by Joan Boswell
No, you’re not, I thought. You’re fat and lazy, and you stink to high heaven. I held my tongue and focused on a big-bellied yellow spider hugging the fretwork above her, willing it to drop down and stick its fangs into that smug face. No such luck. The creature didn’t so much as twitch when Danella leaned forward and dropped her little bombshell.
“And just how do you think you’re going to do the stairs, Hildy? Your bed’s up there, and so is the bathroom. I can’t possibly pick you up if you fall. I think it’s time we talked about other arrangements for you.”
My hand was white-knuckling the cane. I wanted to crack it right across her empty skull. Other arrangements, my arse! The nerve of that cow!
I remember gritting my dentures and saying something sweet like, “Oh, Nellie, aren’t you just chock full of sunshine today. Now don’t get yourself all in a tizzy over me. I can take care of myself.”
Then I plunked the peach basket down just out of her reach and went into the house for a piddle—getting angry really makes me have to go. I think I was about halfway up the front staircase when the old gams gave out, and I tumbled like Jill, all the way down the hill, to Jackson Memorial Hospital. My memory’s a little foggy on the details. I might have been knocked out. Anyway, they stitched me up, gave me a bed for a couple of days to heal the ribs, then I was shipped out here to Brookfield.
Danella must have given them one doozie of a story—poor distraught caregiver “just can’t do any more.” Boohoo. She certainly couldn’t do any less. I haven’t seen her once since I moved in. But then visitors are a rare commodity here. The hunchbacks and drool tend to make them uncomfortable—though I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Dementia is only a state of mind, after all, it’s not like it’s catching.
Mrs. Corey, my flatmate next door here, has it—the Old Timers. She sits in front of the telly, day in and day out, reciting her special recipe for dandelion wine. And Freddie Jenkins, over there by the window (Jinx they call him), he’s still back in the thirties running bootleg with his wire-haired terrier Joe. I’m not sure what the deal is with Henrietta, across the hall, but you don’t want to be near her on “poop Tuesday”.
This is my room—213. I don’t understand why they stuck me in a home with all the fruitcakes. Primrose Manor is a much nicer place—I hear they have double beds, and baby kitchens, and big comfy LaZBoys that lift you straight up and out of the chair when you push a button. All I have is a metal toilet and sink, and this skinny bed with the straps on the sides. I told them they don’t need to use them, but I think they’re afraid I’ll fall out, what with my legs being so bad.
Well, I’ll be damned, would you look at that? Right here under my pillow. I’ve been looking all over for this hanky—it’s my favourite, you know. I spent hours stitching these buttercups and daisies. Huh, they still didn’t get the stains out, even after I told them how. I hate to complain, but the laundry service here really isn’t up to snuff.
That’s all right, though. I won’t be staying much longer. Danella’s back at the house with the workmen right now, getting Holly Cottage ready for my homecoming. She’s so good to me. That’s why she hasn’t been for a visit, I bet she found my drawings in the hidey hole, and she’s going to surprise me. I have everything all planned out. The front parlour is going to be my bedroom—with a huge bay window and a fireplace. And the pantry off the kitchen will be my bathroom—painted pink. And I’ll have a ramp from the side veranda right to the rose garden, so I can get around just fine in the wheelchair and I won’t need the blasted cane any more...where is that thing anyway?
“NURSE! Where is my cane? Somebody’s taken it. YOU! What are you doing with my walking stick? GIVE IT BACK, IT’S MINE. In your hand, it is NOT a hat, that’s my cane. I’ll have you arrested, if you don’t...
NO! Please, nurse, I don’t want to go to bed. Don’t want any more blue pills...please...”
He’s coming down the wall now, Daddy Long Legs, even in the dark I can see him. He’s coming to spin cobwebs around my cane and put it back together. It’s broken, you see, it cracked in half that day on the porch when I split her head open. BANG! She put me here you know, Danella. It’s all her fault. And she hasn’t even come to see me...not once...
Lorie Lee Steiner finds writing in the vintage atmosphere of an 1860s heritage cottage an inspiration. Her entertaining stories have appeared in The Country Connection Magazine, Our Canada, and Learning Through History, and she is now hard at work on her first whodunit novel. A member of Crime Writers of Canada, she credits a childhood obsession with the writings of Dame Agatha Christie for her love of all things mysterious.
By the Book
Joy Hewitt Mann
Sing a song of sixpence
A socket full of wood.
Try to mug an old lady
And she will get you good.
When my cane splintered
It went into your brain.
Oh wasn’t it a dainty switch
To make me Killer Kane?
Courting Frank
Susan C. Gates
I’d been “fallen away from the Church” until a recent brush with my mortality forced a re-examination of my faith—and many other aspects of my life. I’ve never hauled myself from bed for church on a glorious summer Sunday. But that day, I had a post-church brunch date—with a man. Lately my social life had been as dry as a hag’s hands, so I was excited about this third date.
Frank Manette was handsome in a subtle way. His mid-life dark looks weren’t flashy, but the fresh shave, a pressed shirt and khakis reflected his reserved demeanor. I was attracted to his lack of bravura and aggressiveness—unlike most men from my past.
He waited for me out front of St. Timothys. “Good morning, Bernadette.” Frank said as we climbed the stone steps. “A great day to be alive, isn’t it?”
“You’re right! Want to skip church and stake out a primo patio for brunch?”
Surprise registered on his face before he laughed. “What a kidder.”
I never kidded about food! Thankfully, my growling stomach quieted as Frank placed a warm hand on mine and smiled down at me.
In the after-service coffee line, I was startled by a deep voice.
“A friend of Frank’s, are you?”
Hot coffee sloshed from my mug, landing first on my skirt then on my sandals. At thirty-seven, I should know myself better—white wasn’t a smart fashion choice for me.
Swallowing my curses, I looked up to see a brawny man with a deep tan—someone who lacked respect for my personal space.
I set my mug down on a nearby table, wiped my right hand with a serviette, then offered it. “That’s right. I’m Bernadette. And you?”
“George Bowman.” His grip was strong.
“How do you know Frank?”
“Met him when he first arrived at St. Timothy’s a few years back. You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Perhaps you’ve read my byline. I cover the police and court beats for the newspaper.”
“Huh,” he said, blasting me with hot breath from his snort. “I’m a cop, so maybe that’s it.”
I sensed how intimidating this guy must be on the street. I widened the distance between us. “I don’t recall seeing you around.”
“They have me riding a desk now—till I take retirement.” Bowman shifted his weight. “What’s the last name?”
“Doolan.”
“A Mick?” Hands on his hips, practically groping for the butt of his absent gun.
“Officer Bowman, how are you?” The Reverend Penny Perrin wore a lavender print dress. While shaking his hand, Penny grabbed his forearm with her left hand. For a whiff of a woman, she’d managed to exert her authority over the cop. I was impressed. “How wonderful to make Bernadette feel welcome. I suppose you know many of the same people.”
“So far, just Frank Manette.” Bowman crossed his thick arms over his chest.
Frank caught my attention from across the room. Using two fingers, he
made a walking motion and nodded toward the door.
“Ah, yes. Justice, punishment and redemption. Common threads for you two.” The minister smiled. “Sorry to interrupt, but I must steal George. Something only he can help with,” Penny said, taking Bowman by the crook of his arm.
A woman in a taupe power suit, two lanky teenagers hovering at her elbows, had cornered Frank. Armed with a fresh cup of coffee and pretending the brown blotch on my skirt was perfectly normal, I joined them.
“Bernadette!” Frank beamed at me. “Meet Gillian and her kids.”
I smiled at this woman who vibrated tense energy and said, “I can’t get over how many young people are part of this parish.”
“It’s the music,” she said, her gaze glued to Frank. “The choir, the band, the plays. A busy teen is a happy teen, I say.”
Her son hid behind long bangs. His younger sister rolled her kohl-lined eyes, swung out her shiny blonde hair and cracked a large bubblegum balloon.
Gillian yanked the insolent girl by her arm, forced her to attention then yanked up the zipper on her pink cardigan to cover a maturing bosom.
“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to learn the guitar? You’ve been on my case day and night! ‘All the cool kids get lessons!’” Other conversations in the room paused at the shrill.
Whoa. Gillian needed to recalculate her lithium dosage. She turned back to Frank.
“I know your schedule’s full, but I’ll make it worthwhile. Charge the top rate, and I’ll bring them to you. Even if you would just take my daughter for now.”
Should I say something to help Frank out? Something more constructive than planting my Shanghai-heel into this woman’s Pilates-toned butt?
Ruth Kuhn stepped into our little circle. I knew Ruth as a retired parole officer, famous for her no-nonsense, commanding style with the worst offenders.
“Gillian?” Ruth’s tone caused the over-wrought woman to back away from her ledge of parenthood hell. My sympathy, however, lay with the teens. “Is there a problem here?” Ruth turned an imperious stare from Gillian to Frank.
“No problem, Ruth.” Frank sidled in behind me. “Gillian’s disappointed that I can’t take on new students.”
Frank’s damp palm cupped my elbow. Eew! Honestly, Gillian’s unrelenting insistence made me uncomfortable, too.
“Good heavens, isn’t that the truth?” Ruth said. “We keep Frank pretty busy around here, Gillian. Surely a woman of your position will be able to find another music teacher for Kirsten, someone who’s good with teens.”
I’d started to think of Ruth as our deliverance from Gillian, but what did this old battleaxe know, anyhow? “I think Frank’s very good with kids,” I said.
“I’ve promised Bernadette brunch.” Frank steered me toward the exit. “Must be a man of my word, right Ruth?”
“I’ll be in touch.” Ruth’s parting remark was drowned out by my rolling stomach. Talk of brunch had triggered an overwhelming craving for eggs Benedict.
Never stand between a Doolan woman and her next meal.
After a successful brunch, I’d asked Frank to join me for Sunday dinner at my friend Marianne’s. Uncharacteristically rash of me, but presentable men in my age bracket were as rare as original programming on Saturday night television.
When Frank was settled with a beer and chatting comfortably with other dinner guests on the patio, I excused myself.
“I’m going to give Marianne a hand,” I whispered.
“Can I help? I peel a mean potato.”
“No—relax, enjoy.”
I headed to the kitchen. And was promptly whacked on the shoulder.
“Mother of God,” I hollered, wrenching a plastic tray from Marianne’s grip. “Have you flipped your lid?”
Don’t you remember?” She laughed. “After your scum-bag fiancée hit the road, you said, ‘If I ever decide to date again, smack me upside the head’.”
“We’re just friends,” I huffed.
“Hello?” Marianne pinched my arm. “You never bring ‘just a friend’ to Sunday night supper. Where’d you meet him?”
“At church,” I mumbled.
“What?” A gurgle bubbled in her throat. She made the sign of the cross. “Your mother must be over the moon—back in the Pope’s graces and seeing a good Catholic boy!”
“Chill!” I wandered over to the fridge and pulled out a beer. “It’s the Anglican church where that hospital chaplain was reassigned. She’d been so kind to me, I thought I’d give it a try.” I popped the cap and chugged beer.
Marianne washed some plump tomatoes. “And?”
“And nothing. I met Frank at Coffee Hour.”
“What’s he do? Ever married? Kids? Does he dance? Where’s he been all these years?” She turned to face me, her upturned hands dripping juice.
“He works with the John Howard Society helping convicts reintegrate into society. He’s had relationships before, but never married. Almost made it down the aisle once, but her parents broke them up. No kids. Don’t know if he dances. He completed a master’s degree at Queen’s.”
Marianne’s pubescent step-daughter, Chloë, shot through the patio doors, grabbed a guitar from the floor, whistled back around and slid the door closed with a window-rattling smack.
“Hmm, I see he’s good with delinquents.” Marianne pointed out the window. “The ever-charming Chloë deigned to talk to him. She hasn’t spoken to me since we picked her up from her mom’s Friday.”
I watched Frank inspect the instrument Chloë had slipped over her shoulder. He listened to her strum a chord, then directed her to tune some strings.
“He seems comfortable with kids. Said he’d like to have a few himself. Doesn’t think late thirties is too old.”
“Whoa! Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” She wrapped me in a bear hug. “I’d hate to see you hurt again.”
“It’s bound to happen.” I pulled away from her embrace.
Marianne stacked plates. “You a crime reporter, him a conlover—how’s that going to work? He is cute, though. Is he a good lay?”
“Marianne!” I roared, throwing a package of paper napkins at her.
I was loath to admit our physical contact had been minimal. Was I even ready for intimacy? I needn’t have worried. After dinner, Frank dropped me off at the entrance to my apartment building with an awkward hug and a shy smile.
Yup, the weekend was over.
Crime reporters receive their fair share of anonymous tips. So discovering a ‘blind’ e-mail Monday morning sent my adrenalin pumping. I opened a message with the subject line “You Should Know”, and read:
Your new boyfriend’s nothing but trouble. Frank Manette’s a ticking bomb. Get away.
Coffee spewed from my mouth. I blinked, wiping furiously at the screen, trying to reread the message.
If they hadn’t used Frank’s full name, I’d have written this off as a crank letter. Even my mother didn’t know I was dating.
What the devil did it mean? Had Frank told an old girlfriend he was seeing me? It was pretty easy to get my work e-mail address. Was a spurned ex trying to break us up?
Nobody manipulates Bernadette Doolan.
When life throws me fastballs, I call Marianne.
“Why don’t you just ask him?” Marianne said, ever the pragmatist.
“Are you crazy? You never ask an interviewee a single question until you’ve done your research and mapped out an attack.”
“Well, what do you know about Frank? Have you checked him out?”
“I met the man at church, for God’s sake.”
“So?”
“No,” I finally admitted. I started typing furiously into my browser.
“Well, you’d better find out,” Marianne said. “The last thing you need is another jerk in your life. Oh, and my beleaguered husband plans to take his wretched girl-child to Frank for guitar lessons. It’s all Chloë talked about. So let me know, okay?”
Within seconds, I was able to confirm Fr
ank’s address and phone number. A resident of a run-down apartment in the Canal district for the past three years. No previous listing in the city.
A few minutes later, I’d found no mention of him on the John Howard Society website. Calling them would be a waste of time—damn privacy laws. His name appeared on St. Timothy’s website as an assistant music director and founder of the folk choir. The local Craigslist advertised his guitar lessons. Couldn’t find him listed as a recent Queen’s graduate or in their alumnae newsletter. What had he studied? Damned, if I knew.
It was pretty obvious who had done most—all right, all—of the talking so far in our courtship. Frank was a good listener, he hung on every word and took what I said to heart—very appealing, indeed.
Enough guessing. I called and invited him to dinner.
Late afternoon delivered the full force of an Ottawa Valley thunderstorm. I drove downtown with my headlights on, wipers on max. He’d suggested the Elgin Street Diner. Thwarted in my search for a legal parking spot, I whipped out my press pass, popped it on the dash and ran. My curls had sprung into a frenzy with the day’s high humidity, so the short dousing provided a welcome antidote.
Having scored a booth, Frank waved in greeting. His soaked windbreaker suggested he’d walked. Droplets clung to his eyelashes in a tantalizing fashion.
Smarten up, girl! Keep your wits about you. A windbreaker? Only grandpas wore them.
While we waited for our food to arrive, I tried some gentle probing questions about former girlfriends.
“Really, Bernadette, I haven’t dated in quite a while. While I was in Kingston, I had more important things on my mind.” A warm, reassuring smile and a pat on my hand. “There hasn’t been anyone serious for a long time. This,” he pointed between us, “is quite new for me. Honest.”
Harumph. When an interview subject says “Honest”, my antenna goes up. “What did you study at Queen’s?”
“Well, mostly sociology at the undergrad level. Then criminal psychology and offender treatment for my Masters. Did you study journalism at Carleton?”
