The Company We Keep

by Frances Itani

  They will understand, she said silently, and felt herself enfolded by their compassion and concern. The combined strength of her friends moved through her as she took her place in the oak pew behind Sybil’s mom. They had been behind her the past four months, and they would be there for her in the months to come.

  The service was brief. When the officiant spoke, she didn’t say that Sybil’s spirit would go on. She didn’t say that her consciousness, her personality, would live beyond the flesh. No. She said, “Sybil’s story will survive. Though the physical body dies, the story continues. Sybil’s story will carry on through the many people who knew her and loved her.”

  Addie was thankful for this. Thankful for having known Sybil these many years. She said her own small prayer and released a long, slow sob.

  A voice that is mine cries: Deo gratias—

  For this awakening, for this life,

  For these sweet lungfuls of grief.

  Everyone rose, and while the organist played Bach, the pallbearers escorted the casket to the exit. Each row emptied in turn, everyone falling in behind the family. When Addie passed her friends in the back pew, she looked over to acknowledge them with a smile of thanks. And once again was filled with gratitude.

  When the entire group of mourners stood outside on the walkways and on the lawn, Sybil’s casket was loaded into the hearse for the short drive to the cemetery. The snow had stopped and the midday sun shone the way winter sun does, bestowing a sharp bright edge to each crystal that lay beneath its rays.

  Addie walked over to join the company. As the hearse started up, she thought of Hazzley’s chant, and her hand reached for her collar and she held on tightly.

  The others did the same: Hazzley and Tom and Gwen and Allam and Chiyo and Cass and Rice. They all held on to their necklines or collars or scarves or whatever they wore at their throats. They stood this way in their own special line until the hearse passed them by. And then they began to walk to the cemetery, with Addie at the centre. They were all present for the final farewell at the grave. They were all prepared to take the next step forward into life.

  May

  The Wedding

  Friday morning, Tom pulled into the roundabout at the Haven and saw that Dave was waiting at the door. He hadn’t seen him for a couple of months. Today’s trip to Greenley was a follow-up appointment; no more treatments for the time being.

  “I’m early,” Dave said, and slid into the passenger seat. “I feel fit enough to run all the way.”

  “You’ve regained some of the weight you lost,” said Tom. “That’s good. The treatments must have done the job they were supposed to do over all those months. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Nope. And I tried not to complain. But sometimes we have to go through—what the hell—we have to go through stuff. Bad stuff to get to the good. To get back to the good, I should say. Life has been good to me over the long reach.”

  “I’d have to say the same,” said Tom. “Over the long reach.”

  “I’ll be facing a lotta follow-up, too, for a while. The appointments will taper off gradually. I’m in competent hands, all in all. And glad to be alive.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  “Tomorrow,” Dave went on, “we’re having a bit of a celebration, a Saturday afternoon wedding—two inmates from the top floor. Doesn’t happen often around here, as you can imagine. We usually hear about the other kind of ceremony, which I won’t mention because I don’t want to jinx the couple. The wedding will take place in the party room, and we’re all invited. Guy’s name is Doug. We call him Doug the Thug—I guess he really was a bit of a thug back in the day. He’s old now; he’s left his thuggery behind.”

  Dave and Tom were both chuckling.

  “Management said they’d kick in a special lunch instead of the usual fare. Everybody’s pretty pumped about having a wedding at the place,” Dave said. “You can stop in as my guest, if you like.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t do that; I’m sorry,” said Tom. “I’ll be attending a wedding this weekend as well. Later today, after I drop you off, I have to pick up my old tux from the dry cleaner.”

  “Are you getting married? No kidding?”

  “Not me. The tux is for the groom, a friend of mine.”

  “I suppose a tux doesn’t go out of style.”

  “This one’s in great shape. Retro is what people are buying today anyway. I wore it to my own wedding in 1963. I found every item separately at the Sally Ann and put it all together as a match. I always loved a bargain, still do. My friend Allam—he’s the groom—came over to the house to try it on, and it fits perfectly. Twenty dollars is what I paid, and the outfit gets two men through their wedding celebrations. Not so shabby.”

  “Not shabby at all.”

  “Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.” Tom was laughing. “If Allam wants to pass on the tux—and the story—to some young guy someday, it might even make it to a third wedding.”

  “I hope this couple has a ring,” Dave said. “Did you read about the woman in Alberta who lost her diamond ring while she was weeding her garden? The ring stayed in the ground for fifteen years, and one day someone went out to pull up vegetables for dinner and there it was, wrapped around a carrot. The carrot had grown right through the centre of the ring. Diamond still in place; ring okay. The woman who lost it was in her eighties when she finally got it back. I love stories like that. You wonder if you should believe them. I believe this one because I saw a bunch of photos on the internet.”

  “I did read about that,” said Tom. “As for Allam, he told me he has a gold ring for the bride.”

  “That’s good. I guess the weather will cooperate, too,” Dave said. “We’ll be out in the gardens around the back of the Haven if it’s warm enough. The flower beds are kept up pretty well. We have our own gardener, and some of the inmates pitch in. Tulips are up. Daffodils are up. Seeds and plants will be going into the vegetable plot soon. There aren’t any diamonds in the soil, far as I know.”

  Tom dropped Dave off at the health centre in Greenley and went off to find himself a coffee. He knew Dave’s appointment wouldn’t take long. A checkup and blood work, probably. And then the trip back to Wilna Creek.

  CASS AND HAZZLEY were in the café kitchen.

  “Beat the eggs,” said Cass. “I want them thick. Pass them over, and I’ll put in the sugar. You measure out the flour.”

  “You’re tough,” Hazzley told her. “But you make good cakes. That’s why I’m putting up with being bossed around.”

  “Won’t hurt you for a couple of hours.” Cass was laughing while she eyed the whiskey, specially ordered from Cornwall for the occasion. That was Rice’s idea, and a good one. By now everyone knew that Gwen and Allam would be travelling to Cornwall in early June, to visit the historic land of the legendary King Arthur. They would tour around different parts of Cornwall, not only the area where Tintagel Castle had been built so long ago.

  “How many layers is this cake supposed to be?”

  “Eight. Each of the four cakes will be halved. I could make it as high as I want, but I don’t want it toppling over.”

  “And the icing?”

  “Pure cream. That goes on tomorrow. That’s where the whiskey comes in—before the cream gets lathered on. As for the five children who are coming, each gets a special small cake, muffin-size, without whiskey. Easy enough to do. Same batter. I’m doing extras, in case any other children show up.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “It’s my job to think of everything. I just hope Rice is managing by himself out there today.” She waved a sticky hand toward the main room. “If he needs help, he’ll come and ask.”

  Not only was the wedding cake being prepared in the kitchen, but Saturday’s ceremony and party would be held at Cassie’s as well. “Where else would we have the wedding?” Cass had said when she’d first heard the news. “We’ll close up for the day—front and back—and have a re
al party.”

  A FEW PEOPLE from out of town had arrived, including Gwen’s sons from Texas and their families. Gwen was both excited and anxious. They’d be staying with her for three days and would return again in August for a longer holiday. Gwen and Allam had been preparing.

  When the Grands, as promised, came home before the new year, the twice-daily trips to Rico had come to a halt. After that, Gwen was restless for a few days, wondering about him. She had found herself checking the clock, thinking of his routine: he’ll be having his chop; he’ll be out of his cage, following Cecilia around the kitchen. She’ll be chattering away to him—for Cecilia had turned out to be a chatterer. And then Gwen decided to make her farewell official. On a small sheet of paper, she wrote:

  Dear Rico,

  Maybe your tiny parrot brain has stored some old memory of me. Maybe we both worked through a few things. You listened to me and I thank you for that. But I listened to you, too. We are always on a learning curve—remember that. I understand why your owners missed you when they were away. I miss you, too.

  Gwen

  She had tucked this into an envelope and addressed it: Rico c/o CAGE. And dropped it into a mailbox at the end of her street. That was the end of that. She laughed, thinking of the mail sorters.

  After that, she and Allam had begun to fix up the house. They did a bit of painting and prepared the two spare rooms upstairs, and ensured that there was good space for a couple in the downstairs bedroom. When everyone arrived for the wedding, Gwen’s two granddaughters declared that they were taking over the lower room. Especially when they realized they could have their own space without their parents around.

  When Gwen had told her sons about her upcoming marriage, both were cautious initially. What kind of man was Allam? Now that they’d met him, they seemed to be happy for her. Relieved? She knew they were surprised when they learned that her friends were in charge of the wedding. They’d never known their mother to be a part of any group. Especially a group as involved and caring as this one seemed to be. They’d already met Tom and Hazzley and Cass and Rice. They were to meet the others Saturday afternoon. The group would be small, the wedding modest. A judge who was a friend of Tom’s would conduct the ceremony.

  CHIYO AND ADDIE were shoving furniture around and decorating the backroom while Cass and Hazzley were making the cake. The round tables were arranged, with a vase for tulips at the centre of each. A place for the ceremony was decided, a few rows of chairs set out; two long tables end to end along one side of the room would hold the food. The two women, satisfied, stood back to survey the results of all the pushing and shoving and discussion and decision-making.

  Chiyo had asked Addie to join her and Spence for dinner at Spice, for Indian food, once the decorating was complete. Spence had been invited to the wedding, and Chiyo suggested that the three arrive together the next day. Addie had been at loose ends lately, and Chiyo had noticed. She knew Tye had been invited, too, but was unable to attend. Addie had told her that much about her ex. But the relationship seemed to be on-again, off-again. And Chiyo could tell that Addie was still grieving.

  Six funerals and a wedding, Chiyo thought. Look at us. Look at the friendships we’ve made. Maybe Spence and I are ready for a ceremony of our own. Wouldn’t that make my mother happy? And maybe she already knows. Who’s to say?

  The company was still getting together as a group on Tuesdays, but they met once a month now instead of weekly. No one was ready to give up the loyalty and friendship, and especially the support. They wanted to keep the company together, and each of them hoped to go on meeting for a good long while.

  BY MIDDAY SATURDAY, everyone was in place for the wedding. Gwen, elegant in a soft gold dress and jacket, wore a gold bracelet that Allam’s daughter had presented to her earlier in the week. As the guests arrived, Rice sat on a chair at the side of the room and played soft music on his jazz guitar. Tom’s wedding gift to the couple, the bronze sculpture of the geese, had been positioned at the end of one of the food tables. The geese, always about to take flight, faced the doorway leading to the main room and out into the light of the larger world.

  Allam’s Canadian family was present: his daughter, his son-in-law and his three grandchildren, as well as several friends from the Syrian community. Gwen was escorted by her sons from the main part of the café into the space in the backroom that Chiyo and Addie had decorated the day before. The other members of the company stood together as witnesses. Allam, in his fabulous tux, held Gwen’s hand while the judge conducted the ceremony.

  Tom felt his left eye tearing up and realized he’d forgotten to tell his ophthalmologist about the condition last December. He dabbed at the eye because he had to step forward to read the poem he had selected for the occasion. He’d chosen it from the book left to him by his grampa Murray.

  The sadness of the winter,

  Which gloom’d our hearts, is gone:

  A thousand signs betoken

  That spring-time comes anon.

  ’Tis spring-time in our bosoms;

  All strife aside we cast;

  The storms were for the winter-days,

  But they are gone and past.

  Before us lies the spring-time—

  Thank God, the time of mirth—

  When birds are singing in the trees,

  And flowers gem all the earth;

  When a thousand busy hands upturn

  The bounteous, fruitful mould,

  And the heart of every poet feels

  More love than it can hold.

  After the ceremony, after the amazing cake—fluffed up with layers of whipped cream and flavoured with Cornish whiskey—was carried into the room and served, and while Rice was once again playing jazz on his guitar and the guests were eating and clinking glasses, Tom mentioned to Hazzley: “This matters; it really matters that we know enough to pause and honour the moments in life that are worthy of celebration.”

  “You’re right,” said Hazzley. “We need these moments because they strengthen us for the ordinary times, the not-so-good and—let’s face it—the downright difficult times.”

  Allam’s grandchildren had begun to clamour for a story, and his daughter joined in. “You know so many old tales,” she said to her father. “Tell us one now.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Let me think.” He sat down and the others gathered round. Gwen was by his side.

  Allam looked around the room at his family and his good friends. He raised Gwen’s hand to his lips.

  “A story that holds love,” he said. “There is room for love in the life of every person. Let me tell you now about a wedding feast that took place a long time ago.”

  And the others quieted, and leaned in.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank my agent, Jackie Kaiser, at WCA, for her friendship and long-standing support, and my editor at HarperCollins, Jennifer Lambert, for her skill, wise comments and suggestions. Thanks to Noelle Zitzer and Janice Weaver, who, once again and with expertise, have escorted me through the production and copy-edit stages of the novel. Thank you: Jim Sherman at Perfect Books in Ottawa for long-time support; Cortez Kimble for permission to use his great story of the wedding suit; Susan Zettell, who wrote Holy Days of Obligation (Nuage Editions, 1998); Barb and Orm Mitchell; Norman Takeuchi; Marion Takeuchi for bringing to my attention the expression Das letzte Hemd hat keine Taschen (The last shirt has no pockets—or, you can’t take it with you!).

  For discussions along the way, thanks to my daughter, Sam Itani; Catherine Hoogerhyde; Hazle Sokolich; Dr. John Martins; Susan Lightstone; Norman Jamieson; Dorothy Mitts; and Phyllis Bruce. Thanks to my son, Russell Itani, for information about music and the ocarina, and for the gift of an ocarina of my own—I’ll be practising! Thanks to Danielle Letourneau, who brings French expressions and cake to the table. Quelle bonne amie! And to Michel LeFrançois, who double-checks my French. For information about Syrians who have arrived in Canada during the Syrian Civil War, I acknowledge TVO’s
various documentaries and discussions; these have been invaluable. Larry Scanlan, thanks for the introduction to Jamal, in Kingston. Jamal Saeed, thank you for responding to my questions about points of accuracy and helping me to understand more about Syrian culture and the experiences of Syrian refugees.

  For research into the world of parrots, I am grateful to Anna Durie-Matrahazy; Pam Tallon; Sally Hawks; and Margaret Williams in Brockville, who unknowingly sparked the idea. In Carleton Place, Judy Tennant, executive director and founder of Parrot Partners (parrotpartners.org), shared her expertise and showed me around the aviary, introducing me to many parrots, including one of the African greys. This caring place provides a safe environment for relinquished parrots, rehabilitates and trains them, makes efforts toward re-homing and educates the public. I thank my cousin Joel Oliver for accompanying me to Parrot Partners, and for assuming the role of photographer. Also, thank you, Joel, for the many trips to antique markets, where we learn the trade. For the article about the goose falling from the sky, I acknowledge the Ottawa Citizen, February 3, 2018. Excerpts from Robert Pollok’s poem “Byron” and Mary Howitt’s poem “Coming Spring”—the latter read by Tom at the wedding—are from The Casquet of Gems (W.P. Nimmo, Hay & Mitchell, 1885). Thank you, Aileen Jane Bramhall Itani, for permission to use lines from your poem beginning with “A voice that is mine,” referred to during the funeral. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1798) is by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “To Autumn” (1819–20) by John Keats. The sentences from Layamon’s Brut (also known as Lazamon or Lawamon) are from a 1977 Middle English paper that discusses the Arthurian Chronicles; the Modern English translation was initially done by Eugene Mason. The epigraph beginning with “Hold your collar” is a variation on a chant in Iona and Peter Opie’s The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren (1959). For recounting memories of Guy Fawkes Day, as well as conditions in England and Scotland during and after the Second World War, I thank Janet and David Hemings and Charles Magill. Christine Déry, you’re the one who helps so many of us to be physically fit and to stay that way. I appreciate your taking time out for interviews about various classes and music selections, and about the work in general. Maria Thompson dances her way through life and makes the world a better place. Christina Cole, instructor at the University of Toronto’s International Foundation Program (IFP), thank you for sharing your impressive and extensive knowledge about courses in academic listening and speaking. Until I met you, I did not know such courses existed. To my movie buddy, Fran Cherry, I express my gratitude for our never-ending conversations—always laced with humour—about human behaviour and the vagaries of LIFE! Last to be mentioned, but remembered with great measures of love: my sister, Marilyn; my close friends Jill McMurtry, Donna Wells and Helen Best.