That's My Baby

by Frances Itani

  But all of that is in the past. She is not unhappy with the life she has made for herself. She has real friends; she has travelled the world; she has had the companionship of men, one of whom she truly loved. She has never married. When anyone did try to move in close, she found herself edging away. She knows how fortunate she is to be able to do the work she loves; her writing keeps her engaged and provides her with steady income. Her close friends are in the same business—some in towns, some in cities or other countries; they manage to stay in touch. Each knows the others are out there writing. They are conducting research, interviewing, meeting deadlines. She has lost friends, yes, but she tells herself not to dwell on loss.

  And now Mariah Bindle’s papers await investigation.

  Writing brings joy. Tillie Olsen was in her seventies when Hanora first met her at a summer arts colony where they were on faculty. Tillie had published Silences a decade earlier, and she described writing to Hanora during their first conversation. She had learned that Hanora was working on a book about the overseas trade in orphanage children, and said, with a sigh, “Ah, you are writing, Hanora. Then you are in that bless’ed state.”

  Tillie hiked every morning up the side of a mountain and back, before the other members of the colony were up. A role model, not only for Hanora but for every one of the younger writers there. Hanora and Tillie had several conversations about war correspondent Martha Gellhorn, especially the memorable reporting she had done for Collier’s in 1945, after her visit to Dachau. Both agreed that this was one of the outstanding pieces of reporting of the century. Martha was born four years earlier than Tillie. She and Hanora had never crossed paths.

  Hanora sometimes thinks of her encounter with Tillie Olsen. She promises herself that she will get back to her own “bless’ed state.”

  SHE drives to Billie’s in the afternoon and lets herself in. She carries two empty boxes and kicks them down the basement stairs as she enters. She is surprised to find Billie sitting on her red-cushioned chair at the kitchen table. Her cousin seldom leaves the TV chair for more than a few minutes. A partly eaten sandwich has been abandoned on the counter. A cup of tea has gone cold. Crumbs are strewn over the counter as if they’ve been thrown. An unwiped bowl and dirty spoons are in the sink. Soft cheese is stuck to the tabletop. Amazing how much chaos can erupt during a single meal. Or maybe two.

  Billie is staring through and beyond her. She has never acknowledged the truth that Hanora runs the house and the care program that has been set in motion over the past year and a half. If Billie acknowledges this, she will also have to acknowledge her inability to care for herself.

  She focuses. “Hanora. Are you out on errands? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see you. I thought I’d come before the next caregiver arrives.”

  “One stranger was here. She prepared breakfast and left my lunch on the counter. I don’t want any more.”

  Hanora begins to wipe up the mess.

  “I went for a long hike this morning, Billie. In the park, up and around the hill. You used to walk there with Whit. And with me after I moved to Ottawa.”

  “The bark,” says Billie. “We walked all the way up the bark.”

  Hanora tries to make the connection, tries to envisage the kinds of bark on the trees at the top.

  “The bark?”

  “The bark. You know, the bark. Mark. The one on the bench, at the top. The marker.”

  Hanora is thrown by the confusion of words, but relieved that Billie has resolved the issue after groping through the tangle of language stored by her brain.

  “We did. It’s a great hike. Not too strenuous.”

  “I don’t think I’d tackle it,” Billie says. “Not now.”

  “I guess not.” No, she wouldn’t. Not with a cane, or without. Not at all.

  “I’m going down to the basement today, to do some organizing.”

  “Oh,” says Billie, immediately uninterested.

  It is only when Hanora turns away from Billie at the kitchen table that she sees the words. They jump at her from walls, cupboard doors, shelves. Yellow Post-it Notes all over the room.

  Chair

  Drawer

  Lace (this, attached to a curtain at the window)

  Kettle

  Toaster

  Spatula

  Pepper

  Fridge

  Sink

  Microwave

  Dish soap

  Tea towel

  Duke (attached to an edge of frame)

  Purse (purse is on the counter, note attached to the strap)

  Knife

  The final note is stuck to the broad blade of a chef’s knife suspended from a magnetic rack on the wall.

  Each label has been printed with care. Each is attached to the object the word represents. Hanora imagines Billie guiding herself, searching for familiarity in her own surroundings. Doing her best to hang on tightly. How frightened she must be when she stands in the middle of the room without the memory of a familiar landmark to direct how she will place one foot before the other, how she will move in a particular direction for a particular purpose.

  Billie acts as if nothing has changed. She doesn’t register Hanora’s surprise.

  At least she still knows which object is which. Or did she have guidance from her morning stranger? This is Billie’s handwriting. Hanora inspects each word that leads her cousin in and out of her shrinking world.

  Billie leaves the kitchen and walks to her TV chair. Hanora follows to see if sticky notes are attached to furniture in this room, too: TV, bed, pillow, remote, CD, cassettes, radio.

  Not yet.

  She makes a fresh cup of tea for Billie, finishes cleaning the few dishes in the sink and goes downstairs to the basement. She turns on the lights, draws a long breath and promises herself she won’t be discouraged. She has to start somewhere.

  She looks around. Extra furniture, unused for years. Lamps, end tables, card table, side chairs, large chairs, a metal cot, piano stool but no piano, bookshelves, Whit’s easel. These will be donated to charities. She’ll attempt a discussion with Billie later. For now, she begins her own method of labelling, marking furniture that is damaged or in poor condition, sorting in her mind what to keep, what to throw out.

  Plastic containers filled with rags, labelled “Dusters.” Stained cushions, pieces of fabric, more dusting cloths, brittle shower curtains, cobwebs, a cardboard box filled with yellowed paper towels. A mink collar, which, if worn today, would be sprayed with paint. What on earth does one do with a mink collar? Stacked flowerpots made of clay. Stacked flowerpots made of plastic. Artificial flowers glued to the bottom of glass containers; these have hardened and cannot be separated. More cobwebs. Canvas sack filled with a jumble of stinking seeds. Cans of paint, half-used, the paint thick, dried, stuck to itself. Shelves of art books and books for teaching English. These can be donated. True to character, Billie had no use for any item once it was out of sight.

  Hanora finds Whit’s art supplies in a metal carrying case. Why have these been kept? Tubes of oils stuck together and dried out. Brushes might be salvaged. Watercolours, disintegrated. Palette knife. Pieces of charcoal. Messy palette. Remembers Whit greeting her with a grin as he held the palette in one hand when she dropped into the studio, momentarily, to say hello.

  He and Billie were suited, she thinks. They were good for each other and for people around them. They were good for me. Inclusive. Their presence was one of the reasons I moved here after roaming the world so many years.

  She hears Billie’s footsteps overhead. Down the hall, into the bathroom, a flush through the pipes; steps again, slowly, slowly, back to the living room. Silence. Then the blare of TV at high volume.

  One box has been pushed under a built-in shelf in the furnace room. Hanora hauls it forward and opens the flaps to find a huge, soft mass resembling degenerate candy floss, dirty grey in colour. There is a note on top of the contents: For birds, to build nests in spring.


  She reaches in, withdraws her hand quickly. Sees what it is. Dryer lint. A box filled to the top. Billie must have been collecting this since Whit died.

  Surely not that long. Maybe during the past year. No, Billie hasn’t been down here for a year. Earlier, then. How can an accumulation of dryer lint be measured over time? It is saturated with dust and dirt and probably insects and other debris. Did Billie set out dryer lint for the birds? The thought makes Hanora gag, though maybe, she allows, maybe the birds appreciated the help. She thinks of herself and Tobe, sitting on the branch in the maple, creating stillness in hopes that birds would settle around them.

  She begins to sneeze, closes the flaps tightly, carries the box up the stairs and puts it outside with the garbage.

  She gives up. Another day, then.

  SEPTEMBER 23, 1938

  JITNEY DANCE

  LOW, ROLLING HILLS. A BARELY DISCERNIBLE impression of gaining altitude. Stand of tall pines on the left, another on the right. Brick farmhouse, red barn. Split-rail fence. A barrier of stacked boulders. Inimitable landscape of the Canadian Shield. The silver hood ornament on Tobe’s car: the flying lady, naked goddess, sleek and elegant. The auto, dark wine in colour, also sleek, with large headlamps and long hood.

  Hanora turned to look through the rear window. Breeda was in the rumble seat with her friend Sawyer, known to them all as Saw. He had come along for the dancing and would be company for Tobe on the late drive home. Breeda was gesturing with her hands, talking non-stop. From inside the car, their conversation could not be heard. The topic would not be Hanora’s adoption; she was sure of that. She had asked Breeda to keep the news to herself.

  Tobe was trusted. Hanora knew he’d be sympathetic no matter what she spilled out, and everything did spill out, for the second time that day. Tobe patted her hand, her arm, while he drove. He was taller than she was, still lean, still the mop of brown hair. A habit of becoming perfectly still and nodding almost imperceptibly while listening. They had loved each other since they were children. He was athletic, too, and joined every team in town that would have him: baseball, hockey, track. He had finished school one year before Hanora, and wanted to marry, right away if she’d have him. His birthday gift to her was beside her on the seat: Gellhorn’s book The Trouble I’ve Seen. He’d known exactly what to buy.

  But she hadn’t been able to enter a conversation about marriage. Not yet. And Tobe did not push. Her life was beginning; she wanted to get out into the bigger world. Tobe was following the path set for him by his father. The town’s industry had shrunk, especially during the Depression. The town’s population was only fourteen hundred. Tobe’s father needed someone he could count on to help keep the family business going.

  “Don’t you see how complicated everything has become?” she said.

  Tobe glanced over and put his hand over hers. “You’re the same person I’ve always known, Hanora. You resemble your parents and always have. Nothing has changed about the way you were raised. The way we grew up together.”

  But she was not the same person. She had, that day, divided into two. Tobe, sensitive to her moods, was trying to understand.

  “It’s possible that I might have a different name,” she said, though she was finding that difficult to believe. The idea of a second name was too new. She was trying to work out ideas as she spoke.

  “I have no history. Think of it, Tobe. You know, with a good deal of exactness, who you are. A history of the Staunford family exists. Therefore, you have a history as well. I never had to think about this before, because I knew my place in the world. Or thought I did. I somehow feel . . . I feel that I don’t have the same position I had up until now. The position within my family. Even though I’m Tress and Kenan’s only child. People who know who they are don’t have to examine this. Their identity is in place. They know who they are. You know who you are.” She realized she was repeating herself.

  They were silent for a while. Hanora couldn’t shake the sense of gloom.

  After a long bend in the road, the Pavilion came into view. The tips of maples along the lakeshore and beside the road shone brilliant yellow in the late glow of sun. Music could be heard ahead; the Aces were playing. Breeda shouted excitedly from the rumble seat and pointed out her aunt’s house across the road.

  They were dropped at the front door, with Tobe and Saw standing long enough to be introduced. (“Aunt Marlo, I’d like you to meet Tobias Staunford. And my friend Sawyer.”)

  From the lower veranda Hanora watched Tobe park the Buick outside the Pavilion. Immediately, the coupe was surrounded. A man hopped onto the running board on the right and peered in at the mohair-covered seats. Another hoisted a foot to the metal heelprint above the rear wheel and looked down into the depth of the rumble seat. Others ran their hands over the flying lady, whose presence never failed to raise comments and smiles. Tobe quietly enjoyed fielding questions about the coupe, which attracted attention no matter where they were.

  When Breeda and Hanora went upstairs to stash their overnight clothes, Aunt Marlo tagged along. As Breeda had predicted, they were assigned the bedroom closest to the upstairs veranda, the one with the overview of the Pavilion and Stoco Lake. Hanora could hear sax and piano; she could hear trumpet. Cars were edging down the slope along one side of the Pavilion like floats in a slow-moving parade. Young men had collected at the corners of the building. Some were tipping paper bags. Alcohol was never served inside the dance halls.

  As she watched, electric lights burst into colour around the pillars by the entrance gate into the grounds. Couples strolled across the grass. A cluster of dancers gathered on the outside steps. She and Breeda went downstairs and ran across the road. The air was balmy, still humid. Their legs were bare; they were wearing sandals and light dresses. They had promised Aunt Marlo that they’d have a good long visit over breakfast the next day.

  Tobe and Saw had bought strips of tickets—four for a quarter—and were waiting. Extra tickets were tucked into their pockets. The big room was cleared after each dance, the jitney box near the entrance ready for the crowd that would pass through the gates and swell back onto the floor.

  Hanora was not prepared for the size of the dance hall or the height of its vaulted ceilings. Hinged shutters that swung inward and upward were latched to support beams that were part of the ceiling structure, the entire length of the Pavilion on both sides. Lights had been dimmed. On the far side and through the open windows, the lake could be seen shimmering in the near dark. There were no screens; girls waiting to be asked to dance were sitting on benches and batting at flying insects, probably mosquitoes.

  The four joined the moving crowd while dancers jostled to get into place before the band started up again. Beyond the wooden railings that enclosed the dance floor, people were in constant motion along the indoor promenade, a width of about five feet. Men were seeking partners; some were hurrying to the canteen to buy a burger and pop, some strolling to be seen while they waited for the music to start up again. The musicians had set up their instruments on an elevated stage at the far left. Tobe dropped a ticket into the jitney box and Hanora found herself part of a crowd surging onto the dance floor. The music began, and someone tapped her arm. A woman in her fifties, perhaps sixties. “Oops!” she said. “Wrong person. You look exactly like someone I used to know, but I’m mistaken. Lord, there must be more than a hundred and fifty people on this floor. Hey, what a good-looker, your partner,” she shouted over the noise. She raised a hand as she backed away, and was swept off by her own partner before Hanora could respond. Hanora did not see the woman again the rest of the evening.

  The band was playing “Back Bay Shuffle.” The three dances that followed were fast, and Tobe and Hanora hardly paused to take a breath between. “You’re possessed,” he shouted, laughing.

  And that was the way she felt. She didn’t care how fast they danced, whether onlookers liked the jitterbug or thought it indecent. She didn’t care if their dancing was admired or ignored. She and T
obe danced well together, she was aware of this. But she was also in her own space, surrounded by high-stepping, strutting, twirling dancers, the sounds of hundreds of feet pounding out the beat on hardwood. Tobe was right there to grasp her hand, her arm, her waist; he was right there to catch her.

  At the end of eight dances, out of breath, they squeezed through the crowd and exited before the floor was entirely cleared in preparation for the next dance. She couldn’t see Breeda or Saw, though she’d glimpsed them across the room during the fifth dance. She and Tobe went outside to cool off.

  They wandered around the far side of the building and stood by the shore, the lake expanding out and out before them. A shadow glided past in the dark, taking Hanora by surprise. A canoe slipped into the boathouse beneath the dance floor and disappeared—two figures in silhouette. She barely heard the paddles, the lap of water as the canoe entered the boat stall.

  The night was surprisingly still, considering the commotion inside the building with the music starting up again. The band rolled into “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and dancers were back on the floor. Benny Goodman had played that piece at Carnegie Hall in January. She’d have given anything to be there. Billie attended, and sent a letter from New York that contained a breathless account of the historic evening. A landmark concert, she wrote. Jazz and swing at Carnegie Hall. Who would have thought? The audience was not made up entirely of young people. There was plenty of white hair scattered throughout the hall. When the band started up, everyone wondered what the reaction would be. A worrying silence, at first. But then, things got going. Feet started to tap, old feet and young feet. Fingers snapped, knees swished and swayed. How I wish you’d been there, Hanora. And Krupa on the drums. Spectacular. This was a revolution! I paid $2.20 for my ticket. I mean Hallman did. He bought the tickets. Don’t give me hell. I’m still with him. He took me to the Goodman concert, didn’t he? My parents think I ended the relationship, but I can’t give him up. You know all the reasons (& we do take precautions). Destroy this letter. Love you everly, B.