Voices

By Ruth Zavitz

As Marion settled herself for sleep she thought she could hear voices. Had someone come in? No. They would be shouting, "Is anybody home?" These voices were soft. Maybe she had left the radio on. If Terry came home and found it running he would be after her for wasting hydro.

Climbing wearily out of the double bed she went downstairs in bare feet, soundless, the hem of her nightgown brushing the splintery floor. She turned on the ceiling light and checked the radio. It was off. Where had the voices come from? She couldn't hear.

She was alone in the house except for the kids and they had been asleep for hours. The mantel clock read a quarter to twelve. The hockey game must have gone into overtime.

Terry went over to Ray and Angela Jones's every Saturday night to watch "Hockey Night in Canada." She never went any more. Angela always looked at the kids as if she expected them to break something any minute. They were invariably cranky the next day from being up late, too. It was easier to stay home.

Terry wouldn't buy a TV. "You'd spend all your time watching the soaps," he said.

Marion put more wood in the kitchen stove and went back upstairs. She looked into the kids' room. Chris had thrown the covers off, as usual. What a little furnace he was. Covering him up she kissed the pink ear peeping out through the tousled hair.

Back in bed, she pulled the patchwork quilt up to her chin. It was queer, the voices, but she was too tired to worry about them. As she drifted off to sleep they began again. She strained to hear what they were saying but couldn't make out a single word.

The back door banged and the voices stopped. Terry was home. He came bounding up the stairs and into the bedroom, boisterous and excited. "The Leafs won. It was a great game."

"Terry, please be quiet. You'll wake the kids."

"Oh, the kids. Always the kids. Is that all you ever think about?"

Well, she did think about the kids, seeing as she was the one who would have to hush them back to sleep. But of course Terry was excited. It wasn't often his team won.

Terry shed his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor and slid under the covers, giving a play-by-play of the game. "Broda had Gordie Howe's number tonight. Had him all tied up."

He pulled Marion to him and began kissing her with vigour, his hands pulling at her nightgown and roving roughly over her bare skin.

"Please, not tonight, Terry. I'm too tired."

"Too tired. Too tired. You're always too tired. I don't know why you're so tired. I'm the one that does the work. You never have to do anything except for the garden or when I'm stuck for help. Lots of women drive horses and tractors for their men all the time. I don't know how I got saddled with such a lazy woman. All right. Forget it!" He rolled over to his side of the bed, turning his back on her.

Tears of exhaustion and guilt made damp spots on her pillow. She didn't think she was lazy, but somehow she couldn't seem to keep up with the work. Terry was probably talking about Angela. She had running water in the house--even a bathroom--but he would never think of that.

Terry was often behind in his work, too. If he went to town for parts he usually spent the rest of the day there. "You have to keep up with the news," he’d say.

Maybe if he paid more attention to his work they would have money for the things they needed. She never had the courage to suggest it. "Men know best," her mother had always said.

Waiting for sleep, she made a list in her head of the things she would buy if she could afford it. Her mother used to call her daydreaming "building castles in Spain." If she had the money she would get a pretty dress for Mary. It was too bad she had to wear her brothers' cast-off overalls. New shoes for Johnny and a barn coat for Terry. The one he had was wearing out. If they just had more money... The voices gossiped quietly in the background.

  *  *  *

On Saturday they went into town for groceries. She timidly said Johnny needed new shoes. The old ones were too short and the counters at the back were tramped down.

"Jesus H. Christ!" exploded Terry. "You must think I'm made of money. I bought him a pair last week."

"It was six months ago. He's growing so fast."

"Well, I haven't got the money. He'll have to wait. It's taking every cent I make just for food, the way the damn kids eat."

He let Marion and the children out in front of the grocery store. "I'm going down to the International dealer's. Here's fifteen dollars; don't spend more than you have to. I'll pick you up later."

Marion shopped carefully. She grew and froze all their vegetables, storing them in the rented freezer locker boxes at the creamery, and they went to the pick-your-own orchards to pick their own fruit because it was cheaper. Terry always had a good time visiting with the other pickers. All she could think of was getting back home and at the canning so she wouldn't be up all night. They had their own meat, although Terry pointed out it wasn't free since he could have sold the beef or pork for cash.

Still, they had to have flour for bread, and oatmeal for porridge, and sugar, and soap, and coffee. Coffee was expensive but Terry said, "What's the use of living if you can't have what you want once in a while." Maybe if she was extra careful there would be enough money left for Johnny's shoes. Sneakers weren't expensive and it would soon be spring. She mentally added the amounts in round numbers as she filled the cart. However, when the clerk totaled up the order she was short fifteen cents and had to put back the little package of jelly beans she had added for the kids.

They cried, of course, but she explained, "I haven't enough money. I'll make you a treat when we get home."

"What, Mom, what?" asked Johnny.

"Just wait, You'll see." What indeed? Maybe she could spare enough sugar for half a batch of fudge. She would make it when Terry was away. The kids could have a good feed.

Terry had not returned when she finished shopping. She couldn't manage both the groceries and the children. "Will it be all right if I leave the groceries here, Esther? We'll come back for them."

"That's all right, Mrs. Calhoun. I'll keep an eye on them."

"Thank you. We won't be long."

With a child on each arm and cautioning Johnny to keep tight hold of her skirt, she crossed the street and made her way toward the dealer's. She was glad to meet Terry part way.

He took Chris from her. "You spoil him. He's old enough to walk. The car's down by the Post Office. Come on, Chris. Hurry up."

"He can't walk so fast," she protested.

"Oh, hell! Up you go, then," hoisting him to his shoulders.

They retrieved the groceries and, laden with bags and children, made their way down the street.

Numerous acquaintances greeted them.

"Hi, Terry. Mrs. Calhoun," said Danny Moore.

"Hello, you old son-of-a-gun," shouted Terry. "What's new?"

Marion smiled briefly at Danny and shifted Mary who was sliding off her hip.

"I sold that heifer, Terry. Got a good price. Fellow from over in Nissouri. Had more money than brains. But his loss is my gain, eh?"

"You always were a lucky cuss. Wish some of it would rub off on me. Well, gotta be going. These groceries weigh more outside than in. Be seein' ya."

Marion gave Mary another hitch and thankfully followed Terry along the sidewalk.

"Hi, Terry. Hello Marion--and the sweet kiddies," called Daisy Palmer as she came across the street.

"Hello, Daisy," sang Terry. "You're looking smart today. New suit?"

"This old rag?"

"Looks good to me," said Terry, setting Chris on his feet.

"What a little man," cooed Daisy, smoothing Chris's cowlick. "How lucky you are, Marion."

Well, there was luck and luck, thought Marion, looking enviously at Daisy's freshly set hair, silky nylons and spike-heeled sandals. Terry liked a pretty woman and Marion was painfully aware of her threadbare coat, run-over shoes, and strawy hair.

Shoppers flowed around them, smiling or raising hands in greeting while Marion, her arms aching from the weight of Mary and the groceries, silently willed Terry to stop his chatter. She was exhausted. Again the voices hummed in her head.

Chris, bored, began to wander away. She herded him back while Terry, oblivious, continued his conversation.

"Where's your old man, Daisy? Didn't see him around town."

"Oh, he's at a crop improvement meeting in Toronto. I'm a grass widow for a few days."

"Maybe I should come over and keep you company," said Terry, leering at her and twisting invisible moustaches.

"Maybe you should," said Daisy, including Marion in her smile.

A heavy lump settled in Marion's chest. Surely he wouldn't, but he was often away in the evening--at the store, he said.

Chris, clinging to Terry's leg, jogged up and down, whining and pulling at Terry's pants. "Chris! Stop that! Well, gotta get this tribe home." He chucked Daisy under the chin. "Be seein' ya."

"'Bye, Terry. 'Bye, Marion. Don't work too hard."

Easy for you to say, thought Marion.

"Come on Marion. We're wasting time." He set out down the street, Marion struggling to keep up with his long strides.

She wished Terry would act happy with her the way he did with other people. He was jolly when they were courting, and he was handsome then, still was, especially in that sport jacket he'd bought last fall. He used to call her Wheathead because of the color of her hair--that was before it lost its shine.

They had had such fun. Terry was constantly laughing and playing tricks. It was the happiest time of her whole life. She hadn't worried then about the money Terry spent. His parents gave him money when he went on a date because he didn't have any money of his own, working on his parents' farm. They were generous on these occasions. The only thing was, he had to give back what he didn't spend. Sometimes she had thought he was being extravagant but he said, "What the hell. You only live once. If I spend it I won't have to give it back."

They always went to the soda fountain in Tamblyn's drug store after the movies. All the kids gathered there. Terry's favorite treat was banana splits, the most expensive thing on the menu. Three kinds of ice cream on top of bananas in those funny boat dishes--and whipped cream and chocolate sauce and cherries.

"Put another scoop of nuts on top," Terry would say and wouldn't even care if the soda jerk charged him extra.

Banana splits were so good. Her mouth watered at the memory. Everything had been perfect, then. It was only after they were married that Terry got cross. What had she done wrong?

They piled kids and groceries into the car and set out for home.

"Oh, by the way. I put a down payment on a new baler today."

"But Terry, how will you pay for it?" He was always doing this. Every time he had a bit of money he made a down payment on some new machine. He never worried about where the rest of the payments would come from.

"No problem. There's the steers to sell and the bank'll likely let me have the rest of it."

"But you promised to buy me an electric washing machine with part of the steer money. That old wooden tub leaks all over the floor. It's rotting the linoleum."

"Well, it'll have to wait. It'll soon be warm weather. You can drag it out on the porch where the water won't hurt. Gotta have the baler. If the farm don't go, nothing goes."

"But what's the matter with the old baler?"

"Oh, it's out of date. This one's got the latest knotter design and the plunger's set up a lot better. Got to have good tools to make the farm pay."

While Terry extolled the advantages of the new baler the voices grew louder. Terry's chatter faded and the others were closer. They seemed to be trying to tell her something but she couldn't make it out.

Back at home, worn out, Marion decided she would let Terry do the shopping in the future. He did it better than she did, anyway. He could always stretch the money to buy treats.

On the other hand, it was the only time she got off the farm. Terry said the Women's Institute was just a bunch of silly females who'd be better off at home tending to their families. He'd quarreled with her father and wouldn't take her home to visit. They went to church a few times when they were first married, but when the elders came to ask Terry to contribute to a new roof on the church, he'd stopped going and forbidden her to attend. It didn't matter. She didn't have anything decent to wear, anyway.

Her mother always said it was up to the wife to make a marriage work but sometimes it just seemed too hard. She often thought her mother was just worn out, the reason she died so young.

As the spring and summer work increased, the voices came more often. Every time Marion was alone, or something went wrong, she could hear them, but still not any words. Just calm, conversational tones when it was quiet, and urgent when there was trouble. Sometimes they seemed to be talking to her, and sometimes among themselves. She was never alarmed--in fact they were company when she was hoeing or picking beans while the children took their afternoon naps. But they were most insistent at night in that period between waking and sleeping. She strained to hear the words. If she just listened hard enough she should be able to make them out.

Then in September she missed her period--again. That useless diaphragm! The doctor said it was the best contraceptive on the market except French safes, but Terry wouldn't use them. Well, it hadn't worked for her.

The doctor said, sarcastically, "It won't protect you in the dresser drawer," but she did use it, always.

Terry would be mad. He'd never wanted any kids. It was too much. How could she ever manage with four kids under six and all the other work?

The following Sunday, Marion was preparing a special dinner. Terry liked a good meal on Sundays, not the scratch meals which were all she could manage through the week. She used to like cooking when she had the time, but not today. She could think of nothing but the new baby. The voices were getting louder and clearer and she could almost understand them.

Terry was snoring on the living room couch. He had sent Johnny and Chris outdoors so they wouldn't disturb him and Mary was having her afternoon nap.

Marion checked the roast. Almost done. She took the carving knife from the drawer and tested its edge against her thumb. It needed sharpening. Terry liked a sharp knife to carve with. She found the steel and began whetting the knife, watching Terry as she worked.

He could have sharpened it for her but she knew there was no use suggesting it. He would only ask why she was bothering him with a little thing like that. The harsh sound of steel against steel matched the tone of the voices in her head. They increased in volume until they filled the whole room. They were all screaming the same thing. And she could finally understand the voices.

Just two words. Over and over.

  *  *  *

At the funeral the neighbors whispered, "How could she do such a thing?"

"Such a jolly, happy-go-lucky man."

"Edith says she never visited her dad. That's unnatural, if you ask me."

"I hear her lawyer is going to plead self-defense."

"Self defense? Why, Terry would never lay a finger on anyone."

"They'll never get a jury to buy that one."

"I hope they keep her locked up where she can't hurt her kids, poor little mites."

The End

Voices; 2004 by Ruth Zavitz

Ruth Zavitz grew up on a Southern Ontario farm and writes short stories about the characters she knew then. She is working on a historical trilogy about the little people, the bystanders, who were victims in the American Revolution and the War of 1812. Though a senior, she doesn't go back that far. Much as she loves writing fiction she is better known for her gardening articles. She currently writes a weekly column for The Londoner and her book, High on Grasses, Ornamental Grasses for Northern Climates is slated for publication in the spring of 2005. Wearing her other hat, she grows the plants she writes about, specializing in rare indoor flowering types.

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