Dedication
For lifelong friends, the 63s, with love
I’ve got your back; I know you have mine
especially group 9
Catherine Hoogerhyde, Carol Hall, Sydney Patterson, Ann Moore,
Carol Jay, Marilyn Moore, Jill Russell
and very much missed, Elaine Newman (1942–2020)
Epigraph
There’s a time to laugh and a time to weep . . .
But sometimes the two get muddled up.
—Remembering the Bones
Hold your collar, touch your toes.
Don’t want to be in one of those.
—The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
September
The Notice
Flock
Carry Tiger
An Act of Love
Facing Up
Talking Heads
Rigmarole
Memory Vault
Irresolutus
Escape
October
Stories, First-Hand
A Normal Life
Backroom at Cassie’s
Wall at Your Back
November
Remember, Remember
A Small Party
Ways of Listening
Keeping Vigil
Changes
The Floodgates
December
A Foot Steps
Desperate Measures
On His Watch
Being Present
Ways of Seeing
Seeking Balance
The Company
Solidarity
May
The Wedding
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Frances Itani
Copyright
About the Publisher
September
The Notice
HAZZLEY
No one knew that Hazzley was emptying her house, one room at a time. An early riser, she’d been up since six, working on room two, Lew’s office. She pulled at his desk, which refused to budge. She went around to the other end and shoved hard, hip against the side. Years ago, Lew had insisted on sticking felt pads to the bottom of everything. As long as there was no carpet, even the largest pieces would slide across the floor if she could get them started.
Carpets were already gone.
She stopped after manoeuvring the desk through the doorway and into the wide hall. She had emptied its side shelves the night before. She went back for chairs, a tall and narrow set of drawers and a low filing cabinet. Lew had been thorough; the filing cabinet, too, had pieces of felt stuck to the bottom.
The small items were easy. Her conditions, also easy. Do not shift items from one place to another; that solves nothing. Get rid of it all. Unclog your space, give yourself some air. Think of the pleasure of living in an empty house.
Everything was lined up, ready for the truck. She leaned into the door jamb and thought of what Sal would say. “Mother, why is your furniture in the hall? Why are all the rooms empty?”
And Hazzley would reply: “I am clearing my life.” Or should that be “cleansing”? Didn’t matter; her daughter lived in another city. Not her decision. Hazzley suspected that if Sal pushed her to explain, she’d have to admit that what she was really trying to do was recreate a life—her life, the story of herself as she wanted to be right now.
AS PROMISED, Habitat for Humanity had its ReStore truck at the house by eight thirty. Two strong men loaded everything she’d pushed into the hall. She couldn’t believe the size of one of the men. He must have been seven feet tall, maybe six-eight or -nine. He and his lifting partner were efficient and made the work look easy. Since the truck was half-empty, Hazzley told them to take the hall sideboard, too. At the last minute, she threw in a wingback chair. Men and truck were gone by eight fifty. She closed the door and stretched out her arms, did a forward bend, touched the floor with her palms. She’d better quit while she was ahead or she’d wreck her back.
She went to the kitchen, thinking of what lay ahead. The basement was the nightmare. If anyone thought of a basement as ballast for a house, hers would never fit the description. Her basement was emotionally fraught territory. At least she didn’t try to fool herself. She just wasn’t ready to face it head-on.
She had no plans to move out of her house, even though ownership was becoming . . . well, onerous. Simple as that. She called up the Latin: onerosus, meaning “burden.” Indeed, yes. Burdens could be oppressive. The more she owned, the more “things” to look after. Things: exactly what she didn’t want. Maybe she should tackle the dining room next. Furniture was bulkier, higher; she might have to call in assistance. ReStore again? How many times a year did she use the dining room, really?
Think of the pleasure of strolling from one empty room to another. Think of the pleasure of a journey through an empty house. A tear escaped onto one cheek, and she brushed it away. Come on, she said to herself. It’s been three years. You like the idea of paring back. You use the kitchen, bathrooms up and down, one bedroom, your office upstairs. That’s about it.
She reached for the mug she’d abandoned when the men arrived, but her coffee was cold and she dumped it down the drain. She stared out into the backyard. The leaves were turning red and gold; it was that time of year. Change went on outside the house, no matter what transpired within.
Maybe she needed a new idea, a different sort of journey. She sat at the long kitchen table, pulled a piece of paper toward her and reached for a black marker. Think, she told herself. Write things down. This is what you’re good at. Think this through.
She went to the phone and hit the memory key for Cass’s number. While waiting for her friend to pick up, she thought: Change, to make or become different. Cambiare, Latin; changer, French. Yes, change would definitely help.
MARVIN’S GROCERIES OPENED AT NINE. By ten, Hazzley was in front of the community board, which was fastened to the wall in a narrow space at the end of the checkout aisles. She had her sheet of paper in one hand and four red push-pins in the other. Although extra pins were scattered about the edges of the board, Hazzley had brought her own. She pinned her notice in a prominent spot and scanned the board, marvelling at the earnest business of information exchange. Never, until this day, had she posted anything. A few customers were usually standing around, taking photos with smartphones or scratching numbers and websites onto bits of paper. On this Thursday morning, no one but Hazzley was present.
The rules of the board, enforced by Marvin, were printed in bold lines across the top:
Notices must be dated and will be displayed for two weeks before being removed.
Offensive or distasteful material will not be tolerated.
Hazzley looked up to the inside window of the main office on the second floor and proffered a wave. She knew Marvin would be up there looking down. He waved back, and then quick-rapped the glass twice with his knuckles in a sort of solidarity gesture. Marvin had a wide head that Hazzley thought of as scrunched, the way heads looked on TV when the setting was slightly off. His jet-black hair, ungreased, stood up like wire. He was grinning down as if to reassure her that he enjoyed rising early to supply food to the neighbourhood. Sometimes he could be found in the aisles, supervising staff or assisting customers, but most days he was up there at his desk, managing, overseeing the space he’d inherited from his father, also Marvin, and that was now under his rule. He worked hard to earn loyalty and made it clear to customers that he was aware of big-box stores edging into the core of Wilna Creek. One new mall with a huge supermarket had opened on the far side of Spin
ney’s Ravine. The mall satisfied high-tech workers in that area of the city, but it created competition. As for the noticeboard, Marvin viewed that as a responsibility to shoppers, whether they were loyal or not. He also believed that not every communication between humans had to flicker across a tablet or a lighted screen, or had to be tweeted, or needed a thumbs up or thumbs down. Despite the relentless march of technology, Marvin let it be known that as long as he owned the store, he would protect space for pencil and paper, pen and ink, thumbtack and push-pin.
Hazzley turned her attention back to the board. In a corner of one notice, someone had drawn a rainbow, along with a half sun and a few strokes of rain. The image made her think of the word “parsec,” a surprise in the morning crossword. A couple of times a week, she was stumped by some such word. Parsec had something to do with astronomy, distance. She’d looked it up but knew she’d never use it in a sentence.
The aroma of baking bread wafted past, drifting from the rear of the store. In response, she closed her eyes and rocked on her heels, almost losing her balance. Once upon a time, she’d made her own bread. A different time in her life. Every woman of her generation grew up knowing how to make bread. If they didn’t know how, at the very least they’d watched their mothers knead dough and lay damp towels over glutinous mounds that mysteriously grew rounder and higher. Hazzley wondered if she should take home a loaf of rye or a couple of blueberry scones. She heard a hissing noise and watched a sleepy-looking clerk in the vegetable aisle give a shake to a length of rubber hose as he aimed a spray of mist over the fresh produce. The young man hadn’t bothered to comb his hair.
This week’s notices included promises made by people who offered to look after children, teach yoga and fly tying, purchase military medals, form choirs or prayer groups, administer safe tattoos, predict the end of the world, practise meditation, provide instruction in ventriloquism, sell lotion guaranteed to soften cracked heels, exchange seeds, teach sermon writing, look after cats, run a boot camp, join laughter groups and divulge foolproof ways of making money. One notice asked for extras for Friday night poker. Another hinted at “discreet” services; Marvin must not have spied that. An index card advertised Sam the Man with Truck. Some ads required severe editing. Half a dozen were posted by people who needed or offered the services of a handyman. She read one of these and laughed aloud: Handy Andy, supplies own tools. She was not taken in by that.
Her own notice was clearly written and direct:
GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP
Weekly: Tuesdays 7–8:30 p.m.
Backroom at Cassie’s (Cassandra’s Café—38 Beamer Street).
First meeting September 18. All welcome.
Cassie’s was located two blocks from the grocery store. Anyone from the east side would know its whereabouts; anyone coming in from farms or suburbs on the west side could find it easily enough. In recent years, the café had become a popular drop-in place. Cass Witley, Hazzley’s friend, was generous about allowing people to use the backroom, at no charge, for community purposes. During this morning’s phone call, she’d assured Hazzley that the space was available Tuesday evenings. Hazzley, new to this sort of venture, booked the backroom for four weeks. Cass had told her she could use one of the round tables for the meetings. She had three, of different sizes.
Hazzley rechecked her notice for precision and inclusivity. She had slit fourteen tear strips along the lower edge, each printed with address, time and date of the first meeting. She did not include her personal phone number and email address because she wanted nothing to do with crank calls or lunatics. She had no firm plan for the meetings, but she would not schedule talks on how to do your own banking (for women whose recently deceased husbands had run the entire show) or how to boil an egg (for men whose late wives had fed them three squares a day). She would not invite earnest guest speakers who would expound with PowerPoint. She wanted nothing more than a quiet and uncluttered setting. Cass’s backroom could provide that, along with coffee, tea, maybe a glass of wine—all of which could be purchased at the café. Hazzley envisioned honest men and women who would support one another, share conversation and companionship. She admitted to herself that her expectations were vague. Life’s events would unfold. After four weeks, if participants wanted to continue, she would rebook the room and carry on.
She would also keep track of events in her journal, a practice she’d kept up for fifty years. She had never shaken the desire to write things down. For a long time, she’d been making her living by the pen.
She wondered what her daughter would say about this initiative. Once or twice a week, she and Sal exchanged emails, but for now, Hazzley wouldn’t mention the notice. Sal, fifty-three, had moved to Ottawa decades earlier to work for Heritage, or whatever the department was called. Communications, or maybe Citizenship—Hazzley couldn’t keep up with government name changes. Sal’s husband also worked for the government, and from what Hazzley could see, they lived a hectic life. They had five children, two of whom attended university. The other three were in their teens. Framed photos of the five grandchildren hung in a row along the upper hall of Hazzley’s home. She stayed in touch and tried to keep up with their lives. They sent emails and called her on FaceTime to tell her about a race won, a mark achieved, a pet that died, a disappointing argument with a friend. Hazzley loved them all dearly and wondered what they’d say about her partly empty house.
Well, she wouldn’t mention that, either.
She stepped away from the noticeboard, forgot about buying bread or blueberry scones and left the store. She had to get home to finish an assignment for a popular science magazine. She was editing an article about bones, teeth and early tools discovered in a cave. She had a three-day window to deadline.
A wind had come up while she was inside. An outdoor geranium on display had tipped over, and crimson petals were trapped in an eddy between the front of the store and the parking lot. She tightened her jacket and stepped around petals that swirled about her ankles. Despite the wind, she was sorry she’d brought the car. She usually left it at home, unless there would be too much to carry. She walked most days, in an attempt to keep her heart (and brain, she reminded herself) healthy. She did the crossword every morning and dabbled at sudoku. She had a membership at the local gym—useful in bad weather—and stared at a muted TV screen while walking on the treadmill. She tried to stay abreast of the news and had learned multiple ways of averting her attention from American politics. She read the obituaries daily and was saddened by death—early death, any death. Too much cancer, too many accidents. She tried to keep her weight under control, knowing that many in her generation could no longer see their own feet. She was a strider, a fast mover. Lew had once referred to her as “fleet of foot”; she smiled, thinking of this. She liked to believe that she was wending her way through a life that was in no way sedentary, even though she spent hours at her computer while she worked at freelance editing jobs. She kept her hair dark and tidy, but she knew that despite her efforts, outside attitudes prevailed. People in their twenties and thirties had begun to address her as “dear.” She ignored this. She felt strong and, if anyone had bothered to ask—no one had—ageless.
Nonetheless, she was putting on a bit of beef in the thigh. No matter how much effort she put into keeping fit, her body had begun to take its own twists and turns. Four weeks earlier, she and Cass, who was eight years her junior, had signed up for swing dance lessons. At the first class, Hazzley was not bothered by the fact that she was the oldest person there. She was happy to be with Cass, who had the most infectious laugh of any of her acquaintances. Cass loved dance, loved music, loved having fun. “I predict that you’ll be the best dancer in the group,” Cass told her. Hazzley sometimes wondered about the accuracy of her friend’s prophesies. These were subtle, buried in conversation, unremembered until after the fact. Cass had always been amused by the name her mother had bestowed upon her—Cassandra—along with its mythical narrative. She’d been nicknamed Case, also by he
r mother, but that abbreviation was used only by immediate family and her partner, Rice. To everyone else, she was Cass or Cassie.
Rice was a jazz musician who occasionally performed at the café. He had not been interested in signing up for swing lessons. From Hazzley’s point of view, Cass had a solid partnership, and a few dance lessons without Rice wasn’t going to bother anyone. After dance class, Cass went home to Rice. Hazzley went home alone.
Well, she thought, I could always join the Friday night poker group that’s advertised on Marvin’s board. Or I could put a white sock over my hand and paint on a lipstick mouth, an eye on each side, and teach myself ventriloquism. Learn how to work around those seven difficult consonants—BFMPVWY. I know that much; I’d have a head start. I talk to myself anyway, so I may as well talk to a sock in a mirror with my lips partly closed.
What would she tell the sock? Ventriloquism was about deflection, wasn’t it? Deflection of attention, change of direction.
One thing she could say for certain was that since Lew’s death, she’d been as lonely as a person could be.
And what would the sock reply?
Before she started the car, she spotted the end table wedged into the back seat. She remembered that she’d run back into the house, earlier, and carried the table out. Another item gone. She felt lighter already. She’d drop it off at the Sally Ann on the way home.
Tonight, she would add this to her journal: First step taken. Notice pinned at Marvin’s. Now I’ll have to wait and see what happens Tues. night.
Flock
GWEN
Gwen heard screams as she pulled up to the garage, but she sat for a moment and allowed the sun to warm her. Despite the wind, she left the car windows down. She loved the crisp air, summer’s ebb, the perfect fall day. A maple tree on the next lawn had begun to scatter a few red leaves across the browning grass. The screams turned to shrieks, raucous and shrill. She got out of the car and fit the key to the front door. Abrupt silence at the click.
The Company We Keep Page 1
