The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1963, Blaðsíða 41

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
39
hardly know what fathers are since
I’ve never owned anything of the sort
and understand they’re not really
necessary.
But the one thing I can’t stand, even
in autumn, is a grin. I never risk a
smile for fear it might turn into a grin,
and a grin is an ugly taunt that
deforms a face and is full of wicked-
ness. I’ve never seen a man through a
grin, just sick rats with twisting cat
faces. A grin is poison that makes me
sick to my stomach. I laugh if I must
but never smile.
My miracle happened on an evening
in autumn. I was wearing new shoes,
the rain fell and we collided, she and
I. I don’t remember what I said, but I
looked u,p and she grinned. My fingers
crushed out the air in my hand and
dug into the flesh. One foot stamped
into a murky puddle and the mud
flew. My shoes were no longer new,
her stockings no longer clean.
I looked up again and my heart
lightened. She didn’t grin now. She
laughed, and I was overcome with
peace and remorse. I knelt before her,
wet my fingers in my mouth and start-
ed to wash the mud off her feet.
“What are you doing—are you a
little odd?’’ she said.
But she didn’t move, yet I knew now
that she wore no stockings. I felt her
looking down at me and stopped. A
paralyzing shyness overwhelmed me,
I started to rub the muddy pavement
with my bare hands, stroking it back
and forth like a misty mirror. “Some
think I’m a little odd,” I whispered.
“Sometimes I think so myself, even in
autumn.”
There was a long silence. I sensed
her thoughts. Yet I didn’t touch her—
only the pavement that she stood on.
Then she said gently: “Would you
like to very much?”
I had knelt all this time, polishing
the mirror at her feet. I trembled and
started rubbing with the other hand
too. I stroked that pavement until my
hands were torn and bleeding.
“I am sure it would be very good,”
I said, “but I only long for a warm
greeting and a heart in one farewell,
and soft fingers stroking the back of
my head.”
“You’re not odd at all, then,” she
said. “Get off your knees, boy. I’ll
try—only once, though—never again.
This is not what I’m meant for.”
I rose to my feet. She didn’t grin or
laugh. I've never seen a face so grave.
It reminded me of Christ on the cross
in a little church I know.
The raindrops loitered down my
face in the vain hope that they could
stay on my warm skin rather than fall
on the cold, hard pavement. I felt
hands around my neck and soft fingers
stroking the back of my head, a moist
cheek against my face and closed lips.
“I’ll do that other too if you want
it,” I offered.
“Then you are a little odd, after all,”
she said. She kissed the tip of my nose
and walked away.
I stood still. I don’t know why—I
just stood still. The rain fell, my bleed-
ing hands ached and I heard her walk
out of autumn into winter.