Alice Munro Wild Swans Direct

Clara thought of her mother’s sandwich, now eaten. She thought of the five-dollar bill, folded in her shoe. She thought of the typing class that started tomorrow morning, in a beige room full of other girls learning to be secretaries.

She said, “How would we get there?”

They did not go to the lake. That is the truth of it. They went to a diner, and he bought her coffee and a slice of apple pie. He told her about his wife, who had arthritis and rarely left the house. He told her about his daughter, who had moved to Calgary and never wrote. He talked and talked, and Clara listened, and somewhere between the pie and the second cup of coffee, the wild swans became something else—a code for loneliness, for the desperate need to witness something beautiful before the dark closed in. alice munro wild swans

“No,” he agreed. “But you know the swans.” Clara thought of her mother’s sandwich, now eaten

The train was a heavy, breathing beast. It smelled of velvet dust and hot metal. Clara had a window seat, and she pressed her forehead to the cool glass, watching the familiar pastures of Carstairs shrink into a green blur. She was terrified and thrilled in equal measure. She said, “How would we get there