Vintage Munro (21 page)
Authors: Alice Munro
Edith read Johanna’s words aloud, in an imploring voice and with a woebegone expression.
“I was born in Glasgow, but my mother had to give me up when she took one look at me—”
“Stop,” said Sabitha. “I’m laughing so hard I’ll be sick.”
“How did she get her letter in with yours without you knowing?”
“She just takes it from me and puts it in an envelope and writes on the outside because she doesn’t think my writing is good enough.”
Edith had to put Scotch tape on the flap of the envelope to make it stick, since there wasn’t enough sticky stuff left. “She’s in love with him,” she said.
“Oh, puke-puke,” said Sabitha, holding her stomach. “She can’t be. Old Johanna.”
“What did he say about her, anyway?”
“Just about how I was supposed to respect her and it would be too bad if she left because we were lucky to have her and he didn’t have a home for me and Grandpa couldn’t raise a girl by himself and blah-blah. He said she was a lady. He said he could tell.”
“So then she falls in lo-ove.”
The letter remained with Edith overnight, lest Johanna discover that it hadn’t been posted and was sealed with Scotch tape. They took it to the Post Office the next morning.
“Now we’ll see what he writes back. Watch out,” said Edith.
No letter came for a long time. And when it did, it was a disappointment. They steamed it open at Edith’s house, but found nothing inside for Johanna.
Dear Sabitha
,
Christmas finds me a bit short this year, sorry I don’t have more than a two-dollar bill to send you. But I hope you are in good health and have a Merry Christmas and keep up your schoolwork. I have not been feeling so well myself, having got Bronchitis, which I seem to do every winter, but this is the first time it landed me in bed before Christmas. As you see by the address I am in a new place. The apartment was in a very noisy location and too many people dropping in hoping for a party. This is a boardinghouse, which suits me fine as I was never good at the shopping and the cooking
.
Merry Christmas and love, Dad
.
“Poor Johanna,” said Edith. “Her heart will be bwoken.”
Sabitha said, “Who cares?”
“Unless we do it,” Edith said.
“What?”
“
Answer
her.”
They would have to type their letter, because Johanna would notice that it was not in Sabitha’s father’s handwriting. But the typing was not difficult. There was a typewriter in Edith’s house, on a card table in the front room. Her mother had worked in an office before she was married and she sometimes
earned a little money still by writing the sort of letters that people wanted to look official. She had taught Edith the basics of typing, in the hope that Edith too might get an office job someday.
“Dear Johanna,” said Sabitha, “I am sorry I cannot be in love with you because you have got those ugly spots all over your face.”
“I’m going to be serious,” said Edith. “So shut up.”
She typed, “I was so glad to get the letter—” speaking the words of her composition aloud, pausing while she thought up more, her voice becoming increasingly solemn and tender. Sabitha sprawled on the couch, giggling. At one point she turned on the television, but Edith said, “Pul-eeze. How can I concentrate on my e-motions with all that shit going on?”
Edith and Sabitha used the words “shit” and “bitch” and “Jesus Christ” when they were alone together.
Dear Johanna
,
I was so glad to get the letter you put in with Sabitha’s and to find out about your life. It must often have been a sad and lonely one though Mrs. Willets sounds like a lucky person for you to find. You have remained industrious and uncomplaining and I must say that I admire you very much. My own life has been a checkered one and I have never exactly settled down. I do not know why I have this inner restlessness and loneliness, it just seems to be my fate. I am always meeting people and talking to people but sometimes I ask myself, Who is my friend? Then comes your letter and you write at the end of it, Your friend. So I think, Does she really mean that? And what a very nice Christmas present it would be for me if Johanna would tell me that she is my friend. Maybe you just thought it was a nice way to end a letter and you don’t really know me well enough. Merry Christmas anyway
.
Your friend, Ken Boudreau
.
The letter went home to Johanna. The one to Sabitha had ended up being typed as well because why would one be typed and not the other? They had been sparing with the steam this time and opened the envelope very carefully so there would be no telltale Scotch tape.
“Why couldn’t we type a new envelope? Wouldn’t he do that if he typed the letter?” said Sabitha, thinking she was being clever.
“Because a new
envelope
wouldn’t have a
postmark
on it. Dumb-dumb.”
“What if she answers it?”
“We’ll read it.”
“Yah, what if she answers it and sends it direct to
him
?”
Edith didn’t like to show she had not thought of that.
“She won’t. She’s sly. Anyway, you write him back right away to give her the idea she can slip it in with yours.”
“I hate writing stupid letters.”
“Go on. It won’t kill you. Don’t you want to see what she says?”
Dear Friend
,
You ask me do I know you well enough to be your friend and my answer is that I think I do. I have only had one Friend in my life, Mrs. Willets who I loved and she was so good to me but she is dead. She was a lot older than me and the trouble with Older Friends is they die and leave you. She was so old she would call me sometimes by another person’s name. I did not mind it though
.
I will tell you a strange thing. That picture that you got the photographer at the Fair to take, of you and Sabitha and her friend Edith and me, I had it enlarged and framed and set it in the living room. It is not a very good picture and he certainly charged you enough for what it is, but it is better than nothing. So the day before yesterday I was dusting around it and I imagined I could hear you
say Hello to me. Hello, you said, and I looked at your face as well as you can see it in the picture and I thought, Well, I must be losing my mind. Or else it is a sign of a letter coming. I am just fooling, I don’t really believe in anything like that. But yesterday there was a letter. So you see it is not asking too much of me to be your friend. I can always find a way to keep busy but a true Friend is something else again
.
Your Friend, Johanna Parry
.
Of course, that could not be replaced in the envelope. Sabitha’s father would spot something fishy in the references to a letter he had never written. Johanna’s words had to be torn into tiny pieces and flushed down the toilet at Edith’s house.
When the letter came telling about the hotel it was months and months later. It was summer. And it was just by luck that Sabitha had picked that letter up, since she had been away for three weeks, staying at the cottage on Lake Simcoe that belonged to her Aunt Roxanne and her Uncle Clark.
Almost the first thing Sabitha said, coming into Edith’s house, was, “Ugga-ugga. This place stinks.”
“Ugga-ugga” was an expression she had picked up from her cousins.
Edith sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s like your dad’s shop, only not so bad. They must bring it home on their clothes and stuff.”
Edith attended to the steaming and opening. On her way from the Post Office, Sabitha had bought two chocolate eclairs at the bakeshop. She was lying on the couch eating hers.
“Just one letter. For you,” said Edith. “Pore old Johanna. Of course he never actually
got
hers.”
“Read it to me,” said Sabitha resignedly. “I’ve got sticky guck all over my hands.”
Edith read it with businesslike speed, hardly pausing for the periods.
Well, Sabitha, my fortunes have taken a different turn, as you can see I am not in Brandon anymore but in a place called Gdynia. And not in the employ of my former bosses. I have had an exceptionally hard winter with my chest troubles and they, that is my bosses, thought I should be out on the road even if I was in danger of developing pneumonia so this developed into quite an argument so we all decided to say farewell. But luck is a strange thing and just about that time I came into possession of a Hotel. It is too complicated to explain the ins and outs but if your grandfather wants to know about it just tell him a man who owed me money which he could not pay let me have this hotel instead. So here I am moved from one room in a boardinghouse to a twelve-bedroom building and from not even owning the bed I slept in to owning several. It’s a wonderful thing to wake up in the morning and know you are your own boss. I have some fixing up to do, actually plenty, and will get to it as soon as the weather warms up. I will need to hire somebody to help and later on I will hire a good cook to have a restaurant as well as the beverage room. That ought to go like hotcakes as there is none in this town. Hope you are well and doing your schoolwork and developing good habits
.
Love, Your Dad
.
Sabitha said, “Have you got some coffee?”
“Instant,” said Edith. “Why?”
Sabitha said that iced coffee was what everybody had been drinking at the cottage and they were all crazy about it. She was crazy about it too. She got up and messed around in the
kitchen, boiling the water and stirring up the coffee with milk and ice cubes. “What we really ought to have is vanilla ice cream,” she said. “Oh, my Gad, is it ever wonderful. Don’t you want your eclair?”
Oh, my Gad
.
“Yes. All of it,” said Edith meanly.
All these changes in Sabitha in just three weeks—during the time Edith had been working in the shop and her mother recovering at home from her operation. Sabitha’s skin was an appetizing golden-brown color, and her hair was cut shorter and fluffed out around her face. Her cousins had cut it and given her a permanent. She wore a sort of playsuit, with shorts cut like a skirt and buttons down the front and frills over the shoulders in a becoming blue color. She had got plumper, and when she leaned over to pick up her glass of iced coffee, which was on the floor, she displayed a smooth, glowing cleavage.
Breasts. They must have started growing before she went away, but Edith had not noticed. Maybe they were just something you woke up with one morning. Or did not.
However they came, they seemed to indicate a completely unearned and unfair advantage.
Sabitha was full of talk about her cousins and life at the cottage. She would say, “Listen, I’ve got to tell you about this, it’s a scream—” and then ramble on about what Aunt Roxanne said to Uncle Clark when they had the fight, how Mary Jo drove with the top down and without a license in Stan’s car (who was Stan?) and took them all to a drive-in—and what was the scream or the point of the story somehow never became clear.
But after a while other things did. The real adventures of the summer. The older girls—that included Sabitha—slept in the upstairs of the boathouse. Sometimes they had tickling fights—they would all gang up on someone and tickle her till she shrieked for mercy and agreed to pull her pajama pants down
to show if she had hair. They told stories about girls at boarding school who did things with hairbrush handles, toothbrush handles.
Ugga-ugga
. Once a couple of cousins put on a show—one girl got on top of the other and pretended to be the boy and they wound their legs around each other and groaned and panted and carried on.
Uncle Clark’s sister and her husband came to visit on their honeymoon, and he was seen to put his hand inside her swim-suit.
“They really loved each other, they were at it day and night,” said Sabitha. She hugged a cushion to her chest. “People can’t help it when they’re in love like that.”
One of the cousins had already done it with a boy. He was one of the summer help in the gardens of the resort down the road. He took her out in a boat and threatened to push her out until she agreed to let him do it. So it wasn’t her fault.
“Couldn’t she swim?” said Edith.
Sabitha pushed the cushion between her legs. “Oooh,” she said. “Feels so nice.”
Edith knew all about the pleasurable agonies Sabitha was feeling, but she was appalled that anybody would make them public. She herself was frightened of them. Years ago, before she knew what she was doing, she had gone to sleep with the blanket between her legs and her mother had discovered her and told her about a girl she had known who did things like that all the time and had eventually been operated on for the problem.
“They used to throw cold water on her, but it didn’t cure her,” her mother had said. “So she had to be cut.”
Otherwise her organs would get congested and she might die.
“Stop,” she said to Sabitha, but Sabitha moaned defiantly and said, “It’s nothing. We all did it like this. Haven’t you got a cushion?”
Edith got up and went to the kitchen and filled her empty iced-coffee glass with cold water. When she got back Sabitha was lying limp on the couch, laughing, the cushion flung on the floor.
“What did you think I was doing?” she said. “Didn’t you know I was kidding?”
“I was thirsty,” Edith said.
“You just drank a whole glass of iced coffee.”
“I was thirsty for water.”
“Can’t have any fun with you.” Sabitha sat up. “If you’re so thirsty why don’t you drink it?”
They sat in a moody silence until Sabitha said, in a conciliatory but disappointed tone, “Aren’t we going to write Johanna another letter? Let’s write her a lovey-dovey letter.”
Edith had lost a good deal of her interest in the letters, but she was gratified to see that Sabitha had not. Some sense of having power over Sabitha returned, in spite of Lake Simcoe and the breasts. Sighing, as if reluctantly, she got up and took the cover off the typewriter.
“My darlingest Johanna—” said Sabitha.
“No. That’s too sickening.”
“She won’t think so.”
“She will so,” said Edith.
