Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

“You’ve wrecked her,” observes Frances.

“No I haven’t.”

“You sure have, here, give her to me.”

“What are you going to do to her?”

“I’m going to fix her.”

“Don’t wreck her.”

“She’s already wrecked.”

Lily hands over the rag doll.

“It’s okay Lily, we can just pretend she had leprosy —”

“No!”

“— but then she meets Jesus and he heals her.”

Frances takes a fountain pen from the pocket of her plaid jumper. Lily watches, poised to grab and rescue if need be. Frances calmly holds the doll just out of Lily’s reach, but reassuringly tilted in such a way that Lily can watch the careful restoration of Raggedy’s smile. Frances sings as she works, “‘Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick sick sick, so she called up the doctor to be quick quick quick. The doctor sighed and he shook his head, and he said Miss Polly, she is dead dead dead.’”

Lily howls, “No, Frances those aren’t the words!”

Frances hands the doll back, “There.”

“How come you gave her a blue mouth?”

“She stayed in the water too long and her lips turned blue.”

“But what about when she gets warm?”

“She won’t.”

“Frances!”

“I can’t help it, Lily,” Frances points out reasonably. “You’re the one who picked half her face off. I just fixed her, that’s all, she looked stupid without a mouth. What an ungrateful little brat.”

Lily stares at Raggedy.

“Thank you, Frances.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t drown.”

Lily finds the place within herself where love discovers that Raggedy is now more dear than ever. Frances watches Lily soothe the cruddy rag thing, and twines a finger round a stray coil of hair.

“Lily …,” says Frances in a friendly confiding tone, “you know what Daddy has back there in his shed? A still. He’s a bootlegger.”

“He is not. He’s a boot-maker.”

“Why do you think they call it bootleg whiskey? Because Daddy makes it along with the boots.”

“Frances.”

“And I’m an alcoholic. I have been since I was six. Don’t tell Mercedes. I took to the bottle the day you were born and I’ve been secretly drunk ever since. I’m drunk right now.”

Lily doesn’t like it when Frances’s eyes start to glint green. It’s the first sign. It means Frances is going to tell her something.

“No, you’re not drunk, Frances, I can’t smell it.”

“It’s so pure it doesn’t even have a smell.” Frances knows how to make her voice so calm and serious at the same time, the plain truth, like a doctor; “I’m afraid that head’s going to have to come off, Mrs Jones.”

“Daddy wouldn’t let you, Frances.”

“Daddy gives it to me. I’m the taster.”

“I’m asking him myself, that’s not true, Frances.”

“Lily, if you ask Daddy it will really hurt his feelings. He only makes the whiskey so we can afford a decent life. And I have to help him. It’s too bad I got addicted but that’s the sacrifice I made to help you and Mercedes. What if we couldn’t have afforded a doctor? They’d’ve cut your leg off.”

Lily starts to cry.

“Frances, I don’t want you to be an alcoholic.”

Lily’s tears are pouring out and her throat is getting sore from sorrow. “I’m going to tell Daddy not to give you any more.”

“Don’t cry, Lily, it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ve always known I would die young.”

“No-o-o!” Lily covers her face and water streams through her fingers. Slowly, Frances puts her arms around Lily and begins gently to rock her as she cries.

“Daddy’s not a bad man, Lily. He loves us very much.”

Frances closes her eyes and soaks up Lily’s warm grief for her predicament. It spreads like medicine through Frances’s narrow chest. She experiences a precious moment of peace. Dear Lily. Frances breathes deeply, and her face undoes itself until it is as smooth as a young girl’s skin.

“Frances, Lily… where are you?”

Mercedes doesn’t like to raise her voice. Anything worth saying is worth saying in a civilized tone. This means she climbs a lot of stairs.

Mercedes’ light brown braids are decently folded into a bun at the back of her neck. She wears a cameo fastened to the throat of her stand-up collar, and her blue serge skirt hangs three inches below her knees. Modesty is always in style. Mercedes is a slim girl who is scrupulous about her posture. Mercedes is twelve going on forty.

Second floor. No sign of the girls, meantime the liver is getting cold in the pan downstairs. Loaded with iron, and economical, you can’t go wrong with liver. Mr Luvovitz has said so and he should know. Mercedes does most of the grocery shopping these days. Every Friday, Daddy entrusts her with housekeeping money, and on Saturday morning she makes the rounds. Lately she has begun doing most of the cooking too. After supper, she and Frances do the washing up. Then Mercedes does her homework. And then she does Frances’s homework — although she tells herself that she is merely helping Frances, otherwise it would be cheating. And what does Frances do? Plays with Lily or fools around on the piano. Daddy taught Mercedes how to play up to grade seven according to the Toronto Conservatory, but he gave up on Frances early on. Frances prefers to play by ear, but only when Daddy’s out working.

Mercedes peeps into Frances and Lily’s bedroom. They’re not there either. It always irks Mercedes when dinner is late, and it usually is, through no fault of hers. She sighs and looks forward to the end of day, when all her chores will be done and she can settle in with her book. These days she is achingly absorbed in Jane Eyre for the second time. Today is Thursday. Just two more days till glorious Saturday when, after she has done the shopping and the washing and ironing, Mercedes will go as usual to the home of Helen Frye, her best friend — best after Frances, that is. Helen Frye lives in a company house because her daddy is a miner, but the Fryes are not as poor as other mining families because Helen is that rarity, an only child. The others all died. So Helen has her own room and quite nice clothes. Maybe this Saturday Mercedes and Helen will take in a picture at the Bijou. Or work on one of several shared projects; they have a quilt on the go, along with baby clothes for their future children. And maybe, as they have been recently wont to do, they will discuss love. Helen is in love with Douglas Fairbanks. Mercedes is in love too, but she cannot yet bring herself to speak his holy name.

The door to the attic stairs is ajar. Mercedes stands at the bottom, a little put out. What’s the attraction? Why do they play up there? For one thing, there’s nothing up there but the old hope chest and she has the key, and for another thing Frances is rather too old for play. Frances could do with some friends her own age. Mercedes cups her hands around her mouth and speaks into the darkness of the stairwell.

“Frances, Lily, supper.”

No answer. Then a low moan and a whistling sound like the wind, except it obviously isn’t the wind.

“Frances, no nonsense now, supper’s getting cold” — allowing herself a hint of genteel exasperation.

“Mercedes … give me back my liver.”

“For gosh sake, Frances —”

“Mercedes … I’m on the first step.” Metallic clomp.

“Supper’s getting cold.”

“Mercedes … I’m on the second step.” Clank.

“Fine, starve.”

Whispering, “Mercedes…. BOO!”

“A-a-a!”

Why? Why does it always work?

Frances emerges into the hallway and dances the highland fling, the iron brace on her left leg swinging like a shillelagh.

“Frances, Daddy is right downstairs … Frances!”