She Felt No Pain

by Lou Allin

  Ann felt her chest tighten. Phyllis always made a food request, and this one had slipped her mind. Last week it had been Patum Peperium spread for her crackers. Anchovy paste. Talk about a salt lick. Try to find it outside of Victoria. “Sorry. I’ll run some by on my way home.”

  “Gangway. Move aside,” Phyllis said to a young server. Ann rolled her eyes sympathetically and got a nod. They made their way into the dining room and took a seat at a window table. With a ruthless perm that made her white hair even thinner, her mother had turned crabbiness to her advantage. She got her own way or made lives miserable. No one wanted to room with her, so a single became hers at the same price. Phyllis’s icy pale-green eyes bored into Ann from head to toe. Powdered cheeks had the substance of pale lavender hydrangeas. “Are you gaining weight again? That’s not good for your back, you know.”

  “I’m still at fighting trim. Haven’t gained a pound,” Ann replied.

  “When I was your age, I weighed the same as when I was a girl of twenty. About what I weigh now,” Phyllis said with a satisfied smirk.

  Phyllis hadn’t raised an honest sweat from hard work in her life, a trophy wife from day one with a weekly house cleaner and cook. She’d been a beauty and entertained on a rajah’s level. Fred Troy’s career had been boosted by the lavish dinner parties and salons. Their home wasn’t so much a house as a theatre of manners and business. Ann had been glad to escape even though she’d gotten pregnant before twenty.

  Ann’s stomach was rumbling, and she shifted, afraid her mother would make a comment. A cheery, pink-cheeked volunteer waitress brought a basket of rolls, and, having missed breakfast, Ann reached for one. She saw her mother’s narrowed glance and pulled back, brushing her hair with her fingers in a distracting gesture. Why couldn’t she stand up to the old woman? She’d been afraid of her mother’s viperous tongue for years, and now, when she could assert herself, it seemed mean-spirited. A retreat for charity’s sake. People like Phyllis grew meaner as their abilities failed. Frustration turned against the world. To know all is to forgive all, Ann felt.

  “So how’s that job?” Phyllis asked. Her liver-spotted hand reached for one roll, then another, along with a wad of what looked like butter but was probably healthier and non-saturated. She put both on her side plate, tore into them like a velociraptor, and popped them into her mouth. Ann poured a glass of water from the carafe and sipped slowly. A slice of lemon showed the extra effort from the staff.

  “Same old. Speeding tickets. A lost cat. We had an overdose in the homeless community. It’s far from glamorous.” Far from sympathizing, her mother had torn a strip off her when Ann had been injured stopping a felon. Whatever health complaint anyone had, Phyllis always had something more painful.

  “It’s no profession for decent women. In my day there were no homeless. People worked for a living or damn well died. We didn’t even have socialized medicine, not that that’s a bad thing. Abused by some is all. Rush to the emergency room for an ingrown toenail.” Phyllis brushed a crumb from the floral shirtwaist. Women did not wear pants. Sending her clothes to the nearest dry cleaner in Langford was an extra expense for Ann. “Why didn’t you become a teacher? I told you I’d babysit Nicky while you went to university.” Having reopened as many wounds as possible, she shook her head in wonderment. As for charity, Phyllis claimed that she forgave, but she never forgot, so what was the benefit for the sinner?

  A hot flash of suppressed ire creeping up her spine, Ann boiled quietly, her best strategy and the way her father had coped. Maybe that’s why he’d had a heart attack the year after he retired at sixty. “Take care of your mother. She thinks the world of Nicky. Sometimes love skips a generation,” he’d said the last time they’d met. “And let her have her way. It’s easier.”

  She smiled at the waitress as a plate of poached halibut, small potatoes and peas was placed in front of her. While the palates of the elderly demanded more flavour, stomach and gall bladder problems argued against it. Without thinking, Ann reached for the salt. Her mother’s bread knife touched her hand in warning and left a small smear. “Stop that. Salt is a poison. We’re addicted to it. Just break the habit on ten consecutive occasions, and you won’t think about it any more. That’s what Prevention magazine advises. You’ll see, dear.” She poured on ketchup until her fish was swimming in pink.

  Ann milled pepper onto her food instead. Her stomach was cramping and to relax her muscles, she looked around the dining room. Effort had been made to make the place more homey and less institutional. Chintz curtains bordered the windows, and the tables and chairs were early American style. Easy-care linoleum on the floors simplified cleaning and facilitated wheels. The ratio of men to women seemed about one to five. The few males got star treatment and acted like pampered roosters.

  Oblivious while she ate, her mother had cleaned her plate and taken another roll to mop up the juices, though her hand was shaking. Ann made a mental note to check her meds with the nurse. Then she pushed the last piece of fish aside and assumed a casual tone. “Do you know a woman called Dee? She lives here, or so I’m told.”

  “Dee?” her mother repeated, frowning. “That used to mean Dierdre. I don’t know anyone called that. Not that I’m friends with everyone. There are some who…” Her voice trailed off with a humph.

  One steely eyebrow arched to the ceiling, she turned to a woman on the left. “DO YOU KNOW A LADY CALLED DEE?” Ann flinched. Phyllis turned to her daughter and tapped her own ear. “Deef, you know.”

  The woman adjusted a hearing aid, pursing fuschia lips. “Dee. Dee. Let me see.”

  Phyllis roared out, “Something wrong with your mind? I said Dee. This isn’t poetry class.” As an entire table of diners looked over. Phyllis circled her temple in a “whacko” gesture.

  “There is Dorthea. That’s spelled D-O-R-T-H-E-A. Only one O.”

  Turning her back without a thanks, Phyllis resumed her conversation with Ann. “I remember that one. Very brash. She’s in the left wing, perfect for her politics. Prefers meals in her room. Doesn’t socialize at all. Reads mostly. Probably those trashy romances.”

  Ann balled up her serviette and rose. She motioned to the server who was bringing a tea pot. “Sorry to leave early. I have some business, Mother.”

  “What? You haven’t finished your fish. No doggie bags here. Waste not want not. Where are you going? I want some ideas about Nicky’s Christmas present.” Phyllis’s voice rose until the room became as quiet as a graveyard except for the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. “Ann? You come back right now, young lady. I’m…”

  Without explaining further, Ann left her mother, her wizened mouth still open but her attention drawn to her teacup being filled and the heralded arrival of petit fours. She got quick directions from a familiar worker in rainbow scrubs and went down the bright hall to room 14. On the open door with the nameplate Dorthea Roehl was a collage of dried flowers and sea shells. Ann craned her head inside to see a very small lady at the window.

  Dorthea carried herself like a duchess and probably had practiced posture with a book on her head. On the patio, she watched two hummingbirds duelling at the feeder. Then she moved to a cozy velvet chair, propping her legs on an ottoman. The room was small, but neat and clean, with a bed, dresser and side table. A handsome portrait of the young Queen mounted on a horse was on the wall. Down her back Dee wore a thick white French braid streaked with grey.

  Ann came forward slowly in case the woman was hard of hearing. Introducing herself, she explained that her mother lived here and that she was volunteering to chat with some of the residents.

  “Isn’t that nice, dear, but you don’t need to worry about me. I have my reading.” The lady held up a large-print copy of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. “Talk to some of the others who need the company.” She bent back to her book.

  Ann twitched. How to get the conversation on track. A hook. “Someone said that you were Marilyn Clavir’s aunt. I’ve gone to her for massage. A trul
y talented woman.”

  At this, a corner of Aunt Dee’s mouth rose. “With her business, she doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, but she visits once in awhile. Even took me to Fuse on my birthday.” Fuse was an upscale restaurant with a gorgeous harbour view. The pride in her voice about this small grace touched Ann’s heart, and she vowed to redouble her efforts to tolerate her mother.

  Banking on the fact that older people loved to talk about the past, she added, “Marilyn said that she grew up in Sooke. It must have been different then. Much smaller. I arrived a few years ago.”

  “Oh, yes. People were so close in the community. Pioneer families. Eating the same apples from the same orchards as their great-grandparents. They helped each other and came together. All-Sooke Days. Our wonderful Fall Fair, over a hundred years old. Church, dances, there wasn’t but one television station from the city. Bunny ears we had. My sister had the first colour set on our block.”

  “I understand that Marilyn’s mother died very young. And her father, too.”

  “Tom went far too early. Those who say only the good die young had it right with that boy. Got home from a marathon race, went to sleep, and never woke up.” She tapped her chest. “Congenital heart disease. Never knew what hit him.” She gave Ann a softer glance and marked a page in her book. “Well, if you’re staying, please sit down, for lord sakes. I’ve forgotten my manners.”

  Moving aside a copy of the Times Colonist and a Maclean’s magazine, Ann took the only choice, the bed. It had a bright yellow afghan and a very realistic stuffed border collie. So far, so good. Dee had picked up on everything she’d offered and run with it. Perhaps she was lonelier than she let on. And she probably missed a dog. “Marilyn said that you raised her. She was very lucky to have a devoted aunt.” Careful with the fulsome praise. Dee’s bullshit antenna would begin transmitting.

  “Kin do that, dear. Or they used to.” Her milky blue gaze grew distant, and Ann could see that her jewelled cat’s eye glasses had very thick lenses. Some drops sat on a nearby table. Glaucoma? “To be honest, my sister Clare was not my favourite person. She was downright mean when she had a few, and she never missed a day. Used to keep a glass of wine in the cupboard and nip at it, as if Tom weren’t to know. Disposition of an asp, too. Marilyn was a very sensitive girl. More like myself way back when. In truth, she was better off with me, though I’d never confess that to a soul.”

  “It was kind of you.” Ann summoned up a quizzical frown of concern. “What happened to Clare, if I may ask? I didn’t want to pry.” Using words like pry wasn’t her style. Would it strike the right chord?

  “Fell down the basement stairs. Now mind you, with the drink, I wasn’t surprised. And the stairs were very steep in that old house they rented on Booster Avenue, Number 125, it was. No handrail. Poor lighting. And after Tom died, she’d hit the bottle full steam ahead.”

  Trying to sort out the timeline, Ann sat back in the chair. From down the hall, the smells of a strong disinfectant met her nose, and she heard the vague swish of a mop. “What a tragic and unusual accident. But I suppose with the older houses, codes weren’t what they are today.” Fred Troy had been a builder in the beginning and had taken his young daughter to a few sites.

  Dee held up a crooked finger. The nails were clipped but nearly blue. “Not at all. Most accidents take place in the home, where you’re off your guard. Bathtubs. Ladders, roofs, that’s men’s domain, but anyone can take a tumble down the stairs.”

  “Oh dear. Was it quick or did she…linger?” Ann squirmed inside at the approach, this womanly clucking. Proceeding one inch at a time, she wasn’t sure how far she could go. Dee seemed like an intelligent woman.

  “She went down every night after dinner for another bottle of her homemade wine. Made it a hundred bottles at a time. Disgusting stuff, not like our mother’s elderberry, a tonic. You could set your watch by it. The stairs were not only steep, they were uneven.” Dee smacked her fist into her hand. “Bang. Didn’t stand a chance. Broke her neck. But to look at her, you’d never know. Serene as an angel in her casket. The head wound wasn’t even visible. That was one blessing.”

  “What an awful accident.” Ann made an effort to shiver.

  Dee pulled her cardigan closer. Though it was stuffy in the room, the elderly had poor circulation. “I was right next door that night, helping the neighbour can peaches. She put up acres of them every summer. Marilyn was with me.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if unwilling to remember.

  Ann touched her hand, a bold risk. “Don’t go on. It’s clearly distressing.”

  But there was no stopping the woman. It was as if she had been waiting for years to tell her story. And perhaps she had. “We heard this dreadful cry, you see. Like a wounded animal, but muffled, like it was in the basement. And Marilyn rushed out. She got there first, poor girl. Found Clare at the bottom of the stairs. Not a spark of life in her.”

  “Wasn’t there a brother in the family?”

  Aunt Dee flushed with an unexpected rage. Her tiny hands balled up in fury as she growled an answer. “Don’t talk to me of that devil. Clare let him get away with murder all his life, especially after his dad passed. He was seventeen when he came to me, Marilyn two years younger. Then I gave that little heathen some honest Christian rules. School, chores, prayers, sensible things.”

  “I have a son, so I know what you mean. It’s tough raising a child alone.”

  “Indeed. And I had intended to stay single. Me and my dog and my job.” She pointed to the stuffed animal. “That’s Haggis. Minds his business.”

  “What a responsibility, though.” Ann let a slight frown of womanly support cross her brow.

  Dee waved a hand. “Clare left a very small insurance policy, and of course she had a tiny bit from Tom, though he’d been laid off from the shipyard in tough times. I was enough to help Marilyn with her schooling after she graduated. I came down from Campbell River when Clare died and started a house cleaning service here. Easier to set my own hours.”

  Ann cast a surreptitious look at the clock. She needed to get back to work. On the hard chair without lumbar support, her back was beginning to throb. But things were progressing. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, one night after I grounded him for coming home drunk, Joel stole everything I had in my purse, about a hundred dollars, a week’s salary in those days, and I never saw him again. Good thing I didn’t believe in those newfangled charge cards, or it might have been worse. He took my little car and abandoned it in Medicine Hat or Moose Jaw or Swift Current. Can’t ever keep those prairie places straight.”

  “And yet he turned up here just a few weeks ago.” Ann cocked her head to judge the woman’s response. She realized that she had given Dee a rather feeble explanation for her presence. Perhaps one of the facts of living here was people coming and going without stated reasons.

  “That’s no surprise. To get what he could out of Marilyn. Told her he read about her lottery win in the paper. He always was a sneaky little bastard.” Dee’s face was growing red with the exertion and excitement. “Can you get me some of that water on the table?”

  “Did Clare work?” A few empty slots needed filling. A picture was beginning to emerge.

  “In her mind, she did. Claimed to be an interior decorator. Ten-buck magazines up the wazoo. Took a course at Camosun. Not much came of it. Then she used her looks to hook up with an operator called Mitch Garson.”

  “Operator?” At the interesting new tack, she tried to keep surprise out of her voice.

  “One smooth-talking snake. Investments in third-world mining companies. Probably a Ponzi scheme, like they call them today. He was moving to Toronto, and she was going with him. Had a few connections, or so he said.” A contemptuous cough left no mystery about her opinion.

  “That sounds like a serious adjustment for the children, going all the way across the country.” Ann’s son had staged a major rebellion when she’d been posted to Wawa with nothing to do but look at snow seven months a y
ear. A threat to turn him over to the Children’s Aid after he’d come home drunk sobered him up fast and set him on the right path.

  “Joel was all for it. More action. No more sleepy island life. Marilyn was heartbroken. She didn’t like leaving her…her friend Shannon.” The old lady marked her page with a piece of yarn then closed her book and put it on a table next to her.

  Ann took a breath full of hindsight, vowing to use neutral language. “They must have been very close.”

  “Inseparable. Even I remember sometimes. Passions run high in the young. In those days, well…not like now. Clare said it was a silly phase, and moving was the best answer. When Marilyn held her ground one night and threatened to run away, Clare slapped her silly. It was Christmas, and I was visiting. The girl came to me with a hell of a bruise. One eye was half-closed. I told Clare to smarten up, but she just laughed.” She looked up at Ann. “Sometimes young people know when they belong together. After they finished their university studies, they moved in together in Fossil Bay. Shannon had her nursing job at the hospital. Marilyn started her massage business.”

  “Marilyn seems to have turned out very well. A credit to you.”

  “She was the light of my life. I can’t imagine my own daughter being better. The girls had me to every holiday dinner all these long years. And visited regularly…until Shannon fell ill.”

  “That was very sad,” Ann said.

  The old lady was winding down, her words slower and slower, her eyes blinking. Small hands nestled together like sleepy puppies. “I’m very tired.”

  Ann rose slowly and moved to the door saying goodbye as the woman’s head began to nod. She made a quick exit, avoiding the dining room. Mother would want to know everything that had happened.

  Back in her car, she pulled out a pad of paper and jotted down what she remembered. She’d never even asked about that play and why Joel might have had the pages. Sounded like Marilyn had had a rough life with a bitch of a mother, a beloved father and partner who had died too young. She felt as if she were spying on a decent person. The tension made her back throb. When she got home, it was going to take an entire bottle of red wine to relax.