Free The Diviners by Margaret Laurence

did you phone?”
    And do you remember the last time I saw you, and what happened and didn’t happen?
    “To ask you, you mad bitch,” he said, “what in hell you think you’re doing with that girl?”
    He had two speaking voices, one like gravel in a cement-mixer, the other exceedingly low-pitched, quiet. He used the second when very angry. As now.
    “What do I think I’m doing?” Morag shouted. “What do you mean by that? Wait–have you seen her, then?”
    “Of course I’ve seen her. She turned up here.”
    “Where is here?”
    “Toronto. Yesterday. Don’t ask me how she found out where I was. Ask her. She’s a smart kid, I’ll give her that much.”
    “What–how is she?” Morag sat down on the high stool beside the phone.
    “She’s okay,” he said. “She’s changed a lot since fifteen, eh?”
    “Yeh.”
    “What’s with this guy she had this fight with?”
    “Gord? He wanted to get married. She doesn’t believe in it.”
    “God, what an example you’ve been to her,” he said, but laughing, really in approval. “Well, why in hell did you let her leave home? You know where she can end up, don’t you? You know what can happen to her, don’t you? By Jesus, Morag, if she goes out to Vancouver, I’ll strangle you. Why did you let her go?”
    “Let her? Let her?” Morag cried furiously. “What do you suggest I should’ve done, then? Chained her to the stove?”
    A second’s silence at the other end of the line.
    “Yeh,” he said finally. “Well, I guess she had to go. She comes by it naturally. I guess it isn’t your fault.”
    “Well, never mind. It’s not yours, either.”
    “No,” he said. “It isn’t. But I keep thinking of them, back there. You know.”
    “I know. But don’t. Just don’t, eh? Has she gone, now, then?”
    “Yeh. West. I don’t know how far, though. She wanted something. Maybe that’s why she looked me up. She wanted the songs.”
    “Did you give them to her?”
    “What do you think? Naturally I did.”
    “Well. Anyway, she was okay as of yesterday?”
    “Yeh. Hey, Morag, do you still say my name wrong?”
    “I–haven’t tried it recently.”
    “No. I guess you wouldn’t.”
    When he had rung off, she sat without moving. Afraid she would begin shaking, the way Christie sometimes used to do. The Smiths looked worried, curious, startled.
    “My daughter’s father,” Morag said finally. “As I’ve told you, never having had an ever-present father myself, I managed to deny her one, too. Although not wittingly. I wasn’t very witting in those days, I guess.”
    Maudie rose and nudged A-Okay.
    “I think we should be getting along,” A-Okay said. “Are you all right, Morag? Is there anything–?”
    “I’m all right. Really.”
    Alone, Morag sat still for another half-hour before she could bring herself to get out the notebook and begin.
    Whatever is happening to Pique is not what I think is happening, whatever that may be. What happened to me wasn’t what anyone else thought was happening, and maybe not even what I thought was happening at the time. A popular misconception is that we can’t change the past–everyone is constantly changing their own past, recalling it, revising it. What really happened? A meaningless question. But one I keep trying to answer, knowing there is no answer.
     
    Memorybank Movie: The Thistle Shamrock Rose
Entwine the Maple Leaf Forever
    Morag is twelve, and is she ever tough. She doesn’t walk all hunched up any more, like when she was a little kid. Nosiree, not her. She is tall and she doesn’t care who knows it. Her tits have swollen out already, and she shows them off by walking straight, swinging her shoulders just a little bit. Most of the girls are still as flat as boards. She has started her monthlies, too, and occasionally lets kids like Mavis or Vanessa, who haven’t started, know it by a dropped remark here and there. She is a woman, and a lot of them are just kids.
    But she’s a tomboy, too. You