Under A Living Sky (8 page)

“What about me, Papa?” shouted Joseph. “What about me?”

“Oh! Sorry, son!” Papa gave Joseph a salute and a wink. Joseph winked back by blinking both eyes. Then he tried to salute and stuck his thumb into his right eye socket. His eye watered, his eyelid quivered and his lip came out. As everyone laughed at him, he took only a moment to decide not to cry. Then he poked himself again.

“Joseph, stop it,” said Mother. “You'll put your eye out.”

“Remember when I was a sheep in the Christmas play?” said Judith. “All the grade fours wanted to be animals, but me and Annie and Noelle won. Everyone else got the long straws. I was supposed to be a cow, but in practice Andy, the shepherd, tripped over me on the way to the manger, and I made a bleat like a sheep. Everyone laughed so hard that I became a sheep. Andy took off one of Theresa's angel wings too, when he fell over me, and then he knocked off Anthony's turban—he was the taller wise man—knocked off his turban with that shepherd's crook of his, reckless boy.”

In spite of her recent loss, Mary found herself caught up in Judith's story. Imagining herself as the entire cast at once, she felt the shepherd boy trip over her back, she sensed her angel wing fall away through the air, and she saw that long crook reach for her turban.

“Yes, you made an excellent sheep,” said Papa. “I was all set to bring that sheep home to fatten for Mother's pot!”

Even Mother laughed at that one.

Mary thought about the wing and the turban flying. She saw the crook on the shepherd's staff swinging, she saw the boy lying in a tangle over the bleating sheep and she saw her sister untangling herself. Mary giggled on through the meal.

When supper came to an end, Mother said, “Well, Mary, it wasn't that funny!” But Mother was grinning in spite of herself.

“Let me tell you a story then,” said Mary. “It's a story about Judith the sheep, about boys tripping over her and purple turbans.” Her body convulsed with excitement. “Then angels were shrieking, ‘Surprise! Hosanna Gloria!' Wise men were counting by night. They're old men hollering at each other because they're hitting each other with the crook, and Judith's a bleating sheep who butts them off the stage.” She butted her head up and squealed at this mental picture. Judith and Joseph and Papa laughed along with her, but not Mother.

Mother's brow furrowed. Before Mary had a chance to end her story, Mother said, “Let's rein ourselves in, now, shall we? Come help me do these dishes. That'll steady you down. There's no point in letting yourself go berserk.”

Mary looked at Judith. In everybody's hearing, Judith had offered to do the dishes for Mary. Judith stared at her empty plate. Then Mary realized how ridiculous that was. How foolish to expect favors from her sister.

Mary cleared the table. While she was drying the plates, Judith came from behind and took the dishtowel from her. “You go listen to the radio with Papa,” she said. “I promised.”

“Thank you!” Astonished, Mary skipped away to the living room, where the radio was hissing in the corner. A group of men began to sing “Sweet Adeline.” Judith and Mother finished the dishes and sat down in time for a radio game of some kind, which Mary didn't understand and could barely hear in any case because of Papa's snoring.

Papa took up the entire sofa, and Mary half-listened from the floor beside him. Then she fell asleep. She woke up and Judith was lying on the floor beside her.

“Shh!” Papa said before anyone could utter a word.

“Farmers at the meeting maintained the native pasture is damaged so badly it will be some years before it will be of any use. Livestock cannot get anything to eat even in the seeded crops, and the government is planning more relief efforts. Local grain crops did not grow last year and are not expected to grow this year due to drifting dust and precipitation levels about half of normal. The price of grain has been trading higher lately, close to a dollar per bushel, but the drought has reduced production averages to eight bushels per acre from our 1928 high of twenty-three bushels. The farmers were very concerned about the twelve thousand Saskatchewan farms abandoned last year alone. The prospect for 1937 is grim indeed, and our weather office predicts severe dust storms will sweep the area once more this coming season.”

Papa and Mother looked at each other with tears in their eyes.

Judith groaned. Mary went to bed.

In the morning, when Mary woke, bright bars of sunlight streamed through the shutters. Narrow bands of yellow light stepped across the quilt. She reached lazily to the pillow beside her. But Jessy was not there.

After feeling all about and under the pillow, Mary remembered. Jessy was no longer with them. All day yesterday they had searched and searched in vain. She was lost somewhere in the snow, perhaps worse. After too short a time together, she and Jessy had been parted.

Mary began to cry, quietly at first, but then she let the tears come. She was alone. Everything good had begun with Jessy, and now, so soon, it was ending. The hole in her heart felt like it must be getting bigger. Then a strange thing happened. A warm arm came from Judith's side of the bed, wrapped itself around Mary's shoulders and held her tightly.

Expecting a vicious pinch, Mary tensed. But there was no pain. If an arm could be friendly, this one certainly was. And Judith had done the dishes. Mary's panic eased off. The heat and pressure of that thin arm gave her some comfort. The slender fingers that had once twisted any bit of bare skin, stroked Mary's hair.

Maybe, mused Mary, she was not quite alone. With all these people around, there was no need to be alone. But she had to wonder why Judith had waited so long to be friendly. It felt nice, but Mary didn't say anything. At this point the wrong words might ruin everything.

Chapter 10

Judith approached Mary with an envelope. “Here,” she said. “We made them in school. Next year you will too.”

What a strange feeling it was to accept something from Judith. Less than a week had passed, and she and Judith were inseparable. From the moment of that encircling arm, the two girls had eaten together, played together after school and helped each other with chores. Late at night they talked. As moonbeams inched across their bed, they told each other about when they would marry and planned how they would live in Davidson across the street from each other. They would visit each other and send their children to visit each other too. For Christmas and Easter they would send their husbands to the farm to pick up Mother and Joseph and Papa, if he'd come, and they'd all go to church. Their husbands would drive shiny new cars, not old jalopies pulled by horses.

Mary didn't really plan to give up the farm and her valley so easily, nor Papa and Mother, nor Clyde, but she did want to play along with Judith. The past days had been full of stunning moments, and now Judith was giving her something that she had made.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“For Valentine's Day.”

“What's that?”

“Open it and see.”

A small card was tucked into the envelope. A big heart, colored red with crayon, had been drawn on the card-face, and a horseshoe of words was placed unevenly around this heart. “What are these words?” Judith's printing wasn't the best.

Judith pointed at each word. “Won't you be my Valentine? Love, Judith.”

“Won't you be my Valentine? Wow!”

“Yes, wow!”

“But Judith, what does it mean?”

“It means I'm happy to be your sister, and I hope we'll be friends forever. I made one for Papa too, and Mother.”

The news that others were also to receive valentines made Mary's seem a little less special, but all in all she was happy to get anything nice from Judith. She sure didn't want to go back to being enemies. And she couldn't afford to lose any friends. “Miss Catherine says the winter storms are all but through,” Judith said, sipping her make-believe tea. They were celebrating the Ides of March by having a tea party up in the hayloft.

“Yes, darling,” said Mary, mimicking the voice of Calphurnia, wife of Julius Caesar in the play on the radio the night before. “I do believe winter has passed off rather marvellously this year. Is your Miss Catherine well?”

“Rumor has it she has found a new beau.”

“What's a beau?”

“A boyfriend, like mine.”

“You have a boyfriend? You don't say!”

“Yes, Andy Spearman.”

“Who's he?”

“You must remember, my precious, that fine dear boy who tripped over me at Christmas. But keep it secret or I'll simply die.”

“Awww! Even from Papa?”

“Especially from Papa.”

Mary didn't know if she'd be able to manage that, but Judith looked at her so intently she had to agree. “Okay, I promise.” Sipping her tea, Mary thought she'd never be able to wait to go to school and have a boyfriend. She sighed and looked back at Judith. Who could have guessed that this sister, only one year older, lived such a secret and glamorous life? Judith stopped at the pump to wash off the potatoes and carrots. They were growing long white roots, but still usable. Mary climbed up out of the cool root cellar as loud hammering noises began nearby. They seemed to come from behind the barn. She closed the door.

“Is that Papa or Joseph?”

“Let's go find out what's happening back there,” Judith answered.

They found Papa working on the buggy. The buggy was parked between the plow and the truck, both idle now. To plow, Papa had to borrow two extra horses. To operate the truck, he had to find money for an expensive part.

Waiting for him to become aware of them, Judith cleared her throat politely. Mary coughed. They giggled.

“So, the days are getting longer, girls,” Papa said finally. He lifted his eyes to them but left his fingers clamped around the buggy springs.

“I hardly noticed,” Judith replied.

This surprised Mary. “What about Miss Catherine?” she asked.

“What about her?”

Taking up a brush, Papa applied grease to the buggy axle.

“About her saying winter is all but through?”

Judith shrugged.

Mary shrugged too. But how could Judith not notice spring? The sun went higher with each pass. She and Joseph were shedding clothes like wolves shed fur. Spring was most notable by the Arm, whose ice had cracked and been swept downstream. The willows were in leaf. Papa said all this was due to some early rain and a whole lot of heat. The frog opera, as he called it, had opened two nights before. All along the river, froggy voices lifted to the evening sky, singing like choirs of angels. Antelope raced up the empty valley, tearing at the first grass, then running off in search of whatever antelopes searched for. Away from the river, green shoots found a way through the yellow mat of last year's grass and weeds. Ducks and geese glided overhead or splashed into shrinking puddles on the bare fields. How could you not notice leaving winter coats indoors? Mary guessed Judith must be pulling her leg, since they agreed on practically every topic these days.

Papa stood and looked at his work. “Well, live and learn, daughter. When Mother gets to fussing about Easter, watch for the days to get longer.”

“Mother says today is Good Friday,” said Judith. “Why does she call it good if someone got murdered?”

“Good question. You better ask her. She's the expert.” Papa dropped his brush into the grease can. He rolled the big spindly wheel into position and slid its hub onto the axle. He threaded on a nut. “Soon you'll be home all the time, not just during storms, or holidays like today.”

Papa hadn't glanced at Judith, but she smiled. “I don't mind. Mary and I will carry water to the garden this summer and go to school together in the fall.”

How far their friendship had come! It was one thing for Judith not to mind staying home on a holiday, quite another for her to plan her whole summer around working together.

“Everyone helping out as they can. That's our best chance for surviving this year,” said Papa. “Mother and I are talking seed. It's the same old dream about this time every year. Probably turn to grief on us too.” He sighed, looked at his daughters and smiled. “Escape from that winter-bound house don't seem to matter as much this spring. I have to say, Judith, that you've been a pleasure to us all.”

Judith blushed deeply.

Mary laughed. Her heart felt light as a spring breeze.

Chapter 11

Two days later, Mary woke early. Excitement gripped her. They were all to go to town. It was so early that no sunrays had yet pierced her windowpane, but the sparrows had begun to argue in the lilac bush beneath the window. She slipped out of her warm bed, trying not to chafe the cotton and so wake Judith. Mary swooped her clothes off the floor, tiptoed past the sleeping Joseph and pulled on her clothes in the dark stairway.

Her jacket and boots on, she went outside into the crisp air of a prairie morning. The air shimmered with spring, right up to the last few stars, which welcomed Mary with open arms. She stood on the porch step, listening to an exchange between the rooster, whose muffled challenge came from inside the barn, and a crow. The crow rasped first from the peak of the root-cellar shed, and a short flight later from the handle of the water pump. Its feathers gleamed a beautiful blue-black against a dull landscape that was still mostly brown.

“Easter,” Mary breathed. Today she would go to the schoolhouse again, or at least close to it. Did Judith know where they would both sit in the fall? Mary would try for Papa's old desk. She could hardly wait for the trip into town. She jumped off the step, not knowing what to do first. Papa was in the barn, jetting milk out of Laura. Mary heard that familiar pattering
preesh
,
preesh
,
preesh
against the bottom of his pail. The milk was about to deepen and go
shwoosh
,
shwoosh
,
shwoosh
and produce a fine froth. He had barely started chores, then. Mary thought it best to leave him alone.