The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence Page A

to be told. But we’re not blaming you. We never said it was your fault. You can’t help—”
    “Please!”
    My head is lowered, as I flee their scrutiny, but I cannot move, and now I see that in this entire house, mine, there is no concealment. How is it that all these years I fancied violation meant an attack upon the flesh?
    How is it that I never knew about the sheets? How could I not have noticed?
    “I’m sorry,” Doris mumbles, perhaps wanting to make it totally unendurable, or perhaps only blundering, having to wait another thirty years or so before she can know.
    “Mother—” Marvin’s voice is deep and determined. “All this is beside the point. The point is—at the nursing home you’d get the care you need, and the company of others your own age—”
    He is repeating the advertisement. Despite myself, I have to smile. So unoriginal. And all at once the printed words are given back to me, as well, like a revelation.
    “Yes—give Mother the care she deserves. Remember the loving care she lavished upon you.”
    I throw back my head and laugh. Then I stopsuddenly, wheeze, and come to a halt, and see his face. Does it express a vulnerability, or do I only imagine it?
    “You’re making it very hard for me,” Marvin says. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so queer about it. I’ve seen the place. It’s just as Doris says. It’s comfortable and nice. It would be all for the best, believe me.”
    “It’s certainly not cheap,” Doris says. “But you’ve got the money yourself, luckily, and it’s only right it should be spent on you.”
    “It’s in the country,” Marvin says. “Cedars and alders all around, and the garden’s well kept.”
    “Full of petunias, I suppose.”
    “What?”
    “Petunias. I said petunias.”
    “We’d visit you every weekend,” Marvin says.
    I gather myself, my strength, my forces. I intend to speak with dignity. No reproaches, only a firm clear word. But that’s not what I find myself saying.
    “If it were John, he’d not consign his mother to the poorhouse.”
    “Poorhouse!” Doris cries. “If you had the slightest notion what it costs—”
    “You’re thinking of years ago,” Marvin says. “Those places aren’t like that now. They’re inspected, for heaven’s sake. They’re—more like hotels, I guess. And as for John—”
    He stops speaking abruptly, biting off the words.
    “What of him? What were you going to say?”
    “I won’t discuss it,” Marvin says. “It’s not the time.”
    “No? Well, he wouldn’t have done what you’re trying to do, you can be sure of that.”
    “You think not? He was marvelous with Dad, I suppose?”
    “At least he was there,” I say. At least he went to him.”
    “Oh God, yes,” Marvin says heavily. “He went, all right.”
    “Marv—” Doris puts in. “Let’s stick to the point, eh? It’s hard enough, without bringing up all that ancient history.”
    Ancient history indeed. “You make me sick and tired. I won’t go. I won’t go to that place. You’ll not get me to agree.”
    “You’ve got an appointment with the doctor next week,” Marvin says. “We don’t want to force the issue, Mother, but if Doctor Corby thinks you should go—”
    Can they force me? I glance from one to the other, and see they are united against me. Their faces are set, unyielding. I am no longer certain of my rights. What is right and what rights have I? Can I obtain legal advice against a son? How would I go about it? A name from the telephone directory? It has been so long since I dealt with that kind of thing.
    “If you make me go there, you’re only signing my death warrant, I hope that’s clear to you. I’d not last a month, not a week, I tell you—”
    They stand transfixed by my thundering voice. And then, just when I’ve gained this ground, I falter. My whole hulk shakes, the blubber prancing up and down upon my rib cage, and I betray myself in shameful tears.
    “How can I leave my house, my