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the crack of dawn when I’ve worked late the night before, now am I?” She snapped her gum. “Gosh, when’s a girl going to get her beauty sleep?” “Oh…” “Come on, kiddo! Let’s get the whole darn kit and caboodle in the washing machine so you can relax.” Lexi moved over to Georgie and whispered, so the children wouldn’t hear, “Mrs. Oliver’s still sleeping up there.” Georgie clamped her lips together as if thinking hard and then grinned a mischievous grin. “Well, I guess she’ll wake up then,” she said, pulling a scarf out of her string bag and tying it around her curls. Lexi felt queasy. “Let’s up and at ’em.” Georgie moved towards the stairs. “Can we help too?” asked Sally. “Sure,” said Georgie.“You two can hold the curtain hooks when we take them out.” As they marched up the stairs, Lexi carrying the dry mop and duster for the walls and shushing the children, she felt, in spite of her worry that they were going to wake up Mrs. Oliver, something new stirring.This strange and shocking girl, this Georgie, could become her friend.What would Papa say? He would never allow it. Such a worldly girl with a sinful tongue. But Georgie didn’t seem to be a bad person, did she? She seemed to have a kind heart. With Papa nowhere near, it was Lexi who could allow or not allow this Georgie to become a friend.The thought sent a shiver through her. For the first time since she’d come to Ontario, almost a month ago, she had the feeling that something good might happen. four Lexi was in the middle of brushing the braids out of her hair before going to bed when there was a knock at her door. She jumped up, her heart pounding, holding the brush in front of her. A memory of Russia flashed through her mind. Dark men on horses, approaching. 40 Annie Jacobsen jacobsen_text 8/27/07 10:05 Page 40 “Open the door, will you?” Mrs. Oliver said, in an exasperated voice. Breath sluiced out of her lungs. She put down the brush and hurried to the door. Mrs. Oliver had a cigarette dangling from her mouth and her arms were laden with clothes. “Here,” she said, tossing the clothes on the bed.The dull red glow of her cigarette swam around her face in the dimness. “I thought that since these are a tad too big for me these days, you could use them.” She gestured with her cigarette at the pile of clothes. “You’ve been here almost a month now, and I’m tired of those same two skirts you always wear. People will think we don’t pay you enough.” Lexi stared at the clothes. Refugee. They’d been given other peoples ’ clothes when they were first in Saskatchewan, when Papa was unable to make enough of a living to both feed and clothe them. In Russia they’d never had that problem, except during the famine, of course. “I haven’t worn any of them in ages. No one will recognize them.” A sour laugh.“So you needn’t worry about that.And you can wear your other outfits to church, of course. If you still want to.” She took a long contemplative drag. “I think you’ll be much more relaxed with the children…” Was this like the bare feet on her first day? A strange requirement for the job? Like a uniform? “You can wear trousers for playing outside and doing the shopping . I don’t know how you can run in those long skirts.” Refugee. Refugee. Refugee. She looked at Mrs. Oliver and then at the clothes, remembering the bundles Mama and Papa had been sent by American relatives in Newton, Kansas, when they had first come to Canada in 1925, how Mama had worked to make them over into “new” clothes that would fit. Mama was a skilled seamstress and tailor. She could work miracles with cloth. People in Millheim would talk behind their back about them when they walked down the street because Mama would always add a bit of lace or embroidery to the things she made. Long black quilted skirts and black blouses with lace trim, that’s mostly what she made. People were jealous, people said: if you’re so poor, why are you dressed so well? Watermelon Syrup 41 jacobsen_text 8/27/07...
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