The person showing Chiyo the ropes was a woman named Dottie, assistant to the man who managed the operation. In total, there were five workers on duty. The program manager, referred to as Luther, was away in Hamilton at a conference. He was supposed to be returning sometime today.
“Luther’s easy to work for,” said Dottie. “He’s a bit frantic—he kind of darts around and expects us to do the same. Don’t be put off; we all like him, and we like working for him. And I forgot to tell you: now that winter is here, it’s okay to open the outside doors a half hour early on exceptionally cold days, even though the meal is served at twelve sharp. Also, all phones are to be turned off during the meal.”
Other jobs, beyond preparing and serving food, were to set out paper napkins; carry food from kitchen to serving line; refill stainless steel containers as they emptied; ensure a steady supply of coffee, tea, water and juice; wipe out the fridge; wipe the counters; wipe the tables as people finished eating.
Chiyo recognized faces from the previous day. In turn, she was greeted as if she’d been there forever. There was a kind of steady beat to this, an urgent drive to get through the work alongside the others, serve the food, do the cleaning, put away dishes, hang or stack pots and pans, and set up for the next day. While all this was going on, a steady banter with the diners was taking place. With Dottie at her side, Chiyo eased her way into the routine. Her new winter class would be starting up in the evening, and she’d have plenty of time to go home first. Spence would be coming for the weekend, and she planned to stop in at Marvin’s after leaving the church to pick up a few groceries.
Just as she was about to put on her coat, the program manager arrived and came forward to greet his newest volunteer. They recognized each other instantly. Luther was no other than Hopps, the man who’d hired Chiyo as his personal trainer years ago. They shook hands, and Chiyo was welcomed to his territory. Hopps was in his forties now, a bit heavier, maybe. Same ruddy cheeks, same orange hair. He was no longer addressed as either Eldon or Hopps, he explained. He’d recently decided that he wanted to be known by his middle name—Luther.
He was laughing. “I figured I was due an identity change. What about you?”
“I guess we’re all capable of change,” she said. She did not add, “And I’m in the middle of the slow process of removing a mother’s influence from a daughter’s mind.”
Luther was one of two paid members on staff, he told her; the cook was the other. On the occasions when Dottie took over managerial duties, she, too, was paid. He ran a tight ship, he added. Had to. If the program was to work, a good deal of coordination was required: food procurement and health standards, garbage disposal, finding and keeping volunteers, staff management, handling issues that might arise among the diners, making referrals, coordinating social services with other agencies. He was truly grateful that she’d come on board, he said. And wouldn’t he be seeing her this evening, too? Weren’t tai chi classes about to begin? Wasn’t she teaching again?
They were. She was.
The entire time they were talking, Luther had been rocking back and forth on his toes, hands moving at his sides. His normal state.
She went on to Marvin’s, still thinking about Hopps/Luther. Would he be able to adjust to the slow pace of tai chi? She would see. Box tiger’s ears with fists, she said to herself, and grinned. But no, that wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe, without music, without Miley, without beat, he would respond to stillness. Maybe he would be able to stretch his limbs gently while imitating the moves.
We’ll find a way, she told herself. He needs an activity he’ll perceive as being less frantic than his workplace. I will present him with the expectation of stillness, of maintaining balance. Equal and opposite forces. Steady stance. Solid footing. At the same time, I’ll be working on my own version of balance.
She remembered to turn on her phone and saw that she had a message. She returned Hazzley’s call right away.
“I’m on my way,” she said. “I’ll head right over from Marvin’s. Yes, I know the street. I’m free now until my evening class.”
The Company
The company, with the exception of Addie, was seated around the table in Hazzley’s kitchen. If anyone had noticed the empty rooms as they walked through to the back of the house, no one ventured to make a remark.
Allam had been at Gwen’s home when the call came from Tom. He’d been helping to string up some outdoor lights around the windows at the front of the house. Gwen had dug them out of the basement and decided to cheer up the place for winter. Allam didn’t have to work at the community centre in the afternoon and had planned to accompany Gwen to visit Rico again. They decided to do the parrot duties an hour early so they could be at Hazzley’s by three. The Grands would be coming home soon, and while Gwen would be glad to have her days back to herself, she was going to miss Rico.
Hazzley showed the others the obituary she had clipped from the Wilna Creek Times. It was decided that they would take two cars on Saturday: Tom and Hazzley in the Jeep; Gwen driving Allam and Chiyo. They would meet outside the church and go in together. Cass and Rice had told Hazzley they’d be there, too, and would wait in the parking lot until the company arrived.
“There’s one other thing,” said Hazzley. She looked down and then directly at Tom. She had poured tea, and everyone was sitting back, enjoying being in Hazzley’s home.
“Something we should do for Addie?”
“Something I need help with here. In the house. Something about . . . well, taking charge of my own space. Clearing debris.”
“I’ll help,” said Chiyo, always ready to jump in.
“And I,” said Gwen, who knew a great deal about clearing debris.
The two men had already stood up.
Hazzley led her friends down into the basement. The hellhole of my existence, she told herself. But no longer. When she opened the half door to the old coal bin and pulled back the tarp for the others to see, she felt like a small child who was about to be punished. Everyone stared in.
“Lew was an alcoholic,” she said, and this came out as a stutter. “These are the bottles. In the boxes. I’ve never been able to face up.” She felt a firm arm around her—Gwen. And then Chiyo hugged her.
Tom patted her arm and went straight to work. “We can have this cleared out in no time, Hazzley.”
Allam had already hoisted a box over one shoulder and was partway up the stairs.
They followed each other up and down the stairs, doing what had to be done. Carting boxes, filling the trunks and back seats of the three cars until everything was loaded. One trip was going to be enough.
“There’s a bulk return location here in the city, Hazzley,” Tom told her. “We’ll take them there. You’re going to receive a chunk of money for these, you know.”
“I don’t want the money. Not a bit of it,” said Hazzley. “If we’re paid for the bottles, let the money go to charity.”
“We know of a place that needs supplies,” said Tom. “An art program for young children.” He looked to Allam, who agreed. “Syrian children who are adjusting to this country. The money could be put to good use there.”
Hazzley led the others in her car, with Tom in her passenger seat, pointing the way. By the time they’d finished unloading and sorting and dealing with every last bottle, it was after six. Chiyo had to leave for her class.
Hazzley drove Tom back to his house.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “The others, too. I think I really believed I’d never clear those out of the basement. It’s hard to explain how difficult that was.”
“I think I do understand. Sometimes it’s impossible to make a move. Even though we’d be better for it. We can all use a hand now and then.”
“I’m grateful, truly.”
“I’m the same way, Hazzley. I hesitate to ask for help, or don’t ask at all.” He got out of the car but leaned back in before he shut the door. “We’ll go out for a meal together, how about th
at?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
“Good. Let’s make it tomorrow night, then.” He rapped the car roof as he shut the door and didn’t look back as he entered his house.
Hazzley drove on to the café before going home. She might as well tell Cass what had happened. There wasn’t much to hide anymore.
GWEN AND ALLAM RETURNED to Gwen’s home and sat at her kitchen table having coffee.
“I’m glad we could do that for Hazzley,” she said. “She must have felt the whole weight of the house tilting into that corner of the basement. She must feel a hundred years younger. Did you see the look on her face when we said goodbye?”
“Yes,” said Allam. “I am glad this problem is solved for her. Maybe she felt badly that she said nothing before this, that she took no action a long time ago. It was good that she asked for help.”
“Too bad the clearing out ended up being her responsibility. That was tough for her. I just hope she didn’t feel any guilt.”
“There was no reason for guilt. Not a bit, as Canadians say,” said Allam.
Gwen sat back in her chair. “Do you remember how the conversation turned to guilt a few weeks ago when we were at Cassie’s?”
Allam nodded, remembering well.
“There’s something I haven’t been able to get out of my mind.”
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
“When Brigg was alive—when he was in bed after he’d had the stroke—I had a dream that wouldn’t go away. It’s like a never-ending nightmare.”
Allam reached for her hand while she talked.
She looked as if she’d decided not to go on, but then changed her mind.
“Okay, this is the dream. I was lying in bed and became aware of Brigg, who was somehow outside the house, two storeys up, but hanging on to the outer sill of the open window in the bedroom. Not the main bedroom, the one we’d always shared, but the spare room where I slept after he had the stroke. He was desperate to get back inside, but he couldn’t, no matter how he tried. I wanted to wake up. I was fighting to wake up. I was still in bed in the dream, but I could see how desperate he was, how his fingers were curved, how his nails were ashen. I could see dirt beneath them. He was pleading: ‘Pull me in.’ He was trying to crawl through the window. But in the dream—the nightmare—I turned my back and my only thought was: Why can’t he keep his fingernails clean?”
She stopped and looked away. “What will it take to leave those memories behind? To be free of them once and for all? What kind of monster am I to turn my back, even in a dream? I still think about him clinging to the sill, his desperation to stay alive. I’m still grieving.”
“That was a dream; that was a nightmare. You did not turn your back all those years you lived with him,” said Allam.
“That is true. I did not.”
“Gwendo-leen-ah,” he said, “you are not—I am not certain of this—but maybe you are not grieving your husband who died. Please consider. You might be grieving the loss of yourself. All those years losing yourself in that marriage. I may not be right with this thinking, but I want so much for you to be happy. Why do I want this for you? Because you are a fine person. When you were with him, when he was alive, you had bad feelings some of the time. Many people also have bad feelings. If you are able to be free of those, maybe you will be free of this man.”
Gwen looked at him, taking this in. She suspected that Allam could see through the barricades she had built up around her. He could see through what had taken three decades to erect. Who else had seen—or ever known—her true adult self?
“You and I,” he said, “we know how grief can whip through air like a scythe and wound a person. But you were wounded already. I was not expecting to meet you. We have this chance now, Gwendo-leen-ah. You, me.”
He did understand. She was beginning to see.
He put the mugs in the sink and she reached out and he took her hand and they went up to her room and lay on top of the bed, still in their clothes. Allam pulled the new comforter over them.
He was silent after that, and they fell asleep.
When Gwen awoke, Allam was still sleeping. It was almost nine, and she could tell from the glow of the blinds that the streetlights and Christmas lights were on below. She sat up in bed and looked at Allam, who had turned on his side, toward her, in his sleep. She whispered softly: “Then blew men the trumpets, and spread the tables; water men brought on floor, with golden bowls; next soft clothes, all of white silk. Then sate Arthur down, and by him Wenhaver the queen.”
But Arthur, for all his finery, had to fight on the days when he dressed in armour and faced bellicosity. Armour that was so heavy, his knights drowned when they fell into a river or stream.
She looked at Allam again. Thick, dark hair streaked with grey. Worry lines in his face. Kindness that showed, even through the worry, even through sleep.
He was no king. She was no queen. But she wanted to be beside him. The trumpets, the tables, the golden bowls would always be story, legend. She and Allam would create their own story, together.
She lay down again and closed her eyes. He stirred in his sleep, and his arm moved toward her and pulled her closer, tighter.
“Perhaps,” he said, and wrapped both arms around her, “perhaps we are the perfect suits? Suited? How do you say this?”
“Perfectly suited.”
“Exactly that,” he said.
Solidarity
ADDIE
She arrived early, driving through a light snowfall, and went directly to the church hall. She was drained of feeling and walked heavily. She’d never been inside this church, and saw from the outside that it was old and stone, and that it presented a particular beauty against the landscape of spreading oaks and snow-covered lawns.
The connecting hall had been added in the present century and was designed to complement the church, so the impression she had, on first approach, was that this was a scene of peace and harmony. She knew that Greenley was about the same age as Wilna Creek; the church probably dated back to the late 1800s. Sybil would have attended Sunday school here. Probably church services, too, when she was growing up in the community.
Addie knew that the casket was already inside.
She had spent much of the previous day with Sybil’s family, helping to greet relatives as they arrived at the house in Greenley, keeping the teapot full, making sandwiches, giving directions to hotels and motels. She’d met some of the aunts and uncles and cousins over the years, but the people she knew best were members of the immediate family. She had driven back to Wilna Creek late in the afternoon and managed to sleep eight hours before returning: the longest sleep she’d had in months. At least she wasn’t responsible for the funeral arrangements. As executor, Sybil’s brother had taken over. There would be a simple service, after which the casket would be escorted by pallbearers to the exit, where a hearse would be waiting. The cemetery was at the end of the block, and those who planned to be at the gravesite could walk there from the church. Members of the Women’s Auxiliary had declared themselves responsible for food and drinks, which would be available after the service. These were already set up in the adjacent hall.
ADDIE HAD LET TYE know about Sybil on Wednesday, while she was still in Greenley, and he’d phoned her back when she was home in the evening. They had talked for a long time. He, too, had loved Sybil, but he wasn’t able to be present for the funeral. He was leaving Friday afternoon for the Karolinska Institute in Solna, just north of Stockholm. He’d be attending a conference on ethics and health care.
“Addie,” he said, “why don’t you join me? I’m going to be there eight full days, not counting travel. Phone the hospital, tell them you need a break. They’re not going to argue, especially at this time of year. You’ll stay with me, of course. If you’re okay with that. I’m booked at a decent hotel near the institute.”
“I can’t possibly; it’s too sudden. I’m right in the middle of—”
“I know you a
re. That’s why you can. Try to make arrangements for Monday. I won’t be presenting my paper until the middle of the week; I could meet you at the airport. We could even stay over in Stockholm for Christmas. Why not?”
Addie began to consider the possibilities. And as Tye had said, why not? After hanging up, she spent the next hour and a half on her phone and computer, booking flights and explaining her plans to the administrator of her own hospital in Wilna Creek.
She was already thinking that she would buy a couple of new outfits when she arrived. Something in black would be best. She’d walk a lot while she was there, start losing some of the extra pounds. She had never been to Sweden. Stockholm was probably beautiful over the Christmas season. Tye had told her he’d arrange for her to attend one or two sessions at the conference, but only if she wanted to. She might want nothing more than to relax and be a tourist. She might want nothing more than to have breakfast in bed every morning.
She and Tye might give themselves another chance. Maybe they were ready. She had made the right decision. She was sure of this.
SHE ENTERED THE CHURCH from a side door near the front, walking behind Sybil’s family. The church was long and narrow, the pews almost full. Sybil’s family had lived in Greenley for generations, so it was no surprise that so many friends had showed up in support. Addie looked out over the sea of faces and wondered if she would know anyone apart from the people in the first two rows. Wondered who would understand what it was like: to be here, to have been with Sybil over this terrible journey—right through to its end.
And there they suddenly were, filing in, the members of her company. Hazzley and Tom and Chiyo and Gwen and Allam. They were sliding along the pew in the back row and taking their places. Cass and Rice were with them.
The Company We Keep Page 23
