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 Clever
Little Compartments
Bobbi Lancaster was like all the girls in Weston. She had several
twin sweater sets in different colours and sometimes when she
tossed the cardigan off her shoulders, I’d read the label,
‘Kitten.’ Her father was a schoolteacher, not just
a regular teacher, but a university professor. My father was
a truck driver for Toronto Macaroni. My uncles were cement workers,
excavators, labourers. My mother was a housewife but Bobbi’s
mother belonged to some club called the Junior League and every
Wednesday she went to something called a Luncheon Meeting and
Bobbi was allowed to go home alone. She had a key, which she
kept in her purse and each week she invited a friend for lunch.
When she asked me, I had to think fast. I didn’t want
to admit that my mother would never let me go to someone’s
house if their mother wasn’t home. “I’m in
Grade 8, Mom. All the other kids’ mothers allow them to…”
but my mother wouldn’t budge.
I opened my mouth to say no but at that moment Bobbi added these
seductive words, “My mother’s leaving TV dinners
for us.” Well, that did it. I had longed for TV dinners
ever since we’d bought our television and moved to town.
There was no chance I was ever going to get a TV dinner at home,
I’d asked enough times to know that. My mother didn’t
understand the concept of buying prepared food when she could
make it herself. Although I could usually wear her down if I
wanted something badly enough, I was not making any headway.
It made no sense to her and I had run out of arguments. So I
lied to my mother, told her my friend’s name was Roberta
because it sounded more Italian, swore Roberta’s mother
would be home, and after I was drilled in the daily routine
of washing my hands with soap before I ate, folding the towel
the same way I found it, asking if I could help, carrying my
plate to the counter, remembering to say thank-you, I was allowed
to go.
Roberta lived on King Street. It was lined with old shade trees
and we walked down the sidewalk scrunching the maple leaves.
“How long will it take to cook the TV dinner?”
I asked.
“They’re already in the oven, silly.”
“But I thought your mother was out.”
“She is. The oven’s on automatic. Everything will
be ready when we get there.”
I mulled over the magic of a preset oven and a mother who had
everything ready. My mother expected me to set the table, help
with the food, and wash the dishes. I was so lost in these thoughts
I almost walked past Bobbi’s house. We walked up the cement
driveway, past the leaded glass windows of the main floor and
around to the side door. As soon as Bobbi opened the door, I
could smell the dinner baking. Inside, the table was set with
place mats, another thing we didn’t have at our house.
They were plastic. All you had to do was wipe them off with
a damp cloth. They were nothing like the heavy damask cloth
my mother insisted on using with the matching napkins I had
to iron, one by one, until I thought I’d scream. |
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