Dear Hearts

by Barbara Miller Biles

  Dewey and Penny are internet sweethearts and texting fanatics. When Dewey announces that Penny will be coming to town, Sharon is alarmed. He is already neglecting school. “She’s coming to visit a cousin,” Dewey says, but Sharon knows better. She saw a message that he forgot to close. My bonnie Penelope I’m mad with it. On the electric soup my lass. Can’t wait to feel yer ass. It’s a combination of young nerd and testosterone. Sharon isn’t sure if Dewey is all talk, if Dewey is experimenting, or specifically if Penny has led him into dicey territory. Penny is, after all, older.

  Sharon, to prevent the two from being idle, has made plans. She got them passes to the wave pool, tickets to David Copperfield, to A Christmas Carol and to The Tragically Hip. She would never have tolerated this interference from Agnes, but then maybe she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant either. What she has not anticipated is Penny’s obsession with Agnes. The girl even hangs out at Agnes’s house without Dewey.

  Penny loves to try on all the hats. She throws on wispy scarves and filmy gowns and swirls around the house to “Danse Macabre.” “Call me Penelope,” she calls out, and Agnes is both flummoxed and flattered by it all.

  “Isn’t she something?” asks Agnes when Sharon arrives, like an intruder, in the middle of Penny’s dervish.

  Sharon can only purse her lips and roll her eyes in disbelief. “She is something,” she replies.

  Agnes’s old Motorola is now in full use blasting forties nostalgia. Alec was the one who had collected all the records. Now Penny seems a devoted student of the era. No rock ’n’ roll for her. They listen to Bing Crosby croon “Only Forever” and, since Christmas is coming, “White Christmas.” There are the big bands: Glenn Miller with “In The Mood” and Harry James with “You Made Me Love You.” Lena Horne torches “Stormy Weather,” and Frank Sinatra sings “People Will Say We’re In Love.” Penny seems more nostalgic than Agnes.

  Dewey prefers Radiohead and Tea Party and Metallica and Derek’s old Beatles collection. He seems out of Penny’s loop. It is straining their connection. Sharon is really not sorry to see them head in that direction. But there is Sharon’s mother. Penny has captivated Agnes. Or is it the other way around?

  Dewey, seeming perplexed, often paces around the house. He gets irritable over the smallest of things, and then, most unlikely of all, he targets his grandmother. He corners Agnes on an afternoon when Penny is out with her cousin for a change. Agnes is pinning French netting to form a white veil at the back of a black satin pillbox. “It’s for Penelope,” she explains.

  “I can’t tell if it’s for a wedding or a funeral,” says Dewey. “By the way why was Grandad living in Toronto when you were already married?”

  “Well, dear, sometimes, you know, people aren’t certain about the decisions they make, and sometimes they take a break just to see how they feel.”

  “All right. Did you take a break before or after he was seeing someone else?”

  “Dewey! What has gotten into you?”

  “Seriously. I need to know.”

  “But why?”

  “I just do that’s all. It’s chawing me. Sorry, Grandma. I don’t mean to bother you.”

  “Chawing? Where are these words coming from?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not myself. Ever since Penny.”

  “Penelope is a lovely girl, don’t you think?”

  “They have the same name, Grandma. That woman in Toronto. The one I saw in the picture with Grandad. I thought it was a happy coincidence, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Dewey. Now listen to me. Does your mother know about this?”

  “Just that he’s in a photograph with another woman.”

  “Okay. Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “And they look like more than friends.”

  “But Sharon doesn’t know her name is Penelope, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Dewey, we are going to clear this up once and for all.”

  Agnes decides on Frank Sinatra.

  “Yer as daft as yer day’s auld,” says Dewey in a baritone voice quite unlike his own.

  “Never mind,” says Agnes.

  “Naething like bein stark deid,” says Dewey.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Deid men are free men.”

  “Then be free and let Dewey go. Oh look, Penelope is coming.”

  “She leuks like butter wadna melt in her mou.”

  “You sound like you’re on the sauce.”

  “Wad that I coud.”

  “You should have taken care of this in the first place. But you never were decisive,” says Agnes.

  “Crabbit. Yer no to be made a sang about.”

  “Oh quick, put on Sinatra,” says Agnes. “Ah, Penelope, we were just talking about you. I’ve made you a hat, dear.” It is the black pillbox with the white French netting flowing at the back.

  “It’s a confused hat,” says Dewey.

  “Oh no, dear. This is the new vogue.” She places it on Penny’s head. “What do you think, Penny? Dewey? Let me take a picture,” says Agnes. “Okay, smile.”

  Frank Sinatra sings “I’ll Never Smile Again.”

  Agnes has copies of the photo printed for everyone, even Derek. Penny and Dewey face the camera without showing a single inclination to touch one another. Penny is wearing the equivocal pillbox and Dewey is wearing new red-lensed glasses and a knit beanie, looking like a young Bono. They are an odd couple, and for some reason Penny has begun to fade.

  Much to Sharon’s relief Dewey has moved on to a Calgary girl who has a penchant for newsboy caps. Agnes says she is not capable of making such a hat.

  Saving Britannica

  DENISE LEANS SIDEWAYS ON THE BACK of the olive sofa and peers through the blinds, but she ducks whenever a car drives by. She does not want to be caught just watching and waiting. The sun is setting behind the houses across the way, creating halos over the rooftops and boomerang reflections off windows. If you were walking by you wouldn’t see in her window anyway, but her habit is ingrained. It has been so since she was a little girl waiting for her father to arrive. Waiting to surprise him as he opened the door, back from his sales tour of neighbouring towns and, if he was lucky, with orders for the entire revised fourteenth edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  “Red or white?” asks Sheryl.

  “Either one is fine,” says Denise as she turns to face her sister. “What do you feel like?”

  “I found this merlot in the porch stash. Not bad considering Mom’s tastes.” Sheryl already has the bottle in one hand and a corkscrew in the other, like she has anticipated her older sister’s indecisiveness.

  Denise lays a volume on the cushion next to her.

  “It’s all online now, you know,” says Sheryl. “It’s a bit like Wikipedia, except Britannica still controls sources.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve seen sets on eBay for over a thousand,” says Sheryl.

  “I know.”

  “We could easily sell.”

  The corner bookcase stands floor-to-ceiling next to the window, and a maroon leather club chair is in front of it. All twenty-four volumes of the Britannica still sit there along with Book of the Month Club hardcovers, and even though the chair is arranged with a standing lamp for cozy reading, Denise wants to sit on the floor behind the chair and randomly pull out volumes and open pages to surprise herself with new information. She wants to do this while natural light slips away with the absurd notion that no one will know she is there. This too was so when she was a little girl.

  Sheryl was just a toddler when he left. Eleven years between the girls, Sheryl was a surprise. She says she has no memory of their father. No sentimental attachments. Vern was her dad for all intents and purposes. He was the one who taught her to skate and paid for her education and walked her down the aisle.


  Vern, it seemed to Denise, had achieved unwarranted legendary status when he died. Sheryl and their mother Alice were in mutual mourning for at least a year. Denise grew tired of it all and wondered at how her mother had let Vern into their lives so quickly.

  The bookcase is the way it has always been. Rarely has a book been added in forty years, and it has gathered a lot of dust in the two months since Alice died. Sheryl has no interest in housekeeping. It is still up in the air as to how long she will stay here. The state of her marriage will determine that, but eventually the sisters will sell. Denise doubts Sheryl will give up life in her gated community. Denise left married life a long time ago.

  A stack of unopened mail is on the end table. Denise pushes it away to make room for her mother’s crystal wine glass, bought by her father at Jamison’s Hardware as a last-minute Christmas gift. Sheryl would not know any of this.

  “So what’s with all this mail? Are you not planning to open it?” says Denise.

  “I can’t bring myself for some reason.”

  “But some of it may be important. Things need to be attended to and stopped, and people should be informed.”

  “Don’t mind if you do.”

  Stimulus and response is in motion. Wine in Denise’s mouth brings on relaxation even though it has not yet affected her brain. She picks up the pile of letters. “Well, some of this is junk and can be tossed right away.”

  “So toss it.”

  “Whatever you say, madam,” says Denise

  The first envelope lands right at Sheryl’s feet. The second one grazes her hair.

  “Hey, watch it.” Sheryl sends an envelope flying back.

  It lands in Denise’s lap just as she is taking a sip. Wine splatters onto her jeans, and a mouthful spurts onto her ivory sweater.

  Requests for donations, renewal notices, fall promotions, all become missiles around the room. “All junk!” says Denise.

  “Okay, okay.” Sheryl puts up her hands in self defense and can’t stop laughing.

  “By the way, I’ll take the crystal,” says Denise as she sets her wine glass down.

  “Fine, take all the books too. I don’t know why Mom kept them all these years. She always complained about the dust, and Dad and I weren’t interested.”

  “You mean Vern.”

  “Yes, Dad!” says Sheryl emphatically.

  Denise tries to imagine the Britannica volumes in some stranger’s hands. She can’t decide which would be worse, ownership by a sister who disregards her real father or by a stranger who would not care one whit about the bond it created between a father and daughter. Denise knows you couldn’t pay Sheryl to keep the books. She also knows she has no room for them in her apartment.

  “Maybe we should sort all the old photos,” says Denise.

  “Okay. How about some music? Your records are still here,” says Sheryl. “Moody Blues. I remember you playing this. Over and over and over.” She holds up a single forty-five.

  Denise barely hears Sheryl. She is already turning pages. There are four photo albums, carefully posted with pictures of Alice and Vern and Sheryl and Denise. Sheryl always seems to be entertaining whoever holds the camera. Denise tends to lean away. All other pictures are in boxes, keeping company with the dust bunnies that have infiltrated the cardboard. Many of these pictures are black and white. Alice had not bothered to put them in albums in pre-Vern times.

  Denise flicks her hand and knocks her glass of wine with the sudden burst of the song “Go Now.” You could say this is her song.

  “Oh shit. Have you got a cloth?” More red wine stains her sweater and drips off the end table. “I just can’t win today.”

  “You should soak your sweater right away,” says Sheryl as she dabs it with a tea towel.

  “I guess I don’t care about this sweater any more. At least I didn’t break the glass. At least it didn’t spill on the pictures.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Denise cannot help herself and sings “Go Now”, along with The Moody Blues

  Alice had ordered him to go. She had that stone-cold expression, that firmness of voice that Denise and later Sheryl learned to heed. And then the only one in all the world who Denise would rely on, the one who seemed to adore her and understand her, just walked out the door. Trolling the Encyclopaedia Britannica for items that her father might not know, hoping to stump him, to engage and impress him remained her habit long after he was gone. It became part of their imaginary dialogue and later transferred to her relationships with men. She wanted her intelligence to shine above all else.

  “More Moody Blues,” says Sheryl as she holds up the album Days of Future Passed. “Seems appropriate.” The album cover is abstract art with a pink hourglass shaped island amidst inky blue underworld waters.

  “Not right now,” says Denise. “Can we just have some quiet for a while?”

  “Okay?”

  Denise thinks Sheryl is always agitating and impulsive, though others call her refreshing. The sisters have colluded over the years in order to oppose their mother. Now that Alice is gone, where will it go?

  “I thought maybe a little music would cheer you up. Maybe even get you to crack a smile.”

  “Guess that shows what you know.”

  “I thought they were a favourite. I thought you liked them.”

  “Yes. Doesn’t mean I always wanted to party.”

  “So, you liked to drown yourself in melancholy? Now that I think of it, yes, you did.”

  Denise turns to look out the window again. There is comfort in watching and waiting. Call it melancholy, if you will. There he is, coming down the front sidewalk in his black overcoat and plaid wool scarf. He is not your typical salesman. Circumspect and intelligent, he is a good listener and never seems to proselytize—if he was made to sell anything it would have to be knowledge. He is successful to be sure.

  A sip of merlot and the voice of her sister bring Denise back to reality: her father is a phantom tied to the projections of an adoring daughter. Denise is a psychologist. She knows very well that life is sorted in the head, not the house. It is clarified in relationships with others, not in the pages of encyclopedic facts. But what about Alice? She was always here. There is no image of her approaching the house. Will she linger somewhere inside? If the house is sold, how will anyone ever know?

  “Did you know that Mrs. Harris has collected over a thousand butterfly pins and ornaments and teacups? She came by yesterday to see if Mom had anything we might not want,” says Sheryl.

  “Lepidopteran?” says Denise.

  “Huh?”

  Denise begins to turn pages then reads parts aloud. “Order lepidoptera. Any more than 155,000 species of butterflies, moths, and skippers. What the hell are skippers? Many members … especially butterflies have appealed to the human imagination for thousands of years … have inspired the designs of jewelry, ornaments, and textiles…”

  “Okay? So Mrs. Harris isn’t crazy?”

  “Says Aristotle gave the butterfly the name psyche, Greek for soul ... blah blah…. They may be the souls of the dead … uh and often appear to announce the final exit from the body.”

  “Weird. So should we give her Mom’s butterfly teacups? We can’t keep all this stuff,” says Sheryl.

  “More wine please,” says Denise.

  “Do you believe in a soul?” asks Sheryl as she refills both glasses two-thirds up. She does not lose a drop. An expert is she.

  “I believe in the mind, obviously, or I wouldn’t do what I do. Is there transcendental energy or immortal existence or simply a combination of conscious and unconscious electrical activities in the brain? I do not know.”

  “So do you miss being married?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. Just thought I would ask.”

 
“I see we are into serious philosophy.”

  “Well, it is serious. I mean, it worked out for Mom and Vern. They were happy the second time around, don’t you think?”

  “You’re wondering if you might find more happiness with someone else?”

  “Do you think?”

  “You are uncertain.”

  “Yes, dammit. It’s why I asked. Don’t talk to me like I’m your client.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to think about that. Do I miss being married?”

  “Oh God,” says Sheryl. Why don’t you look it up in one of your books? Well, while you think about it I’m putting on Blondie.” She puts on “Heart of Glass” and turns the volume up. She puts one hand on her hip and sings along. Her hips sway and knees bend, opposite shoulders dip in rhythm as she walks the floor; all economical and trance-like movements remembered from another time. She picks up the tea towel and swishes it gently back and forth, mimicking Debbie Harry’s contained sexuality.

  Denise smiles. She can’t help herself. Her little sister the butterfly, the life of the family, except there is no longer anyone else around to applaud. “Go ahead, give Mrs. Harris the china. I can live with that.”

  “What? Can’t hear you.”

  Denise sees Sheryl at thirteen, the up-and-comer of small-town figure skaters. She is a natural, floating along the boards, her baby blue skirt fluttering along slender thighs. She is a force of energy, an élan vital. Yet her focus disappears. Escaping Alice to so-called freedom was really just a switch of allegiance to boys. Denise knows this from experience with her own daughters. Insert divorce and partners with opposing views and you magnify the possibility for rebellion. She could remind Sheryl of this. Her two, daughter and son, are still in the throes of adolescence.

  Alice and Vern adored every performance on ice and imagined Sheryl’s future in some magical arena of renown. They never vocalized this, even to each other, but you could see it on their faces. There is still a glass-covered frame on the wall that holds all of Sheryl’s medals.

  Denise waves her hand and shakes her head as if to say never mind. At least she doesn’t have to answer any questions. But a question does occur to her. Is there already someone else for Sheryl? She turns to her window again to see that her father is still there. He is a dim light in the evening darkness. He carries a leather briefcase. She is anxious to learn what it holds inside. He will have something for her. He always does. There is a knock on the door. “Why is he knocking?” She stops herself from thinking out loud. “Turn it down,” she says.