released by Audrey, Kate stood in the middle of the quad, glowing with the pleasure of the new year, her new position. Ruth could not help smiling widely in response. âLovely, Kate, thank you,â she said. Kate represented everything most exemplary about Eliot. In grade nine, she had arrived at Eliot with a greater disadvantage than most girls her age could fathom, yet her triumphs formed the kind of inspirational success story everyone loved. At twelve, Kate had been in a car accident that resulted in the amputation of her left arm above the elbow, but if she had ever felt frustrated by her disability, ever experienced self-pity, she had never allowed a second of bad humour to surface on her sunny, freckled countenance. Ruth watched Audrey walk away, both arms intact, and felt the urge to yank her back. Look! she imagined saying to her daughter. Only one full arm! What complaint of her own could Audrey put up against a prosthetic limb? What a lesson Kate was in patience and victory, in indestructible spirit. Moreover, she was proof that Eliot was the seat of higher minds. The girls had not ostracized Kate, they had voted for her, they had made her their leader.
Hours later, Ruth was still raw with disappointment. The drive home to the Beach was long, and she had trouble keeping her eyes on the road, though she knew the route so well she followed it mindlessly. It had been the same house on Silverbirch all these years, however little it resembled its original self. When she and Richard bought it during her pregnancy, it had been a small semi-detached at the top of a steep hill. For years, they had made only small improvements; then the old woman next door died and her errant children descended, appraising the neighbourhood and counting their money. Richard suggested that he and Ruth buy the house and make one large detached home out of the two. A trendy architect was deployed to replaced every existing wall, every known corner, with a better wall, a superior corner, yet every time she faced it, Ruth was frustrated by the lack of finesse that had gone into its design. The house looked exactly like what it was: two houses that had been joined awkwardly into one.
Closing the door behind her, she dropped her briefcase and tossed her keys onto the console table in the front hall. The keys clanged as they hit the ornate porcelain dish that served as the tableâs centrepiece. The disruptive noise was satisfying, a splash of cold water on the face, and Ruth had a flash of a different outcome: the compote toppled like a bowling pin. An act of carelessness so easily avoided might have been perversely gratifying. A kind of wicked fulfillment would be found in kneeling on the floor amid the jagged shardsâthe physical defeat of the maid-like posture, the clink as she dropped each broken piece into a garbage bag, the satisfaction of wallowing in her stupidity. The dayâs pleasures had fallen short of her forecast, and disillusionment brought out the anarchist in her.
The dish had been Richardâs first gift to her. There had been no occasion for the offering, a fact that ought to have doubled the sweetness of the gesture but had only ever added to Ruthâs bewilderment. It was an antique English compote (a term sheâd never heard until he offered it), a delicate, fanciful thing. The first part was a scalloped cream bowl with intricately carved cactus lilies and vines winding around its outer wall. This bowl sat atop a similarly garlanded pedestal, around which stood three winged cupids involved in the work of making gilt arrows, each at a station supplied with tools, also gilt. When Richard had presented it, in a box wrapped in pink tissue paper, she looked to him for some sign of ironic intent, though she knew there was none. The compote was rare and expensive. That much was clear.
Over the years, Ruthâs perception of the compote had changed. Still it clashed embarrassingly with her cooler antiques
Hours later, Ruth was still raw with disappointment. The drive home to the Beach was long, and she had trouble keeping her eyes on the road, though she knew the route so well she followed it mindlessly. It had been the same house on Silverbirch all these years, however little it resembled its original self. When she and Richard bought it during her pregnancy, it had been a small semi-detached at the top of a steep hill. For years, they had made only small improvements; then the old woman next door died and her errant children descended, appraising the neighbourhood and counting their money. Richard suggested that he and Ruth buy the house and make one large detached home out of the two. A trendy architect was deployed to replaced every existing wall, every known corner, with a better wall, a superior corner, yet every time she faced it, Ruth was frustrated by the lack of finesse that had gone into its design. The house looked exactly like what it was: two houses that had been joined awkwardly into one.
Closing the door behind her, she dropped her briefcase and tossed her keys onto the console table in the front hall. The keys clanged as they hit the ornate porcelain dish that served as the tableâs centrepiece. The disruptive noise was satisfying, a splash of cold water on the face, and Ruth had a flash of a different outcome: the compote toppled like a bowling pin. An act of carelessness so easily avoided might have been perversely gratifying. A kind of wicked fulfillment would be found in kneeling on the floor amid the jagged shardsâthe physical defeat of the maid-like posture, the clink as she dropped each broken piece into a garbage bag, the satisfaction of wallowing in her stupidity. The dayâs pleasures had fallen short of her forecast, and disillusionment brought out the anarchist in her.
The dish had been Richardâs first gift to her. There had been no occasion for the offering, a fact that ought to have doubled the sweetness of the gesture but had only ever added to Ruthâs bewilderment. It was an antique English compote (a term sheâd never heard until he offered it), a delicate, fanciful thing. The first part was a scalloped cream bowl with intricately carved cactus lilies and vines winding around its outer wall. This bowl sat atop a similarly garlanded pedestal, around which stood three winged cupids involved in the work of making gilt arrows, each at a station supplied with tools, also gilt. When Richard had presented it, in a box wrapped in pink tissue paper, she looked to him for some sign of ironic intent, though she knew there was none. The compote was rare and expensive. That much was clear.
Over the years, Ruthâs perception of the compote had changed. Still it clashed embarrassingly with her cooler antiques
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