Schooling by Heather McGowan Read Free Book Online Page B

he laughed and laughed. You had me there, he said, spooning rice again. You had me. No, don’t scream at the concessions. Then he passed her a plate devoid of vegetables, You can look after yourself, I never doubted it.
    Cemetery. Unhappy farmer in an overcoat, face covered in boils. Girl with a parasol turning turning.
    She seems happy . . . a man in a rumpled suit quickly next to her, cigarette behind his ear . . . Doesn’t she? Full of life, this one.
    Oh yes. The gallery is empty, Junior and his tour have sailed away. Yes, a cough. She does. She does. New habit that, repeating. From Sophie or.
    Dearie me . . . the man glances toward the muffled noise of the tour in the next gallery . . . You’ve lost your group.
    I’m alone.
    Ah . . . the man moves to the next painting . . . You’re American. Aust
ril
ian . . . yes, Sydney or Melbourne. Perth perhaps.
    Course they don’t much like Americans here. Not to worry, you’ll blend in soon enough. Pick up the slang, enunciate your
r
’s. I was a boy in Tanzania for two years. You learn to cultivate other voices.
    I like my—
    Oh, God . . . the man dips his face sharply.
    What’s the matter? Is there something in your eye?
    The man stands before Giotto, cradling his head . . . Ten in the morning, what on earth am I doing?
    Looting her pockets for a handkerchief she’s never carried. But the man has already appropriated his sleeve in a way that piggies his nose. Vaguely, she returns to the bench but does not sit. An ocean reaches up to the horizon, flat, grey. Analogy for what it’s like as seen above.
    Sorry . . . he sniffs . . . Not doing so well.
    When the man glances up at her, she considers a painting over his shoulder.
    Minerva . . . he wipes his eyes . . . Beaut-Beauty.
    Beauty’s ugly.
    Oh no no. It’s all in the look . . . the man blinks, sniffs, draws nearer the painting . . . You see the way she regards this soldier. Spirit, the eyes you see. And the soldier. The soldier too seems. Very. Happy . . . the man twitches as if to free his malaise but instead shakes free his cigarette which shoots across the gallery to land at her feet.
    What about you? . . . he goes to pick it up . . . You. Happy?
    Behind him, the ocean remains unmoved, grey. Above, a speck dot of white, a sail perhaps, difficult to see or is it imagine. Is it imagine when viewing those small dots of color or something you should know.
    You don’t seem particularly overjoyed.
    Minutes until lights out. At the noise, she stopped brushing, hand stilled on the toothbrush. Turned slowly. Maggone stood in the middle of the washroom, hands clasped behind her back. She wanted a word. Silently, the two of them waited for Maggot to find it. A clatter from dorm two. Zuzz of fluorescents. She wouldn’t move though the toothpaste stung. Maggot unspooled her antennae to feel out the situation. We mustn’t welter in misfortune, Evans. Sometimes life does not offer us epic proportions. Tapping it out—
    Sometimes you simply have to make do.
    What an odd thing to say . . . the man sits beside her on the bench. Deliberately he places the cigarette between them . . . I had a piece of land near Scotland, a cabin for drawing. When it burned to the ground, I stopped, telegram in hand, on my way out the door and I thought, life will forever disappoint. I can’t tell you what happy means per se, simply that there are moments when you face yourself and say, I am or No, I am not. Or even, I am destined to remain.
    Is that why you’re crying, because of Scotland?
    Dear me no that happened four years ago. There are other things, adult things.
    Are you a politician?
    No, not that adult.
    They sit for a moment in silence, contemplating the ocean. Abruptly, the man speaks . . . You have your whole life, the marvelous hope of ignorant youth.
    Ignorant?
    No lines on your face, no worries. Too young for regret. Nothing weighing you, a clean conscience.
    Little did he know. A hill, a tire, two girls out of control. A man