Into the Snow

In the cold streets they walk with the care of diamond cutters, each footfall planned, each shift measured, every step a show of deliberate force and grace. It is not the carefree, wild gait of summer. Bundled up, they seem like strangers to their own planet, beings from another world thrust precariously out into a climate never meant for them; and their breaths fly away visibly under the harsh street lights, as though their very souls evaporate.

The snow falls thick and heavy; windless, it fairly smothers as it descends, straight, in love with gravity, untroubled to dance, save by the wake of their bodies, and the pocket monsoons of their own breath.

Alongside, the homes of the middle class; warm, well-lit, prepared, in their largely Presbyterian way, for the approach of Christmas. Opposite them, the park; its darkness deep and rich like Belgian chocolate, inviting and just a bit bitter beyond the iron fence. The sky is a grey wool blanket over all, and the world would be blind but for the hazy, luminous reflection of the city lights below, both gas and, lately, electric. In fact, the night is as bright as any ornamented by a full moon.

"Don't be too worried about what Maggie says," advises Richard. "She's easy to put in a snit, but she's just as easy to cheer up again."

"I sure hope so," Nelson mumbles. "I don't even know what I did."

Richard nudges him through his thick fur coat. "That's usually how it is," Richard laughs. "At least, when it's not serious."

Up the hill comes a Ford, its headlamps slicing through the snow like a hot knife through butter; the track filled in a moment later. They stop, admire the sleek black machine as it passes, grinding out complaints as it fights its way through the debilitating carpet, and turning down the next street.

"Someday," Nelson says.

"Ah, you and the stock market," Richard smiles.

"Any man can be rich," Nelson puffs. "It just takes a little know-how, a little inside knowledge, and a little faith in the market. And one day, that car will be mine, Rich. Mark my words."

"I believe you, Nels, honest."

"Think about it. Now don't you think a long drive on a lovely night like this in smart automobile like that would put me right back in Maggie's good books?"

"Sure it would," Richard nods. "But since you don't have that automobile yet, we're just going to have to find another way."

"It would be easier with the Ford," grumbles Nelson.

* * * * *

They have forgiven him for being Anglican—almost Catholic—because he is a young man of drive and verve, easily likable, and because Margaret favours him. His family is not wealthy, but neither is it poor. Not quite as well off as the Fergusons, the Grants have still managed to see their son through a good college and out into the world as an office clerk. Up and coming. Mr. Ferguson can respect this, surely, since he himself advanced along this route when the century was new. And so Nelson is welcomed, genuinely and sincerely, when he comes calling.

Richard and Nelson kick the snow off their boots as they emerge out of their hats, scarves, fur; hanging each on the myriad hooks along the wall of the atrium. "I'm home," Richard booms. From the bright glow of the study where the radio is playing, family spills forth in greeting. The first, of course, is Mrs. Ferguson, embracing the young man, reciting the incantation of his name, as though in so uttering, she makes him real.

Mr. Ferguson comes out, his pipe jutting from the broad grey mustache that hides his smile, his cheeks fat and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. He wears a plaid vest and has the evening paper tucked under his arm. He stands aside, master of all, content to survey the world he has made for himself; home, family, and esteemed friends. He shakes his son's hand and then Nelson's, for this is how men convey their feelings about one another. Meanwhile, the younger Fergusons mill about, chatting and yapping the things that momentarily fill their narrow worlds, while at the back of it all, Margaret, her green eyes piercing, frowns softly at Nelson.

"Hello, Maggie," Nelson smiles.

"Hello, Nelson," she murmurs. Nelson wants to say more to her but discussions among the Ferguson men, among whom he his now an ad hoc member, keep him from engaging her. He turns to look for her, but she has drifted off.

* * * * *

Supper has ever been a round-table for the issues of the day, if only because Mr. Ferguson is well-informed and values an audience capable of appreciating it. Once Mrs. Ferguson and her daughters have brought in the joint and the vegetables and grace has been said, the fare can be served, seasoned liberally with the sauce of politics.

Nelson tries several times to catch Maggie's eye, sometimes catches and even occasionally holds it, but never for long.

"Well, I'm hoping one day soon to graduate from Canada into the States," Richard explains as he expounds on his laid-out plans for a golden future.

Mr. Ferguson clears his throat, and all eyes fix upon him. He holds up his glass, inspecting the wine, as if the old Latin proverb were to be taken that literally. He says, "While I personally admire the United States in many ways, it's my feeling that any such country, having divorced itself from its roots and forgotten its history, must be forever adrift like an anchorless ship in a stormy sea. It can never truly be at peace with itself. Well, just look at their civil war. If they had stayed the course of empire with the rest of us, slavery would have been abolished in the 1830s and that would have been that." He pats his hand, firmly, on the table top; his judgment pronounced upon the entire race.

"They've achieved great things, Dad," Richard counters. "I'm willing to bet they'll outstrip the British before too long."

"That may be," Mr. Ferguson says. "But don't confuse gaudiness with greatness, Richard. Any nation that assassinates three of its presidents in the space of a lifetime is a troubled land indeed, and not truly civilized."

"What about Prime Minister Perceval?" Margaret says, a quiet smile on her lips.

Her father waves the point away. "One assassination," he declares, "is an aberration. Three is a definite trend."

"Or D'Arcy McGee?" the middle brother, Mason, adds.

"Well, Mr. McGee was never prime minister," Mr. Ferguson points out. "And besides, it's well known he was a Fenian supporter. Not that I'm justifying what happened to him—just that it's not surprising that that kind of politics has its inevitable comeuppance."

"Well, Ireland is free now," Richard says. "After a long struggle."

Mr. Ferguson jabs a potato into his mouth, chews quickly so that he can retort. "They'll rue the day," is all he can manage between swallows. "Mark that, they will."

"Prime Minister Perceval?" Nelson asks, hearkening back to Maggie's point.

Forced by manners to address his inquiry, she smiles sweetly. "Surely your instructors haven't left you in the dark as to the fate of poor Mr. Perceval," she says.

Mr. Ferguson's eyebrow is raised in question over an eye that considers his young friend. "I'm afraid they may have," Nelson says, then allows, "though I may not have been paying attention."

To Nelson's frustration, it is Margaret's father who fields the matter. "British prime minister; assassinated just prior to the initiation of our last bout of armed unpleasantries with the republic to the south," he says, eyes flicking to his intending-expatriate son. "Murdered outside the Commons by one John Bellingham, if I'm not mistaken, over a matter of dissatisfaction with the results of a petition for compensation."

"Ah, thank you," says Nelson, meaning anything but.

Richard gives him a quick wink and a soft kick under the table. "Nice try," he mouths silently. More politics, more food, but no more successful attempts at engaging Maggie follow, until at last, Richard is able to arrange what Nelson has been aching for: a polite retreat to strategize.

"Please don't think we're rude," Richard says, "but I'm just going take Nels aside for a few moments to talk some things over in the drawing room."

"Take your time," Mr. Ferguson blesses them. "You young men go have your chat. We'll be here when you're finished."

Mrs. Ferguson has resumed her knitting, and the youngsters their places around the radio. "Maggie, why don't you bring the boys some tea," she suggests in her smooth, clear, sweet voice; a voice that flows like honeyed chocolate, delighting the ear instead of the tongue. Perhaps not Margaret's ear. She shoots her mother the tiniest of barbed looks, and rises, slowly, casually, as if she could not possibly care less either way. It is Nelson's sudden urge to follow her, confront her in the kitchen, but Richard is true to his word and hauls him away to the drawing room.

"Rich, what are you doing?" Nelson protests, hissing. "This is my opportunity to talk to Maggie."

"Oh, let her stew," Richard advises him. "We'll act like we're having a grand time when she comes in. Make her think you don't miss her half as much as she misses you. That ought to soften her up some."

"Well…" Nelson says.

"Trust me. I've known her twenty-one years."

"…Alright. I'll follow your lead."

"Good man. Now. Laugh."

"Pardon?"

"Laugh, Nels!"

Nelson pulls a face; he says, "Ha ha?"

"No, fool, laugh! Right out loud, as though I'd said the wittiest thing you've heard in a week. As though you were a happy man and the world a merry place!"

Nelson laughs, loudly.

Richard sigh, nods, "Not bad; a little polish and she just might believe you're a yak strangling on its tongue; come on, like this:" and Richard provides a robust, rounded example of a manly laugh; a cordial, pretentious, world-dominating sort of rumble shared by gentlemen of secure and fruitful means. Nelson tries again, and joins the club.

Richard leans back, listening. "Maggie's coming. Watch this," he mutters to Nelson. Suddenly he stiffens, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, his voice booming as though he and Nelson have been conversing so for quite some time; he says, "...When I woke up, she was gone, but she'd left her underwear!" He leans forward, beaming at Nelson, emphasizing his point. He gushes, "Isn't that quaint?"

Carrying a tea tray, Margaret enters, lips parted in the slightest betrayal of astonishment, her face questionably sour. Whether this is due to the fact that Richard might be in earnest, or is simply saying this to provoke her, or due to the fact that he would say such things out loud regardless of the reason, is not clear.

Even Nelson is a bit taken aback, and he wavers between a sickly grin and a wild look of dismay. "She, um," he begins, trying to invent the script, "this girl, she uh, was quite libertine, then?"

"To say the least," Richard trumpets.

Margaret clears her throat; it's like a thousand tiny windows smashing at once. She says nothing, but when Richard turns to acknowledge her she holds up the tray, questioningly. "Oh, thanks, Maggie," he says. "Just put it on the desk."

Margaret sets it down; she goes him one better and pours. Two cups.

Richard wears a sly look; infinitely subtle; he says, "Do you take one lump or two, Nels?"

"One, please," Nels says. He catches a look from Margaret that could cut glass and feels a sinking feeling as she drops a cube into his tea, and stirs it.

"Will that be all," she says, eyeing Richard, "or shall I drink it for you too? Wouldn't want you two worldly gents to have to break from chewing the rug for anything so plebian."

"Why don't you join us?" Richard says.

"I'd as soon not, thank you," she breezes, and recovering her hauteur, she turns to leave.

Richard strides after her, stopping her. "Oh, Maggie, really! That's quite enough. Regardless of the fact that you're behaving like a spoiled child who's had her doll taken away—"

"Am I, now."

"—Yes, you are. And what's more, you are being quite and deliberately rude to a guest of this family—and one who, I might add, thinks the world of you and wonders what he could possibly have done to have you treat him this way."

Nelson is horrified by Richard's bluntness, but oddly enough, it seems to break the ice. Margaret sighs, her shoulders dropping. "Yes, you're right, I've been cold and rude." She meets eyes with Nelson. "I've been upset."

Richard, in what is to Nelson a surprising display of maturity and decorum, backs out of the drawing room, quietly closing the doors shut behind him.

Nelson reaches for Maggie's hand; he's relieved that she does not pull it away. "Maggie, tell me, please. What have I done to upset you?"

They sit together on the couch, the tea still steaming, the mantle clock ticking away the urgent seconds. She draws a breath, as if nourishment for what she has to say. "Nels, things are changing. We've just come through a horrible war for the freedom of all people—"

"A monstrous tragedy we'll never let happen again, Maggie. We've seen to it—"

"Please, Nels. Listen to me. Things are changing," she insists, again. "The hopes, the sureties, the strictures of the last generation... they're not ours. And I don't think they should be."

"Maggie, I... I really don't understand."

She waits. The light of understanding kindles in his eyes.

"Wait," he says. "Does it have anything to do with the letter I sent your father?"

"Precisely," she says. "Precisely that."

"But I thought it would please you. And him. It's just a statement of my feelings, my promise to him, and through him to you, for the future..."

"It was a sweet gesture, in its way. I'm not so modern I can't see that. But what it was, and what it said, hurt me."

"Maggie?"

She pulls a face. "Nelson... it isn't just that you assume my father has anything to do with me, and us. It's what you said in the letter. That I would be forever provided for, and... what was it you said? 'Never a day's tarry,' or some such thing?"

"Well, toil, I think it was." And now he slips from the couch to kneel at her feet, holding her hand. "And it can be like that, Maggie. The future belongs to clever men who can play a symphony on the markets." He reaches up to stroke her face. "You'll never want for a thing."

"But there are already things I want you can't give me."

"Well, not at the moment, but soon, in time..."

"No, Nels. Not material things, like a home or a car or maid. Not a family. I'm talking about a sense of self-worth."

He shakes his head. "Being wife to me, and mother to our children; wouldn't that—"

"No," she says softly. "I'm starting community college in the spring, Nels. Nursing and some accounting. I intend to work as assistant to a doctor in a small prac—"

"Work? Work?" Nelson sputters. "You?"

"What's wrong with a woman working?" Margaret frowns. "Your mother worked till you were nine."

Nelson blinks, leaning back almost as if she had physically struck him. He recovers, and a heavy, malevolent cast molds his face. "Why don't you say it a bit louder," he growls. "I don't believe they heard you."

She closes her eyes, trying, reaching for a calm deep within herself. Is it to be forever this way? To Nelson, her mingled lashes have always evoked the image of a thousand sets of lovers intertwined, but now they look like a pair of black Venus flytraps, dangerous, stealing any hope from the unsuspecting. She tells him, "They know. In fact, my father finds it a point in your favour. Your parents prove what his did; that anyone with the will can pull himself up above the common and make something of himself." She opens her eyes. "To that I would add: or herself."

"And speaking of your father—does he know? Does he know you intend to clean things out of people's ears and wash bedpans and count tongue-depressors, day in and day out?"

"I've spoken to Mom. Dad will, of course, wish for better for me, but he will understand." Her eyes meet his, searchingly, asking: won't you?

"My mother sacrificed to raise a son who would be capable of seeing to it that no wife of his would ever have to do the same. I won't disgrace that."

"It's a noble sentiment, and I suppose in other ears it would chime like a bell. But... not in mine, Nels."

He still kneels, but his hand slips from hers.

"Try to understand. Before I can be a wife and mother, before I can be Margaret Grant... I need to learn who Margaret Ferguson is."

"And how long will that take?"

"I honestly can't tell you. I know there will come a time when I'm ready for those things. But right now, there are things I need to accomplish first." She takes his hand back. "I've been hoping that was something we could undertake together."

"You're asking me to turn my back on everything my mother worked for."

"I am not. She worked so that your wife would have the ability to choose, not be forced." She reaches for his cheek. "Honour that."

"I don't know, Margaret. I don't know."

"Nelson, there's nothing to stop us... you, from making your millions in the market, and me from helping people... except your preconceptions. I do care for you. If you care for me, then find a way."

He rises. "I need time to think."

She lowers her eyes and nods, softly. "Will you be back for the New Year's Eve soiree?"

"Of course."

"I want you to think too," he says. "Hard."

"Nelson, I already have. Now it's your turn."

He gives a single, curt nod. "I'll see you soon." He opens the drawing room doors and leaves.

Fumbled excuses to her parents, shocked acceptance by Richard. Ever the loyal friend, Richard too dons his winter gear for the return to town. The snowflakes still fall thick and heavy, threatening to pull dreams down to the ground with their very weight.