Lilly and her children sat patiently waiting for Anthony to stop his happy babble, so they could say ‘grace’, then Lilly served everyone from a steaming tureen in the centre of the table.
Lori’s eyes traveled from Mother to Anna to Anthony’s plate, as Anthony eagerly spooned up noodles, vegetable bits and chewed his bread, but left pieces of chicken on the side of the plate.
“In our house children eat what is put in front of them,” Lilly said pleasantly, filling Lori’s plate. Anthony didn’t understand what was being said and painstakingly fished more chicken bits to the side.
“Even when Mummy grabbed the wrong jar one day and put half a pound of salt in the cake, the Parson made us eat it,” said Lori, both hands covering her eyes.
“He did?” Anna whispered to Lilly, who nodded.
“I don’t think I could count on that kind of loyalty,” said Anna, and they smiled uneasily.
“Anthony has stopped eating meat,” explained Anna, “when he discovered what it really is, earlier this year. We want to respect that.”
“But have you talked to your doctor about it?” asked Lilly, very concerned.
“Yes, he was the first to hear, and he didn’t like the idea. But when we mentioned what Anthony likes to eat, you know cheese, almonds, eggs, lentils and raw green peppers, oh and olives, he said it would be alright, as long as we watched he had a good balance and enough milk.”
“Anna, are you telling me you cook a separate meal for a three-year old?” Lilly looked aghast — when the door opened and a parishioner came in with an anxious expression on her face.
In an instant Lilly became the Parson’s Wife, put on a little cape and picked up a grey canvas bag.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Anna. This is an emergency. There’s pudding in the fridge. Get the bowls, Lori. Be a big girl now. Mummy will be back soon…”
Lilly found them all in the bathroom, two hours later, with Anthony, Lori and Tina soaping each other’s backs in the tub. Anna sat on the toilet seat cuddling Lilly's baby, Martin, in a big towel, having just completed six rounds of ‘This is the way the ladies ride …’ in German, to a chorus of shrieks. Ignoring the puddle on the floor, Lilly closed the door and retreated to the kitchen to make tea.
Before the children sat down with milk, Lori dragged Lilly into the nursery to show her the truly magnificent town they had built, complete with park and real grass sticking out of Anthony’s plasticine, and a pond made of a baby’s dish. Lilly admired every detail, asking who’d thought of what, then finally sank into the window seat with a cup of very thick tea, the children tucked into bed.
Her husband, ‘the Parson’, was with the dying woman now, but first the towns people would always come for Lilly, had done so since the couple had been assigned this parish six years earlier. It wasn’t really her nurse’s training, but her natural affinity with the elderly, Lilly thought.
“And your patience and compassion, combined with the no-nonsense competence you always had,” said Anna. “Besides, you are a great listener, and a beautiful woman with a dimple in her left cheek,” and Anna kissed her on top of the head and poured more tea.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Glasses on the table, they wait for the Parson, a little baby snore coming from the open nursery, the bell tower announcing the full hour, a peaceful witness to the passing of time, comforting in its certainty.
Lilly has been saying that she would like more energy. She could help so much more if only —. They have covered this territory in letters, and twice since Anna arrived, and she can think of no further suggestions. She decides to change tacks. Lilly is pouring wine.
“Could it be that you’re doing too much?” Anna says. “Be kinder to your nerves, maybe? One of my neighbours divorced his wife after she turned on the blender the very moment Satchmo blew the first seductive notes of ‘Summertime’.”
“Who’s Satchmo?”
“Louis Armstrong, and don’t change the subject.”
“Your neighbour’s a musician?”
“A Math Prof. High blood pressure.”
“I’m so lucky with the Parson. I use the blender even when he’s trying out a new sermon on me.”
“And?”
“Nothing. He likes my cooking.” Then Lilly raises an eyebrow and brushes a brown curl from her forehead. No more giggles. Lilly is apprehensive, Anna realizes, about the Parson returning home for the evening, and the prospect of discussions on respecting a three-year old’s choice to be a vegetarian.
But the Parson, eating his warmed-up hash browns with sausage and green beans, late that night, wants to talk about the young couple, he Protestant, she Catholic, who had drowned themselves in a neighbouring village pond, after being hounded by members of both churches, their families and even friends, threatened, unless they broke off their engagement.
Was this, the Parson wants to know, imaginable in Canada? Anna reminds them she has only been there for three years, but has never heard of such a thing. Thought Torontonians would be revolted by a modern Romeo and Juliet tragedy along religious lines. Should she mention Leoni’s ‘Little Blue and Little Yellow’ here? No, perhaps not.
“Canadians believe in refereeing. They are good at it, too. They want to see fair solutions. The kids wouldn’t be left alone with this, I don’t think. None of this emotional bombardment. Some rational person would step in and take charge, I think. I hope.”
“You like it there, don’t you?”
“Well, I’m homesick often, but yes, I like it there,” says Anna.
Anna has packed their things. She and Anthony will leave in an hour. A young neighbour has taken the children to the park.
“I’m concerned about your parenting approach,” says Lilly earnestly. “You’re headed for a mighty difficult stretch. It doesn’t make sense to give children choices. They’re too young to take on the responsibility, don’t have the experience to get it right.”
“Oh, I don’t foist choices on him all the time, but I listen to hear when he wants to tell us something that’s important to him. A couple of months ago we went to a luncheon buffet in Toronto. Anthony sat on John’s shoulders. John chose his food, I chose mine, and then we went ahead and told him what he had to eat, while all the dishes were in front of us from which to pick. Anthony got upset: he was the only one denied the joy to collect HIS lunch from a prepared buffet. When we realized what we had done, we let him pick. He did a very good job.”
“Balanced meal?”
“Exactly, with apple juice.”
Lilly scratches her head.
“Wasn’t that one of the central issues back then, Lilly, the thing I promised myself to do differently? If I ever had kids, to grant them a voice, to really listen to them and think with respect about what they have to say. Not just because it’s fair but because the ideas of even the VERY young matter.”
Lilly says, “true, but then reality looks quite different, doesn’t it?”
“Lilly, who shapes reality? Don’t we have a part in that? We live in a democracy, that’s a major condition of my reality, I know. We exercise choices, and John and I want Anthony to see us do it. We speak up in public when we disagree, and he knows it. We want him to think and to develop a strong sense of self. I believe he won’t gain self respect unless we demonstrate that WE respect him. And I’m convinced this is how he’ll learn to respect others. Be prepared to, you know?”
“True enough. Kids don’t respect adults who yell at them, as we all remember. Oh, Anna, I just hope you’ll all thrive over there. You sound so brave, my girl, and I miss you so much. You haven’t changed one bit!”
“Should we? You haven’t changed either, Lilly, thank goodness.”
They embrace, stroke each other’s hair. Anna had so looked forward to this visit. How wonderful it had been.