On Huron's Shore by Marilyn Gear Pilling

Author:Marilyn Gear Pilling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Demeter Press
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

xiv.

Our Mother and Dorothy Goodman

IF YOU WALK DOWN THE MAIN STREET of Rilling, Ontario, on an August day at noon, life will seem slow and inconsequential. It will seem as if nothing happens here, as if nothing ever could happen. But surface is never the real story.

Our mother moved back to Rilling in her early seventies. She’d been raised nearby, and my sister had by now been a doctor for many years in the town. Our father had to go into the nursing home. It seemed the best arrangement.

The move had just been completed, and my sister and I were sitting in our mother’s new apartment in the small town. It was time to list the house in the city where our parents had raised us and had lived for all of their married lives. This was my job. I explained to our mother that the realtor had suggested an Open House on the first Sunday after the listing went up.

My mother sat up straight. “You mean, where anybody can go in?”

“That’s right; you’ve seen the signs for Open Houses—it’s a common procedure.”

“We’re not doing that. The neighbours will get inside. They’ll see everything that’s wrong with the house.”

Our mother had spent the best part of every week dusting, vacuuming and polishing the interior of our family home. “Mom, there’s nothing wrong; it’s the same inside as most of the houses on the street.”

“Everything’s wrong with it. All the nosy Parkers will go in. I won’t have them sneering at how James and I lived.” Our mother leaned her head back into the smooth taupe sheen of the sofa upholstery and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Her hair had been permed within an inch of its white, wiry life. I could see the back of it only in my mind’s eye, the perm ending abruptly at the lower border of the occiput, the hair beneath that point tapered close, and left straight. It was a deplorable style. I had tried without success to wean her off it.

“Mother, they won’t sneer.”

She opened her eyes. “Oh yes they will. They’ve all got the very latest thing. The last word in kitchens and bathrooms. I won’t have it.”

I looked at Vivian. Her blond hair was showing white at the roots; she looked exhausted. She was in the rocking chair, pushing her right foot rhythmically against the beige carpet. She shook her head just enough to signal me to back off.

“Okay, Mom,” I said. “We’ll have the house seen by appointment only.”

“I don’t want anybody going in there.”

Vivian got up and went over to the sofa. Our mother had slumped against the cushions again. Her eyes were closed and she wore a certain long-suffering look with which Vivian and I were on intimate terms. Vivian sat down and took our mother’s thin, splotched hand. She spoke quietly. “Mom, you know people have to see the inside of a house before they buy it.”

Our mother snatched her hand away and stood up. “I don’t know anything of the kind.

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