In a shadowed moment, when night and day changed guard, Alice Webster escaped. This time for good. Two weeks had passed. I knew she wasn’t coming back. For her the war was over. It was a decisive victory for the Protestants.
Mom and I were the total combined forces of the Protestant army. My father and stepbrothers were the Catholics. They’d drawn the lines and there was no crossing them. It was an unholy war. We were outnumbered and outranked and they had the most terrible weapon of all—my grandmother. We didn’t have a prayer.
Long ago, my mother had waved the white flag of surrender. They ignored it, enjoying battle far too much to ever let her concede. Now, she’d escaped. Oh, I was proud of her. At last I could imagine her free, living in peace. I removed her gray sweater from its post on the back of the kitchen chair. Salt and winter clung to its wool. Relieved of duty, it no longer needed to catch silent tears or protect her from icy blasts. I pictured her now in the little flat above the coffee shop with lace curtains, a big comfy chair, soft golden light and books piled high. Best of all, I could dream that she’d found her way back to Woolworths, the place where I’d witnessed colour flow back into her. It’s painted in my memory as a perfect day. It happened seven years ago, but the scent of cinnamon and lilac lingers.
My best dress danced with my every step as the Protestants readied for the Norway United Church Bazaar. Mom had tied my hair up in rags and it was now Shirley Temple perfect. Grandma saw me waiting on the porch. “Well if it isn’t Princess Mop Head. You look ridiculous. Mag the rag, put your head in a bag.”
Mom pushed by muttering, “What are you? Two?”
“What did you say to me?”
Mom shrunk. “I said we’d be back around two.” She secured my hand and pulled me toward safety. “Don’t listen to one word she says Maggie. You look beautiful.” Grandma’s heavy black oxfords clunked across the porch. We glanced back to make sure she’d retreated. “She’s just jealous that she’ll never be anything but an ugly old hag. The miserable bitch.” Oh, I loved those rare moments when I saw a spark, a sign of life. Maybe she would rally and fight at last. My arm protested the abrupt halt when what she’d said hit her. She shivered. “Oh Maggie, don’t ever repeat that.”
“I won’t, Mommy, never, ever. Cross my heart and hope to die.” Why would I? We were allies.
My heart always lightened when we headed away from enemy lines. On that day even the breeze celebrated, scattering the last of the pink apple blossoms like confetti. As the distance from the house grew, my mother became more solid, like who she really was poured back inside, filling up the abandoned places.
We were safe at the church. Grandma swore she’d never darken its heathen doors. My mother’s table had a little sign that read: Alice Webster Designs. All morning I felt I would burst. Everyone admired my mother’s beautiful work. Amber window light fell on her hands as she showed dainty smocked dresses, bonnets, fine-knitted sweaters and miniature doll clothes. I wrapped purchases and collected money. Everything sold. Mrs. Warden said we made more than anyone else. She gave mom $12.62 for her expenses. Over twelve dollars slid into my mother’s purse, and the Catholics knew nothing about it.
We stood at the stop waiting for the streetcar. She smiled down at me. “You really do look beautiful Maggie. You were a big help today.”
I scuffed a shiny toe against the curb. “Wish there was a bazaar every Saturday.”
“Me too.” She squeezed my hand. “Are you hungry?”
I was. Hungry for bazaar day never to end.
“Come on, let’s have lunch.” She tightened her grip and we dashed across the street. The ladies of the protestant army were AWOL. We boarded the streetcar heading in the opposite direction. Nickels clanked in the fare box. She opened the window and Queen Street floated in. “Look Maggie, I used to buy groceries there.” A green striped awning sheltered shiny apples and lilac bouquets. “Oh there’s The Roxy. Gwen, Fiona and I went there every Saturday after work.” My head spun with these extraordinary revelations. A light glowed inside her. I peeked in and saw who she’d been before the war blackened everything out.
“Maggie look up there. That’s where I used to live.” A lacey curtain escaped through the open window and waved. She pulled the cord and a bell dinged. “Here’s our stop, Mags my girl.” There was fun in her voice and a bounce in her step. We passed Dominic’s Bakery and she inhaled. “Oh, smell that. Dominic made the world’s best cinnamon rolls.” She stopped outside Woolworth’s Five & Dime. “Let’s have lunch here.”
As we walked by the jewelry counter a lady said, “Alice? Alice Hutchins, is that you?”
Mom turned. “Violet! You’re still here?” They hugged.
“Wait till you see who else is still here.” She picked up the phone. “Mr. Green there’s someone wanting to speak with the manager.”
My mother’s eyes widened as she caught sight of a man coming toward her. I’d never seen her smile like that.
“Alice?”
She reached out her hand. “Hello Stan.”
He ignored it and hugged her right off the ground. “Alice, how wonderful to see you.” He looked down at me. “And who’s this little beauty?”
“My daughter, Maggie.”
“Delighted to meet you, Miss.” He crouched down to shake my hand. “What do we have here?” He took the paper scrunched in my hand and smoothed it out. “Hmm, Alice Webster Designs.” His eyebrow wiggled.
Colour crept up mom’s neck and blossomed on her cheeks. “I had a little showing of my work this morning. Guess Maggie took the sign.”
“Well, you can tell me all about it over coffee.”
“We’d like lunch, please.”
“Maggie, mind your manners.”
He snatched her arm. “No, quite right. Lunch it is.”
We sat at the lunch counter. My red and silver stool swiveled and spun with all the happiness I felt. I ordered grilled cheese and chocolate milk. Mr. Green said Mummy was the best window dresser he ever did know. Her eyes blurred forget-me-not blue, her cheeks flushed rosy pink. This was how she should always be.
“Any chance you’d come back to work, Alice?”
With all my heart I wished she would.
“I’ll think about it.”
I knew she wouldn’t dare, but still I hoped.
He patted my head and smiled at my mom. “So… so great seeing you again. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
We began the solemn march home. “Mommy, their names are colours.”
“What?”
“Violet and Mr. Green.” She didn’t answer. I looked up at her face. Already she was fading, becoming again colourless inside the lines. There she would wait and weight until the day she’d find escape. We stopped at the bakery and bought cinnamon rolls, a peace offering till then.
Winner of the WCDR Short Prose Competition
So refreshing Heather! I am right there walking with them and having a sandwich at the counter in Woolworth’s. Brings back memories!
Ivy Draper
Grilled cheese and chocolate milk was what I ordered whenever I was lucky enough to find myself twirling on the stools. We all have so many rich stories tucked inside, don’t we.