Free The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel Page A

back.
    â€œYou’re only saying that because you feel you must. Because you always do. Where’s your corkscrew?”
    I headed to the kitchen without waiting for an answer, opened both drawers, and pulled out an old corkscrew, badly rusted, attached to a coil of stained rawhide. My mother would have found the dish soap, muttered and clucked. I reached for the paring knife and two plastic cups and plates from the cupboard above and carried it all to the blanket. I busied myself by fluffing up the pillows, dragging them to the blanket, opening the wine, and pouring us each a cupful.
    Elizabeth still stood at the door. She had taken off her glasses and was chewing on the tip of one of its arms. I felt almost frightened by her shape in the doorway. But it was more of an aching. She could force me to leave in that moment and then it would be over.
    I raised my hand, an unconditional gesture, willing some power over her.
    She stood there, unmoving, while I held my breath. But then she came, sat on her pillow in cross-legged defeat, and took the cup from my outstretched hand.
    â€œI should have brought flowers.”
    â€œAre we dating, Miss Bel?” She did not try to hide the contempt in her voice.
    But I thought about it anyway, about having Elizabeth. Rebee would be with us. We’d walk together on a winter morning, sharing mittens, my hands in theirs. I was filled with a tenderness I could not explain.
    â€œI had to sneak across town to get this stuff. Didn’t want to start a Winter Lake riot for playing hooky from school. My artfulness deserves a toast. Let’s drink to imports most recent, to innocence and impunity.”
    I touched the side of her cup with mine. We brought our cups to our lips. I could taste the freshly sawn oak and hint of vanilla, just like the boy said.
    â€œSo we’re having your picnic. Are you satisfied, Miss Bel?”
    â€œYes, yes I am, Miss Elizabeth. Satisfied to my core.”
    â€œMy name is Harmony.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll go with that. You call me Bel. I’ll call you Harmony.”
    The French loaf tore under the dull knife, bread crumbs scattering over the blanket and floorboards. I wanted to borrow Delta’s old Hoover, plug the cord from the lime green canister into the socket by the fireplace, and run its rumpled hose up and down along the pine planks. Elizabeth didn’t notice the mess we were making. She took the bread I offered, and covered it with a slice of salmon. Then she reached for olives and tomatoes until her plate was filled.
    We ate what was before us, best friends, sharing a meal. I felt pleased with my choices, colours colliding inside our cheeks.
    â€œYou don’t seem the teacher type,” she said at last.
    â€œThank God for that.” My mother was a teacher. Self-appointed. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. I perched on the Sears catalogue for the first few years, tied to the chair with a worn nylon stocking wrapped around my stomach. My mother never meant to be cruel, but she lacked imagination. The school was too far, and she knew no other way to keep a young child still. The home schooling lessons arrived in the mail like a prison sentence. Again, Belinda. Do it again . By Grade Five the lessons got too difficult for her. She stumbled over the reading passages and couldn’t understand what the assignments were asking. I got to climb the stairs after breakfast and play school in my bedroom, tracing patterns along the window ledge in the mountains of grey dust that formed through the night. My mother never understood this principle either. She could scrub herself raw, but we lived in a dustbowl. We could never stay clean.
    A crumble fell to Elizabeth’s sleeve. I leaned towards her, pinched it with my fingers, and placed it on my tongue. Elizabeth failed to acknowledge my gesture. But she didn’t pull away either.
    â€œTeachers are glorified lab attendants,” I