Storm of Fortune

have ten children in thirteen years!” And the woman in question, apparently now fagged-out and no longer romantic about child-bearing, had apparently tried, in vain, to put an end to the nightly diversions of her husband’s lust, with the result that she was now on Ward 6A, Public. “Then there is this young-young thing, scarcely seeing her menses yet, and the nurses tell me, in confidence, that she been in here for the second time this year, already. Darling, you see this modern young generation growing up? With all their pills and things? Well, in my time, my mother would have tarred” — she shot a glance at Bernice to see if she had used the wrong word; and she hastily added — “would have painted my tail, you hear me, darling, had she caught me in such a state.” And there was Mrs. Jones who came in bleeding; and a Mrs. Vefferman, who (“Nobody would think she was such a rich and proper lady, furthermore a Jew! judging by her name, because I was under the impression that all Jews was very religious and that they had their own means and piles of money for getting rid of these problems!”), who came in, in a coma.

“So you’re this girl’s sister?” Mrs. Macmillan said, getting back to the present. She sat on Estelle’s bed. She told Bernice, “Sit down, darling. Draw up that chair and be my guest.” And Bernice sat down, wondering whether Mrs. Macmillan had already made up her mind to spend the entire visiting hour with them; whether Mrs. Macmillan didn’t have, nor expect, any visitors of her own, and had therefore decided to share Estelle’s. Bernice didn’t like her. Mrs. Macmillan struck her as a very nosy and aggressive and strong-willed woman. There were muscles showing at the sides of her neck, and her arms were developed, probably by the repetition of beating her children, Bernice imagined; or by raising them from cradle to knee, to toilet. Bernice kept her perpetual, public smile of geniality. She even was smiling when there was nothing to smile about. That way, she didn’t have to talk — if Mrs. Macmillan had thought of giving her a chance to say a word. “Your sister is a clever girl, you hear me, darling?” she said to Bernice. Bernice smiled and nodded. It was the first time a stranger had said this to her about Estelle; the first time she had ever thought of Estelle as being clever. Estelle, meanwhile, dropped her head, and picked a piece of broken fingernail from a finger. “She promised to visit with me when she gets out next week, or the week after. Isn’t that so, Ess, darling?”

“Yeah,” Estelle said, a bit embarrassed, and wanting Mrs. Macmillan to leave. “Yeah, I said so.”

“That’s good,” Bernice said. In her heart, she felt it was good, damn good Estelle would be away from Toronto — (although she could not then have known that Mrs. Macmillan lived outside the city) — but she felt it was better than having her recuperate too near to the evil influence of Henry, of Agatha, of Dots and of Brigitte, and of course too close to Mr. Burrmann. “I hope it wouldn’ put you out, Mistress Macmillans. But as I always say, a little rest and a little holidays do not do any harm to anybody.”

“The very thing I been telling this child! You hear me, darling? Come up to Timmins with me, I says. Up there you will get a lot of swimming in the lakes, I says to her. We could go to the provincial parks, we could go fishing, I says, and you see me here, darling? I am a better fisherman than my old man, my husband, than most men. And I betcha ya never had a taste of moose-meat where you come from? Jamaica, ain’t it?”

“Barbados,” Bernice corrected her.

“The Barbados!” Mrs. Macmillan laughed heartily; her two hundred-odd pounds shook from her breasts down to the barrels of thick fat round her waist. The chintz housedress rippled like waves. “I’m forgetting. Sometimes, I’m forgetful as hell, you hear me, darling?”

Other visitors had come in. Stealthily, as if their patient-friends, or patient-wives or patient-girlfriends were still in the clandestine act of aborting; as if the ward was some section of a prison, or an isolation ward for incurable contagious diseases. A minister of the church came in, looked round at the three women, bowed and made the sign of the cross for their benefit. He smiled. He came over to them. He handed each a small religious pamphlet. And he moved on to see after the spiritual well-being of the other patients.

The moment he was out of hearing distance, Mrs. Macmillan swore and then tore up her pamphlet, dropped it into Estelle’s wastepaper basket, and said, still heaving with joviality, “Excuse me for butting in on your visit, darling. I have to go to the john. And then I gotta call my old man.” She eased herself down, like a gigantic form of Jell-O, from the bed. She grabbed Bernice’s arms and said, “Let me see you again before you leave, you hear me, darling?” And then she left.

“Well?” It was a long time before Bernice spoke. And when she did, it was like a foghorn. Estelle had been sitting silently for some time, longer than a normal conversation break allows. “I see you mekking friends already. Right and left.” She put as much sarcasm in her words as she could. And Estelle recognized the tone of disapproval in her manner. But for the time being she ignored it. She felt that Bernice’s presence signified, threatened even, gloomier news, so she would wait and hear it. On Bernice’s part, there was still the heavy terrible immorality of abortion, even though it was she who had suggested it, and even though she was therefore responsible, to a large extent, for Estelle’s being on this hospital bed. Bernice was such a woman,