Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  “Do you mind — listening?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Look.”

  A scruffy-looking guy with a plastic bag in his hand was pacing around the traffic light across the intersection. He was watching the video store. Just as another car pulled up in front of it, he lit a cigarette and changed direction. A few stores down the street he turned around, saw the car leave the video store, and started back toward the intersection. He crossed this time — quickly, I’d say, considering how he had been sauntering back and forth on the corner.

  “Feel like a movie?” Sukhi asked, and I was out of the car in time to reach the entrance right behind the fellow. He eyed me nervously, but I gave him a convincing look of indifference and headed straight for the Comedy section. He went to New Release DVDs. The man behind the counter was aware of us both, but did not look up from the computer. I moved to New Releases and for a few seconds we pulled movies off the shelves together. I recognized the shaking hands of an addict, the right missing its index finger, causing his cigarette to tremble between the middle two.

  I would give him his chance. I walked behind him and busied myself in the sale bin, the corner farthest from the counter. My back was to both men as Sukhi walked past the front window with another cup of coffee from the restaurant. I winked. My peripheral vision was well-developed, and while I studied the selection, I could see the guy make his way to the counter. He had two DVDs in one hand and the bag in the other. The owner, or whoever he was, opened the bag without looking at the man. He reached under the counter and handed him some cash, at the same time slipping the plastic bag out of sight. The man turned quickly to leave, the DVDs now the only items left on the counter. I stepped in front of him at the door and showed him my badge. Sukhi came in.

  “What just happened here?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” He reached to scratch his nose with his whole hand, which shook now more than ever.

  I knew he had been through this ritual a lot, and he knew that I knew. We still had to say our parts as if they had been scripted.

  “What did you sell him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Steve Rutherford.”

  Something so humbling about confessing your name at a time like this. As if it’s all you’ve got left and you’re surrendering it. Rutherford was a refined English name. I had a vision of him saying both names shyly to his kindergarten teacher, and running home in short pants to Mrs. Rutherford with a crayon picture he had drawn. Full of pride and promise. How did he get from there to here?

  The man at the counter called out in a heavy accent: “Your bag. You forget your bag.” Steve did not know where to look, so he stared at the floor.

  “How about the DVDs? He forgot those too,” said Sukhi, walking to the counter and taking the bag from the man waving it. He looked inside, then handed it to me. Three baseball caps with Vancouver stitched on them, six cans of Fancy Feast, four packages of Hamburger Helper.

  “How much did he pay you for this junk?”

  “Nothing. I forgot it, just like he says.”

  “You must have receipts for it then, if it’s your bag.”

  “It’s not really my bag,” Steve sighed. “I mean it is now, but I found it in the park over there. Was sitting on the bench having a smoke when kids came running out from behind the bushes. Later when I went into the bushes to take a leak, I found this bag on the ground.”

  “Give me a break,” I said.

  “Honest.”

  “But what brings you to a video store with this bag of treasures?” Sukhi asked. “How much did he give you for it? Five? Ten at most?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t give me nothing.”

  “How much cash you got on you?”

  Steve took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “I had this when I came in.”

  Sukhi turned on the other man and established he was the manager. “Where’s your store?”

  “Right here is my store.”

  “Your convenience store? Where you take all this stolen stuff to sell? We’ve got a friend of yours at the station. I think he’s ready to tell us where your store is. Coquitlam ring a bell?”

  I watched the man’s face for telltale signals. None. Steve would probably tell us everything he knew when we got him to the station, but it wouldn’t be much. We hung the Closed sign on the front door and led them both to the car in handcuffs as curious eyes from the other shops in the strip mall looked away. The Plexiglas partition — our silent patrolman — was hardly necessary. The two men sat separate and quiet in the back seat, one unreadable, the other hopeless. My stomach growled and churned. Sometimes my job made me sick.

  At the station, we left Steve in a holding cell and took our two Vietnamese for questioning. It turned out they were cousins. No help from them, of course, just a hunch of Sukhi’s. The same last name did not mean too much since it was a common one in Vietnam, according to one of our members who was born there. We dug into the computer a little deeper and found immigration information, including the fact that they had the same grandparents. Their Uncle Tan did own a convenience store in Coquitlam and used his brothers’ sons to round up inventory for him. He had already been charged once with no conviction.

  While they were vigourously denying any connection to each other, I was the only one who thought they might be telling the truth. Even if they were cousins, it seemed possible to me they didn’t know it. The old uncle could easily have kept these young immigrants in the dark to prevent them from uniting against him. But when I heard them later laughing like brothers, I was glad I had not spoken up. The guys at work welcomed every chance they got to call me naïve.

  I used the rest of the day for reports to Crown Counsel, sustaining myself on a bagel and cream cheese and dreaming about the steak in my fridge. Within half an hour of getting home, I would have a baked potato, broiled steak, and salad. My shift finally over, I hurried to the locker room to lock up my gun. On the way, I noticed the date on the wall. The same date I had been writing on reports all day.

  Wednesday. My history class.

  I barely had time to get there. I had left my notebook in the car, useful now, though not so useful for studying. The steak went on the back burner, so to speak, and I slapped the steering wheel as I made an abrupt turn into a McDonald’s drive-thru. Poor organization, Arabella. Retha’s voice was so strong in my head that I didn’t hear the voice on the other side of the drive-thru speaker until she repeated herself. I gobbled down the last of my French fries order just as I pulled into the college parking lot.

  Barnwell was at his lectern when I dashed in. My young friend from the first class was grinning. Not to sit next to him would be bad manners.

  Barnwell started: “Having discussed some of our First Nations in this province, I would like to talk about the immigrant groups who made British Columbia their home.”

  My neighbour had his pen to paper before I could wrestle mine from my purse and turn my notebook to the right page. Barnwell’s strong voice spun around me like a CD before it hits its first cut. I tuned in at “Welsh coal miners on Vancouver Island” and immediately thought of Jane Owens and her brother Thomas, and everybody sick in that house she so desperately wanted to fill with more family from Wales. Barnwell spoke of the Douglas seam of coal, which was discovered by an Indian chief and was responsible for enticing European settlers to Nanaimo. James Douglas arranged for the purchase of twelve miles of waterfront land in exchange for 688 blankets. Not long after that, he left the Hudson’s Bay Company to become governor of the Crown Colony of British Columbia and Vancouver Island.

  “Douglas’ mixed heritage is sometimes forgotten,” Barnwell went on. “His mother was a Creole woman from British Guiana, his father a Scotsman who had gone down to run a sugar plantation there. When he returned to marry a Scottish wife, his father sent for him to be educated in Scotland. Young James set off for Canada at the age of sixteen to work
for a colonial company, ironically following in his father’s footsteps. He was tall, rugged, and fearless, perfectly suited to our inhospitable landscape. Like his father, he mated with a native woman, legally this time.”

  I glanced at my neighbour and wondered if he and everyone else in the room were thinking about his colour and size at the mention of James Douglas.

  “Sir James Douglas’ leadership often verged on autocracy,” Barnwell continued, “but he was probably the only man capable of holding the Crown Colony against an American takeover. Especially once word got around that there was gold in the area. To replace the scant population of Fort Victoria men who had gone prospecting on the mainland, he invited the Negro community of San Francisco — and I use the politically correct parlance of those times — to settle on Vancouver Island. Even freed slaves had been denied citizenship in the United States and would not be loyal to that country.”

  Jane’s Negro gentleman. I wondered if the warm flush on the back of my neck was as visible as the flush on my neighbour’s face. I had never really thought about personal letters as part of history. History came from museums, from libraries, from someone sitting in dusty rooms going through yellowed newspaper clippings, documents, and letters of people who were already historical figures. How could Sir James Douglas be connected to my great-grandmother writing heartsick letters back home to her family? Or to this guy sitting next to me who might be thinking the same thing about his ancestors? Maybe I should quit daydreaming and take some notes. I had only asked him to share his with me if I was absent, after all.

  Barnwell had moved on to the Chinese workers, who suffered even more from the white man’s prejudice. “These immigrants continued to work harder and longer in the mines and on the land for less pay. In 1887, the famed Number One coal mine exploded in Nanaimo. One hundred and fifty men perished, and close to half were Chinese. Their casualties were listed by number, not by name. They carried on with their burden like Sisyphus.”

  My pen lifted on the word. I had written Sissipuss. I smiled, thinking of Dad. This history class was teaching me more than I bargained for. But not enough. Sisyphus had ended the lecture, and Barnwell was now passing out sheets with term paper topics on them. I cringed at them all. Indians and Explorers; The Contribution of Sir James Douglas; Chinese or Black Immigration in the 19th Century; American Influence on the Crown Colony; Effects of the Gold Rush.

  “Which will you do?” My neighbour asked.

  “No idea. How about you?”

  “The immigration one sounds interesting. Maybe because it’s fresh today.”

  I nodded. My notebook was still open, so it was worth a try. “By the way, how do you spell the man with the burden? S — ?”

  “S-i-s-y-p-h-u-s. Strange, Barnwell should mention him. My classics prof was just talking about him last week.”

  And? Come on.

  “Imagine rolling that rock to the top of the mountain all your life just to have it roll down and you start over.”

  Thank you! Now I wouldn’t have to ask Dad. I might even test Emile with it. I was so engrossed in these thoughts I did not hear “Are you on duty tonight?” until he repeated it.

  “No, I just finished my shift.”

  “Are you in the ER?”

  I hesitated, until he said, “You probably get asked that a lot.”

  I was thankful he had reminded me of my lie, but not so thankful I had told it in the first place. “Yeah, I’m sort of in triage — sending people where they’re meant to go.”

  “Care to have a coffee?”

  I thought of the steak at home, my stomach rumbling. “Sure, why not.”

  He told me his name was Crane Reese as we crossed the street to Starbucks. Something about the way he pulled out my chair automatically made me think this guy was genuinely gallant. Had I become too conditioned to men in uniforms and lawyers’ suits to spot a gentle soul? He ordered a regular coffee and I asked for a frappuccino topped with whipped cream and chocolate. I was hungry, not thirsty. “You a full-time student?”

  “Pretty much. I’d like to get into filmmaking some day. In the meantime, I work as a movie extra to support my lavish lifestyle.” He smiled big, treating me to a mouthful of the most glistening teeth I had ever seen.

  “Is there enough work?”

  “Plenty. There are lots of career extras out there. Much of it is standing around, but it’s okay when you’re paid and fed for it.”

  “Very interesting,” I said, truthfully. I had never met a movie extra. They must be law-abiding citizens. Then I asked, “Where are you from?” and immediately regretted the implication that he had to be foreign.

  “Born and raised in Vancouver. Supposedly some of my relatives came from Salt Spring Island, part of that scene Barnwell was talking about today. Maybe I could do a family tree as my term paper.”

  “You too? My ancestors were Welsh coal miners there, but there’s not a topic on them.”

  “Barnwell will let you do what you want, if you talk to him.”

  “I’ll think about it.” The mocha had made my appetite for solid food worse, and after some exit chat I stood up and said I had to get going.

  He insisted on paying the bill, despite my protests at having consumed the glutton’s share. He walked me to my car. “See you next Wednesday. Unless you’re stitching somebody up.”

  As I drove away, I decided there was no reason why I should continue this charade, because the longer I kept it up, the harder it would be to backtrack. Then again, in three months I would never see this guy again, so it really did not matter what he thought I did for a living.

  My impatience to eat caused me to undercook both steak and baked potato, so the whole supper was a letdown. I wondered what I would have done with the potato in pre-microwave days when I was this hungry, but, as Dad liked to say, that was purely academic. Or he would have said: in other words, that was purely academic. For a change, I did not turn on the TV. I slipped into my sleep shirt and settled on the bed under my quilt with the box of Jane Owens’ letters on my lap.

  “ONLY DON’T FORGET TO SAIL, BACK AGAIN TO ME.” Jane stops singing, thinking little Norman is asleep, but then his eyes open for more. “Baby’s boat a silver moon, sailing in the sky.” She continues stroking him with her soft voice and fingers until she knows for sure he is in dreamland. She tiptoes away from the crib, eager now to finish the lunch dishes. At the sound of the back door opening and closing, she stops. It is a loud slam, not Stella’s quick entry. Two male voices accompany feet stomping across the kitchen floor.

  Glasses clink. “I’ll get us a drink.”

  Jane freezes on the spot. Lance is home? In the middle of the afternoon?

  “Your wife here?” A distinct Irish brogue.

  “She took the baby to Thurstons for a tea party. How do you like this? I can’t even find a clean glass. Goes out and leaves dirty dishes in the sink. First one there, last to leave. Stupid bitch.”

  The bedroom door is slightly ajar and Jane eases herself behind it. She says three prayers: that the baby will not wake, that Lance will have no cause to come into the bedroom, that she can suspend all breath and movement in her body for the length of the men’s drinking session. Stella told her Lance must never know she leaves Norman with her sometimes. He believes a mother’s place is with her child and that place is in the home. Jane loves having the house and baby to herself and does not advise her employer otherwise. Not that she would share any of her true thoughts with Stella anyway, though after hearing how her husband speaks about her, she feels less harsh in her opinion.

  Chairs scrape the floor. “Whoa, that’s enough, Lance. We’ve got a shift to finish.”

  ”Too many ears there. I heard some news today.” Pause. “New seam’s been found.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “True this time. Very reliable sources, if you know what I mean.”

  Jane supposes the other man’s silence is breathlessness.

  “Mount Benson,�
� Lance goes on. “Southern slope.”

  A low whistle. “Who’s going to get it?”

  “We are. If we can keep it to ourselves, you know what I mean.”

  Jane understands why the other man is doing more sighing, blowing, and whistling than talking. She has heard Roland Hughes talk to Tommy about the Mackie mines. The Wellington pits are showing signs of being worked out. The rich coal seams that brought miners to Vancouver Island from all over are nearing exhaustion, and their jobs could be gone within a year or two. Roland always tells Tommy that Mackie is such a smart businessman he will have something for them once these pits are finished, but Tommy never seems convinced. If what she is hearing now is true, her judgment of Roland will have to go up a notch. A small one.

  “Hargraves found it. Fallen tree with coal clinging to it. Good thing he knows an outcropping when he sees it. Someone else might have left it for grass to grow over again. Another drink?”

  “I’d say so. News this big needs washing down. Whose land?”

  Jane’s nose starts dripping. Her handkerchief has fallen from her apron out of reach under the crib and she must use the hem of her skirt.

  “Now that’s the problem. The land belongs to an ex-slave called Strong. He’s got two farms, one on Salt Spring Island and an orchard right on top of our new coal mine. They’re saying Mackie himself talked to him, and he’s not interested in selling. Says he spent a lot of time breeding the fruit trees he’s got growing there. Says it’s all he’s got to leave for his family.” Lance curses under his breath. “How about our families? Who’ll take care of them when we’re out of work?”

  Jane stiffens. The tone of Lance’s voice adds nausea to the area enclosing her pumping heart. She imagines him grinning, his teeth slanting backward like a shark.