Free Too Close to the Falls by Catherine Gildiner Page B

only Protestants can be, and I quickly rose to the occasion rather haughtily, assured that I had truth on my side, telling her I knew I’d never had dinner at home, nor had I ever had a snack other than a Coke at my father’s store, and I assumed liquids didn’t count. I then sat down, feeling I had outfoxed her.
    Suddenly there was muffled giggling which turned into outright guffaws all around me. All the grade twos and threes who were older than me were laughing, and Head Nurse Stayner said, and I quote because I remember it verbatim, “Miss McClure, I don’t know who you think you are. Obviously you fancy yourself a comedienne; however, I advise you to remember that people arelaughing
at
you and not
with
you.” I was devastated by that phrase, which was forever branded with a white-hot poker into my tender memory. Were people laughing
at
me? I pictured people hiding behind telephone poles or the altar at church, laughing
at
me. I pictured myself running through the forest like Snow White with the trees coming to life for the sole purpose of cackling
at
me. All these seven years I’d thought I was genuinely amusing, entertaining people at home and at school and the store, and now I find out that actually people were laughing
at
me? I was horrified — I never wanted to speak again. I decided when I grew up I’d join a Carmelite order like my cousin Sister Polly Rose, who had taken the vow of silence and was only allowed to talk to visitors once a year through a three-by-five-inch window covered with wrought-iron grating.
    Needless to say I was very quiet for the next few days and finally my mother asked if I was on a private retreat. I told her what happened, and she said Miss Stayner was jealous of our “carefree lifestyle.” Since I never saw our life as having any particular style at all, I looked a bit dubious. Picking up on my scepticism she asked me if I’d rather be a frowzy old woman washing out my white stockings at night, making a dinner from a greasy fry pan, going to a church where they didn’t even have an altar; or would I like to be a young girl dining out from a full-page menu. As for the “comedienne” part, my mother said it was not uncommon for Protestants to lack a funnybone and if Head Nurse could appreciate humour she wouldn’t be a Unitarian who wore her uniform on the weekend. My mother said we were all God’s children; however, some come into the world more able to appreciate life’s beauty than others. She assured me I had more humourin my big toe than Nurse Stayner had in her whole ramrod body. She convinced me Head Nurse Stayner needed more than our prayers. She explained that some people don’t appreciate art, to them it’s just paint, some think history is only facts, and some think humour is only words. My mother concluded by saying that if we listened to the Head Nurse Stayners of this world no one would do anything more important or fun than eat a balanced diet. The most consoling part of my mother’s speech was that we both agreed that she was the type who probably found Topo Gigio funny, especially when he kissed Ed Sullivan good night.

    In those days, in Lewiston, at any rate, people didn’t seem to make formal arrangements to visit one another; they simply dropped in unannounced. My mother had a system for such spontaneous occurrences. Whenever headlights hit the curtains of the picture window, we all had to drop to the floor in hopes that they hadn’t already seen our shadows. When the company rang the doorbell, the dog would bark furiously, growling and biting the throw rug in the hall, shaking it mercilessly as though to warn the visitor what might happen to him. When Mother yelled, “Hit the floor!” we’d all lie prostrate until the caller gave up and left. Sometimes the more tenacious visitors would go around to the back door and we’d hear them say in a bewildered tone,