Authors: Andre Alexis
Pastoral (3 page)
     Then, too, there was the angularity of Lowther's thinking. As they were driving to Petrolia and talking about southern Ontario,
it emerged that Lowther did not like to speak of the past. He insisted that
what had been was a distraction from the here and now. To Father Pennant, this
seemed a clear contradiction. The past was the place from which Coleridge and
Hopkins reached us, no? Lowther was steeped in the past, wasn't he?
it emerged that Lowther did not like to speak of the past. He insisted that
what had been was a distraction from the here and now. To Father Pennant, this
seemed a clear contradiction. The past was the place from which Coleridge and
Hopkins reached us, no? Lowther was steeped in the past, wasn't he?
     â You must be right, Father, but I don't think of it that way. A tea bag comes from somewhere, but tea exists when you
pour hot water on it. I'm steeped in the
present
.
pour hot water on it. I'm steeped in the
present
.
     â Yes, but what about tradition and the people who came before us? You and I
wouldn't be here, we wouldn't be talking, if it weren't for what came before us.
wouldn't be here, we wouldn't be talking, if it weren't for what came before us.
     â I'm sure you're right, Father, but I don't see the contradiction. The past has no meaning, absolutely none.
     â Hmmm â¦
     As they drove over the dirt roads and along narrow lanes, stopping now and then
to admire a farmhouse or a striking vista, it seemed to Father Pennant that his
companion was trustworthy, more or less, but Lowther Williams was also
difficult to read.
to admire a farmhouse or a striking vista, it seemed to Father Pennant that his
companion was trustworthy, more or less, but Lowther Williams was also
difficult to read.
Anne Young, who had asked Father Pennant about the relative weight of adultery,
was not afraid her husband had been unfaithful. For one thing, John Young was
as lazy a man as she could imagine. Though he was still handsome and desirable
at sixty, he was not the kind of man to take on the work of planning,
calculating and deceiving. He might commit adultery, but only if there were
very little movement involved. Besides, he loved her, and she was sure of it.
They had gone through so much together: childlessness, hard times, deaths and,
most importantly, the adoption of his sister's daughter, Elizabeth. In these crises he had been all that one could have
wanted from a husband. And loving him the way she did, there was no question
she
 would be unfaithful. He was the only man she had ever slept with. Not that she
hadn't been curious, from time to time, but she was curious about all sorts of things
and you would no more find her with another man than you would have found her
drinking a glass of Cynar, that greenish, artichoke liqueur her neighbours had
brought back from Italy.
was not afraid her husband had been unfaithful. For one thing, John Young was
as lazy a man as she could imagine. Though he was still handsome and desirable
at sixty, he was not the kind of man to take on the work of planning,
calculating and deceiving. He might commit adultery, but only if there were
very little movement involved. Besides, he loved her, and she was sure of it.
They had gone through so much together: childlessness, hard times, deaths and,
most importantly, the adoption of his sister's daughter, Elizabeth. In these crises he had been all that one could have
wanted from a husband. And loving him the way she did, there was no question
she
 would be unfaithful. He was the only man she had ever slept with. Not that she
hadn't been curious, from time to time, but she was curious about all sorts of things
and you would no more find her with another man than you would have found her
drinking a glass of Cynar, that greenish, artichoke liqueur her neighbours had
brought back from Italy.
     Adultery was on her mind, though, because she had seen Robbie Myers with Jane
Richardson, and Robbie Myers was her niece Elizabeth's fiancé. If he was not, technically speaking, âadulterous,' there was almost certainly a serious name for his behaviour.
Richardson, and Robbie Myers was her niece Elizabeth's fiancé. If he was not, technically speaking, âadulterous,' there was almost certainly a serious name for his behaviour.
     Elizabeth had come to stay with them under the worst circumstances. She was the
daughter of John's sister, Eileen, and one summer, seventeen years ago now, Eileen had asked if
they would mind taking care of Liz while she and her husband went off to Europe
for a romantic holiday. Childless themselves, Anne and John adored children, so
they had happily accepted. But Elizabeth's parents had drowned when their ferry sank somewhere between Piraeus and Naxos.
It was a tragedy on a number of fronts. John was, of course, devastated by the
death of his younger sister and her husband. And then she and John were
bewildered to find themselves entangled in legal proceedings to determine who
should take care of the child. And then there was the three-year-old Liz, a
strange little puzzle. They did not at first know how to tell her that her
parents had died, but when they did tell her, it was as if the child could not
or would not understand. For months Liz would calmly ask after her parents, as
if she were asking after clothes she'd misplaced. Reminded that they were dead, Liz would go back to her toys and
remind the dolls and fuzzy bears that
their
 parents had died.
daughter of John's sister, Eileen, and one summer, seventeen years ago now, Eileen had asked if
they would mind taking care of Liz while she and her husband went off to Europe
for a romantic holiday. Childless themselves, Anne and John adored children, so
they had happily accepted. But Elizabeth's parents had drowned when their ferry sank somewhere between Piraeus and Naxos.
It was a tragedy on a number of fronts. John was, of course, devastated by the
death of his younger sister and her husband. And then she and John were
bewildered to find themselves entangled in legal proceedings to determine who
should take care of the child. And then there was the three-year-old Liz, a
strange little puzzle. They did not at first know how to tell her that her
parents had died, but when they did tell her, it was as if the child could not
or would not understand. For months Liz would calmly ask after her parents, as
if she were asking after clothes she'd misplaced. Reminded that they were dead, Liz would go back to her toys and
remind the dolls and fuzzy bears that
their
 parents had died.
     â Your mother and father are dead, she would say to each
of them.
of them.
     For all of that, she grew up to be a normal young girl, whatever ânormal' was when it had its hair cut. A shy child, she had opened up at school, making
friends easily at St. Mary's Primary School. From there, they had the usual problems with her. Liz
questioned everything they did or said. For a time, she insisted they were not
her parents and so had no authority over her. For a very long time, they could
not get two words out of her. She would mutter at them on her way in or out of
the house.
friends easily at St. Mary's Primary School. From there, they had the usual problems with her. Liz
questioned everything they did or said. For a time, she insisted they were not
her parents and so had no authority over her. For a very long time, they could
not get two words out of her. She would mutter at them on her way in or out of
the house.
     Then came Elizabeth's interest in boys. There were the âwild years' with Michael Newsome, the âdull years' with Matthew Kendal and now, finally, there was Robbie Myers. How grateful Anne
had been that Liz had settled on a genuine country boy, one whose family owned
a farm just outside of Bright's Grove.
had been that Liz had settled on a genuine country boy, one whose family owned
a farm just outside of Bright's Grove.
     As far as Anne was concerned, dealing with young love was the most difficult
aspect of parenting. John regarded âboys' as belonging to Elizabeth's private life and refused to get involved. (Did he even know the difference
between Michael Newsome [black jacket, slicked hair] and Matthew Kendal
[baseball in spring, hockey in winter]?) John was unconditionally loving, and
that was fine, as far as it went, but Anne would have preferred to feel a
little of his steadying hand where Liz's boyfriends were concerned.
aspect of parenting. John regarded âboys' as belonging to Elizabeth's private life and refused to get involved. (Did he even know the difference
between Michael Newsome [black jacket, slicked hair] and Matthew Kendal
[baseball in spring, hockey in winter]?) John was unconditionally loving, and
that was fine, as far as it went, but Anne would have preferred to feel a
little of his steadying hand where Liz's boyfriends were concerned.
     Anne herself was too involved, albeit discreetly, to be impartial. She
identified with Liz. She worried Liz would misstep, would end up with a
good-for-nothing townie who'd waste his life drawing a paycheque from Dow Chemical and pissing it away at
the Blackhawk Tavern. She wanted more for Liz whom, after all, she really did
think of (and love) as a daughter. If it came to that, it sometimes seemed to
Anne that Liz's relationships were more important to her than they were to Liz herself.
identified with Liz. She worried Liz would misstep, would end up with a
good-for-nothing townie who'd waste his life drawing a paycheque from Dow Chemical and pissing it away at
the Blackhawk Tavern. She wanted more for Liz whom, after all, she really did
think of (and love) as a daughter. If it came to that, it sometimes seemed to
Anne that Liz's relationships were more important to her than they were to Liz herself.
     Despite her better instincts, despite John's sombre advice, Anne had, in the past, allowed herself to feel for this or that
boy. It had broken her heart, for instance, when she learned how unfair Liz had
been to young Matthew. But then, who had asked her to talk about
her
 hopes for Liz and Matthew's life together? And who knows if her enthusiasm hadn't, in the end, turned Liz against the boy? She had sworn she would not allow
herself to care whom Liz brought home, had sworn to remain above it all or
beyond it, as John did. So, although this business with Robbie Myers would have
been difficult for anyone, it was even more so for her, because she had vowed
to keep out of her niece's affairs.
boy. It had broken her heart, for instance, when she learned how unfair Liz had
been to young Matthew. But then, who had asked her to talk about
her
 hopes for Liz and Matthew's life together? And who knows if her enthusiasm hadn't, in the end, turned Liz against the boy? She had sworn she would not allow
herself to care whom Liz brought home, had sworn to remain above it all or
beyond it, as John did. So, although this business with Robbie Myers would have
been difficult for anyone, it was even more so for her, because she had vowed
to keep out of her niece's affairs.
     But what had she seen, exactly?
     She had gone to Sarnia to find cloth for the new drapes she would sew for the
living room. As she sometimes did when she was in the city, she allowed herself
to eat at the Lucky Dragon along the strip. It wasn't only that she liked Chinese food; it gave her an indefinable thrill to eat
beef with black bean sauce in a big city. So, there she was in the Lucky
Dragon, at a table by the front window, when whom should she see in the parking
lot outside but Robbie Myers. Her heart lifted. She genuinely liked the boy. He
got out of his truck, walked around to the other side and opened the door for ⦠Was that Jane Richardson? Yes, Fletcher Richardson's daughter: dirty blond, thin, wearing a leather jacket two sizes too big. Thank
God the two did not come into the Dragon itself. It would have been humiliating
to face them. But why? What had they done? Nothing explicit or illicit, not
that she had seen. But you didn't have to catch people at it to know there was something between them. It was in
the way Robbie had opened the door and helped her down, the way they had walked
away together. That is all she had seen. Robbie Myers had helped Jane
Richardson down from the cab of his Chevy. But that was enough for an attentive
person. It had occurred to her â no use denying it â to follow the two wherever it was they were off to. But she had not. Instead,
she had stayed in the restaurant, unable to enjoy her food, wondering if what
she had seen was innocent or not.
living room. As she sometimes did when she was in the city, she allowed herself
to eat at the Lucky Dragon along the strip. It wasn't only that she liked Chinese food; it gave her an indefinable thrill to eat
beef with black bean sauce in a big city. So, there she was in the Lucky
Dragon, at a table by the front window, when whom should she see in the parking
lot outside but Robbie Myers. Her heart lifted. She genuinely liked the boy. He
got out of his truck, walked around to the other side and opened the door for ⦠Was that Jane Richardson? Yes, Fletcher Richardson's daughter: dirty blond, thin, wearing a leather jacket two sizes too big. Thank
God the two did not come into the Dragon itself. It would have been humiliating
to face them. But why? What had they done? Nothing explicit or illicit, not
that she had seen. But you didn't have to catch people at it to know there was something between them. It was in
the way Robbie had opened the door and helped her down, the way they had walked
away together. That is all she had seen. Robbie Myers had helped Jane
Richardson down from the cab of his Chevy. But that was enough for an attentive
person. It had occurred to her â no use denying it â to follow the two wherever it was they were off to. But she had not. Instead,
she had stayed in the restaurant, unable to enjoy her food, wondering if what
she had seen was innocent or not.
     During the days that followed, she had been as discreet as possible. She had
not spoken of what she had witnessed. She had asked only two bland questions:
not spoken of what she had witnessed. She had asked only two bland questions:
     â Was Robbie in Sarnia the other day, Liz?
and
     â Liz, are you still friends with Jane Richardson?
     There was nothing more she could do without meddling. She would have to bite
her tongue and observe. It was either observe or investigate. That is, snoop.
As she considered snooping a vile habit, she did not snoop.
her tongue and observe. It was either observe or investigate. That is, snoop.
As she considered snooping a vile habit, she did not snoop.
It isn't as if Elizabeth was unaware that something lay behind her aunt's questions. They were asked in such resolutely bland tones, it had been like
hearing a mortician speak. Besides, Elizabeth was sensitive to any mention of
her fiancé, and though she had not thought of Jane Richardson (Robbie's first love) in a while, hearing Jane's name brought more than an inkling of the connection between them.
hearing a mortician speak. Besides, Elizabeth was sensitive to any mention of
her fiancé, and though she had not thought of Jane Richardson (Robbie's first love) in a while, hearing Jane's name brought more than an inkling of the connection between them.
     Despite her aunt's careful nonchalance, Elizabeth had been spooked.
     When she was thoughtful, as she often was in these months before her marriage,
Elizabeth liked to walk. She walked along the fence of her uncle's sod farm, whatever the season, but in spring she was comforted by the new
grass, the spluttering sprinklers and the sight of the far trees, the point at
which she would usually turn back for home.
Elizabeth liked to walk. She walked along the fence of her uncle's sod farm, whatever the season, but in spring she was comforted by the new
grass, the spluttering sprinklers and the sight of the far trees, the point at
which she would usually turn back for home.
     Days after her aunt questioned her about Robbie and Jane, Elizabeth went out
for a long walk, taking with her the prayer book that had belonged to her
parents. The book was small. As a young girl, she imagined the prayer book had
been made just for her. It had been slightly larger than her palm when she was
eight years old, and thick as three of her small fingers. It was bound in black
leather with, embedded in its cover, a single white pearl that had, somehow and
for years, resisted her efforts to dislodge it. The edges of the book's pages had been gilded and, inside, it contained hundreds of prayers, prayers
for every imaginable circumstance, including one that was to be said on being
captured by cannibals and another to be said before eating food âof dubious provenance.' Not that she had ever used it for its prayers. She was not devout. Her aunt and
uncle were the devoted ones. From the age at which she had first been made
aware of the idea, âGod' had seemed to Elizabeth a shaky proposition. It didn't help, of course, that if He existed He had murdered her parents. But, really,
there was no deep calculation, no rancour or bitterness involved. She simply
was not convinced or was not yet convinced of God's existence. The prayer book was a thing she held because her parents had
touched it.
for a long walk, taking with her the prayer book that had belonged to her
parents. The book was small. As a young girl, she imagined the prayer book had
been made just for her. It had been slightly larger than her palm when she was
eight years old, and thick as three of her small fingers. It was bound in black
leather with, embedded in its cover, a single white pearl that had, somehow and
for years, resisted her efforts to dislodge it. The edges of the book's pages had been gilded and, inside, it contained hundreds of prayers, prayers
for every imaginable circumstance, including one that was to be said on being
captured by cannibals and another to be said before eating food âof dubious provenance.' Not that she had ever used it for its prayers. She was not devout. Her aunt and
uncle were the devoted ones. From the age at which she had first been made
aware of the idea, âGod' had seemed to Elizabeth a shaky proposition. It didn't help, of course, that if He existed He had murdered her parents. But, really,
there was no deep calculation, no rancour or bitterness involved. She simply
was not convinced or was not yet convinced of God's existence. The prayer book was a thing she held because her parents had
touched it.
     The sun was out and doing its best to dry the ground. The clouds were thick and
white, like gouts of clotted cream in a wide blue bowl. The earth smelled of
her uncle's sod and of cow manure from the next farm over, Mr. Rubie's, from which, if the air was right, you would occasionally hear the faintest
lowing, a sound that always surprised her, as Rubie's farm was acres away.
white, like gouts of clotted cream in a wide blue bowl. The earth smelled of
her uncle's sod and of cow manure from the next farm over, Mr. Rubie's, from which, if the air was right, you would occasionally hear the faintest
lowing, a sound that always surprised her, as Rubie's farm was acres away.
     For the first while, Elizabeth thought of nothing in particular. Walking was a
way to stanch thought. But she was in love and that meant, for her, that Robbie
was at the tip of most of the strands within her. This was a pleasant thing.
She could be with him in an instant, and the image she held of him was almost
as vivid as Robbie himself. Of course, there was a difference between the man
within her and the one who walked about or drove around in his father's truck. The real Robert Myers was, naturally, more desirable. His eyes were
always bluer than she remembered, his lashes longer. And, of course, there were
aspects of him that paled in her imagination, however she tried to keep them:
the light hair below his stomach, the way his back narrowed to a groove above
his buttocks. These things never failed to fascinate her, because she
perpetually rediscovered them.
way to stanch thought. But she was in love and that meant, for her, that Robbie
was at the tip of most of the strands within her. This was a pleasant thing.
She could be with him in an instant, and the image she held of him was almost
as vivid as Robbie himself. Of course, there was a difference between the man
within her and the one who walked about or drove around in his father's truck. The real Robert Myers was, naturally, more desirable. His eyes were
always bluer than she remembered, his lashes longer. And, of course, there were
aspects of him that paled in her imagination, however she tried to keep them:
the light hair below his stomach, the way his back narrowed to a groove above
his buttocks. These things never failed to fascinate her, because she
perpetually rediscovered them.
     The Robbie within her had his charms too, however. He was made up of words, of
impressions. He was a bright smile, an allusive thought, an attitude she found
irresistible. At times, she was at odds with herself, missing the one while
with the other, wishing he were physically gone when he was there or there when
he was gone. Usually, this fracas between her Robbies lasted only a moment. But
now that they were to be married, there seemed to be more serious skirmishes.
Who was Robbie, really? How could she know? Was he the man with whom she wished
to be married 'til death? Each of these questions was a cloud above the road to church. And
now, so was the question of Jane Richardson. Where did Jane fit in all this?
She had been Robbie's girlfriend ages ago, in grades 9 and 10. She no longer figured in his life,
did she?
impressions. He was a bright smile, an allusive thought, an attitude she found
irresistible. At times, she was at odds with herself, missing the one while
with the other, wishing he were physically gone when he was there or there when
he was gone. Usually, this fracas between her Robbies lasted only a moment. But
now that they were to be married, there seemed to be more serious skirmishes.
Who was Robbie, really? How could she know? Was he the man with whom she wished
to be married 'til death? Each of these questions was a cloud above the road to church. And
now, so was the question of Jane Richardson. Where did Jane fit in all this?
She had been Robbie's girlfriend ages ago, in grades 9 and 10. She no longer figured in his life,
did she?
     Elizabeth came to the trees at the edge of her uncle's property. Instead of turning back, she climbed over the wire fence and went
into the woods. The woods were cool, as always. The tightly grouped trees were
a canopy, keeping the sunlight out, preserving the last granules of frost
through which the ferns and fiddleheads pushed up and unfurled. There were
paths that meandered confusedly about the woods, paths made, some of them, by
her younger self. Or so she liked to imagine because when she'd been a girl bent on mastering the woods, she used to stamp her feet as she
walked, creating faint trails that led nowhere, trails that came to sudden
stops at the foot of this spruce or that white pine. She herself was well
beyond needing the trails for guidance. She could have made her way through the
woods with her eyes closed, reaching the destination of her choice (the
highway, Fox's farm, the quarry, âRegina') in no time.
into the woods. The woods were cool, as always. The tightly grouped trees were
a canopy, keeping the sunlight out, preserving the last granules of frost
through which the ferns and fiddleheads pushed up and unfurled. There were
paths that meandered confusedly about the woods, paths made, some of them, by
her younger self. Or so she liked to imagine because when she'd been a girl bent on mastering the woods, she used to stamp her feet as she
walked, creating faint trails that led nowhere, trails that came to sudden
stops at the foot of this spruce or that white pine. She herself was well
beyond needing the trails for guidance. She could have made her way through the
woods with her eyes closed, reaching the destination of her choice (the
highway, Fox's farm, the quarry, âRegina') in no time.
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