The Company We Keep

by Frances Itani

  For yoga, the music she chose had no lyrics. Her playlist included flute, oboe, koto, shakuhachi, occasionally harp or violin. She preferred wind instruments to start off the class, ending with violin or strings of some sort. Classes were forty-five minutes in length, all classes. For stretch and strength, the participants liked Elvis, the Everly Brothers, “Stand by Me,” the inimitable dusky voice of Cher and always ABBA. For young groups she sometimes used top-forty lists. For all, she mixed in Spanish music, Latin, more oldies. There was plenty of choice. She could tell when students were responding and enjoying themselves.

  The selection process, however, required effort, not to mention time spent on purchases, permissions, downloading from computer to iPod. Along with even more time listening and eliminating. Something she expected to be suitable for yoga might turn out to be busy, plinky, not soothing at all. One piece she listened to began with sounds of tranquility, a soft wash of waves. Without warning, the waves uttered a hoarse croak. Well, not exactly a croak; it was as if a pig and a goose had found themselves in an ocean, and gave off a combined honking snort of surprise while being tossed by the same wave. As for the busy section, the sound of raindrops falling softly suddenly turned to hail bouncing off a tin roof. Chiyo had learned the necessity of listening to the end of every selection.

  She thought of Addie, who’d confessed that she played the Emperor Concerto while she dusted. Chiyo had never considered a connection between Beethoven and a dustrag in someone’s hand, two centuries after the composer’s death. Good way to get through mundane chores.

  She looked around the room. Staying on in the small bungalow was convenient, but it was work. All in all, positives outweighed negatives. Her taxes were low. She was getting used to living on her own. She had privacy. Spence could and did visit. They were considering merging their two households but hadn’t come up with a workable plan. Not yet. But they would; Chiyo was confident they would.

  She would like the group at Cassie’s to meet Spence sometime. The Company of Strangers, she thought. A quirky film she’d come upon in the library and brought home to watch. The members of the company at Cassie’s were strangers no more, but she wondered how long they would be connected to one another’s lives. She liked Addie, a person who had also spent much of her time caregiving. Maybe they could go out for a meal sometime. She had also begun to think that the group wasn’t about grief at all. They were linking up, talking things through, telling stories. Each was discovering how to start anew. Maybe even learning that there was a selfishness to grief. Chiyo considered her own experience. How, for a time, she’d thought that grief belonged only to her. And then she was forced to acknowledge that others were in the same place. We’re not allowed to have it to ourselves, she thought. Grief will not be contained and owned. It spills out and joins streams and rivers of grief that are already out there, heading for an ocean of sadness that never makes its way onto a map.

  It was not going to go away. Not completely. Had her mother ever stopped grieving Chiyo’s father, even though he’d died decades earlier? Maybe there was some tucking-away place where grief was stored. A tucking-away place that permitted you to carry on, pull yourself up and out of that river or stream. She and her mother had never talked about anything like that.

  Look at what had happened early this morning. She got up as usual, stepped into the shower and began to shampoo her hair. She was thinking of nothing in particular when a wave of sadness rolled through her and she found herself crying hard. The floodgates were open and everything was spilling out. Good thing she was by herself in the house. But even as she cried, some part of her knew that almost eight months after her mother had died, she was treading the same waters. She’d lost some part of herself, and there was no one to blame. Like some of Pina’s dancers, she was out of balance. But unlike the dancers, Chiyo was determined to get back up.

  WHEN ALL THE MUSIC was chosen to her satisfaction, she checked the time and decided to walk to the Anglican church she used to attend with her mother. One day a week, a noonday service was held, and this was the day. She checked the website to be certain. She didn’t go to church regularly and hadn’t been inside since the Anglican minister had conducted the service for her mother’s funeral. There’d been a small group of people: her mom’s friends, her own friends. Maybe thirty in all.

  As had happened with every other church in Wilna Creek, the congregation of Anglicans had shrunk over the past decades. Chiyo wondered if anyone even bothered to attend church in the middle of the week. She supposed the midday service was timed for workers who were on their lunch break and wanted comfort or reassurance for whatever was going on in their lives. Or maybe they were just seeking the communion of fellow worshippers.

  She pushed back the heavy door and entered as the organ was starting up. The minister was at the front, and he recognized her and smiled. He motioned toward the two front pews, where five people had stood to sing, but Chiyo held out a hand as if to ward him off and slid into a pew the second row from the back. Just in case she needed to bolt. All the pews between were empty.

  She unbuttoned her coat and dropped it to the pew and set her purse beside her and pulled out the Book of Common Prayer she’d brought from home. This had belonged to her mother and to her mother’s mother in the camps; it was old and small, the cover softened from use. Chiyo found the correct page and joined in for the opening hymn and prayers. She heard the minister say something like “heads are bowed with . . .” She thought he said “woe,” and maybe he did. But no, that couldn’t be. At the same moment, she heard a rustling noise behind her and glimpsed back quickly to see a woman about her own age in the pew behind. The woman had entered the church soundlessly and had taken Chiyo by surprise. A long arm was reaching over the back of the pew just as Chiyo turned. A hand had almost grabbed her wallet from her purse.

  This was so unexpected, she didn’t realize for a second or two what was taking place. The woman had come in to rob someone, and she intended to grab the wallet and run. Chiyo immediately placed her hand firmly over her purse, zipped it shut and placed it directly on her lap, gripping the strap. She slid over to the right so she could look to the side and keep the woman in her peripheral vision. But the woman behind her slid over, too. Chiyo knew instinctively that the woman would try again, this time perhaps to grab the entire purse. Chiyo held on with a fierce grip and heard the woman give an exasperated sigh, as if she was giving up. Whatever the minister was saying had to be ignored because Chiyo had to be on her guard. The service was mercifully short. She heard the words “by the grace of our Lord,” and then the minister was walking down the aisle during the final hymn. He was carrying the silver collection plate close against his body, one of his large hands covering any money that lay within. The collection plate had not been brought to the back rows during the service.

  He went directly to the woman behind Chiyo and said, in a calm, knowing voice, “Claudine, you took money from the collection plate last week, didn’t you?”

  The reply was a sucking in of air and then a plaintive “Yes.”

  “You needed the money for drugs?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Claudine’s voice was hoarse, as if she’d been chain-smoking for days, weeks.

  Chiyo put on her coat and fished a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and dropped it into the edge of the plate, which the minister was still holding protectively. His palm moved quickly to cover the bill. Claudine’s eyes stared greedily and hard as the money moved from wallet to plate. Chiyo nodded to the others, who had grouped around the minister and the woman. They all seemed to know one another; they’d been through this before. Collective counselling, of sorts.

  Next time, she told herself. Next time—if I ever return—I’ll leave my purse and any other bag at home. She stepped out into the street. As she walked, she thought about her own life. So many people had problems worse than her own. There would always be people who were badly off. She had resources
, an education, work that she loved. She had so much more.

  Maybe she should be offering a free class of some sort in the church basement one evening a week. Maybe she could start showing up at the winter soup kitchen, giving a hand. Maybe she should move beyond her own safe borders, with or without her mother’s ruling hand. And what would her mother say about all of this? About Chiyo picking up her own life? Now, Voyager, indeed.

  December

  A Foot Steps

  GWEN

  As agreed, Allam waited in the car a full five minutes while Gwen went inside to test the mood.

  “I don’t want you to be upset, Rico. I want you to be on your best behaviour. Have I done anything to injure your body? Your psyche? Have I? Ever? Well, then, be nice to my friend. DO NOT SOUND YOUR ALARM CALL. I’ll be offended if you do. For good measure, I won’t read out loud today. Enough of King Arthur for now. Talk only, one-on-one, you-me. Well, you-me and my friend Allam.”

  In response, Rico offered indifference. After that, he hoisted his wings like sails gathering air, lowered them, shrugged his little parrot shoulders, puffed up the sails again. Held. Lowered. Bobbed his head sharply several times. Stepped from his perch to an adjacent branch in the cage.

  He began to call out several seconds before Gwen’s ears heard the front door open. He did not flap wildly against the bars of his cage. He paced back and forth on the branch. Ran a few steps and then clambered over to a rope perch. Wrapped his bird toes around it. Two toes forward, two toes back, she reminded herself.

  “Settle down, Rico. Settle down. I’ll let you out today,” she half sang. “You like being in the kitchen; I know you do. You had a grand time exploring last time you were out. Remember?”

  Rico stopped and stared. Allam had entered the family room silently, no sudden movement. Rico conducted a rapid but complete inspection. Continued to stare hard. Ran back and forth. Grabbed at the perch with his toes. Became silent and still. Pupils contracted to pin size.

  “Don’t wear yourself out, Rico. And don’t try turning yourself to stone. This is Allam. He will not hurt you. I promise.”

  Rico, used to hearing her voice, feigned disinterest again and turned away. He glanced back now and again to reinspect. Curious? Gwen couldn’t tell. She, too, was curious; there were many things she didn’t know about Allam.

  In good time, she reminded herself. In good time. There is much that Allam doesn’t know about me, either. For the moment, let me do my job. Introduce man to parrot. Or parrot to man. Not sure which direction this goes. Both, I guess. And remember Rico’s peripheral vision. Sight is his strongest sense. He’s watching, every second. Even when he pretends to turn away.

  Allam, unobtrusive by instinct, stayed back. Gwen went to the kitchen, washed a pellet bowl, began to prepare chop, returned, changed the water, hung a new toy. Rico continued to check Allam’s location from time to time.

  “Okay, Rico. I’m going to let you out now. I’ll clean the bottom of the cage and sweep the floor while you’re exploring the kitchen. As usual, you’ve done a great job as a seed splatterer. Didn’t your parrot mom and dad teach you any manners? Or is this some vestigial grand plan to propagate new growth in the forest?”

  As soon as she’d spoken about parrot parents, a thought winged into her brain: not one person in our company has a mother. Not a living mother. Not that anyone has spoken about.

  She turned to Allam. “Is your mother alive?”

  “Yes. She is eighty-nine and lives with her youngest sister in Beirut. Not a refugee camp. An apartment. She has lived there a long time and wants to stay with her sister. Even so, I am concerning myself about her. I talk to her on the phone one day each week.”

  Gwen opened the door to the cage. She walked to the centre of the family room and stood with arms outstretched. Rico barely hesitated. He flew directly to her and perched on her right arm, the favoured arm, or so it seemed. She felt his toes grasp. Allam observed this and muttered something. He backtracked in silence and went out through the front door. Gwen heard the latch click behind him. Rico echoed the sound with an identical click of his own.

  She moved slowly toward the kitchen while Rico made his gradual descent toward her wrist. She sat at the table, and he hopped over to the tabletop. From there, he flew down to the floor. He seemed to want the extra step while travelling from cage to forearm to wrist to table to floor.

  Gwen was watering the jade when she heard the front door reopen. Rico, in explorer mode in the kitchen, raised his head and stared in the direction of the noise. He did not sound his alarm.

  Allam came into the Grands’ kitchen carrying a sturdy branch he’d liberated from a tangle of prunings at the side of the garage. He had stripped off the bark and any protruding twigs. The branch was slightly more than two feet long, its diameter ideal for a perch.

  “I will find a way to set this up in the room,” he said. “So he will have a place to land when he leaves the cage.” His voice softened. “After that, you will not be the human cross.”

  Sacrificial. He had seen her as sacrificial in that moment. She hadn’t thought about self-immolation. Was that a condition that lay under the surface of her life? Maybe some women were better at self-immolation than others and she took the grand prize.

  She wondered what Rico used to land on when the Grands let him out. Perhaps he flew straight to Cecilia with no fanfare at all. No arms outstretched, no perch. Or maybe a quick left turn through the air to the kitchen.

  If so, he had never done that with Gwen.

  SHE AND ALLAM DROVE BACK to her house in the late afternoon. The thin layer of snow had hardened over the surface of the lawn, but there hadn’t been a huge snowstorm so far. They took off their boots and jackets and headed for the kitchen. Allam had been in her home several times now. They always sat in the kitchen, and now, while she filled the kettle to make tea, he pulled two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the table. He’d been telling her about the class he was taking and about the teacher, whom he respected because she was good and she was committed to helping students navigate the ins and outs of speaking Canadian.

  “What about Rico?” he asked Gwen. “Is he speaking more than at the beginning, when you first met him?”

  “Yes, he is. And no matter what he says, I’m always astonished to hear human sounds coming from his hooked beak. What I actually know, language or not, is that Rico and I communicate.”

  “When first I entered house, I watched to see how he would react. I think he is comfortable with you, so he gave me permission to be there also,” Allam said. “And when you let him out, he travelled first to arm, then to wrist, to table—and then floor? I saw part of that from the window outside. Many unnecessary steps along the way.”

  “He might have those particular quirks. There have been so many changes in his behaviour since September,” Gwen said. “He’s more relaxed now. At the beginning, I couldn’t help but be aware of filling the room, of filling the whole house with my presence. He was wary of me for days.”

  “Your presence maybe does fill the house when you are alone with a parrot, but when you are in a room with people, Gwendo-leen-ah, you disappear,” Allam replied. “This I have seen with my two eyes. I understand, because I also know how to disappear. How to let myself in and out of places silently. With steelth. But I can fill a room with my presence. Maybe not a whole house, but a room. When I am choosing to do this.”

  It was her turn to listen. To understand that he had his own ways of knowing things about her.

  LATE IN THE EVENING, after he left, she considered how it had come about that they had travelled up the stairs of her house together. How she had allowed herself to let down her guard.

  They’d finished their tea and stood to gather the dishes. She had faced him, surprised and not surprised. He took her by the hand. Both waited a few moments in silence. Weighing what was to come. She wasn’t exactly certain about what happened next. Maybe she leaned in. For certain, he maintained his grip on her
hand. And led her up the stairs, where he had never been. She took the lead then and brought him to her room.

  After they made love, they talked for a long time.

  “Why did you come here? Why to me?”

  “A foot steps where it loves,” he answered. “Where it desires to love. And to be loved in return.” That was all.

  Why did she trust him? The way he behaved, the formalities, the way he listened carefully. It had been a long time since she had trusted. She found herself telling him about Brigg, about sewing up all the pockets before taking his clothes to the funeral parlour. She told Allam the reasons why. She had never before discussed the true nature of her marriage, the kind of man her husband had been. The bullying that had gone on for decades.

  Allam pondered the sewing of the pockets and said, “The action suited the situation.” And held her tightly because she was shaking; her entire body was shaking. He instinctively knew that they should speak of other things while she allowed herself the realization of having shared a part of her story—never before told.

  “When I am walking in this town,” he told her, “I walk sometimes at night and hear the sound of Canada from the skies. In September, October, even to late November, from the dark sky comes the sound of geese in migration. For me, this is Canada’s sound. If a window is open in my daughter’s house, I hear and go out and stand in the yard to listen while geese are calling. Sometimes I cannot see them in the dark. And why do I go out and stare up at the night sky? Because for me, this is important in my new life. The sound is a symbol of something. Freedom? Beauty? I do not yet know.”