Boys-and-Girls-by-Alice-Munro

Page1BoysandGirlsbyAliceMunroMyfatherwasafoxfarmer.Thatis,heraisedsilverfoxes,inpens;andinthefallandearlywinter,whentheirfurwasprime,hekilledthemandskinnedthemandsoldtheirpeltstotheHudson'sBayCompanyortheMontrealFurTraders.Thesecompaniessupplieduswithheroiccalendarstohang,oneoneachsideofthekitchendoor.Againstabackgroundofcoldblueskyandblackpineforestsandtreacherousnorthernrivers,plumedadventuresplantedtheflagsofEnglandandorofFrance;magnificentsavagesbenttheirbackstotheportage.ForseveralweeksbeforeChristmas,myfatherworkedaftersupperinthecellarofourhouse.Thecellarwaswhitewashed,andlitbyahundred-wattbulbovertheworktable.MybrotherLairdandIsatonthetopstepandwatched.Myfatherremovedthepeltinside-outfromthebodyofthefox,whichlookedsurprisinglysmall,mean,andrat-like,deprivedofitsarrogantweightoffur.Thenaked,slipperybodieswerecollectedinasackandburiedinthedump.Onetimethehiredman,HenryBailey,hadtakenaswipeatmewiththissack,saying,Christmaspresent!Mymotherthoughtthatwasnotfunny.Infactshedislikedthewholepeltingoperation--thatwaswhatthekilling,skinning,andpreparationofthefurswascalled–andwisheditdidnothavetotakeplaceinthehouse.Therewasthesmell.Afterthepelthadbeenstretchedinside-outonalongboardmyfatherscrapedawaydelicately,removingthelittleclottedwebsofbloodvessels,thebubblesoffat;thesmellofbloodandanimalfat,withthestrongprimitiveodourofthefoxitself,penetratedallpartsofthehouse.Ifounditreassuringlyseasonal,likethesmelloforangesandpineneedles.HenryBaileysufferedfrombronchialtroubles.Hewouldcoughandcoughuntilhisnarrowfaceturnedscarlet,andhislightblue,derisiveeyesfilledupwithtears;thenhetookthelidoffthestove,and,standingwellback,shotoutagreatclotofphlegm–hss–straightintotheheartoftheflames.Weadmiredhisforthisperformanceandforhisabilitytomakehisstomachgrowlatwill,andforhislaughter,whichwasfullofhighwhistlingsandgurglingsandinvolvedthewholefaultymachineryofhischest.Itwassometimeshardtotellwhathewaslaughingat,andalwayspossiblethatitmightbeus.AfterwehadsenttobedwecouldstillsmellfoxandstillhearHenry'slaugh,butthesethings,remindersofthewarm,safe,brightlylitdownstairsworld,seemedlostanddiminished,floatingonthestalecoldairupstairs.Wewereafraidatnightinthewinter.Wewerenotafraidofoutsidethoughthiswasthetimeofyearwhensnowdriftscurledaroundourhouselikesleepingwhalesandthewindharassedusallnight,comingupfromtheburiedPage2BoysandGirlsfields,thefrozenswamp,withitsoldbugbearchorusofthreatsandmisery.Wewereafraidofinside,theroomwhereweslept.Atthistimeupstairsofourhousewasnotfinished.Abrickchimneywentuponewall.Inthemiddleofthefloorwasasquarehole,withawoodenrailingaroundit;thatwaswherethestairscameup.Ontheothersideofthestairwellwerethethingsthatnobodyhadanyuseforanymore–asoldieryrolloflinoleum,standingonend,awickerbaycarriage,afernbasket,chinajugsandbasinswithcracksinthem,apictureoftheBattleofBalaclava,verysadtolookat.IhadtoldLaird,assoonashewasoldenoughtounderstandsuchthings,thatbatsandskeletonslivedoverthere;wheneveramanescapedfromthecountyjail,twentymilesaway,Iimaginedthathehadsomehowlethimselfinthewindowandwashidingbehindthelinoleum.Butwehadrulestokeepussafe.Whenthelightwason,weweresafeaslongaswedidnotstepoffthesquareofworncarpetwhichdefinedourbedroom-space;whenthelightwasoffnoplacewassafebutthebedsthemselves.Ihadtoturnoutthelightkneelingontheendofmybed,andstretchingasfarasIcouldtoreachthecord.Inthedarkwelayonourbeds,ournarrowliferafts,andfixedoureyesonthefaintlightcomingupthestairwell,andsangsongs.LairdsangJingleBells,whichhewouldsinganytime,whetheritwasChristmasornot,andIsangDannyBoy.Ilovedthesoundofmyownvoice,frailandsupplicating,risinginthedark.Wecouldmakeoutthetallfrostedshapesofthewindowsnow,gloomyandwhite.WhenIcametothepart,WhenIamdead,asdeadIwellmaybe–afitofshiveringcausednotbythecoldsheetsbutbypleasurableemotionsalmostsilencedme.You'llkneelandsayanAvethereaboveme—WhatwasanAve?EverydayIforgottofindout.Lairdwentstraightfromsingingtosleep;Icouldhearhislong,satisfied,bubblybreaths.Nowforthetimethatremainedtome,themostperfectlyprivateandperhapsthebesttimeofthewholeday,IarrangedmyselftightlyunderthecoversandwentonwithoneofthestoriesIwastellingmyselffromnighttonight.Thesestorieswereaboutmyself,whenIhadgrownalittleolder;theytookplaceinaworldthatwasrecognizablymine,yetonethatpresentedopportunitiesforcourage,boldness,andself-sacrifice,asmineneverdid.Irescuedpeoplefromabombedbuilding(itdiscouragedmethattherealwarhadgoneonsofarawayfromJubilee).Ishottworabidwolveswhoweremenacingtheschoolyard(theteacherscoweredterrifiedatmyback).RodeafinehorsespiritedlydownthemainstreetofJubilee,acknowledgingthetownspeople’sgratitudeforsomeyet-to-be-worked-outpieceofheroism(nobodyeverrodeahorsethere,exceptKingBillyintheOrangemen’sDayparade).Therewasalwaysridingandshootinginthesestories,thoughIhadonlybeenonahorsetwice—thefirstbecausewedidnotownasaddle—andthesecondtimeIhadslidrightaroundanddroppedunderthehorse'sfeet;ithadsteppedplacidlyoverme.Ireallywaslearningtoshoot,butcouldnothitanythingyet,noteventincansonfenceposts.Alive,thefoxesinhabitedaworldmyfathermadeforthe