Mavis Gallant - Home Truths

During August Freddy no longer existed; she had got in the habit of not seeing him there. But after Bradley’s train pulled out, as she sat alone on the dock, kicking the lake, she thought, What’ll I do now? and remembered Freddy. She knows what took place the day she said “No” and, even more, what it meant when she said “Oh, I still like Freddy.” But she has forgotten. All she knows now is that when she finds Freddy — in his uncle’s muddy farmyard — she understands she hadn’t left a paintbox or anything else in Montreal; Freddy was missing, that was all. But Freddy looks old and serious. He hangs his head. He has been forbidden to play with her now, he says. His uncle never wanted him to go there in the first place; it was a waste of time. He only allowed it because they were summer people from Montreal. Wondering where to look, both look at their shoes. Their meeting is made up of Freddy’s feet in torn shoes, her sandals, the trampled mud of the yard. Irmgard sees blackberries, not quite ripe. Dumb as Freddy, having lost the power to read his thoughts, she picks blackberries, hard and greenish, and puts them in her mouth.

Freddy’s uncle comes out of the foul stable and says something so obscene that the two stand frozen, ashamed — Irmgard, who does not know what the words mean, and Freddy, who does. Then Freddy says he will come with her for just one swim, and not to Irmgard’s dock but to a public beach below the village, where Irmgard is forbidden to go; the water is said to be polluted there.

Germaine has her own way of doing braids. She holds the middle strand of hair in her teeth until she has a good grip on the other two. Then she pulls until Irmgard can feel her scalp lifted from her head. Germaine crosses hands, lets go the middle strand, and is away, breathing heavily. The plaits she makes are glossy and fat, and stay woven in water. She works steadily, breathing on Irmgard’s neck.

Mrs. Queen says, “I’ll wager you went to see poor Freddy the instant that Bradley was out of sight.”

“Mmm.”

“Don’t ‘Mmm’ me. I hope he sent you packing.”

“We went for a swim.”

“I never saw a thing like it. That wretched boy was nothing but a slave to you all summer until Bradley came. It was Freddy do this, come here, go there. That charming English Mrs. Bustard who was here in July remarked the same thing. ‘Irmgard is her mother all over again,’ Mrs. Bustard said. ‘All over again, Mrs. Queen.’ ”

“Mrs. Bustard est une espèce de vache,” says Germaine gently, who cannot understand a word of English.

“Irmgard requires someone with an iron hand. ‘A hand of iron,’ Mrs. Bustard said.”

Irmgard was afraid to tell Freddy, “But we haven’t got our bathing suits or any towels.” He was silent, and she could no longer read his mind. The sun had gone in. She was uneasy, because she was swimming in a forbidden place, and frightened by the water spiders. There had been other bathers; they had left their candy wrappers behind and a single canvas shoe. The lake was ruffled, brown. She suggested, “It’s awfully cold,” but Freddy began undressing, and Irmgard, not sure of her ground, began to unbuckle her sandals. They turned their backs, in the usual manner. Irmgard had never seen anybody undressed, and no one had ever seen her, except Germaine. Her back to Freddy, she pulled off her cotton dress, but kept on her bloomers. When she turned again, Freddy was naked. It was not a mistake; she had not turned around too soon. He stood composedly, with one hand on his skinny ribs. She said only, “The water’s dirty here,” and again, “It’s cold.” There were tin cans in the lake, half sunk in mud, and the water spiders. When they came out, Irmgard stood goosefleshed, blue-lipped. Freddy had not said a word. Trembling, wet, they put on their clothes. Irmgard felt water running into her shoes. She said miserably, “I think my mother wants me now,” and edged one foot behind the other, and turned, and went away. There was nothing they could say, and nothing they could play any longer. He had discovered that he could live without her. None of the old games would do.

Germaine knows. This is what Germaine said yesterday afternoon; she was simple and calm, and said, “Oui, c’est comme ça. C’est bien malheureux. Tu sais, ma p’tite fille, je crois qu’un homme, c’est une déformation.”

Irmgard leans against Germaine. They seem to be consoling each other, because of what they both know. Mrs. Queen says, “Freddy goes back to an orphan asylum. I knew from the beginning the way it would end. It was not a kindness, allowing him to come here. It was no kindness at all.” She would say more, but they have come down and want their breakfast. After keeping her up all night with noise, they want their breakfast now.

Mrs. Bloodworth looks distressed and unwashed. Her friend has asked for beer instead of coffee. Pleasure followed by gloom is a regular pattern here. But no matter how they feel, Irmgard’s parents get up and come down for breakfast, and they judge their guests by the way they behave not in pleasure but in remorse. The man who has asked for beer as medicine and not for enjoyment, and who described the condition of his stomach and the roots of his hair, will never be invited again. Irmgard stands by her mother’s chair; for the mother is the mirror, and everything is reflected or darkened, given life or dismissed, in the picture her mother returns. The lake, the house, the summer, the reason for doing one thing instead of another are reflected here, explained, clarified. If the mirror breaks, everything will break, too.

They are talking quietly at the breakfast table. The day began in fine shape, but now it is going to be cloudy again. They think they will all go to Montreal. It is nearly Labor Day. The pity of parties is that they end.

“Are you sad, too, now that your little boy friend has left you?” says Mrs. Bloodworth, fixing Irmgard with her still-sleeping eyes. She means Bradley; she thought he and Irmgard were perfectly sweet.

Now, this is just the way they don’t like Irmgard spoken to, and Irmgard knows they will not invite Mrs. Bloodworth again, either. They weigh and measure and sift everything people say, and Irmgard’s father looks cold and bored, and her mother gives a waking tiger’s look his way, smiles. They act together, and read each other’s thoughts — just as Freddy and Irmgard did. But, large, and old, and powerful, they have greater powers: they see through walls, and hear whispered conversations miles away. Irmgard’s father looks cold, and Irmgard, without knowing it, imitates his look.

“Bradley is Irmgard’s cousin,” her mother says.

Now Irmgard, who cannot remember anything, who looked for a paintbox when Freddy had gone, who doesn’t remember that she was kidnapped and that Bradley once saved her life — now Irmgard remembers something. It seems that Freddy was sent on an errand. He went off down the sidewalk, which was heaving, cracked, edged with ribbon grass; and when he came to a certain place he was no longer there. Something was waiting for him there, and when they came looking for him, only Irmgard knew that whatever had been waiting for Freddy was the disaster, the worst thing. Irmgard’s mother said, “Imagine sending a child near the woods at this time of day!” Sure enough, there were trees nearby. And only Irmgard knew that whatever had been waiting for Freddy had come out of the woods. It was the worst thing; and it could not be helped. But she does not know exactly what it was. And then, was it Freddy? It might have been Bradley, or even herself.

Naturally, no child should go near a strange forest. There are chances of getting lost. There is the witch who changes children into birds.