The Company We Keep

by Frances Itani

  The others were staring. Had Addie said any of this aloud? She didn’t think so. So many rapid thoughts, like eyelids moving in REM sleep. The way you hear of events flashing before your eyes during your final moments. Was that a myth? She refocused. The people here had lost someone important in their lives. They were present because they wanted to discuss death, feelings, reactions to loss, ways of coping. They were wondering how she was coping.

  Some people know when to remain silent, she told herself. Others blather. I’m an internal blatherer. But I’m not invisible.

  The dark place behind her eyes suddenly shifted and allowed a flicker of light. She felt her strength quicken, revive. “You know,” she said, “when I’m having difficult moments during my days off, I clean my apartment. Stow my thoughts in some neutral space where I don’t have to deal with them while I push a vacuum around. Sometimes I listen to music while I dust. Put on a CD and turn up the volume. The Emperor Concerto is great for dusting. Keeps my thoughts from dwelling on the mundane or the miserable.”

  The others laughed.

  “I’m with you,” said Chiyo. “I do the same. But not while listening to classical music. I call up movie soundtracks. Spaghetti westerns.” Ocarina, she was thinking. A Fistful of Dollars. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A slow, mesmerizing dance. “I flick a soft rag; dust motes float and settle in the air while I listen. That’s what I do.”

  “I stare out the window a lot,” said Tom. “At home and at work. I keep the radio on for company—both places.” He thought of mentioning the black notebook partially filled with poems in the desk drawer at his shop, but he didn’t. He thought of demoted Pluto on the cover of his notebook. He thought of the way he was now writing back to front.

  Hazzley was thinking that dusting to the music of Beethoven was something she might try. Cleaning house was, after all, a soulless exercise: repetitive, boring, necessary once in a while. Sometimes, after vacuuming, her back ached, despite her efforts to stay fit. Someday she might hire a person to help. By then, half the rooms would be bare, so cleaning wouldn’t amount to much. For now, dusting to Beethoven sounded good.

  Last spring, when Hazzley was visiting her daughter, Sal had taken her to a rehearsal at the National Arts Centre. Sal was a donor and entitled to bring a guest. Alexander Shelley was conducting the Emperor; Emanuel Ax was soloist. The two men had their sleeves rolled up during rehearsal, and Hazzley marvelled at the movement of hands, fingers, arms. Normally, you wouldn’t see this sinuosity of limb at a performance because the men would be in formal concert dress. What surprised her was the way Shelley’s arms created swanlike curves through the space around him. Hazzley had seen Bernstein conduct half a century ago, and he’d performed in a similar way, his body weaving unrestrainedly, from the tip of his toes upward. Hazzley had settled in, wanting the music to go on forever.

  At that moment, Cassie entered the backroom with an order pad and pen. “Coffee, tea, wine?” she said. “Whatever you’d like to drink. On the house for your first meeting—a welcome to the café, though I guess most of you have been here before. Hazzley . . . well, I’ve known her a long time. She’s a regular, a bad apple.”

  “Cake?” said Tom, but Cass shook her head. None left.

  They all gave their orders except for Addie, who declined. She was depressed by the misunderstanding and wasn’t certain how to go about correcting it. She had nothing more to say about Sybil anyway. Except that she was alive, just barely. She also had nothing to offer about her personal life, about the topic of her own marital status or her separation from Tye. She and Tye were kinder people when living apart. Each of them considered their friendship—though it was fragile—to be an accomplishment. No bitterness. When together, they were sometimes capable of making each other miserable. Having thought of Tye, she was ready to divert.

  “Tell us about your name,” she said, turning to Hazzley. “You were saying that was a bit of a story.”

  Hazzley had begun to relax. The others were no longer angular shapes bent over the table. They were less tense, sitting back in their chairs, waiting for Cass to bring on the drinks. Hazzley had observed Addie’s expression after the long moment of silence. Understanding diversionary tactics, she stepped up to the rescue.

  “I was born in England, second year of the war,” she said. “We stayed in London, Mum and I, except for a short period when I was sent away to a safe place in the country. I was so unhappy, I came right back to my mum. Dad was off being a soldier, but he managed a two-week leave, which somehow coincided with my November arrival.” Her eyes widened as she spoke. Addie, relieved of the need to fend off questions about Sybil, noted that Hazzley’s pupils were hugely dilated. Some people had large pupils naturally, but Addie couldn’t help wondering about a harmful flash of light searing the retina.

  “My parents decided to name me Hazel. My gran—on Mum’s side—was born in Hazel Grove in Cheshire, up in the northwest. At the time of my birth, my mother worked at the Victoria and Albert Museum on Cromwell Road in London. She was one of the workers who’d helped pack up hundreds of items that were transported to areas not so likely to be bombed. Some were sent as far away as Cornwall for storage. The museum closed in 1939, but only for a short period. The public wanted it open, although even the objects that remained had been moved to the basement to keep them safe. The war dragged on and the museum was used as a shelter, eventually as a canteen. But Mum worked right up until two days before I was born. While she was in hospital—childbirth at that time meant seven to ten days in bed, a practice that would now be considered barbaric—she sent my father to register my birth. An elderly male clerk at the registry office asked for the baby’s name, and when my father said ‘Hazel,’ the clerk said, ‘Oh, come now. You’d best rethink that. You can’t be naming your child after a nut.’ So my father changed the spelling—added an extra z, switched letters around, added a y. In that instant, I became Hazzley. Mum was not impressed, but she didn’t bother going through the paperwork required to change my name back to what it was supposed to be. My father was soon to return to his unit, and they were trying to spend every moment together after she came home from hospital.”

  Cass returned and set down a tray that held glasses, white wine, Pellegrino, slices of lime. She went out again to make a decaf latte for Gwen.

  Hazzley carried on. “I didn’t arrive in this country until the early sixties. Lew was a Canadian studying history in London. We were both history students. I had a job at the Victoria and Albert Museum, same place my mum had worked. She had taken me there many times when I was a child, and I was captivated by the place.

  “Lew and I married young, and I quit my job in England when I left for Canada, though I was sorry to let the job go. Lew helped set up the museum here; he was an advisor and became a jack of all trades behind the scenes. We’re lucky to have a museum in this city. It was still a small town when we first arrived. Lew was happy at his job and that kept him busy, along with his readings of Conan Doyle. He belonged to a group dedicated to keeping the works of Doyle in the public eye, and he prided himself that he owned most of Sir Arthur’s books in first edition. Took a while to collect them, but he was a man of patience. Well, he was patient most of the time.

  “While he was getting set up in his job, I began to edit articles for a history magazine. I did that for a long time, working from home in an upstairs bedroom that I converted to an office while raising Sal—she’s our daughter. After many years, the magazine shut down, and I branched out. I edit for a national magazine now. Occasionally, I receive requests from history journals. It’s all freelance, but the people who do the hiring get to know who’s out there and who’s willing to take on a job. After Sal grew up, Lew and I began to travel to different parts of the world. We returned to England several times.”

  She paused for a moment. “Now here’s something I remember with a good deal of clarity. Shortly after we arrived in Canada, Lew saw a magazine ad in which a man was measuring his wife’s h
eight so he could buy her a new ironing board. The wife in the ad, wearing a dress and frilly apron, was looking all perky and delighted. After seeing the illustration, Lew picked up a tape measure one evening and recorded my height. I had no idea what this was about; I’d not seen the ad, and Lew told me he needed the measurement for a surprise. He arrived home from work the next day with an ironing board over his shoulder. I needed the ironing board but was not pleased when he showed me the ad. He might have thought he was giving me a ticket to a land called happiness. Let’s just say it was decided then and there that he would iron his clothes and I mine.

  “I only hope young women today have some idea of what went on in my generation. Even soap ads told you how to behave. Oh, yes, you might win your man, but how were you going to keep him? You had to use a special brand of soap, that’s how! Well, never mind the soap or the ironing board. Things worked out. I did miss my parents after we left England, and I persuaded them to visit us in Canada—twice. But I’ve never regretted moving to this country. Now my parents are long gone. As is Lew,” she added, and realized that his name spoken aloud was a sinker at the end of a line, its weight dropping through a deep dark pool, but undeniably attached.

  Talking heads, Chiyo was thinking. My Dinner with André. We need a court jester to prance into the room. Someone who can juggle or perform a balancing act. Maybe this is part of a parallel world we’re experiencing. This being the group around the table. Maybe the entire meeting is taking place in the future, or we’re on some sort of timeline and the meeting took place in the past. Maybe we’ve all met before. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  “I remember those ads of the day,” said Tom. “My Ida didn’t have much use for them. She always tried to carve her own path.”

  Hazzley poured a glass of Pellegrino and listened to small talk around her while the others sipped at their drinks. She thought of the empty bottles again; she had to get them out of her basement. Why had Lew become addicted during his last years? Was he so very desperate after his retirement from the museum? She’d asked herself the question many times. She could have asked him directly, but she hadn’t. Why? Because he’d created an atmosphere of silence around the subject. Because he’d ensured that most of his drinking took place after she went to bed. Because at first he’d tried to hide the evidence of bottles and corks and bottle caps, and those efforts were so childlike, so amateur, they were laughable. But never could he hide the odour of alcohol exhaled all night long into the air of their bedroom.

  She raised the subject of his drinking once, and he resisted angrily. Resisted the suggestion that he had a problem, and that drink was killing him. And then, suddenly, because she, too, flared up in anger, his resistance collapsed. His arguments fell apart and he agreed. Humbly. Mumbled that, yes, he had a problem. She was so taken by surprise, she could go no further. She asked him to seek help and he said he would, but took no action. In the weeks and months that followed, she told herself it was his problem to resolve. But he wasn’t strong enough, did not have the will; she knew that then and she knew it now. The self talks the self into taking action—or not. The self is capable of tricking the self. Lew died an alcoholic, his liver damaged over a period of years. An earlier death than he should have had.

  She had loved him, deeply. But in countless ways, she was glad to be free of him because of the drinking. Free of his inability to cope with his own life. She did her best to ward off thoughts about sharing the blame. Why should she take the blame? As a result, no blame was ever laid. He drank, he drank too much, he died. She was lonely and aware of the possibility that her life might not get any better than it was now. She had Sal; she had Cass and a few other friends. She had as much work as she wanted, but . . . perhaps there would always be a but. Cass had known that Lew drank, but she had no idea how much, especially as his drinking took place at home. As for the bottles, they remained hidden. Boxed. Out of sight.

  A few nights earlier, Hazzley had leafed through pages of her old journal and noticed an entry from that period of her life. A time when she had not felt worthwhile. To herself or to anyone. Oh, human frailties, she had written. How they penetrate the head and heart and soul. What she understood now but was not able to consider at the time was that Lew, too, had not felt worthwhile.

  But this group. Was there something in the air when they finally adjourned? Called out their goodbyes? Every one of them said, on parting, “See you next Tuesday.”

  HAZZLEY JOINED CASS at the front counter. Business had picked up, and they had only a few moments together. Cass was wearing a calf-length skirt, a multicoloured gypsy sort of top. Around her neck, miniatures of dual theatre masks hung from a cord of dark leather: tragedy, comedy. She had never completely broken ties with the theatre she’d once owned in town. She twisted the cord between her fingers as she spoke.

  “The quiet one,” she said to Hazzley. “The tall one with ginger hair. Tinted. More butterscotch than ginger. She’s been here more than a few times—likes to read for hours. She has a glint in her eye, even though she presents a serious front.”

  “You’re astute, as always, Cass. But glint?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Hazzley did know. Gwen had told the group that her husband died in April. “She’s fragile,” Hazzley said. “Beaten down, maybe. I’m going to keep an eye on her.”

  “Last few months, she’s been coming in here carrying a book,” said Cass. “I thought she was on the lam because she kept glancing toward the door as if someone might charge in and drag her out. I leave her to sit for hours over one coffee. She doesn’t stand straight, never assumes her own height. She tries to erase herself, become invisible. There’s beauty there, a kind of hidden beauty she isn’t aware of. Even so, she’s contained. If you think of contained as someone who’s about to take flight. Sometimes I look over to check on her, but she has already slipped out the door and is gone.”

  Hazzley considered this. “What about the others? Do you think they’ll return?”

  “I predict they’ll all return.”

  “They said they would. What about Tom? Did you have a chance to speak to him?”

  “He’ll be back,” said Cass. “Tweed jacket and all. He and his wife used to come in for a glass of wine after a movie. Sometimes they came to listen to jazz when Rice was playing. I knew Tom’s wife had died, but I hadn’t seen him for a while. Now that he’s alone, he rarely comes in. And don’t concern yourself about grief walks. I’ve never heard of them either. I’ll surprise him with cake some week, to please him. He might have thought you were starting up a death café. What about the one called Addie?”

  “She works at the hospital, in administration. Manages the Danforth Wing.”

  “I wonder if she knows the history, that the wing was named after my great-grandfather. Think of the life span of our family in this town! Next week, I’ll ask if she’s aware of the connection. You know, I always wished I could have met my great-grand-father. I’m only consoled by knowing how lucky I was to have my great-grandmother in my life when I was growing up. She and my great-grandfather were madly in love—everyone said so. Do you remember me telling you what she used to say to my mother and me? Be not ignorant of any thing in matters great or small. She found so many ways of fitting that into conversation. Especially when she knew one of us was about to make an important decision. She was bloody wonderful, that’s what she was. I had her in my life for twenty-two years.”

  Hazzley had met Cass’s mother, but not her grandmother or great-grandmother. She also knew about the family connection to the Danforth Wing, but she hadn’t thought of that for a while. The hospital had expanded over the years. The new section now accounted for about half the total space.

  All in all, it was obvious that Cass had been eavesdropping during the introductions. Listening intently. She’d certainly heard more than a few fragments. Fine. Hazzley could forgive her that. It was a public meeting, after all. Public to the participants. In any case, s
he couldn’t get along without her friendship with Cassie.

  Rigmarole

  TOM

  A new customer had begun to visit the shop. He’d been dropping in over the past month, so far not to buy but to comment, look around, chat with Tom. He entered now with assurance, pulled up a chair and sat near the front desk. He positioned his chair so that he could keep an eye to the doorway. He did not present his back to the entrance, nor was he face on; he maintained a kind of sidewise position.

  The man’s name was Allam. He did not mention a surname. He might have been Egyptian, Lebanese, Syrian. Arab, of some sort. He had dark but greying hair; he was muscular, heavy-set, about Tom’s height. He spoke English as if he had learned it from a dictionary.

  Allam was vague about personal details. He could address many topics and might have come from anywhere, and for those reasons, his name suited him. His name meant “learning,” “having knowledge,” he told Tom. His parents valued education and wanted their children to be learners. His father and mother came from a small village, and when Allam was ten, they moved to the city. He didn’t say which city. He addressed Tom by his full name, with emphasis on the second syllable: Toe-mas. During his first visit, he had examined and then pocketed one of the business cards Tom displayed on a calling-card tray at the entrance. The tray was shaped like a lotus-leaf, Victorian silver, a favourite of Tom’s. When he’d had the cards printed, he’d used his full name, Tomas Ollery, and added the short form (Tom) in parentheses.

  “Toe-mas. Do you know that Egyptians are eating twenty-two pounds of dates per person in each year? Imagine someone in this country eating so many dates!” The word “pounds” came out as “bounds.” Twenty-two bounds of dates per person. While Tom was catching up, Allam tipped his chair back and laughed. Rubbed at his chin. His skin was dusky-coloured, creased. He was probably in his early sixties, hard to tell. He had what appeared to be a two-day beard. Allam never seemed to work in the morning, or to be expected anywhere. Only some days, in the afternoon—if he happened to be in the shop—did he dodge out the door, always at the same time, twenty minutes before three. No explanation for these quick exits.