“Your grandfather and I are not so blind even if we wear the bifocals. We see. We have been talking to Monsignor and to Mother Saint Boniface. They have found an ideal spot for you. If you finish three semesters there, this school will agree to give you the certificate. Diploma, I think it’s called. A small win, Laura, but it is a win.”
“Will I have to take the subway? I don’t like it downtown.”
“It is not within the reach of the subway,” said Nonna, cautiously. In the best of times Laura’s grandmother had an uncertain grasp of the subway map. The hesitation, however, didn’t sound good. “It’s in Montreal,” continued Nonna. “We’ll go there by train.”
Laura knew she was sometimes slow to pick up what was going on. But: “Mon-tre-al? Not the one in Canada?”
“That’s the only Montreal there is, anyway that I know about.”
“You don’t mean I have to live there?”
“Carissima,” said Nonna. “You can’t stay here hiding in your bedroom, worrying your grandfather and me to an early grave.”
It’s too late for you to enjoy an early grave, you’re as old as sin.
“I don’t hide,” said Laura. “And I’m not going. I can’t. I don’t know how to speak Canadian.”
“They speak French and English in Montreal. Luckily this is an English-speaking school, though the nuns will try to teach to you some French. We’d all rather it be Italian, but the Italians didn’t colonize Quebec.”
Laura said through her tears, “Nonna, this can’t be happening. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go back to Driscoll. I was out of line but I’m ready now.”
“Driscoll won’t have you back,” said Nonna the know-it-all. Was that a smirk?
“I’ll go to public school.”
“That would be worse. I’ve asked around. The Ladies’ Auxiliary agrees. A girl with hardly any academic interests, she needs a finishing school.” Nonna fished a letter from her pocketbook. “The institution has written me. They can take you after the first of the year. It’s called the Academy of—”
“I don’t need to know what it’s called because I’m not going.”
Nonna stood up. “I’m afraid you are, my dear. I can’t go into the whys and how-comes now. It’s in your best interest. After what happened at Driscoll and your grandfather’s worries, not to mention your poor mother—well, I’m not getting any younger, either. On Monday you go tell your first graders that it’s your last day.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“This is precisely what I mean,” said Nonna. “You are sixteen years old. Old enough to take charge of your life. You need finishing, and Nonno and I seem not to be up to the job.”
“I’m fifteen. Mary Bernice can teach me at home.”
“How to boil potatoes? I don’t think that’s enough.”
“She can teach me how to be nice,” said Laura, nearly spitting.
“I am trying to be nice,” said Nonna, attempting at a soft expression that succeeded only in making her look like an executioner enjoying a daydream. “If I’m failing, that’s more proof that we can’t do this any longer. Laura, we want the best for you. We always have done. It’s been how many years since your mother—”
Laura wasn’t about to let Nonna go into that. If there was no news from her mother, there was no point in flapping about the subject. “May I be excused?” she asked.
“We’ll talk about it at dinner. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”
“I’m not in for dinner,” said Laura.
“What do you mean by that?” Nonna’s look of tyranny returned. “I haven’t given you any permission—”
“I’m going to church with Mary Bernice.”
Nonna pursed her lips. She knew she’d been outmaneuvered. “In this snow?” she began, but gave up. Church trumped everything else. “Well, pray for me, too.”
Laura plunged down the back stairs into the kitchen, which was half-sunk in the ground. The high windows above the sink looked out into the bereaved backyard. Snow was frosting the dead leaves clumped outside the windows.
Tomorrow’s pot roast sizzled in a pressure cooker. Its little valve made a lonely jingle against the heavy pot lid. On top of the cookbooks, the cat opened one eye and uttered a monotonic comment. “Shut up, Garibaldi,” said Laura. Mary Bernice must be in the bathroom. Or no—now she could hear her—the cook was upstairs in the front hall, talking over life and its limitations with the workers.
Generally Laura wasn’t allowed to make conversation with tradespeople, but she turned around and went upstairs. The front door was closing. John Greenglass and Sam, Sam what’s-he-called, Sam-I-am, were just gone. Mary Bernice was stowing the drop cloths in the hall closet beneath Nonna’s dripping boots. In the ceiling, the wet plaster had been torn out; only lathes and strapping showed. “Did they take the owl?” asked Laura. “I wanted to keep it. It belongs here.” She ran to the door.
“You’ll catch your death,” said Mary Bernice, without conviction.
In her stockinged feet Laura descended the steps of the brownstone to the slate paving stones of the sidewalk. Van Pruyn Place was a dead end, and there was only one way John’s blue truck could drive out. There it was at the corner, halted at the stop sign, blinker on, ready to turn onto East End Avenue. The rush hour traffic should hold the truck in time for Laura to reach it. And do—what? Say what? “Give me the owl.” “Let me in.” “Take me away.” “Come back.”
But before she could get there, John’s truck eased out and turned, lost in the stream of taxis and cars and trucks.
Laura stood on the pavement, shivering. The snow circled like carnival ticker tape. All of the great city around her was engaged and alive, and Laura alone stood shoeless in the snow outside the warmly lit brownstones. The loneliness she felt was so keen it was almost elegant. It cut her. Every snowflake on her bare arms had steel blades. There was no future and no past in such immediate pain.
“Are you barmy, get in here before the devil gives you germs,” called Mary Bernice from the area near the rubbish bins. “And you wonder why everyone frets about you so.”
Laura turned at last. The wind off the East River tore harder against her. A grade-school boy in a jacket three sizes too large for him slipped in the slush as he ran across the street with a fistful of Christmas greens in his palm. He righted himself without falling, though. He must be on his way to a school musicale, for he slid on down to the corner, singing something to himself about the holly and the ivy, and the running of the deer.
3
In the evenings, the kitchen was warmer than the attic. Mary Bernice was half through her own meal. “There’s a nice slice of Sunbeam in the bread bin with your name on it, Miss Laura.” Laura got the bread. There was no name written on it. She knew there wouldn’t be but she turned it over to check the other side. Real butter tonight, not margarine. The hard butter tore the bread into soft white clumps. Laura ate the morsels like hors d’oeuvres.