“Huh.” My mother looks at my aunt while giving her little grunt of disapproval. “An unwritten law. Supposedly it’s been that way for a long time.” She snaps the thermos inside the domed lid and closes the box by clicking the metal snaps. My dad’s initials, D.M. for Duncan Marston, shine out in yellow paint from the side and she gives them a rub with her apron.
“So,” my aunt says softly,” a chance taken. Good for them. I don’t abide them sort of rules, as ye know. We dinna come to Canada, Meg, to live by unwritten laws.”
I want to hear more but my mother gives me a little push towards the door “Dinna dawdle,” she says and I take off, over to Grace Street and down the lane, across the hospital grounds and to the police station.
But I do dawdle for now I’m studying Evadne’s house trying to think what she looks like. Does she look like an Indian? How come I never noticed? Anyway, what does an Indian look like in real life? She’s taller than me and stronger too, with a square face and a big smile. Her hair is darker than mine but just as straight and cut short with bangs across the front while my hair is always plaited into two annoying pigtails that hang down my back. An Indian? My mind turns to Elsie who I know is Polish and I recall her thin pointed face, very pretty, baby blue eyes, and mousy hair falling over her face so that she’s always blowing the strands away.
Each person in the world looks different, I think, and yet, at the same time, they look like the place they came from. But on the other hand, Evadne doesn’t look at all like those big brothers of hers. My mind turns to Aunt Sissy and my mother, sisters and Scottish, but very different looking…
My thoughts are interrupted by a slamming noise and Evadne’s mother stumps down the front steps. She seems to be looking for something for her head swivels from side to side as she scans the flat rocks in front of the house and the lane in both directions.
I give her a big wave. “Hi, Mrs. Sky.” She narrows her eyes at me until they are two dark slits with black eyebrows shoved down over them. A big U-shaped frown takes up the bottom half of her face. Suddenly she looks as scary as a Hallowe’en witch and I step back in alarm but then try another wave. “Hi, Hi,” I say sort of stuttering. Her hand shoots out towards me in a ‘go away’ gesture and she turns abruptly to stand looking in the other direction.
What did I do? I’m stunned. Then Rita Hayworth’s mustache flashes into my mind. Good gravy! Trouble! When in danger, I remind myself, run away. And I do, fleeing down the lane in a panic yelling “ah, ah, ah” until I reach the shortcut through the hospital grounds where I stop yelling in case the nuns hear me and come out to chase me off the property.
I’ve brought Dad’s lunch to the police station many times. It’s a scary place but I’m used to it. The double front doors are made of golden oak and could’ve been beautiful except they’re stained with black streaks along the grain. They’re usually propped half-open winter and summer and are so now. The three stone steps up to them dip down in the middle “carved out by people’s reluctant feet,” my father once said. I stop on the top step and carefully check all around the oak door frame inside and out and across the speckled marble floor inside. I’m looking for cockroaches. The place is infested with them and my father and his policemen friends often make jokes about them. I’ve never seen one but then, I don’t want to see one either. I study the speckles, watching for any movement and, when I see none, skip forward.
The room isn’t large. Directly across from the door is a long black bench, like a bench in church, and quite often, there are men sitting there. There are two men there now, in the usual posture, bent forward, legs wide apart, arms on knees and faces looking at the floor. On the right side is a wooden counter higher than my head with a metal grill along the top. There’s always a policeman behind there, I know. On the left, a wide black staircase winds up into the shadows. It leads to the courtroom on the second floor and once, when there was no court going on, my father took my sister and me up to have a look. It was a big room as hushed as a church but with a strange sweaty smell. We stared at the king’s picture and the Union Jack and the rows of empty benches with the judge’s desk high above all, like the throne of a fairy tale king.
The door to the policemen’s lunchroom is on the first floor behind the staircase and it’s there, on a long table down the middle, I deposit the lunch box.
My father stands at the end of the room talking to his friend, old Sergeant McKee, who, to me, looks way too old to be a policeman. At first they don’t see me. “It’s not right, for all that, Donald,” I hear my father say and the sergeant answers, “Leave it, Duncan lad. You’ll not change his mind and ye know it. We’ve got other tasks ahead of us, to get organized,” and I know from his hushed voice he’s referring to the union my dad is trying to get started among the policemen. “Oncet we get a bit of protection, then, and only then, can we make some changes.”
The union is a dark secret, the deepest secret of all, and must never be mentioned to anyone, not even to Aunt Sissy. I only learned of it by listening at the top of the stairs after I was supposed to be in bed. It’s a shame my father’s ears are so sharp for he heard me trying to sneak back up. He yelled, which he hardly ever does, and warned me a lot. Terrible punishments would happen if I blabbed. I‘d have to stay in the house for a week, for example, and not have any dessert. If the Police Chief found out, my dad could be fired and then we’d all starve or, even worse, have to go back to Scotland.
So now I pretend not to hear their conversation and just said, “Hi, Pops.”
My father is a big guy who looks like a boxer. He’s got sandy hair and a sandy freckled skin that reaches way past his forehead. Every week or so, I notice his forehead getting higher because he gets a little balder every day. His nose and ears are too big but his eyes are as blue as Lake Superior on a sunny day. His mustache is so blond and thin, it’s hard to see unless you stand close up. Since he became a detective and started working “plain clothes”, he wears the same brown suit every day.
“Here you are, Janet,” he says leaning down to put his hand on my upper arm. “Right now, it might be best if I walk you out,” he says and leads me to the lunch room door.
A loud voice outside the room stops us. “Get the hell out,” it says. “I’m letting you off this time but I think you get the picture well enough.” The voice has changed into a scary sneering tone. Leaning around my dad’s legs, I can see Chief Reynolds, my father’s enemy in the fight for the union. Immediately, my dad draws me back into the lunch room, but I can see the chief looming over the two men on the bench; and when they lift their heads I’m amazed to see Henry and Albert, Evadne’s brothers. Their faces are as closed as the rock in front of their house, but I can tell by their hunched up shoulders they’re angry. “I’ve explained it so even you dummies should be able to understand,” the chief goes on. “If we pick you up again, it’ll be the cells for a night or two.” His voice grows even louder. “That’s a promise, do you hear, dick heads? So, if you want to keep those jobs, learn the right way to get around.”
The two young men stand up together, towering over the chief and for an instant I’m afraid there’ll be a fight but I notice that the desk sergeant has come around and is standing beside his boss, in his hand the leaded blackjack that all the cops carry. Albert moves first, walking quickly toward the front door. After balancing on his toes for a minute, Henry follows.
My father waits until the chief goes back behind the counter to his office and waits longer until he hears the office door slam.
My heart is thumping and I feel hot as if I’ve been standing in the sun. “That’s Albert and Henry, my girlfriend’s brothers,” I cry. “What did they do?”
My father is sharp. “No business of yours,” he says as he walks me out to the sidewalk. “Now, Janet,” he says curving his big finger at me, “you remember that you’re not to say a word of police business to anyone. Not anyone. Never. Not to your frien
d either. Do ye understand me?”
I nod. My stomach squeezes into a big twist and my heart jumps up and down like a frightened rabbit.
“Good girl,” he says.” Off with you now. And Janet…” I turn. “Thanks for bringing the lunch.”
I figure it out on the way home. It’s obvious. Albert and Henry broke the unwritten law. They were caught in the wrong part of town. What will they do now? How can they go to work if they live up the hill and not down in the South End? How can they live in their house? Life is so mean, I think, and dumb too. The unwritten law isn’t fair but as hard as I try, I can’t think what to do about it.
When I complain to my father he merely says, “Aye, it’s wrong and it’ll be changed one day. But not now, Lass, not yet.”
On Monday, at recess, Evadne pulls me behind the caragana hedge at the edge of the playground. “My mother says she’s sorry for scaring you,” she whispers so no one else can hear. “She was worried because the boys were late, is all.” Then she laughs. “She says you’ll grow wings one day, you’re so speedy.”
I blurt out, “How are your brothers?”
“They’ve left,” Evadne says, “because of what happened at the police station. You know what I mean,” she says and then laughs again. “Henry’s got a bad temper so Ma thinks he’ll get in trouble if he stays here.”
I’m shocked, unable to speak. The boys must’ve recognized me at the police station and then mentioned it to their mother and Evadne. At the time, I didn’t think their eyes had come my way once.
“They’re going back north to trap for the winter,” Evadne says, “but now the house is way too big for us, so we’re moving in with my Grandma in Fort William.”
“Fort William! So far away!” But before she can answer, the bell shrills out and we have to run to get in line. I turn to see Evadne but she isn’t there. My eyes search the lines looking for black hair and bangs and a big happy face but she has vanished the way angels do in the Bible. Silently and completely.
After school, I recruit Elsie and my sister to come with me to Evadne’s house because I‘m still afraid of her mother and I need reinforcements. I want to say good-bye. But when we turn down the lane, we hear the front door banging in the wind. The place has a hollow look and the windows are skull eyes. Our knocking sends clunky sounds into the emptiness inside. We creep in, holding hands, our feet scuffling along as we try to be quiet in case someone is there. Close together and moving across the wooden floors in the bare downstairs rooms, which never did have any furniture, we go into the kitchen to find only the woodstove and the stained yellow linoleum remain. The cupboard doors hang open to reveal bare shelves. Even the dishpan is gone and the bag of clothespins by the back door.
Upstairs in Evadne’s room, the cardboard boxes, still carefully lined up along the walls, gape empty. Evadne’s cot is missing but the boys’ mattresses still lie on the floor. Before, the house always smelled faintly of bleach but now a damp odour is creeping through the rooms. Rita Hayworth, looking over one bare shoulder and showing her mustache, is still on Albert’s wall. I rip her down, crumple her up and throw her in the corner and then do the same with Carmen Miranda and her stupid smile and headdress of fruit. In the next room, I roll back Henry’s mattress and there are the Batman comics. We kneel on the linoleum, still powdered with grain dust, and divide them among us. Then, without talking about it, we clutch the comics and run outside as fast as we can.
That night, my father doesn’t come home for supper and my mother paces the kitchen, wiping down the counter over and over, washing each dish as soon as my sister and I finish with it. Then she orders us to bed at seven o’clock, much too early, but we go without complaint because first, you can’t argue with my mother and second, we’ve got the Batman comics. We sit up in bed and go through them all, passing them over as soon as we have one finished. Eventually, my sister falls asleep but I can still hear my mother pacing between the kitchen and the living room.
“The English bastard!” My mother’s voice wakes me. It’s still light outside so I couldn’t have slept long. I’d never heard her use a bad word before so I’ve got to hear more. I creep to the top of the stairs.
“A year! A year on the night shft. And back to the beat just when ye’ve moved into plain clothes. The bastard.”
“Ah, aye,” my father sighs. “But mind, he doesn’t know for sure; he just suspects. Good may come from it, however. Maybe this incident will get the waverers thinking so they sign that paper. I’ve no doubt, Meg, we’ll be certified before the year is up and then I’ll be all right, but till then…”
His voice trails off and there’s a long silence. “Our Janet will be happy anyway,” he says with a laugh. “I’ll be down in the South End and maybe we can do something about that so-called unwritten law.”
“Oh, do be careful, Duncan,” my mother says.
There’s another silence and then he says, so softly that I have to move down a couple of steps to hear it, “Are ye afraid, Meg? Ye know that Reynolds will be snooping round and if he gets any real facts about the union, he’ll fire me. He said as much today. So are ye afraid? Do you want me to stop? Say the word.”
“Afraid?” my mother says. “Stop? Bow to that black-hearted Englishman? Huh! We can wait him out, Duncan. Aye and best him in the end. Come on, my dear, and get your tea. Come on Duncan now, and get your tea.”
The Extremists
R. Jonathan Chapman
Characters
Joe—A rancher
Mary—Owner/operator of a general store
Andes—An environmental activist
Setting
Mary’s—a general store in a small hamlet in the Yellowhead riding
of Alberta
* * *
Mary sits behind the counter at her general store, flipping through a copy of the National Post. Joe approaches, holding a box of lightbulbs and a small package of quinoa. He is reading the back of the package with some disdain.
M: Hey Joe, how’s it going?
J: Fine, fine.
M: How’s Beth?
J:
M: That’s quinoa.
J:
M: It’s a grain. You cook it like rice.
J: Huh.
A pause.
M: Just the bulbs, then?
J: Yeah.
Mary rings up the purchase and hands him the coins. He’s still distracted by the quinoa. Eventually he shrugs.
J: Who would buy this?
M:
J: New people?
M: Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.
J: Well, you know. We’ve been cooped up for the past couple months. All the snow.
There is a jaunty dingle as Andes enters the store. He wears a knitted toque and sweater. He blows on his hands to warm them up.
M: Oh, here’s one of them now.
A:
M: Hey, Andes. Have you met Joe?
A: Don’t believe I have. Nice to meet you.
J:
A: Andes. Like the mountains.
J: Alright.
M: Andes is one of the founders of a new commune that just opened up on the old Miller property.
J: A commune?
A: A farming collective, really. We’re doing all-organic gardening, micro-wind farming, and manure/compost blends.
M: Tell him where you get the compost.
A: Oh. Well. All the people working there, it’s their…It’s a human waste composting system.
J: There’s money in that?
>
M: It’s like I always said—one man’s shit is another man’s gold, right?
A: To be fair, it’s not hugely profitable. But a lot of the local ranchers have been selling us manure, and the mixes are a high-end gardening product. Between that and the vegetables we figure on just about breaking even. A lot of us have other jobs too. I run a blog reviewing ecological technologies, so I work out of an office in town here a couple days a week.
M: Anything in particular you’re looking for?
A: Just some lunch stuff. We finally got the office kitchen set up.
M: Well there’s quinoa and chickpeas back by the rice there, and soy cheese in the dairy cooler.
A: Thanks.
J: Sorry. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but—why come all the way out here to set up a…farming collective. Surely you’d have better luck in B.C. somewhere.
A:
J: Heard what?
A: We’re part of the Green Agenda.
J: The Green Agenda?
A: Yeah. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about us. It was on CBC radio and everything.
J: Oh sure. CBC.
A:
J:
A: You don’t think we can?
M:
J: Son, this riding’s been conservative since before you were born.
A: But that was the old demographics.
A pause.
J: I don’t follow.
A: It all started with a tweet. You’ve heard of Twitter, right?
J: Of course.
Joe flashes Mary a “Is this guy for real?” look, and she replies with an apologetic shrug.
A: I was actually on Twitter when it happened. It was just after that stupid media consortium decided not to let Elizabeth May into the last debate. They said it was because we didn’t have a seat in the House of Commons. And this girl out in B.C. tweeted “Green party—one million voters strong—how hard would it be to stack a riding?”
Everything Is So Political Page 14
