Miriam Toews - A Complicated Kindness

I brought the tea outside and sat in the grass next to Ray and Edwina. Ray had given her his yellow lawn chair and he was sitting on the step next to her like a little kid. She could have reached out and patted him on the head.

So, she said, is it just the two of you? Ray and I looked at each other and I nodded and he said well, yes, for the time being I suppose it is.

Mrs. McGillivray nodded politely and sipped her tea. Ray swatted at a wasp that was flying around her cup and saucer.

Now, she said, what did you say your last name was? Nickel, said Ray. Ray Nickel.

Nickel, Nickel, said Mrs. McGillivray. Why does that sound so familiar? Ray smiled and I shrugged. Mrs. McGillivray shifted a bit in the lawn chair and looked down at Ray. Would you happen to know a Trudie Nickel? she asked.

Ray cleared his throat and said yes, yes he did. In fact, she was his wife. Her mother, he said, waving in my direction. I nodded to confirm that fact and stared at Ray who was looking up at the sky with what seemed like awe but might have been panic.

How do you know Trudie? I asked her.

Well, I don’t really know her, said Mrs. McGillivray. She sang. Didn’t she?

Did she sing…I guess, I said. I mean…

Yes, said Ray. Yes, she sang. Yup.

But, I mean did she sing, I asked him, or did she…

She sang, said Ray.

She sang? I said.

Yes, said Mrs. McGillivray, oh did she sing! I saw her perform oh what was it now…my goodness, that was long ago…a musical at Pantages Playhouse on…

What? I asked.

Ray said oh, that was a very long time ago. That was…yes, well, that was…she was very young. Can I get you more tea?

Was it West Side Story ? asked Mrs. McGillivray.

Ray stood up. It could have been, yes, very likely.

Tea? Please, said Mrs. McGillivray.

So you saw her perform in a musical? I said.

Yes, she was delightful, said Mrs. McGillivray. Just a real live wire.

Ray went into the house.

Well, but…I said.

Oh, she was talented, said Mrs. McGillivray. Her voice…she sighed and laughed. I smiled and then wondered if I would ever have another afternoon as interesting as this one. Mrs. McGillivray whispered: Do you mind me asking where she is?

We…I said. She…you know, they…

Mrs. McGillivray nodded and said she understood.

Ray came back out with some more tea and began to talk about the migration of the monarch butterfly, because one had just landed on Mrs. McGillivray’s turquoise skirt. He talked loudly, and with very few pauses. None, in fact. And then Mrs. McGillivray felt that it was time she got back to the school for the evening performances.

Do you feel all right, now? Ray asked her.

Oh yes, she said, I’m much better now, thank you. Much better.

Do you mind cleaning this up? he asked me. And then took Mrs. McGillivray’s left arm and hustled her down the sidewalk and into the car.

I got my bike out of the garage and rode to the museum to tell Travis everything was cool. I whispered it to him in the doorway of the house so his wife wouldn’t hear me. He was so sweet. He rubbed my bald head and said my scar added character and he said he’d finish the N on his arm that night.

We walked over to this outdoor clay oven where they baked old-timey bread and Travis lifted me up so I was sitting on it and I put my legs around his waist and he rubbed his face against my chest. He let his suspenders drop off his shoulders and his black felt hat fall to the ground.

After that we did some stupid racing where he runs backwards and I run forwards and he still wins. His wife came out of the house holding on to the Cabbage Patch doll and told Travis to get his ass back in there.

Don’t, I said. Leave her. He smiled. Hey, I said, do you know any songs from West Side Story ?

He said no and told me he had to go and he’d pick me up around eight. I wandered over to the windmill to watch these Dutch guys work on the new blade. They waved and I blew them kisses and laughed and tried to act sexy in the dirt by lying on my side with a blade of grass in my mouth. Then this weird thing happened.

I remembered my car-washing job at Dyck Dodge. Mr. Quiring had told me that I had to start making plans that I stuck to, so I decided right there on the spot that I would never go back to my job, ever. It felt good.

I got up and waved goodbye to the windmill guys and walked over to the forge and sat on the hitching post in front of it swinging my legs and smoking a Cap. I had missed six or seven Saturdays of washing cars and nobody had bothered to tell me. I guess the job was officially over.

An American male teenager came walking up to me and said hello. I smiled.

Do you speak English? he asked.

Yes, I said.

Are you a Mennonite girl? he asked me.

I said yeah. He nodded and smiled and asked me if I had an extra cigarette. We sat on the hitching post together and smoked. I asked him if he was here with his parents and he said yeah.

What’s good here? he said. I asked him if he had checked out the threshing and flailing demonstration. He said no.

He asked me if I knew where he could score and I gave him directions to the Silver Bullet. I asked him how he felt about being an American and he shrugged and said he never thought about it. I asked him what he did in America and he said nothing really. I liked him. Then his parents came walking up to us and said they were happy they’d found him.

Hello there, they said to me. I said hi. The father asked me if I was a local girl or a tourist.

Local girl, I said.

He nodded and his wife smiled and their son hopped off the hitching rail and told me it was nice meeting me.

Likewise, I said. They walked away and the boy was a few steps behind his parents and he turned around and shrugged helplessly. I nodded and smiled and then waved goodbye. When I had finished my cigarette I got up and wandered over to the big barn. I watched as several older men in overalls slaughtered a giant pig that they’d strung up from some kind of authentic wooden thing. The men were scooping out the insides of the pig and chucking what they found into large white pails.

I heard a tourist saying to her kid: Stand back, hold my hand, I said hold my hand.

The men’s feet were making red tracks all over the gravel but I guess a little blood helps to keep the dust down sometimes.

The tourist was pulling her kid away from the slime that was moving towards their shoes and the kid was screaming let go of me, let go of me. I gave myself an assignment: Ride my bike no hands from one end of town to the other end of town with no stopping and if cars come, tough.

It didn’t work at all. A lot of the trees had green worms hanging from them and I had to use my hands to steer effectively around them. I went home to worry about the evening. Time passed. I lay in bed. I changed my clothes. I played my music. I charted the majestic arc of my life and practised my smile.

In a way I think it might have gone better if I hadn’t been bald, drunk, depressed and jealous. And if, when Travis whispered in my ear move with me, I hadn’t said: To Montreal? When he meant no, now, here, my body. And if afterwards he hadn’t given me an old mini-golf scorecard to wipe the blood off my legs and I hadn’t started crying in the truck on the way home and slammed it into reverse for no good reason going fifty miles per hour.

Somewhere around four in the morning my clock radio was still playing and I heard my dad pull up into the driveway so I got up and went out and asked him why he drove around so much at night and he told me. He said: I work during the day.