The Rebellion

The next morning brought the familiar sounds of her mother's disapproval, delivered in sharp whispers to Cousin Constance over breakfast. Valerie paused outside the dining room door.

"Such impertinence," Florence was saying. "I've never seen the like. Twenty nine years old and acting like some common rebellious girl."

"Perhaps she's taken ill," Constance suggested. "A fever might explain such peculiar behaviour."

Valerie pushed through the door and took her usual seat at the table. The porridge in her bowl had grown cold, a skin forming across its surface.

"Good morning, Mother. Cousin Constance."

Florence's lips compressed. "I trust you've come to your senses regarding yesterday's unfortunate display."

"Have I?" Valerie spooned up a portion of the unappetising porridge. "How would one tell?"

The silence stretched between them. Outside, Mrs. Peterson's dog began its morning ritual of barking at nothing.

"Valerie Whitfield, I will not tolerate such cheek at my breakfast table."

"No," Valerie agreed. "I don't suppose you will."

She rose from her chair, leaving the porridge untouched.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The question stopped her, not because of its authority but because she realised she didn't have an answer. Where was she going? What did one do with a single year of life when one had spent twenty nine years learning only how to be nothing?

"I thought I might visit the Ashtons," she heard herself say.

The crash of Florence's teacup against its saucer echoed through the room.

"The Ashtons? Oscar Ashton and that woman of his?" Florence's voice climbed toward hysteria. "You cannot be serious."

"Why not?"

"Because they are the most disreputable family in this entire town. Oscar Ashton is a drunkard who hasn't held steady employment in five years, and his daughter bore a child out of wedlock and has been living in sin ever since."

"I heard she was quite ill," Valerie said. "Dying, in fact."

"All the more reason to stay away. What if it's catching?"

The terror in her mother's voice might have been amusing if it weren't so pathetic. "I don't think poverty is contagious, Mother."

"Don't be clever with me. You know very well what I mean."

Indeed, Valerie did know. The Ashtons lived in a two room cabin on the outskirts of town, where respectable people didn't venture. Catherine Ashton was slowly dying without benefit of proper nursing or medical care. The child, a boy of perhaps three years, ran wild while his grandfather drank away what little money came from occasional odd jobs.

"Someone should help them," Valerie said.

"Someone?" Constance set down her cup with a rattle. "And why should that someone be you?"

The question hung in the air, and Valerie found she couldn't answer it. She had no business with the Ashtons, no reason to concern herself with their troubles. No reason except that Catherine Ashton was dying alone while her own death stretched ahead of her like an empty year to be filled.

"I'm going to nurse her," she said.

The words fell into the dining room like stones.

"You're going to what?" Florence's voice was barely audible.

"Nurse Catherine Ashton. She needs care, and I need something to do."

Florence rose so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor. "You will do no such thing. I absolutely forbid it."

"You keep saying that word," Valerie observed. "Forbid. As if it still meant something."

She turned and walked from the room. In the front hall, she paused before the mirror that had reflected back her own inadequacies for so many years. The woman looking back at her seemed somehow different, though she couldn't put her finger on what had changed.

Perhaps it was simply that for the first time in her life, she was looking at someone who had places to go.

The walk to the Ashton cabin took her through the better part of town and out along the rutted lane toward Mistawis Lake. The October air carried the scent of wood smoke and dying leaves.

The cabin was worse than she had imagined. The roof sagged in the middle, patched with bits of rusted tin. A broken window had been covered with cardboard, and the front steps consisted of two wooden crates that wobbled under her weight.

She knocked on the door, which hung slightly askew.

"What d'you want?"

Oscar Ashton opened the door with the wariness of a man accustomed to unwelcome visitors. He was smaller than she had expected, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. The smell from the cabin was a mixture of unwashed dishes, stale alcohol, and something else she couldn't identify.

"I've come to help with Catherine," she said.

He squinted at her through red rimmed eyes. "You're that Whitfield woman. Florence's girl."

"Yes."

"Your mother know you're here?"

Valerie thought of the scene she had left behind. "She does now."

Oscar studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside. The cabin's interior was dim and cramped, dominated by a large bed where a young woman lay propped against stained pillows. Catherine Ashton had been beautiful once, Valerie could see that despite the ravages of illness. Her dark hair was matted with perspiration, and her skin had the waxy pallor of someone who rarely saw sunlight.

In the corner, a small boy played quietly with wooden blocks.

"Katie," Oscar said, his voice gentler than before. "There's a lady here to see you."

Catherine's eyes opened, focusing with difficulty. "Have we met?"

"No," Valerie said, moving closer. "But I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

"Why?"

The question was direct, unadorned. Valerie found she appreciated its honesty.

"Because you need help," she said simply. "And because I need to be needed."

Catherine's laugh was barely more than a breath. "That's the first honest thing anyone's said in this house for weeks."

Valerie looked around the cabin, taking in the unwashed dishes, the scattered clothes, the general air of neglect.

"I could start by cleaning up a bit," she offered.

"Suit yourself," Oscar said, settling into a chair beside the bed. "But I can't pay you nothing."

"I don't want payment."

The words were true. What she wanted was purpose.

She rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity that felt foreign and wonderful after twenty nine years of enforced idleness. She washed dishes, swept floors, sorted through piles of laundry with a sense of accomplishment that surprised her.

Catherine slept fitfully, waking occasionally to watch Valerie's progress. The child, Jimmy, gradually warmed to her presence, showing her his blocks and chattering about a family of raccoons that lived under the cabin's front steps.

"They come out at night," he confided. "Mama says they're looking for food, but I think they're looking for friends."

"Perhaps they are," Valerie agreed.

Oscar said little, but she caught him watching her. When she asked about medicine for Catherine, he shrugged.

"Doc Pemberton came by last week. Said there wasn't much point in medicine now."

The casual way he delivered this verdict made Valerie's stomach clench. She had read about death, of course, but she had never been in its presence like this.

"Is she in pain?"

"Some. Tries not to let on, for the boy's sake."

Valerie nodded and continued folding the clean laundry. Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade, and she realised she had been at the cabin for nearly six hours.

"I should go," she said, though the words felt wrong.

"Will you come back?" Catherine's voice was stronger now.

"Yes. Tomorrow."

Catherine smiled. "Good. It's been nice having another woman around."

The walk home seemed longer than the journey out had been, perhaps because she was no longer moving toward something but away from it. The cabin, for all its poverty, had felt more alive than her mother's pristine house ever did.

She found Florence waiting in the parlour.

"Well? I trust you've satisfied your curiosity about these people?"

"I'm going back tomorrow," Valerie said.

"You most certainly are not. I've spoken to Dr. Pemberton, and he assures me the girl's condition is hopeless. There's nothing to be gained by associating yourself with such..." Florence's voice trailed off.

"People?" Valerie suggested.

"Don't mock me. I'm thinking of your reputation. Our family's reputation."

"Are you?" Valerie settled into her usual chair. "How kind of you."

Florence's hands twisted in her lap. "What has gotten into you? This isn't like you at all."

"Perhaps," Valerie said carefully, "it's exactly like me. Perhaps you've simply never seen who I really am."

Silence, heavy with years of unspoken truths. Florence's face worked through a series of expressions.

"I don't understand you," she said finally.

"No," Valerie agreed. "I don't think you do."

She rose and moved toward the stairs, pausing when her mother's voice followed her.

"If you continue this madness, I'll have no choice but to ask you to leave this house."

Valerie turned back. "Will you? How liberating that would be."

She climbed the stairs to her room. Behind her closed door, she sat on her narrow bed and thought about Catherine Ashton's grateful smile and Jimmy's chatter about friendly raccoons.

For the first time in her life, she was looking forward to tomorrow.