Elixir (2 page)

My mother picked up the pace and we left the protestors behind. I looked back over my shoulder and watched them. What was it that they wanted?

We stopped in front of another large building. My mother hesitated a moment and squeezed my hand again before we climbed the long stone steps that led up to the grand wooden doors. As she opened one of the doors I could tell by the strain in her face that it was very heavy.
Inside, the air was stuffy and still and hot. The foyer was deserted and our heels echoed off the polished stone floor.

“It's this way,” my mother said, speaking very quietly, as if she were afraid she might wake somebody up.

I followed close behind as she led me down a long corridor and into a stairwell. We climbed the steps and pushed through a door leading to the second floor. The hallway was lined with broad windows that let in the bright sunlight. It was even hotter than the foyer below. We stopped in front of a dark wooden door. There was a brass nameplate: Professor McDonald. My mother took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and knocked.

“Come in!” came a voice from inside.

My mother pushed open the door. There on the other side of a vast desk sat a man—Professor McDonald, I assumed. He looked up from his papers and burst into a big smile.

“Elizabeth!” he exclaimed as he got to his feet. “It is
so
good to see you!” He circled around the desk. I was startled by the way he moved, awkwardly, limping badly on one leg. He came over and gave my mother a kiss on the cheek.

“And this can't be Ruth, can it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I curtsied and looked down at the floor.

“Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “You were so little the last time I saw you and now you're practically all grown up … no longer a little girl but a lovely young woman.”
I allowed a shy smile and looked up, almost meeting his eyes.

“Please, Elizabeth, Ruth, have a seat,” he said.

My mother took a seat on a big chesterfield and I sat down beside her.

“This is a lovely office,” my mother said.

“It's one of the benefits that came with my new position,” he said. “When your husband and I first started working at the university, we used to say that the larger the office, the less important the person occupying it.” He gestured around the spacious room. “So judging from this I must be a very
unimportant
individual.”

“I'm certain that is not the case,” my mother said, smiling.

Professor McDonald laughed. “I'm no longer teaching students, you know. I'm an administrator now.”

“I'd heard of your new position,” my mother said.

“After I returned from the war they felt that my injuries made this job more suitable.” He reached down and tapped on his leg—there was a wooden sound, like somebody knocking on a door. “I guess I shouldn't complain … others lost far more than a leg.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. I knew he meant people like my father who had lost their lives.

“Now where are my manners? Could I offer you both a cool drink? Some lemonade?”

“Yes!” I blurted out. “Thank you,” I added, and my mother nodded in agreement.

Professor McDonald went to a side table. There was a large pitcher of lemonade, condensation dripping down the side. He poured three glasses and passed two to my mother and me.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” my mother said.

Professor McDonald took the third glass. He sat down in an armchair across from the chesterfield. “To old friends and old memories,” he said as he lifted the glass and took a sip.

Now that he had taken a sip I could take one as well. It was wonderfully cold and sweet.

“This is one of the few things that make the heat even halfway bearable,” Professor McDonald said. “I was reading in yesterday's paper that this has thus far been the hottest June since they started keeping records in the late 1700s.”

“It has been very hot,” my mother agreed. “We nearly melted on our walk here today.”

“I was hoping it would be hot enough to drive away our unwanted guests,” Professor McDonald said, gesturing to the window. Outside in the distance we could see the demonstrators in front of the other building. “I thought the weather would drive them away, but this is their third time here in the past week.”

“Just what exactly are they protesting for … or against?” my mother asked.

“They're part of the Anti-Vivisection Society, a fairly new organization, at least in this country. It's a group
that originally formed in New England. They're opposed to vivisection, the use of animals for medical and scientific research,” Professor McDonald explained.

“People don't really use animals in research, do they?” I exclaimed.

My mother shot me a look. It wasn't polite of me to speak out like that.

Professor McDonald reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. “It is an unfortunate reality. Sometimes animals must be used in experiments that benefit mankind.” He paused. “But I'm sure you didn't come here to ask about these misguided animal lovers and their cause. Elizabeth, you mentioned in your telephone call that there might be a service I could perform for you.”

“Yes, there is,” my mother said. “I was hoping that in your new position you could grant me a favour.”

“You know that if it's within my power it is yours.”

I sat there looking down at the carpet. I knew what my mother was going to ask. I also knew how hard this was for her.

“Since John died,” she began, “things have been … difficult.”

Professor McDonald nodded in understanding.

My mother went on. “There have been changes we have had to make. Changes such as selling our home.”

“You had to sell the house?” Professor McDonald sounded surprised and upset. “I had no idea. I have such fond memories of sitting in the backyard sharing
afternoon tea with you and John and other members of the faculty.”

“I'm glad,” my mother said.

“It was a lovely home … a place where I always felt welcome … where all of us felt welcome.”

“It was our hope that people would feel that way. John and I loved entertaining. I think some of his happiest moments were when he was home and surrounded by his friends … and of course his family.” My mother reached over and took my hand. “It was with great sadness that we had to sell the house, but there was no alternative. There is a small pension from the university. It's not enough, though, to support us in the comforts we enjoyed when my husband was still alive. That's why I have come to see you today.”

“Elizabeth, I will certainly help you in any way I can … with what money I have available.”

“I'm not asking for money,” my mother said sharply.

“I'm so sorry,” Professor McDonald quickly replied, somewhat flustered now. “I didn't mean to imply … I hope I didn't offend you.”

“No offence was taken,” my mother said. “I would never accept such an offer, but I
am
in need of your assistance.” She paused. “I am in need of employment.”

“A job?”

My mother nodded. “I'm aware that in your administrative position you are responsible for hiring at the university.”

“That's certainly within my powers,” he said. “But … but the people I hire—the professors, the teaching assistants—are all professionals. And times being what they are, we hire men to fill those positions. I could, perhaps, make a case for your employment if you were highly qualified to teach in one of the faculties or—”

“I am not qualified,” my mother said. “I was only partway through my degree in fine arts when John and I wed, and there seemed no point in continuing my education when my future was to be a wife and mother.”

“Understandable,” Professor McDonald agreed.

“I was just hoping there might be some other job within the university that I could perform,” she said.

“The only other jobs are for secretaries—”

“I'm afraid I have skills in neither dictation nor typing.”

“Or cleaning staff.”

“Cleaning staff?” my mother asked.

“There are women in each building responsible for emptying the trash, sweeping, scrubbing floors … honest work, but well below your station in life, of course.”

“And if I wished to be considered for such a job?”

Professor McDonald looked shocked. “Surely you jest.”

She shook her head.

“I couldn't even
consider
allowing a woman such as yourself, the widow of a distinguished professor, a close personal friend, a war hero, to work as a common cleaning woman.”

“Would you instead consider allowing my daughter and me to go hungry?” I could hear the determination in her voice.

“If money is the issue I can—”

My mother rose to her feet. “I
cannot
accept charity, no matter how kindly meant. But I will accept your assistance in securing employment.” She paused. “Will you grant me that favour?”

Professor McDonald stood as well now. He did not answer immediately. It was obvious from his expression that he was thinking, struggling to come up with some answer that had not yet been conceived or discussed.

“Well?” my mother asked, with all the dignity she could muster.

“It is against my wishes. But I'll make the necessary arrangements,” he said.

“Come, Ruth.” My mother offered me her hand and I rose from the chesterfield to leave with her. She turned to the professor. “You are both a gentleman and a good friend to the memory of my husband … thank you.”

CHAPTER TWO

“
HOW ARE YOU
coming along with your spelling?” my mother asked.

I looked up from the long list of words on the desk in front of me. “I'm doing fine,” I said coldly. “I just don't understand why I have to be here doing this all day.”

“First, you are here because I have to be here at my job. Second, you are studying spelling because, judging from your report card, you need to study spelling. And third, don't take that tone of voice with me, young lady.”

I felt my cheeks start to get red. “I'm sorry,” I said.

She put a hand on my shoulder. “I know there are more pleasant things for a young girl to be doing on a sunny summer day, but it's important for you to master your schoolwork, even if school is over for the year.”

“I know,” I mumbled.

“And you need to be able to spell if you're going to become a nurse … or especially a doctor.”

“A doctor?” I tried to imagine a woman doctor, but I kept picturing our own family physician, a rather grumpy man with a moustache and very cold hands.

“Why not a doctor? It's a new time, a new era. Now that women have the right to vote, why shouldn't a woman be a doctor? A doctor can always earn a living, no matter what happens in life.” She paused. “But a doctor has to know how to spell. Now, I'd better get back to my work.”

My mother started off down the hall. It made me a bit sad to see her dressed in her drab cleaning clothing. Walking to the university each morning she wore a nice dress, pretty shoes, and a stylish hat. But once at work she changed into a faded housedress, sensible but scuffed lace-up shoes, and a long apron. She looked older, tired, dressed in those clothes.

“Mother?” I called out, and she turned around. “Do you need some help?”

She smiled. “I'll do my job and you do yours.”

“But I've memorized most all of the words.”

“When you've memorized
all
of them, we can talk.”

Sitting at the desk my mother had moved into the hallway for me, I looked down at my spelling list again for what felt like the hundredth time. It just seemed that no matter how hard I tried I couldn't keep all the words in my head. When I learned a new word, I lost one of the ones I already had. Of course that was nothing new. The best I could ever do was keep the words in my
head until the test. Then right after, like a toilet flushing, the words were gone. Words that I'd spelled perfectly on my dictation would be horribly wrong in my assignments a few days later. My teacher thought I just wasn't taking enough care. I
did
care. I just couldn't spell.

Maybe I needed to take a break. It was too hot to work, and I let my head droop down to rest on the desktop. It felt cool against my cheek. In the distance I could hear the squeaky little wheels of my mother's cleaning cart. It was one of the few sounds in the whole building, because the place was practically deserted that early in the day. All the students were gone for summer break and the teachers and professors who did come in never seemed to arrive before noon.

I heard the big front door open and lifted my head to see a man enter. I'd seen him before—he'd even said hello to me. He was tall and thin and wore a suit and tie. The suit seemed a little worn. He had a friendly face and little round glasses. My mother told me he worked up on the top floor beside where they kept the animals. I'd been up to that floor only once. It was the hottest part of the entire building, and then there was the smell and the noise. Why did they even have dogs up there, and did they ever stop barking?

The man exchanged words with old Mr. Mercer, the security guard, who sat at a desk by the front door. Everybody coming and going had to check in with Mr. Mercer, and only the people whose names
were on his list were allowed into the building. The man walked toward me. He had an amused look on his face, and I dropped my gaze back to my spelling list.

“Every time I see you you're at work,” he said.

I looked up. He was standing right in front of me.

“You must be the hardest-working person in the entire university.”

“Um … I don't really go to the university,” I said.

He laughed. “I suspected you were a little young, even to be a first-year student.”