When I was seven we moved again, to a tiny wooden cottage on the Saint Marys River, upstream from Sault Sainte Marie. We were only renting the cottage for the summer, but for the time being it was our house, since we had no other. It was dim and mousy-smelling and very cramped, stuffed with all the things from the place before that were not in storage. My sister and I preferred to spend most of our time outside it There was a short beach, behind which the cottiges, with their contrasting trim—green against white, me. roon against robini-egg blue, brown against yellow— were lined up like little shoe-boxes, each with its matching outhotse at an unsanitary distance behind. But -we were forbidden to swim in the water, because of the strong current. There were stories of children who had been swept away, down toward the rapids and the lock and the Algoma Steel fires of the Soo which we coul sometimes see from our Bedroom window on overeat nights, glowing dull red against the clouds. We were Bee cok though, no further than the knee, and we would stand in the water, strands of loose weed tangling against our ankles, ‘and wave at the lake freighters as they slid pas, so clase we could see not only the flags and sea gulls at their sterns but the hands of the sailors and the ovals oftheir fices as they waved back to us. Then the waves..would come, washing over our thighs up to the. waists of our bloomered and skirted seersucker bathing suits, and we would seream with delight: Our mother, who was usually on the shore, reading or 94 Betty 95 talking to someone but not quite watching’ us, would sometimes mistake the screams for drowning. "Or she would say later, “You've been in over your knees,” but ‘my sister would explain that it was only the boat waves, My mother would look at me to see if thie wes ae eed Unlike my sister, I was. a clumsy liar The freighters were huge, cumbersome, with rust staining the holes for their anchor chains and enormous himneys from which the smoke spurted in grey burps, ‘When they blew their horns, as they always did when approaching the locks, the windows in our cottage rattled. For us, they were magical. Sometimes things would drop or be thrown from them, and we would Watch these floating objects eagerly, running along the beach to be there when they landed, wading wut to ish them in. Usually these treasures tumed out to be only empty cardboard boxes or punctured oil cans, oozing dark brown grease and good for nothing, Several times we got orange crates, which we used as cupboards or stools in, our hide-outs. We liked the cottage partly because we had places to make these hide-outs, There had never been room before, since we had alvays lived in cities. Just before this it was Ottawa, the ground floor ofan old three-tiered red-brick apartment building. On the floor above us lived a newly married couple, the wife English and Protestant, the husband French and Catholic. He was in the airforce, and was away a lot, but when he came back on leave he used to beat up his wife. It was always about eleven o'clock at night. She would flee downstairs to my ‘mother for protection, and they would sit in the kitchex with cups of tea. The wife would ery, though quietly, so as not to wake us—my mother insisted on that, being a believer in twelve hours of sleep for children—display her bruised eye or cheek, and whisper about his drinking. After an hour or so there would be a discreet knock on the door, and the airman, in full uniform, would ask my mother politely if he could have his wife back upstairs where she belonged: It was # religious96 Bhuebeard’s Egg dispute, he would say. Besides, he'd given her fifteen dolars to spend on food and she ad served him fied Kam. After being away a month, a man expected a good roast, pork or beef, didn't my mother agree? “I kept my ‘mouth shut and my eyes open,” my mother would say. He never seemed that drunk to her, but with the polite kind you couldn't tell what they would do. 1 wasn't supposed to know about any of this. I was considered either too young or too good; but my sister ‘who was four years older, was given hints, which she assed along to me with whatever she thoughe fit to add. I saw the wife a number of times, going up or down the stairs outside our door, and once she did have a black eye. Inever saw the man, but by the time we left Ottawa Twas convinced he was a murderer. This might have explained my father’s warning when my mother told him she had met the young couple who lived in the right-hand cottage. “Don't get too involved,” he said. “I don't want her running over here at all hours of the night.” He had little patience with my mother’ talents as a sympathetic listener, even when she teased] hhim by saying, “But I listen to you, dear.” She attracted people he called “sponges.” He didn't seem to have anything to worry about. This couple was very different from the other one. Fred and Betty insisted on being called Fred and Betty, right ‘away, My sister and 1, who had been drilled to call People Mr. and Mrs,, had to call them Fred and Betty , and we could go over to their house whenever we Wanted to, “I don't want you to take that at fice value,” ‘our mother said. Times were hard but our mother had been properly brought up, and we were going to be, too. Nevertheless, at first we! went to Fred and Betty’. 2s ‘often as we could. Their cottage was exactly the same size as ours, but since there was less furniture in itt seemed bigger, Ours hhad ‘Ten-Test walls between the rooms, painted lime ‘reen, with lighter squares on the paint where other Betty ” 1ung pictures. Betty had replaced her plywood and painted the inside bright yellow, and she'd made yellow-mnd-white curtains forthe ‘Kitchen, print of chickens coming out of eggshells. sewed herself a matching apron from the left-over ‘There was more to do at Fred and Betty’ than at our iouse. They had a bird made of hollow coloured glass {that perched on the edge of a tumbler of water, teetering said. And they took the Saturday coloured funnies. Ous ‘Parents didn't, and they didn’t like us reading trash, as they called it. But Fred and Betty were so friendly and ‘kind to us, what, as my mother said, could they do? p_ Beyond all these attractions there was Fred. We both fell in love with Fred. My sister would climb. ‘into his lap and announce that he was her boyfriend and she wer going to marry him when ste grew up. She would then ng to take the pipe out of his mouth or by tying his ioelaces together. I felt the same way, but I knew it was Ro good saying so. My sister had staked her claim: when said she was going to do a thing she usually did it. And she hated my being what she called a copy-eat, So8 Bluebeardts Egg was something about Fred that attracted peo- ty mother, who was not a flirtatious woman—she! Went in for wisdom, instead—was livelier when he was around. Even my father liked him, and would some- times have a beer with him when he got back from the ity. They would sit on the porch of Fred cottage in Betty’ yellow wicker chairs, swatting at the sand flies and discussing baseball scores. They seldom mentioned their jobs. I'm not sure what Fred did, but it was in an » allice: My father was “in wallpaper,” my mother said, but Twas never very cles about what that meant. It was more exciting when they talked about the war. Mj father’ bad back had kept him out of it, much to his dis. gust, but Fred had been in the navy. He never said too much about it, though my fither was always prompting nut we knew from Betty that they were engaged ust before Fred left and married right ater he came back. Betty had written letters to him every single night ‘and mailed them once a week. She did not say how often Fred had written to her My father didn't like many people, but he said that Fred wasn't a fool, Fred didat seem to make any forts to be nice to people. I don't think he was even especially handsome. The dificult is that though Ian remember Betty down to the last hair and freckle, I can't remember what Fred looked like. He had dark hair and a pipe, and he used 0 sing to us if we pestered him enough. “Sioux City Sue,” he would sing, “Your hair is red, your eyes are blue, Td swap my horse and dog for you . . .” Or he would sing “Beautiful Brown Eves" to my sister, whose eyes were brown as compared with my own watery blue. This hurt my feelings, as the song contained the line, “I'l never love blue eyes again,” It seemed so final, a whole lifetime of being unloved by Fred. Once I eried, which was made worse by the fact that I could.’t explain to anyone what was wrong: and I had to undergo the humiliation of Freds jocular concern and my sisters scorn, and the worse humiliation of being »omforted by Betty ~ Betty in the kitchenette. It was a humiliation because it }wias obvious even to me that Betty didn’t grasp things Hvery well. “Don't pay any attention to him.” she sa hhaving guessed that my tears had something to do wi Fred. But that was the ‘one piece of advice I couldn't take. Fred, like a cat, wouldn't go two steps out of his way for you really, as my mother said later. So it was unfair that everyone was in love with Fred, but no one, despite Iher kindness, was in love with Betty: It was Betty who lalways greeted us at the door, asked us in, and talked to jus while Fred slouched on the couch reading the paper. ‘She fed us cookies and milk-shakes and let us lick out the ‘bowls when she was baking, Betty was such a nice person; everyone said so, but no one would have called Fred exactly that, Fred, for instance, did not laugh much, and he only smiled when he was making rude remarks, mostly to my sister. “Stuffing your fice again?” he would say. “Hey, baggy-pants.” Whereas Betty never ‘said things like that, and she was always either smiling or laughing. She laughed a lot when Fred called her Betty Grable, which he did at least once a day. I couldn't see why she laughed. It was supposed to be a compliment, I thought. Betty Grable was a famous movie star; there was a picture of her thumbtacked to the wall in Fred and Betty’ outhouse. Both my sister and I preferred Fred fand Bettys outhouse to our own. Theirs had curtains on ithe window, unlike ours, and it had a little wooden box ida matching wooden scoop for the lye. We only had a jcardboard box end an old trowel. Betty didn’t really look like Betty Grable, who was Pblonde and not as plump as our Betty. Still, they were oth beautiful, I thought. I didn’t realize until much later that the remark was eruel; for Betty Grable was itenowned for her legs, whereas our Betty had legs that Started at her waist and continued downwards without a ‘curve or a pause until they reached her feet. At the time