Happenings in Paradise – Power of the Pen

In Paris, the rest of the village was living their regular lives, waking up this Saturday morning to the sound of birds in the backyard, dogs barking at each other across the gravelled streets. The men who owned businesses would usually be the only ones moving about, some of them jumping into their cars and pickups to prepare their stores for the public, some of them, like Mr. Jason, who owned the dry goods store, would be heading off to Joe’s to meet up with the six or seven guys for an early morning coffee.

Norma was wakened by his quick footsteps as he left the house and started up his van, parked on the street, directly under her window. She lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about the girls in her class, going over their names one by one, saying one or two in a whisper, trying out the sound of their names on her lips.

“Have a good weekend,” they’d chirp as they waved to each other each Friday, heading out of the school. Norma knew their plans were solidified in front of the lockers, and in the halls as they laughed and passed notes to each other. Sock hops in people’s rumpus rooms, movies involving hand holding and heavy breathing, fashion consultations and make up sessions—all this, Norma knew, was planned in full view of her, as she rushed from one obligation to another.

Norma didn’t allow herself the indulgence of envy. She realized long ago that she was able to stand outside of things, be an observer. Being able to do this was a gift, or a blessing, as her mother would say. If that made her appear aloof and superior, she didn’t intend that, and was unaware of it—even so, she didn’t care what others thought about her. Buoyed by this view of herself—strong, indomitable, she followed her rigid weekly schedule, days at classes, after school helping out with the children, evenings working on homework while babysitting, stolen moments sitting in on a community event, and then writing her article for the paper.

Saturdays were different

Saturdays, though, were different—they belonged to Mrs. Jason. Today, Laura Jason was snuggling deeper into her covers, her door firmly closed against the demands of her two young daughters, who she knew, would give up calling for her and make their way into the kitchen, the bathrooms, and eventually, Norma’s room. By the time they reached her, Norma was dressed and ready for them. Making a detour to the baby’s room, and picking him up, then finding the clothing that was set out, she herded them all into the kitchen for breakfast.

Norma had a soft spot for the little boy, who snuggled into her, and accepted her so sweetly—unlike his sisters, who challenged her authority at every turn. “But Mummy doesn’t give us this cereal, she gives us Rice Krispies ,” Lori would say, and Bonnie would join her in a steady whine designed to get their way. “No wonder their mother is so tired,” Norma thought, as she manoeuvred her way around their likes and dislikes and demands.

After breakfast, Norma put Dennis in the stroller, and taking Bonnie by the hand, and allowing Lori to trail behind, they set off for the near-by park. The town was still, shuttered windows reflecting the quiet street in the morning sun. Norma was thankful for the shaded privacy, she wanted no part of other people’s lives. To her, this was a chance to feel the spring air on her face, and to listen to the birds in the poplar saplings lining the street.

Once they reached the park, Norma parked the stroller in the shade, and took the little girls’ hands for a game of ‘Ring around the Rosie’, everyone giggling and laughing, and especially Dennis, their audience of one. At times like these, Norma loved looking after them, and was filled with the joy and exuberance of being young.

A single page

When they arrived home, and after she fed the children and put them down for a nap, Norma saw what she had missed this morning—a small envelope on the dining room table, bearing the scrabbled writing of her mother. Conscious that this was her mother’s busiest time on the farm, and aware that a rare letter like this could only mean bad news, Norma tore open the envelope and scanned the single page.

“Dear, dear Norma,” the letter began,

“I hope you are not working too hard at everything you have to do. And I hope you are having some fun, too.

And I hope I don’t spoil your day by telling you something I heard from the two ladies who come to see me all the time—Mrs. Ubisky and Mrs. Conley, you remember them?

They said the whole country is upset by something you wrote in the paper. You said that Sally Napper deserves a medal. Well, she doesn’t. She is a bad girl, and she behaves like no one likes.

So I don’t know if you can take this back. Maybe apologize in the next paper. I’m sorry to tell you this.

Dad and I are really busy. The spring planting is almost done, James came home for a couple of weekends to help us.

Bessie had a calf, and has freshened, so we have lots of milk. I made cottage cheese for the first time today. I hope you are okay, and don’t worry too much.

Mum
p.s. I wish you would just give up that writing.

Norma sat down at the table and rested her head on her arms. Then, for something to do, more than anything else, she reached for a dusting cloth and rubbed the table, moving to the bureau, and dusted that too, numbly going back and forth with the cloth, polishing every surface and crevice until it shone.

The house was still, as lonely as a house could be on a sunny Saturday, with only the ticking of the kitchen clock for company, and the sounds of the street, muted and indistinct. An undefined feeling settled in Norma’s chest, as sudden tears stung her eyes and seeped down her cheeks.

When the phone rang in the kitchen, it startled her, and she rose to answer it.

It was Mr. McCaskill.

“What the Hell is going on?” he demanded, “I’ve received two anonymous, poison pen letters about your column. I think you’d better come down and talk to me.”

To be continued on August 28