he said.

Vera was hurt. “Why? Why can’t you?”

“It’s much too expensive a present. Especially for a working girl to give.”

“Nowhere near as expensive as a window,” she said pointing to the sheet of plywood now nailed into the window-frame. “And I can’t help feeling responsible.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. In any case, insurance pays for the window.”

“I want you to have it,” Vera said. “To show my appreciation for your kindness.”

“No, I couldn’t,” he said, picking up the book and holding it out to her. “You know you can’t afford it. Return it and get your money back.”

Vera refused to touch the book. Like a stubborn child she actually hid her hands behind her back and violently shook her head no when Stanley leaned across the counter and tried to prevail upon her to take it back. “Don’t be foolish! Take it!”

“I won’t. If you don’t want it – why, throw it in the garbage.”

He only relented when he realized she was becoming angry with him.

“Well, all right,” he said at last, reluctantly. “Thank you.” But couldn’t stop himself adding, “You shouldn’t have.”

In the course of the next couple of weeks Vera wondered if Stanley wasn’t right – she shouldn’t have. After all, the gift certainly hadn’t encouraged boldness on his part; he gave no indication that he was summoning up the courage to ask her out. It was true that he didn’t have her address, or her telephone number, but every day a little after noon Vera walked past his store on her way to work. He might have just once come out and spoken to her instead of waving to her from behind his new window like a coward.

The whole futile performance made Vera furious, livid. Maybe she ought to have taken back the Montaigne and shown him. But then, what would have been the point? Pride would never have allowed her to return it to the bookstore where she had been treated rudely and snubbed. Of course, she reminded herself, if she
had
taken the book she wouldn’t have had to go out and find her own second-hand copy of Montaigne, a book she assiduously read each morning in the hope that it would provide some clue to understanding Stanley Miller.

If there was a clue, she hadn’t discovered it. Montaigne was mostly common sense and Stanley Miller mostly wasn’t. Because if he had an ounce of common sense he would have recognized long ago what a good thing was sidling up to his door and purring to be let in.

It never occurred to Vera that Stanley Miller might think himself too old for her, far too ancient for such a young girl. Or that he was concerned that he was a Jew and she was a Gentile. Vera never gave a second thought to Stanley’s being a Jew. In church and Sunday School Jews had been spoken of frequently and approvingly, in fact the Bible was nothing but one long story about Jews. Outside of church, when they were discussed at all, the picture was
slightly different. Jews, apparently, were smarter than ordinary folk and many were prone to sharp business practices. “To jew someone” was a commonly used expression in Connaught, like “drunk as an Indian” or “don’t get your Irish up,” but the use was more habit than conscious, directed malice. Since she had no objections to intelligence, rather admired and hankered after it, in fact, and since neither Stanley Miller nor his business looked prosperous enough to sustain a plausible charge of sharp practice, she wasn’t going to be scared off by an old characterization. Besides, the war had proved what sort of people had a prejudice against Jews, pigs like Adolf Hitler, Goebbels, and Goering. Vera believed you could judge someone by his enemies as much as his friends.

Only after they were married had Vera learned that her blindness to Stanley’s Jewishness had left him confused. Did she or didn’t she know? Was it possible that she hadn’t picked up on his allusions to Torah, his Yiddish proverbs? In the months following the wedding, they had laughed together about how he had done everything short of pinning the yellow Star of David on his lapel and gone around proclaiming himself one of the Chosen People. Yet not a word, not a hint that she grasped what he was. Could she be really that much in the dark? Who could tell with these small-town shiksas, these country pumpkins, what they did and didn’t catch? As he had been careful to explain later to Vera, all his life he had been a socialist, a passionate believer in the undifferentiated brotherhood of man. He had lived for the day when words like Gentile and Jew would lose their meaning in the word Man. As far as he was concerned, the word Jew only mattered when it mattered to someone else. After their first meeting, he asked himself, Was that the case with Vera Monkman? Without knowing the answer he was already half in love. Why else did he position himself in the window every noon when she passed on her way to work, if it wasn’t to see and be seen, to wave and be waved to? Why else did he disregard the well-meaning advice an uncle had given him when he was fourteen and beginning to show interest in girls? “Don’t
have anything to do with shiksas,” he had been warned. “Your first fight – she’ll call you a dirty Jew.”

One shiksa, however, hadn’t been prepared to throw in the towel on the fight just yet. If Montaigne wasn’t the way to a man’s heart perhaps music was. Vera hadn’t forgotten the classical records that had provided background music to their conversation the night they had passed talking in his apartment. It was only natural then that a poster on a notice board outside an Anglican church she passed one day should stop her dead in her tracks with its announcement of a recital of organ music. Before either pride or circumspection could make themselves felt, Vera had purchased two tickets in the church office. Offering one of these to Stanley she told a lie which involved a girlfriend unexpectedly called away by an illness in the family. Immediately Vera had thought of Stanley. Would he like her friend’s ticket?

It seemed he would. Better still, he also wanted Vera’s address so that he could come by and collect her for the concert in a taxi. It was beginning to feel like a proper, an official date.

In the few remaining days before the concert, she succeeded in working herself into a regular frenzy worrying about all the ways she might make a fool out of herself on this most special of occasions. What if Stanley wanted to discuss the pieces played? What in the world did she know about classical music? To be absolutely honest, nothing. Furthermore, she had to admit that the prospect of an hour and a half of continuous organ music left her feeling downright dismal. For Vera, organ music was Patricia Mackinnon, the organist at St. Andrew’s United Church in Connaught, weaving back and forth on her bench and pumping pedals so desperately she left the impression that she was engaged in some hell-bent-for-leather bicycle race rather than aiming to drive a few mournful notes out of the pipes. Cripes, organ music. What she wouldn’t do to please a man.

There was also the question of a hat to fret over. Vera knew that in Roman Catholic churches women were expected to cover their
heads. But what about an Anglican church like the one she was going to? Where did they stand on such an issue? Vera had never set foot in an Anglican church and had no idea whether or not hat-wearing was a requirement or not. And if it was, did the rule apply just to religious services or everything else that took place under its roof, recitals included? God, the humiliation if she got turned away from the door because she didn’t have a hat. Which she didn’t, had never owned such an article, making it necessary to borrow a hat from Amelia, one of the weird Wilkinson sisters.

Add to all of this, she was, as usual, broke. No money for a new dress and barely enough to provide refreshments to properly entertain a guest. She blew all her ready cash on a bottle of gin, a bottle of rye, a couple of cans of smoked oysters, a jar of cocktail onions, some stuffed olives, and fancy crackers. All this on the off-chance that Stanley could be prevailed upon to drop by after the recital for a drink and a snack.

The big night, a Friday, Vera played sick, phoning in the excuse that she was laid low by the flu. Mr. Buckle was beside himself when he received the sad news. Friday was one of the busiest evenings of the week and one of the rowdiest. How was he going to cope without her? Couldn’t she manage to come in, surely she wasn’t as ill as all that, was she? Vera asked him how he would like it if she brought up all over a customer? That pulled the wheels off his little red wagon.

However, none of her planning and careful preparations had anticipated what she opened her door to that night. That was Stanley, looking nothing like his normal self. It was the way he was dressed, or costumed, or whatever might be the proper word for it. Stanley resembled a Rumanian aristocrat or something along that line – Ronald Coleman stepped out of the movie
The Prisoner of Zenda
. His hat alone would have been enough to suggest that – a Homburg, Vera thought was the name for it – a smoke-grey Homburg. And more. A topcoat with a velvet collar, a tightly fitted wasp waist and flaring skirts which fell to his ankles, the sort of
skirts Russian cavalry officers in historical movies spread over the rumps of their horses when they were mounted. Standing erect and tall in her doorway he looked every inch a foreign visitor holding his face clenched and composed against the strangeness of the world he was on the brink of entering. While his odd appearance surprised and dismayed her just a little, she was careful to cloak her feelings in bustle and talk as she gathered up her purse and coat, straightened Amelia’s hat.

During the cab ride to the church, Stanley, for the most part, sat silent and still in his corner of the back seat, his face turned slightly to the streetlamps which intermittently lit his face in three-quarter profile. Vera didn’t interpret his silence as rudeness because she sensed it was not directed towards her but turned inward on himself. He scarcely spoke at all during the short trip except to reply politely and distractedly to Vera’s comments about the weather. Late that afternoon temperatures had suddenly begun to plummet and they both agreed that snow could be smelled in the air.

As she waited on the steps of the church while Stanley paid the driver, Vera was praying he wouldn’t lead her to a pew in the front. Of course, this was exactly what he did. All along Vera had been concerned over the sort of figure she was going to cut in her shabby coat and out-of-fashion dress and she didn’t relish the prospect of being scrutinized sashaying down the entire length of the church. Now it was even worse because she feared shaming Stanley. Some time during the cab ride it had struck Vera that she was likely mistaken about Stanley’s clothes. They weren’t odd at all. In fact, they were probably exactly the sort of clothes to wear to an organ recital. At the moment, she was looking at him in an entirely different light. He reminded her of a diplomat – polished, elegant, European to his very fingertips, just the man she had imagined herself walking with on the deck of an ocean liner and conversing to in French when she was a girl of thirteen in Connaught. Surely, she was too plainly ordinary a girl to be seen with such a man. Surely people would snicker when they saw him escorting her to her seat.