sewn paper
Fiction
May 2002
320 pages
ISBN 0-88984-234-5
$24.95
The author at Frog Hollow Books,
Halifax
Photo by Michael Lawlor
Seasoning Fever
Susan Kerslake
Within a few weeks Matthew had told Hannah what had happened
so many times that, although she hadn't listened once from
beginning to end, she now knew six versions. Each had more weight
than the last; when he talked she felt her face flatten.
A film of frostbite scalloped his ear and white spots
polka-dotted his cheek. He shone. He stood over there talking, building
himself, celebrating the fact of his body as it surrounded him.
He found himself gazing at the hills of snow, the silt of his
imagination whitening it to an uncommon brilliance, not unlike
what he imagined the inside of possibility to be. It seemed to
drink his energy in slow deep draughts.
She insisted that they go to the barn dance. `Everyone's
going ... I'm going.'
He remembered how he would follow her anywhere when she was
like this, switching her will as if it were a tail, cracking the
air. And through the cold, her sharp scent.
It was already dark when they arrived, the shape of the large
barn blurred by a rippling edge of steam. For a moment, when the
doors opened, the block of human-heated air and the black wall of
winter met and shuddered. The dancers hesitated, looking to the
newcomers, then brightened in recognition or curiosity. One by
one they turned back to their partners.
`... whirl your partner ... allemande left ...'
The air was sweet with cider and laughter. Lamp glow stirred
by the dancers swirled in smoke. As it warmed, the women shed
their swaddle of extra wraps, which soon draped the posts and
rails like moths. Fiddle and flute music ran like an undercurrent
tugging on their legs. Mouths softened, a moustache of sweat
glistening their upper lips. As the music retreated, chatter rose
so that there was always a dear noise.
Mrs Bradley, her placid face holding her hair around like a
pink pin cushion was saying, `Well, I was the first one to know ...'
A yeasty smell of well-being rose from her.
Sitting nearby, a woman took off her white gloves and folded
them in half before placing one on top of the other in a little
sandwich. She slid them into her purse, centred the purse on her
lap, and covered it neatly with her two hands. Simultaneously her
feet, side by side, toed an imaginary line. Her shoulders trimmed
and her head settled slightly, an old house on its foundation.
Hannah handed the baby to childless Evelyn. He was content
there, one hand braced on her dry breast as he reached for a
pearly cameo nestled in ruffles at her throat. She let him.
`Gently, don't pull on it.' He looked at her face, stretched one
arm back, and turned to be sure Hannah was watching. She smiled.
She might not have to hold him again until he was ready to go to
sleep. With his weight gone she had to consciously straighten up.
She plucked her dress away from her skin where it had been glued
by his heat.
The music was starting again. Glancing softly, the women
wondered if the men were coming back from their corners and
secret circles. Each time, they emerged warmer and more forward,
expansive even, doing their best to play someone who might
surprise or frighten them. As the anticipation grew, a lively
flush and flirt of red coloured their cheeks.
`Let's keep things moving, ladies and gentlemen. Old Man
Winter is just outside the door, let's not let him in. Come on
now, get your partners and form your squares. I'm going to throw
an easy one at you, you won't have to be on your toes for this
one, so how about trying a new partner this round, that gal
you've had your eye on ...' The crowd shifted uneasily. A man
shrugged, closed his eyes and reached out one long arm like a
scythe catching Hannah around the waist. `This little gal!' He
bowed. As he swept off his hat to toss it up on a hook, she saw
that the skull of a rattlesnake was fastened at the centre front
of the hat band, a red bandanna, and looked like clotted evil
inside the eye sockets. Before she could touch it the man grabbed
her hand and pulled her over to the platform-built dance floor.
Others moved in quickly. The fiddler was already stomping the
boards to establish the beat. Looking around the square, Hannah
saw a young man she remembered from harvest time; and that one,
the soft unmarried brother of the railway man. The fiddle
squirted. `Honour your partner ...' Hannah felt the wisps of hair
swing out away from her head. Tiny flames of her hair burned
through the gold in the air and the fine straw dust swirled. She
let her body bend over the arms of the men. While they held her
she leaned back and looked at the ceiling, the same vault of bat
air and blindness as the barn she and Matthew used to hide in,
throwing secrets up into the webs that buttressed the huge beams.
Just outside it was cold and sad and dark. The secrets had been
so enormous she didn't think the world could hold them, or her,
but it did.
This, the present she had always worn with élan, was
clutching and riding her. She was feeding everyone, keeping them
clean, tending hurts, brooding. This time to dance and dream was
more what she had in mind. To throw her skirt over the air so it
billowed, and to flick her eyes at a man until he blinked.
He was laughing, `Switch your partners, give her away, keep
the next till a rainy day ...' Another slid his arm around her.
And another until she had been with each fellow.
The fiddler smacked the strings quiet. Spirited clapping and
cheers burst the sudden silence, and those who'd been dancing and
had worked up an appetite rushed to the tables. Hannah saw her
biscuits. By now they must have thawed. There was glazed smoked
ham scored with diamond cuts framing dark cloves, green bean and
corn relish, Johnny Cake, baked chicken, cole slaw, pickles, wild
red berry jams, braided breads, yellowed cheeses and more.
Matthew had something in his coffee; she could tell by the
way he held it, swirling the liquid up around the inside of the
cup. A new crowd had gathered to him. As she looked she saw that
it was true, he was different. It there hadn't been this length
of time to stare at him, she might have missed him altogether.
And whereas to her he had lost substance, to others this
translucence shimmered new mystery. No wonder! As she looked
around at the winter-tired people, she saw that the sharp stories
on Matthew's tongue were better than the old earth-tolling songs
retold.