Old Lady Sweetly Is Twenty

Chapter 1

There’s small choice in a box of rotten apples.

—Apologies to Shakespeare

B e tty Wheatley knew the gantry crane was there, had always, always been there , as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be , world without end, been there, dumping slag sculls, just as surely as she herself existed, just as surely as she herself had been dumped from the school board office, dumped by the school inspector onto the slag heap of life. She knew all this, but did not notice, anymore than she noticed her lungs functioning or her kidneys excreting or her blood coursing through her veins. Nor did she notice that she had just slammed the door to the school board office—the office above Nick Plotnikoff’s Plumbing Shop—so hard she had loosened its rusty hinges, popped its rusty screws, left it trembling and shaking and feeling as insecure as she did.

She spun around and slumped against Nick’s sun-fried wall, and the wall retaliated by searing its heat into her flimsy dress. She did not feel it, could not. She could not, did not even hear the obsessed gantry crane, up on the smelter hill, banging out slag sculls. The to-and-fro gantry crane and its cohorts, mindlessly churning out lead and gold and silver, bombarding the City of Trail with discordant clangings and crashes, whistles and whirrs—just like warm-up time for the Trail Legion Band.

Betty’s senses had shut down; she had gone inside her head to rummage through piles of jumbled memories. She pulled out one; she examined it: a hazy classroom, a cocksure guidance teacher. She frowned. He’s the one I listened to; he’s the one I trusted. Yes, the one who told me that Normal School was a snap, a breeze, as easy as pie. That anyone with half a brain got certification without doing a lick of work. Have fun, the guidance teacher had said. Misguidance teacher. What a liar! What a gigantic, diabolic lie! And I chose to believe him.

She straggled across the street and entered C.J. Wheatley’s Pool Hall and Tobacco Shop, her grandfather’s building, and waited for her eyes to adapt to the murky darkness.

Cigar smoke and guffaws drifted out from the backroom. One familiar voice carried over the rest, carried over the click-clack of billiard balls, followed by tittering encouragement. Betty shrugged off a fluttery-stomach sensation: Dad. Too-handsome dad. Playing up to some floozy who should be home waxing floors, not hanging about in a backroom billiard world, not dallying with my dad.

She wrinkled her nose—not at her father’s charismatic palaver which she knew could swing the other way, swing into tongue-lashing as fast as a weathervane on a gusty day. She was used to that. What bothered Betty was the neglected air of the tobacco counter, the one part of the seamy business with an aura of propriety and prosperity: oak and glass cases filled with cedar-boxed cigars and tin-encased cigarettes.

No wonder I’m hopeless, she thought—neither my dad nor grampa are at the cash desk. Anyone could clean the place out. Any of those billiard players. Any person off the street. All of us Wheatleys: tarred with incompetence and feathered with trust.

She wondered if she should enter the inner sanctum, then decided against it. Much better to use her father’s backroom dalliance as an excuse to postpone confession and confrontation.

She slipped out the door.

Heading nowhere, she passed by the Trail Daily Times office, the train station and Cominco’s Company Store—fuming as indignantly as the smelter smoke stacks: sky-high erections spurting out noxious fumes, using dilution to mask pollution. As misleading, as untrustworthy as the high school guidance teacher.

Who else is to blame for this mess, this rejection? Who else did I trust? Cameron McDonald? Yes. Oh, yes. Cameron. My Cameron, damn him. Mostly Cam, with his take-off-your-clothes eyes. And I trusted him most of all. Trusted him with the most important thing I had. And, what’s worse, wanted to trust him.

At tryst after tryst, moonlit nights on the boulder strewn mountainside among runty birches, Cameron, breathing sweet breath, mouthing sweet words, tutoring sweet urgings in Betty’s willing body eloquently poured forth his limited knowledge of current sex practices, like some Jesuit-in-training trying to use logic to convert an atheist.

Easily sixty to eighty percent of girls our age have had sex. They just won’t admit it. But it’s a fact. Everyone knows it. Earnest persuasiveness murmured by mesmerizing lips. Delivered right to the vulnerable and responsive curve of Betty’s young neck.

"Besides, I’m in pain from all this passion. When I go home I have to use ice cubes to relieve the swelling, it’s a freaky medical condition called lover’s nuts. I’ll need surgery unless you just hold me here, like this… ."

Before she could scramble together a list of rights and wrongs, do’s and don’ts, she was accommodating him; and then, he was accommodating her.

So much for trusting lovers and misguidance teachers.

Eventually it occurred to her what to do. She picked up her pace, and her high heels pounded the hot concrete sidewalks. She turned onto Eldorado Street, then Bay. Tell your mother! Tell your mother! the sharp heels sung out. Betty responded by nodded her head emphatically. My mother will come up with a solution. She’ll tell me what to do. All my life she’s told me what to do.

She banged open the front door of Armour Shoes, the store her mother managed. The clerk, Joyce, stared at her. "Heavens, Betty, you are in a rush!"

Where’s my mother?

"In the basement, checking stock. Noraahh!" Her voice had the timbre of a rasp.

When Nora Wheatley made her entrance, wearing the best that the Famous Dress Shoppe had to offer, she radiated poise and authority befitting her prestigious position as shoe-store manageress. Betty latched onto her mother’s piercing eyes and launched her disappointment with an explosion of words, blasts of agony. . . . and if that wasn’t bad enough… the inspector lectured me about my attitude—

But Nora raised her manicured hand as though warding off an evil spirit and hurled a get-busy glance at all-ears-Joyce, who ducked her head, jumped up onto a stool, and began patting and rearranging the wall-lined shoeboxes.

Then Nora lit into Betty. "Betts. Really . . . not now. Not here. Joyce and I are terribly busy. We’ll talk tonight. At home. She looked as though she would derive pleasure from stuffing a rag down Betty’s throat. Besides… I need you to go to the Safeway." Her frigid dismissal knocked the rage out of Betty. Left her floundering.

Groceries more important than my future? Not a single comforting word, not a hint of what to do? Did I say it all wrong?

Outside, Betty rushed to the nearest phone. She held it with trembling hands. Cam? I-I’m down-downtown. I need you desperately. I’m too late. My life’s ruined. Ruined. A cooler, split-off part of her savoured the drama of the word. It sounded like something Ingrid Bergman would say.

Oh, no. Late? Are you sure?

She blinked back tears. Yes. We need to talk. Meet me at the Crown Point. Right away. Thank God for Cam, always running when I need him. Except it’s his fault I’m in this mess in the first place—so he should run.

Betty lugged two bags of groceries over to the Crown Point Restaurant and instantly spotted Cameron.

A juke box dispensed the chocolate-syrup strains of Frankie Laine, cajoling Cameron to leave his worries on the doorstep and just direct his feet to the sunny side of the street, but the doleful Cameron, he of the sun-tinged brushcut and sensual eyes was having none of Frank’s persuasiveness. Cameron, ensconced in one of the maroon leatherette booths, was too busy rubbing and clutching his forehead as though he had a monumental hangover.

Betty dropped into the booth opposite him, plopped the brown paper bags onto the tabletop, sending the salt and peppershakers bashing into Cameron’s coke float.

Cameron, eyes glued to Betty, whacked the coke foam—which had spread about like splashes of molten lead—off his pride and joy: a bright red UBC Engineering sweater. The precious sweater flaunted those damn numbers, those red-flag-at-a-bull numbers—1954. Three more years of separation, they jeered. Three more years of school claiming his attention, keeping him away from her.

How late are you? The normally calm and controlled Cameron was jumpy.

She stared into his eyes. Late. Really late. Cameron froze. His face turned white.

I should have applied here at Easter. But I wanted to teach school in Vancouver. Near you. Nowhere else. The inspector gave me a lecture instead of a job.

Cameron exhaled; his tension dissolved; he stopped rubbing his forehead. Jeez, thank you, God. The colour returned to his face. You had me scared shitless—I thought we’d have to get married, and I’d have to quit school. I’d have to work forever at that fucking smelter…

Hearing only shit and fuck, Betty forgot her immediate predicament. Her eyes blazed, then dulled. Typical Cameron. Erudition one minute, smelter-talk the next. And both personalities totally pragmatic. He could spout on and on about Eddington’s proof of Einstein’s theory and Huxley’s defence of Darwin, impressing her, then jump from his podium down to shop-floor vulgarity. Nevertheless she desperately wanted him—and his irresistible, Russian Roulette sex urgings—to be bonded to her by church documents. She wanted to become respectable, apronned, ironing-board-owner Mrs. Cameron McDonald. Right now. This very minute.

She stabbed at her coke float until the paraffin-coated straws buckled and choked off. She felt hot and cold, she felt nauseous, felt short of breath. She wiped her streaming eyes and nose onto her white-gloved hand. An armload of Woolworth charm bracelets jingle-jangled up and down her arm. It was ages before she could speak.

Cameron waited apprehensively, clueless as to what he might safely say to her.

My dad will murder me. And my mother—oh! I think she’s disowned me. I’m a total failure. My life is in absolute shreds. Betty plunked her elbows on the table and Cameron’s hand zipped over to brace her drink. I never wanted to be a damn teacher, anyhow, she said. It was my mother’s idea. I used to want to be an actress, but now I only— It was useless to say the rest, to say that ever since Cameron had opened the floodgates of her sexuality, she had lost herself. Cameron, by the look on his face, could not, would not understand her fears, her hopes, her lack of motivation. And, she had to admit, neither did she.

Betty’s limp float was coffee-coloured now. Curds of vanilla ice cream coated the walls of the glass.

Betty’s Gramma Beaton, with her cigarette, as usual, cupped in such a way as to simultaneously yellow her silver hair and drop ash onto her apron (adding fresh burns to the ones already there) watched the bustling unfold before her with astonished eyes.

Not the actual cooking of the meal—that was Faye’s jurisdiction. Faye, Betty’s sister, a carbon copy of Betty: the same skinny body, the same insignificant height, same long hair framing her round face. Except Faye’s hair was brown, not inferno-red like Betty’s. Faye was the one to add the salt, smooth the gravy, time the vegetables. Trustworthy Faye Wheatley—not Betty—performed tasty miracles every night.

But tonight, Gramma Beaton watched Betty arrange kitchen-plate masterpieces: mashed potatoes diagonally balanced by minutely diced carrots and circled by green peas; curves of finely sliced beef bedded in light swirls of gravy. Culinary Cubism bisected by slivers of ruby red beets. Gramma Beaton shook her head. Too much change; change meant trouble.

Nora, tight-lipped, impatiently jiggling her well-curved leg and her well-shod foot, waited for her daughter’s announcement, waited for her husband’s resultant, inevitable explosion, as Betty flitted from the stove to the table, serving Faye’s dinner.

Betty’s contribution was a fresh-from-the-oven raisin cake, her father’s favourite. The whole ambitious meal designed to tranquilize Glen, to soften him up for bad news. The four women in the house knew they would witness his anger; it was the degree of rage they were conspiring to control.

Pass me some more gravy, Betts. Damn fine meal you girls made. Light reflected off Glen’s scalp as he bent over his plate. It distracted Betty. How, she wondered, does he achieve such a shine? Does he spit-and-polish his head, like he does his oxfords? Baldness ought to be offensive, but not on my shiny dad, somehow, it—

Nora snapped Betty out of her reverie. Betty has something to tell you, Glen. Speak up, commanded Nora’s leg. Spill out the wretched news.

Mother’s right. Make the plunge now, thought Betty. Now, while he’s still mellow. But before she could blurt out her misery, the telephone rang.

Get that goddamn phone, Betts. Tell ’em I’m not home. A man should be able to eat in peace.

Betty ran to the hallway and grabbed the phone. She uttered a handful of terse yesses, a smattering of excuses and one sharp intake of air followed by a prolonged exhalation. In a voice they all recognized as deferential. A voice reserved for authority.

Finally, Betty hung up and called out: I’ve got a job! A job! She dashed back to the kitchen. That was Trail’s school inspector. He just got me a teaching job. I’ll be teaching three middle grades at a place called Narrows.

Nora’s eyes rolled skyward in a prayer of thanks.

Glen did not even look up from his plate, from the desecration he had wrought on Betty’s masterpiece. Damn good thing, Betts, bloody well time you got some cash into your life and stopped being a noose around my neck. Christ, I’d been working three years by the time I was nineteen.

Gramma Beaton settled back and sipped a mouthful of tea. Crisis averted. Faye smiled her relief.

Nora unpursed her lips. Narrows? Where on earth is Narrows, Glen?

To hell and gone. It’s at the pinchpoint between the two Arrow Lakes. Glen jolted upright. Hell! Narrows? That’s near where Hop-along Freddie and Shorty and I met up with the grizzlies! Food forgotten, pupils narrowed and fixated, Glen lowered his voice to a yarn-telling hush.

I knew to freeze, and Shorty did too, but old Freddie, he got the heebie-jeebies and ran like hell, the damn fool. Great big mother grizzly went after him… crunched on his leg, shook him like a rag doll.

Glen shook his head back and forth, reenacting the moment. "Couldn’t shoot her. Freddie was in the way. Wasn’t till I shot the cub that the mother dropped Freddie, then Shorty blasted her.

Jesus. I can still hear Freddie’s skin popping and his bones cracking when that grizzly sank her teeth in—see his leg bumping along, bloody bones sticking out as we dragged him through the bush…

Betty had heard this story so often she could recite it. But now she could not swallow. Now the story had meaning. Her first job—in a place where animals feasted on humans.

. . . and that damn bear meat tasted like jam. Those bears must’ve eaten a ton of huckleberries.

Glen reached for a slice of Betty’s raisin cake. Not much to Narrows, Betts. An excuse for a hotel and a couple of shacks next to the lake.

Nora had displayed increasing impatience with Glen’s oft-told tale. The instant he finished, she took over. "Betts. I’m terribly disappointed. Why on earth didn’t the inspector give you a job here?"

Betty fidgeted. There was nothing explosive in Nora’s voice, but it, as always, knotted Betty’s stomach. The inspector said there was nothing available locally. I’m too late, I was—

"I know, I know, interrupted Nora. But I’m really surprised at that man. He has the power to rearrange things, so why didn’t he? Didn’t you ask him? And why didn’t you wear the grey suit I picked out for your job interview? You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you in that coral dress and veiled hat. Crinolines. And all those fake charm bracelets? So very cheapening. Really."

Betty’s splendid vision of herself dissolved into a caricature.

Nora’s voice rose another notch. "And I’m so shocked and hurt you weren’t more circumspect when you came into the store. My daughter’s inadequacies spilled out in front of blabbermouth Joyce! You might as well have broadcast them on CJAT radio."

Betty flushed. I just never thought. Joyce was probably already spouting versions of Betty’s failure to every customer. Guilt suffused her as Nora’s disapproval rained down upon her shoulders. She felt she deserved every word. Poor Mother. How embarrassing for her. How thoughtless of me.

"I’m not driving you to Narrows. Not in my new Henry J. Rotten mountain roads would shake the hell out of it. You take the sternwheeler, said Glen, pointing his fork at Betty. You have to leave here on a Friday. The Minto only goes up the lake twice a week. Can’t go by bus. Buses only go to Nakusp. None from there to Narrows."

Betty tensed. Off on a boat—all alone—to a hell-and-gone place, a couple of shacks called Narrows? Three grades at the same time? Farther away from Cam then ever before? No love, no sex for a whole year? All the while surrounded by bloodthirsty bears? Bears. Betty slid the word over her tongue. Then other words shaped themselves and tumbled out before she could stop them. Blasphemous words, she knew it the moment they hit the air, though she had only whispered them.

I’m not going.

Those words sped toward her dad. Hit him like an avalanche. "Not going? Not going? You think you can hang around here for the rest of your life, goddammit, sponging off me? Jesus, I knew it! His arms shot skyward then slammed down on the surprised table. I knew you couldn’t cut the mustard! He spun away his half-eaten dessert. And your bloody cake’s as dry as toast. What the hell did you do to it?"

Betty held her portion of dry raisin cake near her mouth, unable to take even one bite, let alone answer.

A glance at Betty’s waiting, open mouth, like some baby bird demanding its food, was the final straw. Up went Glen’s right arm. It swung past Betty’s face, hit her slice of cake and propelled the slice across the table and into Gramma Beaton’s teacup. On the return swing, the arm swept Betty’s gravy-smeared plate, utensils and full teacup from the table. They crashed to the floor in one giant crescendo.

He shot up and loomed over her. Not another bite at my table until you smarten up. Then he slammed his way down to the basement.

Gramma Beaton pursed her mouth. Foolish girl. You mind your tongue when you shouldn’t and speak when you oughtn’t. She shook her finger at Betty’s dissolving face. No one with Beaton blood cries over spilt milk. There’s lots worse will happen to you in life than your father’s few words.

"Oh, you’re so—so right, Ma, said Nora. Dry your eyes, Betts. For goodness sake don’t be so terribly, terribly sensitive. You’ve got a job, which is more than you had an hour ago."

Betty suppressed conflicting urges to both grovel for sympathy and rail at her mother; she suppressed frustration, suppressed a coil of rage, suppressed everything.

Her sister Faye flashed a look of commiseration. One by one—grandmother, mother and sister—left her sitting in stunned embarrassment.

Betty crouched over the strewn remains of her dinner, picking out the largest shards of broken crockery, her vision tear-blurred. I don’t have a choice. There’s no choice for me—I have to go to Hell and Gone, to Blood and Bears, to Narrows. I have no choice.

The kitchen cooled off; ceased emanating rich and promising food aromas. An unnatural quietness suffused the house, as if everyone within its walled spaces had vanished. Betty stayed frozen in her crouch position, staring at the mess, the chaos, unaware of the ragged breathing coming from within her.

Chapter 2

Who’s ’im, Bill? A stranger!

’Eave ’arf a brick at ’im.

—Punch

W a ke up, miss. Ship’s docking at Narrows. Your stop."

The captain reversed the paddlewheel, eased the Minto into a dock and cut the thumping engines. The abrupt silence was broken only by backwash splashing the shore. The steward held a door open and Betty stepped over the high doorsill, straining to see beyond the single beam of light cast by the sternwheeler. Past it, she could see nothing. Nothing but eerie, end-of-the world blackness.

Where are the shacks? The lights? The people? Get off the Minto to nothingness—or worse—into a forest of waiting bears? Every hair on her body stiffened with fear. She was about to throw herself on the mercy of the waiting steward when she saw the wavering beam of a flashlight farther down the dock. Two men gradually became visible as they walked into the sternwheeler’s projected spotlight. Their footsteps resounded loudly in the inky stillness.

A faceless voice called out to the two shadowy figures. Hey, Bill, Jake, got a little schoolteacher on board for you.

What, tonight? Lord almighty…

Betty held back. The steward prodded her down the steep metal stairs. Move along, miss, no need to be afraid. That’s Bill Trent, miss. He’ll help you out. Off you go. Betty stepped onto the dock.

The Minto’s searchlight lit up the two men on the wharf. They were of a similar build: long and lanky, with weathered faces. Hunting caps on their heads, plaid shirts and loose woollen sweaters over baggy pants. Work boots. Betty looked to see if they carried guns for protection but they did not.

This what you’re down here for then, Bill? called out the same disembodied voice. A small package sailed through the air. Bill caught it, then turned to face Betty. He positioned himself for lecturing. Betty tensed, recognizing the move only too well.

"Young lady… piece of luck I’m here. You could’ve been stuck on this dock all alone, all bloody night long. No one meets the Minto when it’s this late."

Betty opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was typical of her tongue to lose communication with her brain whenever she really needed them to work as a team.

With a rude horn blast, the sternwheeler shoved off, returning the shore to blackness and a single flashlight.

The gruff voice continued. The name’s Bill Trent. School board trustee. This here’s Jake Patten. God almighty, you schoolteachers are all alike. Full of the wrong kind of surprises. Who did you contact up here for room and board?

M-my father told me there’s a hotel here in Narrows. I’m going to stay there tonight and f-find my way around in the morning, she managed. Ten hours on the throbbing, reverberating sternwheeler had not completely silenced her.

The hotel? It’s closed. A trapper and his wife are renting it for the winter.

Now Betty’s voice really shut down. Dried up for good, she feared.

Maybe they’d let you share a mattress with all a them cats they got. Must be dozens of ’em, said Jake Patten, the other shoreman, Bill Trent’s companion. Jake grinned, looking to left and right as though a fullhouse audience was applauding his wit.

Betty frowned and blinked back tears. How could he joke when her very existence was at stake?

Why do schoolteachers always give me problems? Bill Trent waved his flashlight heavenward, as though searching there for an answer. I’ll have to ask Granny Trent if you can stay at her place tonight. I don’t look forward to asking. A loud rumble emanated from his stomach.

"Well, good luck, Bill. Ee hee hee! Gran’ Trent sure got mad at the last teachers she had. Them two who had the rip snortin’ parties," said Jake.

No one else wants any teachers this year, either. What’s your name? Miss Wheatley, isn’t it? Let’s go up to Granny’s place, then, said Bill. The two men stepped into the dark night and began to ascend a steep road.

Betty scrambled to keep up with them. H-how do you know my name?

You’re from Trail. Bill ignored her question. You related to old T.J. Wheatley? Wheatley’s Billiards?

The mention of her Grampa Wheatley—the solidness, the reality of him in the heavy darkness, calmed Betty somewhat. "T.J. Wheatley’s Billiards and Tobacco Shop. That’s my grandfather. He’s a tobacconist." She emphasized the word because of its respectability. She hated being linked to the pool hall.

The ground levelled out. The flashlight beam highlighted a white picket fence. A few steps more brought them to a house. The three of them walked up some stairs, Betty ending up on the lowest one, behind Bill and Jake.

Here goes nothin’, said Jake, grinning down at her.

Bill knocked at the door. Black silence. Bill knocked again. From the depths of the house, a moving light appeared.

A woman opened the door. Short, plump, clutching a pale-blue chenille dressing robe around her, glaring suspiciously out at them. Holding a kerosene lamp. Watery blue eyes blazing at Bill. What on earth are you doing banging on my door in the middle of the night?

Bill’s stomach rumbled like a cement mixer. I-I’m sorry, Granny, I realize it’s ten-thirty, but-

"Ten-thirty? Granny waggled her metal curler clad head. She pursed her lips so tightly they disappeared. Ten thirty! Bill, you know I go to bed early. I need my sleep."

"I’ve got a schoolteacher here. She just came in on the Minto. Granny, if you’ll just have her for the night, I promise to find her a place in the morning."

I’ve told you over and over, I don’t want strangers staying here. Granny tried to peer around the men. Where is she?

Jake pulled Betty up to his step. Here yuh are. Miz Wheatie. Just like the breakfast cereal, you know? ‘Wheaties—the Breakfast of Champions’.

Wheatley, said Bill and Betty in unison. Betty continued, I’m Betty Wheatley—teacher for grades four, five and six…

Granny pushed her lamp forward. Her taut, furious features unwound a fraction of an iota. Why, you’re too young to teach those big children. You’re just a child yourself.

Betty the would-be actress, intent on the night’s bed, struck a soulful, suitably child-like expression. At the same instant, she saw Bill looking down at her dubiously. Oh no, she thought, now he’s assessing me too, assessing my potential as a teacher.

How tall are you? he asked.

Five foot three, she lied, and reached up to hide her nose. Damn stupid baby nose. Well, at least having a too-high forehead is an asset—makes me look intelligent. So do my new glasses. She thrust her jaw forward in the manner, she hoped, of a student-frightening bulldog.

But Bill remained skeptical and Granny looked as though she were swallowing castor oil. She pulled Betty inside and slammed the door in Bill’s face. Pick up your suitcases. Follow me.

As Betty manoeuvred her bulky suitcases through a narrow space—following Granny, her shadow and her kerosene lamp—she resolved to ingratiate herself somehow. Your living room is very pretty. She rummaged for further tactical remarks, but her eyes locked onto the room’s light switches. Why doesn’t she turn at least one of them on?

"Humph, you can’t see much by this wretched lamp. When I came here from England