A Drop of Rain Read online

  “You could visit your father, couldn’t you?” asks Sarah. “Poland isn’t communist any more.”

  “Of course I could,” I say, “if I had the money. And if he invited me. But so far he hasn’t invited me. Mom thinks my father’s present wife is jealous of me and won’t let him see me.”

  “Is your Aunt Hanna really old?” says Sarah, flicking her long, perfect hair.

  “Pretty old,” I say. “Fifty-nine. She’s a total invalid.”

  “That’s awful,” repeats Sarah. “My family is so boring compared to yours. My father calls us a FOOF: ‘Fine Old Ontario Family. Pop, Mom, boy, girl. Healthy. Wealthy. Wise.’ That’s why I’ve got to get out of here. One more year, and Paris here I come. Or New York.”

  “I can see your name in lights now,” I say. “TONIGHT: SARAH SMITH!”

  “No, no! Too WASP! I’m changing my name to something Arab, or French, or . . .”

  “How about Naomi Goralski?” I ask, smiling fakely.

  “Hey! That’s it! Jewish and Polish! How glamorous can you get?” Sarah says.

  Sarah and I make a few more dumb name jokes, then she continues down the sidewalk to her gorgeous, gleaming, white, two-storey, Cape Cod house a few blocks away.

  Sarah lives near where Curtis lives. One day I checked out their addresses in the phone book, and then I walked past Sarah’s house. I was too embarrassed to walk past Curtis’ house, so I don’t know what it looks like. Curtis has not phoned me yet, so I suppose I was mistaken about the intensity of his glances at me. I am really disappointed that he has not called.

  As I trudged up our cracked, weed-filled driveway to my run-down house, I was thinking that Sarah would have laughed hysterically if I had told her about my heartfelt desire to sing with her band and have a boyfriend.

  “Hi!” I say to Hanna, leaning into my old room.

  “Hello!” says Hanna. With a single word, she reveals that she is a foreigner. She pronounces hello like HALLO.

  Her expression is gentle and sweet. This makes me feel guilty, but I still don’t want to visit with her right now, so I rush off to the kitchen for a snack.

  As I’m eating vanilla yoghurt mixed with sliced banana and granola, I pull my marked history assignment out of my backpack and read Mr. Dunlop’s comments: “A+. This is outstanding. Maybe you would like to collect more of your family’s memories of World War II for a longer, special project.”

  A+? Hey! I am not a bad student. I always pass. But this is my first A+! Trust my mother, the ace student, to get an A+. I get mostly Bs. My mother says I don’t “apply myself”. I could use an A+ in history. But unfortunately, there’s nobody in my family to interview.

  I started working last week. My job is cleaning at the Mapleville Recreation Complex, about six blocks from where we live. The job is hard. Huge mops. Heavy buckets of water. Dozens of toilets and sinks to scrub. Kilometres of walls and floors to wash. Minimum wage. Naturally. Weekends and holidays. Naturally. But I’m lucky to have any job.

  If it weren’t for Mary, I would have quit after the first hour. Mary is a medical doctor from Poland who is working as a cleaner because she’s not licenced to practice medicine in Canada. Mary is older than Hanna: sixty-six. She is well dressed, sophisticated and humorous. She came to Canada eight years ago.

  Mary has been cleaning full time at the Rec Plex for four years. She is my supervisor, but she helps me a lot. She doesn’t just boss me.

  Mary talks almost constantly as we are working together. She tries to teach me stuff by telling me funny little stories. At times, her stories are almost impossible to understand, because her English is so bad. I have to listen closely and get her to repeat words, so I can figure out what she is trying to say. She asks me to correct her English. But if I corrected every mistake, she’d never finish one single story in a whole eight-hour shift.

  Mary says she’s writing her life story for her grandchildren. I hope her Polish is better than her English!

  I was leafing through a book about Poland that Hanna gave Mom a long time ago. The book was in English. It was called, Poland: A Tourist Guide. I was wondering whether it might have some quotes I could use for my history class. This is what the book said about the Jews during World War II: “The Jewish population of Warsaw was walled up in the Ghetto in 1940. Condemned to extermination, the Jews entered the unequal struggle. The Ghetto Uprising broke out on April 19, 1943 and continued till May 16, 1943. Unspeakable terror ruled the city.”

  Mom says that about six million Polish people died during World War II. This was about one quarter of the total population of Poland. About three million of these people were Jewish, and about three million were not Jewish. The ones who were not Jewish were mostly Christians. Mom says that many people today, possibly including Mr. Dunlop, do not know about the “horrendous death toll” of Polish Christians.

  Mom says she has a book called The Forgotten Holocaust that I should read some day. It is about the three million, non-Jewish Poles who were murdered during World War II. The author of the book is Richard Lukas. Mom gave me a copy of this quote from the book: “On August 22, 1939, a few days before the official start of World War II, Hitler authorized his commanders to kill ‘without pity or mercy, all men, women, and children of Polish descent or language’.”

  Mom thinks Mr. Dunlop might be interested in seeing this quote.

  Curtis

  Mom and Steve have broken up because of me. He finally did it. Got even more drunk than usual and called me a “faggot” for not liking sports. I had politely asked him to please turn down the football game that he was watching on TV in the living room. I had explained that the noise was bothering me in my room.

  “So whaddaya do for hours in your room?” he asks.

  “He’s painting animals for his art portfolio,” says Mom. “He biked up to the wildlife park to do sketches of the animals, and now he’s making paintings. Like Robert Bateman. He saw a TV program about Bateman, and he got really inspired. He’s always loved animals and art.”

  “All those artist types are faggots,” says Steve. “Including Curtis-pooh here.”

  “Why don’t you just get out of here,” I yell. “What makes you think you have the right to hang around here anyway? Do you think you own my mother?”

  “Ah, shaddup!” the moron says, and turns the volume up on the TV. “Why’d ya hafta come back here anyway? I thought you and your fairy father were having a great time. Your Mom and I sure were.”

  At that point, I rush him and get him by his idiotic bull neck. Steve, who has been working for a moving company and lifting incredible weights, shoves me off him, lunges after me, kicks me in the shin and punches me in the gut before I can get away from him.

  Mom screams, runs to the kitchen, and dials 911. Before the police get here, Steve staggers out the front door, gets in his car and roars away.

  I am still in pain when the police arrive, but nothing is broken, so Mom refuses to press charges. She also begs me not to. She says Steve’s upset because he lost his job.

  Now Mom is depressed about Steve leaving. My fault, I suppose. Too bad.

  Mary

  Seeds

  If you look at seeds up close, they are as big as boulders. But they are so light, you can blow them away with one breath. Daddy carefully saves our seeds from the year before. Seeds are like tiny sleeping giants.

  All through the long winter, when the snow is as high as our house, the seeds wait in the darkness and warmth of our barn. Sometimes I go look at them. I take a few in my hand. I blow on them as gently as a spring breeze.

  Mostly, though, I don’t think about anything except having fun. Johnny is fun. He is my brother. He is one year older than me. Elizabeth, my sister, is two years older than me. She’s not fun, she’s a goody-goody. She says I’m not ladylike. Agnes, my other sister, is twelve years older than me. She’s all grown up. She has gentleman friends who come to call. Agnes says I’m a little beast.

  The snow’s so high, we
can climb up on the roof. Somebody left a ladder.

  “We’re birds. Let’s fly,” says Johnny.

  We jump off the roof into the snow. We are buried in the snow! We crawl out.

  Mommy bangs on the window and shakes her finger at us. Then she rushes outside, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Don’t do that!” she cries. “You might get hurt or lost in the snow. And then you’d be frozen, and we wouldn’t find you.”

  “Mommy,” says Johnny, running up to the door. “We’re hungry. Can we have those cold pancakes?”

  “Here,” says Mommy, handing him the leftover potato pancakes from lunch. “And stay out of trouble.”

  “Come on, Mary,” Johnny says to me, after Mommy has closed the door. “We’re arctic explorers. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Carrying our pancakes, we run to the barn. We tie our big dog Bear to our little sleigh. Then we get into the sleigh. Then we throw pieces of pancake ahead of Bear in the snow. Bear runs ahead to find his pancake treats. He pulls us along in the sleigh.

  Bear pulls us across the fields to the edge of the forest. Then he stops because we have no more pancake pieces to throw.

  Bear refuses to pull the sleigh any more. He sits down. When Johnny takes the rope off his neck, Bear runs away.

  “What will we do?” I ask. “It’s a long way home, and I’m getting cold.”

  “We’ll pull the sleigh ourselves,” says Johnny. “You’ll soon warm up.”

  And we did, and I do. But it takes us a long time to get home through the deep snow. We are late for dinner, and I am cold again.

  Mommy rubs my hands and feet with snow. She gives me boiling hot raspberry tea to drink. Then she shakes her finger at us again and says: “Don’t do that! See how cold Mary is! She’s almost frozen! Now go to your rooms, both of you. And stay there all evening! And no visiting!”

  Another day, when the snow is almost gone, but it is still cold, Johnny and I lean against the sunny side of the house, where it’s warmer. But we’re still cold, so we gather little sticks and dead grass, and we light a fire with some matches that we took when Mommy wasn’t looking.

  The fire is going nicely. Our hands are getting toasty warm. Then along comes Mommy with a basket of laundry for the clothesline.

  She drops the laundry, runs for a bucket of water, and throws the water on our fire. Then, surprise! Mommy does not shake her finger at us and say, “Don’t do that!”

  Instead, she says: “I am finished with you two. I’ve had enough of your mischief. Go out into the world. Then you’d see how lucky you are. You two have been very, very bad.” Then Mommy spanks Johnny hard on the bum with her hand.

  Then she spanks my bum just as hard.

  And then she huffs off into the house and slams the door. She’s left the laundry sitting in its basket in the yard, and she is so angry that she doesn’t care.

  “Let’s run away,” says Johnny, when we’ve finished bawling.

  We run away to the barn.

  We have a secret hiding place in the barn. It’s made of straw and an old horse blanket. Nobody knows where we are. We stay there for hours and hours, all afternoon. We fall asleep. Then we wake up and hear Mommy calling us for dinner. But we don’t come out.

  Then Daddy finds us somehow.

  “We’re never going home again,” says Johnny.

  “Mommy spanked us. She told us to go out into the world,” I say.

  Daddy sits in the straw between Johnny and me, and puts his arms around both of us. “Now children,” Daddy says, “your mother is not a young woman. Nor am I a young man. You are our second family, you know.”

  “What does that mean, Daddy?” I ask, snuggling into his coat.

  “That means there was a war long ago, before you were born,” explains Daddy, holding me close. “And our first two children, a boy and a girl, died because there was not enough food and no medicine. Only Agnes survived. She was the youngest, like you, Tiny Mouse. After the war, I had to go away for ten years to the United States of America. I had to earn money, so your mother and I could start all over again.”

  “Did Mommy miss her son after he died?” asks Johnny.

  “She grieved and grieved and almost died herself,” says Daddy. “Not until you were born was she the least bit happy again.”

  “Did Mommy miss her daughter after she died?” I ask.

  “She grieved and grieved and almost died herself,” says Daddy. “Not until Elizabeth was born was she the least bit happy again.”

  “Was Mommy happy when I was born?” I ask. Then I hold my breath.

  “You, Tiny Mouse, were a surprise,” says Daddy, hugging me and kissing the top of my head. “You were our valentine, and you made Mommy and me as happy as happy can be.”

  “Goody!” I say, and we all go home to hug and kiss Mommy.

  When I am hugging Mommy, I say, “I am your valentine!”

  Mommy laughs and says, “No, you’re the old hen’s chicky chick chick!”

  “KOOKEREE KOO!” I crow like a rooster. “The old hen laid an Easter egg!”

  “That’s right,” says Daddy. “It will be Easter soon. And soon time to plant seeds.”

  “I’ll help you!” I shout.

  “What about helping me?” asks Mommy. “I have twelve courses to prepare for Easter dinner. Then there are the eggs to decorate.”

  “Goody!” I shout, dancing a little polka around the kitchen. “Sausages and eggs! I can’t wait.”

  “Well, you must wait,” says Mommy, putting on her apron. “No meat for anyone for four weeks before Easter. And no butter, only oil for cooking.”

  And soon my brother and I are tapping our Easter eggs together.

  “If you break my egg, you have to give yours to me,” says Johnny. “If I break your egg, I have to give mine to you.”

  And we eat our eggs with salt. And we also eat sausages and fish and many other delicious things.

  And we go to church. And the the priest blesses us all.

  Eva

  Hanna left Poland in 1979. She never returned. She stayed with me for several years at my Grandma Goralski’s house in Edmonton, until I was established in my engineering studies.

  After martial law was declared in Poland in December 1981, she was able to get landed immigrant status in Canada quickly, and then she looked for work. She found temporary, full-time, contract work for three years in Montreal, developing the Polish collection of a special new library devoted to Slavic culture and history. I stayed in Edmonton to finish my degree and look after my grandmother.

  After the Solidarity Uprising in August 1980, I saw Mark regularly on television broadcasts from Poland. He was translating for the leaders of the Solidarity movement. (He was very cynical when I knew him in Warsaw, but he finally decided that he believed in something!) I only met Mark once again—in Canada. He came to raise money here for Solidarity. He got in touch with me when he arrived in Edmonton. We went out for dinner and spent the night together.

  Why? Because what Mark was doing was so romantic? Because Jake Wiens, the fellow I liked, had fallen in love with my friend Alice, not me? Unbelievably, I became pregnant just from that one intimacy. Believably, when I wrote Mark about Naomi, he wrote me that he had a wife and baby son in Warsaw. I wrote him that I wanted a child but no husband. He never wrote back. For a few years, I secretly longed for Mark. Then I fantasized about shooting him. Now my anger is gone. I love Joe.

  Grandma Goralski died before Naomi was born. My mother helped look after the baby until I finished my degree, but we still didn’t get along. Then I moved East to be near Hanna.

  Joe

  The boys are crazy about hockey. (Must come from Jill’s side.) Took them to an exhibition game on Saturday afternoon. Spent most of Sunday afternoon messing around with tennis balls and hockey sticks on the asphalt of the school yard.

  The boys said Jill finally has a steady boyfriend. She was at his house while the boys were with me. They said he’s a jerk, but
they won’t explain. Just loyalty to me?

  Eva was right. The boys liked the Sloppy Joes from her ground meat sauce equally as well as take-out burgers, and the “Joes” are cheaper and more nutritious. The boys approve of Eva. She’s “cool.” Of course, there hasn’t been much opportunity for them to get to know her.

  No time this week for the camera and dark room. Would love to go up to Algonquin Park and capture some fall colours and clear, sunny northern skies. Fat chance.

  My classes are going well, but I am sick and tired of the discipline problems. These kids straight out of high school from comfortable homes are a bore—boozing, partying, skipping class, mouthing off. Two years minimum travelling and working experience between high school and college should be mandatory.

  I’m making a list of photographic challenges to be met as soon as possible. These include all different types of clouds; all possible phenomena, such as sun pillars, sun dogs, halos around sun and moon and rainbows; lightning during a thunderstorm; etc.

  The shots of lenticular clouds over the mountains near Calgary are not up to book standard.

  Eva says maybe she can find an old hydrometer for me somewhere.

  Week Four

  Naomi

  Saturday, October 2, 1999

  Mom is preoccupied with Hanna. Hanna can’t get out of bed at all, and she often won’t eat anything. Of course, Mom is also busy with teaching at the college. Mom says that, with all the cutbacks these days, plus so many early retirements, there are double the usual number of students per class. Also she has two new courses: Robotics and Computer Interfacing.

  Mom is gaining weight from eating too much while she cooks on Saturdays, and from not doing her yoga exercises at home. She knows she should go to a fitness centre like the Rec Plex and work out in a group, but she can’t afford the membership fee. Furthermore, she doesn’t have time. At least, she walks to and from work.