The Company We Keep

by Frances Itani

  “The crowd was silent when he leaned forward to put on his shoe. He took his time tying the lace, a simple everyday gesture. That’s what I saw: a small moment of human dignity.” Sybil smiled at the memory and winced. Even a smile required effort.

  “When he stood up, both shoes on, the shouting and accusations started up all over again.”

  They looked at each other. What they could no longer do, these two problem-solvers—as they’d always considered themselves—was define the problem, consider possible solutions and choose the best one. This problem was in another category, one beyond resolution.

  ADDIE DECIDED that the dusting could wait. She would make herself a pot of tea and eat a square of dark chocolate. One of her bargains with herself was about rationing the number of squares she permitted herself each day. She used to eat six, and then she cut back to four. Now she was aiming for two. She ate only Ecuador, 75 percent cacao. While trying to cut down, she had tried 90 percent because those bars were so bitter. Too bitter to sustain, so she went back to Ecuador and was still on four squares a day. If she were honest with herself, five.

  She made the tea and poured a cup and decided that she should give herself free rein to eat as much as she liked—four or five or six squares, even the whole bar—because she had the drive to Greenley ahead of her and a long night where she’d probably be awake in Sybil’s room. On Sunday, she’d go back to rationing. Sunday was face-the-music day, the day she hauled out the bathroom scale, checked her weight and made decisions about the week to come. Of daily rituals are we made, she told herself. Do not introduce drastic changes into your routine at this time of your life. Remember what you’ve learned about dealing with stress.

  The bargaining side of her replied, But it’s also stressful to be overweight.

  To compensate, she walked the five flights down to the lobby to check her mailbox. Another of her resolutions. She hadn’t started walking up the five flights, but that would happen next week.

  Maybe.

  In a few hours, she would be driving to Greenley to take over the late-evening and all-night shift. The family liked to have someone with Sybil all the time now. Sometimes on weekends, Addie took the day shift; sometimes the night shift. For tonight, she decided to bring her own small travel pillow, her own shrug. She’d be able to stretch out on the chaise the nursing staff had set up in Sybil’s room for family. Vigil. Where did the word come from? Probably Latin. Hazzley would know. Hazzley, of the Tuesday meetings, displayed a quiet but expert fascination with words. The point of keeping vigil was to stay awake; Hazzley would agree with that.

  Addie would have to take along something to read. She was sorry she hadn’t been buying new books these days. She’d bring along a spy story by le Carré. Maybe one of the early Smiley novels. There were a couple she hadn’t read. And hadn’t George Smiley been revived in his later years to star in a more recent book? She’d check that out. All the le Carré novels were in her apartment, taking up a shelf in her bookcase.

  Or perhaps she’d grab something by Gardam. Another complete shelf. Jane Gardam could keep her awake with her signature humour and love of life. Not to mention her insights into human behaviour.

  Addie returned to her apartment by elevator, a flat padded envelope in hand. Who had sent a CD in the mail? That’s what the package felt like. Printed label on the outside, no return address. She ripped open the envelope and a small card fell out: I remember your love of music. This might help. Unsigned, but Tye would know she’d recognize his writing. Tears filled her eyes quite suddenly. Tye knew how difficult these days would be.

  The recording was one Addie knew about but hadn’t heard. Max Richter’s Three Worlds: Music from Woolf Works—the ballet. She hadn’t seen the production; the music must have filtered down from the original performance. She glanced at the insert while putting the CD in the player and kept the pamphlet in hand so she could follow along. Three books had been chosen for the work: Mrs. Dalloway, Orlando, The Waves. The piece began with Virginia Woolf discussing words in a 1937 BBC Radio broadcast. Richter chose a passage one minute long from the only known extant recording of her voice.

  Addie played the opening minute twice, straining to hear individual words. Incarnadine. Multitudinous seas. That would be Macbeth. She settled into her chair, put her feet up on the jute ottoman and listened to the entire recording. The mood was that of a threnody. Contemplative, wavelike, urgent, haunting, reminiscent.

  She didn’t know how to respond to Tye. Perhaps it would be best not to. Right now, she could deal with only one large issue at a time. He had sent this as an act of tenderness, of kindness, she was certain. And the music, not always soothing but appropriate, did help her mood. She was immensely grateful that someone in the world knew her well enough to understand how much this would mean to her.

  She gathered up her things: pillow, shrug, books. Gardam and le Carré both, for good measure. She headed to the parking level and her car.

  Changes

  GWEN

  Snow had fallen again in the night, enough to cover the lawn. The world sparkled in morning light, and Gwen was cheered by the sight. The earlier sprinkling hadn’t lasted, but this snowfall appeared to have every intention of staying. The real beginning of winter. A season she used to dread because extreme cold and deep snow meant she’d be locked indoors with Brigg for long smothering stretches without escape, especially to the impassable backyard—unless she spent half a day shovelling, which she sometimes did. Especially when the twins were young. She and the boys made snow caves, which the boys called quinzhees, though the word wasn’t entirely accurate to describe their creations. The three of them sat inside, backs to the curve of wall, marvelling at the way sound was muffled, the way ordinary noises of the street were kept far off. They ran their mittens down hard-packed inner walls and gazed out through the arched entrance, which faced the hedge at the back of the yard, never the house. Gwen provided hot chocolate, which they drank solemnly, passing the thermos cup, their winter quinzhee ritual.

  She wondered if the boys ever thought of the caves, sitting inside those temporary shelters. She wondered if they had conversations with each other about their childhood. She would forever wonder if she had protected them enough. Not a question she could ask. Not now.

  The parrot-sitting job had not come to an end as agreed. Cecilia Grand phoned Gwen at home to say that she and her husband had been obliged to extend their visit to LA. Could Gwen continue to go to the house until the last week of December? They’d definitely be back before New Year’s Eve. For the moment, their daughter still needed them, and they couldn’t abandon her, not at this time. Not before Christmas; they just couldn’t. Cecilia assured Gwen that she had booked a flight for the twenty-eighth; reservations were definite. She was counting on Gwen’s goodwill to continue caring for Rico.

  Gwen had already put in more than the seven weeks she’d initially promised, but she wasn’t upset about the extension. She knew she’d miss Rico when the owners decided to come home, if they ever did. Bury the thought, she told herself. I am not taking on a full-time parrot. Parrots bond, so an owner can’t very well pass one on to someone else. Rico and I have a tentative bond, but that might be pure luck. And parrots can outlive their humans; some live sixty, even eighty years. No, I’ll carry on with the job until the end of December, and that’s it.

  “Face up, Gwen,” she said aloud. “You know you’re fond of Rico. You have admitted him to your life.”

  SHE STOOD AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW and wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. Allam, too, had been admitted to her life—in a tentative way. He was becoming her friend. It had been a long time since a man had come calling at her door.

  A few days after Hazzley distributed the contact list to the company members, Allam phoned Gwen and asked if he could stop by to drop something off. He arrived at her front door on foot and told her he often walked through her neighbourhood, just hadn’t known she was there. He presented her with a gift, a slender pa
perback. He’d ordered it from the bookstore because several weeks ago she had asked about the title. It was a book of stories, the book his daughter had told him about: Holy Days of Obligation. He announced this slowly, and held the book so that she could see the cover. It was by a writer named Zettell.

  Gwen was surprised and pleased. She remembered asking about the title, but she hadn’t expected him to order a copy for her. She invited him in, and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table and drank tea. Allam told her about his long walks through different areas of the city, and how he and Tom were working together on a couple of projects.

  “Toe-mas is a kind man,” Allam told her. “I visit him at his shop. We are like good brothers, getting along.” He told her about two new Syrian families arriving in the city, and his involvement with the refugee community.

  She talked to Allam about books she liked to read, how she was almost finished TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. He listened while she described the way the writer presented his characters—sometimes direct and face-on, sometimes coming in from the side. McCann mixed things up, she said. He kept the stories interesting. As soon as she was finished TransAtlantic, she would start Holy Days.

  Allam asked about Gwen’s name, its meaning. “I like to know the beginning, the background,” he said. “I like the story of words.”

  “Gwendoloena,” she said. “It means ‘white-waved’ or ‘new moon.’ My late mother decided that would be my full name, though Gwen is how I’m known to everyone.”

  “Gwendo-leen-ah.” He spoke her name into the air several times, adding the h at the end like a sigh that hovered in the room.

  “And yours? Allam?”

  “It is a word about knowledge, learning. My ancestors moved back and forth between Syria and Turkey, Egypt, Iraq. One of my great-uncles owned—maybe his family owns now, I am not certain—a large antique stall in the market. I visited when I was a boy. He sold beautiful objects: mosaic, copperwork, glass that is blown, textiles—all made in the area. Information was always exchanging, passing along. Learning was given value. Also travel.”

  After Allam left, Gwen walked through her house, room to room to room. It was as if every window had been opened. And why was she surprised that she had not felt threatened—not in the least—while he was there?

  TWO DAYS AFTER Allam’s visit to her home, Gwen began to make changes. She decided to move back into the main bedroom from the spare room. She resolved to take possession of what was, after all, her own space. After Brigg’s death almost eight months earlier, she had shut the door of the master bedroom, wishing its contents away. Of course the room was still there, and one double closet was full of his clothes.

  The first step was to get rid of the marital bed. Brigg died in that bed, she reminded herself. She gritted her teeth and phoned the town junk remover to have the mattress and box spring hauled away. She donated the bed frame and two dressers to Helping with Furniture, a charitable organization that did good work. Just before the truck left, she asked the driver to wait. She ran back up to the bedroom and removed a painting from its hook on the wall and donated that as well. It was the one she’d been given during her retirement dinner at Spice. Brigg had liked it and insisted that it be hung in their bedroom. Gwen hoped that Helping with Furniture could find a use for it. They placed donated goods in homes they furnished for refugees, for people who had no homes of their own or had been caught up in unexpected circumstances. Maybe the scene of rolling hills and placid lake would be a peaceful setting for someone who had come to Wilna Creek from a place of violence or unrest.

  Next, she went shopping. She purchased a thick queen mattress, a platform frame, linens, pillows, a new comforter in muted golds. She enjoyed spending every dollar. She presented her credit card with no pangs of fear or regret. She bought the deluxe line of linens because she could. All was matching, all was new. The large items were delivered by two men, and she showed them exactly how she wanted everything placed.

  The following day, she walked into a gallery and bought a painting called Shimmering Forest by Quebec artist Louis Hughes, carried it home and hung it on the empty hook. The wall came alive with movement and colour.

  After that, with neither nostalgia nor remorse, she bagged every suit and tie and boot and shoe and shirt and sweater and jacket that Brigg had ever worn and dispatched them to a shelter for the homeless. Her closet space doubled. She had shelves, baskets and dividers installed.

  She dismantled a sectional living-room bookcase, carried it up the stairs herself, piece by piece, and put it back together against one wall of the bedroom. She unpacked the last few book boxes and filled the shelves with her mother’s library and with purchases of her own from the town bookstore.

  One surprise was a large box of books from her childhood, thought to have been damaged by water from a leaking pipe. Her mother had salvaged these, packing them separately, probably while Gwen was away at university. The box had not been labelled, so Gwen didn’t know that her earliest books had been saved. She spent three happy hours sitting on the floor of the bedroom, her back to the wall, handling each book, leafing through old memories: Maggie Muggins, Just Mary, Harold and the Purple Crayon, Charlotte’s Web, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Secret Garden, a child’s version of the Aeneid, along with Greek, Celtic and Roman mythology—the influence of her mother. There were early novels by W.O. Mitchell and Gabrielle Roy and—again, gifted by her mother—King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table.

  The discovery of her books, the unexpected opportunity for self-indulgence, the renewal of old friendships, provided an afternoon like no other. She decided to take her time finding a good home for each one. Some she would give away. Others she would send to her granddaughters in Texas. Some would be kept for herself; these she wanted to re-explore, and would take her time doing so.

  When the book boxes were unpacked, she went out again and shopped for a chaise longue. She had it delivered and hauled upstairs and placed near the bookcase, at an angle from which she could see the new painting. As soon as the delivery men left, she stretched out and began to read the book of stories Allam had brought to her house.

  The refurnishing of the bedroom was complete.

  ALLAM PHONED AGAIN on a Friday morning. He suggested that they walk together, perhaps go to a coffee house. But Gwen could not.

  “The timing isn’t right,” she said. “I’m on my way out the door; we’ll have to meet another day. Or maybe at midday. Today—well, every day—I go to a house to talk to a parrot. This is a job I have for a few months. A temporary job. The parrot’s name is Rico, and I keep him company twice a day. I provide him with a social life.” She laughed.

  Allam laughed, too; he was interested.

  She told him about Cecilia Grand’s detailed list. She told him about her experiences with Rico, and how she was learning about parrots. How she sometimes read passages from Layamon’s Brut aloud, and that she had successfully coaxed Rico out of his cage, terrified that he might not go back in, and how grateful she was when he returned to the cage on his own. How he’d flown up and in and hopped onto his widest, thickest perch so that he could watch while she shut the cage door and locked him inside. She told Allam that when Rico spoke, she detected something like sarcasm in his voice. Or irony. She wondered if she was imagining those attributes. Was Rico mimicking her? He’d already demonstrated that he could speak in her voice. This was entertaining, but also unnerving. Then she wondered if she’d blurted out too much.

  Allam listened to all of this. “I would like to meet the parrot Rico,” he said.

  “I’ll introduce you,” said Gwen. “Some afternoon, I suppose you could come with me. He might be hostile at first, because you are unknown to him. If you’re patient and allow him to vet you in his little parrot way, he might be at ease in your presence. I’m not sure about this, because he might also have personal likes and dislikes. I only know that you have to endure his investigative behaviour.”

  For her
, Rico no longer shrieked when she parked her car in front of the garage. His alarm calls had ceased. That bit of information, outlined on the instruction sheet, had been disconcerting from the beginning: He’ll send out his alarm call when anyone new comes near.

  After hanging up with Allam, Gwen remembered, as she drove away from her house, that Rico, clearly upset one day in September, when she’d first started caring for him, had clung to the side of his cage and beat his wings so rapidly and for so long, she was afraid his little parrot heart would explode while she stood helplessly by. She was concerned, felt badly, did not know what was wrong, kept trying to divert him. She spoke soothingly, calmly. Eventually, she spoke not at all. He quieted and began to behave as if nothing had happened. Perhaps he’d had a stab of pain in his little bird intestine. Who knew?

  Or maybe, like humans, he just needed his own silent time.

  The Floodgates

  CHIYO

  After breakfast, Chiyo began to select the playlists for winter classes that were about to begin. She liked to introduce new music, but she was careful, too, or tried to be. Whatever she chose had to suit the type of class, age groups involved, tempo required, beats per minute. No breakup music, no music that would remind of grief, nothing too sad or emotional. She was aware of the lyrics in every selection and tried to imagine feelings the words might evoke in the class participants.

  Much to consider.

  For tai chi, no music. Tai chi was about meditation. In her opinion, participants achieved more without music for that particular class. Other instructors might use music during tai chi, but Chiyo did not. She taught the moves and the language of the moves until the two came together in a kind of music of their own. She did not tamper with what had been created a thousand years ago. Swallow skims water. Dragon creeps down. Lying tiger listens to wind. Why would she heap anything on top of that? Anything added would only take away. She wondered again about the overactive Hopps, who was slated to be in the new class. She hoped he’d be able to settle in, settle down. A challenge for her, and for him, too.