Day 30 ... I made it ... 50,406 words ...
I am going out for a walk and then I might do something to tidy up this ending a bit ... I'm tired and hungry right now:
November 30, 2009
Day 30 ... Last Day
It is Mark
It was soon time to file into the pews set aside for family, time for the service to begin. Mary Jane came over to me and linked her arm through mine. "Come sit with us," she said.
"Oh, I couldn't," I said quickly. "I've only just met you. I'd feel like an intruder."
Sarah came up and said, "I understand how you feel, but don't disappear on us after the service. We are awfully glad we've found a long lost cousin."
"Mary Jane added, "It seems almost all of our family members end up being long gone and lost most of the time."
Sarah asked me, "Have you met Andrew yet?"
I shook my head. "I'm sure I'll meet him soon enough." I felt a bit like squirming. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to meet Andrew. He and Mark could have been brothers — twins even.
The service was one of those non denominational ones. Joseph's daughter and son spoke of their father with pride and love. He had raised them almost single handed after his wife died. His sisters both told stories demonstrating that he had been a bit of a devil as a boy and a good big brother. Andrew didn't speak. Too shy maybe.
Mark would have spoken if it had been his brother. He'd have written poetry that expressed his love for his older brother, poetry that dealt with the universality of love and death and loss ... philosophical and poetic. Nothing sloppy. Good poetry. And Mark was comfortable speaking to large groups of people.
I wished he were here beside me. I needed to feel the reassurance of his very warm, totally alive body close to mine. I'd been too much involved with the dead of late. The dead and the dying. The ghosts from my past seemed more real than the people in my life these days. I had no time for friends because I was writing, no time for much other than eating, sleeping and getting a few minutes of fresh air every day. And life kept on interfering with the deadline hanging over me. I decided to leave early and get in touch later, after I'd completed this manuscript. I'd leave right after the service, tell Mary Jane and Sarah I'd visit another time.
"Oh no you don't," said Eva quietly. "You are not going to sneak out the back door."
"Why not? I'm exhausted and I have another five hours of writing to get in before tomorrow."
"Because it would be rude and unkind. Your cousins want to meet you."
"I've met them ... and we'll exchange cards and I will see them another time."
"Now," said Eva.
"God, it's bad enough that Grandpa thinks he can order me around ... but we're not even related!"
But it was clear that Eva was giving me no choice in the matter.
Why was I so reluctant to stay? I had another full day to work on the book, and I knew I'd get it finished. What was making me want to run away?
Andrew's face swam before me ... how could two unrelated men look so much alike?
"Dopplegangers?" It was Grandpa. "Didn't think there'd be two great marshmallows, did you?"
"Mark is not a marshmallow. He's just a gentle man."
"I'm a gentleman too, but I have a backbone."
I stared at him. "Do you think he's a coward?"
"Don't you?"
Did I? Sometimes. He couldn't do the tough things like end a bad marriage. But maybe that was because he was too caring, not too cowardly. He was too easy on one of his daughters. Was that because he didn't like confrontations or was it because he really did feel she needed extra leeway because she felt like such a loser in her family of brilliant or competent people?
"Maybe he relates to her because he's such a loser himself."
"Oh come on Grandpa. He's not a loser. Look at what he's accomplished."
"Does a competent man take so goddamned long to get things done? My god. He spends most of his time avoiding what has to be done instead of just doing it."
"I know," I admitted sadly. "He doesn't seem to cope very well, but he's bright and funny and kind."
"That sounds like my youngest," said Wilhemina. "Have you met him yet? You'd like him, I know."
"Not yet," I said.
"Have you seen your mother?" Grandpa asked Wilhemina.
"Is she here?"
"I can't imagine she'd miss a good party. There is going to be something to drink later, isn't there?"
"She's over there," Eva said. "In the smoky blue."
I looked over to where Eva was motioning. Velvet was beautiful. A halo of blonde hair framed a flawless face. No wonder her progeny were all so good looking.
"She sure ages well, doesn't she?" Grandpa was leering. "Like good whiskey."
"She looks too nice for the likes of you ," I said.
"She is," said Eva.
"One of your death bed conversions?" asked Grandpa.
Eva turned suddenly serious. "Velvet came into the home a hard little stripper. By the time she went into confinement she had grown up. She was ready to be a good mother ... one who would have raised her daughter well."
"I wish I'd known her," said Wilhemina. "My foster mother was a good woman and I never felt I had a bad life, but I wish I'd had a chance to know Velvet."
She turned to Grandpa. "I wish I'd known you better and longer too. I wish I'd had a chance to thank you for making sure I was okay."
Grandpa was beginning to look uncomfortable. He obviously preferred his rakish reputation to one that presented his other side.
"So you were a bit of a marshmallow too, eh?"
Grandpa scowled at me. "Nothing of the kind," he said, and walked across the room to Velvet.
"Did I hit a nerve?" I asked Eva.
"Not too many people knew just how kind Paul was"
"Go over and meet Andrew," Wilhemina said to me.
"Will you introduce me?"
"He doesn't always see me," she said. "Sometimes he's so knotted up inside and living in his own head that he isn't able to see anyone else but himself."
"That doesn't sound very healthy," I said.
"No. I worry about him. I wish he were happier. He's awfully hard on himself."
"He sounds like someone I know," I said.
"Imagine -- two poor lost souls with every good intention --- and too stuck in their own form of quicksand to grab a helping hand and climb out of the pit."
Yes, I thought, how could there be two of them ... especially two that looked so much alike?
"I think you will like one another. Come on over and I'll try to get his attention. He loved Joseph a great deal ... it may be hard just now for him to come out of himself."
It took a long time to make our way across the crowded room. Little knots of people blocked the route, but finally I was standing just behind Andrew. He obviously didn't see his mother although she hovered close to him and reached a hand up to touch the back of his collar to straighten it. He shivered but when he turned around it was me he saw, not Wilhemina. Good lord, I thought. I hope he didn't think I'd touched him. I'd never have touched a strange man in that intimate fashion, and certainly not at a funeral.
I wouldn't have touched Mark in that way here in public, especially where he was surrounded by family who likely still thought of him as married despite the fact that he lived alone now.
As soon as he spoke, I realized that Andrew was no stranger.
They say that voices are a more reliable identifier than fingerprints. And voices tend to be genetically linked. I've talked to people who are related and mistaken one for the other ... but perhaps that's not genetic but rather the fact that we imitate the voices of the people who raise us.
The stranger spoke my name. Had Mary Jane and Sarah told him I was here? Had Wilhemina gotten through to him?
I somehow doubted it. His next words were, "What in hell are you doing here?"
"It's a long story. Have you got a month or so? That's how long it took me to sort it out."
Mark put an arm around me and guided me towards an unoccupied couch. "Start talking," he said.
"Eva insisted that I come to this funeral. And Wilhemina too. If I'd known you would be here I wouldn't have come."
"Wilhemina?" asked Mark. "How could you possibly know Wilhemina?"
"That's all part of the story," I said. "Where's your wife?"
"Oh, she didn't come. I didn't ask her."
"Why not?"
"Too far to travel. Her job. You know."
"Did she know Joseph and your sisters?"
Mark nodded, and said, "She didn't like my family much."
"I like Mary Jane and Sarah," I said.
Mark looked a little surprised. "How do you know them?"
"I don't really. I just met them today. But they were friendly."
"Why would they be friendly to you? They don't know you and you suddenly turn up at our brother's funeral."
Because I'm cute?"
He grinned.
And then we were joined by Sarah who was accompanied by Wilhemina. "I see you've met," she said. "I've had the weirdest feeling all afternoon. As though Mom's here."
"Funerals do that to people," Mark said. "We remember all the other people who've died."
"Well," I said. "The people we cared about, anyway."
"Are you coming back to the house?" asked Sarah.
Mark looked at me before responding. "I have a meeting this evening with one of the Board."
"Can't you tell him you are with family; that your brother died?"
"Yes," I said, "You could take one night off from work. You could see him tomorrow or phone."
"Where are you staying?" asked Sarah. "There's plenty of room at Mary Jane's."
"For both of you," she added.
"I've got a room booked at the Holiday Inn on the Lakeshore Road," I said. "But thank you."
Mark dithered a bit and finally came out with, "I've told Derek that I'll be staying with them tonight." .I hoped that Sarah would not realize he was lying.
"Who's Derek?" she asked.
"The Board member I have to meet tonight."
"Surely you'll at least come to the house for the reception," Sarah said.
"I'll hang around for a couple of hours, see everyone, and then head over to Derek's. Will that be okay?"
She nodded. "Do you need a lift?"
"I rented a car at the airport," he replied, and turned to me. "Do you have a car here?"
"No," I said. "Could you give me a lift?"
Mary Jane came up to us and said, "Sorry I didn't get to talk to you sooner. Are you coming to the house?"
Sarah told her about the arrangements and we all headed toward the door together.
"What's this all about?" Mark said as soon as I slid in. "Did you know I'd be here?"
"Don't worry," I said. "I wasn't stalking you. I was as surprised to see you as you were to see me."
H pulled over and held me for a moment. "I'm glad you're here."
"Why didn't you speak at the funeral?"
"Sometimes it's just too hard to find the right words. Words that tell someone how much you love them."
"And sometimes you can't tell the world what you weren't able to tell your brother while he was alive?"
"Something like that," Mark said.
"Now tell me. Why are you here if it wasn't to see me?"
"I'll tell you tonight at the hotel ... it'll be your bedtime story."
"I won't be at the hotel," said Mark.
"Yes you will," I laughed.
And then we were at his sister's house, and we didn't have a chance to talk again. I kept hearing people call him Andrew and wondered why he was my Mark and their Andrew. Their brother, Andrew. Their Uncle Andrew.
Wilhemina appeared and asked how I liked Andrew. "He's very nice," I said.
"You should ask him about his work in Africa," she said. "I'm sure you'd have a lot in common."
I murmured something agreeable and then she was off again, this time to sit with Grandpa and Velvet. I went over to join them.
And then I felt a warm very human hand on my shoulder, "Do you need a lift to the hotel?" he asked. He was carrying my coat. The red suitcase was in the trunk of the rented car.
"I'll be with you in five minutes," I said. "I want to say goodbye and I need to pee."
I had hardly sat down on the toilet when Eva appeared.
"For god's sake Eva. Can't I have even a modicum of privacy?"
"I needed to talk yo you before you got to the hotel."
"To tell me that Mark and Andrew are the same person?"
"That too," she said, "but I didn't want you to do anything stupid."
I thought about what I could possibly do that was any more stupid that falling for a married man who lived a continent away ... a married man who turned out to be my first cousin ... well ... my first half cousin. Cripes.
"I need to tell him the story," I said. "The story of the last month."
"Surely he knows the most important parts of it. You do talk to him, don't you?"
"We don't talk about ghosts ... and I just found out that I am in love with my cousin; that I've committed incestuous acts, for god's sake."
"You didn't commit those acts for God's sake," Eva said without a smile.
"So you were trying to make sure I stopped committing a sin. Is that it?" I asked. "Is that why you made sure I came to this damned funeral?"
Eva looked at me in disbelief. "Is that what you thought?" she cried. "Have you any idea how many stories about illicit sex I have heard, how many girls I've helped?"
"Did you think you would have become pure for me to forgive you? For me to understand?"
"We wouldn't be allowed to marry in your church," I said.
"You wouldn't be allowed to marry in a registry office if you revealed your connection, either," she said. "But why would you?"
"There are good reasons that the law forbids cousins from marrying one another," I said.
"Were you planning to have children with Mark?" asked Eva. "It's a little late for that kind of thing, don't you think?"
I emitted a shout of laughter, the same kind of laughter I had shared with Pat and Claire a few days ago. And then I saw the twinkle in Eva's eye.
"Don't be stupid enough to send Mark away," she said. "He needs you. You need each other."
"I don't need a man to make me happy," I said.
"No but you need to love someone who loves you. You need his friendship and his warmth."
"And he has a wife."
"Do you see her anywhere around when he needs her?"
"He likely told her she didn't need to come."
"Would you have accepted that? Did you with Pat?"
"She doesn't love him as much as any of you think she does. She loves security ... especially financial security."
"He thinks she wants the family to stay intact for the kids."
"The kids are adults, now," said Eva. "Adults who can see as much of both their parents as they like."
Okay," I said. "I've got to go. Could you leave so I can finish up in here?"
Eva looked at me long and hard. "Don't be a fool. This is your last chance. Life doesn't go on forever."
I stared at her and then said, "You'd never know it to look at you and Grandpa flirting away eternity."
Her giggles echoed in the glistening bathroom after she'd gone.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 30 ... the missing bit from yesterday's post
Day 30 November 30, 2009
I dreamed all night ... and remembered the dreams ... that's rare for me ... but I didn't dream about Mark even though we talked on the phone at about 9 p.m.
I dreamed about George ... Big George ... the incompetent worker who messed up a great deal of my house ... for some ungodly reason I had hired him again ... and he was busy making my life hell by setting my radio on some awful rock station with the volume on high ... and then when I protested, he turned on the television to something equally inane and just as loud ... and I don't even own a tv. And he had not become more competent in the past couple of years either.
Bill showed up in that dream too ...sharing my house ... and giving me his laundry to do ... and then I found myself in a laundromat with former colleagues who were all more competent than I was. I escaped with the wet clothing by car with two men and a woman ... we were all leaning against one another ... sort of like kittens in the back seat of the car ... and all the wrong couple members were cuddling ...
I am sure there is some deep important message in all this but I haven't time to figure it out just now ... maybe in the second draft ... I still have about 4000 words to write today. And this novel is about as coherent as that dream sequence was ... sorry.
This morning I cuddled for a while with Kenya. her coat is luxurious in the winter ... thick and smooth and smelling wonderfully clean. And she is building it rather than discarding the ratty bits now so the house is a little cleaner.
It snowed in the night. I love the look of fresh snow against the dark grey of the lake and the black skeletons of wintery trees.
I will have to pay Leonard soon. Tanya gave me her share of the plowing yesterday and I offered to look after Oberon (her cat) for a month while she goes to visit Jordan and Egypt with her sister. Kenya will be delighted. She likes cats that like dogs, and she has lived with Oberon before and likely will again this summer when Tanya goes to Scotland. Tanya came back to the house with me and picked up all my literature on Jordan including a huge scrapbook type report I created after my sojourn there.
CBC (no, the dial had not been changed in the night) was re-broadcasting an Anna Maria Tremonte interview with David McGuinty, the Liberal environment critic. I turned it off partway through. I hate being reminded of the stupidity of the Conservative government under Stephen Harper ... and therefore of the stupidity of Canadians who keep on giving him another opportunity to make Canada look like a totally uncaring country.
The other day an American very carefully added his voice to the criticism. He didn't want to dump on us because he wasn't Canadian ... but he pointed out all the occasions when Canada has been a moral leader in world opinion. He emphasized that the weight of our positive influence has always been much greater than the power that might have been expected from the size of our economy or population. Then he said that, in light of our history, it was particularly surprising that Canada under this prime minister would be so recalcitrant on the issue of the environment.
So then I moved to the computer. In my Quarantine Box were a whole bunch of those weird little subjects ... the ones that are just words strung together without meaning. Two stood out: "ago finished gotta" and "really truly finished". So I decided to stop procrastinating and get back to writing those last 4000 words. I feel a little like the male lead in You've Got Mail" as I flex my typing fingers and set to work. Remember the scene in which she asks for business advice and tells her to go to the mattresses?
Okay enough procrastinating preamble ... on to the night and day before the train trip to Toronto.
Oh ... I've almost got it written ... She drives to the train station dropping her dog at Tammy's enroute.
And now here she is on the train. Nothing much happens here. She plays with her journal. When she was traveling to and from Britain she discovered how to use water colour pencils and a brush with a tank of water while traveling. She discovered that it worked better on a plane than on a train.
"Damn," I muttered as the water made a jagged gash over the page. I had been trying tp map out a schedule and was using the water colour to separate the itinerary from the rest of the page where I hoped to add little drawings to illustrate this first meeting with my cousins. "You'd think they'd repair these tracks. After all this is a well-used route. Train travel used to be pleasant."
I thought about the trip from Ulaan Baatar to Beijing. That was a dream of a trip ... but except for the beauty of the landscape and the very few signs of human or animal habitation, there had not been much opportunity to draw anything very interesting. No, it had been a trip that reminded me just how vast and empty Mongolia was, and one that gave me a new insight into how rough Chinese justice could be. No friendly faces when these customs officers boarded the train after we switched over to the different track system. It took hours to re-fit the wheels so that they would work on the Chinese gauge tracks. Both sets of tracks, however, were superior to these Canadian tracks. It really shouldn't surprise anyone that Canada is dragging its heels on the energy stuff ... they allowed the less polluting train system that linked all Canadians to wither away over thirty years ago.
I slept for a while and ate a snack. Then I knit several rows on the LONG foot of Tyren's second sock, read a chapter of my book (Iced Under) ... and soon we reach Union Station.
It took a bit of work to find out how to get from downtown Toronto to Mimico, but it was less wearing than traveling under London ... and not nearly as crowded. Canadians use their cars far more than do Londoners so passengers on public transit in Canada tend to be poorer generally ... immigrants ... students ... the old. Everyone takes the tube in London so you are likely to travel standing up in the midst of people of all ages, classes and colours. It helps to be older there, though, because the young are still inclined to offer you a seat, especially if you hang over them looking pained. Canadian youngsters are better at ignoring you. Or maybe it never even occurs to them.
I dreamed all night ... and remembered the dreams ... that's rare for me ... but I didn't dream about Mark even though we talked on the phone at about 9 p.m.
I dreamed about George ... Big George ... the incompetent worker who messed up a great deal of my house ... for some ungodly reason I had hired him again ... and he was busy making my life hell by setting my radio on some awful rock station with the volume on high ... and then when I protested, he turned on the television to something equally inane and just as loud ... and I don't even own a tv. And he had not become more competent in the past couple of years either.
Bill showed up in that dream too ...sharing my house ... and giving me his laundry to do ... and then I found myself in a laundromat with former colleagues who were all more competent than I was. I escaped with the wet clothing by car with two men and a woman ... we were all leaning against one another ... sort of like kittens in the back seat of the car ... and all the wrong couple members were cuddling ...
I am sure there is some deep important message in all this but I haven't time to figure it out just now ... maybe in the second draft ... I still have about 4000 words to write today. And this novel is about as coherent as that dream sequence was ... sorry.
This morning I cuddled for a while with Kenya. her coat is luxurious in the winter ... thick and smooth and smelling wonderfully clean. And she is building it rather than discarding the ratty bits now so the house is a little cleaner.
It snowed in the night. I love the look of fresh snow against the dark grey of the lake and the black skeletons of wintery trees.
I will have to pay Leonard soon. Tanya gave me her share of the plowing yesterday and I offered to look after Oberon (her cat) for a month while she goes to visit Jordan and Egypt with her sister. Kenya will be delighted. She likes cats that like dogs, and she has lived with Oberon before and likely will again this summer when Tanya goes to Scotland. Tanya came back to the house with me and picked up all my literature on Jordan including a huge scrapbook type report I created after my sojourn there.
CBC (no, the dial had not been changed in the night) was re-broadcasting an Anna Maria Tremonte interview with David McGuinty, the Liberal environment critic. I turned it off partway through. I hate being reminded of the stupidity of the Conservative government under Stephen Harper ... and therefore of the stupidity of Canadians who keep on giving him another opportunity to make Canada look like a totally uncaring country.
The other day an American very carefully added his voice to the criticism. He didn't want to dump on us because he wasn't Canadian ... but he pointed out all the occasions when Canada has been a moral leader in world opinion. He emphasized that the weight of our positive influence has always been much greater than the power that might have been expected from the size of our economy or population. Then he said that, in light of our history, it was particularly surprising that Canada under this prime minister would be so recalcitrant on the issue of the environment.
So then I moved to the computer. In my Quarantine Box were a whole bunch of those weird little subjects ... the ones that are just words strung together without meaning. Two stood out: "ago finished gotta" and "really truly finished". So I decided to stop procrastinating and get back to writing those last 4000 words. I feel a little like the male lead in You've Got Mail" as I flex my typing fingers and set to work. Remember the scene in which she asks for business advice and tells her to go to the mattresses?
Okay enough procrastinating preamble ... on to the night and day before the train trip to Toronto.
Oh ... I've almost got it written ... She drives to the train station dropping her dog at Tammy's enroute.
And now here she is on the train. Nothing much happens here. She plays with her journal. When she was traveling to and from Britain she discovered how to use water colour pencils and a brush with a tank of water while traveling. She discovered that it worked better on a plane than on a train.
"Damn," I muttered as the water made a jagged gash over the page. I had been trying tp map out a schedule and was using the water colour to separate the itinerary from the rest of the page where I hoped to add little drawings to illustrate this first meeting with my cousins. "You'd think they'd repair these tracks. After all this is a well-used route. Train travel used to be pleasant."
I thought about the trip from Ulaan Baatar to Beijing. That was a dream of a trip ... but except for the beauty of the landscape and the very few signs of human or animal habitation, there had not been much opportunity to draw anything very interesting. No, it had been a trip that reminded me just how vast and empty Mongolia was, and one that gave me a new insight into how rough Chinese justice could be. No friendly faces when these customs officers boarded the train after we switched over to the different track system. It took hours to re-fit the wheels so that they would work on the Chinese gauge tracks. Both sets of tracks, however, were superior to these Canadian tracks. It really shouldn't surprise anyone that Canada is dragging its heels on the energy stuff ... they allowed the less polluting train system that linked all Canadians to wither away over thirty years ago.
I slept for a while and ate a snack. Then I knit several rows on the LONG foot of Tyren's second sock, read a chapter of my book (Iced Under) ... and soon we reach Union Station.
It took a bit of work to find out how to get from downtown Toronto to Mimico, but it was less wearing than traveling under London ... and not nearly as crowded. Canadians use their cars far more than do Londoners so passengers on public transit in Canada tend to be poorer generally ... immigrants ... students ... the old. Everyone takes the tube in London so you are likely to travel standing up in the midst of people of all ages, classes and colours. It helps to be older there, though, because the young are still inclined to offer you a seat, especially if you hang over them looking pained. Canadian youngsters are better at ignoring you. Or maybe it never even occurs to them.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
Day 29 ... almost home
November 29, 2009
40,915 ... 0,085 to go ...
I've just finished snacking on leftover, somewhat dark, pancakes spread with jam and drinking tea while I read email and looked at the past few blog entries containing this silly novel. Before that I moved some furniture around downstairs in an effort to fit too many things into too little space while still allowing me to watch my movies from a comfortable chair. And before that I finished washing the dishes from last night's chicken dinner with Tammy, Carlos and Mandara. I made the orange scented sponge cake for dessert but it looked a little more like an orange scented cookie than a cake this time ... still it tasted good and worked almost as well with the whipped cream and mandarin orange slices as it had with cream and raspberries. I also spent a few minutes trying to re-use a dish detergent bottle before discovering that its top was melded not screwed.
Maybe that's the difference between a good relationship and a bad one.
Except that the best bottles have caps that screw on (and off), and the worst cannot be re-used because they are so tightly glued together ... and the opposite is true of marriages.
Well, not exactly ... at least not for me ... the best relationship for me is neither of those ... it's one in which I am not joined at the hip or any other way but linked in all ways .. head, heart and the nether regions as Grandpa would say.
"I'd never say that," scoffed Grandpa. "I always called a spade a spade. Give me a woman with a sweet pussy and a nice tush any time."
I laughed out loud.
"What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you once you knew the story of the chain."
"I thought I'd go with you to my grandson's funeral."
"Did you know him?"
"No, but neither did you."
"I'm hoping to meet my cousins. It would be nice to have some family even this late."
"I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of Velvet ... and they always serve good whiskey at these things, especially the ones that are held in funeral homes, not churches." He smiled and then continued, "Although I must say the booze flowed pretty freely at some of the Catholic wakes I've been to."
"What do you miss most about life, Grandpa?" I asked.
"The women," he said. "The women. The scent of their perfume, the smoothness of their skin, the softness of their bodies. I always had a marvelous sense of peace with a woman. It was like sinking into a feather bed."
"I get that feeling every night," I laughed. "As soon as I snuggle in under my duvet and stretch out my muscles."
"You need to get out more," growled Grandpa. "You've become a cold cold woman in your old age. You didn't use to be."
"She needs to give Mark a chance," said Eva.
"That great marshmallow of a man?" snorted Grandpa.
"Don't listen to him," Eva said to me, and then directed a question to Grandpa. "I thought you'd given up on funerals. What's changed your mind?"
"Thought she ..." He jerked a thumb in my general direction, "...might need some help finding her cousins."
"Bull roar, old man. You smelled Crowne Royal."
"Well, I also wanted to see you, old woman," grinned Grandpa. And he gave Eva an amorphous hug, one that revealed just how much he still cared about her. It was a little like watching the smoke from two wood fires weave together in the air.
"So ... do ghosts get it on in heaven?" I asked innocently. "Or do marriage vows still count if you're dead?"
"Don't be fresh," said Eva.
"There are other ways to connect once you've lost your parts," said Grandpa. He turned to Eva. "My god, I never thought I'd live to see the day I could say that and mean it."
"You didn't," Eva and I said in unison.
"So do you have your ticket?" Grandpa asked once the laughter faded away.
"Not yet. I'll get it at the station tomorrow morning."
"Well, I'll see you on the train then," Grandpa said.
"I will too," said Eva.
"Wait. Why did you come this morning?"
""Just wanted to be sure you were going tomorrow. I think you need to do this."
"Why?" I asked, but Eva was silent ... and then she was gone ... perhaps to follow Grandpa for some of that Smoke Gets in Your Eyes intermingling ...
I hated the thought of packing for a trip. In fact I hated the thought of traveling again. It was less than a week since I'd returned from that grueling trip to London. Does a promise count if you've made it to someone who died years ago?
"Yes," said a disembodied voice. "At least yours do because you're still alive." I wasn't sure if I was hearing Grandpa or Eva. But I guess it didn't really matter.
I pulled out the red suitcase and started throwing in underwear ... Marks and Spencer's ... and then I got side tracked again. I had to do a laundry before I left. Gathering dirty clothing led me to my plants. They needed loving care. They looked as if I had abandoned them, especially the one that Lucas pulled down, the one I had hurriedly crammed back into its pot before I left for England. They needed some watering here, some snipping there.
I thought of Pat's rainforest of plants that created a green dimness in her flat. Every window downstairs was filled with plants. I wished I'd snipped a few pieces to start offspring over here ... just in case I never had the chance again. Illegal of course ... I remembered the movie about the vines and the sexy Frenchman. French Kiss it was called. I saw it in Namibia of all places. Sitting on a folding metal chair beside the woman who was the NANTU accountant, one of the few competent people working for the union after the war of independence.
Because the teachers' union had supported the guerilla war against South African domination of Namibia, they were bound by honour to hire the former freedom fighters. These people had fought for all Namibians, well, for all right thinking Namibians anyway, and had been too busy fighting apartheid to get training or education in their youth. As a result we had a secretary who couldn't type and a driver who couldn't drive. I listened to a news broadcast one day and laughed out loud as the journalist said something about the former combatants now employed all over the country. His accent was strongly British and what I heard was something about the incompetents working for organizations like the Teachers' Union. It was not a politically correct thing to think, I'm afraid ... but every time I cringed beside Festus as he ran stop signs, sped up in tight situations, and failed utterly to recognize the importance of any of the rules of the road or the rights of other drivers, I thought about it. On the highways he was a far better driver than he was in the cities. He should have been a guide. He could distinguish all the deer species from distances so far away that I couldn't even spot their basic shapes. Our mutual love of animals was what eventually allowed us to bond as friends. That and my colour blindness. But that was a whole other story and I needed to prepare for this funeral trip.
One of the things I've noticed about getting to an age when my brain needs oiling is that my mind meanders in the oddest ways. I feel at times as if I am in a great jungle with thousands and thousands of vines to make my way through. Quite often the vines are far more interesting than the path and I find myself taking detours all the time. And every scramble up a vine leads to another vine entangled with that one and so it is very easy to remain in the tree tops of memories rather than staying on the ground with my eyes following the pathways of the here and now and actually getting to my destination. Whole days can disappear this way.
It's a little like the experience of going upstairs to get something and finding yourself wondering what you came up to do, but it's far more interesting. I once had a friend who said she slept around because she wanted to be able to sit in her rocking chair when she was old and have lots of memories to enjoy.
She never became an old woman. But I did ... and I find myself remembering all kinds of things, but few of them have anything to do with sex.
""Maybe that's because you don't need memories to keep you warm because you have the real thing." It was Eva again.
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"One of the nice things about being dead is that you don't need food or rest because there is no body to look after."
Before I had a chance to respond, she said with a giggle, "And no brassieres or girdles either."
"Sort of like the relief you feel initially when you no longer have to worry about pads and tampons ... at least until your brain tissues start needing lube jobs," I said, and then added, "What are you doing here?"
"I just got tangled in your vines of memory."
Death was beginning to have some appeal.
Peter arrived to start another day's work and I returned to my keyboard. Peter must be getting used to seeing me in my pyjamas and housecoat ... I get more writing done if I forget about such amenities as washing and dressing, something Grandpa and Eva would understand. I doubted, however, if Nana would. She still had not abandoned girdles and nylons, or lipstick and face powder. She must think I am a complete slob. I stopped wearing all of those things years ago.
"It might be a good thing to at least do your hair for tomorrow," Eva remarked.
"Do you think my cousins will care?" I asked in surprise.
"Just do it," said Eva.
Okay I thought. Respect for the family and all that.
But how? I didn't have the time, money or inclination to go to a stylist before I left, and I am a total incompetent when it comes to dealing with dryers and curlers.
"Wash it and scrunch it while it dries," Eva advised.
"Good heavens," I said. "The only time I ever do that is when I'm expecting Mark. Most of the time I just pull it off my face into pigtails."
"Just do it," said Eva.
I headed off to the shower.
"In the morning," Eva called, "So it's fresh and bouncy."
How does she know these things?
"I had three daughters," Eva said.
******************************************************************************
BETWEEN SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND THE FUNERAL to be written later.
******************************************************************************
THE FUNERAL
As soon as I stepped down from the maroon and black vehicle and made my way to the curb, I realized I had been here before. I was on Mimico Avenue heading north to the funeral home. I passed a red brick house that looked familiar, and then I saw the garden. This fall had been kind to gardens, especially in Southern Ontario, and pansies still bloomed in the long narrow plot separating Hogle's Funeral home from the house next door ... 59 Mimico Avenue.
I was back on the street where I'd been taken when my father first placed me in foster care. I'd been five. I lived there for two years, and the Hogle boys, Glencoe, Morley and Harvey, had been our neighbours. I wondered which of them had carried on the family business, and whether the funeral parlour had stayed in the family all these years or whether some big business just thought it was good business to keep a name that was trusted.
I was early so I went and knocked on the door to #59. A pleasant middle aged woman answered and invited me in. You can tell when you are getting old. People open their homes and hearts to you more easily. Old women are perceived to be safe. Old men too, I suppose. It began happening to me when I was sixty and I got my first pair of glasses. That was also when I endured hot flashes and my periods stopped for good. And, I presume that was also when the brain lubrication became less reliable. No more regular as clockwork ovulation to squirt lubricant all over the brain's bits and pieces. I was beginning to imagine it, not as a piece of grey dead coral, but as the workings of a grandfather clock. But I digress. The woman invited me in and offered me tea.
I asked if I could visit the pantry. She looked a little surprised, and asked why. "That's the place I remember best," I said. "That's where my foster mother administered our Scott's Emulsion every morning. "Do you know it?" I asked. "It was thick and viscous and pink and it made me gag. Mom Hall became angry when I vomited it out."
"It sounds dreadful," she said leading me through the dining room into the kitchen and the adjacent pantry.
As we squeezed past the dining room table, I said, "Oh ... this is where I got into trouble with my father for dumping my canned peas on the floor." She didn't say anything. Just waited for this strange old woman to finish her journey into the past so that she could get back to her own life. "Clare put hers under her potato shell. She didn't get a spanking."
The woman walked on wordlessly. And then we were there in that dark little room where all medical procedures occurred ... vitamins ... Scott's Emulsion ... cod liver oil ... and urine testing. Mom Hall was a nurse who worked at 999 Queen Street, the infamous hospital for the insane . It had been built before the turn of the century, the turn of the 20th century that is. Grandpa probably remembered it ... and Eva. It's still there but it now has politically correct appellations.
I must have been speaking aloud because I realized with a start that the woman was glancing around as if she were frightened by my presence. Thinking to put her at ease, I told her about Hallowe'ens when I was a child, when the Hogle boys snuck Clare and me into the basement of the funeral home. That was where they washed the dead bodies, pumped in formaldehyde, and prepared them for their last showing. We sang songs about hearses going by and how we might be the next to die ... songs that ended with pus pouring out like whipping cream and other lurid details. The woman's hands began to flutter as she stammered something about having to get her laundry out of the dryer before it got too wrinkled.
"Oh, go ahead," I said. "I'll be fine here with my tea." We were once again in the livingroom. "I'm on my way to a funeral for a man called Joseph. I don't know his last name but he's my cousin. I have plenty of time."
By now the woman looked like a rabbit caught in the high beams of a car. And then there was a gush of words. "I'm sorry but you can't wait here," she said. "My children will be home from school any minute."
"Oh," I said pleasantly. "Do they go to Mimico Avenue School? That's where I attended school from kindergarten till part way through grade two." The woman was now ushering me through the hallway now, one hand on my shoulder, the other frantically turning the knob to let me out onto the front verandah. So that's what the bum's rush is like, I thought, once I was outside again.
The street was filled with children and I stood and watched them ashet dashed home to television sets and computer screens. So different from my school days. I heard the woman's voice behind me. "They have a waiting room at Hogles. They'll let you stay there." And then she pushed past me, quite rudely I might add, to clasp each of her children by the hand and drag them indoors with a hissed, "I'll tell you why later."
They were more courteous and welcoming at Hogle's. It had undergone considerable renovation since I'd last been there. All funeral homes now aim for light and bright. It's as if they want to put the living at ease rather than putting the dead to rest. I sat down in a pleasant room with couches lining the walls, a room lit by many small stained glass lamps, and pulled my journal from my bag. A young woman wearing a blazer and skirt brought me a cup of tea. "I'm going to feel like a sieve if I drink much more tea this afternoon," I said. She smiled and asked if I would prefer something else. "No, this is fine," I said. As she turned to leave, I asked if Glencoe, Morley and Harvey were her brothers.
She smiled and said, "Harvey was my grandfather."
"So he's dead then. What about the others?, I asked.
"Uncle Glencoe's still alive. He's had a stroke and finds it hard to get around now, and Morley died in a car accident many years ago."
"Was his father driving? Mr. Hogle was a terrible driver," I said. "Once he nearly ran right off a cliff edge when he picked us up in Long Branch."
She smiled again. "No, Morley was the driver." Then, as if she wanted to be kind, she asked me to tell her about the time I rode in the hearse. We'd just moved to Long Branch and still felt that 59 Mimico Avenue was home and that the Hogles were neighbours. Mr. Hogle arrived just before dark on July 1 in the hearse and ferried us to and from the fireworks display he and the boys put on every year.
She waited till I finished the story and then she excused herself and I was left alone. I still had half an hour till people would begin to arrive.
"Good God, woman. You'll be lucky if they don't commit you to 999 if you don't stop spouting off like you're half daft."
"Was I that bad, Grandpa?" I asked. "I just keep remembering. And I forget that other people aren't interested."
"That's obvious," he said. "But, as a matter of fact, I found it interesting. I didn't know what happened to you back then."
"Not many people did," I said. "When I met my half brother he had no idea. He'd lived with our mother for twenty some years and she never told him anything about me."
"She was probably ashamed,"said Grandpa. "Why is it so important for you to meet these half cousins of yours?"
"I'm not entirely sure," I said. "But when I met Grant when we were already past middle age, I felt such a sense of security knowing I had a brother. I didn't know him at all, but I loved him ... and I felt accepted by him. It was the first time I've felt quite that way."
"You have children," said Grandpa.
"Your children love you in a different way. They have bones to pick with you. You've made mistakes with them that they find hard to forgive."
"You feel judged ?"
"I guess you could put it that way. Or maybe I just feel guilty that I didn't do a better job."
"Are they such bad people?" asked Grandpa.
I looked at him surprised. "No," I said. "As a matter of fact they're great people."
"Well then you couldn't have done everything wrong," said Eva who had just come into the room.
"Is it time to face the cousins?" I asked.
"Another fifteen minutes," Eva said.
"Do you think you could be a little more invisible?" asked Grandpa. He looked at Eva. "She keeps drawing attention to herself. People think she's dotty."
Eva smiled. "There must be a lot of your grandfather in you," she said.
Grandpa snorted. "I've never talked the ear off a total stranger telling her my life story in disconnected scrambled shreds and pieces."
"That's because you never lived long enough, Paul."
"Well, thank god for that," he said. "It was embarrassing to watch her make a fool of herself."
"Thanks, Grandpa," I said. "I guess if you didn't love me you wouldn't care."
"Hmmmph" was his only comment.
"Will they be able to see you?" I asked Eva.
"Only if they want to," she said. "Some people are so sensitive they can see all kinds of spirits. others are so imperceptive, they never know we are around, even when we are closely related and have important truths to impart."
"I know why Grandpa is here. These are his grandchildren. But why are you here?"
"I'm here because you are. If your grandfather and I had married and had children, I think you are likely the grandchild we'd have felt the most affinity for."
"Hmmph," said Grandpa. "Speak for yourself. She has no respect at all."
Eva did that viney twisty thing and said, "She's just like you, and you know damned well that's probably why you love her as much as you do."
"What are the others like? Mary Jane and Sarah?"
"A little more sedate than you are, but bright and friendly and funny."
"Funny?" snorted Grandpa. "Hardly."
"Don't listen to him," said Eva. "Just be yourself and you'll see. They'll warm right up to you."
"Should I tell them who I am?"
Before she could answer me the door opened and Grandpa hissed in my ear, "Now stop talking to thin air or they'll have you dragged out of here in a strait jacket."
I smiled at the doorway. I couldn't tell who or what was standing there. It was as if the light were all wrong. Then two women about my age walked into the room and extended their hands. "Were you a friend of our brother's?" the taller one asked.
I fumbled for the right words. "My mother and yours were half sisters," I said. "I'm your cousin. When I learned that Joseph had died and that the funeral was in Toronto, I decided to come. I wanted to meet you."
"While we were still around," said the rounder woman with a smile. "Hi. I'm Mary Jane. We'll have to have a really good chin wag after this formal bit is over. Can you come to the house after the service?"
"I'd like that," I said., "You must be Sarah," I said to the woman beside her.
"The same. I think my youngest daughter looks a lot like you must have at her age. Same eyes."
"Are they here, your children?" I asked.
"No, mine are all over the lot ... I hardly ever get to see them any more. One's in Nova Scotia, another's in B.C. and the third emigrated to Australia a few years ago. I never get to see them or my grandchildren."
Our conversation petered out as people began to trickle in. I heard some comments about closed coffins not providing real closure, and I thought about the difference for me between being with my dad until he was cremated and coming to a funeral service and seeing just a closed coffin for my mother. I had always thought open coffins were morbid but I now think it's important for those closest to the person who has died to see the dead, to stare into those empty faces ... to say good bye ... and to know that the spirit has really and truly gone out of the husk.
I wouldn't need to do that with Pat. We'd said our goodbyes in that hospital room in London. And when my friend Claire died I'd already told her I loved her and said my farewell. And I'd sat beside my father's bedside as the life seeped out of him. But it was different with my mother and my brother ... and with Peter. They just died without my knowing it was happening. One day I just got a call telling me they'd gone. I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. So maybe that's what the open coffin allows us to do ... say goodbye.
The only open coffins I've ever seen were those housing relative strangers ... John's mother ... Lyall's wife ... people whose funerals I'd attended because I cared about the survivors, not people I knew and loved.
My reverie was interrupted by what I was sure was a figment of my imagination. There is no way I could know the man coming through the door. He was tall and attractive. Grey haired. He headed straight over to Mary Jane and gathered her into his arms. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it," I heard her say.
His reply was muffled because he was now talking into Sarah's hair.
The two women had their arms around him. What the hell was he doing here? No, it couldn't be.
I thought about the likelihood of both of us being connected to this funeral and realized it had to be someone else. Someone I didn't know.
"Close your mouth." It was Wilhemina. "He's a handsome guy, isn't he?"
"Yes," I managed to get out. "Who is he?"
"My youngest."
I breathed a sigh of relief. So it wasn't him. Just a coincidental likeness. I must have been thinking about him subconsciously. Wishing he were here. Wishing I didn't have to spend the night alone in a Toronto hotel room.
40,915 ... 0,085 to go ...
I've just finished snacking on leftover, somewhat dark, pancakes spread with jam and drinking tea while I read email and looked at the past few blog entries containing this silly novel. Before that I moved some furniture around downstairs in an effort to fit too many things into too little space while still allowing me to watch my movies from a comfortable chair. And before that I finished washing the dishes from last night's chicken dinner with Tammy, Carlos and Mandara. I made the orange scented sponge cake for dessert but it looked a little more like an orange scented cookie than a cake this time ... still it tasted good and worked almost as well with the whipped cream and mandarin orange slices as it had with cream and raspberries. I also spent a few minutes trying to re-use a dish detergent bottle before discovering that its top was melded not screwed.
Maybe that's the difference between a good relationship and a bad one.
Except that the best bottles have caps that screw on (and off), and the worst cannot be re-used because they are so tightly glued together ... and the opposite is true of marriages.
Well, not exactly ... at least not for me ... the best relationship for me is neither of those ... it's one in which I am not joined at the hip or any other way but linked in all ways .. head, heart and the nether regions as Grandpa would say.
"I'd never say that," scoffed Grandpa. "I always called a spade a spade. Give me a woman with a sweet pussy and a nice tush any time."
I laughed out loud.
"What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you once you knew the story of the chain."
"I thought I'd go with you to my grandson's funeral."
"Did you know him?"
"No, but neither did you."
"I'm hoping to meet my cousins. It would be nice to have some family even this late."
"I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of Velvet ... and they always serve good whiskey at these things, especially the ones that are held in funeral homes, not churches." He smiled and then continued, "Although I must say the booze flowed pretty freely at some of the Catholic wakes I've been to."
"What do you miss most about life, Grandpa?" I asked.
"The women," he said. "The women. The scent of their perfume, the smoothness of their skin, the softness of their bodies. I always had a marvelous sense of peace with a woman. It was like sinking into a feather bed."
"I get that feeling every night," I laughed. "As soon as I snuggle in under my duvet and stretch out my muscles."
"You need to get out more," growled Grandpa. "You've become a cold cold woman in your old age. You didn't use to be."
"She needs to give Mark a chance," said Eva.
"That great marshmallow of a man?" snorted Grandpa.
"Don't listen to him," Eva said to me, and then directed a question to Grandpa. "I thought you'd given up on funerals. What's changed your mind?"
"Thought she ..." He jerked a thumb in my general direction, "...might need some help finding her cousins."
"Bull roar, old man. You smelled Crowne Royal."
"Well, I also wanted to see you, old woman," grinned Grandpa. And he gave Eva an amorphous hug, one that revealed just how much he still cared about her. It was a little like watching the smoke from two wood fires weave together in the air.
"So ... do ghosts get it on in heaven?" I asked innocently. "Or do marriage vows still count if you're dead?"
"Don't be fresh," said Eva.
"There are other ways to connect once you've lost your parts," said Grandpa. He turned to Eva. "My god, I never thought I'd live to see the day I could say that and mean it."
"You didn't," Eva and I said in unison.
"So do you have your ticket?" Grandpa asked once the laughter faded away.
"Not yet. I'll get it at the station tomorrow morning."
"Well, I'll see you on the train then," Grandpa said.
"I will too," said Eva.
"Wait. Why did you come this morning?"
""Just wanted to be sure you were going tomorrow. I think you need to do this."
"Why?" I asked, but Eva was silent ... and then she was gone ... perhaps to follow Grandpa for some of that Smoke Gets in Your Eyes intermingling ...
I hated the thought of packing for a trip. In fact I hated the thought of traveling again. It was less than a week since I'd returned from that grueling trip to London. Does a promise count if you've made it to someone who died years ago?
"Yes," said a disembodied voice. "At least yours do because you're still alive." I wasn't sure if I was hearing Grandpa or Eva. But I guess it didn't really matter.
I pulled out the red suitcase and started throwing in underwear ... Marks and Spencer's ... and then I got side tracked again. I had to do a laundry before I left. Gathering dirty clothing led me to my plants. They needed loving care. They looked as if I had abandoned them, especially the one that Lucas pulled down, the one I had hurriedly crammed back into its pot before I left for England. They needed some watering here, some snipping there.
I thought of Pat's rainforest of plants that created a green dimness in her flat. Every window downstairs was filled with plants. I wished I'd snipped a few pieces to start offspring over here ... just in case I never had the chance again. Illegal of course ... I remembered the movie about the vines and the sexy Frenchman. French Kiss it was called. I saw it in Namibia of all places. Sitting on a folding metal chair beside the woman who was the NANTU accountant, one of the few competent people working for the union after the war of independence.
Because the teachers' union had supported the guerilla war against South African domination of Namibia, they were bound by honour to hire the former freedom fighters. These people had fought for all Namibians, well, for all right thinking Namibians anyway, and had been too busy fighting apartheid to get training or education in their youth. As a result we had a secretary who couldn't type and a driver who couldn't drive. I listened to a news broadcast one day and laughed out loud as the journalist said something about the former combatants now employed all over the country. His accent was strongly British and what I heard was something about the incompetents working for organizations like the Teachers' Union. It was not a politically correct thing to think, I'm afraid ... but every time I cringed beside Festus as he ran stop signs, sped up in tight situations, and failed utterly to recognize the importance of any of the rules of the road or the rights of other drivers, I thought about it. On the highways he was a far better driver than he was in the cities. He should have been a guide. He could distinguish all the deer species from distances so far away that I couldn't even spot their basic shapes. Our mutual love of animals was what eventually allowed us to bond as friends. That and my colour blindness. But that was a whole other story and I needed to prepare for this funeral trip.
One of the things I've noticed about getting to an age when my brain needs oiling is that my mind meanders in the oddest ways. I feel at times as if I am in a great jungle with thousands and thousands of vines to make my way through. Quite often the vines are far more interesting than the path and I find myself taking detours all the time. And every scramble up a vine leads to another vine entangled with that one and so it is very easy to remain in the tree tops of memories rather than staying on the ground with my eyes following the pathways of the here and now and actually getting to my destination. Whole days can disappear this way.
It's a little like the experience of going upstairs to get something and finding yourself wondering what you came up to do, but it's far more interesting. I once had a friend who said she slept around because she wanted to be able to sit in her rocking chair when she was old and have lots of memories to enjoy.
She never became an old woman. But I did ... and I find myself remembering all kinds of things, but few of them have anything to do with sex.
""Maybe that's because you don't need memories to keep you warm because you have the real thing." It was Eva again.
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"One of the nice things about being dead is that you don't need food or rest because there is no body to look after."
Before I had a chance to respond, she said with a giggle, "And no brassieres or girdles either."
"Sort of like the relief you feel initially when you no longer have to worry about pads and tampons ... at least until your brain tissues start needing lube jobs," I said, and then added, "What are you doing here?"
"I just got tangled in your vines of memory."
Death was beginning to have some appeal.
Peter arrived to start another day's work and I returned to my keyboard. Peter must be getting used to seeing me in my pyjamas and housecoat ... I get more writing done if I forget about such amenities as washing and dressing, something Grandpa and Eva would understand. I doubted, however, if Nana would. She still had not abandoned girdles and nylons, or lipstick and face powder. She must think I am a complete slob. I stopped wearing all of those things years ago.
"It might be a good thing to at least do your hair for tomorrow," Eva remarked.
"Do you think my cousins will care?" I asked in surprise.
"Just do it," said Eva.
Okay I thought. Respect for the family and all that.
But how? I didn't have the time, money or inclination to go to a stylist before I left, and I am a total incompetent when it comes to dealing with dryers and curlers.
"Wash it and scrunch it while it dries," Eva advised.
"Good heavens," I said. "The only time I ever do that is when I'm expecting Mark. Most of the time I just pull it off my face into pigtails."
"Just do it," said Eva.
I headed off to the shower.
"In the morning," Eva called, "So it's fresh and bouncy."
How does she know these things?
"I had three daughters," Eva said.
******************************************************************************
BETWEEN SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND THE FUNERAL to be written later.
******************************************************************************
THE FUNERAL
As soon as I stepped down from the maroon and black vehicle and made my way to the curb, I realized I had been here before. I was on Mimico Avenue heading north to the funeral home. I passed a red brick house that looked familiar, and then I saw the garden. This fall had been kind to gardens, especially in Southern Ontario, and pansies still bloomed in the long narrow plot separating Hogle's Funeral home from the house next door ... 59 Mimico Avenue.
I was back on the street where I'd been taken when my father first placed me in foster care. I'd been five. I lived there for two years, and the Hogle boys, Glencoe, Morley and Harvey, had been our neighbours. I wondered which of them had carried on the family business, and whether the funeral parlour had stayed in the family all these years or whether some big business just thought it was good business to keep a name that was trusted.
I was early so I went and knocked on the door to #59. A pleasant middle aged woman answered and invited me in. You can tell when you are getting old. People open their homes and hearts to you more easily. Old women are perceived to be safe. Old men too, I suppose. It began happening to me when I was sixty and I got my first pair of glasses. That was also when I endured hot flashes and my periods stopped for good. And, I presume that was also when the brain lubrication became less reliable. No more regular as clockwork ovulation to squirt lubricant all over the brain's bits and pieces. I was beginning to imagine it, not as a piece of grey dead coral, but as the workings of a grandfather clock. But I digress. The woman invited me in and offered me tea.
I asked if I could visit the pantry. She looked a little surprised, and asked why. "That's the place I remember best," I said. "That's where my foster mother administered our Scott's Emulsion every morning. "Do you know it?" I asked. "It was thick and viscous and pink and it made me gag. Mom Hall became angry when I vomited it out."
"It sounds dreadful," she said leading me through the dining room into the kitchen and the adjacent pantry.
As we squeezed past the dining room table, I said, "Oh ... this is where I got into trouble with my father for dumping my canned peas on the floor." She didn't say anything. Just waited for this strange old woman to finish her journey into the past so that she could get back to her own life. "Clare put hers under her potato shell. She didn't get a spanking."
The woman walked on wordlessly. And then we were there in that dark little room where all medical procedures occurred ... vitamins ... Scott's Emulsion ... cod liver oil ... and urine testing. Mom Hall was a nurse who worked at 999 Queen Street, the infamous hospital for the insane . It had been built before the turn of the century, the turn of the 20th century that is. Grandpa probably remembered it ... and Eva. It's still there but it now has politically correct appellations.
I must have been speaking aloud because I realized with a start that the woman was glancing around as if she were frightened by my presence. Thinking to put her at ease, I told her about Hallowe'ens when I was a child, when the Hogle boys snuck Clare and me into the basement of the funeral home. That was where they washed the dead bodies, pumped in formaldehyde, and prepared them for their last showing. We sang songs about hearses going by and how we might be the next to die ... songs that ended with pus pouring out like whipping cream and other lurid details. The woman's hands began to flutter as she stammered something about having to get her laundry out of the dryer before it got too wrinkled.
"Oh, go ahead," I said. "I'll be fine here with my tea." We were once again in the livingroom. "I'm on my way to a funeral for a man called Joseph. I don't know his last name but he's my cousin. I have plenty of time."
By now the woman looked like a rabbit caught in the high beams of a car. And then there was a gush of words. "I'm sorry but you can't wait here," she said. "My children will be home from school any minute."
"Oh," I said pleasantly. "Do they go to Mimico Avenue School? That's where I attended school from kindergarten till part way through grade two." The woman was now ushering me through the hallway now, one hand on my shoulder, the other frantically turning the knob to let me out onto the front verandah. So that's what the bum's rush is like, I thought, once I was outside again.
The street was filled with children and I stood and watched them ashet dashed home to television sets and computer screens. So different from my school days. I heard the woman's voice behind me. "They have a waiting room at Hogles. They'll let you stay there." And then she pushed past me, quite rudely I might add, to clasp each of her children by the hand and drag them indoors with a hissed, "I'll tell you why later."
They were more courteous and welcoming at Hogle's. It had undergone considerable renovation since I'd last been there. All funeral homes now aim for light and bright. It's as if they want to put the living at ease rather than putting the dead to rest. I sat down in a pleasant room with couches lining the walls, a room lit by many small stained glass lamps, and pulled my journal from my bag. A young woman wearing a blazer and skirt brought me a cup of tea. "I'm going to feel like a sieve if I drink much more tea this afternoon," I said. She smiled and asked if I would prefer something else. "No, this is fine," I said. As she turned to leave, I asked if Glencoe, Morley and Harvey were her brothers.
She smiled and said, "Harvey was my grandfather."
"So he's dead then. What about the others?, I asked.
"Uncle Glencoe's still alive. He's had a stroke and finds it hard to get around now, and Morley died in a car accident many years ago."
"Was his father driving? Mr. Hogle was a terrible driver," I said. "Once he nearly ran right off a cliff edge when he picked us up in Long Branch."
She smiled again. "No, Morley was the driver." Then, as if she wanted to be kind, she asked me to tell her about the time I rode in the hearse. We'd just moved to Long Branch and still felt that 59 Mimico Avenue was home and that the Hogles were neighbours. Mr. Hogle arrived just before dark on July 1 in the hearse and ferried us to and from the fireworks display he and the boys put on every year.
She waited till I finished the story and then she excused herself and I was left alone. I still had half an hour till people would begin to arrive.
"Good God, woman. You'll be lucky if they don't commit you to 999 if you don't stop spouting off like you're half daft."
"Was I that bad, Grandpa?" I asked. "I just keep remembering. And I forget that other people aren't interested."
"That's obvious," he said. "But, as a matter of fact, I found it interesting. I didn't know what happened to you back then."
"Not many people did," I said. "When I met my half brother he had no idea. He'd lived with our mother for twenty some years and she never told him anything about me."
"She was probably ashamed,"said Grandpa. "Why is it so important for you to meet these half cousins of yours?"
"I'm not entirely sure," I said. "But when I met Grant when we were already past middle age, I felt such a sense of security knowing I had a brother. I didn't know him at all, but I loved him ... and I felt accepted by him. It was the first time I've felt quite that way."
"You have children," said Grandpa.
"Your children love you in a different way. They have bones to pick with you. You've made mistakes with them that they find hard to forgive."
"You feel judged ?"
"I guess you could put it that way. Or maybe I just feel guilty that I didn't do a better job."
"Are they such bad people?" asked Grandpa.
I looked at him surprised. "No," I said. "As a matter of fact they're great people."
"Well then you couldn't have done everything wrong," said Eva who had just come into the room.
"Is it time to face the cousins?" I asked.
"Another fifteen minutes," Eva said.
"Do you think you could be a little more invisible?" asked Grandpa. He looked at Eva. "She keeps drawing attention to herself. People think she's dotty."
Eva smiled. "There must be a lot of your grandfather in you," she said.
Grandpa snorted. "I've never talked the ear off a total stranger telling her my life story in disconnected scrambled shreds and pieces."
"That's because you never lived long enough, Paul."
"Well, thank god for that," he said. "It was embarrassing to watch her make a fool of herself."
"Thanks, Grandpa," I said. "I guess if you didn't love me you wouldn't care."
"Hmmmph" was his only comment.
"Will they be able to see you?" I asked Eva.
"Only if they want to," she said. "Some people are so sensitive they can see all kinds of spirits. others are so imperceptive, they never know we are around, even when we are closely related and have important truths to impart."
"I know why Grandpa is here. These are his grandchildren. But why are you here?"
"I'm here because you are. If your grandfather and I had married and had children, I think you are likely the grandchild we'd have felt the most affinity for."
"Hmmph," said Grandpa. "Speak for yourself. She has no respect at all."
Eva did that viney twisty thing and said, "She's just like you, and you know damned well that's probably why you love her as much as you do."
"What are the others like? Mary Jane and Sarah?"
"A little more sedate than you are, but bright and friendly and funny."
"Funny?" snorted Grandpa. "Hardly."
"Don't listen to him," said Eva. "Just be yourself and you'll see. They'll warm right up to you."
"Should I tell them who I am?"
Before she could answer me the door opened and Grandpa hissed in my ear, "Now stop talking to thin air or they'll have you dragged out of here in a strait jacket."
I smiled at the doorway. I couldn't tell who or what was standing there. It was as if the light were all wrong. Then two women about my age walked into the room and extended their hands. "Were you a friend of our brother's?" the taller one asked.
I fumbled for the right words. "My mother and yours were half sisters," I said. "I'm your cousin. When I learned that Joseph had died and that the funeral was in Toronto, I decided to come. I wanted to meet you."
"While we were still around," said the rounder woman with a smile. "Hi. I'm Mary Jane. We'll have to have a really good chin wag after this formal bit is over. Can you come to the house after the service?"
"I'd like that," I said., "You must be Sarah," I said to the woman beside her.
"The same. I think my youngest daughter looks a lot like you must have at her age. Same eyes."
"Are they here, your children?" I asked.
"No, mine are all over the lot ... I hardly ever get to see them any more. One's in Nova Scotia, another's in B.C. and the third emigrated to Australia a few years ago. I never get to see them or my grandchildren."
Our conversation petered out as people began to trickle in. I heard some comments about closed coffins not providing real closure, and I thought about the difference for me between being with my dad until he was cremated and coming to a funeral service and seeing just a closed coffin for my mother. I had always thought open coffins were morbid but I now think it's important for those closest to the person who has died to see the dead, to stare into those empty faces ... to say good bye ... and to know that the spirit has really and truly gone out of the husk.
I wouldn't need to do that with Pat. We'd said our goodbyes in that hospital room in London. And when my friend Claire died I'd already told her I loved her and said my farewell. And I'd sat beside my father's bedside as the life seeped out of him. But it was different with my mother and my brother ... and with Peter. They just died without my knowing it was happening. One day I just got a call telling me they'd gone. I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. So maybe that's what the open coffin allows us to do ... say goodbye.
The only open coffins I've ever seen were those housing relative strangers ... John's mother ... Lyall's wife ... people whose funerals I'd attended because I cared about the survivors, not people I knew and loved.
My reverie was interrupted by what I was sure was a figment of my imagination. There is no way I could know the man coming through the door. He was tall and attractive. Grey haired. He headed straight over to Mary Jane and gathered her into his arms. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it," I heard her say.
His reply was muffled because he was now talking into Sarah's hair.
The two women had their arms around him. What the hell was he doing here? No, it couldn't be.
I thought about the likelihood of both of us being connected to this funeral and realized it had to be someone else. Someone I didn't know.
"Close your mouth." It was Wilhemina. "He's a handsome guy, isn't he?"
"Yes," I managed to get out. "Who is he?"
"My youngest."
I breathed a sigh of relief. So it wasn't him. Just a coincidental likeness. I must have been thinking about him subconsciously. Wishing he were here. Wishing I didn't have to spend the night alone in a Toronto hotel room.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
the last post of day 28
November 28, 2009
The Marathon Continues
My Cousin's Funeral
Well, I'd solved Grandpa's mystery thanks to Eva.
Now I wanted to find out what I needed to know in order to attend my cousin's funeral. That might prove a little harder since Wilhemina disappeared without even telling me his name. From my personal experience these days, I figure that there must be thousands of men in their sixties who died in Toronto recently.
"But not so many who will be buried on Monday."
"Mom!" I hadn't heard a word from her since she died in 1975 and the words we exchanged before that weren't terribly friendly.
"Why didn't you tell me I had cousins and an aunt?"
"You know how I feel about children born out of wedlock," she said almost primly.
"Yes, I remember," I said. "You were not very pleasant to me when I got pregnant with Kay."
"No, I wasn't," she said.
"I always thought it was a bit hypocritical, you know."
"I never had a bastard," she said sharply.
"Neither did I," I replied in the same tone. "But the reason I ended up with no parents at all was because you were sleeping around ..."
There was a sharp intake of breath, but I didn't give her time to protest. "I knew about the milkman, the dry cleaner and the man whose cock you washed in the kitchen sink. How many others were there?"
"How?" The question dangled in the air, a palpable presence between us.
"I saw things. I wasn't stupid, you know, just small and young."
She began to apologize and I said, "Oh and then there were the guys you and Chris dated ... the ones you got into an accident with and it was all over the papers. That must have been nice for my father to read about too. He was busy working his ass off and you were out playing with boys in convertibles. No wonder he didn't think you were a fit mother. You sure weren't a very good wife."
I looked up finally and stopped spewing forth the ugly words. Tears were streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over me. I forgave you years ago. You were just a poor little rich girl raised without parents by a gentle grandmother who adored you. What chance did you have?"
"I wish I could have had a chance to make amends," she said, "but no one gets a chance to relive the past."
No one but me, I thought ... and I get to relive everybody's.
"His name was Joseph," my mother said before she left.
Great ... Joseph ... Why couldn't she have uttered the surname?
I phoned Danny. "How do I find out where a Joseph is being buried on Monday in Toronto?" Danny loves to solve any kind of puzzle involving dead ends and dead people. He is a genealogist.
"Try the death notices in the Saturday papers. If that doesn't get you anywhere, start calling funeral homes. You can probably get a list from a Toronto website."
"Thanks," I said. "Did you get the photo I sent? The one of Pat and Claire and me at the hospital?"
"Yes," Dan said "Oh. Don't forget that Toronto is a metropolis and you might have to go outside the city boundaries to get the information. No one lives in that city any more. They all commute for hours. Look as far away as Barrie or Orangeville."
I spent most of the next two days tracking down the information. I finally found twelve Josephs, 6 of whom were in the right age range. I began to feel like an automaton as I asked each funeral parlour employee the same questions beginning with the preamble "I know this will sound strange but I don't know the surname of the Joseph being buried on Monday ... and No I don't know his address ... or age ... or wife's name ... no not the children either ..." Some were exasperated. Others suspicious. Did they think I was going to rob the house during the funeral?
Finally I had narrowed it down to three men. One had already been cremated and the service would be held at St. Andrews United Church in Orillia. The second was having a closed casket with cremation to follow the service at Hogle's Funeral Home in Mimico. The third was having a very traditional service with an open casket, viewing to precede the service at St. Basil's Roman Catholic Church in downtown Toronto. All three services were being held in the afternoon between 2 and 4. I couldn't possible attend all three without sprouting wings myself, and, although I really wanted to attend my cousin's service, I wasn't dying to go.
"Do you know the names of the next of kin?" It was Danny. He must have been psychic so he called.
"There are three siblings. The sisters are Mary Jane and Sarah. I don't know what the brother's name is. And his mother was Wilhemina. I don't know the father. Wilhemina's dead."
Then I wailed, "But I can't call those funeral homes again. They think I'm a burglar."
Dan hung up without comment.
An hour passed before he called back. "It's the one in Mimico," he said. "4 p.m. ... you can get the train to Toronto and then take the Go Train or a streetcar to Mimico. It's on Mimico Avenue not far from the Lakeshore Road."
"How did you do that?" I asked.
"I've got High Speed," he said. "I cut down some trees."
Only someone who had lived with the man would have understood the cryptic message. I told you Mark wasn't the first strange man I'd fallen for. I was pretty sure Danny had Asperger's and had learned how to cope despite being unable to read social cues. Like Mark ... and like me ... he lived in isolation ... but unlike us, he needed to have a woman living with him ... someone to play with, eat with and go to bed with. This latest one was probably the best one yet. She was pretty and uneducated ... malleable in most things but rigid in the ones that mattered. Dan was kept on a very short leash as far as other women were concerned, but was allowed to make all the other decisions in the household. I operated exactly in reverse ... and it didn't work well at all. Smart women are not necessarily intelligent or educated.
Sunday
Monday
The Funeral
The Marathon Continues
My Cousin's Funeral
Well, I'd solved Grandpa's mystery thanks to Eva.
Now I wanted to find out what I needed to know in order to attend my cousin's funeral. That might prove a little harder since Wilhemina disappeared without even telling me his name. From my personal experience these days, I figure that there must be thousands of men in their sixties who died in Toronto recently.
"But not so many who will be buried on Monday."
"Mom!" I hadn't heard a word from her since she died in 1975 and the words we exchanged before that weren't terribly friendly.
"Why didn't you tell me I had cousins and an aunt?"
"You know how I feel about children born out of wedlock," she said almost primly.
"Yes, I remember," I said. "You were not very pleasant to me when I got pregnant with Kay."
"No, I wasn't," she said.
"I always thought it was a bit hypocritical, you know."
"I never had a bastard," she said sharply.
"Neither did I," I replied in the same tone. "But the reason I ended up with no parents at all was because you were sleeping around ..."
There was a sharp intake of breath, but I didn't give her time to protest. "I knew about the milkman, the dry cleaner and the man whose cock you washed in the kitchen sink. How many others were there?"
"How?" The question dangled in the air, a palpable presence between us.
"I saw things. I wasn't stupid, you know, just small and young."
She began to apologize and I said, "Oh and then there were the guys you and Chris dated ... the ones you got into an accident with and it was all over the papers. That must have been nice for my father to read about too. He was busy working his ass off and you were out playing with boys in convertibles. No wonder he didn't think you were a fit mother. You sure weren't a very good wife."
I looked up finally and stopped spewing forth the ugly words. Tears were streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over me. I forgave you years ago. You were just a poor little rich girl raised without parents by a gentle grandmother who adored you. What chance did you have?"
"I wish I could have had a chance to make amends," she said, "but no one gets a chance to relive the past."
No one but me, I thought ... and I get to relive everybody's.
"His name was Joseph," my mother said before she left.
Great ... Joseph ... Why couldn't she have uttered the surname?
I phoned Danny. "How do I find out where a Joseph is being buried on Monday in Toronto?" Danny loves to solve any kind of puzzle involving dead ends and dead people. He is a genealogist.
"Try the death notices in the Saturday papers. If that doesn't get you anywhere, start calling funeral homes. You can probably get a list from a Toronto website."
"Thanks," I said. "Did you get the photo I sent? The one of Pat and Claire and me at the hospital?"
"Yes," Dan said "Oh. Don't forget that Toronto is a metropolis and you might have to go outside the city boundaries to get the information. No one lives in that city any more. They all commute for hours. Look as far away as Barrie or Orangeville."
I spent most of the next two days tracking down the information. I finally found twelve Josephs, 6 of whom were in the right age range. I began to feel like an automaton as I asked each funeral parlour employee the same questions beginning with the preamble "I know this will sound strange but I don't know the surname of the Joseph being buried on Monday ... and No I don't know his address ... or age ... or wife's name ... no not the children either ..." Some were exasperated. Others suspicious. Did they think I was going to rob the house during the funeral?
Finally I had narrowed it down to three men. One had already been cremated and the service would be held at St. Andrews United Church in Orillia. The second was having a closed casket with cremation to follow the service at Hogle's Funeral Home in Mimico. The third was having a very traditional service with an open casket, viewing to precede the service at St. Basil's Roman Catholic Church in downtown Toronto. All three services were being held in the afternoon between 2 and 4. I couldn't possible attend all three without sprouting wings myself, and, although I really wanted to attend my cousin's service, I wasn't dying to go.
"Do you know the names of the next of kin?" It was Danny. He must have been psychic so he called.
"There are three siblings. The sisters are Mary Jane and Sarah. I don't know what the brother's name is. And his mother was Wilhemina. I don't know the father. Wilhemina's dead."
Then I wailed, "But I can't call those funeral homes again. They think I'm a burglar."
Dan hung up without comment.
An hour passed before he called back. "It's the one in Mimico," he said. "4 p.m. ... you can get the train to Toronto and then take the Go Train or a streetcar to Mimico. It's on Mimico Avenue not far from the Lakeshore Road."
"How did you do that?" I asked.
"I've got High Speed," he said. "I cut down some trees."
Only someone who had lived with the man would have understood the cryptic message. I told you Mark wasn't the first strange man I'd fallen for. I was pretty sure Danny had Asperger's and had learned how to cope despite being unable to read social cues. Like Mark ... and like me ... he lived in isolation ... but unlike us, he needed to have a woman living with him ... someone to play with, eat with and go to bed with. This latest one was probably the best one yet. She was pretty and uneducated ... malleable in most things but rigid in the ones that mattered. Dan was kept on a very short leash as far as other women were concerned, but was allowed to make all the other decisions in the household. I operated exactly in reverse ... and it didn't work well at all. Smart women are not necessarily intelligent or educated.
Sunday
Monday
The Funeral
Day 28 9-noon
November 28, 2009
9 am - noon
Today I will write the conversation of the chain women ... and the lead-up to the funeral and the ending with Mark. Maybe everyone involved will show up at this funeral ... Eva, Grandpa, my mother, my father, Wilhemina, Wilhemina's mother ... Velvet Touch ... my cousins Mary Jane and Sarah.
One of the problems with writing this quickly and not printing as you go along is that you forget events and names ... and leave all kinds of loose ends hanging ... especially if you are operating with an unoiled brain. I really wish my daughter had not shared that particular piece of information.
Grandpa always liked being connected with women, but this particular connection did not make his life more pleasant. In fact, it ended it. It all began with Nana.
Nana had suckered Grandpa into marriage. He'd been completely infatuated with her. She was beautiful, smart and living in his parents' house. It wasn't hard for Marie to ensnare a man who loved women, especially a man who was a few years her junior. Grandpa thought he was a man of the world, but Nana revealed just how naiive and trusting he was ... two traits she did not share. Once she'd had the baby (can't remember her name) and was certain that her future and that of the baby girl were assured, she wanted nothing more to do with Paul.
Paul, being who he was, was not devastated by the failure of the marriage. Sex had ended almost as soon as conception occurred, and Marie's sweet temper disappeared at about the same time. It did no good to complain to his mother or Eva. They talked about hormonal swings and the difficulties of pregnancy. So Paul, predictably, turned back to the piano girls.
His mother admonished him in dulcet tones, his step-father launched one strict, no-nonsense, pedantic tirade and then retired to his newspaper. Marie seemed pleased by Paul's lack of attention, happy that he spent his nights elsewhere.
She had everything she wanted now ... an absentee husband ... a steady source of comfortable income ... a child who caused her no trouble at all after the delivery and the requisite (and very short) time spent nursing that her mother-in-law insisted on. She lived in a beautiful home with her in-laws waited on by their servants. But she was restless doing nothing and as soon as she could do so, she put her name back on the nursing registry.
She was soon staying for weeks at a time with elderly, infirm, rich patients who treated her far better than either she or they treated the household help. She, after all, was the dispenser of pain killers, the provider of soothing baths and back rubs. And it was a lucrative trade. The appreciative clients and their even more grateful families were very generous to this woman who took over the burden of an aging parent.
Everything would likely have continued to sail along in this manner, but 1929 happened. These days rich men were jumping out of high rise windows, not buying furs for their wives and mistresses The business did not go under completely but its revenues decreased. Two of the German house maids were sent back home, and the household budget was reined in. Paul, however, continued to be as profligate in his spending habits as ever. His mother wired home to Germany to the aristocrat who'd paid a great deal already to bury his sin in the New World, and was told this would be the last packet possible. She put the money away in a separate bank account for the baby's future, and didn't tell anyone about it.
Marie watched in dismay as her golden goose grew thinner, and began to drop its feathers. Her own calls were dropping off too as daughters and daughters-in-law were dragged in, not without complaint, to empty the bedpans of their family members. The rise in accidental deaths due to drug overdoses was explained by the fact that qualified nurses were no longer looking after these rich old people.
When Marie confronted her mother-in-law about Paul's spending she was hushed.
"You've spoiled him all his life. Can't you see that?" she accused the old woman.
"He's all I have," she replied.
"What about the baby?" Marie countered.
"The baby will always be looked after. I love her as much as I love Paul."
Marie realized there was no getting through to the old woman so she began to plan the only possible way to stop Paul from spending what was left.
She went back to the Anglican Home for Unwed Mothers. Oh, no, not because she wanted a job there, and certainly not because she needed their services herself. No, she went back to talk to Eva.
Why Eva, I am sure you are wondering. Eva was Paul's friend, but even Eva would not have been able to curb his spending. It was as ingrained as the shape of his hands with their long piano playing fingers, the same fingers that dispensed dollar bills so freely.
Marie was too clever to ask outright for the name of someone she could co-opt into helping her, but she managed to convince Eva that she wanted to take on a little sister. She wanted to sponsor one of her unwed mothers. "I'll take her out and give her nursing care and advice," Marie said. "And I'll help her outfit the new baby."
"That would be wonderful of you, Marie. But are you sure you can afford such generosity?"
"I've got a new job and I only work for pin money, anyway. I have more than I can possibly spend on myself."
If Eva was at all surprised by this sudden burst of generosity or if she had any suspicions about ulterior motives, she must have subdued them. Perhaps once again, her scruples were overridden by her concern for the women she was sheltering. Or perhaps she really believed that Marie had turned over a new leaf.
She did ask, though, and accepted Marie's explanation that having her own baby had made her realize how difficult it would be for one of these poor street girls to manage alone.
"Times are tough," she said in conclusion.
Eva introduced Marie and Magda a few days later. They formed a firm friendship almost immediately. Magda had immigrated to Canada just a few months before and had not established any real network of support. The boy had fled when he learned that she was pregnant. A familiar story. Especially to Marie who remembered her first pregnancy very well.
The story Marie told Magda about her marriage to Paul would have been unrecognizable to anyone who knew the truth, but Magda took it all in and kept it close to her heart for a very long time. She loved Marie, not only because Marie gave her money every week and produced boxes and boxes of beautiful clothing from her own daughter's layette, now long outgrown and lovingly packed away by her mother-in-law. Hand embroidered night gowns of the finest lawn, tiny hand knit sweaters, bonnets and booties. Soakers that had been knit and felted by her grandmother. Lacy shawls and blankets of the softest possible lambs wool. And since the little girl was no longer a baby, the gift packages included clothing that would see the unborn baby through to school age. All of the material things were wonderful, but magda grew to really love Marie. She loved her because she understood what it was to be deceived, to be left alone.
She listened as Marie told of the heartless rich man who had tricked her, impregnated her, and then stolen her baby giving it to his mother who had always wanted a baby girl. She was horrified by the callousness of Paul's behaviour toward her friend. "He beat me," Marie sobbed. "I had to get away." Magda patted her hand and clucked sympathetically.
"And he ran around almost from the moment I told him I was expecting his child."
"Oh, no," murmured Magda. That seemed almost as bad as being struck by the man you loved.
"And they were women with diseases," Marie had gone on ... "women he met in bars."
Magda didn't question anything Marie told her. After all, she too had been abandoned by the man she loved. And Magda lived in a place where she'd heard this same tale repeated many times over. Every girl in the home had been screwed by a man ... literally and figuratively.
Marie had been lucky she had a mother-in-law who wanted her new baby, thought Magda. as they exchanged their stories.
One day, Marie, said, "I'm not a vindictive woman really, but I wish there were some way to teach Paul and these other men a lesson they'd never forget. That was the only time Marie ever mentioned anything to Magda about hurting Paul in any way.
Shortly after Magda's baby was born she and one of the other girls were nursing their babies in the sunroom. "What a beautiful nightie," said the other woman. "Where in hell did you get that? Did you steal it?"
Magda laughed and told Janice about her benefactor. Over time Janice learned more and more of Marie's story from Magda. "What was this scoundrel's name?" she asked one day.
"Paul," replied Magda.
"Jesus, Paul Donat. I bet anything that was him. Was he German?"
"I think so," said Magda. "But please don't tell anyone about this. Marie told me about it in confidence."
"I know Paul," said Janice. "I dated him for a few months probably about the same time as Marie was having a tough time with him."
"What was he like to you?"
"A prick is always a prick," said Janice. She went on to tell Magda the story about the piano. "He didn't even say good bye, the louse. I thought he was out of town for a few weeks, then one day these two guys showed up at my door and took the piano away. I'd sure like to get him back for doing that to me."
"Marie said he did that to all the girls. He liked to play the piano at their flats. Marie was glad he didn't end up spending every cent of his mother's money on pianos."
"Yeah, well she didn't lose her piano, did she? That was the most valuable thing I owned."
Magda thought for a moment and then said, "No ... but she had her baby taken away from her."
"Jeez," said Janice. "That's worse."
"Way worse," said Magda and held her own daughter closer.
And, as happens with stories like this, Janice brooded about the injustices done to all the women Paul dropped by the wayside, forgot her promise to Magda, and passed the story on when she was talking to another woman who'd also been hard done by, another woman dropped by Paul when it stopped being fun.
She was a rough woman whom time had battered pretty badly. Paul was just one of a whole series of men who'd treated her badly. Her name was Helen and she was down on her luck and living on the street when Janice saw her. Janice was walking the baby when a woman's voice reached her. "Janice. Don't you remember me? The Cleopatra?"
Janice stopped and peered into the shadows of the doorway. An ancient hag was huddled under a grey blanket. She struggled to her feet and extended a yellowed claw toward the baby. Janice leapt back snatching the baby away from the woman's touch.
"Leave her alone. I don't know you." she cried.
"It's Helen. We danced together. Don't you remember?"
Janice stared in disbelief. The woman was toothless and filthy. "What in hell happened to you. You're the same age as I am and you used to be beautiful."
"Life happened," said Helen. "Buy me a beer and I'll tell you all about it.
By the end of the afternoon, the two had traded stories, all of them marked by the treachery of men, and both women were drunk and angry. The baby slept peacefully on the wooden bench between Janice and the beer stained wall of the tavern. The bartender came over and noticed the baby for the first time. "Hey, get that kid outta here before I lose my licence."
"Yeah, yeah," said Janice. "We're goin'. Don't get your balls in an uproar."
"I can't take you home with me, Helen, "Janice apologized. I'm still staying at Eva's and she only lets the residents sleep over. You know, the women and their babies."
"I know," said Helen. "It's okay. And thanks for the beer. Maybe I can do you a favour some time."
Janice never knew that Helen would be true to her word, that she knew a street person who was no longer quite sane. A woman who like Helen had been beaten by a man. That woman had suffered head injuries and a hatred so black and virulent that she wanted to commit murder. The man who'd done it to her was not available to be her victim, but that didn't really matter to her. She hated all men equally.
This was the woman who murdered Paul.
But Paul was really murdered by six women. Perhaps seven if you count his mother. Perhaps many more if you count all the women who brought boys up to be uncaring bastards and all the women who had been victimized by them.
And poor old Paul kept on trying to make things right ... he really didn't deserve to be the scapegoat for all those other guys.
"No, I didn't," said Grandpa. "But I sure am glad I know the story. Maybe now I can rest in peace."
"And maybe I can too," I said with a wry grin. "Although I have to say I'll mis you."
As Grandpa disappeared, Eva reappeared. "How did you know that story?" I asked.
"Girls talk," said Eva. "Unfortunately they didn't talk to me in time to save Paul's life."
"Maybe Grandpa was meant to die young," I said. "I'm beginning to think longevity isn't all it's cracked up to be."
Eva smiled. "You've got a few good years left," she said. "Just give Mark a chance, and he'll prove it to you."
"You really do like that man, don't you?" I said. "But then, you really liked Grandpa too and he wasn't such a good catch."
Eva smiled and then she was gone.
9 am - noon
Today I will write the conversation of the chain women ... and the lead-up to the funeral and the ending with Mark. Maybe everyone involved will show up at this funeral ... Eva, Grandpa, my mother, my father, Wilhemina, Wilhemina's mother ... Velvet Touch ... my cousins Mary Jane and Sarah.
One of the problems with writing this quickly and not printing as you go along is that you forget events and names ... and leave all kinds of loose ends hanging ... especially if you are operating with an unoiled brain. I really wish my daughter had not shared that particular piece of information.
THE CHAIN OF WOMEN
Grandpa always liked being connected with women, but this particular connection did not make his life more pleasant. In fact, it ended it. It all began with Nana.
Nana had suckered Grandpa into marriage. He'd been completely infatuated with her. She was beautiful, smart and living in his parents' house. It wasn't hard for Marie to ensnare a man who loved women, especially a man who was a few years her junior. Grandpa thought he was a man of the world, but Nana revealed just how naiive and trusting he was ... two traits she did not share. Once she'd had the baby (can't remember her name) and was certain that her future and that of the baby girl were assured, she wanted nothing more to do with Paul.
Paul, being who he was, was not devastated by the failure of the marriage. Sex had ended almost as soon as conception occurred, and Marie's sweet temper disappeared at about the same time. It did no good to complain to his mother or Eva. They talked about hormonal swings and the difficulties of pregnancy. So Paul, predictably, turned back to the piano girls.
His mother admonished him in dulcet tones, his step-father launched one strict, no-nonsense, pedantic tirade and then retired to his newspaper. Marie seemed pleased by Paul's lack of attention, happy that he spent his nights elsewhere.
She had everything she wanted now ... an absentee husband ... a steady source of comfortable income ... a child who caused her no trouble at all after the delivery and the requisite (and very short) time spent nursing that her mother-in-law insisted on. She lived in a beautiful home with her in-laws waited on by their servants. But she was restless doing nothing and as soon as she could do so, she put her name back on the nursing registry.
She was soon staying for weeks at a time with elderly, infirm, rich patients who treated her far better than either she or they treated the household help. She, after all, was the dispenser of pain killers, the provider of soothing baths and back rubs. And it was a lucrative trade. The appreciative clients and their even more grateful families were very generous to this woman who took over the burden of an aging parent.
Everything would likely have continued to sail along in this manner, but 1929 happened. These days rich men were jumping out of high rise windows, not buying furs for their wives and mistresses The business did not go under completely but its revenues decreased. Two of the German house maids were sent back home, and the household budget was reined in. Paul, however, continued to be as profligate in his spending habits as ever. His mother wired home to Germany to the aristocrat who'd paid a great deal already to bury his sin in the New World, and was told this would be the last packet possible. She put the money away in a separate bank account for the baby's future, and didn't tell anyone about it.
Marie watched in dismay as her golden goose grew thinner, and began to drop its feathers. Her own calls were dropping off too as daughters and daughters-in-law were dragged in, not without complaint, to empty the bedpans of their family members. The rise in accidental deaths due to drug overdoses was explained by the fact that qualified nurses were no longer looking after these rich old people.
When Marie confronted her mother-in-law about Paul's spending she was hushed.
"You've spoiled him all his life. Can't you see that?" she accused the old woman.
"He's all I have," she replied.
"What about the baby?" Marie countered.
"The baby will always be looked after. I love her as much as I love Paul."
Marie realized there was no getting through to the old woman so she began to plan the only possible way to stop Paul from spending what was left.
She went back to the Anglican Home for Unwed Mothers. Oh, no, not because she wanted a job there, and certainly not because she needed their services herself. No, she went back to talk to Eva.
Why Eva, I am sure you are wondering. Eva was Paul's friend, but even Eva would not have been able to curb his spending. It was as ingrained as the shape of his hands with their long piano playing fingers, the same fingers that dispensed dollar bills so freely.
Marie was too clever to ask outright for the name of someone she could co-opt into helping her, but she managed to convince Eva that she wanted to take on a little sister. She wanted to sponsor one of her unwed mothers. "I'll take her out and give her nursing care and advice," Marie said. "And I'll help her outfit the new baby."
"That would be wonderful of you, Marie. But are you sure you can afford such generosity?"
"I've got a new job and I only work for pin money, anyway. I have more than I can possibly spend on myself."
If Eva was at all surprised by this sudden burst of generosity or if she had any suspicions about ulterior motives, she must have subdued them. Perhaps once again, her scruples were overridden by her concern for the women she was sheltering. Or perhaps she really believed that Marie had turned over a new leaf.
She did ask, though, and accepted Marie's explanation that having her own baby had made her realize how difficult it would be for one of these poor street girls to manage alone.
"Times are tough," she said in conclusion.
Eva introduced Marie and Magda a few days later. They formed a firm friendship almost immediately. Magda had immigrated to Canada just a few months before and had not established any real network of support. The boy had fled when he learned that she was pregnant. A familiar story. Especially to Marie who remembered her first pregnancy very well.
The story Marie told Magda about her marriage to Paul would have been unrecognizable to anyone who knew the truth, but Magda took it all in and kept it close to her heart for a very long time. She loved Marie, not only because Marie gave her money every week and produced boxes and boxes of beautiful clothing from her own daughter's layette, now long outgrown and lovingly packed away by her mother-in-law. Hand embroidered night gowns of the finest lawn, tiny hand knit sweaters, bonnets and booties. Soakers that had been knit and felted by her grandmother. Lacy shawls and blankets of the softest possible lambs wool. And since the little girl was no longer a baby, the gift packages included clothing that would see the unborn baby through to school age. All of the material things were wonderful, but magda grew to really love Marie. She loved her because she understood what it was to be deceived, to be left alone.
She listened as Marie told of the heartless rich man who had tricked her, impregnated her, and then stolen her baby giving it to his mother who had always wanted a baby girl. She was horrified by the callousness of Paul's behaviour toward her friend. "He beat me," Marie sobbed. "I had to get away." Magda patted her hand and clucked sympathetically.
"And he ran around almost from the moment I told him I was expecting his child."
"Oh, no," murmured Magda. That seemed almost as bad as being struck by the man you loved.
"And they were women with diseases," Marie had gone on ... "women he met in bars."
Magda didn't question anything Marie told her. After all, she too had been abandoned by the man she loved. And Magda lived in a place where she'd heard this same tale repeated many times over. Every girl in the home had been screwed by a man ... literally and figuratively.
Marie had been lucky she had a mother-in-law who wanted her new baby, thought Magda. as they exchanged their stories.
One day, Marie, said, "I'm not a vindictive woman really, but I wish there were some way to teach Paul and these other men a lesson they'd never forget. That was the only time Marie ever mentioned anything to Magda about hurting Paul in any way.
Shortly after Magda's baby was born she and one of the other girls were nursing their babies in the sunroom. "What a beautiful nightie," said the other woman. "Where in hell did you get that? Did you steal it?"
Magda laughed and told Janice about her benefactor. Over time Janice learned more and more of Marie's story from Magda. "What was this scoundrel's name?" she asked one day.
"Paul," replied Magda.
"Jesus, Paul Donat. I bet anything that was him. Was he German?"
"I think so," said Magda. "But please don't tell anyone about this. Marie told me about it in confidence."
"I know Paul," said Janice. "I dated him for a few months probably about the same time as Marie was having a tough time with him."
"What was he like to you?"
"A prick is always a prick," said Janice. She went on to tell Magda the story about the piano. "He didn't even say good bye, the louse. I thought he was out of town for a few weeks, then one day these two guys showed up at my door and took the piano away. I'd sure like to get him back for doing that to me."
"Marie said he did that to all the girls. He liked to play the piano at their flats. Marie was glad he didn't end up spending every cent of his mother's money on pianos."
"Yeah, well she didn't lose her piano, did she? That was the most valuable thing I owned."
Magda thought for a moment and then said, "No ... but she had her baby taken away from her."
"Jeez," said Janice. "That's worse."
"Way worse," said Magda and held her own daughter closer.
And, as happens with stories like this, Janice brooded about the injustices done to all the women Paul dropped by the wayside, forgot her promise to Magda, and passed the story on when she was talking to another woman who'd also been hard done by, another woman dropped by Paul when it stopped being fun.
She was a rough woman whom time had battered pretty badly. Paul was just one of a whole series of men who'd treated her badly. Her name was Helen and she was down on her luck and living on the street when Janice saw her. Janice was walking the baby when a woman's voice reached her. "Janice. Don't you remember me? The Cleopatra?"
Janice stopped and peered into the shadows of the doorway. An ancient hag was huddled under a grey blanket. She struggled to her feet and extended a yellowed claw toward the baby. Janice leapt back snatching the baby away from the woman's touch.
"Leave her alone. I don't know you." she cried.
"It's Helen. We danced together. Don't you remember?"
Janice stared in disbelief. The woman was toothless and filthy. "What in hell happened to you. You're the same age as I am and you used to be beautiful."
"Life happened," said Helen. "Buy me a beer and I'll tell you all about it.
By the end of the afternoon, the two had traded stories, all of them marked by the treachery of men, and both women were drunk and angry. The baby slept peacefully on the wooden bench between Janice and the beer stained wall of the tavern. The bartender came over and noticed the baby for the first time. "Hey, get that kid outta here before I lose my licence."
"Yeah, yeah," said Janice. "We're goin'. Don't get your balls in an uproar."
"I can't take you home with me, Helen, "Janice apologized. I'm still staying at Eva's and she only lets the residents sleep over. You know, the women and their babies."
"I know," said Helen. "It's okay. And thanks for the beer. Maybe I can do you a favour some time."
Janice never knew that Helen would be true to her word, that she knew a street person who was no longer quite sane. A woman who like Helen had been beaten by a man. That woman had suffered head injuries and a hatred so black and virulent that she wanted to commit murder. The man who'd done it to her was not available to be her victim, but that didn't really matter to her. She hated all men equally.
This was the woman who murdered Paul.
But Paul was really murdered by six women. Perhaps seven if you count his mother. Perhaps many more if you count all the women who brought boys up to be uncaring bastards and all the women who had been victimized by them.
And poor old Paul kept on trying to make things right ... he really didn't deserve to be the scapegoat for all those other guys.
"No, I didn't," said Grandpa. "But I sure am glad I know the story. Maybe now I can rest in peace."
"And maybe I can too," I said with a wry grin. "Although I have to say I'll mis you."
As Grandpa disappeared, Eva reappeared. "How did you know that story?" I asked.
"Girls talk," said Eva. "Unfortunately they didn't talk to me in time to save Paul's life."
"Maybe Grandpa was meant to die young," I said. "I'm beginning to think longevity isn't all it's cracked up to be."
Eva smiled. "You've got a few good years left," she said. "Just give Mark a chance, and he'll prove it to you."
"You really do like that man, don't you?" I said. "But then, you really liked Grandpa too and he wasn't such a good catch."
Eva smiled and then she was gone.
Nano Last part of #27, very beginning of #28
I have 37,338 words now ... less than 13000 to go and three days to write them ... wish me luck ... I have an ending now but I haven't written it yet and I won't spoil the surprise by posting it before midnight on November 30. Here is the last bit written.
November 27, 2009
Day 27 Continued after lunch
I wonder why I sent this email to him ... he doesn't even check that account most days ... it's the one that contains only letters from me ... the one he looks at when he needs whatever it is I provide.
I am back at the lake ... exhausted physically and emotionally ... but very glad I made the effort to be with Pat at this time.
I kind of think you probably can't understand ... but just in case you are interested ... it was good to be with my friend ... to see her this one last time ... to share laughter and thoughts ... to rub her hands and feet with lotion ... to make cream of carrot soup for her ... to accompany her in the ambulance to the Heart Hospital where her surgery will take place ... to help her pack and sort and put away things ... to brush her hair ... to spend time with her son and his family ...
Was it a dig intended to hurt or to wake him up ... to let him see what friendship is?
I watched "Adam" on the trip home ... the movie about the young man who has Asperger's Syndrome. The ending is beautifully handled ... no fake saccharine improbability ... no romantic nonsense. He tells her he needs her to help him cope ... he says that's why he wants her to come to California with him as he starts this new job ... and she says that is not good enough. He goes on his own and he learns to cope. She had already helped him sort out a good many things and he was able to build on that.
I don't know if Mark has a personality disorder but he is strange ... and he finds it very difficult to cope with the ordinary stresses of life despite being extremely intelligent and good hearted. He has to go to extraordinary lengths to be able to cope. He married a psychiatrist first and an occupational therapist second. The psychiatrist may have driven him a little crazy. The occupational therapist helped him get his foundering life on track. But then she too was unable to sustain a good relationship with him. What makes me think I could do any better than two women educated and trained in dealing with people who cannot cope with life?
The young woman in the movie cared about Adam ... but she didn't marry him ... and I applauded.
I wonder if Mark's ex-wives have seen "Adam" ... and whether they made any connections between this lovely man with Asperger's and Mark. And if they did, did they also applaud the ending?
I think I have found a man with a great many sterling qualities but one who is unable to have a real friendship or conjugal relationship with anyone. And the really scary thing for me is that Mark is not the first such man to whom I have gravitated.
Danny comes to mind immediately. He had to rehearse courteous behaviours and social interactions because they did not come naturally to him. He was not capable of true empathy. And yet it was Danny who made it possible for me to go to Pat. He had learned generosity from his father and has practised it all his life.
That boy Jack ... Boy A ... who grew up in prison after being convicted with his only friend of murdering and raping a girl their own age ... he was lacking all those everyday social skills too ...
That was one tough movie ... one of the ones Mark gave me the last time he was here at the lake.
I've always been fascinated by the violence of youth crime ... remember the two boys from the industrial north of England, the ones who killed the toddler? That seemed to be the precedent for a whole series of very violent crimes committed by children and youth ... I suspect "Boy A" was based on that murder, or on the writer's fascination with the subject.
"Well, I damn well wish you had as much interest in murders committed by greedy women," snorted Grandpa.
"You know that Nana arranged it and you know who actually committed the murder. Isn't that enough?"
"If it were enough I wouldn't be asking you to get off your tush and find out who the other women in the chain were."
"But why does it matter now that you are dead ... and they likely are too?"
"Curiosity, maybe. Tying up loose ends. I need to know. And that'sall you need to know."
I began to think about it. Nana needed to find a killer. It had to be someone she didn't know, someone who would be completely unconnected with her. Someone who, if caught, would not be able to name Nana.
Nana was unconnected with the underbellies of Toronto and Montreal, so she needed to make a series of connections that would have begun with someone she did know. It kept coming back to Eva. But Eva would not have helped Marie kill Paul, not knowingly. I began to play What If? What if Nana told Eva some cock and bull story about wanting to help one of Eva's charity cases? What if Nana formed a tight friendship with this hapless woman who linked her up with one of Grandpa's piano girls. What if the piano girl bore a grudge and the two women talked about the shabby way Paul had treated her and Nana. What if that piano girl knew someone who knew the actual murderer? Nana's physical connection ... her money connection would be with the hapless woman and the piano girl who bore a grudge. There would be no mention of murdering Paul. It would be up to the piano girl to make that ultimate decision. The line is going further and further into the underworld and further and further away from the respectability of Nana. The final two women in the chain before the actual murderer have to be pretty bloody angry at men and at Paul in particular.
"Now you're getting somewhere," said Grandpa.
"Yeah but it's all just speculation, Gramps."
"Don't call me that," he grunted. "Ask Eva who she introduced Marie to."
"Okay," I agreed. But of course, Eva, like Grandpa, comes when it suits her.
I decided to go for a walk in the rain with Kenya who was emitting disgusting anal smells and needed to go out for a long walk. And my head needed to be cleared as well. I donned my yellow slicker and headed off around the lake. The new neighbour's Dogpatch yard was getting worse, not better. Now he had cardboard strewn everywhere and the wind has distributed all kinds of paper and plastic bits and pieces to the neighbouring yards. My house was looking nice from the other side of the lake since the cedar on the north side had been put up. I let Kenya off leash to run and fetch sticks and then at the last house we turned to come home. It was a grey misty day and the wood smoke from our stoves hung in the trees. I could hear the voices of the guys working on the deck next door, and Kenya considered swimming over to visit the little blind dog, Lucky, who was barking. On our way home we stopped to visit Tom. He's on his way to Montreal tomorrow morning ... to have lunch with a friend. When we went past our own place to check out the place next door, I was delighted to see Christmas lights festooning the new deck railing and a Santa Claus ready to attach to a wall leading up to the chimney. I mentioned these and they laughed ... the men had been less than enthusiastic but Carol Ann had insisted. Women know where to place priorities.
Back at home my place was nice and cozy and Kenya stretched out before the fire to get dry. I went upstairs to check my email and found a note from Mark which immediately made me forgive him. He is sick with a flu bug. Among other things, he said he felt as I did that a short one evening visit was not working. It had pissed me off. It saddened him.
I think I use anger as a shield when things are not going smoothly in love ... makes it easier to throw the whole thing away without getting hurt. This is the first time in many many years that I have shown any patience at all. Maybe this is the real thing.
"Your propensity to get angry," said Eva, "is why you live alone with your dog at 69! I think it's encouraging that you haven't given up on Mark."
And then I talked to Claire, and any thoughts about Mark or Eva or Grandpa fled.
"Myeloma isn't curable. Nobody has read the book."
"What book?"
"The book they give out at the hospital .. the one that tells about what happens with myeloma."
Claire had said her good byes tonight. She had told Pat she wouldn't be seeing her again unless she could travel to Canada. I said the same thing ... but I would go again if I could or if she needed me ... .
Claire told me what I already knew; that she was surrounded by love ... that Pat was immensely touched by the fact that her best friends from Canada had come to be with her ... and to say good bye ... and I wept ... I want a miracle ... I don't want my best friend to die. ...
I have gone on-line but I can't read through tears. Claire seems certain that this is the end or the beginning of a hell ... I don't trust Claire's perceptions ... or maybe I don't want to believe the worst ... I wish I knew more.
November 28, 2009
Day 28 begins ...
Yesterday ended with an upsetting phone call; today began with a cheerful email from a good friend who is in his eighties. One of the lines was: "I made a resolution not to grumble - I am very lucky. I need to stop Doreen claiming, "Sometimes I wake up grumpy, and sometimes I let him sleep!'" It made me think about all the unhappy faces I'd captured yesterday.
Then I turned to the news on-line. Not happy, most of it ... Child who died at airport was 'always smiling': father ... and my mind juxtaposed the short happy life of this toddler with the grumpiness of old folks who live until disease catches up with them.
But there were also some very puzzling (and contradictory) ... and therefore very human ... items For example:
Night and weekend bus service in Ottawa could be reduced and fares raised under a proposal aimed at keeping next year's property tax hike under four per cent.
Raising fares and reducing service? How is that fair?
And then there were the strange headlines about people who look after unwanted animals ...
From Toronto:
Four animals inside the Toronto Humane Society's shelter in the east end of the city had to be euthanized after animal cruelty charges were laid against the president and the board of directors at the facility.
And from Ottawa ... "Cat hoarders charged with cruelty"
I thought about Eva ... looking after women so that unwanted babies would not be aborted and their mothers killed or mutilated. Was she performing an important humanitarian service, or was she adding to the misery of the Depression?
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Eva."
And who are you?" I asked. The woman reminded me of someone. It wasn't like suddenly seeing a Doppleganger, but close.
"I'm not sure what you would call me, but my half sister was your mother. My name is not as important, but it was Wilhemina."
I looked at her more closely. She was a small woman of about my age now. Her face was heart shaped with strong cheek bones and her eyes were a startling blue. "How do you fit into all this?" I asked. "Was Grandpa your father too?"
"Yes, and my mother went by the ungodly name of Velvet Touch when she was still young and dancing."
"So you were brought up by a stripper?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I was brought up by people in the countryside far away from my mother's place of business."
"With relatives?"
"No, with kind strangers paid by my father. My foster parents became the only family I ever knew."
"So he looked after you?"
"Yes ... and made sure I could look after myself later."
"Did you spend any time with him?"
"Not that I remember. He died soon after I was born."
"So how ..."
"He left a trust fund that covered all my expenses until I was twenty-five. I became a teacher, like you."
"What about your mother?"
"She died in childbirth."
Such irony. Saved from a butcher's knife and killed by a live birth.
"Many women still died in childbirth then," said Wilhemina.
"Did you ever meet my mother?"
"Not till we were both in our forties, when your mother moved to Montreal after the Avro Arrow was murdered by Diefenbaker."
"I remember that time. I'd met my mother by then. I was busy having my own babies."
"She told me. We worried about how you would manage. Sixteen and pregnant ... and no family to fall back on for advice or guidance ... "
"And no examples of mothering to recall," I added. "Did I meet you?"
"Yes but you didn't know we were related. I was simply your mother's friend."
"Why were you so secretive?"
"I'm not sure now. But at the time it seemed important. I was illegitimate, you know."
"Did you have children?"
"Four. Three girls and a boy."
"Like me."
"Not much like you," she smiled. "They led far more tranquil lives than you did."
"Are they still alive? Could I meet them?"
"The oldest died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. I've come to attend his funeral."
"The others?"
"Mary Ann is 65, Sarah is 63, and my remaining son is 61."
"Where are they?" I was hoping I could meet them before it was too late.
"They are scattered all over the country," Wilhemina said. "Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver."
"So I have cousins and nieces and nephews," I said. "I wish I had known."
"You could attend the funeral," she said. "I expect they will all turn up. It will be held in Toronto on Monday."
Odd day for a funeral, I thought. Why not the weekend when everyone could come? I turned to ask her his name, but she had disappeared. I hate the way they just leave without warning.
November 27, 2009
Day 27 Continued after lunch
I wonder why I sent this email to him ... he doesn't even check that account most days ... it's the one that contains only letters from me ... the one he looks at when he needs whatever it is I provide.
I am back at the lake ... exhausted physically and emotionally ... but very glad I made the effort to be with Pat at this time.
I kind of think you probably can't understand ... but just in case you are interested ... it was good to be with my friend ... to see her this one last time ... to share laughter and thoughts ... to rub her hands and feet with lotion ... to make cream of carrot soup for her ... to accompany her in the ambulance to the Heart Hospital where her surgery will take place ... to help her pack and sort and put away things ... to brush her hair ... to spend time with her son and his family ...
Was it a dig intended to hurt or to wake him up ... to let him see what friendship is?
I watched "Adam" on the trip home ... the movie about the young man who has Asperger's Syndrome. The ending is beautifully handled ... no fake saccharine improbability ... no romantic nonsense. He tells her he needs her to help him cope ... he says that's why he wants her to come to California with him as he starts this new job ... and she says that is not good enough. He goes on his own and he learns to cope. She had already helped him sort out a good many things and he was able to build on that.
I don't know if Mark has a personality disorder but he is strange ... and he finds it very difficult to cope with the ordinary stresses of life despite being extremely intelligent and good hearted. He has to go to extraordinary lengths to be able to cope. He married a psychiatrist first and an occupational therapist second. The psychiatrist may have driven him a little crazy. The occupational therapist helped him get his foundering life on track. But then she too was unable to sustain a good relationship with him. What makes me think I could do any better than two women educated and trained in dealing with people who cannot cope with life?
The young woman in the movie cared about Adam ... but she didn't marry him ... and I applauded.
I wonder if Mark's ex-wives have seen "Adam" ... and whether they made any connections between this lovely man with Asperger's and Mark. And if they did, did they also applaud the ending?
I think I have found a man with a great many sterling qualities but one who is unable to have a real friendship or conjugal relationship with anyone. And the really scary thing for me is that Mark is not the first such man to whom I have gravitated.
Danny comes to mind immediately. He had to rehearse courteous behaviours and social interactions because they did not come naturally to him. He was not capable of true empathy. And yet it was Danny who made it possible for me to go to Pat. He had learned generosity from his father and has practised it all his life.
That boy Jack ... Boy A ... who grew up in prison after being convicted with his only friend of murdering and raping a girl their own age ... he was lacking all those everyday social skills too ...
That was one tough movie ... one of the ones Mark gave me the last time he was here at the lake.
I've always been fascinated by the violence of youth crime ... remember the two boys from the industrial north of England, the ones who killed the toddler? That seemed to be the precedent for a whole series of very violent crimes committed by children and youth ... I suspect "Boy A" was based on that murder, or on the writer's fascination with the subject.
"Well, I damn well wish you had as much interest in murders committed by greedy women," snorted Grandpa.
"You know that Nana arranged it and you know who actually committed the murder. Isn't that enough?"
"If it were enough I wouldn't be asking you to get off your tush and find out who the other women in the chain were."
"But why does it matter now that you are dead ... and they likely are too?"
"Curiosity, maybe. Tying up loose ends. I need to know. And that'sall you need to know."
I began to think about it. Nana needed to find a killer. It had to be someone she didn't know, someone who would be completely unconnected with her. Someone who, if caught, would not be able to name Nana.
Nana was unconnected with the underbellies of Toronto and Montreal, so she needed to make a series of connections that would have begun with someone she did know. It kept coming back to Eva. But Eva would not have helped Marie kill Paul, not knowingly. I began to play What If? What if Nana told Eva some cock and bull story about wanting to help one of Eva's charity cases? What if Nana formed a tight friendship with this hapless woman who linked her up with one of Grandpa's piano girls. What if the piano girl bore a grudge and the two women talked about the shabby way Paul had treated her and Nana. What if that piano girl knew someone who knew the actual murderer? Nana's physical connection ... her money connection would be with the hapless woman and the piano girl who bore a grudge. There would be no mention of murdering Paul. It would be up to the piano girl to make that ultimate decision. The line is going further and further into the underworld and further and further away from the respectability of Nana. The final two women in the chain before the actual murderer have to be pretty bloody angry at men and at Paul in particular.
"Now you're getting somewhere," said Grandpa.
"Yeah but it's all just speculation, Gramps."
"Don't call me that," he grunted. "Ask Eva who she introduced Marie to."
"Okay," I agreed. But of course, Eva, like Grandpa, comes when it suits her.
I decided to go for a walk in the rain with Kenya who was emitting disgusting anal smells and needed to go out for a long walk. And my head needed to be cleared as well. I donned my yellow slicker and headed off around the lake. The new neighbour's Dogpatch yard was getting worse, not better. Now he had cardboard strewn everywhere and the wind has distributed all kinds of paper and plastic bits and pieces to the neighbouring yards. My house was looking nice from the other side of the lake since the cedar on the north side had been put up. I let Kenya off leash to run and fetch sticks and then at the last house we turned to come home. It was a grey misty day and the wood smoke from our stoves hung in the trees. I could hear the voices of the guys working on the deck next door, and Kenya considered swimming over to visit the little blind dog, Lucky, who was barking. On our way home we stopped to visit Tom. He's on his way to Montreal tomorrow morning ... to have lunch with a friend. When we went past our own place to check out the place next door, I was delighted to see Christmas lights festooning the new deck railing and a Santa Claus ready to attach to a wall leading up to the chimney. I mentioned these and they laughed ... the men had been less than enthusiastic but Carol Ann had insisted. Women know where to place priorities.
Back at home my place was nice and cozy and Kenya stretched out before the fire to get dry. I went upstairs to check my email and found a note from Mark which immediately made me forgive him. He is sick with a flu bug. Among other things, he said he felt as I did that a short one evening visit was not working. It had pissed me off. It saddened him.
I think I use anger as a shield when things are not going smoothly in love ... makes it easier to throw the whole thing away without getting hurt. This is the first time in many many years that I have shown any patience at all. Maybe this is the real thing.
"Your propensity to get angry," said Eva, "is why you live alone with your dog at 69! I think it's encouraging that you haven't given up on Mark."
And then I talked to Claire, and any thoughts about Mark or Eva or Grandpa fled.
"Myeloma isn't curable. Nobody has read the book."
"What book?"
"The book they give out at the hospital .. the one that tells about what happens with myeloma."
Claire had said her good byes tonight. She had told Pat she wouldn't be seeing her again unless she could travel to Canada. I said the same thing ... but I would go again if I could or if she needed me ... .
Claire told me what I already knew; that she was surrounded by love ... that Pat was immensely touched by the fact that her best friends from Canada had come to be with her ... and to say good bye ... and I wept ... I want a miracle ... I don't want my best friend to die. ...
I have gone on-line but I can't read through tears. Claire seems certain that this is the end or the beginning of a hell ... I don't trust Claire's perceptions ... or maybe I don't want to believe the worst ... I wish I knew more.
November 28, 2009
Day 28 begins ...
Yesterday ended with an upsetting phone call; today began with a cheerful email from a good friend who is in his eighties. One of the lines was: "I made a resolution not to grumble - I am very lucky. I need to stop Doreen claiming, "Sometimes I wake up grumpy, and sometimes I let him sleep!'" It made me think about all the unhappy faces I'd captured yesterday.
Then I turned to the news on-line. Not happy, most of it ... Child who died at airport was 'always smiling': father ... and my mind juxtaposed the short happy life of this toddler with the grumpiness of old folks who live until disease catches up with them.
But there were also some very puzzling (and contradictory) ... and therefore very human ... items For example:
Night and weekend bus service in Ottawa could be reduced and fares raised under a proposal aimed at keeping next year's property tax hike under four per cent.
Raising fares and reducing service? How is that fair?
And then there were the strange headlines about people who look after unwanted animals ...
From Toronto:
Four animals inside the Toronto Humane Society's shelter in the east end of the city had to be euthanized after animal cruelty charges were laid against the president and the board of directors at the facility.
And from Ottawa ... "Cat hoarders charged with cruelty"
I thought about Eva ... looking after women so that unwanted babies would not be aborted and their mothers killed or mutilated. Was she performing an important humanitarian service, or was she adding to the misery of the Depression?
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Eva."
And who are you?" I asked. The woman reminded me of someone. It wasn't like suddenly seeing a Doppleganger, but close.
"I'm not sure what you would call me, but my half sister was your mother. My name is not as important, but it was Wilhemina."
I looked at her more closely. She was a small woman of about my age now. Her face was heart shaped with strong cheek bones and her eyes were a startling blue. "How do you fit into all this?" I asked. "Was Grandpa your father too?"
"Yes, and my mother went by the ungodly name of Velvet Touch when she was still young and dancing."
"So you were brought up by a stripper?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I was brought up by people in the countryside far away from my mother's place of business."
"With relatives?"
"No, with kind strangers paid by my father. My foster parents became the only family I ever knew."
"So he looked after you?"
"Yes ... and made sure I could look after myself later."
"Did you spend any time with him?"
"Not that I remember. He died soon after I was born."
"So how ..."
"He left a trust fund that covered all my expenses until I was twenty-five. I became a teacher, like you."
"What about your mother?"
"She died in childbirth."
Such irony. Saved from a butcher's knife and killed by a live birth.
"Many women still died in childbirth then," said Wilhemina.
"Did you ever meet my mother?"
"Not till we were both in our forties, when your mother moved to Montreal after the Avro Arrow was murdered by Diefenbaker."
"I remember that time. I'd met my mother by then. I was busy having my own babies."
"She told me. We worried about how you would manage. Sixteen and pregnant ... and no family to fall back on for advice or guidance ... "
"And no examples of mothering to recall," I added. "Did I meet you?"
"Yes but you didn't know we were related. I was simply your mother's friend."
"Why were you so secretive?"
"I'm not sure now. But at the time it seemed important. I was illegitimate, you know."
"Did you have children?"
"Four. Three girls and a boy."
"Like me."
"Not much like you," she smiled. "They led far more tranquil lives than you did."
"Are they still alive? Could I meet them?"
"The oldest died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. I've come to attend his funeral."
"The others?"
"Mary Ann is 65, Sarah is 63, and my remaining son is 61."
"Where are they?" I was hoping I could meet them before it was too late.
"They are scattered all over the country," Wilhemina said. "Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver."
"So I have cousins and nieces and nephews," I said. "I wish I had known."
"You could attend the funeral," she said. "I expect they will all turn up. It will be held in Toronto on Monday."
Odd day for a funeral, I thought. Why not the weekend when everyone could come? I turned to ask her his name, but she had disappeared. I hate the way they just leave without warning.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 27 ... the first half ... on happiness and living partners ... I think
November 27, 2009
Day 27 of Nanowrimo
I am starting with 30,711 excruciatingly bad words and have to add 5000 to the pile today. That's what this novel feels like ... a pile ... no organization at all ... nothing sorted or folded or even clean ... just laundry, crumpled, often musty, dirty laundry thrown into a pile on the street for everyone to see. Good grief! What was I thinking?
The only blessing is that at the end I can go through it at my leisure and perhaps find a few hundred worthwhile words to keep or to start me on something better.
No, that's not the only blessing ... I am writing every day (well almost every day) ... and I have discovered something I quite like ... a three strand novel form where the narrator writes about present day happenings in her life as she interacts with a ghost from the past and discovers a purely fictional storyline that has to do with the ghost's (and her own) history.
If I were to take a purely fictional narrator with her own fictional history and ghosts I would have a real novel ... but I suspect that parts of my own journaling would still enter the fray.
Freud says we play with ideas we love ... and I would rather this were a playful time in a sand box than a labour of any kind.
I am too old for heavy labour. I just can't be bothered any more.
Not even a labour of love.
My trip to London, spending time with Pat and Claire, and even going to yesterday's party have all been wake-up calls. There isn't that much time left ... at least not that much productive time. And if one of the big scary diseases doesn't reach out from the dark and pull you in or damage you in some way, old age will get you anyway.
One of my daughters told me yesterday that the brain's lubrication system breaks down rapidly after a woman stops producing estrogen. Maybe that's why we all become creakier as we age. And here I thought it was arthritis ...
I just looked back over the pictures I took at the party and was amazed by the percentage of photos that showed frowns or pain or concern in the expressions. The happiest one was of a woman called Heather who has been happy ever since I've known her. She has taught in Ghana and in special needs classrooms; she had a brush several years ago with breast cancer, and she retired soon after I did. She is beautiful. The one of Jimmy, who has bone cancer, is another happy snap. His first career was in the army and then he returned to university and began teaching phys ed as a grown up. Jimmy always played Santa on the last day of classes before Christmas ... a great tall lanky Santa. He is one of the most generous people I know, and, despite the pain, he keeps smiling. Both Jimmy and Heather have been happily married (not to each other) for as long as I have known them ... and for years before that.
When I first viewed the photos I wondered if we were all telling sad stories to one another. But Jimmy and Heather would have heard the same stories ... they just seem to have an inner happiness that warms their faces and their lives.
I would love to discover where that inner glow originates ... surviving terrible illness? ... happy relationships? ... who knows?
"I know," said a soft voice.
I turned to see Eva smiling at me. "Well don't just stand there," I said. "Tell me the secret."
"Your grandfather knew the secret," Eva said.
I thought about Grandpa ... always out for a good time ... "Are you saying that being irresponsible is the secret to happiness?" I asked. "That's doesn't jibe at all with my experience. Heather and Jimmy are very responsible ... and they stayed in relationships and made them work."
"Paul was able to separate out what was entertainment and what was serious and important. He knew how to play and he knew how to fix problems ... but most important, he knew when to let go."
"Of you?"
"I suppose you could say that, but what I meant was that he didn't harbour grudges and he didn't cling to false hopes. He was very clear sighted about what was worth his time and energy."
"Is that why he was able to be your friend even when he knew there was no hope he'd ever be anything more to you?"
Eva nodded. "And it is also why he didn't try to get even with Marie. He never resented the fact that his parents supported her all those years. He knew that what they gave her was not being taken away from him. He understood that people can love more than one person, that there is no contest going on."
I thought about something I'd just read in an email:
"Whatever your religious views, psychologists say the ability to forgive is closely correlated to happiness and mental health." It was part of an article called "Forgiving Without Condoning Or Forgetting". It began with the best reason for forgiving ... we create more unhappiness for ourselves than for the person we hate, then went on to describe grudge-holding, and talked about moving on with your life, something impossible if you cannot forgive. It wasn't all sweetness and light. You don't have to condone, excuse or forget the harm done to you and you don't have re-establish a relationship with the person. He talks too about the need to empathize, to be able to see things from the other's perspective in order to forgive, and believes that the older we get, the more forgiving we're likely to become.
The article made me think about my forgiveness of my parents ... Once I understood that my mother's upbringing was likely responsible for her failure to stand up against my father, I was able to forgive her.. It took me longer to understand my father's actions, but I think I forgave him because I knew he loved me even if he didn't know how to love me properly ... and he lived in a time when mothers were expected to be virgins, not whores..
I cannot understand why he treated my grandmother so badly. She'd always loved him and treated him well. But I do understand that people sometimes act inconsiderately because they know that they will drown themselves if they don't shove away the person who is pulling them under. Was my grandmother pulling him under? I don't think so. I think she was simply an inconvenience. So I still have a way to go before I can empathize and forgive him for sending her away to a strange land to die.
"Maybe you don't know the whole story," said Eva.
Startled, I looked up. I was surprised to find her still there, and I kept forgetting that these phantoms could read my unspoken thoughts.
"So you think that's why he died happy and Marie lived a long miserable life, because he was able to forgive and she couldn't ?"
"That was part of it, but Marie was a very unhappy woman who always wanted more. She thought happiness was something you could buy."
"Of course Grandpa always had money. I wonder whether he'd have been happy without it."
"I am sure money helped, but he was very generous with his money. He didn't hoard it away or ration it out. He was as freehanded with money as he was with smiles and kisses."
"Was Marie miserly with money?"
"Marie thought that money could buy friends and so she occasionally appeared generous, but she always went looking for a payback. Paul never expected anything in return when he gave anyone anything."
"Were you happy?"
"I loved my children and my work, and I was a well loved wife. Yes, I was happy."
"Did you ever wish you and Paul could have had more?"
"I always knew we could have had a love affair, but that would have destroyed the life that made me happy."
"Grandpa would have married you."
"Paul thought he wanted to marry me, but I would never have been happy in the role of wife to someone who was always looking for greener pastures or younger, prettier women. No. I liked the security of knowing my husband would never stray ... not even in his thoughts."
"And you think that Paul was content with that too?"
"Paul accepted things for what they were."
"And so did you."
Eva gave me a smile. "Yes. That is why we were both happy people."
I thought about Mark. "Mark hasn't got enough time or energy to work as hard as he does and give two women what they need to be happy. I don't think it always works as simply as you seem to think it does."
"Are you happy with your life apart from Mark?"
I thought for a minute before saying I didn't need Mark in my life to be happy.
"Then why ask for more than he can give?"
"Probably because I want enough contact to be comfortable with him. Both the brain and the vagina need estrogen to stay lubricated. You can help the brain by challenging it regularly, but the nether regions need more than just Replens and regular exercise."
"What do they need?" asked Eva.
"I don't know about other old women, but this old woman seems to need regular contact and open communication lines. I need to know that I am loved."
"What if you were his wife? Or the only woman in his life? Would his work be your competitor then?"
I thought for a long time before I finally answered Eva. "No. I understand that kind of focus. I know what it's like to be addicted to an idea or a job or to lose myself for hours in the creation of a piece of art. And I know what it feels like to want to do something really well."
"Could you also accept his procrastination which lures him away from getting the work done?"
"I'd likely get pissed off at times and wish he'd just use his time better, but yes, I procrastinate too, so I'd likely be able to deal with that too."
"So it's just the fact that he's spending time with his ex-wife."
"It's the fact that he's still connected to her ... still on her leash ..." I began, and then stopped myself. "I wish he didn't compartmentalize things the way he does. And I wish he didn't have that particular compartment in his life."
"Don't you compartmentalize too?" asked Eva. "I know I did. I'd never have got anything done if I hadn't.
"Mark's compartments are like steel boxes, not like fish bowls or office cubicles. They are impervious. Until he's ready to unlock the door and emerge, the only way in is to use dynamite. And then you screw up his ability to concentrate because you've forced him out of one cubicle into another."
"So it's counter productive."
"Yes, and I hate to impose."
"Does his wife have the same compunction? Do his daughters?"
"No ... they bug him all the time. But I like him too much to do that to him."
"They probably do too but maybe they understand him better than you do."
"Maybe," I said, and I knew that I would be letting this idea play in my subconscious for a while.
Nolan called last night at midnight London time to tell me that Pat was in Intensive Care after the surgery; that they had performed the biopsy on the lung, and that they were draining the incision. He didn't know how long she would remain in the ICU or when the biopsy results would be available, but he would call me tonight. Once Pat moves back to the ward I will be able to call her on her cell phone.
I've been re-thinking cell phones since this trip. The public phone booth that was impossible to use. Pat's connections with family and friends through her phone no matter where she found herself (except of course in ICU). Maybe they are not the devil's invention ... maybe like everything else in life, they can be beneficial if used judiciously. Like television ... and sports ... and DVDs ... and computers ...
I've also been thinking more about the loneliness of being ill if you live alone. We will all die alone. But Pat's illness is made more bearable because she is surrounded by people who care ... her son and his family who live close by ... her friends ... her other son and her brother who maintain daily contact ... but it is Nolan who trucks himself off to the hospital every day, often twice a day. It is Nolan who takes her dirty laundry home and brings back the things she needs. It is Nolan who waters the plants and keeps the household running. And it is Nolan who looks after her Canadian friends so that Pat can enjoy their company.
My neighbour who died early this fall was terribly ill in her last year. I often thought how lucky she was to have a husband who loved her and took care of her. They were married for fifty years, and in that last year he devoted himself entirely to her, accompanying her to appointments, driving to Montreal every Sunday and returning every Friday night while she was undergoing radiation ... a whole winter of these weekly commutes. He bullied her into walking small distances when she emerged from the first set of chemotherapy treatments, knowing that she needed the exercise and the sunshine; that she'd feel better for having taken these walks. Later he fed her, helped her bathe and get to and from the toilet. He helped her choose the wig she would never wear because the cancer outran the chemo. She was less kind to him than to any of the rest of us. Because he loved her best. Because she knew she could never lose his love and support. Because she was having such a hard time and he was the only one she could rail against. There was never any point in shrieking imprecations against a god she didn't believe existed. But Tom was there. Tom never wavered, never walked away.
And Pat is harder on Nolan than she is on any of the rest of us for all the same reasons.
I will not have anyone to rail against. And I will lose not only my health but also my home when the time comes. I will likely spend the last years of my life in some institution cared for by people paid to do their job. Is that why I am fussing about Mark? Foolish, if it is, because he lives a continent away, and neither of us can stand the idea of living with another person.
I threw away the one relationship in which I could have grown old with my own Nolan or Tom beside me. And once you've tossed it aside you can't pick up the pieces and put them back together. Relationships are a lot like Humpty Dumpty ... and that is what parents reading nursery rhymes and fairy tales at bedtime are doing ... trying to inculcate values and teach truths to tiny children while they are still young enough to be imprinted. I seem to have remembered the stories but not the lessons.
OKAY ... I've put in half my allotted time and I am going to take a break!
Day 27 of Nanowrimo
I am starting with 30,711 excruciatingly bad words and have to add 5000 to the pile today. That's what this novel feels like ... a pile ... no organization at all ... nothing sorted or folded or even clean ... just laundry, crumpled, often musty, dirty laundry thrown into a pile on the street for everyone to see. Good grief! What was I thinking?
The only blessing is that at the end I can go through it at my leisure and perhaps find a few hundred worthwhile words to keep or to start me on something better.
No, that's not the only blessing ... I am writing every day (well almost every day) ... and I have discovered something I quite like ... a three strand novel form where the narrator writes about present day happenings in her life as she interacts with a ghost from the past and discovers a purely fictional storyline that has to do with the ghost's (and her own) history.
If I were to take a purely fictional narrator with her own fictional history and ghosts I would have a real novel ... but I suspect that parts of my own journaling would still enter the fray.
Freud says we play with ideas we love ... and I would rather this were a playful time in a sand box than a labour of any kind.
I am too old for heavy labour. I just can't be bothered any more.
Not even a labour of love.
My trip to London, spending time with Pat and Claire, and even going to yesterday's party have all been wake-up calls. There isn't that much time left ... at least not that much productive time. And if one of the big scary diseases doesn't reach out from the dark and pull you in or damage you in some way, old age will get you anyway.
One of my daughters told me yesterday that the brain's lubrication system breaks down rapidly after a woman stops producing estrogen. Maybe that's why we all become creakier as we age. And here I thought it was arthritis ...
I just looked back over the pictures I took at the party and was amazed by the percentage of photos that showed frowns or pain or concern in the expressions. The happiest one was of a woman called Heather who has been happy ever since I've known her. She has taught in Ghana and in special needs classrooms; she had a brush several years ago with breast cancer, and she retired soon after I did. She is beautiful. The one of Jimmy, who has bone cancer, is another happy snap. His first career was in the army and then he returned to university and began teaching phys ed as a grown up. Jimmy always played Santa on the last day of classes before Christmas ... a great tall lanky Santa. He is one of the most generous people I know, and, despite the pain, he keeps smiling. Both Jimmy and Heather have been happily married (not to each other) for as long as I have known them ... and for years before that.
When I first viewed the photos I wondered if we were all telling sad stories to one another. But Jimmy and Heather would have heard the same stories ... they just seem to have an inner happiness that warms their faces and their lives.
I would love to discover where that inner glow originates ... surviving terrible illness? ... happy relationships? ... who knows?
"I know," said a soft voice.
I turned to see Eva smiling at me. "Well don't just stand there," I said. "Tell me the secret."
"Your grandfather knew the secret," Eva said.
I thought about Grandpa ... always out for a good time ... "Are you saying that being irresponsible is the secret to happiness?" I asked. "That's doesn't jibe at all with my experience. Heather and Jimmy are very responsible ... and they stayed in relationships and made them work."
"Paul was able to separate out what was entertainment and what was serious and important. He knew how to play and he knew how to fix problems ... but most important, he knew when to let go."
"Of you?"
"I suppose you could say that, but what I meant was that he didn't harbour grudges and he didn't cling to false hopes. He was very clear sighted about what was worth his time and energy."
"Is that why he was able to be your friend even when he knew there was no hope he'd ever be anything more to you?"
Eva nodded. "And it is also why he didn't try to get even with Marie. He never resented the fact that his parents supported her all those years. He knew that what they gave her was not being taken away from him. He understood that people can love more than one person, that there is no contest going on."
I thought about something I'd just read in an email:
"Whatever your religious views, psychologists say the ability to forgive is closely correlated to happiness and mental health." It was part of an article called "Forgiving Without Condoning Or Forgetting". It began with the best reason for forgiving ... we create more unhappiness for ourselves than for the person we hate, then went on to describe grudge-holding, and talked about moving on with your life, something impossible if you cannot forgive. It wasn't all sweetness and light. You don't have to condone, excuse or forget the harm done to you and you don't have re-establish a relationship with the person. He talks too about the need to empathize, to be able to see things from the other's perspective in order to forgive, and believes that the older we get, the more forgiving we're likely to become.
The article made me think about my forgiveness of my parents ... Once I understood that my mother's upbringing was likely responsible for her failure to stand up against my father, I was able to forgive her.. It took me longer to understand my father's actions, but I think I forgave him because I knew he loved me even if he didn't know how to love me properly ... and he lived in a time when mothers were expected to be virgins, not whores..
I cannot understand why he treated my grandmother so badly. She'd always loved him and treated him well. But I do understand that people sometimes act inconsiderately because they know that they will drown themselves if they don't shove away the person who is pulling them under. Was my grandmother pulling him under? I don't think so. I think she was simply an inconvenience. So I still have a way to go before I can empathize and forgive him for sending her away to a strange land to die.
"Maybe you don't know the whole story," said Eva.
Startled, I looked up. I was surprised to find her still there, and I kept forgetting that these phantoms could read my unspoken thoughts.
"So you think that's why he died happy and Marie lived a long miserable life, because he was able to forgive and she couldn't ?"
"That was part of it, but Marie was a very unhappy woman who always wanted more. She thought happiness was something you could buy."
"Of course Grandpa always had money. I wonder whether he'd have been happy without it."
"I am sure money helped, but he was very generous with his money. He didn't hoard it away or ration it out. He was as freehanded with money as he was with smiles and kisses."
"Was Marie miserly with money?"
"Marie thought that money could buy friends and so she occasionally appeared generous, but she always went looking for a payback. Paul never expected anything in return when he gave anyone anything."
"Were you happy?"
"I loved my children and my work, and I was a well loved wife. Yes, I was happy."
"Did you ever wish you and Paul could have had more?"
"I always knew we could have had a love affair, but that would have destroyed the life that made me happy."
"Grandpa would have married you."
"Paul thought he wanted to marry me, but I would never have been happy in the role of wife to someone who was always looking for greener pastures or younger, prettier women. No. I liked the security of knowing my husband would never stray ... not even in his thoughts."
"And you think that Paul was content with that too?"
"Paul accepted things for what they were."
"And so did you."
Eva gave me a smile. "Yes. That is why we were both happy people."
I thought about Mark. "Mark hasn't got enough time or energy to work as hard as he does and give two women what they need to be happy. I don't think it always works as simply as you seem to think it does."
"Are you happy with your life apart from Mark?"
I thought for a minute before saying I didn't need Mark in my life to be happy.
"Then why ask for more than he can give?"
"Probably because I want enough contact to be comfortable with him. Both the brain and the vagina need estrogen to stay lubricated. You can help the brain by challenging it regularly, but the nether regions need more than just Replens and regular exercise."
"What do they need?" asked Eva.
"I don't know about other old women, but this old woman seems to need regular contact and open communication lines. I need to know that I am loved."
"What if you were his wife? Or the only woman in his life? Would his work be your competitor then?"
I thought for a long time before I finally answered Eva. "No. I understand that kind of focus. I know what it's like to be addicted to an idea or a job or to lose myself for hours in the creation of a piece of art. And I know what it feels like to want to do something really well."
"Could you also accept his procrastination which lures him away from getting the work done?"
"I'd likely get pissed off at times and wish he'd just use his time better, but yes, I procrastinate too, so I'd likely be able to deal with that too."
"So it's just the fact that he's spending time with his ex-wife."
"It's the fact that he's still connected to her ... still on her leash ..." I began, and then stopped myself. "I wish he didn't compartmentalize things the way he does. And I wish he didn't have that particular compartment in his life."
"Don't you compartmentalize too?" asked Eva. "I know I did. I'd never have got anything done if I hadn't.
"Mark's compartments are like steel boxes, not like fish bowls or office cubicles. They are impervious. Until he's ready to unlock the door and emerge, the only way in is to use dynamite. And then you screw up his ability to concentrate because you've forced him out of one cubicle into another."
"So it's counter productive."
"Yes, and I hate to impose."
"Does his wife have the same compunction? Do his daughters?"
"No ... they bug him all the time. But I like him too much to do that to him."
"They probably do too but maybe they understand him better than you do."
"Maybe," I said, and I knew that I would be letting this idea play in my subconscious for a while.
Nolan called last night at midnight London time to tell me that Pat was in Intensive Care after the surgery; that they had performed the biopsy on the lung, and that they were draining the incision. He didn't know how long she would remain in the ICU or when the biopsy results would be available, but he would call me tonight. Once Pat moves back to the ward I will be able to call her on her cell phone.
I've been re-thinking cell phones since this trip. The public phone booth that was impossible to use. Pat's connections with family and friends through her phone no matter where she found herself (except of course in ICU). Maybe they are not the devil's invention ... maybe like everything else in life, they can be beneficial if used judiciously. Like television ... and sports ... and DVDs ... and computers ...
I've also been thinking more about the loneliness of being ill if you live alone. We will all die alone. But Pat's illness is made more bearable because she is surrounded by people who care ... her son and his family who live close by ... her friends ... her other son and her brother who maintain daily contact ... but it is Nolan who trucks himself off to the hospital every day, often twice a day. It is Nolan who takes her dirty laundry home and brings back the things she needs. It is Nolan who waters the plants and keeps the household running. And it is Nolan who looks after her Canadian friends so that Pat can enjoy their company.
My neighbour who died early this fall was terribly ill in her last year. I often thought how lucky she was to have a husband who loved her and took care of her. They were married for fifty years, and in that last year he devoted himself entirely to her, accompanying her to appointments, driving to Montreal every Sunday and returning every Friday night while she was undergoing radiation ... a whole winter of these weekly commutes. He bullied her into walking small distances when she emerged from the first set of chemotherapy treatments, knowing that she needed the exercise and the sunshine; that she'd feel better for having taken these walks. Later he fed her, helped her bathe and get to and from the toilet. He helped her choose the wig she would never wear because the cancer outran the chemo. She was less kind to him than to any of the rest of us. Because he loved her best. Because she knew she could never lose his love and support. Because she was having such a hard time and he was the only one she could rail against. There was never any point in shrieking imprecations against a god she didn't believe existed. But Tom was there. Tom never wavered, never walked away.
And Pat is harder on Nolan than she is on any of the rest of us for all the same reasons.
I will not have anyone to rail against. And I will lose not only my health but also my home when the time comes. I will likely spend the last years of my life in some institution cared for by people paid to do their job. Is that why I am fussing about Mark? Foolish, if it is, because he lives a continent away, and neither of us can stand the idea of living with another person.
I threw away the one relationship in which I could have grown old with my own Nolan or Tom beside me. And once you've tossed it aside you can't pick up the pieces and put them back together. Relationships are a lot like Humpty Dumpty ... and that is what parents reading nursery rhymes and fairy tales at bedtime are doing ... trying to inculcate values and teach truths to tiny children while they are still young enough to be imprinted. I seem to have remembered the stories but not the lessons.
OKAY ... I've put in half my allotted time and I am going to take a break!
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Day 26 continues ... over 6000 words today ...
Day 26 goes on ... and on ... and on ...
The old goat has been on my case again ... says I am leading a silly flibberty jibbet kind of life ... flitting off to England on a whim ... attending a ridiculous luncheon ... doing everything possible to avoid doing some real work ... read work that is important to him. I must say, though, that today's excursion to the luncheon for retirees was not worth going to ... he was right about that one. Too many people crowded into a room with horrible acoustics. I couldn't hear what anyone said ... and when I managed to hear a bit, it was trivial small talk or puffing up themselves. Two people who said they'd really like to see me were unwilling to consider coming even halfway. Both thought I should phone them and meet them in Ottawa. Wakefield was just too far away. So ... do they think I have wings ... that I just fly to Ottawa and don't have to come home to the lake? And then there were the people who spoke. One wanted to collect money for daycare centres in remote settlements in Guatemala. The other told us about the legion medal he won last year ... the one that celebrated his standing for 6 hours a day every day for a week at a shopping centre. Neither speech was short and sweet.
I am beginning to think that what happens to all of us as we age is that we become focused on one or two pet concerns and we think everyone should be just as interested as we are. For some it was their grandchildren. For others their health issues. For others their travel experiences. And I am just as bad ... I talked about Pat's cancer and my daughter's bad health year that seems to just keep going on and on ...and people listened as politely to me as I listened to them. And likely just as wearily.
At least they listened. Something Grandpa seems incapable of doing. I've tried to explain about Pat but Grandpa can't understand old age. He just doesn't get it. Pointe finale.
Once again that strange mix of concern and callousness. He's much more concerned about my relationship with Mark ... and right now Mark is simply someone on the sidelines of life.
Maybe that's what I have to do ... sort out real life from the fluff that floats beside it. Retirees' luncheons have now bee relegated to the second category, along with friends who don't meet me halfway.
I've been trying to reach Nolan all day but I guess he is at the hospital with Pat. I will call David before I go to the dentist. Maybe he will know something.
"You should be calling the big marshmallow," said Grandpa. I looked around but couldn't find him.
"Why?" I called.
" Don't shout. I'm right here.." he said coming out of the closet. "Because you need someone to have fun with ... a man ... someone to tickle your fancy ... and some other things too," he said with a grin.
"Even if he doesn't have time to give me a reasonable amount of time?" I asked.
"Yeah. Even then. After all, how much time do you have to devote to him ... or to any man? Seems to me he's perfect for someone like you. You would rather write than talk; rather live alone than be a wife; and you don't seem to be oversexed to me."
"Grandpa!"
"Well really ... isn't once a month just about right?"
I thought about what he'd said often in the next few days. But it wasn't quite that simple. I didn't want someone like Bruce, someone who hung on me like an albatross. But I needed more that Mark was willing or able to give. The simple truth was that Mark needed to sort out his life with his wife. He needed to either commit to it or get a divorce. Then there would be a clear playing field for us to determine where we were headed. Grandpa was right about one thing though. I could accommodate quite happily a man who had a demanding job and could only come to Ottawa a few days a month.
What I couldn't do was accommodate an extra woman. It didn't matter that they were living apart and not having sex with one another. She was still making demands that required him to spend large quantities of time and energy; time and energy we needed if we were to build a relationship with one another. And when she wasn't making that kind of demand, she was making him waste hours and hours feeling guilty.
How come I never did that to a man? I keep running into women who get their own way precisely because they are so good at guilting a man into doing things ... and the men I was less demanding of are now with women who have fine tuned that ability ... have got it down to a science.
Years and years ago I met a woman who manipulated men very effectively. I watched as she twisted them around her little finger. And I thought at the time that she had absolutely no respect for men. She treated them like large retarded children in suits. I thought my honesty showed a basic respect. I am now beginning to think she understood far more than I did about the way a man's mind works. They want to believe they are the ones making the decisions, so you have to play that "poor little me" game ... you know ... the one that makes you appear to be an idiot totally dependent on a man. Needy. It's really all a matter of role playing. If you are smart you write the script, act the part, get your way, and the man has no idea he's been had.
I think I always had too much self respect to pretend to be that needy ... and I couldn't imagine that a man I loved could possibly be that stupid or blind.
"Well you were wrong, weren't you?"
"Do you think so?"
"Do you have someone paying the bills and helping you with all the things that are tough on your own?"
"No ... but I also don't have someone demanding that I lead my life for him. When I was in England I read an interview in the Saturday Guardian in which Mavis Gallant talked about why she was unmarried. She said she hated being half a person attached to another half person; that she couldn't write when she lived with a man , and that she was bored and boring when in a relationship. I understood exactly what she meant."
"Well then, the large marshmallow is likely just right for you. No socks or dirty underwear to wash, no meals to cook three times a day ..." He stood back and perched one finger on his pursed lips. "But you want him at your beck and call. That's it, isn't it? You don't want to have to come whenever a man snaps his fingers, but you are not as willing to give him the same kind of freedom you want for yourself."
My god, I thought. Maybe he's right.
The old goat has been on my case again ... says I am leading a silly flibberty jibbet kind of life ... flitting off to England on a whim ... attending a ridiculous luncheon ... doing everything possible to avoid doing some real work ... read work that is important to him. I must say, though, that today's excursion to the luncheon for retirees was not worth going to ... he was right about that one. Too many people crowded into a room with horrible acoustics. I couldn't hear what anyone said ... and when I managed to hear a bit, it was trivial small talk or puffing up themselves. Two people who said they'd really like to see me were unwilling to consider coming even halfway. Both thought I should phone them and meet them in Ottawa. Wakefield was just too far away. So ... do they think I have wings ... that I just fly to Ottawa and don't have to come home to the lake? And then there were the people who spoke. One wanted to collect money for daycare centres in remote settlements in Guatemala. The other told us about the legion medal he won last year ... the one that celebrated his standing for 6 hours a day every day for a week at a shopping centre. Neither speech was short and sweet.
I am beginning to think that what happens to all of us as we age is that we become focused on one or two pet concerns and we think everyone should be just as interested as we are. For some it was their grandchildren. For others their health issues. For others their travel experiences. And I am just as bad ... I talked about Pat's cancer and my daughter's bad health year that seems to just keep going on and on ...and people listened as politely to me as I listened to them. And likely just as wearily.
At least they listened. Something Grandpa seems incapable of doing. I've tried to explain about Pat but Grandpa can't understand old age. He just doesn't get it. Pointe finale.
Once again that strange mix of concern and callousness. He's much more concerned about my relationship with Mark ... and right now Mark is simply someone on the sidelines of life.
Maybe that's what I have to do ... sort out real life from the fluff that floats beside it. Retirees' luncheons have now bee relegated to the second category, along with friends who don't meet me halfway.
I've been trying to reach Nolan all day but I guess he is at the hospital with Pat. I will call David before I go to the dentist. Maybe he will know something.
"You should be calling the big marshmallow," said Grandpa. I looked around but couldn't find him.
"Why?" I called.
" Don't shout. I'm right here.." he said coming out of the closet. "Because you need someone to have fun with ... a man ... someone to tickle your fancy ... and some other things too," he said with a grin.
"Even if he doesn't have time to give me a reasonable amount of time?" I asked.
"Yeah. Even then. After all, how much time do you have to devote to him ... or to any man? Seems to me he's perfect for someone like you. You would rather write than talk; rather live alone than be a wife; and you don't seem to be oversexed to me."
"Grandpa!"
"Well really ... isn't once a month just about right?"
I thought about what he'd said often in the next few days. But it wasn't quite that simple. I didn't want someone like Bruce, someone who hung on me like an albatross. But I needed more that Mark was willing or able to give. The simple truth was that Mark needed to sort out his life with his wife. He needed to either commit to it or get a divorce. Then there would be a clear playing field for us to determine where we were headed. Grandpa was right about one thing though. I could accommodate quite happily a man who had a demanding job and could only come to Ottawa a few days a month.
What I couldn't do was accommodate an extra woman. It didn't matter that they were living apart and not having sex with one another. She was still making demands that required him to spend large quantities of time and energy; time and energy we needed if we were to build a relationship with one another. And when she wasn't making that kind of demand, she was making him waste hours and hours feeling guilty.
How come I never did that to a man? I keep running into women who get their own way precisely because they are so good at guilting a man into doing things ... and the men I was less demanding of are now with women who have fine tuned that ability ... have got it down to a science.
Years and years ago I met a woman who manipulated men very effectively. I watched as she twisted them around her little finger. And I thought at the time that she had absolutely no respect for men. She treated them like large retarded children in suits. I thought my honesty showed a basic respect. I am now beginning to think she understood far more than I did about the way a man's mind works. They want to believe they are the ones making the decisions, so you have to play that "poor little me" game ... you know ... the one that makes you appear to be an idiot totally dependent on a man. Needy. It's really all a matter of role playing. If you are smart you write the script, act the part, get your way, and the man has no idea he's been had.
I think I always had too much self respect to pretend to be that needy ... and I couldn't imagine that a man I loved could possibly be that stupid or blind.
"Well you were wrong, weren't you?"
"Do you think so?"
"Do you have someone paying the bills and helping you with all the things that are tough on your own?"
"No ... but I also don't have someone demanding that I lead my life for him. When I was in England I read an interview in the Saturday Guardian in which Mavis Gallant talked about why she was unmarried. She said she hated being half a person attached to another half person; that she couldn't write when she lived with a man , and that she was bored and boring when in a relationship. I understood exactly what she meant."
"Well then, the large marshmallow is likely just right for you. No socks or dirty underwear to wash, no meals to cook three times a day ..." He stood back and perched one finger on his pursed lips. "But you want him at your beck and call. That's it, isn't it? You don't want to have to come whenever a man snaps his fingers, but you are not as willing to give him the same kind of freedom you want for yourself."
My god, I thought. Maybe he's right.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 25 ... working my way back into this silly novel
November 25, 2009
Nanowrimo: Day 25 but really more like Day 15 for me
"But, my love, we've always known when we said good bye that it might be the last time we would see one another," Pat said in the sweet voice she uses when she is showing how much she cares. She has other voices, of course. Exasperated, cross, intellectual ... but this time she was using the voice that meshes sweet sound reason with love.
However; we both knew that this parting was different. This time we were both almost 70 years old. A transatlantic trip is physically taxing and costs almost $1000. Pat has cancer... and I am 69. Who knows what is ticking away inside me waiting to spring out of the shadows one day to drag me back in with it?
This time I said goodbye knowing that it was quite probably really the last time I would hear all of those voices I have heard for over fifty years. It was likely the last time I could touch her hand, kiss her cheek, make her carrot soup ... tell her with my hands, my actions and my body that I loved her so very much. I will hear the voices again many times, I am sure, but they will be disembodied voices over a transatlantic cable, unaccompanied by the flesh and blood warmth of breathing in her scent or exploding into spontaneous laughter or a hug.
I wished that our last day together had been better spent. Pat sat alone in that damned bed without her music, listening to the blare of the telly, waiting for a surgical procedure that never happened. She was hungry and fed up and in pain because they had stopped all food and drink at midnight the previous night. She used the cross and exasperated voices more than once during the day, and then, as Pat always did, followed up the scolding with the sweetly reasonable one as she commiserated with a nurse who had to work in such a disorganized hospital whose communication systems were in such disrepair.
Claire and I could have spent the day with Pat instead of walking to the Boots Drugstore on the Holloway Road so that Claire could purchase #7 nail polish for her daughter. On our way home we stopped at the Marks and Spencer store to buy underwear, also a command performance. Claire's daughter had ordered her to purchase decent underwear for herself; hers had holey crotches. That is holey, not holy. Claire is certainly no Virgin Mary. I bought some too ... Marks and Spencer is the best place in the world to buy inexpensive underwear. I also picked up a housecoat ... bright red, sensible and cozy ... looks like boiled wool but is softer. I knew I would likely never have another chance to purchase such an intrinsically British housecoat. Then we picked up groceries. We spent our day putting in time until Pat was out of surgery and awake when we could have helped the interminable hours pass more quickly.
I felt as if I were saying good bye to London for the last time this trip. I'd been coming here since 1977 and in many ways know this city better than most Canadian cities ... at least as long as I stay in Pat's Islington neighbourhood or make my subterranean way around the less familiar parts, popping up to explore for awhile, always knowing that that when I find the red and blue London Underground sign I can descend into the familiar rabbit warren of rail lines with their comforting names and colours and find my way back to Archway station and Pat.
Things don't change in London the way they do in Ottawa. I know that I can always find fish and chips at the little shop near the station, that the bus and tube tickets are invariably available at the little grocer's, and that the pet food store where I bought dog biscuits three years ago will still be on the same corner, and that its less popular items will be there, just a little dustier.
And I guess I always thought of Pat as being like her city ... she'd always be there waiting for my visits, just a little creakier, a little more tired, a little dustier ... like me ... but essentially still the same old Pat I'd known most of my life.
Oh I don't mean that she'd have sat there like a bag of vegetarian dog biscuits for three years waiting for me to arrive. No, that was the wonderful thing. She'd have been busily living her life between visits, just as I had, and we'd have been in touch often enough to have been kept abreast of all the important happenings in each other's worlds. We'd both have grown a little older (and perhaps gentler if not wiser) in the interim, but we'd meet, and the laughter and conversation would flow as if we'd just seen one another the day before. We seldom wept together, but we discussed everything, and we giggled a great deal.
I can't imagine a world in which Pat is no longer there for me in Islington.
"I don't want to be the last man standing." Claire had said when we met in Pat's kitchen that morning. She did not look very different from the last time I had seen her. Of course she looked different. She was fifty years older. And likely as many pounds heavier. And she'd had a stroke. But I was amazed by how little she had changed. She was still vibrant and funny and sure of herself. And still six feet tall. But it was her eyes that fascinated me. I could have been looking into the eyes of the girl I had known in my teens.
Claire and I go back as far as Pat and I do, and we share many of the same beliefs that Pat and I have in common, but our relationship has been intermittent (and considerably rockier); not steady like the one I share with Pat. Pat and Claire's friendship has had the same kind of constancy as Pat's and mine. I suspect that Pat is the one who makes it happen. She is a good friend.
It became abundantly clear during this visit that Pat is surrounded and coccooned by the friendships she has nurtured all her life. If Pat does not come through this encounter with the shadowy creature, I will be very alone but I will not be alone in my grief.
The meeting with Claire was not as predictable as the one with Pat. In fact I had no idea what to expect. I thought she might have been diminished by her stroke eleven years ago, but she wasn't. She still had strong opinions but they had been a little softened around the edges. The United Church had replaced dialectical Marxism, and mother love now supercedes all the isms. Nolan commented on Claire's strange inconsistencies and contradictions. I suspect we are all of us strangely contradictory creatures, even when we think we are fairly straightforward.
I thought of my grandfather. He was a man whose happy go lucky reputation was dominated by thoughtlessness and inconstancy ... the profligate who used women ... the Don Juan whose sole mission in life was self absorbed and hedonistic. And then I learned about a man who was himself used by my grandmother as a rung on a ladder to security. A man who helped women in need. A man respected by Eva.
And who was Eva? Was she the saint she seemed to be? The faithful wife, the tireless fund raiser and selfless nurturer of fallen women? The Anglican Mother Teresa? Or was she like Pat, a woman with an ascerbic wit and a short fuse? Or like Claire with her strong views that brook no opposition? Did Eva pat herself on the back or did she work her miracles silently and invisibly? One thing is sure, she, like all the rest of us, was undoubtedly fully human, with faults as well as virtues. The only really unoffensive people are those insipid creatures without any convictions. And, since I cannot abide them, I find them truly offensive.
Nanowrimo: Day 25 but really more like Day 15 for me
"But, my love, we've always known when we said good bye that it might be the last time we would see one another," Pat said in the sweet voice she uses when she is showing how much she cares. She has other voices, of course. Exasperated, cross, intellectual ... but this time she was using the voice that meshes sweet sound reason with love.
However; we both knew that this parting was different. This time we were both almost 70 years old. A transatlantic trip is physically taxing and costs almost $1000. Pat has cancer... and I am 69. Who knows what is ticking away inside me waiting to spring out of the shadows one day to drag me back in with it?
This time I said goodbye knowing that it was quite probably really the last time I would hear all of those voices I have heard for over fifty years. It was likely the last time I could touch her hand, kiss her cheek, make her carrot soup ... tell her with my hands, my actions and my body that I loved her so very much. I will hear the voices again many times, I am sure, but they will be disembodied voices over a transatlantic cable, unaccompanied by the flesh and blood warmth of breathing in her scent or exploding into spontaneous laughter or a hug.
I wished that our last day together had been better spent. Pat sat alone in that damned bed without her music, listening to the blare of the telly, waiting for a surgical procedure that never happened. She was hungry and fed up and in pain because they had stopped all food and drink at midnight the previous night. She used the cross and exasperated voices more than once during the day, and then, as Pat always did, followed up the scolding with the sweetly reasonable one as she commiserated with a nurse who had to work in such a disorganized hospital whose communication systems were in such disrepair.
Claire and I could have spent the day with Pat instead of walking to the Boots Drugstore on the Holloway Road so that Claire could purchase #7 nail polish for her daughter. On our way home we stopped at the Marks and Spencer store to buy underwear, also a command performance. Claire's daughter had ordered her to purchase decent underwear for herself; hers had holey crotches. That is holey, not holy. Claire is certainly no Virgin Mary. I bought some too ... Marks and Spencer is the best place in the world to buy inexpensive underwear. I also picked up a housecoat ... bright red, sensible and cozy ... looks like boiled wool but is softer. I knew I would likely never have another chance to purchase such an intrinsically British housecoat. Then we picked up groceries. We spent our day putting in time until Pat was out of surgery and awake when we could have helped the interminable hours pass more quickly.
I felt as if I were saying good bye to London for the last time this trip. I'd been coming here since 1977 and in many ways know this city better than most Canadian cities ... at least as long as I stay in Pat's Islington neighbourhood or make my subterranean way around the less familiar parts, popping up to explore for awhile, always knowing that that when I find the red and blue London Underground sign I can descend into the familiar rabbit warren of rail lines with their comforting names and colours and find my way back to Archway station and Pat.
Things don't change in London the way they do in Ottawa. I know that I can always find fish and chips at the little shop near the station, that the bus and tube tickets are invariably available at the little grocer's, and that the pet food store where I bought dog biscuits three years ago will still be on the same corner, and that its less popular items will be there, just a little dustier.
And I guess I always thought of Pat as being like her city ... she'd always be there waiting for my visits, just a little creakier, a little more tired, a little dustier ... like me ... but essentially still the same old Pat I'd known most of my life.
Oh I don't mean that she'd have sat there like a bag of vegetarian dog biscuits for three years waiting for me to arrive. No, that was the wonderful thing. She'd have been busily living her life between visits, just as I had, and we'd have been in touch often enough to have been kept abreast of all the important happenings in each other's worlds. We'd both have grown a little older (and perhaps gentler if not wiser) in the interim, but we'd meet, and the laughter and conversation would flow as if we'd just seen one another the day before. We seldom wept together, but we discussed everything, and we giggled a great deal.
I can't imagine a world in which Pat is no longer there for me in Islington.
"I don't want to be the last man standing." Claire had said when we met in Pat's kitchen that morning. She did not look very different from the last time I had seen her. Of course she looked different. She was fifty years older. And likely as many pounds heavier. And she'd had a stroke. But I was amazed by how little she had changed. She was still vibrant and funny and sure of herself. And still six feet tall. But it was her eyes that fascinated me. I could have been looking into the eyes of the girl I had known in my teens.
Claire and I go back as far as Pat and I do, and we share many of the same beliefs that Pat and I have in common, but our relationship has been intermittent (and considerably rockier); not steady like the one I share with Pat. Pat and Claire's friendship has had the same kind of constancy as Pat's and mine. I suspect that Pat is the one who makes it happen. She is a good friend.
It became abundantly clear during this visit that Pat is surrounded and coccooned by the friendships she has nurtured all her life. If Pat does not come through this encounter with the shadowy creature, I will be very alone but I will not be alone in my grief.
The meeting with Claire was not as predictable as the one with Pat. In fact I had no idea what to expect. I thought she might have been diminished by her stroke eleven years ago, but she wasn't. She still had strong opinions but they had been a little softened around the edges. The United Church had replaced dialectical Marxism, and mother love now supercedes all the isms. Nolan commented on Claire's strange inconsistencies and contradictions. I suspect we are all of us strangely contradictory creatures, even when we think we are fairly straightforward.
I thought of my grandfather. He was a man whose happy go lucky reputation was dominated by thoughtlessness and inconstancy ... the profligate who used women ... the Don Juan whose sole mission in life was self absorbed and hedonistic. And then I learned about a man who was himself used by my grandmother as a rung on a ladder to security. A man who helped women in need. A man respected by Eva.
And who was Eva? Was she the saint she seemed to be? The faithful wife, the tireless fund raiser and selfless nurturer of fallen women? The Anglican Mother Teresa? Or was she like Pat, a woman with an ascerbic wit and a short fuse? Or like Claire with her strong views that brook no opposition? Did Eva pat herself on the back or did she work her miracles silently and invisibly? One thing is sure, she, like all the rest of us, was undoubtedly fully human, with faults as well as virtues. The only really unoffensive people are those insipid creatures without any convictions. And, since I cannot abide them, I find them truly offensive.
Monday, 23 November 2009
A Long Weary Day Yesterday
Pat transferred to the Little Heart Hospital yesterday. I accompanied her in the ambulance. This hospital is very different from the neighbourhood hospital she's been in for the past month. No private room, no windows that open, no relaxed rules, no place to make a cup of tea or heat up a bowl of soup. No chance to have her own radio station on, not even a chance to read or talk peacefully. The peace and quiet and sense of security has been replaced by a blaring television, stiff blue curtains around a bed, a room mate with a grating voice, and a too busy staff. Thank goodness this is simply a hospital in which to undergo surgery, recuperate to the point of going home; not a place to live for months.
It was an exhausting day for everyone. David, Beck and the boys came by with Nolan around 7 and then we all dispersed. David and Beck took all the bags the tiny space could not accommodate and Nolan and I took a series of subway trains home. Our tube station was closed for repairs so we had to go on to the next one and take a bus back. By the time we arrived at Archway it was far too late to consider making a meal at home so we decided to eat at a little Turkish restaurant enroute. It was ten when we arrived back at the flat and I immediately went to my bed.
I felt as if I had been of some use in very practical terms during this stressful day ... and that's a good thing. When you are sick it's nice to have someone take over some of those overwhelming organizational jobs and help you create some serenity amid chaos. I helped Pat get ready to move hospitals, and then when we got to the second one, helped her settle in. After the gear was stored and ready to be taken back home, and out of the way, Pat was comfortably ensconced in the bed with a fan blowing cool if not fresh air, I massaged her hands and feet, and then we sat in companionable silence, talking occasionally, while I worked on Dark Mirror's Christmas socks.
Claire arrived yesterday afternoon and went to bed for the day and night ... I will get to see her this morning at breakfast, I guess.
Pat's surgery is scheduled for this morning some time so we will go back to see her this afternoon after she has been out of the anaesthetic long enough to be aware of company ... and want it.
I am leading a very circumscribed life but I really have no desire to be anywhere else at this time. I will be glad to return to my life at the lake with Kenya ... but I am content being here right now with Pat.
It was an exhausting day for everyone. David, Beck and the boys came by with Nolan around 7 and then we all dispersed. David and Beck took all the bags the tiny space could not accommodate and Nolan and I took a series of subway trains home. Our tube station was closed for repairs so we had to go on to the next one and take a bus back. By the time we arrived at Archway it was far too late to consider making a meal at home so we decided to eat at a little Turkish restaurant enroute. It was ten when we arrived back at the flat and I immediately went to my bed.
I felt as if I had been of some use in very practical terms during this stressful day ... and that's a good thing. When you are sick it's nice to have someone take over some of those overwhelming organizational jobs and help you create some serenity amid chaos. I helped Pat get ready to move hospitals, and then when we got to the second one, helped her settle in. After the gear was stored and ready to be taken back home, and out of the way, Pat was comfortably ensconced in the bed with a fan blowing cool if not fresh air, I massaged her hands and feet, and then we sat in companionable silence, talking occasionally, while I worked on Dark Mirror's Christmas socks.
Claire arrived yesterday afternoon and went to bed for the day and night ... I will get to see her this morning at breakfast, I guess.
Pat's surgery is scheduled for this morning some time so we will go back to see her this afternoon after she has been out of the anaesthetic long enough to be aware of company ... and want it.
I am leading a very circumscribed life but I really have no desire to be anywhere else at this time. I will be glad to return to my life at the lake with Kenya ... but I am content being here right now with Pat.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Something I Learned This Evening
Nolan and I went for dinner at David and Beck's (Pat's older son and daughter-in-law's) and I read an interesting article in The Guardian about how fiction is dying and morphing into non-fiction. Wiser heads than mine have accepted the fact that my Nanowrimo novel is not a complete anomaly after all ... in fact it is part of a growing trend to mix autobiography and other non-fiction with invented bits to create a new kind of fiction. Whoo! And here I thought I was just incompetent ... that I started with no idea at all and so had to rely on what was there in my life in order to write anything at all! What a relief!
Nolan and I visited Pat this morning and again this afternoon when we took her a large container of soup I had made for her so that she could eat real food again. Yesterday she was so doped up on morphine that she kept dozing off in mid-sentence. It was very worrying. Today she was in far better shape mentally and I managed to massage cream into both feet and one hand in between visits from a variety of friends, her two grandsons who come every day and wreak havoc (1 1/2 and 3 1/2 ... sweet little boys), and various medical people who pop in and out often.
Tomorrow another Canadian friend from the same era that Pat and I were good friends will be coming for a few days. Claire lives in Peterborough and is enroute to Amsterdam to visit family.
Pat will have surgery in a different hospital on Monday and will return to her home as soon as they feel she is able. This surgery will clean up any remaining infection between the lung and the rib cage and will allow them to ascertain whether there is any cancer in that lung. Then she will be able to undergo chemotherapy once she has recovered from the operation.
I am having a good time ... being with Pat ... spending time with Nolan ... getting to know her family again ... it's all good. Pat and I tease one another and Nolan ... and Ethan, her older grandson asks me for kisses and chooses me to tell him his bedtime story. Tonight I got to read about Pooh and Piglet trying to trap the Heffalump. He is a very gentle little boy and I feel privileged. The baby, Joe, is more direct in his demands and VERY noisy ... but after a good long visit to the park in the rain, he was a dear too.
This is a very short visit but I will leave knowing that Pat is being very well cared for and wonderfully loved by family and friends. If I hadn't come I'd have been worried that she might need me here. Now that I have seen for myself that she is absolutely cocooned in love and that she is getting excellent medical care, I feel much better about things.
I have been watering plants, sketchbooking and journaling in between visits ... no knitting time at all so far. I think I'll take my knitting with me tomorrow. And now it is midnight and I need my bed ... as any of you who know me well will understand ... this is way past my bedtime.
Nolan and I visited Pat this morning and again this afternoon when we took her a large container of soup I had made for her so that she could eat real food again. Yesterday she was so doped up on morphine that she kept dozing off in mid-sentence. It was very worrying. Today she was in far better shape mentally and I managed to massage cream into both feet and one hand in between visits from a variety of friends, her two grandsons who come every day and wreak havoc (1 1/2 and 3 1/2 ... sweet little boys), and various medical people who pop in and out often.
Tomorrow another Canadian friend from the same era that Pat and I were good friends will be coming for a few days. Claire lives in Peterborough and is enroute to Amsterdam to visit family.
Pat will have surgery in a different hospital on Monday and will return to her home as soon as they feel she is able. This surgery will clean up any remaining infection between the lung and the rib cage and will allow them to ascertain whether there is any cancer in that lung. Then she will be able to undergo chemotherapy once she has recovered from the operation.
I am having a good time ... being with Pat ... spending time with Nolan ... getting to know her family again ... it's all good. Pat and I tease one another and Nolan ... and Ethan, her older grandson asks me for kisses and chooses me to tell him his bedtime story. Tonight I got to read about Pooh and Piglet trying to trap the Heffalump. He is a very gentle little boy and I feel privileged. The baby, Joe, is more direct in his demands and VERY noisy ... but after a good long visit to the park in the rain, he was a dear too.
This is a very short visit but I will leave knowing that Pat is being very well cared for and wonderfully loved by family and friends. If I hadn't come I'd have been worried that she might need me here. Now that I have seen for myself that she is absolutely cocooned in love and that she is getting excellent medical care, I feel much better about things.
I have been watering plants, sketchbooking and journaling in between visits ... no knitting time at all so far. I think I'll take my knitting with me tomorrow. And now it is midnight and I need my bed ... as any of you who know me well will understand ... this is way past my bedtime.
Quick Blog Post from London
I hate flying ... I left home at 6:30 p.m. on Thursday, transferred to Tammy's van, and reached the airport at 8:15, took off at 10:15, ate terrible food and watched movies on a tiny screen set about 12 inches from my glasses, and arrived at Heathrow exhausted at 10 a.m. London time (4 a.m. Ottawa time). Then I made my way under London ... three trains ... and arrived at Islington's Archway station at noon. The phone did not work so I couldn't call Nolan as planned. I hoofed it, pack on back, little red suitcase trundling along behind me, and was welcomed with a hug, a cup of tea and the chance to sleep for two hours before visiting Pat for the first time.
More about time together after our visit this morning.
More about time together after our visit this morning.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
No Nanorimo till I get home ...
November 19, 2009
Day 19 with a great gap between Day 15 and 19 ...
My narrator and writer have been very busy ... I think I will use my airport waiting time to fill in the gaps ... in my journal ... and ... if I have the time/opportunity in London I will transpose to the computer and upload to my blog. But if I don't ... I will not fret.
I am taking this trip to give the gift of my presence and love to Pat, not to get on with my life under different circumstances in a different country. I am taking with me beautiful hand cream to give her feet and hands a massage, and photos of my funky furniture to show her what my (almost) latest obsession is. I will take wool to make her a pair of socks while I am there. My big sketchbooking journal will accompany me in my suitcase, and my small one will travel in my pack. I am also taking two novels, one to leave there; one for the return trip.
I am wearing black almost everything this trip ... except for my hiking boots and the red shell that goes on over my black fleece. I will wear the new (quite small) black pack I bought for $12 at MEC the other day. After I made my purchase, the nice man behind the counter fixed the strap on my old faded green MEC pack, the one that has been everywhere imaginable from Norway to Namibia; from Malawi to Mongolia with me. Since I wouldn't be dealing with real backpacking on this trip and the underground is friendly to my red suitcase I decided (finally) to take the small red suitcase that trundles along on wheels instead of my great yellow back pack.
So ... black with touches of red ... except for the soft purple silk scarf. The second time I went to Africa I stayed in London with Pat for a couple of days enroute. I had bought a hooded Tilley jacket that was a beautiful shade of purple. Pat and I were wandering around an outdoor market. She saw the scarf and immediately bought it for me telling me she wanted my neck to be warm and draft-free on the long flight ahead of me.
That scarf has been almost as many places in the world as I have been. I lost it once and was heartbroken. But it turned up a couple of weeks later under the sofa at the cottage, a little muddy and pock marked, because one of my baby groundhog orphans had been suckling on it. The scarf, like my underpants and socks, it seems, was quintessentially me. And that scarf represents for me the quintessence of Pat.
For 54 years Pat has been my anchor, and my life preserver. We've moved in and out of one another's lives for over half a century. We've laughed together, cried together, lived together, visited countless art galleries, marched in protest marches, traveled all over England together, and now that we are old and no longer quite as prim and proper as we once tried to be, gotten drunk together on wine and brandy. It was with Pat that I saw Judy Chicago's Dinner Party and the wonderful retrospective of the woman who created our National Arts Centre spider. Together we visited Cambridge University and took a boat ride on the Cam, and, over the years, we have visited a great many of the cathedrals Pat loves. The last time I was in Britain Pat drove us to Blewbury where we poked around doing research for me. (We both loved that.) Pat's sons took me to the London Zoo in 1977; Pat toured me around ancient canals and market areas during that, my first trip to London.
But those are simply highlights; it is all the moments that are not very memorable that our friendship has included that make her my dear dear friend. I cannot imagine a world without Pat in it. The very thought that she might not make it through this time terrifies me.
I am so glad that I will have these four or five days with her. I wish it could be longer, but life doesn't always allow us to have our druthers.
Must run now ... I have to take my car in to have the winter tires put on ... and the oil changed ... Life in these hills includes winter even though it seems to be taking its time getting here this year.
Day 19 with a great gap between Day 15 and 19 ...
My narrator and writer have been very busy ... I think I will use my airport waiting time to fill in the gaps ... in my journal ... and ... if I have the time/opportunity in London I will transpose to the computer and upload to my blog. But if I don't ... I will not fret.
I am taking this trip to give the gift of my presence and love to Pat, not to get on with my life under different circumstances in a different country. I am taking with me beautiful hand cream to give her feet and hands a massage, and photos of my funky furniture to show her what my (almost) latest obsession is. I will take wool to make her a pair of socks while I am there. My big sketchbooking journal will accompany me in my suitcase, and my small one will travel in my pack. I am also taking two novels, one to leave there; one for the return trip.
I am wearing black almost everything this trip ... except for my hiking boots and the red shell that goes on over my black fleece. I will wear the new (quite small) black pack I bought for $12 at MEC the other day. After I made my purchase, the nice man behind the counter fixed the strap on my old faded green MEC pack, the one that has been everywhere imaginable from Norway to Namibia; from Malawi to Mongolia with me. Since I wouldn't be dealing with real backpacking on this trip and the underground is friendly to my red suitcase I decided (finally) to take the small red suitcase that trundles along on wheels instead of my great yellow back pack.
So ... black with touches of red ... except for the soft purple silk scarf. The second time I went to Africa I stayed in London with Pat for a couple of days enroute. I had bought a hooded Tilley jacket that was a beautiful shade of purple. Pat and I were wandering around an outdoor market. She saw the scarf and immediately bought it for me telling me she wanted my neck to be warm and draft-free on the long flight ahead of me.
That scarf has been almost as many places in the world as I have been. I lost it once and was heartbroken. But it turned up a couple of weeks later under the sofa at the cottage, a little muddy and pock marked, because one of my baby groundhog orphans had been suckling on it. The scarf, like my underpants and socks, it seems, was quintessentially me. And that scarf represents for me the quintessence of Pat.
For 54 years Pat has been my anchor, and my life preserver. We've moved in and out of one another's lives for over half a century. We've laughed together, cried together, lived together, visited countless art galleries, marched in protest marches, traveled all over England together, and now that we are old and no longer quite as prim and proper as we once tried to be, gotten drunk together on wine and brandy. It was with Pat that I saw Judy Chicago's Dinner Party and the wonderful retrospective of the woman who created our National Arts Centre spider. Together we visited Cambridge University and took a boat ride on the Cam, and, over the years, we have visited a great many of the cathedrals Pat loves. The last time I was in Britain Pat drove us to Blewbury where we poked around doing research for me. (We both loved that.) Pat's sons took me to the London Zoo in 1977; Pat toured me around ancient canals and market areas during that, my first trip to London.
But those are simply highlights; it is all the moments that are not very memorable that our friendship has included that make her my dear dear friend. I cannot imagine a world without Pat in it. The very thought that she might not make it through this time terrifies me.
I am so glad that I will have these four or five days with her. I wish it could be longer, but life doesn't always allow us to have our druthers.
Must run now ... I have to take my car in to have the winter tires put on ... and the oil changed ... Life in these hills includes winter even though it seems to be taking its time getting here this year.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Nanowrimo Days 14 and 15 so far
November 14, 2009
Day 14 of Nanomwrimo
I feel like Susan does. This is such a bad novel that it seems silly to continue investing time in it. At least my novel structure is such that I have a thread of autobiographical writing journal running through it as well as the distorted third person "memories" where I fill in the unknown with imaginary bits and the purely fictional parts in which the narrator interacts with the ghostly dream beings.
And ... I am going to lose another few days of writing time from the 19th till the 24th ... I will likely continue by hand during that period as I fill my handwritten journal with the experience ... but those words will still have to be committeed to the computer for actual counting. I have a feeling that I will not be reaching the 50,000 word goal ... but that's okay!
Grandpa's arrival last night was heralded by the dogs. Kenya had decided to move downstairs, and something startled her into barking. Remi leapt off the bed and stood for a long time at the upper hallway window emitting that deep deep bark of his ... the very male bass bark that comes from the very depths of his being. For such a cowardly dog he sounds very ferocious. And stubborn. No amount of discussion from the warmth of my bed could convince him to shut up, so I went to the window and brought him back to bed. Usually he accommodates me in bed. He always feels light. Not like Kenya at all. But last night he leaned against me and didn't relax until Grandpa left.
"Your bed is sandy, for god's sake, woman. I can't believe you are descended from me ... or from Marie for that matter."
"Maybe I'm not," I said with some acerbity.
He looked startled. "My god, you might be right," he said. "That bitch might have deceived me entirely. Fooled all of us."
"Do you suppose you could go find your real grand daughter, then, and let me sleep for a change? I've got a lot going on in my life right now."
He laughed. "No," he said. "You're my blood. Too much like me at your age not to be."
"You were never my age," I reminded him.
"I stand corrected. You remind me of myself as a kid. Had no respect for my elders at all. But they loved me anyway."
"You've lost a lot of your charm over the years," I said.
"But back to business. You wasted another whole day."
"I didn't waste it. I was busy from morning till night."
"But you are still no closer to the truth."
I shook my head. What is it with these men? Completely self absorbed. Well, not Danny. At least not Danny now that I'm no longer living with him. What a generous thing to do. I couldn't have even considered this trip without his help. I feel as if I am hemmorhaging money for the house as Peter works here day after day, week after week. It's not as if he is spinning out the job in order to make more money; he's not. He's simply working steadily away doing what needs to be done the right way this time. He's had to correct all kinds of mistakes made by the original builder. My cedar siding may end up being what holds the house together. He told me yesterday that the guy from the hardware store where both he and Mike bought what they needed, told him that he'd delivered drywall one day and found himself at a drunken party. A drunken party I was paying for.
Grandpa interrupted my murderous thoughts.
"She could certainly charm the pants off a man."
"Nana?"
"And she was able to worm her way into the hearts of women too."
"So, she was a lesbian?" I asked, a little startled, by this new insight.
"A what?" he growled.
"You know, gay."
He looked baffled.
"Did she like women?" I asked.
He drew back horrified. "Good god, no. She was a bitch but she wasn't depraved."
Now it was my turn to feel horror. The man actually thought it was a greater sin to be gay than to be a murderer or someone who used people ... or someone who abandoned her only child.. What kind of stock did I spring from?
I had to remind myself that his thinking was commonplace during his era. Rampant till quite recently in fact ... and still too common even now when the rights of minorities were engraved in constitutions and civil rights bills.
I thought about Peter, my dear gay closeted friend who killed himself in the sixties because death was preferable to life. Pat and I will, I am sure, mourn Peter again next week.
"I meant," he said, "that she could fool them into believing anything she wanted. My mother was more gullible than most; she was an old woman, after all, but marie managed to convince other women that I should be killed."
"Probably wasn't too hard, Grandpa. You did a lot of loving then leaving. Nothing as bitter as a woman scorned and all that."
"We had fun together and then it ended. Simple as that."
"Nothing is ever that simple," I stated flatly. "Too bad you didn't live long enough to learn that simple truth."
"You really are a prude at heart, aren't you?" he said.
"No, but my father lived well into his eighties and he finally understood that throwing people away is not a good practice; that everyone has faults that balance their virtues." I thought about the incompetent dishonest builder who had cheated me. Yeah ... even him.
"What about Mark?"
"What about him?"
"He's married."
"Yes he is ... but he's been in a dead marriage for the past twenty years ... "
"So wouldn't it have been better to love her and leave her?"
"Yes," I conceded, but he's still dealing with that Catholic guilt ... all those rules about marriage."
Grandpa laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. "Bull roar."
"What do you know about it?"
"He's very comfortable right now. He has a wife who takes care of the paperwork ... taxes ... bills ... the stuff he can't be bothered with ... the stuff that doesn't get done because he's busy writing poetry and saving the world."
"I know but ..."
"And he doesn't have to live with her and the daughter who is such a miserable selfish slob. He can live out there in his beautiful little escape house. He's got a pretty nice set-up."
I knew he was right. And now Mark had me filling in all those blank spaces, and not even kicking up much of a stink as he became more and more married.
"You're hardly the person to ask for relationship advice, but what do you think I should do?"
"You have to decide whether you want to play as long as it's fun, or whether you want a man who can be really and truly all yours. That is not going to be Mark. He's too much of coward, and he does nothing unless he's forced to. You gonna force the issue?""
"I want the whole thing," I said, "but I don't want to live with anyone."
"I know the feeling ... but you never get to eat your cake and have it too," Grandpa said quietly.
"And I don't like giving people ultimatums."
"I'd bet anything his wife has no such qualms."
"So you'd tell him to choose."
"Hell , no," said Grandpa. "I'd enjoy the ride. But I'm not at all like you as you point out every time you criticize my behaviour."
I didn't say anything. He had just summed up my basic inability to make a decision. My heart or my head, maybe, but more the fun loving part of me versus the the more adult person who had almost crowded out that child."
"Your grandmother would have insisted on a wedding ring and then killed him for remaining true to himself. Find out what she told those women."
That was when Remi moved further down in the bed and gave me breathing room.
9:51 a.m. another 1361 words ...
November 14, 2009
10:30 a.m.
Was that Grandpa? The avenging angel or hand of fate or whatever it is that keeps on killing people that hurt me?
"Hardly," a woman's voice floated into the room bringing with it a frigid blast of air, air colder than the air outside today. "Paul was an ass but he never killed anyone. Gutless."
"Nana?" I asked.
"Betty."
"Betty?"
"Word has it you been lookin' for me."
"I have?"
"Yeah. You wanted to know who pulled the trigger."
"Did Marie pay you a lot of money?"
"Hell no, I did it for the sport."
My god! "So are you the one who killed those people who hated me?"
"Good lord no. I don't even know you. Why would I care what happened to you? I doubt if any one of us butted into your life. That's something humans do, not ghosts. We like our peace and quiet."
"Like Mark," I said. "Peace not passion."
"Yeah. Except that dude ain't dead yet. He likes his passion too."
Seems everyone knows him pretty well, I thought. "His horoscope on his birthday said he was going to break free in the coming twelve months."
"Girl, you really are clutching at straws, ain't you? First avenging angels looking out for you. Now horoscopes! Sheesh. They told me you had some brains. I wouldn't have bothered leaving home if I'd knowed I was gonna be talking to an idjit."
"Why did you kill my grandfather?"
"I had no connections to him. It was a safe sure way to commit murder."
"But why? He didn't do anything to you."
"I was just the last link in the chain. Marie was very smart. She knew that the only way to do it was to ask a woman."
"So she asked you."
"No. She didn't know me."
Now I was really confused.
"You killed a man you didn't know for a woman you didn't know, and money had nothing to do with it."
"I told you; I did it for the fun of it."
"Did you kill a lot of people?"
"No ... just him. Wanted to find out what it felt like, and knew I wouldn't get caught."
"You said a chain. Who else was part of the chain?"
"Use your brain if you have one, woman, and don't go thinkin' you'll find the answer in a horoscope."
And then, as suddenly as she'd appeared, she was gone. I was beginning to realize that the trick to triggering these visitors with their elusive clues was to think about Grandpa and his/our quest.
Another 394 words and I am going out to walk dogs ... This afternoon I'm going to a pottery show with Tammy and Carlos and also paying a visit to Wallack's for art supplies. I'm going to buy Japanese brushes, rice paper, tracing paper, graphite tracing paper, acrylic medium and gesso ... and a birthday present for Mark.
November 15, 2009
Day 15 began at 7:45
I stayed over at Tammy's last night. We bounced around town in the van running errands in the Market and at Wallack's before we hit the Ottawa Potters' Guild show. I love that show, but I always spend more money than I intend to even when I limit my purchases to tiny precious items and keep my lusting for such things as Chandler Swain's garden women (one was called Queen of All She Surveys) and some gorgeous black and white bowls by Lisa Creskey quite separate from my credit card.
Remi and I slept in the pink room, a womb that Jesse created when she was still living at home, and Kenya slept with Mandara a hallway away. The two resident cats appeared not to sleep at all. Every time I got up, they were bouncing around in the dark.
I dreamed, but not about Grandpa or murder. I dreamed I was in a Frenchie's, a secondhand store in Nova Scotia. I tried to snag two children's rocking chairs but before I got them to the cash someone filched them. A woman gave me seven long sleeved t-shirts she'd been mauling in one of the bins (half for her and half for me). I got hold of a doll's cradle but it required all kinds of repairs that were likely beyond my skill level. Then Mark appeared and, although we remained in the store, the focus changed from bargains to lovely coincidences.I guess I was thinking about my Nova Scotia daughter's househunting in Nova Scotia ... and about Mark ... when I fell asleep ... and perhaps wishing I were wearing a top of some kind.
We slipped out of the house at 6 a.m. and drove back home through dense fog that forced me to drive much more slowly than I usually do. I was a little worried that the hunters whose parked vehicles I passed every so often would scare deer out onto the road, but perhaps the fog made it easier for the deer to remain hidden in the thickets.
I will be calling Nolan to tell him that I will be arriving at Heathrow at 10 on Friday morning. Danny's money has not reached me, but my oldest daughter recognized how important it was for me to see Pat and she sent me some money electronically. I feel blessed and surrounded by people who care ... not just about me ... but also about Pat's need to see me ... and mine to see her.
I found myself thinking about Grandpa and Nana and wondering whether anyone, besides Paul's mother, really loved them. Both died rich, but who loved them while they were alive?
I tried to picture a chain of women reaching from Nana to Grandpa. Eva would surely never have been one of the links in the chain. No, I needed to work on the women most likely to be connected by Betty and Nana. All the piano women? Women Nana knew from the home for unwed mothers? Maybe I should be working backwards from Betty. Who was Betty? One of the strippers? She sure sounded tough enough.
Day 14 of Nanomwrimo
I feel like Susan does. This is such a bad novel that it seems silly to continue investing time in it. At least my novel structure is such that I have a thread of autobiographical writing journal running through it as well as the distorted third person "memories" where I fill in the unknown with imaginary bits and the purely fictional parts in which the narrator interacts with the ghostly dream beings.
And ... I am going to lose another few days of writing time from the 19th till the 24th ... I will likely continue by hand during that period as I fill my handwritten journal with the experience ... but those words will still have to be committeed to the computer for actual counting. I have a feeling that I will not be reaching the 50,000 word goal ... but that's okay!
Grandpa's arrival last night was heralded by the dogs. Kenya had decided to move downstairs, and something startled her into barking. Remi leapt off the bed and stood for a long time at the upper hallway window emitting that deep deep bark of his ... the very male bass bark that comes from the very depths of his being. For such a cowardly dog he sounds very ferocious. And stubborn. No amount of discussion from the warmth of my bed could convince him to shut up, so I went to the window and brought him back to bed. Usually he accommodates me in bed. He always feels light. Not like Kenya at all. But last night he leaned against me and didn't relax until Grandpa left.
"Your bed is sandy, for god's sake, woman. I can't believe you are descended from me ... or from Marie for that matter."
"Maybe I'm not," I said with some acerbity.
He looked startled. "My god, you might be right," he said. "That bitch might have deceived me entirely. Fooled all of us."
"Do you suppose you could go find your real grand daughter, then, and let me sleep for a change? I've got a lot going on in my life right now."
He laughed. "No," he said. "You're my blood. Too much like me at your age not to be."
"You were never my age," I reminded him.
"I stand corrected. You remind me of myself as a kid. Had no respect for my elders at all. But they loved me anyway."
"You've lost a lot of your charm over the years," I said.
"But back to business. You wasted another whole day."
"I didn't waste it. I was busy from morning till night."
"But you are still no closer to the truth."
I shook my head. What is it with these men? Completely self absorbed. Well, not Danny. At least not Danny now that I'm no longer living with him. What a generous thing to do. I couldn't have even considered this trip without his help. I feel as if I am hemmorhaging money for the house as Peter works here day after day, week after week. It's not as if he is spinning out the job in order to make more money; he's not. He's simply working steadily away doing what needs to be done the right way this time. He's had to correct all kinds of mistakes made by the original builder. My cedar siding may end up being what holds the house together. He told me yesterday that the guy from the hardware store where both he and Mike bought what they needed, told him that he'd delivered drywall one day and found himself at a drunken party. A drunken party I was paying for.
Grandpa interrupted my murderous thoughts.
"She could certainly charm the pants off a man."
"Nana?"
"And she was able to worm her way into the hearts of women too."
"So, she was a lesbian?" I asked, a little startled, by this new insight.
"A what?" he growled.
"You know, gay."
He looked baffled.
"Did she like women?" I asked.
He drew back horrified. "Good god, no. She was a bitch but she wasn't depraved."
Now it was my turn to feel horror. The man actually thought it was a greater sin to be gay than to be a murderer or someone who used people ... or someone who abandoned her only child.. What kind of stock did I spring from?
I had to remind myself that his thinking was commonplace during his era. Rampant till quite recently in fact ... and still too common even now when the rights of minorities were engraved in constitutions and civil rights bills.
I thought about Peter, my dear gay closeted friend who killed himself in the sixties because death was preferable to life. Pat and I will, I am sure, mourn Peter again next week.
"I meant," he said, "that she could fool them into believing anything she wanted. My mother was more gullible than most; she was an old woman, after all, but marie managed to convince other women that I should be killed."
"Probably wasn't too hard, Grandpa. You did a lot of loving then leaving. Nothing as bitter as a woman scorned and all that."
"We had fun together and then it ended. Simple as that."
"Nothing is ever that simple," I stated flatly. "Too bad you didn't live long enough to learn that simple truth."
"You really are a prude at heart, aren't you?" he said.
"No, but my father lived well into his eighties and he finally understood that throwing people away is not a good practice; that everyone has faults that balance their virtues." I thought about the incompetent dishonest builder who had cheated me. Yeah ... even him.
"What about Mark?"
"What about him?"
"He's married."
"Yes he is ... but he's been in a dead marriage for the past twenty years ... "
"So wouldn't it have been better to love her and leave her?"
"Yes," I conceded, but he's still dealing with that Catholic guilt ... all those rules about marriage."
Grandpa laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. "Bull roar."
"What do you know about it?"
"He's very comfortable right now. He has a wife who takes care of the paperwork ... taxes ... bills ... the stuff he can't be bothered with ... the stuff that doesn't get done because he's busy writing poetry and saving the world."
"I know but ..."
"And he doesn't have to live with her and the daughter who is such a miserable selfish slob. He can live out there in his beautiful little escape house. He's got a pretty nice set-up."
I knew he was right. And now Mark had me filling in all those blank spaces, and not even kicking up much of a stink as he became more and more married.
"You're hardly the person to ask for relationship advice, but what do you think I should do?"
"You have to decide whether you want to play as long as it's fun, or whether you want a man who can be really and truly all yours. That is not going to be Mark. He's too much of coward, and he does nothing unless he's forced to. You gonna force the issue?""
"I want the whole thing," I said, "but I don't want to live with anyone."
"I know the feeling ... but you never get to eat your cake and have it too," Grandpa said quietly.
"And I don't like giving people ultimatums."
"I'd bet anything his wife has no such qualms."
"So you'd tell him to choose."
"Hell , no," said Grandpa. "I'd enjoy the ride. But I'm not at all like you as you point out every time you criticize my behaviour."
I didn't say anything. He had just summed up my basic inability to make a decision. My heart or my head, maybe, but more the fun loving part of me versus the the more adult person who had almost crowded out that child."
"Your grandmother would have insisted on a wedding ring and then killed him for remaining true to himself. Find out what she told those women."
That was when Remi moved further down in the bed and gave me breathing room.
9:51 a.m. another 1361 words ...
November 14, 2009
10:30 a.m.
Was that Grandpa? The avenging angel or hand of fate or whatever it is that keeps on killing people that hurt me?
"Hardly," a woman's voice floated into the room bringing with it a frigid blast of air, air colder than the air outside today. "Paul was an ass but he never killed anyone. Gutless."
"Nana?" I asked.
"Betty."
"Betty?"
"Word has it you been lookin' for me."
"I have?"
"Yeah. You wanted to know who pulled the trigger."
"Did Marie pay you a lot of money?"
"Hell no, I did it for the sport."
My god! "So are you the one who killed those people who hated me?"
"Good lord no. I don't even know you. Why would I care what happened to you? I doubt if any one of us butted into your life. That's something humans do, not ghosts. We like our peace and quiet."
"Like Mark," I said. "Peace not passion."
"Yeah. Except that dude ain't dead yet. He likes his passion too."
Seems everyone knows him pretty well, I thought. "His horoscope on his birthday said he was going to break free in the coming twelve months."
"Girl, you really are clutching at straws, ain't you? First avenging angels looking out for you. Now horoscopes! Sheesh. They told me you had some brains. I wouldn't have bothered leaving home if I'd knowed I was gonna be talking to an idjit."
"Why did you kill my grandfather?"
"I had no connections to him. It was a safe sure way to commit murder."
"But why? He didn't do anything to you."
"I was just the last link in the chain. Marie was very smart. She knew that the only way to do it was to ask a woman."
"So she asked you."
"No. She didn't know me."
Now I was really confused.
"You killed a man you didn't know for a woman you didn't know, and money had nothing to do with it."
"I told you; I did it for the fun of it."
"Did you kill a lot of people?"
"No ... just him. Wanted to find out what it felt like, and knew I wouldn't get caught."
"You said a chain. Who else was part of the chain?"
"Use your brain if you have one, woman, and don't go thinkin' you'll find the answer in a horoscope."
And then, as suddenly as she'd appeared, she was gone. I was beginning to realize that the trick to triggering these visitors with their elusive clues was to think about Grandpa and his/our quest.
Another 394 words and I am going out to walk dogs ... This afternoon I'm going to a pottery show with Tammy and Carlos and also paying a visit to Wallack's for art supplies. I'm going to buy Japanese brushes, rice paper, tracing paper, graphite tracing paper, acrylic medium and gesso ... and a birthday present for Mark.
November 15, 2009
Day 15 began at 7:45
I stayed over at Tammy's last night. We bounced around town in the van running errands in the Market and at Wallack's before we hit the Ottawa Potters' Guild show. I love that show, but I always spend more money than I intend to even when I limit my purchases to tiny precious items and keep my lusting for such things as Chandler Swain's garden women (one was called Queen of All She Surveys) and some gorgeous black and white bowls by Lisa Creskey quite separate from my credit card.
Remi and I slept in the pink room, a womb that Jesse created when she was still living at home, and Kenya slept with Mandara a hallway away. The two resident cats appeared not to sleep at all. Every time I got up, they were bouncing around in the dark.
I dreamed, but not about Grandpa or murder. I dreamed I was in a Frenchie's, a secondhand store in Nova Scotia. I tried to snag two children's rocking chairs but before I got them to the cash someone filched them. A woman gave me seven long sleeved t-shirts she'd been mauling in one of the bins (half for her and half for me). I got hold of a doll's cradle but it required all kinds of repairs that were likely beyond my skill level. Then Mark appeared and, although we remained in the store, the focus changed from bargains to lovely coincidences.I guess I was thinking about my Nova Scotia daughter's househunting in Nova Scotia ... and about Mark ... when I fell asleep ... and perhaps wishing I were wearing a top of some kind.
We slipped out of the house at 6 a.m. and drove back home through dense fog that forced me to drive much more slowly than I usually do. I was a little worried that the hunters whose parked vehicles I passed every so often would scare deer out onto the road, but perhaps the fog made it easier for the deer to remain hidden in the thickets.
I will be calling Nolan to tell him that I will be arriving at Heathrow at 10 on Friday morning. Danny's money has not reached me, but my oldest daughter recognized how important it was for me to see Pat and she sent me some money electronically. I feel blessed and surrounded by people who care ... not just about me ... but also about Pat's need to see me ... and mine to see her.
I found myself thinking about Grandpa and Nana and wondering whether anyone, besides Paul's mother, really loved them. Both died rich, but who loved them while they were alive?
I tried to picture a chain of women reaching from Nana to Grandpa. Eva would surely never have been one of the links in the chain. No, I needed to work on the women most likely to be connected by Betty and Nana. All the piano women? Women Nana knew from the home for unwed mothers? Maybe I should be working backwards from Betty. Who was Betty? One of the strippers? She sure sounded tough enough.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 13
November 13, 2009
Day 13 of Nanowrimo
Today was another of those wonderful abnormally mild days we've been experiencing lately. The temperatures are balmy, but it is the absolute stillness and the quality of light on these November days that I am almost in awe of.
Today was not quite as still as Wednesday was, but almost.
On Wednesday afternoon, Sharon, one of my neighbours, arrived and asked me to go out and play. We took the canoe out on the lake and paddled all the way around. Every reflection was a perfect mirror image. Whole trees, decks and cottages were mirrored in the still water and lit by soft golden sunlight, every line straight ... every detail crystal clear in the darker water.
Kenya paddled alongside for about half the trip and then climbed up on the rocky bank to finish the trip on land, stopping every few minutes to wait till we caught up. At the beach Remi joined her and she herded him home when I asked her to.
Today when I took the dogs for a walk I marveled at the colours on the hillside. The road and forest floor were carpeted in leaves, mostly oak leaves. I thought of acorns and the tresses of young girls in romantic ballads. And like shiny clean nut brown hair, the landscape glowed in the afternoon light. Light slants at a different angle in November. The effect of the dusky glowing hills against the deep blue sky was almost ethereal.
I phoned Nolan this morning to ask whether I should come to London; whether I could stay with him for a few days., and of course to get news of Pat.
The news was encouraging! They are now 90% certain that they are not looking at a primary cancer that has spread but at a myeloma, a cancer that attacks the bone marrow, and thus the immune system, and that explains why Pat has been suffering from exhaustion, recurring chest infections and now the back pain. Myeloma is treatable, not really curable. First they work to destroy the cancer cells and then they build up the immune system. Now we are talking about years rather than months. There are still tests to be performed and they are still not 100% certain they have found the underlying cause, but 90% is pretty damn good.
And yes, I am to come ... the sooner the better.
So ... thank you Roy for making it possible for me to go to Pat and give her four days worth of hugs and love ... and giggles. We always giggle together. Nolan never quite gets it but it makes him happy to see Pat transformed into the fifteen year old girl he didn't have the chance to know. (He came into her life much later.) Thank you Kelly for the prayers you said you'd send on my behalf. All those positive thoughts we all sent out into the Universe may have made the difference. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.
It took me most of the day working off and on but I finally managed to buy my ticket on-line. I leave next Thursday night ... and will sleep the night away and arrive at Heathrow in the morning.
In between times fighting with the computer and my dial-up connection, I went to the dentist to have the broken tooth repaired, picked up some groceries and saw Klaus for a final tutoring session. Klaus is an utterly charming student who hates grammar, abhors homework and seem to have an attention deficit disorder. He is off to Cancun tomorrow. But he brought us a couple of bottles of sparkling wine so that we could have a good bye party. It was a bit early for me but I enjoyed the company and the wine.
Our hillbilly lake neighbour started partying early too. The hills were alive with the sound of music issuing forth from one of the half dozen vehicles parked all over his lot and the road in front of his place. I hope he is renovating in order to flip this property. I don't think he will ever fit into the peace and quiet of Pike Lake.
Tonight we are celebrating too. It is Carlos' birthday and he and Tammy are coming for dinner.
I am afraid that I haven't given much thought to Grandpa today. He will likely arrive in the night to give me hell.
Day 13 of Nanowrimo
Today was another of those wonderful abnormally mild days we've been experiencing lately. The temperatures are balmy, but it is the absolute stillness and the quality of light on these November days that I am almost in awe of.
Today was not quite as still as Wednesday was, but almost.
On Wednesday afternoon, Sharon, one of my neighbours, arrived and asked me to go out and play. We took the canoe out on the lake and paddled all the way around. Every reflection was a perfect mirror image. Whole trees, decks and cottages were mirrored in the still water and lit by soft golden sunlight, every line straight ... every detail crystal clear in the darker water.
Kenya paddled alongside for about half the trip and then climbed up on the rocky bank to finish the trip on land, stopping every few minutes to wait till we caught up. At the beach Remi joined her and she herded him home when I asked her to.
Today when I took the dogs for a walk I marveled at the colours on the hillside. The road and forest floor were carpeted in leaves, mostly oak leaves. I thought of acorns and the tresses of young girls in romantic ballads. And like shiny clean nut brown hair, the landscape glowed in the afternoon light. Light slants at a different angle in November. The effect of the dusky glowing hills against the deep blue sky was almost ethereal.
I phoned Nolan this morning to ask whether I should come to London; whether I could stay with him for a few days., and of course to get news of Pat.
The news was encouraging! They are now 90% certain that they are not looking at a primary cancer that has spread but at a myeloma, a cancer that attacks the bone marrow, and thus the immune system, and that explains why Pat has been suffering from exhaustion, recurring chest infections and now the back pain. Myeloma is treatable, not really curable. First they work to destroy the cancer cells and then they build up the immune system. Now we are talking about years rather than months. There are still tests to be performed and they are still not 100% certain they have found the underlying cause, but 90% is pretty damn good.
And yes, I am to come ... the sooner the better.
So ... thank you Roy for making it possible for me to go to Pat and give her four days worth of hugs and love ... and giggles. We always giggle together. Nolan never quite gets it but it makes him happy to see Pat transformed into the fifteen year old girl he didn't have the chance to know. (He came into her life much later.) Thank you Kelly for the prayers you said you'd send on my behalf. All those positive thoughts we all sent out into the Universe may have made the difference. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.
It took me most of the day working off and on but I finally managed to buy my ticket on-line. I leave next Thursday night ... and will sleep the night away and arrive at Heathrow in the morning.
In between times fighting with the computer and my dial-up connection, I went to the dentist to have the broken tooth repaired, picked up some groceries and saw Klaus for a final tutoring session. Klaus is an utterly charming student who hates grammar, abhors homework and seem to have an attention deficit disorder. He is off to Cancun tomorrow. But he brought us a couple of bottles of sparkling wine so that we could have a good bye party. It was a bit early for me but I enjoyed the company and the wine.
Our hillbilly lake neighbour started partying early too. The hills were alive with the sound of music issuing forth from one of the half dozen vehicles parked all over his lot and the road in front of his place. I hope he is renovating in order to flip this property. I don't think he will ever fit into the peace and quiet of Pike Lake.
Tonight we are celebrating too. It is Carlos' birthday and he and Tammy are coming for dinner.
I am afraid that I haven't given much thought to Grandpa today. He will likely arrive in the night to give me hell.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 12 headless hearts
November 12, 2009
Day 12 and I begin the day with 16,668 words ... about 30% of the way to my goal ... and 19 days in which to write the last 33,000 or so words ... so I have to produce about 2000 words a day. This kind of thinking is unlikely to produce anything worthwhile, so I have decided to forget about the numbers and just write.
Today's entry is called "Changes of Heart" but it could as easily have been called "Fractured Hearts" or "Breaking Hearts" or anything else that might suggest feelings that are completely disengaged from sense.
It all began with a phone call.. Mark called to tell me that he has just finished a massive project that has every chance of being successful and really helping doctors in Africa fight AIDS. He was upbeat and our conversation swirled around taking on a life of its own. I thought briefly about telling him we had to end things and then I was swept up in his enthusiasm, and the vibrant magic we both exude when we are together. His own pleasure made me laugh when he told me about the DVDs he had tucked into his suitcase for me. We discussed his need to hire an intelligent writer with strong computer and website management skills. The conversation sparkled for almost an hour while I ignored the stove's timer buzzer telling me that my dinner was ready, and allowed myself to revel in everything I love about the man. Finally Remi's big head lifted off my lap and he turned wistful brown eyes on me, and I said I really had to feed the dogs and rescue my own dinner from the oven. That led to a few more words about dinner on Tuesday. I could bake an orange cake with vanilla icing for his birthday but he would bring the food. . All my better judgment may have been screaming dire warnings, but the illogical feeling side of me responded as it always does to Mark. I didn't cancel dinner. It is very easy to forget why he pisses me off when we are together because we really do connect in a special way.
While I was eating dinner , Sarah called to discuss Remi. She loves him as much as I love Kenya, and she too is torn between what her heart and head want. Her husband comes down on the side of good sense and no heart ... even though he loves Remi ... She leans toward what her heart tells her, but is better able to balance the two. I tried to balance logic and love (easier when it is not my dog or my man ) and said that no matter what she chose to do, Remi would be fine, whether he ended up with her or me or someone else who loved him. I said that it would be harder work to have him with her than not, but that her family, especially the baby, would benefit from having a dog. She asked whether I thought it was unkind to Remi to be a dog living in a townhouse in the suburbs. I was honest. Any dog would prefer living in the country but the older Remi got, the easier it would be for him. After all, lots of dogs live in the cities and don't have the kind of freedom that Kenya enjoys. And they are certainly not all miserable.
As soon as I got up this morning and put the dogs outside I made a phone call to England. They haven't discovered the primary site of Pat's cancer yet but are planning explorative surgery next week. They think that it started in the lung and then spread to the spine. She has broken ribs and crumbled vertebrae and an infection between the lung and the ribcage that they have been draining and treating with antibiotics. Her pain is being managed well and she has regained some mobility and appetite, and most of all she is being brave and accepting, if not overly hopeful. She has lots of visitors and is cheerful. Her boys are being wonderfully supportive of her partner, and he is hoping that the radiation and aggressive chemotherapy will give her some respite, that the cancer will be forced into remission. Where there's life, there's hope.
Once again I am torn between what my heart wants so desperately to believe, and the memory of Clare whose lung cancer killed her within a year. I wish I had the money to go to see Pat, so that I could deliver in person the hugs I sent via Nolan.
Life is not simple.
"Then why would you expect it to have been easy for us?" I smelled the expensive face powder first, and then she materialized. She was still fashionably thin, still wearing expensive couturier clothing, but her skin was more wrinkled than I remembered and she had a distinct dowager's hump now. The trademark hat and veil and the fox furs, however, were still holding up well.
"Nana," I whispered. "What are you doing here?"
"He told you I had Paul murdered."
"Did you?"
"I had to."
"Oh come one, Nana."
"He was gambling away every cent the old man made.And spending it on those floozies. There would have been nothing left if I hadn't put a stop to it."
"But his parents were still alive when he died. The fur factory was still making money, wasn't it?" What in hell was I doing just following her thinking down its twisted path?
I changed direction, became the prim school marm. "There's never a good excuse for murder, Nana, and money has to be the worst possible one."
"You've never been absolutely broke, have you?" she said.
"But you weren't either."
"In Aberdeen my family scraped and scrabbled by. Porridge for breakfast, potatoes for dinner and more porridge for supper. I wanted more. When I finally saved up enough for the passage to Canada, and got a job with a family, I thought I'd finally made it out of the pit. I hadn't been here a year when I was raped by the husband of the woman I was tending. When I told him I was pregnant he threw me out on the street. I know what it's like to have no money, no home, no food , no family to turn to. I know what it is to be absolutely desperate."
"That's when Eva helped you."
"Yes, she saved my life."
"Why didn't you stay there and work at the home?"
"Eva couldn't pay more than a pittance. Her whole life consisted of begging for money to keep the home going. I couldn't stay there. It would have been back to a diet of porridge and potatoes."
"Life made you hard, didn't it?"
"It's called survival. If you don't get tough enough, you'll be eaten alive."
"Maybe." I said, "But what kind of life is it if you can't trust anyone, can't listen to your heart?"
"A safe one," she retorted. "Here's a piece of advice from an old lady who survived. If you have to trust anyone, trust a woman. Men are certainly useful, but don't ever trust them."
No balance of yin and yang in Nana, I thought. Pure cold logic all the way. But who the hell wanted to be like her? She was not a happy woman. All the expensive clothes, trinkets and furs were never enough to make her happy. And there were no friendships, just things that money could buy.
"Who actually shot Grandpa?" I asked., but I was alone again.
At 8:45 the next morning I headed off to teach and discovered that my student was already in a class and I had a couple of hours to kill. Another failure in communication. I decided to remain in the village rather than driving home. I would go for coffee, read the paper and play with my sketch booking journal. When I bit into the scone my tooth crumbled, or its filling fell out. Whatever happened I had what felt like a jagged half molar that my tongue found irresistible. I finished what I was doing and drove over to the dental clinic and made an appointment for the next morning. While I was there I made an appointment with the optometrist for February, paid a visit to Giant Tiger and then stopped in at at Art de la Paix to pick up my cheque. I had just returned to the language school when I met Klaus who was just going for coffee. I gave him a lift to Le Hibou and we chatted over coffee and then came back to River Echo. We worked on the speech he was to give the following day. It was 1 p.m. when I finally left for home. My $60 pay for an entire morning's language teaching would not even cover the dentist's bill.
(But I did get a paragraph for Nanowrimo! :-)-
I spent the afternoon walking and tidying dogs and packaging kindling from the cedar scraps and after supper, called Danny. I told him I wanted to visit Pat ... I didn't even need to ask if he would help ... he offered. How much did I need? Airfare ... I was sure I could stay at Nolan and Pat's ... and Tammy would look after Kenya. I would call Sarah to get Remi taken care of ... either a kennel here or their home ... When would I go? Either November 20-24 or December 9- 14 ... in order to work around the surgery on Shea's leg.
Day 12 and I begin the day with 16,668 words ... about 30% of the way to my goal ... and 19 days in which to write the last 33,000 or so words ... so I have to produce about 2000 words a day. This kind of thinking is unlikely to produce anything worthwhile, so I have decided to forget about the numbers and just write.
Today's entry is called "Changes of Heart" but it could as easily have been called "Fractured Hearts" or "Breaking Hearts" or anything else that might suggest feelings that are completely disengaged from sense.
It all began with a phone call.. Mark called to tell me that he has just finished a massive project that has every chance of being successful and really helping doctors in Africa fight AIDS. He was upbeat and our conversation swirled around taking on a life of its own. I thought briefly about telling him we had to end things and then I was swept up in his enthusiasm, and the vibrant magic we both exude when we are together. His own pleasure made me laugh when he told me about the DVDs he had tucked into his suitcase for me. We discussed his need to hire an intelligent writer with strong computer and website management skills. The conversation sparkled for almost an hour while I ignored the stove's timer buzzer telling me that my dinner was ready, and allowed myself to revel in everything I love about the man. Finally Remi's big head lifted off my lap and he turned wistful brown eyes on me, and I said I really had to feed the dogs and rescue my own dinner from the oven. That led to a few more words about dinner on Tuesday. I could bake an orange cake with vanilla icing for his birthday but he would bring the food. . All my better judgment may have been screaming dire warnings, but the illogical feeling side of me responded as it always does to Mark. I didn't cancel dinner. It is very easy to forget why he pisses me off when we are together because we really do connect in a special way.
While I was eating dinner , Sarah called to discuss Remi. She loves him as much as I love Kenya, and she too is torn between what her heart and head want. Her husband comes down on the side of good sense and no heart ... even though he loves Remi ... She leans toward what her heart tells her, but is better able to balance the two. I tried to balance logic and love (easier when it is not my dog or my man ) and said that no matter what she chose to do, Remi would be fine, whether he ended up with her or me or someone else who loved him. I said that it would be harder work to have him with her than not, but that her family, especially the baby, would benefit from having a dog. She asked whether I thought it was unkind to Remi to be a dog living in a townhouse in the suburbs. I was honest. Any dog would prefer living in the country but the older Remi got, the easier it would be for him. After all, lots of dogs live in the cities and don't have the kind of freedom that Kenya enjoys. And they are certainly not all miserable.
As soon as I got up this morning and put the dogs outside I made a phone call to England. They haven't discovered the primary site of Pat's cancer yet but are planning explorative surgery next week. They think that it started in the lung and then spread to the spine. She has broken ribs and crumbled vertebrae and an infection between the lung and the ribcage that they have been draining and treating with antibiotics. Her pain is being managed well and she has regained some mobility and appetite, and most of all she is being brave and accepting, if not overly hopeful. She has lots of visitors and is cheerful. Her boys are being wonderfully supportive of her partner, and he is hoping that the radiation and aggressive chemotherapy will give her some respite, that the cancer will be forced into remission. Where there's life, there's hope.
Once again I am torn between what my heart wants so desperately to believe, and the memory of Clare whose lung cancer killed her within a year. I wish I had the money to go to see Pat, so that I could deliver in person the hugs I sent via Nolan.
Life is not simple.
"Then why would you expect it to have been easy for us?" I smelled the expensive face powder first, and then she materialized. She was still fashionably thin, still wearing expensive couturier clothing, but her skin was more wrinkled than I remembered and she had a distinct dowager's hump now. The trademark hat and veil and the fox furs, however, were still holding up well.
"Nana," I whispered. "What are you doing here?"
"He told you I had Paul murdered."
"Did you?"
"I had to."
"Oh come one, Nana."
"He was gambling away every cent the old man made.And spending it on those floozies. There would have been nothing left if I hadn't put a stop to it."
"But his parents were still alive when he died. The fur factory was still making money, wasn't it?" What in hell was I doing just following her thinking down its twisted path?
I changed direction, became the prim school marm. "There's never a good excuse for murder, Nana, and money has to be the worst possible one."
"You've never been absolutely broke, have you?" she said.
"But you weren't either."
"In Aberdeen my family scraped and scrabbled by. Porridge for breakfast, potatoes for dinner and more porridge for supper. I wanted more. When I finally saved up enough for the passage to Canada, and got a job with a family, I thought I'd finally made it out of the pit. I hadn't been here a year when I was raped by the husband of the woman I was tending. When I told him I was pregnant he threw me out on the street. I know what it's like to have no money, no home, no food , no family to turn to. I know what it is to be absolutely desperate."
"That's when Eva helped you."
"Yes, she saved my life."
"Why didn't you stay there and work at the home?"
"Eva couldn't pay more than a pittance. Her whole life consisted of begging for money to keep the home going. I couldn't stay there. It would have been back to a diet of porridge and potatoes."
"Life made you hard, didn't it?"
"It's called survival. If you don't get tough enough, you'll be eaten alive."
"Maybe." I said, "But what kind of life is it if you can't trust anyone, can't listen to your heart?"
"A safe one," she retorted. "Here's a piece of advice from an old lady who survived. If you have to trust anyone, trust a woman. Men are certainly useful, but don't ever trust them."
No balance of yin and yang in Nana, I thought. Pure cold logic all the way. But who the hell wanted to be like her? She was not a happy woman. All the expensive clothes, trinkets and furs were never enough to make her happy. And there were no friendships, just things that money could buy.
"Who actually shot Grandpa?" I asked., but I was alone again.
At 8:45 the next morning I headed off to teach and discovered that my student was already in a class and I had a couple of hours to kill. Another failure in communication. I decided to remain in the village rather than driving home. I would go for coffee, read the paper and play with my sketch booking journal. When I bit into the scone my tooth crumbled, or its filling fell out. Whatever happened I had what felt like a jagged half molar that my tongue found irresistible. I finished what I was doing and drove over to the dental clinic and made an appointment for the next morning. While I was there I made an appointment with the optometrist for February, paid a visit to Giant Tiger and then stopped in at at Art de la Paix to pick up my cheque. I had just returned to the language school when I met Klaus who was just going for coffee. I gave him a lift to Le Hibou and we chatted over coffee and then came back to River Echo. We worked on the speech he was to give the following day. It was 1 p.m. when I finally left for home. My $60 pay for an entire morning's language teaching would not even cover the dentist's bill.
(But I did get a paragraph for Nanowrimo! :-)-
I spent the afternoon walking and tidying dogs and packaging kindling from the cedar scraps and after supper, called Danny. I told him I wanted to visit Pat ... I didn't even need to ask if he would help ... he offered. How much did I need? Airfare ... I was sure I could stay at Nolan and Pat's ... and Tammy would look after Kenya. I would call Sarah to get Remi taken care of ... either a kennel here or their home ... When would I go? Either November 20-24 or December 9- 14 ... in order to work around the surgery on Shea's leg.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 11 Cowardly Lions
November 11, 2009
Cowardly Lions
I won't, of course, send that email. First of all, I can't send emails right now because my Outlook Express is corrupted in some way. And, even more imprtant, I want to see Mark next week, and one very strong part of me wants to just enjoy the time we have together. And besides, only a coward would break up by email.
Of course some cowards just play the "ignore it and it will go away" game. That's even more craven than an email.
And that may well be the tipping point for me; the thing that will ensure that I don't just enjoy our time together. I did that last time and look where it got me! I will be ending it ... not the way he would like to end it ... by staying friends with me so that I can meet all the needs that cannot be met in that sham of a marriage he seems to be flirting with these days.
When I met him he was separated. Now he seems to be just somewhat separated. Fuck that noise. He didn't lie to me. He really was leading a totally separate life in every way.
But a strange thing happened once we began communicating and then getting closer. I filled all those empty spaces and he began to respond to her nagging pleas. He was finally able to meet some of her needs. A social partner when she needed one. Someone to hike with occasionally. Someone to bring the brat daughter into line. Someone to plan a financially stable retirement with. Someone to have on a leash that she could jerk occasionally. Not someone with whom to share dreams or ideas or writing or a deep concern for the developing world ... and certainly not a lover ... No I could fulfill those roles.
The bottom line was that he couldn't face the idea of ending a sterile marriage. It was too risky. And it required too much energy. It was just like the terrible job situation whose misery he alleviated by writing poetry, building a fairy house and starting the Ugandan project. His marriage was of no help to him during those terrible years, and his wife had no interest in beoming part of these things, but he didn't leave the marriage or the job. It was easier and required less courage to stay and grit his teeth, to escape into his own space whenever he could than to make the break and start anew.
But I too have a bottom line. I have no interest in being a peripheral shadowy figure in anyone's life. And only a man without concern for someone he professes to love would expect that he could drop in once every month or two and take up where we left off ... that he wouldn't have to nurture a relationship with me.
And he has finally reached the point on the balance beam where he is more married than single ... and I have no intention of being the other woman ever again, not after Armand.
He even stopped phoning ... no doubt in response to her querying the number that came up so often on his cell phone. Just how separated is a woman who checks her ex-husband's cell phone calls when she sees him?
Well I won't ignore him. I'll be honest, and the hell with a pleasant little interlude this time.
"Is that what you are doing with me, ignoring me so that I will just disappear?" rumbled the voice of my grandfather, the voice I hadn't heard for a few days because my own inner voice was drowning it out.
"Maybe," I replied.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I don't think fear has anything to do with it. I think maybe I don't care very much how you died."
There was a sharp intake of breath, and I continued. "Either you were killed by one of the sleazy gangsters you hung out with, probably because of some disagreement, or you were shot by the police when they raided some illegal enterprise you were engaged in, or one of the women you treated badly got angry enough to want revenge."
"And you don't give a damn?" he retorted.
"No, quite frankly, Grandpa. I figure you probably got exactly what you deserved. I think most men do in the long run."
"That's not quite fair, you know." His voice was more subdued than I had heard it before.
"Well, am I right?"
"No," he said. "Greed killed me."
I thought about the statement off and on all day. Grandpa didn't need to be greedy. He had everything he wanted laid out for him on a silver platter that had been fashioned for him before he was born.
That night, a stranger appeared in my dreams. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and moved Remi to one side, so gently that the dog's only reaction was a deep snoring sigh that made us both laugh.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"John Custard is my name."
John looked a bit like Remi ... a shaggy golden mane, and eyebrows so bushy they acted like curtains. I wondered how he could see.
"Well you don't look much like Custard, the Cowardly Dragon," I laughed. "More like a golden doodle. Were you a coward?"
"I've never heard of your doodle or your dragon," he said. " A coward? Some certainly thought so. Your grandmother certainly did. That woman had the sharpest tongue I've ever encountered. She could castrate a man with a single sentence."
"What did you have to do with her?"
"I dated her for a while."
"Why? She was a terrible bitch."
"She was also very beautiful and knew exactly how to wind a man around her little finger."
"Did you dump her? I asked.
He laughed. "No one dumped Marie."
"Paul did."
John shook his head. "No," he said. "You've got that wrong. As soon as the baby was born, Marie told him to get lost."
"But why?"
"Marie wanted his parents' money. Paul was just a means to an end. That's all any man was to Marie."
"How were you going to be of use to her?"
"She wanted me to kill Paul."
"My god," I said. "I knew she was awful, but a murderer?"
"When I wouldn't agree to kill him," he said, "she blackened my reputation every way she could. Said I was a gutless bastard who beat up on women. I never figured out how she got the bruises and black eye she blamed on me, but I had to leave Toronto when it finally blew over."
"I guess she was making sure you never revealed what she'd asked you to do."
"Exactly. Who would have believed me?"
"Why did she want to kill him? He was the golden goose."
"It was the thirties, and Paul was going through money awful fast. I think she figured there'd be none left if Paul stayed alive."
"Did Paul know this?"
"Yes, I told him."
"What did he do?"
"I don't think he did anything about it. Probably didn't have time. Marie found someone to do it less than a month later."
"But who would commit murder for her?"
"I told you. It was the thirties. Times were tough. There were lots of people who'd have shot Paul for a few bucks."
John gave Remi a final pat before leaving left my bedroom, and I stayed awake for a very long time thinking about what he'd said.
I didn't like the idea that I am carrying murderous genes. It was bad enough to know that my grandmother was bitchy and my grandfather a playboy; that my mother was as irresponsible as her father and my father a controlling disinterested parent, but this was worse, far worse.
Or was it? The woman killed everyone who was close to her in one way or another. Maybe my father thought he had good reason to keep me away from her. He needn't have worried about me emulating her, however. Even at four or five I hated and feared her. There was certainly no love lost on either side.
Grandpa and Nana fell right off my radar when I checked my email on the internet connection in the morning. There was a letter from Mark. It was a self absorbed kind of letter ... the kind I've recently grown accustomed to receiving from him, especially since the phone calls stopped.
I can't respond by email easily and he says he's left his cell phone behind by mistake. Since that number is also his business number, one wonders how the man functions in the real world. Ass hole.
But what I would be saying if I could get in touch would be a simple fuck off and die, you ass hole. Go lead your tiny little half life and leave me alone completely.
He wants to drop in on Tuesday while he's in Ottawa next week ... long enough to eat a free meal, and break up the work week I guess.
Whew! I guess I do carry Nana's genes ... Even if I wouldn't commit murder, I'm not as nice as I manage to convince people I am. Of course Nana couldn't actually pull the trigger herself. I wonder who she convinced to do it.
Someone like the homeless guy I saw with all the dogs? No. He couldn't have done it either. He was a gentle man.
Maybe one of the gangster types she'd have met through Paul? Nah. She couldn't have afforded him and those hoods probably detested her and her fake hoity toity airs. Ball breaker, they'd call her.
What about one of the girls he dated, mated and dropped? More likely ... especially if she couldn't work for some reason ... like an unwanted pregnancy.
But it couldn't be someone who would have been immediately suspected or there wouldn't be a mystery to solve. The police would have caught the murderer and whoever it was would have been tried and convicted.
Who, Grandpa, who?
That reminded me ... I had to do some work on my Le Hibou project ... and I had to get ready to teach today ... enough of old mysteries and weird families.
Cowardly Lions
I won't, of course, send that email. First of all, I can't send emails right now because my Outlook Express is corrupted in some way. And, even more imprtant, I want to see Mark next week, and one very strong part of me wants to just enjoy the time we have together. And besides, only a coward would break up by email.
Of course some cowards just play the "ignore it and it will go away" game. That's even more craven than an email.
And that may well be the tipping point for me; the thing that will ensure that I don't just enjoy our time together. I did that last time and look where it got me! I will be ending it ... not the way he would like to end it ... by staying friends with me so that I can meet all the needs that cannot be met in that sham of a marriage he seems to be flirting with these days.
When I met him he was separated. Now he seems to be just somewhat separated. Fuck that noise. He didn't lie to me. He really was leading a totally separate life in every way.
But a strange thing happened once we began communicating and then getting closer. I filled all those empty spaces and he began to respond to her nagging pleas. He was finally able to meet some of her needs. A social partner when she needed one. Someone to hike with occasionally. Someone to bring the brat daughter into line. Someone to plan a financially stable retirement with. Someone to have on a leash that she could jerk occasionally. Not someone with whom to share dreams or ideas or writing or a deep concern for the developing world ... and certainly not a lover ... No I could fulfill those roles.
The bottom line was that he couldn't face the idea of ending a sterile marriage. It was too risky. And it required too much energy. It was just like the terrible job situation whose misery he alleviated by writing poetry, building a fairy house and starting the Ugandan project. His marriage was of no help to him during those terrible years, and his wife had no interest in beoming part of these things, but he didn't leave the marriage or the job. It was easier and required less courage to stay and grit his teeth, to escape into his own space whenever he could than to make the break and start anew.
But I too have a bottom line. I have no interest in being a peripheral shadowy figure in anyone's life. And only a man without concern for someone he professes to love would expect that he could drop in once every month or two and take up where we left off ... that he wouldn't have to nurture a relationship with me.
And he has finally reached the point on the balance beam where he is more married than single ... and I have no intention of being the other woman ever again, not after Armand.
He even stopped phoning ... no doubt in response to her querying the number that came up so often on his cell phone. Just how separated is a woman who checks her ex-husband's cell phone calls when she sees him?
Well I won't ignore him. I'll be honest, and the hell with a pleasant little interlude this time.
"Is that what you are doing with me, ignoring me so that I will just disappear?" rumbled the voice of my grandfather, the voice I hadn't heard for a few days because my own inner voice was drowning it out.
"Maybe," I replied.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I don't think fear has anything to do with it. I think maybe I don't care very much how you died."
There was a sharp intake of breath, and I continued. "Either you were killed by one of the sleazy gangsters you hung out with, probably because of some disagreement, or you were shot by the police when they raided some illegal enterprise you were engaged in, or one of the women you treated badly got angry enough to want revenge."
"And you don't give a damn?" he retorted.
"No, quite frankly, Grandpa. I figure you probably got exactly what you deserved. I think most men do in the long run."
"That's not quite fair, you know." His voice was more subdued than I had heard it before.
"Well, am I right?"
"No," he said. "Greed killed me."
I thought about the statement off and on all day. Grandpa didn't need to be greedy. He had everything he wanted laid out for him on a silver platter that had been fashioned for him before he was born.
That night, a stranger appeared in my dreams. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and moved Remi to one side, so gently that the dog's only reaction was a deep snoring sigh that made us both laugh.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"John Custard is my name."
John looked a bit like Remi ... a shaggy golden mane, and eyebrows so bushy they acted like curtains. I wondered how he could see.
"Well you don't look much like Custard, the Cowardly Dragon," I laughed. "More like a golden doodle. Were you a coward?"
"I've never heard of your doodle or your dragon," he said. " A coward? Some certainly thought so. Your grandmother certainly did. That woman had the sharpest tongue I've ever encountered. She could castrate a man with a single sentence."
"What did you have to do with her?"
"I dated her for a while."
"Why? She was a terrible bitch."
"She was also very beautiful and knew exactly how to wind a man around her little finger."
"Did you dump her? I asked.
He laughed. "No one dumped Marie."
"Paul did."
John shook his head. "No," he said. "You've got that wrong. As soon as the baby was born, Marie told him to get lost."
"But why?"
"Marie wanted his parents' money. Paul was just a means to an end. That's all any man was to Marie."
"How were you going to be of use to her?"
"She wanted me to kill Paul."
"My god," I said. "I knew she was awful, but a murderer?"
"When I wouldn't agree to kill him," he said, "she blackened my reputation every way she could. Said I was a gutless bastard who beat up on women. I never figured out how she got the bruises and black eye she blamed on me, but I had to leave Toronto when it finally blew over."
"I guess she was making sure you never revealed what she'd asked you to do."
"Exactly. Who would have believed me?"
"Why did she want to kill him? He was the golden goose."
"It was the thirties, and Paul was going through money awful fast. I think she figured there'd be none left if Paul stayed alive."
"Did Paul know this?"
"Yes, I told him."
"What did he do?"
"I don't think he did anything about it. Probably didn't have time. Marie found someone to do it less than a month later."
"But who would commit murder for her?"
"I told you. It was the thirties. Times were tough. There were lots of people who'd have shot Paul for a few bucks."
John gave Remi a final pat before leaving left my bedroom, and I stayed awake for a very long time thinking about what he'd said.
I didn't like the idea that I am carrying murderous genes. It was bad enough to know that my grandmother was bitchy and my grandfather a playboy; that my mother was as irresponsible as her father and my father a controlling disinterested parent, but this was worse, far worse.
Or was it? The woman killed everyone who was close to her in one way or another. Maybe my father thought he had good reason to keep me away from her. He needn't have worried about me emulating her, however. Even at four or five I hated and feared her. There was certainly no love lost on either side.
Grandpa and Nana fell right off my radar when I checked my email on the internet connection in the morning. There was a letter from Mark. It was a self absorbed kind of letter ... the kind I've recently grown accustomed to receiving from him, especially since the phone calls stopped.
I can't respond by email easily and he says he's left his cell phone behind by mistake. Since that number is also his business number, one wonders how the man functions in the real world. Ass hole.
But what I would be saying if I could get in touch would be a simple fuck off and die, you ass hole. Go lead your tiny little half life and leave me alone completely.
He wants to drop in on Tuesday while he's in Ottawa next week ... long enough to eat a free meal, and break up the work week I guess.
Whew! I guess I do carry Nana's genes ... Even if I wouldn't commit murder, I'm not as nice as I manage to convince people I am. Of course Nana couldn't actually pull the trigger herself. I wonder who she convinced to do it.
Someone like the homeless guy I saw with all the dogs? No. He couldn't have done it either. He was a gentle man.
Maybe one of the gangster types she'd have met through Paul? Nah. She couldn't have afforded him and those hoods probably detested her and her fake hoity toity airs. Ball breaker, they'd call her.
What about one of the girls he dated, mated and dropped? More likely ... especially if she couldn't work for some reason ... like an unwanted pregnancy.
But it couldn't be someone who would have been immediately suspected or there wouldn't be a mystery to solve. The police would have caught the murderer and whoever it was would have been tried and convicted.
Who, Grandpa, who?
That reminded me ... I had to do some work on my Le Hibou project ... and I had to get ready to teach today ... enough of old mysteries and weird families.
Day 10 Nanowrimo
Yesterday was a cleaning up guts, going to a sketchbooking class, a green Door lunch with an old friend. walking dogs, spending an hour on the phone with a magma techie called Christian day ... so not much got written. This is what really was written yesterday.
November 10, 2009
Day 10 By the end of today I should have produced over 17000 words ... that means that to get on track I need to write over 5000 today ... hmmn!
Not likely, not with this to-do list looming:
Get rid of the deer's offal
Take the dogs for a long walk
Leave for sketcbooking class at 9:30
Return around 2:30
Call Magma to get my email running again
And eric to find out where the hell my lamp base is
And Bill re money and Montreal trip
And Jean-Marc about a language exchange idea of his
I have a sketch I want to do for Le Hibou
And I have to write 3-4000 words ...
as well as eat and dress and dry clothes and feed and walk dogs a couple more times ...
I need more strength, not longer days.
What do I want to include today? I want to get Grandpa's plot moving forward ... and perhaps incorporate today's events into the narrator's plot ... Mark and Jean-Marc? ...
And I have to call Nolan to find out how Pat is doing.
*****************************************************************************
Have you any idea how heavy the guts of a deer are??? I had to really wrestle them around to get them into a pail in a garbage bag and then double wrap and get the whole mess into a real garbage pail. And that is when I remembered that a deer's guts contain excrement ... green excrement. I held my breath all the way home. The shovel and bin were in the trunk but my hands were in the car with me. Yecch!
I ripped off the clothing the dogs found so fascinating and scrubbed every inch of me under a blasting shower until I could no longer remember the stench.
I still have to walk the dogs and pour javex on the offending shovel and grassy spot ... I hope that will be enough to deter the dogs. I don't want to have to keep them leashed or in the house for the next week. I really wish David and Leonard had left their mess a lot further away.
After my class, I poured vinegar all over the area where the offending offal had been lying, and walked the dogs over to the mailboxes. They were still very interested in the deer gutting site, and it will likely take a good rainstorm to wash away the memory for good, but at least now they have nothing but vinegar to roll in or eat.
The class was a bit of a disappointment but not a total waste of time, and Liz and I had lunch together at the Green Door. She's being tested for a small stroke or seizure ... a TIA.
Goddamn ... we are all getting old suddenly.
On my drive home I composed an email I will likely not send. It was far too honest to actually write, and besides, email is a terrible medium for telling people what you think of them ... good or bad.
Dear Mark, it began ... I don't know quite how to say this, but I could have loved you ... indeed I was beginning to ... but now all your fine qualities that I love are being subsumed by your cowardice ... and when I think of you these days ... it is not love I feel but contempt.
When you told me about staying in a terrible job for twelve years because you were too afraid to quit I knew I could never have done that and couldn't understand how or why you would have thrown away twelve years of your life. But now you are about to do the same thing again. Different situation. But still you are willing to settle for a half life because you haven't the courage or strength to take a chance on happiness.
I hadn't realized how important courage was to me till now.
Danny's face floated before me ... a reminder of how I had loved his courage. He hadn't just saved me from rollerblading accidents; he'd stood up for me when a principle was at stake. Like my lovely Norwegian, principles mattered to Danny.
One night in a Norwegian cafe we drank beer and listened to a live band. At the next table a young woman celebrated her last night of unmarried freedom by dancing on the table at her stag. A drunk at the next table began to harass them, and his hand snaked up the length of her leg to her panty line. Kjell stood up and very quietly put an end to it. Danny would have created a scene. Kjell was quietly courageous and bound by his principles.
Andrew wouldn't have made a fuss either. He'd have left the scene, left the girl dancing on the table to fend for herself. And I knew that when push came to shove, Andrew would leave me to fend for myself too. Andrew is a coward ... unwilling to stand up for himself let alone someone he loves.
725 words ... 1/7 of what I needed to write today ...
The dogs are squabbling all over my den... good ... I hope they wear themselves out so I don't need to walk them again. I think Kenya returned to the scene of the murder but Remi hung out with me so he hasn't had enough exercise today.
I gave Peter a recipe for Greek pasta sauce and all the missing ingredients he needed ... and then settled in to watch a movie he'd recommended ... about Yugoslavia ... and the civil war ... so sad he had to take breaks. I did too.
Jean-Marc wants to talk to me about a language exchange idea of his ... Peter and I discuss movies, travel, food and dogs .... there are few things we disagree about ... so why do I continue to hope that Mark will smarten up?
Surely to god I am smart enough to realize that stripes don't change after 60. A coward will always run scared.
Remi and I are good bed partners -- like people who have been married a long time and fit well together, we move in harmony at night. Kenya is bed hog who is not totally comfortable sleeping that high off the ground, but Remi adjust himself to my body shape.
The first night Mark spent here I had to go to my own bed, and I thought I had become, really and truly now, an old crone, a hermit. But when he returned a month or so later, we fit together just fine, and I realized I still had blood running through my veins, and that I was still flexible enough to curl around and within the curves of another human body; that I needn't assume that my only bed partners from now on would be dogs.
But that was before the only man I've been really attracted to in years -- in all ways -- revealed the yellow streak running down his back.
And cowards really are cruel; they really cannot be friends.
November 10, 2009
Day 10 By the end of today I should have produced over 17000 words ... that means that to get on track I need to write over 5000 today ... hmmn!
Not likely, not with this to-do list looming:
Get rid of the deer's offal
Take the dogs for a long walk
Leave for sketcbooking class at 9:30
Return around 2:30
Call Magma to get my email running again
And eric to find out where the hell my lamp base is
And Bill re money and Montreal trip
And Jean-Marc about a language exchange idea of his
I have a sketch I want to do for Le Hibou
And I have to write 3-4000 words ...
as well as eat and dress and dry clothes and feed and walk dogs a couple more times ...
I need more strength, not longer days.
What do I want to include today? I want to get Grandpa's plot moving forward ... and perhaps incorporate today's events into the narrator's plot ... Mark and Jean-Marc? ...
And I have to call Nolan to find out how Pat is doing.
*****************************************************************************
Have you any idea how heavy the guts of a deer are??? I had to really wrestle them around to get them into a pail in a garbage bag and then double wrap and get the whole mess into a real garbage pail. And that is when I remembered that a deer's guts contain excrement ... green excrement. I held my breath all the way home. The shovel and bin were in the trunk but my hands were in the car with me. Yecch!
I ripped off the clothing the dogs found so fascinating and scrubbed every inch of me under a blasting shower until I could no longer remember the stench.
I still have to walk the dogs and pour javex on the offending shovel and grassy spot ... I hope that will be enough to deter the dogs. I don't want to have to keep them leashed or in the house for the next week. I really wish David and Leonard had left their mess a lot further away.
After my class, I poured vinegar all over the area where the offending offal had been lying, and walked the dogs over to the mailboxes. They were still very interested in the deer gutting site, and it will likely take a good rainstorm to wash away the memory for good, but at least now they have nothing but vinegar to roll in or eat.
The class was a bit of a disappointment but not a total waste of time, and Liz and I had lunch together at the Green Door. She's being tested for a small stroke or seizure ... a TIA.
Goddamn ... we are all getting old suddenly.
On my drive home I composed an email I will likely not send. It was far too honest to actually write, and besides, email is a terrible medium for telling people what you think of them ... good or bad.
Dear Mark, it began ... I don't know quite how to say this, but I could have loved you ... indeed I was beginning to ... but now all your fine qualities that I love are being subsumed by your cowardice ... and when I think of you these days ... it is not love I feel but contempt.
When you told me about staying in a terrible job for twelve years because you were too afraid to quit I knew I could never have done that and couldn't understand how or why you would have thrown away twelve years of your life. But now you are about to do the same thing again. Different situation. But still you are willing to settle for a half life because you haven't the courage or strength to take a chance on happiness.
I hadn't realized how important courage was to me till now.
Danny's face floated before me ... a reminder of how I had loved his courage. He hadn't just saved me from rollerblading accidents; he'd stood up for me when a principle was at stake. Like my lovely Norwegian, principles mattered to Danny.
One night in a Norwegian cafe we drank beer and listened to a live band. At the next table a young woman celebrated her last night of unmarried freedom by dancing on the table at her stag. A drunk at the next table began to harass them, and his hand snaked up the length of her leg to her panty line. Kjell stood up and very quietly put an end to it. Danny would have created a scene. Kjell was quietly courageous and bound by his principles.
Andrew wouldn't have made a fuss either. He'd have left the scene, left the girl dancing on the table to fend for herself. And I knew that when push came to shove, Andrew would leave me to fend for myself too. Andrew is a coward ... unwilling to stand up for himself let alone someone he loves.
725 words ... 1/7 of what I needed to write today ...
The dogs are squabbling all over my den... good ... I hope they wear themselves out so I don't need to walk them again. I think Kenya returned to the scene of the murder but Remi hung out with me so he hasn't had enough exercise today.
I gave Peter a recipe for Greek pasta sauce and all the missing ingredients he needed ... and then settled in to watch a movie he'd recommended ... about Yugoslavia ... and the civil war ... so sad he had to take breaks. I did too.
Jean-Marc wants to talk to me about a language exchange idea of his ... Peter and I discuss movies, travel, food and dogs .... there are few things we disagree about ... so why do I continue to hope that Mark will smarten up?
Surely to god I am smart enough to realize that stripes don't change after 60. A coward will always run scared.
Remi and I are good bed partners -- like people who have been married a long time and fit well together, we move in harmony at night. Kenya is bed hog who is not totally comfortable sleeping that high off the ground, but Remi adjust himself to my body shape.
The first night Mark spent here I had to go to my own bed, and I thought I had become, really and truly now, an old crone, a hermit. But when he returned a month or so later, we fit together just fine, and I realized I still had blood running through my veins, and that I was still flexible enough to curl around and within the curves of another human body; that I needn't assume that my only bed partners from now on would be dogs.
But that was before the only man I've been really attracted to in years -- in all ways -- revealed the yellow streak running down his back.
And cowards really are cruel; they really cannot be friends.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Two Puppies barking and an Attempt to Post
November 1, 2009
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the other women, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes the dream women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of them had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes, I know it's an anachronism) looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
But, what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
9:11 a.m. ... resuming Chapter 2
Armand Comes Calling After Fifty Years ...
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. And these dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these dreams icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep after these dreams.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
12:52 ... at it again ... still no story ...
Chapter 3 ... Rough NOTES ... Maybe He Wants Me to Find the Answer
All those other men come and go once or twice, but it is my grandfather who keeps coming back. He didn't care enough about the bimbos for it to be about them, and he never even met me, so why would he be trying to help me now? I think he wants me to discover the truth ... and perhaps to avenge his murder.
I'll follow my instincts first ... one of the women who thought he loved her and then found out that she was just one of many women he bought for a couple of payments on an upright piano. She would have to be smarter and stronger than the others ... smart enough to figure it out ... angry enough to want him dead ... strong enough to pull the trigger.
Where will I begin?
She would dig through her papers and go from there ... but her family tree is so sketchy and she is the only twig left she would have trouble ...
Newspapers from Detroit in the 1920's might have reported the shooting.
Toronto death notices in the same time period.
He was married to my mother's mother about the same time ... the marriage took place in Toronto ... he was German and she was a Scotswoman from Aberdeen so either a civil ceremony or at either a Lutheran or Presbyterian church.
Maybe I can find my mother's birth certificate ... that might give me some information about her parentage.
And, of course, since this is fiction I can simply pretend to do all this ... and invent it ...
And he can visit when she is going off track or when she is getting closer ... sort of a hot-cold game.
1:10 ... I am at least finding my genre ... and moving away from a non-fiction mindset.
I need to sit down and plan out the storyline now ... with pen and paper.
I think my story may be about her doing what her grandfather wants her to do ... find out what happened to him ... and as she deals with this quest she makes sense of her own life ... helped by the men in her dreams.
Title ... The Men of My DreamsDay 2 Nanowrimo
1:28 a.m.
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with the detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his more adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believe in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words ... up to 3346ay 2 ... 7ish
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed away as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m. Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer. Three hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties or thirties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Hours later I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even one of those really expensive ones I'd just read about: Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread.
Day 3 ... Tuesday, November 3 ... 3:29 a.m.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
Tonight started the arrival of a procession of women. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on my quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch pictures ... Besides the women in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear out of one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage, you know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. Somebody must've been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were delighted to see me. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling and took it up the hil and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like its family, is very sparse.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something.
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I can tell you straight out, I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year in a twelve year old car that can't make it all the way up my road once the snow falls.
And I need more sleep than the old goat's been letting me get lately too. 4:17
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
The characters are leading me astray ... but that's okay ...
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
November 8, 2009
Day 8 Nanowrimo
5:45 a.m
Well, I wasted a whole day yesterday ... wandered around feeling weepy about the news from Pat, wishing my legs were not aching, and worrying about going to the wedding feeling sick and down. I walked Kenya around the lake and felt even worse. And then I did the only sensible thing I'd done all day. I phoned the groom and said I didn't think I would make it to the wedding; that I was going to take a hot bath and have a sleep and then decide. As soon as I made the call, I felt as if a weight had been lifted. The bath was pleasant but neither sleep inducing nor reviving, so I curled up with a movie and a bowl of nuts.
The first movie was The Soloist. I didn't realize it was going to be about living on the street with mental health issues, and I found myself thinking about the old man and his dogs, and then about my friend who collects photos for story ideas. We call his collection his "Old Men and Dog Pictures". He's the friend I will likely ask to help me find out more about the history of the red light district.
Just as the nuts turned into a supper of junk food, and the first glass of wine into more, one movie led to another. The second, Silent Night, was about a hiatus at Christmas during World War Two ... not the one I expected, when the troops on both sides decided on a temporary truce ... but one in which a German woman imposes a truce as a condition to allowing soldiers to share her accommodation on Christmas Eve. There were the stereotypes of course ... and both German and American soldiers changed in predictable ways as they recognized the humanity of their enemies, but it was more than simply a sentimental movie. The woman made her stand because she recognized that her son was being swayed to the prevailing view of the enemy as a cardboard villain figure, and she wanted him to think for himself ... and stay alive rather than becoming fodder for this ugly war machine that was now swallowing its children.
I thought about my own German roots, and about my grandfather with the aristocratic Aryan blood flowing through his veins but very little evidence that he was anything but a rich spoiled American playboy. I knew there had to be more than this stereotype, that he had to be feeling something when he acted thoughtlessly ... but I had no idea how to find the key to the real and complex human being that Paul Donat must have been.
I turned off everything downstairs and went to bed at 8:30. Some time between then and 4:45 when I awakened in the morning, I had visitors.
Grandpa was in his usual snarly critical mood. "You drink too much to get anything accomplshed," he accused me.
"I know," I said, "But I do get things done. Just not what you seem to expect me to do."
"You didn't even go to your friends' wedding, for god's sake. Stayed home and guzzled wine and ate beans and toast. Were you trying to pretend you were being forced to eat the American k-rations in the film?"
I laughed. "It was the only tinned food I had that could be heated quickly."
"Not a good habit to get into," he retorted. And then he got down to the real reason for his visit. If I could find one of Eva's daughters or grandchildren, I might learn more about what happened to him.
"Did Eva shoot you?" I asked.
"Of course not," he snorted. "Eva loved me."
"They all loved you," I said, "but one of them killed you."
He looked startled. "What makes you say that?"
"It makes sense. You treated all of them as if they were disposable. As soon as the newness wore off you threw them away." I paused and then continued, "And you had a very short attention span. It took almost no time for the sheen to wear off."
"That's not entirely true," he said. "Talk to Eva."
"Eva will have to decide to come to me, Grandpa. I can't conjure up ghosts."
"Don't be too sure of that," he said as he left, and then added, "And don't call me Grandpa. I hate it."
Eva didn't come, but Mitzi dropped in. This time she was wearing a leopard skin coat over a revealing low cut black sheath. Her shoes were black patent with leopard skin heels. How did other women do it?
My spare bed was covered in clothing and shoes, and I would not have been able to put together a single outfit suitable for a wedding. The only black shoes I owned were laced up suede oxfords and the only outfit that matched my somewhat suitable brown shoes was an old pair of brown slacks and a patterned silk jacket I'd bought in Beijing about five years ago.. Several silk camisoles were splayed across them. Before I elected to stay home, I had finally decided to wear one of the black outfits with the sporty black oxfords I'd brushed in an attempt to hide their age, and hope that no one noticed.
"Your hair looks nice," she said. "Too bad you had to waste a good haircut in front of a small screen though.".
"I was beat," I said. "Did you know Eva?"
"Everyone knew Eva; she didn't work in the clubs, but she knew all the girls."
"What did she do for a living?" I asked.
"She was some kind of community worker. Ran a soup kitchen kind of place just for women and kids. When the girls were down on their luck they ate there. Sometimes she put them up for a few days. Not sure where she got her money from. I don't think it came from the city. Maybe she had a rich daddy."
"Did she know my grandfather well?"
"As well as anyone, I guess. But she wasn't one of his girls, if that's what you mean."
"He said she had kids; that they might know something."
"Yeah, maybe. I never met her kids. Not likely she'd have brought them down to the Main."
"I wonder if my grandfather did anything besides gamble and date pretty girls."
"He had a wife."
"I know, but he didn't live with her."
"She was a real humdinger, from everything I've heard."
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't disappoint me.
"She was very beautiful ... classy looking ... even though she didn't have lots of dough. She was a nurse, you know, but not one that worked in a hospital wearing a uniform and clunky shoes. She went to people's homes and looked after them there. And she stayed there. Boarded like. Got to meet lots of rich people and their families that way.. That's how she met Paul. She looked after his mother."
"I remember someone telling me that now."
"She was smart, smarter than Paul. And she was different from the girls he was used to."
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
"The girls in the clubs took it all off right away. She held back like a good stripper. And I hear she teased him with tiny little peeks, just accidental, you know, for months before she started to date him. And even then it took him a long time to get into her panties."
"I'm surprised he didn't just say the hell with it." I said. "He sure didn't need to wait around for a cocktease. He had plenty of women willing to give him what he wanted."
Mitzi raised her own eyebrow, and whistled. "Boy you sure don't know much about men, do you? She was very good at holding back and just giving him enough to want more ... and then pulling back again. By the time he finally got her into bed, he was completely infatuated. And more important, so was his mother. She was like a member of the family."
"Why did he marry her if he could have had the sex without it, I wonder."
"She was a nurse, honey. She made sure she got pregnant right away. From what I heard, it took her only a month to get in a family way."
"Good thing," I mused. "His relationships lasted an average of two months. But he'd got women pregnant before. Why did he marry her?"
"His parents insisted. Told him he had a responsibility. And from what I heard his mother really wanted a grandchild."
"She could have had lots of them if she hadn't financed the abortions."
"This one was different. This baby would have a nurse for a mother."
"And maybe she thought Paul would settle down if he got married," I said.
"Yeah, but she hadn't really known the real Marie either," said Mitzi. "As soon as that baby was born Marie was back out working and the baby girl lived with her grandparents."
"How did Paul like that?"
"I think he was relieved. He was back in the clubs within two months of the marriage, and he didn't have anything good to say about Marie. My guess is she began to show her true colours as soon as she had the wedding ring on her finger."
"He said she was a bitch."
"Yeah."
"Was she?"
"The only person who really knew her was Eva. I saw photos and I heard she wasn't nearly as maternal as she pretended to be, but I didn't know her personally."
I wondered how I might conjure up Eva. I decided to do some research on soup kitchens in that area.
7:38
And then, Eva arrived ...
9:39
I'd been dreaming already when she arrived so silently I wasn't aware that she was there for some time. It had started with another "get back to work on your funky furniture" nagging dream. Then I found myself at The Well, an Anglican women's day centre, which had commissioned one of the chairs. That dream setting morphed into another women's centre, this one in Mongolia where Didi Kalika, an Australian woman, has set up orphanages, homes and work centres for orphaned teeenaged girls who had been forced onto the street, and a kindergarten for her orphans and the children in the slum neighbourhood where her own centres were located. The last I had heard, she had just opened a soup kitchen for destitute women and their children. It was hard to keep up with Didi's lifework. I am not sure which of her projects I was in when I saw the woman. I held a baby in my arms and was talking one of the girls when I noticed the quiet grey clad figure standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a dove grey suit and wore sensible shoes. She was not Mongolian. Still carrying the baby, I walked over to her.
"Hi," I said. "Are you a volunteer from one of the western countries?"
She smiled. "I guess you could call me that."
"What do you do here?"
"I came to see you," she replied. "I heard you were looking for me."
I must have looked confused because she went on in her soothing voice. "I followed you to The Well when I heard you wanted to see me, but you didn't notice me there."
A wet nurse relieved me of the infant and we sat down on the tiny orange and blue chairs intended for the toddlers' tea time. My sore knees groaned, but she seemed perfectly comfortable.
"So you're a Canadian volunteer," I said.
She nodded.
"With VSO?" I asked.
"The Anglican Church," she murmured.
I don't handle the mix of religiosity and volunteer work overseas too well but I decided to be polite. After all Didi was a Buddhist nun and look at all the good she does.
"I didn't know the Anglicans had a mission in Ulaan Baatar."
"We don't," she said. "I'm only here because you are."
"Me?" My face must have been dialed to zero, like my brain.
"I'm Eva," she said. A few old friends have been telling me you need to talk to me."
"My grandfather?" I asked.
‘Him too ... and Mitzi ... and Marie as well."
"How did you know Marie? I can't imagine she'd have been your type."
Now it was Eva's turn to look confused. "My type?"
"I just meant that you likely knew the women who came to your soup kitchen, and all your church friends, and maybe some of the people who hung around the Main, but my grandmother wouldn't have been in any bread line, and she sure as hell, oops, sorry, wasn't religious."
"I met your grandmother when she first came to Canada from Aberdeen," Eva said. "She was very young, still in her teens, and starting a new life in Toronto. She'd gone straight from school to a nursing programme at fourteen and after a few years, realized that she could have a better life if she emigrated."
"So how did you meet her?"
"I was running a home for unwed mothers, and she came to me pregnant, alone, and terrified."
"So I have an aunt or uncle, then," I cried.
‘The baby died during childbirth." Eva said quietly. "Marie stayed on and helped out for a few months, but the pay was poor, and she was anxious to get away from her own mistake."
"Is that when she started home care?"
"Yes. It paid pretty well and she didn't have to worry about room and board."
"And she met rich people," I intervened.
"Yes," said Eva. "Marie wanted more than she would ever have as a working woman."
"Not so different from the women who turned tricks on the Main."
"You're pretty hard on her."
"I knew her. I remember a woman who abandoned her daughter and who hated the only grand daughter she ever had. It was a pretty strong impression ... it's lasted for 65 years."
"Her life wasn't easy. She may have finagled a way into a rich family but she didn't have a happy life."
"My grandfather was right. She was a bitch."
"And you're pretty hard on him too, aren't you?"
"He treated women like garbage. He took what he wanted then threw them away."
"He was human, my dear. He had his faults but there was more to him than his reputation suggests."
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I did."
"But you didn't sleep with him."
"No. I was already married when I met him. To the man I loved my entire life. I didn't love him the way you mean. I knew Paul slightly in Toronto, but it was when I moved to Montreal and began to work at the soup kitchen that I got to really know him." She began to unfold a tale of a man I would not have recognized as my grandfather. A man who brought clients to her and asked for shelter and food for them, pressing a handful of bills into her hand each time.
"Probably just sin money," I scoffed. "He got them into trouble and then they couldn't work."
"No," she said. "He brought me ancient old hags who desperately needed help, not just women he might have found attractive. And women who were several months pregnant and unable to sustain another life. There was a great generosity in Paul."
"Why did he take such pains to hide it?" I mused.
"I'm not sure," Eva smiled. "But when Al Capone started up a soup kitchen during the depression, he told the whole world about it. Your grandfather didn't seem to need to whitewash himself no matter what you think about his reasons for his actions, good and bad."
"Maybe he should have. He left behind a pretty black reputation."
"Paul was who he was."
"Who killed him?" My question hung unanswered in the dark air of my bedroom. Eva was gone.
I got up for a drink of water and wondered where I needed to go next. I did have to solve the murder, it seems. How he died might lead me to the answers I needed about how he lived.
Total Now ... 11,633November 9, 2009
Day 9 of Nanowrimo
11:06 a.m.
Nothing, it seems, is simple.
I prepared some work for Klaus, my German student, and ran it into the village. CBC Radio was celebrating the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall by pointing out the schisms that exist all over the world, including ones between former East and West Germans in the now re- unified Germany. I thought of the tensions between Germans and Turks that Klaus fears may cause terrible problems in Germany. He sees examples of intolerance daily and wonders where it will all lead.
I thought about all the rifts in my own family, the examples of intolerance, the walls that needed to be torn down. We have a pretty bleak history too.
My Scottish grandmother, the nurse, came back into my mother's life for a brief time to create a hell for my German father. It was war time, 1940, when Imy mother delivered me in a difficult Caesarian section. My father had lost his job because he was a German, and so he stayed home to look after my convalescent mother and me. My grandmother arrived one Sunday morning to find my mother serving him breakfast in bed as a treat. That set my grandmother on a mission of hatred and intolerance. She went all over the neighbourhood screaming imprecations against the dirty lazy German who was forcing a frail wife out of her sick bed to wait on him.
No wonder I find it hard to forgive her for her sour nastiness. My only connections with her were negative and showed her in an ugly light. She was the woman who dressed beautifully, wore veils through which she gave perfunctory kisses, and fox furs with tiny little heads with sharp teeth hanging where a soft bosom might have been expected .
She was the woman who threw Christmas presents in people's faces ... because they were the wrong size or colour ... because her grand daughter was squinting against the sun, not smiling in the photo.
Eva met her when she was vulnerable and needed help. I saw her when she had clawed her way to some kind of stability through deception, when her whole raison d'etre was to cling to it. Still vulnerable, I guess, because life was precarious. But I wonder what might have become of her if she had partnered with Eva, if she had given of herself to those who needed help more than she did.
Some people believe that if you ask you will receive. I believe that if you give, you are more likely to reap benefits you never anticipated. My grandmother seems to have lived her life according to a more Scroogelike philosophy.
On-line, yesterday, I read of a book I want to get hold of, Saved by Karin Winegar. It's about rescued animals and the humans they more subtly rescue. I thought of Remi, the Golden Doodle I have known since he was a six week old puppy, the two and a half year old dog who will join my household this evening. Remi snapped at his baby, likely out of fear and exasperation, perhaps clumsily. Remi loves Lucas and is one of the softest dogs I know so it was not out of viciousness. Lucas is almost ten months old and he pulls hair and ears hard. But Remi has to go because Sarah can't take a chance, not with Lucas nor with the other babies she looks after for a living these days. So I am taking him in for a couple of months until everyone has a chance to make some final decisions. I wonder if Remi will save me ... and from what.
Was Eva saved by the women she rescued? I thought of her when I learned this morning that a 61 year old woman burned to death last night in a fire at a women's centre in Ottawa. It wasn't the Well where my wonky women reside, but another Anglican shelter, the Cornerstone. The Anglicans continue their long history of concern for homeless women, it seems.
And did Grandpa earn a place in heaven with his efforts to help women? Would those acts of kindness have cancelled out all the acts of self indulgence? Is there some kind of cosmic scale?
I wrote the other day about someone I care about, some who inspired me to scrawl on the corner of a page your cowardice makes you cruel. And I elaborated wth a string of adjectives including the one he shares with Grandpa: self absorbed.
One part of me wants to let things slide, to enjoy what we can have, because he's more than a self absorbed coward; he's someone with many qualities I love. The other, more sensible part of me, tells me to build walls, end it before I can be hurt. I wish things were simpler.
Eva would likely tell me to be more accepting of human frailty.
My friend Pat wrote last month: "No advice, I'm afraid. Just hold on to a small corner of your heart that is for you alone. I have everything available crossed for you. XXXX"
Just as I have everything available crossed for her.
One more mystery, and probably more important than discovering how my grandfather died ... and lived.
But who knows? Perhaps if I give him what he is asking for I will learn something I need to know.
You Could Start By Realizing that Everything is 50% Good and 50% Bad ...
My father's ghost! No dream. I'm wide awake and he's been dead for almost fifteen years, but I'd recognize that voice and that line anywhere. And he was the embodiment of his philosophy.
If ever I had a love-hate relationship with anyone, it was with him.
First he orphaned me by taking me away from my mother and putting me in a foster home. Then he went to live 1200 miles away so I had neither parent. After a few years, my mother attempted to see me , and he immediately imprisoned me in a boarding school ... an Anglican boarding school, where the all-female staff showed none of Eva's nurturing love of their gender. When I was released two years later he let me grow up unparented for two more years. One day he actually looked at me and discovered I had become a little ruffian wearing a gash of red lipstick for a mouth out of which issued forth most unladylike language. He sent for my East German grandmother who arrived as a new immigrant with no English and was handed an impossible charge to civilize. Poor woman she couldn't cope herself; however was she to tame me?
And yet, I never doubted that my father loved me. Or perhaps I didn't dare imagine something that unthinkably frightening.
And my grandmother loved her son more than he deserved too.
A few years later, after he had wrung all that was useful to him out of her he sent her back to Germany to die ... not to her home in Saxony where she might have died among friends, but to a rooming house in West Germany where she locked herself into a tiny room for the last four days of her life.
Years later my father redeeemed himself by being a better grandfather than he had been a father and suddenly taking great pride in the adult daughter he had ignored throughout her entire childhood. I really was loved by my father in his last years. But it was too late for him to make it up to my grandmother.
Were those years enough to gain him entrance to heaven? That scale still seems pretty unbalanced to me.
And what about my mother?
Was she blameless in all this? She ran around. She had enough of her father's genes to look for gaiety and fun in life, and she wasn't used to the poverty they lived in as a young couple with a child. That doesn't excuse my father of course. She didn't deserve to lose her only child.
She had other excuses as well. She had grown up in her grandparents' home with neither a mother nor a father ... with money and the love of very old people. They spoiled her ... let her run wild ... didn't attempt to teach her responsibility. These were the people who had raised Grandpa to be a playboy. It must have been easy for her to choose to play instead of being a helpmate. And perhaps it seemed normal to her to give away her five year old daughter; after all, her mother had given her away when she was still a baby.
My half brother told me, when he was in his mid forties and I ten years older, that the affection I so desperately wanted and needed was all lavished on him. I was starved and he was drowned in our mother's love.
One hell of a family tree, eh?
A playboy grandfather, a bitch grandmother ... their child abandoned by both.
A playgirl mother and a possessive father who could be coldly cruel.
And on my father's side, no relatives at all except his mother ... his father killed in WW1 ... he'd left any vestiges of family behind when he left Germany in 1929 ... and after WW2, no way back to the past because the world's heaviest fortified wall had been erected splitting his homeland into East and West.
Maybe Eva is right. Maybe I should start forgiving all these poor lost souls who screwed up so badly ... and maybe by doing so I could learn to forgive myself too.
Maybe we are all just doing the best we can. Maybe that's what everyone does ... the best she can ... at the time.
And yes, my father was right ... nobody ... nothing ... is either perfectly good or perfectly bad.
No matter what choices I have left to make, there will never be any simple answers. All the choices we make in life are Sophie's choices.
November 9, 2009
9:05 p.m.
All's well that is going to end well ...
Remi arrived with a large bag of food, dishes, various collars and leashes ... all the paraphanalia well loved dogs acquire. He and Kenya have been playing pretty well non-stop, but always indoors because I don't want to let them out unleashed tonight.
It is hunting season and one of my neighbours gutted a deer he shot yesterday, and dumped the liver, lights and intestines on his tiny property well within smelling distance of the road. I had one hell of a time getting Kenya away from the bloody mess this afternoon and I don't want either one of them getting into it. I will go out with the car tomorrow morning as soon as it is light and shovel it into a garbage bag and deposit it in a can with a secure locking lid.
I must have looked like a complete idiot as I chased her around, her leash in one hand and a large stick in the other. No, I wasn't about to beat her. I wanted to chase her away from the tantalizing mess and tempt her with a stick she could chase. Eventually I tricked her into playing tug'o'war with the stick and then got her collar on. Later Peter let her out and she headed back toward the smelly treat, but came when I called and was rewarded with her best cookie.
We've been out several times this evening and now both dogs have settled in for the night, Kenya on her pillow on the floor and Remi on my bed. In the morning Kenya will oust him, but politely, and Remi will accede and let her take his place quite happily. Of all the dogs I look after Remi is one of the easiest to have around. He is part of the family and has been all his life.
And he is a well loved dog so I am sure that his family will figure out some way to keep him with them and ensure that the baby is safe. They are responsible people who have learned some lessons from this scare, not people who abdicate their responsibilities on a whim.
Sometimes a dog's life looks pretty good in contrast to the fortunes of some people. It all depends on the luck of the parental draw, it seems.
another 368 words before bed 9:26
November 10, 2009
Day 10 By the end of today I should have produced over 17000 words ... that means that to get on track I need to write over 5000 today ... hmmn!
Not likely, not with this to-do list looming:
Get rid of the deer's offal
Take the dogs for a long walk
Leave for sketcbooking class at 9:30
Return around 2:30
Call Magma to get my email running again
And eric to find out where the hell my lamp base is
And Bill re money and Montreal trip
And Jean-Marc about a language exchange idea of his
I have a sketch I want to do for Le Hibou
And I have to write 3-4000 words ...
as well as eat and dress and dry clothes and feed and walk dogs a couple more times ...
I need more strength, not longer days.
What do I want to include today? I want to get Grandpa's plot moving forward ... and perhaps incourporate today's events into the narrator's plot ... Mark and Jean-Marc? ...
And I have to call Nolan to find out how Pat is doing.
*****************************************************************************
Have you any idea how heavy the guts of a deer are??? I had to really wrestle them around to get them into a pail in a garbage bag and then double wrap and get the whole mess into a real garbage pail. And that is when I remembered that a deer's guts contain excrement ... green excrement. I held my breath all the way home. The shovel and bin were in the trunk but my hands were in the car with me. Yecch!
I ripped off the clothing the dogs found so fascinating and scrubbed every inch of me under a blasting shower until I could no longer remember the stench.
I still have to walk the dogs and pour javex on the offending shovel and grassy spot ... I hope that will be enough to deter the dogs. I don't want to have to keep them leashed or in the house for the next week. I really wish David and Leonard had left their mess a long way away.
After my class, I poured vinegar all over the area where the offending offal had been lying, and walked the dogs over to the mailboxes. They were still very interested, and it will likely take a good rainstorm to wash away the memory for good, but at least now they have nothing but vinegar to roll in or eat.
The class was a bit of a disappointment but not a total waste of time, and Liz and I had lunch together at the Green Door. She's being tested for a small stroke or seizure ... a TIA.
Goddamn ... we are all getting old suddenly.
On my drive home I composed an email I will likely not send. It was far too honest to actually write, and besides, email is a terrible medium for telling people what you think of them ... good or bad.
Dear Mark, it began ... I don't know quite how to say this, but I could have loved you ... indeed I was beginning to ... but now all your fine qualities that I love are being subsumed by your cowardice ... and when I think of you these days ... it is not love I feel but contempt.
When you told me about staying in a terrible job for twelve years because you were too afraid to quit I knew I could never have done that and couldn't understand how or why you would have thrown away twelve years of your life. But now you are about to do the same thing again. Different situation. But still you are willing to settle for a half life because you haven't the courage or strength to take a chance on happiness.
I hadn't realized how important courage was to me till now.
Danny's face floated before me ... a reminder of how I had loved his courage. He hadn't just saved me from rollerblading accidents; he'd stood up for me when a principle was at stake. Like my lovely Norwegian, principles mattered to Danny.
One night in a Norwegian cafe we drank beer and listened to a live band. At the next table a young women celebrated her last night of unmarried freedom by dancing on the table at her stag. A drunk at the next table began to harass them, and his hand snaked up the length of her leg to her panty line. Kjell stood up and very quietly put an end to it. Danny would have created a scene. Kjell was quietly courageous and bound by his principles.
Andrew wouldn't have made a fuss either. He'd have left the scene, left the girl dancing on the table to fend for herself. And I knew that when push came to shove, Andrew would leave me to fend for myself too. Andrew is a coward ... unwilling to stand up for himself let alone someone he loves.
725 words ... 1/7 of what I needed to write today ...
The dogs are squabbling all over my den... good ... I hope they wear themselves out so I don't need to walk them again. I think Kenya returned to the scene of the murder but Remi hung out with me so he hasn't had enough exercise today.
I gave Peter a recipe for Greeek pasta sauce and all the missing ingredients he needed ... and then settled in to watch a movie he'd recommended ... about Yugoslavia ... and the civil war ... so sad he had to take breaks.
Jean-Marc wants to talk to me about a language exchange idea of his ... Peter and I discuss movies, travel, food and dogs .... there are few things we disagree about ... so why do I continue to hope that Mark will smarten up?
Surely to god I am smart enough to realize that stripes don't change after 60. A coward will always run scared.
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the other women, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes the dream women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of them had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes, I know it's an anachronism) looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
But, what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
9:11 a.m. ... resuming Chapter 2
Armand Comes Calling After Fifty Years ...
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. And these dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these dreams icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep after these dreams.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
12:52 ... at it again ... still no story ...
Chapter 3 ... Rough NOTES ... Maybe He Wants Me to Find the Answer
All those other men come and go once or twice, but it is my grandfather who keeps coming back. He didn't care enough about the bimbos for it to be about them, and he never even met me, so why would he be trying to help me now? I think he wants me to discover the truth ... and perhaps to avenge his murder.
I'll follow my instincts first ... one of the women who thought he loved her and then found out that she was just one of many women he bought for a couple of payments on an upright piano. She would have to be smarter and stronger than the others ... smart enough to figure it out ... angry enough to want him dead ... strong enough to pull the trigger.
Where will I begin?
She would dig through her papers and go from there ... but her family tree is so sketchy and she is the only twig left she would have trouble ...
Newspapers from Detroit in the 1920's might have reported the shooting.
Toronto death notices in the same time period.
He was married to my mother's mother about the same time ... the marriage took place in Toronto ... he was German and she was a Scotswoman from Aberdeen so either a civil ceremony or at either a Lutheran or Presbyterian church.
Maybe I can find my mother's birth certificate ... that might give me some information about her parentage.
And, of course, since this is fiction I can simply pretend to do all this ... and invent it ...
And he can visit when she is going off track or when she is getting closer ... sort of a hot-cold game.
1:10 ... I am at least finding my genre ... and moving away from a non-fiction mindset.
I need to sit down and plan out the storyline now ... with pen and paper.
I think my story may be about her doing what her grandfather wants her to do ... find out what happened to him ... and as she deals with this quest she makes sense of her own life ... helped by the men in her dreams.
Title ... The Men of My DreamsDay 2 Nanowrimo
1:28 a.m.
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with the detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his more adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believe in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words ... up to 3346ay 2 ... 7ish
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed away as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m. Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer. Three hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties or thirties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Hours later I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even one of those really expensive ones I'd just read about: Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread.
Day 3 ... Tuesday, November 3 ... 3:29 a.m.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
Tonight started the arrival of a procession of women. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on my quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch pictures ... Besides the women in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear out of one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage, you know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. Somebody must've been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were delighted to see me. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling and took it up the hil and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like its family, is very sparse.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something.
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I can tell you straight out, I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year in a twelve year old car that can't make it all the way up my road once the snow falls.
And I need more sleep than the old goat's been letting me get lately too. 4:17
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
The characters are leading me astray ... but that's okay ...
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
November 8, 2009
Day 8 Nanowrimo
5:45 a.m
Well, I wasted a whole day yesterday ... wandered around feeling weepy about the news from Pat, wishing my legs were not aching, and worrying about going to the wedding feeling sick and down. I walked Kenya around the lake and felt even worse. And then I did the only sensible thing I'd done all day. I phoned the groom and said I didn't think I would make it to the wedding; that I was going to take a hot bath and have a sleep and then decide. As soon as I made the call, I felt as if a weight had been lifted. The bath was pleasant but neither sleep inducing nor reviving, so I curled up with a movie and a bowl of nuts.
The first movie was The Soloist. I didn't realize it was going to be about living on the street with mental health issues, and I found myself thinking about the old man and his dogs, and then about my friend who collects photos for story ideas. We call his collection his "Old Men and Dog Pictures". He's the friend I will likely ask to help me find out more about the history of the red light district.
Just as the nuts turned into a supper of junk food, and the first glass of wine into more, one movie led to another. The second, Silent Night, was about a hiatus at Christmas during World War Two ... not the one I expected, when the troops on both sides decided on a temporary truce ... but one in which a German woman imposes a truce as a condition to allowing soldiers to share her accommodation on Christmas Eve. There were the stereotypes of course ... and both German and American soldiers changed in predictable ways as they recognized the humanity of their enemies, but it was more than simply a sentimental movie. The woman made her stand because she recognized that her son was being swayed to the prevailing view of the enemy as a cardboard villain figure, and she wanted him to think for himself ... and stay alive rather than becoming fodder for this ugly war machine that was now swallowing its children.
I thought about my own German roots, and about my grandfather with the aristocratic Aryan blood flowing through his veins but very little evidence that he was anything but a rich spoiled American playboy. I knew there had to be more than this stereotype, that he had to be feeling something when he acted thoughtlessly ... but I had no idea how to find the key to the real and complex human being that Paul Donat must have been.
I turned off everything downstairs and went to bed at 8:30. Some time between then and 4:45 when I awakened in the morning, I had visitors.
Grandpa was in his usual snarly critical mood. "You drink too much to get anything accomplshed," he accused me.
"I know," I said, "But I do get things done. Just not what you seem to expect me to do."
"You didn't even go to your friends' wedding, for god's sake. Stayed home and guzzled wine and ate beans and toast. Were you trying to pretend you were being forced to eat the American k-rations in the film?"
I laughed. "It was the only tinned food I had that could be heated quickly."
"Not a good habit to get into," he retorted. And then he got down to the real reason for his visit. If I could find one of Eva's daughters or grandchildren, I might learn more about what happened to him.
"Did Eva shoot you?" I asked.
"Of course not," he snorted. "Eva loved me."
"They all loved you," I said, "but one of them killed you."
He looked startled. "What makes you say that?"
"It makes sense. You treated all of them as if they were disposable. As soon as the newness wore off you threw them away." I paused and then continued, "And you had a very short attention span. It took almost no time for the sheen to wear off."
"That's not entirely true," he said. "Talk to Eva."
"Eva will have to decide to come to me, Grandpa. I can't conjure up ghosts."
"Don't be too sure of that," he said as he left, and then added, "And don't call me Grandpa. I hate it."
Eva didn't come, but Mitzi dropped in. This time she was wearing a leopard skin coat over a revealing low cut black sheath. Her shoes were black patent with leopard skin heels. How did other women do it?
My spare bed was covered in clothing and shoes, and I would not have been able to put together a single outfit suitable for a wedding. The only black shoes I owned were laced up suede oxfords and the only outfit that matched my somewhat suitable brown shoes was an old pair of brown slacks and a patterned silk jacket I'd bought in Beijing about five years ago.. Several silk camisoles were splayed across them. Before I elected to stay home, I had finally decided to wear one of the black outfits with the sporty black oxfords I'd brushed in an attempt to hide their age, and hope that no one noticed.
"Your hair looks nice," she said. "Too bad you had to waste a good haircut in front of a small screen though.".
"I was beat," I said. "Did you know Eva?"
"Everyone knew Eva; she didn't work in the clubs, but she knew all the girls."
"What did she do for a living?" I asked.
"She was some kind of community worker. Ran a soup kitchen kind of place just for women and kids. When the girls were down on their luck they ate there. Sometimes she put them up for a few days. Not sure where she got her money from. I don't think it came from the city. Maybe she had a rich daddy."
"Did she know my grandfather well?"
"As well as anyone, I guess. But she wasn't one of his girls, if that's what you mean."
"He said she had kids; that they might know something."
"Yeah, maybe. I never met her kids. Not likely she'd have brought them down to the Main."
"I wonder if my grandfather did anything besides gamble and date pretty girls."
"He had a wife."
"I know, but he didn't live with her."
"She was a real humdinger, from everything I've heard."
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't disappoint me.
"She was very beautiful ... classy looking ... even though she didn't have lots of dough. She was a nurse, you know, but not one that worked in a hospital wearing a uniform and clunky shoes. She went to people's homes and looked after them there. And she stayed there. Boarded like. Got to meet lots of rich people and their families that way.. That's how she met Paul. She looked after his mother."
"I remember someone telling me that now."
"She was smart, smarter than Paul. And she was different from the girls he was used to."
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
"The girls in the clubs took it all off right away. She held back like a good stripper. And I hear she teased him with tiny little peeks, just accidental, you know, for months before she started to date him. And even then it took him a long time to get into her panties."
"I'm surprised he didn't just say the hell with it." I said. "He sure didn't need to wait around for a cocktease. He had plenty of women willing to give him what he wanted."
Mitzi raised her own eyebrow, and whistled. "Boy you sure don't know much about men, do you? She was very good at holding back and just giving him enough to want more ... and then pulling back again. By the time he finally got her into bed, he was completely infatuated. And more important, so was his mother. She was like a member of the family."
"Why did he marry her if he could have had the sex without it, I wonder."
"She was a nurse, honey. She made sure she got pregnant right away. From what I heard, it took her only a month to get in a family way."
"Good thing," I mused. "His relationships lasted an average of two months. But he'd got women pregnant before. Why did he marry her?"
"His parents insisted. Told him he had a responsibility. And from what I heard his mother really wanted a grandchild."
"She could have had lots of them if she hadn't financed the abortions."
"This one was different. This baby would have a nurse for a mother."
"And maybe she thought Paul would settle down if he got married," I said.
"Yeah, but she hadn't really known the real Marie either," said Mitzi. "As soon as that baby was born Marie was back out working and the baby girl lived with her grandparents."
"How did Paul like that?"
"I think he was relieved. He was back in the clubs within two months of the marriage, and he didn't have anything good to say about Marie. My guess is she began to show her true colours as soon as she had the wedding ring on her finger."
"He said she was a bitch."
"Yeah."
"Was she?"
"The only person who really knew her was Eva. I saw photos and I heard she wasn't nearly as maternal as she pretended to be, but I didn't know her personally."
I wondered how I might conjure up Eva. I decided to do some research on soup kitchens in that area.
7:38
And then, Eva arrived ...
9:39
I'd been dreaming already when she arrived so silently I wasn't aware that she was there for some time. It had started with another "get back to work on your funky furniture" nagging dream. Then I found myself at The Well, an Anglican women's day centre, which had commissioned one of the chairs. That dream setting morphed into another women's centre, this one in Mongolia where Didi Kalika, an Australian woman, has set up orphanages, homes and work centres for orphaned teeenaged girls who had been forced onto the street, and a kindergarten for her orphans and the children in the slum neighbourhood where her own centres were located. The last I had heard, she had just opened a soup kitchen for destitute women and their children. It was hard to keep up with Didi's lifework. I am not sure which of her projects I was in when I saw the woman. I held a baby in my arms and was talking one of the girls when I noticed the quiet grey clad figure standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a dove grey suit and wore sensible shoes. She was not Mongolian. Still carrying the baby, I walked over to her.
"Hi," I said. "Are you a volunteer from one of the western countries?"
She smiled. "I guess you could call me that."
"What do you do here?"
"I came to see you," she replied. "I heard you were looking for me."
I must have looked confused because she went on in her soothing voice. "I followed you to The Well when I heard you wanted to see me, but you didn't notice me there."
A wet nurse relieved me of the infant and we sat down on the tiny orange and blue chairs intended for the toddlers' tea time. My sore knees groaned, but she seemed perfectly comfortable.
"So you're a Canadian volunteer," I said.
She nodded.
"With VSO?" I asked.
"The Anglican Church," she murmured.
I don't handle the mix of religiosity and volunteer work overseas too well but I decided to be polite. After all Didi was a Buddhist nun and look at all the good she does.
"I didn't know the Anglicans had a mission in Ulaan Baatar."
"We don't," she said. "I'm only here because you are."
"Me?" My face must have been dialed to zero, like my brain.
"I'm Eva," she said. A few old friends have been telling me you need to talk to me."
"My grandfather?" I asked.
‘Him too ... and Mitzi ... and Marie as well."
"How did you know Marie? I can't imagine she'd have been your type."
Now it was Eva's turn to look confused. "My type?"
"I just meant that you likely knew the women who came to your soup kitchen, and all your church friends, and maybe some of the people who hung around the Main, but my grandmother wouldn't have been in any bread line, and she sure as hell, oops, sorry, wasn't religious."
"I met your grandmother when she first came to Canada from Aberdeen," Eva said. "She was very young, still in her teens, and starting a new life in Toronto. She'd gone straight from school to a nursing programme at fourteen and after a few years, realized that she could have a better life if she emigrated."
"So how did you meet her?"
"I was running a home for unwed mothers, and she came to me pregnant, alone, and terrified."
"So I have an aunt or uncle, then," I cried.
‘The baby died during childbirth." Eva said quietly. "Marie stayed on and helped out for a few months, but the pay was poor, and she was anxious to get away from her own mistake."
"Is that when she started home care?"
"Yes. It paid pretty well and she didn't have to worry about room and board."
"And she met rich people," I intervened.
"Yes," said Eva. "Marie wanted more than she would ever have as a working woman."
"Not so different from the women who turned tricks on the Main."
"You're pretty hard on her."
"I knew her. I remember a woman who abandoned her daughter and who hated the only grand daughter she ever had. It was a pretty strong impression ... it's lasted for 65 years."
"Her life wasn't easy. She may have finagled a way into a rich family but she didn't have a happy life."
"My grandfather was right. She was a bitch."
"And you're pretty hard on him too, aren't you?"
"He treated women like garbage. He took what he wanted then threw them away."
"He was human, my dear. He had his faults but there was more to him than his reputation suggests."
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I did."
"But you didn't sleep with him."
"No. I was already married when I met him. To the man I loved my entire life. I didn't love him the way you mean. I knew Paul slightly in Toronto, but it was when I moved to Montreal and began to work at the soup kitchen that I got to really know him." She began to unfold a tale of a man I would not have recognized as my grandfather. A man who brought clients to her and asked for shelter and food for them, pressing a handful of bills into her hand each time.
"Probably just sin money," I scoffed. "He got them into trouble and then they couldn't work."
"No," she said. "He brought me ancient old hags who desperately needed help, not just women he might have found attractive. And women who were several months pregnant and unable to sustain another life. There was a great generosity in Paul."
"Why did he take such pains to hide it?" I mused.
"I'm not sure," Eva smiled. "But when Al Capone started up a soup kitchen during the depression, he told the whole world about it. Your grandfather didn't seem to need to whitewash himself no matter what you think about his reasons for his actions, good and bad."
"Maybe he should have. He left behind a pretty black reputation."
"Paul was who he was."
"Who killed him?" My question hung unanswered in the dark air of my bedroom. Eva was gone.
I got up for a drink of water and wondered where I needed to go next. I did have to solve the murder, it seems. How he died might lead me to the answers I needed about how he lived.
Total Now ... 11,633November 9, 2009
Day 9 of Nanowrimo
11:06 a.m.
Nothing, it seems, is simple.
I prepared some work for Klaus, my German student, and ran it into the village. CBC Radio was celebrating the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall by pointing out the schisms that exist all over the world, including ones between former East and West Germans in the now re- unified Germany. I thought of the tensions between Germans and Turks that Klaus fears may cause terrible problems in Germany. He sees examples of intolerance daily and wonders where it will all lead.
I thought about all the rifts in my own family, the examples of intolerance, the walls that needed to be torn down. We have a pretty bleak history too.
My Scottish grandmother, the nurse, came back into my mother's life for a brief time to create a hell for my German father. It was war time, 1940, when Imy mother delivered me in a difficult Caesarian section. My father had lost his job because he was a German, and so he stayed home to look after my convalescent mother and me. My grandmother arrived one Sunday morning to find my mother serving him breakfast in bed as a treat. That set my grandmother on a mission of hatred and intolerance. She went all over the neighbourhood screaming imprecations against the dirty lazy German who was forcing a frail wife out of her sick bed to wait on him.
No wonder I find it hard to forgive her for her sour nastiness. My only connections with her were negative and showed her in an ugly light. She was the woman who dressed beautifully, wore veils through which she gave perfunctory kisses, and fox furs with tiny little heads with sharp teeth hanging where a soft bosom might have been expected .
She was the woman who threw Christmas presents in people's faces ... because they were the wrong size or colour ... because her grand daughter was squinting against the sun, not smiling in the photo.
Eva met her when she was vulnerable and needed help. I saw her when she had clawed her way to some kind of stability through deception, when her whole raison d'etre was to cling to it. Still vulnerable, I guess, because life was precarious. But I wonder what might have become of her if she had partnered with Eva, if she had given of herself to those who needed help more than she did.
Some people believe that if you ask you will receive. I believe that if you give, you are more likely to reap benefits you never anticipated. My grandmother seems to have lived her life according to a more Scroogelike philosophy.
On-line, yesterday, I read of a book I want to get hold of, Saved by Karin Winegar. It's about rescued animals and the humans they more subtly rescue. I thought of Remi, the Golden Doodle I have known since he was a six week old puppy, the two and a half year old dog who will join my household this evening. Remi snapped at his baby, likely out of fear and exasperation, perhaps clumsily. Remi loves Lucas and is one of the softest dogs I know so it was not out of viciousness. Lucas is almost ten months old and he pulls hair and ears hard. But Remi has to go because Sarah can't take a chance, not with Lucas nor with the other babies she looks after for a living these days. So I am taking him in for a couple of months until everyone has a chance to make some final decisions. I wonder if Remi will save me ... and from what.
Was Eva saved by the women she rescued? I thought of her when I learned this morning that a 61 year old woman burned to death last night in a fire at a women's centre in Ottawa. It wasn't the Well where my wonky women reside, but another Anglican shelter, the Cornerstone. The Anglicans continue their long history of concern for homeless women, it seems.
And did Grandpa earn a place in heaven with his efforts to help women? Would those acts of kindness have cancelled out all the acts of self indulgence? Is there some kind of cosmic scale?
I wrote the other day about someone I care about, some who inspired me to scrawl on the corner of a page your cowardice makes you cruel. And I elaborated wth a string of adjectives including the one he shares with Grandpa: self absorbed.
One part of me wants to let things slide, to enjoy what we can have, because he's more than a self absorbed coward; he's someone with many qualities I love. The other, more sensible part of me, tells me to build walls, end it before I can be hurt. I wish things were simpler.
Eva would likely tell me to be more accepting of human frailty.
My friend Pat wrote last month: "No advice, I'm afraid. Just hold on to a small corner of your heart that is for you alone. I have everything available crossed for you. XXXX"
Just as I have everything available crossed for her.
One more mystery, and probably more important than discovering how my grandfather died ... and lived.
But who knows? Perhaps if I give him what he is asking for I will learn something I need to know.
You Could Start By Realizing that Everything is 50% Good and 50% Bad ...
My father's ghost! No dream. I'm wide awake and he's been dead for almost fifteen years, but I'd recognize that voice and that line anywhere. And he was the embodiment of his philosophy.
If ever I had a love-hate relationship with anyone, it was with him.
First he orphaned me by taking me away from my mother and putting me in a foster home. Then he went to live 1200 miles away so I had neither parent. After a few years, my mother attempted to see me , and he immediately imprisoned me in a boarding school ... an Anglican boarding school, where the all-female staff showed none of Eva's nurturing love of their gender. When I was released two years later he let me grow up unparented for two more years. One day he actually looked at me and discovered I had become a little ruffian wearing a gash of red lipstick for a mouth out of which issued forth most unladylike language. He sent for my East German grandmother who arrived as a new immigrant with no English and was handed an impossible charge to civilize. Poor woman she couldn't cope herself; however was she to tame me?
And yet, I never doubted that my father loved me. Or perhaps I didn't dare imagine something that unthinkably frightening.
And my grandmother loved her son more than he deserved too.
A few years later, after he had wrung all that was useful to him out of her he sent her back to Germany to die ... not to her home in Saxony where she might have died among friends, but to a rooming house in West Germany where she locked herself into a tiny room for the last four days of her life.
Years later my father redeeemed himself by being a better grandfather than he had been a father and suddenly taking great pride in the adult daughter he had ignored throughout her entire childhood. I really was loved by my father in his last years. But it was too late for him to make it up to my grandmother.
Were those years enough to gain him entrance to heaven? That scale still seems pretty unbalanced to me.
And what about my mother?
Was she blameless in all this? She ran around. She had enough of her father's genes to look for gaiety and fun in life, and she wasn't used to the poverty they lived in as a young couple with a child. That doesn't excuse my father of course. She didn't deserve to lose her only child.
She had other excuses as well. She had grown up in her grandparents' home with neither a mother nor a father ... with money and the love of very old people. They spoiled her ... let her run wild ... didn't attempt to teach her responsibility. These were the people who had raised Grandpa to be a playboy. It must have been easy for her to choose to play instead of being a helpmate. And perhaps it seemed normal to her to give away her five year old daughter; after all, her mother had given her away when she was still a baby.
My half brother told me, when he was in his mid forties and I ten years older, that the affection I so desperately wanted and needed was all lavished on him. I was starved and he was drowned in our mother's love.
One hell of a family tree, eh?
A playboy grandfather, a bitch grandmother ... their child abandoned by both.
A playgirl mother and a possessive father who could be coldly cruel.
And on my father's side, no relatives at all except his mother ... his father killed in WW1 ... he'd left any vestiges of family behind when he left Germany in 1929 ... and after WW2, no way back to the past because the world's heaviest fortified wall had been erected splitting his homeland into East and West.
Maybe Eva is right. Maybe I should start forgiving all these poor lost souls who screwed up so badly ... and maybe by doing so I could learn to forgive myself too.
Maybe we are all just doing the best we can. Maybe that's what everyone does ... the best she can ... at the time.
And yes, my father was right ... nobody ... nothing ... is either perfectly good or perfectly bad.
No matter what choices I have left to make, there will never be any simple answers. All the choices we make in life are Sophie's choices.
November 9, 2009
9:05 p.m.
All's well that is going to end well ...
Remi arrived with a large bag of food, dishes, various collars and leashes ... all the paraphanalia well loved dogs acquire. He and Kenya have been playing pretty well non-stop, but always indoors because I don't want to let them out unleashed tonight.
It is hunting season and one of my neighbours gutted a deer he shot yesterday, and dumped the liver, lights and intestines on his tiny property well within smelling distance of the road. I had one hell of a time getting Kenya away from the bloody mess this afternoon and I don't want either one of them getting into it. I will go out with the car tomorrow morning as soon as it is light and shovel it into a garbage bag and deposit it in a can with a secure locking lid.
I must have looked like a complete idiot as I chased her around, her leash in one hand and a large stick in the other. No, I wasn't about to beat her. I wanted to chase her away from the tantalizing mess and tempt her with a stick she could chase. Eventually I tricked her into playing tug'o'war with the stick and then got her collar on. Later Peter let her out and she headed back toward the smelly treat, but came when I called and was rewarded with her best cookie.
We've been out several times this evening and now both dogs have settled in for the night, Kenya on her pillow on the floor and Remi on my bed. In the morning Kenya will oust him, but politely, and Remi will accede and let her take his place quite happily. Of all the dogs I look after Remi is one of the easiest to have around. He is part of the family and has been all his life.
And he is a well loved dog so I am sure that his family will figure out some way to keep him with them and ensure that the baby is safe. They are responsible people who have learned some lessons from this scare, not people who abdicate their responsibilities on a whim.
Sometimes a dog's life looks pretty good in contrast to the fortunes of some people. It all depends on the luck of the parental draw, it seems.
another 368 words before bed 9:26
November 10, 2009
Day 10 By the end of today I should have produced over 17000 words ... that means that to get on track I need to write over 5000 today ... hmmn!
Not likely, not with this to-do list looming:
Get rid of the deer's offal
Take the dogs for a long walk
Leave for sketcbooking class at 9:30
Return around 2:30
Call Magma to get my email running again
And eric to find out where the hell my lamp base is
And Bill re money and Montreal trip
And Jean-Marc about a language exchange idea of his
I have a sketch I want to do for Le Hibou
And I have to write 3-4000 words ...
as well as eat and dress and dry clothes and feed and walk dogs a couple more times ...
I need more strength, not longer days.
What do I want to include today? I want to get Grandpa's plot moving forward ... and perhaps incourporate today's events into the narrator's plot ... Mark and Jean-Marc? ...
And I have to call Nolan to find out how Pat is doing.
*****************************************************************************
Have you any idea how heavy the guts of a deer are??? I had to really wrestle them around to get them into a pail in a garbage bag and then double wrap and get the whole mess into a real garbage pail. And that is when I remembered that a deer's guts contain excrement ... green excrement. I held my breath all the way home. The shovel and bin were in the trunk but my hands were in the car with me. Yecch!
I ripped off the clothing the dogs found so fascinating and scrubbed every inch of me under a blasting shower until I could no longer remember the stench.
I still have to walk the dogs and pour javex on the offending shovel and grassy spot ... I hope that will be enough to deter the dogs. I don't want to have to keep them leashed or in the house for the next week. I really wish David and Leonard had left their mess a long way away.
After my class, I poured vinegar all over the area where the offending offal had been lying, and walked the dogs over to the mailboxes. They were still very interested, and it will likely take a good rainstorm to wash away the memory for good, but at least now they have nothing but vinegar to roll in or eat.
The class was a bit of a disappointment but not a total waste of time, and Liz and I had lunch together at the Green Door. She's being tested for a small stroke or seizure ... a TIA.
Goddamn ... we are all getting old suddenly.
On my drive home I composed an email I will likely not send. It was far too honest to actually write, and besides, email is a terrible medium for telling people what you think of them ... good or bad.
Dear Mark, it began ... I don't know quite how to say this, but I could have loved you ... indeed I was beginning to ... but now all your fine qualities that I love are being subsumed by your cowardice ... and when I think of you these days ... it is not love I feel but contempt.
When you told me about staying in a terrible job for twelve years because you were too afraid to quit I knew I could never have done that and couldn't understand how or why you would have thrown away twelve years of your life. But now you are about to do the same thing again. Different situation. But still you are willing to settle for a half life because you haven't the courage or strength to take a chance on happiness.
I hadn't realized how important courage was to me till now.
Danny's face floated before me ... a reminder of how I had loved his courage. He hadn't just saved me from rollerblading accidents; he'd stood up for me when a principle was at stake. Like my lovely Norwegian, principles mattered to Danny.
One night in a Norwegian cafe we drank beer and listened to a live band. At the next table a young women celebrated her last night of unmarried freedom by dancing on the table at her stag. A drunk at the next table began to harass them, and his hand snaked up the length of her leg to her panty line. Kjell stood up and very quietly put an end to it. Danny would have created a scene. Kjell was quietly courageous and bound by his principles.
Andrew wouldn't have made a fuss either. He'd have left the scene, left the girl dancing on the table to fend for herself. And I knew that when push came to shove, Andrew would leave me to fend for myself too. Andrew is a coward ... unwilling to stand up for himself let alone someone he loves.
725 words ... 1/7 of what I needed to write today ...
The dogs are squabbling all over my den... good ... I hope they wear themselves out so I don't need to walk them again. I think Kenya returned to the scene of the murder but Remi hung out with me so he hasn't had enough exercise today.
I gave Peter a recipe for Greeek pasta sauce and all the missing ingredients he needed ... and then settled in to watch a movie he'd recommended ... about Yugoslavia ... and the civil war ... so sad he had to take breaks.
Jean-Marc wants to talk to me about a language exchange idea of his ... Peter and I discuss movies, travel, food and dogs .... there are few things we disagree about ... so why do I continue to hope that Mark will smarten up?
Surely to god I am smart enough to realize that stripes don't change after 60. A coward will always run scared.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 9 Sophie's Choices
November 9, 2009
Day 9 of Nanowrimo
11:06 a.m.
Nothing, it seems, is simple.
I prepared some work for Klaus, my German student, and ran it into the village. CBC Radio was celebrating the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall by pointing out the schisms that exist all over the world, including ones between former East and West Germans in the now re- unified Germany. I thought of the tensions between Germans and Turks that Klaus fears may cause terrible problems in Germany. He sees examples of intolerance daily and wonders where it will all lead.
I thought about all the rifts in my own family, the examples of intolerance, the walls that needed to be torn down. We have a pretty bleak history too.
My Scottish grandmother, the nurse, came back into my mother's life for a brief time to create a hell for my German father. It was war time, 1940, when my mother delivered me in a difficult Caesarian section. My father had lost his job because he was a German, and so he stayed home to look after my convalescent mother and me. My grandmother arrived one Sunday morning to find my mother serving him breakfast in bed as a treat. That set my grandmother on a mission of hatred and intolerance. She went all over the neighbourhood screaming imprecations against the dirty lazy German who was forcing a frail wife out of her sick bed to wait on him.
No wonder I find it hard to forgive her for her sour nastiness. My only connections with her were negative and showed her in an ugly light. She was the woman who dressed beautifully, wore veils through which she gave perfunctory kisses, and fox furs with tiny little heads with sharp teeth hanging where a soft bosom might have been expected .
She was the woman who threw Christmas presents in people's faces ... because they were the wrong size or colour ... because her grand daughter was squinting against the sun, not smiling in the photo.
Eva met her when she was vulnerable and needed help. I saw her when she had clawed her way to some kind of stability through deception, when her whole raison d'etre was to cling to it. Still vulnerable, I guess, because life was precarious. But I wonder what might have become of her if she had partnered with Eva, if she had given of herself to those who needed help more than she did.
Some people believe that if you ask you will receive. I believe that if you give, you are more likely to reap benefits you never anticipated. My grandmother seems to have lived her life according to a more Scroogelike philosophy.
On-line, yesterday, I read of a book I want to get hold of, Saved by Karin Winegar. It's about rescued animals and the humans they more subtly rescue. I thought of Remi, the Golden Doodle I have known since he was a six week old puppy, the two and a half year old dog who will join my household this evening. Remi snapped at his baby, likely out of fear and exasperation, perhaps clumsily. Remi loves Lucas and is one of the softest dogs I know so it was not out of viciousness. Lucas is almost ten months old and he pulls hair and ears hard. But Remi has to go because Sarah can't take a chance, not with Lucas nor with the other babies she looks after for a living these days. So I am taking him in for a couple of months until everyone has a chance to make some final decisions. I wonder if Remi will save me ... and from what.
Was Eva saved by the women she rescued? I thought of her when I learned this morning that a 61 year old woman burned to death last night in a fire at a women's centre in Ottawa. It wasn't the Well where my wonky women reside, but another Anglican shelter, the Cornerstone. The Anglicans continue their long history of concern for homeless women, it seems.
And did Grandpa earn a place in heaven with his efforts to help women? Would those acts of kindness have cancelled out all the acts of self indulgence? Is there some kind of cosmic scale?
I wrote the other day about someone I care about, some who inspired me to scrawl on the corner of a page your cowardice makes you cruel. And I elaborated with a string of adjectives including the one he shares with Grandpa: self absorbed.
One part of me wants to let things slide, to enjoy what we can have, because he's more than a self absorbed coward; he's someone with many qualities I love. The other, more sensible part of me, tells me to build walls, end it before I can be hurt. I wish things were simpler.
Eva would likely tell me to be more accepting of human frailty.
My friend Pat wrote last month: "No advice, I'm afraid. Just hold on to a small corner of your heart that is for you alone. I have everything available crossed for you. XXXX"
Just as I have everything available crossed for her.
One more mystery, and probably more important than discovering how my grandfather died ... and lived.
But who knows? Perhaps if I give him what he is asking for I will learn something I need to know.
You Could Start By Realizing that Everything is 50% Good and 50% Bad ...
My father's ghost! No dream. I'm wide awake and he's been dead for almost fifteen years, but I'd recognize that voice and that line anywhere. And he was the embodiment of his philosophy.
If ever I had a love-hate relationship with anyone, it was with him.
First he orphaned me by taking me away from my mother and putting me in a foster home. Then he went to live 1200 miles away so I had neither parent. After a few years, my mother attempted to see me , and he immediately imprisoned me in a boarding school ... an Anglican boarding school, where the all-female staff showed none of Eva's nurturing love of their gender. When I was released two years later he let me grow up unparented for two more years. One day he actually looked at me and discovered I had become a little ruffian wearing a gash of red lipstick for a mouth out of which issued forth most unladylike language. He sent for my East German grandmother who arrived as a new immigrant with no English and was handed an impossible charge to civilize. Poor woman she couldn't cope herself; however was she to tame me?
And yet, I never doubted that my father loved me. Or perhaps I didn't dare imagine something that unthinkably frightening.
And my grandmother loved her son more than he deserved too.
A few years later, after he had wrung all that was useful to him out of her he sent her back to Germany to die ... not to her home in Saxony where she might have died among friends, but to a rooming house in West Germany where she locked herself into a tiny room for the last four days of her life.
Years later my father redeemed himself by being a better grandfather than he had been a father and suddenly taking great pride in the adult daughter he had ignored throughout her entire childhood. I really was loved by my father in his last years. But it was too late for him to make it up to my grandmother.
Were those years enough to gain him entrance to heaven? That scale still seems pretty unbalanced to me.
And what about my mother?
Was she blameless in all this? She ran around. She had enough of her father's genes to look for gaiety and fun in life, and she wasn't used to the poverty they lived in as a young couple with a child. That doesn't excuse my father of course. She didn't deserve to lose her only child.
She had other excuses as well. She had grown up in her grandparents' home with neither a mother nor a father ... with money and the love of very old people. They spoiled her ... let her run wild ... didn't attempt to teach her responsibility. These were the people who had raised Grandpa to be a playboy. It must have been easy for her to choose to play instead of being a helpmate. And perhaps it seemed normal to her to give away her five year old daughter; after all, her mother had given her away when she was still a baby.
My half brother told me, when he was in his mid forties and I ten years older, that the affection I so desperately wanted and needed was all lavished on him. I was starved and he was drowned in our mother's love.
One hell of a family tree, eh?
A playboy grandfather, a bitch grandmother ... their child abandoned by both.
A playgirl mother and a possessive father who could be coldly cruel.
And on my father's side, no relatives at all except his mother ... his father killed in WW1 ... he'd left any vestiges of family behind when he left Germany in 1929 ... and after WW2, no way back to the past because the world's heaviest fortified wall had been erected splitting his homeland into East and West, socialist and capitalist, social safety nets on one side and proud individualism on the other. No wonder re-unification hasn;t been a resounding success.
Maybe Eva is right. Maybe I should start forgiving all these poor lost souls who screwed up so badly ... and maybe by doing so I could learn to forgive myself too.
Maybe we are all just doing the best we can. Maybe that's what everyone does ... the best she can ... at the time.
And yes, my father was right ... nobody ... nothing ... is either perfectly good or perfectly bad.
No matter what choices I have left to make, there will never be any simple answers. All the choices we make in life are impossible choices -- Sophie's choices.
13323 words
Day 9 of Nanowrimo
11:06 a.m.
Nothing, it seems, is simple.
I prepared some work for Klaus, my German student, and ran it into the village. CBC Radio was celebrating the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall by pointing out the schisms that exist all over the world, including ones between former East and West Germans in the now re- unified Germany. I thought of the tensions between Germans and Turks that Klaus fears may cause terrible problems in Germany. He sees examples of intolerance daily and wonders where it will all lead.
I thought about all the rifts in my own family, the examples of intolerance, the walls that needed to be torn down. We have a pretty bleak history too.
My Scottish grandmother, the nurse, came back into my mother's life for a brief time to create a hell for my German father. It was war time, 1940, when my mother delivered me in a difficult Caesarian section. My father had lost his job because he was a German, and so he stayed home to look after my convalescent mother and me. My grandmother arrived one Sunday morning to find my mother serving him breakfast in bed as a treat. That set my grandmother on a mission of hatred and intolerance. She went all over the neighbourhood screaming imprecations against the dirty lazy German who was forcing a frail wife out of her sick bed to wait on him.
No wonder I find it hard to forgive her for her sour nastiness. My only connections with her were negative and showed her in an ugly light. She was the woman who dressed beautifully, wore veils through which she gave perfunctory kisses, and fox furs with tiny little heads with sharp teeth hanging where a soft bosom might have been expected .
She was the woman who threw Christmas presents in people's faces ... because they were the wrong size or colour ... because her grand daughter was squinting against the sun, not smiling in the photo.
Eva met her when she was vulnerable and needed help. I saw her when she had clawed her way to some kind of stability through deception, when her whole raison d'etre was to cling to it. Still vulnerable, I guess, because life was precarious. But I wonder what might have become of her if she had partnered with Eva, if she had given of herself to those who needed help more than she did.
Some people believe that if you ask you will receive. I believe that if you give, you are more likely to reap benefits you never anticipated. My grandmother seems to have lived her life according to a more Scroogelike philosophy.
On-line, yesterday, I read of a book I want to get hold of, Saved by Karin Winegar. It's about rescued animals and the humans they more subtly rescue. I thought of Remi, the Golden Doodle I have known since he was a six week old puppy, the two and a half year old dog who will join my household this evening. Remi snapped at his baby, likely out of fear and exasperation, perhaps clumsily. Remi loves Lucas and is one of the softest dogs I know so it was not out of viciousness. Lucas is almost ten months old and he pulls hair and ears hard. But Remi has to go because Sarah can't take a chance, not with Lucas nor with the other babies she looks after for a living these days. So I am taking him in for a couple of months until everyone has a chance to make some final decisions. I wonder if Remi will save me ... and from what.
Was Eva saved by the women she rescued? I thought of her when I learned this morning that a 61 year old woman burned to death last night in a fire at a women's centre in Ottawa. It wasn't the Well where my wonky women reside, but another Anglican shelter, the Cornerstone. The Anglicans continue their long history of concern for homeless women, it seems.
And did Grandpa earn a place in heaven with his efforts to help women? Would those acts of kindness have cancelled out all the acts of self indulgence? Is there some kind of cosmic scale?
I wrote the other day about someone I care about, some who inspired me to scrawl on the corner of a page your cowardice makes you cruel. And I elaborated with a string of adjectives including the one he shares with Grandpa: self absorbed.
One part of me wants to let things slide, to enjoy what we can have, because he's more than a self absorbed coward; he's someone with many qualities I love. The other, more sensible part of me, tells me to build walls, end it before I can be hurt. I wish things were simpler.
Eva would likely tell me to be more accepting of human frailty.
My friend Pat wrote last month: "No advice, I'm afraid. Just hold on to a small corner of your heart that is for you alone. I have everything available crossed for you. XXXX"
Just as I have everything available crossed for her.
One more mystery, and probably more important than discovering how my grandfather died ... and lived.
But who knows? Perhaps if I give him what he is asking for I will learn something I need to know.
You Could Start By Realizing that Everything is 50% Good and 50% Bad ...
My father's ghost! No dream. I'm wide awake and he's been dead for almost fifteen years, but I'd recognize that voice and that line anywhere. And he was the embodiment of his philosophy.
If ever I had a love-hate relationship with anyone, it was with him.
First he orphaned me by taking me away from my mother and putting me in a foster home. Then he went to live 1200 miles away so I had neither parent. After a few years, my mother attempted to see me , and he immediately imprisoned me in a boarding school ... an Anglican boarding school, where the all-female staff showed none of Eva's nurturing love of their gender. When I was released two years later he let me grow up unparented for two more years. One day he actually looked at me and discovered I had become a little ruffian wearing a gash of red lipstick for a mouth out of which issued forth most unladylike language. He sent for my East German grandmother who arrived as a new immigrant with no English and was handed an impossible charge to civilize. Poor woman she couldn't cope herself; however was she to tame me?
And yet, I never doubted that my father loved me. Or perhaps I didn't dare imagine something that unthinkably frightening.
And my grandmother loved her son more than he deserved too.
A few years later, after he had wrung all that was useful to him out of her he sent her back to Germany to die ... not to her home in Saxony where she might have died among friends, but to a rooming house in West Germany where she locked herself into a tiny room for the last four days of her life.
Years later my father redeemed himself by being a better grandfather than he had been a father and suddenly taking great pride in the adult daughter he had ignored throughout her entire childhood. I really was loved by my father in his last years. But it was too late for him to make it up to my grandmother.
Were those years enough to gain him entrance to heaven? That scale still seems pretty unbalanced to me.
And what about my mother?
Was she blameless in all this? She ran around. She had enough of her father's genes to look for gaiety and fun in life, and she wasn't used to the poverty they lived in as a young couple with a child. That doesn't excuse my father of course. She didn't deserve to lose her only child.
She had other excuses as well. She had grown up in her grandparents' home with neither a mother nor a father ... with money and the love of very old people. They spoiled her ... let her run wild ... didn't attempt to teach her responsibility. These were the people who had raised Grandpa to be a playboy. It must have been easy for her to choose to play instead of being a helpmate. And perhaps it seemed normal to her to give away her five year old daughter; after all, her mother had given her away when she was still a baby.
My half brother told me, when he was in his mid forties and I ten years older, that the affection I so desperately wanted and needed was all lavished on him. I was starved and he was drowned in our mother's love.
One hell of a family tree, eh?
A playboy grandfather, a bitch grandmother ... their child abandoned by both.
A playgirl mother and a possessive father who could be coldly cruel.
And on my father's side, no relatives at all except his mother ... his father killed in WW1 ... he'd left any vestiges of family behind when he left Germany in 1929 ... and after WW2, no way back to the past because the world's heaviest fortified wall had been erected splitting his homeland into East and West, socialist and capitalist, social safety nets on one side and proud individualism on the other. No wonder re-unification hasn;t been a resounding success.
Maybe Eva is right. Maybe I should start forgiving all these poor lost souls who screwed up so badly ... and maybe by doing so I could learn to forgive myself too.
Maybe we are all just doing the best we can. Maybe that's what everyone does ... the best she can ... at the time.
And yes, my father was right ... nobody ... nothing ... is either perfectly good or perfectly bad.
No matter what choices I have left to make, there will never be any simple answers. All the choices we make in life are impossible choices -- Sophie's choices.
13323 words
Sunday, 8 November 2009
I have a new puppy ...
I am sure this will become part of the nanowrimo "novel" experience ... but until it does ... we are fostering our very favourite dog ... Remi ... until after Christmas when we will all take a second look at the situation. Remi reacted to Lucas's tugging and pullling by biting him on the forehead. Remi has always loved his baby. Today he got fed up with the roughness. I said we would keep him till after Christmas when we would all take a second look at the situation.
I really don't want a second dog.
But Kenya loves Remi ... and so do I.
I don't think he is vicious ... in fact I know he isn't .... but I can't afford the grooming and vet care for a second dog. However ... they need a break from the situation ... and I may be able to find someone who will take him as his forever dog ... and even if he can't .. Kenya and I will figure something out.
And i know you will all help us do so.
I really don't want a second dog.
But Kenya loves Remi ... and so do I.
I don't think he is vicious ... in fact I know he isn't .... but I can't afford the grooming and vet care for a second dog. However ... they need a break from the situation ... and I may be able to find someone who will take him as his forever dog ... and even if he can't .. Kenya and I will figure something out.
And i know you will all help us do so.
Nanowrimo Day 7 Post 2 Eva Arrives
And then, Eva arrived ...
9:39
I'd been dreaming already when she arrived so silently I wasn't aware that she was there for some time. It had started with another "get back to work on your funky furniture" nagging dream. Then I found myself at The Well, an Anglican women's day centre, which had commissioned one of the chairs. That dream setting morphed into another women's centre, this one in Mongolia where Didi Kalika, an Australian woman, has set up orphanages, homes and work centres for orphaned teeenaged girls who had been forced onto the street, and a kindergarten for her orphans and the children in the slum neighbourhood where her own centres were located. The last I had heard, she had just opened a soup kitchen for destitute women and their children. It was hard to keep up with Didi's lifework. I am not sure which of her projects I was in when I saw the woman. I held a baby in my arms and was talking one of the girls when I noticed the quiet grey clad figure standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a dove grey suit and wore sensible shoes. She was not Mongolian. Still carrying the baby, I walked over to her.
"Hi," I said. "Are you a volunteer from one of the western countries?"
She smiled. "I guess you could call me that."
"What do you do here?"
"I came to see you," she replied. "I heard you were looking for me."
I must have looked confused because she went on in her soothing voice. "I followed you to The Well when I heard you wanted to see me, but you didn't notice me there."
A wet nurse relieved me of the infant and we sat down on the tiny orange and blue chairs intended for the toddlers' tea time. My sore knees groaned, but she seemed perfectly comfortable.
"So you're a Canadian volunteer," I said.
She nodded.
"With VSO?" I asked.
"The Anglican Church," she murmured.
I don't handle the mix of religiosity and volunteer work overseas too well but I decided to be polite. After all Didi was a Buddhist nun and look at all the good she does.
"I didn't know the Anglicans had a mission in Ulaan Baatar."
"We don't," she said. "I'm only here because you are."
"Me?" My face must have been dialed to zero, like my brain.
"I'm Eva," she said. A few old friends have been telling me you need to talk to me."
"My grandfather?" I asked.
‘Him too ... and Mitzi ... and Marie as well."
"How did you know Marie? I can't imagine she'd have been your type."
Now it was Eva's turn to look confused. "My type?"
"I just meant that you likely knew the women who came to your soup kitchen, and all your church friends, and maybe some of the people who hung around the Main, but my grandmother wouldn't have been in any bread line, and she sure as hell, oops, sorry, wasn't religious."
"I met your grandmother when she first came to Canada from Aberdeen," Eva said. "She was very young, still in her teens, and starting a new life in Toronto. She'd gone straight from school to a nursing programme at fourteen and after a few years, realized that she could have a better life if she emigrated."
"So how did you meet her?"
"I was running a home for unwed mothers, and she came to me pregnant, alone, and terrified."
"So I have an aunt or uncle, then," I cried.
‘The baby died during childbirth." Eva said quietly. "Marie stayed on and helped out for a few months, but the pay was poor, and she was anxious to get away from her own mistake."
"Is that when she started home care?"
"Yes. It paid pretty well and she didn't have to worry about room and board."
"And she met rich people," I intervened.
"Yes," said Eva. "Marie wanted more than she would ever have as a working woman."
"Not so different from the women who turned tricks on the Main."
"You're pretty hard on her."
"I knew her. I remember a woman who abandoned her daughter and who hated the only grand daughter she ever had. It was a pretty strong impression ... it's lasted for 65 years."
"Her life wasn't easy. She may have finagled a way into a rich family but she didn't have a happy life."
"My grandfather was right. She was a bitch."
"And you're pretty hard on him too, aren't you?"
"He treated women like garbage. He took what he wanted then threw them away."
"He was human, my dear. He had his faults but there was more to him than his reputation suggests."
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I did."
"But you didn't sleep with him."
"No. I was already married when I met him. To the man I loved my entire life. I didn't love him the way you mean. I knew Paul slightly in Toronto, but it was when I moved to Montreal and began to work at the soup kitchen that I got to really know him." She began to unfold a tale of a man I would not have recognized as my grandfather. A man who brought clients to her and asked for shelter and food for them, pressing a handful of bills into her hand each time.
"Probably just sin money," I scoffed. "He got them into trouble and then they couldn't work."
"No," she said. "He brought me ancient old hags who desperately needed help, not just women he might have found attractive. And women who were several months pregnant and unable to sustain another life. There was a great generosity in Paul."
"Why did he take such pains to hide it?" I mused.
"I'm not sure," Eva smiled. "But when Al Capone started up a soup kitchen during the depression, he told the whole world about it. Your grandfather didn't seem to need to whitewash himself no matter what you think about his reasons for his actions, good and bad."
"Maybe he should have. He left behind a pretty black reputation."
"Paul was who he was."
"Who killed him?" My question hung unanswered in the dark air of my bedroom. Eva was gone.
I got up for a drink of water and wondered where I needed to go next. I did have to solve the murder, it seems. How he died might lead me to the answers I needed about how he lived.
Total Now ... 11,633/50,000 and 22 1/2 days left to write.
9:39
I'd been dreaming already when she arrived so silently I wasn't aware that she was there for some time. It had started with another "get back to work on your funky furniture" nagging dream. Then I found myself at The Well, an Anglican women's day centre, which had commissioned one of the chairs. That dream setting morphed into another women's centre, this one in Mongolia where Didi Kalika, an Australian woman, has set up orphanages, homes and work centres for orphaned teeenaged girls who had been forced onto the street, and a kindergarten for her orphans and the children in the slum neighbourhood where her own centres were located. The last I had heard, she had just opened a soup kitchen for destitute women and their children. It was hard to keep up with Didi's lifework. I am not sure which of her projects I was in when I saw the woman. I held a baby in my arms and was talking one of the girls when I noticed the quiet grey clad figure standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a dove grey suit and wore sensible shoes. She was not Mongolian. Still carrying the baby, I walked over to her.
"Hi," I said. "Are you a volunteer from one of the western countries?"
She smiled. "I guess you could call me that."
"What do you do here?"
"I came to see you," she replied. "I heard you were looking for me."
I must have looked confused because she went on in her soothing voice. "I followed you to The Well when I heard you wanted to see me, but you didn't notice me there."
A wet nurse relieved me of the infant and we sat down on the tiny orange and blue chairs intended for the toddlers' tea time. My sore knees groaned, but she seemed perfectly comfortable.
"So you're a Canadian volunteer," I said.
She nodded.
"With VSO?" I asked.
"The Anglican Church," she murmured.
I don't handle the mix of religiosity and volunteer work overseas too well but I decided to be polite. After all Didi was a Buddhist nun and look at all the good she does.
"I didn't know the Anglicans had a mission in Ulaan Baatar."
"We don't," she said. "I'm only here because you are."
"Me?" My face must have been dialed to zero, like my brain.
"I'm Eva," she said. A few old friends have been telling me you need to talk to me."
"My grandfather?" I asked.
‘Him too ... and Mitzi ... and Marie as well."
"How did you know Marie? I can't imagine she'd have been your type."
Now it was Eva's turn to look confused. "My type?"
"I just meant that you likely knew the women who came to your soup kitchen, and all your church friends, and maybe some of the people who hung around the Main, but my grandmother wouldn't have been in any bread line, and she sure as hell, oops, sorry, wasn't religious."
"I met your grandmother when she first came to Canada from Aberdeen," Eva said. "She was very young, still in her teens, and starting a new life in Toronto. She'd gone straight from school to a nursing programme at fourteen and after a few years, realized that she could have a better life if she emigrated."
"So how did you meet her?"
"I was running a home for unwed mothers, and she came to me pregnant, alone, and terrified."
"So I have an aunt or uncle, then," I cried.
‘The baby died during childbirth." Eva said quietly. "Marie stayed on and helped out for a few months, but the pay was poor, and she was anxious to get away from her own mistake."
"Is that when she started home care?"
"Yes. It paid pretty well and she didn't have to worry about room and board."
"And she met rich people," I intervened.
"Yes," said Eva. "Marie wanted more than she would ever have as a working woman."
"Not so different from the women who turned tricks on the Main."
"You're pretty hard on her."
"I knew her. I remember a woman who abandoned her daughter and who hated the only grand daughter she ever had. It was a pretty strong impression ... it's lasted for 65 years."
"Her life wasn't easy. She may have finagled a way into a rich family but she didn't have a happy life."
"My grandfather was right. She was a bitch."
"And you're pretty hard on him too, aren't you?"
"He treated women like garbage. He took what he wanted then threw them away."
"He was human, my dear. He had his faults but there was more to him than his reputation suggests."
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I did."
"But you didn't sleep with him."
"No. I was already married when I met him. To the man I loved my entire life. I didn't love him the way you mean. I knew Paul slightly in Toronto, but it was when I moved to Montreal and began to work at the soup kitchen that I got to really know him." She began to unfold a tale of a man I would not have recognized as my grandfather. A man who brought clients to her and asked for shelter and food for them, pressing a handful of bills into her hand each time.
"Probably just sin money," I scoffed. "He got them into trouble and then they couldn't work."
"No," she said. "He brought me ancient old hags who desperately needed help, not just women he might have found attractive. And women who were several months pregnant and unable to sustain another life. There was a great generosity in Paul."
"Why did he take such pains to hide it?" I mused.
"I'm not sure," Eva smiled. "But when Al Capone started up a soup kitchen during the depression, he told the whole world about it. Your grandfather didn't seem to need to whitewash himself no matter what you think about his reasons for his actions, good and bad."
"Maybe he should have. He left behind a pretty black reputation."
"Paul was who he was."
"Who killed him?" My question hung unanswered in the dark air of my bedroom. Eva was gone.
I got up for a drink of water and wondered where I needed to go next. I did have to solve the murder, it seems. How he died might lead me to the answers I needed about how he lived.
Total Now ... 11,633/50,000 and 22 1/2 days left to write.
Day 8 Post 1 Nanowrimo ... and Happy Birthday, Deb
November 8, 2009
Day 8 Nanowrimo
5:45 a.m
Well, I wasted a whole day yesterday ... wandered around feeling weepy about the news from Pat, wishing my legs were not aching, and worrying about going to the wedding feeling sick and down. I walked Kenya around the lake and felt even worse. And then I did the only sensible thing I'd done all day. I phoned the groom and said I didn't think I would make it to the wedding; that I was going to take a hot bath and have a sleep and then decide. As soon as I made the call, I felt as if a weight had been lifted. The bath was pleasant but neither sleep inducing nor reviving, so I curled up with a movie and a bowl of nuts.
The first movie was The Soloist. I didn't realize it was going to be about living on the street with mental health issues, and I found myself thinking about the old man and his dogs, and then about my friend who collects photos for story ideas. We call his collection his "Old Men and Dog Pictures". He's the friend I will likely ask to help me find out more about the history of the red light district.
Just as the nuts turned into a supper of junk food, and the first glass of wine into more, one movie led to another. The second, Silent Night, was about a hiatus at Christmas during World War Two ... not the one I expected, when the troops on both sides decided on a temporary truce ... but one in which a German woman imposes a truce as a condition to allowing soldiers to share her accommodation on Christmas Eve. There were the stereotypes of course ... and both German and American soldiers changed in predictable ways as they recognized the humanity of their enemies, but it was more than simply a sentimental movie. The woman made her stand because she recognized that her son was being swayed to the prevailing view of the enemy as a cardboard villain figure, and she wanted him to think for himself ... and stay alive rather than becoming fodder for this ugly war machine that was now swallowing its children.
I thought about my own German roots, and about my grandfather with the aristocratic Aryan blood flowing through his veins but very little evidence that he was anything but a rich spoiled American playboy. I knew there had to be more than this stereotype, that he had to be feeling something when he acted thoughtlessly ... but I had no idea how to find the key to the real and complex human being that Paul Donat must have been.
I turned off everything downstairs and went to bed at 8:30. Some time between then and 4:45 when I awakened in the morning, I had visitors.
Grandpa was in his usual snarly critical mood. "You drink too much to get anything accomplshed," he accused me.
"I know," I said, "But I do get things done. Just not what you seem to expect me to do."
"You didn't even go to your friends' wedding, for god's sake. Stayed home and guzzled wine and ate beans and toast. Were you trying to pretend you were being forced to eat the American k-rations in the film?"
I laughed. "It was the only tinned food I had that could be heated quickly."
"Not a good habit to get into," he retorted. And then he got down to the real reason for his visit. If I could find one of Eva's daughters or grandchildren, I might learn more about what happened to him.
"Did Eva shoot you?" I asked.
"Of course not," he snorted. "Eva loved me."
"They all loved you," I said, "but one of them killed you."
He looked startled. "What makes you say that?"
"It makes sense. You treated all of them as if they were disposable. As soon as the newness wore off you threw them away." I paused and then continued, "And you had a very short attention span. It took almost no time for the sheen to wear off."
"That's not entirely true," he said. "Talk to Eva."
"Eva will have to decide to come to me, Grandpa. I can't conjure up ghosts."
"Don't be too sure of that," he said as he left, and then added, "And don't call me Grandpa. I hate it."
Eva didn't come, but Mitzi dropped in. This time she was wearing a leopard skin coat over a revealing low cut black sheath. Her shoes were black patent with leopard skin heels. How did other women do it?
My spare bed was covered in clothing and shoes, and I would not have been able to put together a single outfit suitable for a wedding. The only black shoes I owned were laced up suede oxfords and the only outfit that matched my somewhat suitable brown shoes was an old pair of brown slacks and a patterned silk jacket I'd bought in Beijing about five years ago.. Several silk camisoles were splayed across them. Before I elected to stay home, I had finally decided to wear one of the black outfits with the sporty black oxfords I'd brushed in an attempt to hide their age, and hope that no one noticed.
"Your hair looks nice," she said. "Too bad you had to waste a good haircut in front of a small screen though.".
"I was beat," I said. "Did you know Eva?"
"Everyone knew Eva; she didn't work in the clubs, but she knew all the girls."
"What did she do for a living?" I asked.
"She was some kind of community worker. Ran a soup kitchen kind of place just for women and kids. When the girls were down on their luck they ate there. Sometimes she put them up for a few days. Not sure where she got her money from. I don't think it came from the city. Maybe she had a rich daddy."
"Did she know my grandfather well?"
"As well as anyone, I guess. But she wasn't one of his girls, if that's what you mean."
"He said she had kids; that they might know something."
"Yeah, maybe. I never met her kids. Not likely she'd have brought them down to the Main."
"I wonder if my grandfather did anything besides gamble and date pretty girls."
"He had a wife."
"I know, but he didn't live with her."
"She was a real humdinger, from everything I've heard."
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't disappoint me.
"She was very beautiful ... classy looking ... even though she didn't have lots of dough. She was a nurse, you know, but not one that worked in a hospital wearing a uniform and clunky shoes. She went to people's homes and looked after them there. And she stayed there. Boarded like. Got to meet lots of rich people and their families that way.. That's how she met Paul. She looked after his mother."
"I remember someone telling me that now."
"She was smart, smarter than Paul. And she was different from the girls he was used to."
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
"The girls in the clubs took it all off right away. She held back like a good stripper. And I hear she teased him with tiny little peeks, just accidental, you know, for months before she started to date him. And even then it took him a long time to get into her panties."
"I'm surprised he didn't just say the hell with it." I said. "He sure didn't need to wait around for a cocktease. He had plenty of women willing to give him what he wanted."
Mitzi raised her own eyebrow, and whistled. "Boy you sure don't know much about men, do you? She was very good at holding back and just giving him enough to want more ... and then pulling back again. By the time he finally got her into bed, he was completely infatuated. And more important, so was his mother. She was like a member of the family."
"Why did he marry her if he could have had the sex without it, I wonder."
"She was a nurse, honey. She made sure she got pregnant right away. From what I heard, it took her only a month to get in a family way."
"Good thing," I mused. "His relationships lasted an average of two months. But he'd got women pregnant before. Why did he marry her?"
"His parents insisted. Told him he had a responsibility. And from what I heard his mother really wanted a grandchild."
"She could have had lots of them if she hadn't financed the abortions."
"This one was different. This baby would have a nurse for a mother."
"And maybe she thought Paul would settle down if he got married," I said.
"Yeah, but she hadn't really known the real Marie either," said Mitzi. "As soon as that baby was born Marie was back out working and the baby girl lived with her grandparents."
"How did Paul like that?"
"I think he was relieved. He was back in the clubs within two months of the marriage, and he didn't have anything good to say about Marie. My guess is she began to show her true colours as soon as she had the wedding ring on her finger."
"He said she was a bitch."
"Yeah."
"Was she?"
"The only person who really knew her was Eva. I saw photos and I heard she wasn't nearly as maternal as she pretended to be, but I didn't know her personally."
I wondered how I might conjure up Eva. I decided to do some research on soup kitchens in that area.
7:38 and another 1631 words
Day 8 Nanowrimo
5:45 a.m
Well, I wasted a whole day yesterday ... wandered around feeling weepy about the news from Pat, wishing my legs were not aching, and worrying about going to the wedding feeling sick and down. I walked Kenya around the lake and felt even worse. And then I did the only sensible thing I'd done all day. I phoned the groom and said I didn't think I would make it to the wedding; that I was going to take a hot bath and have a sleep and then decide. As soon as I made the call, I felt as if a weight had been lifted. The bath was pleasant but neither sleep inducing nor reviving, so I curled up with a movie and a bowl of nuts.
The first movie was The Soloist. I didn't realize it was going to be about living on the street with mental health issues, and I found myself thinking about the old man and his dogs, and then about my friend who collects photos for story ideas. We call his collection his "Old Men and Dog Pictures". He's the friend I will likely ask to help me find out more about the history of the red light district.
Just as the nuts turned into a supper of junk food, and the first glass of wine into more, one movie led to another. The second, Silent Night, was about a hiatus at Christmas during World War Two ... not the one I expected, when the troops on both sides decided on a temporary truce ... but one in which a German woman imposes a truce as a condition to allowing soldiers to share her accommodation on Christmas Eve. There were the stereotypes of course ... and both German and American soldiers changed in predictable ways as they recognized the humanity of their enemies, but it was more than simply a sentimental movie. The woman made her stand because she recognized that her son was being swayed to the prevailing view of the enemy as a cardboard villain figure, and she wanted him to think for himself ... and stay alive rather than becoming fodder for this ugly war machine that was now swallowing its children.
I thought about my own German roots, and about my grandfather with the aristocratic Aryan blood flowing through his veins but very little evidence that he was anything but a rich spoiled American playboy. I knew there had to be more than this stereotype, that he had to be feeling something when he acted thoughtlessly ... but I had no idea how to find the key to the real and complex human being that Paul Donat must have been.
I turned off everything downstairs and went to bed at 8:30. Some time between then and 4:45 when I awakened in the morning, I had visitors.
Grandpa was in his usual snarly critical mood. "You drink too much to get anything accomplshed," he accused me.
"I know," I said, "But I do get things done. Just not what you seem to expect me to do."
"You didn't even go to your friends' wedding, for god's sake. Stayed home and guzzled wine and ate beans and toast. Were you trying to pretend you were being forced to eat the American k-rations in the film?"
I laughed. "It was the only tinned food I had that could be heated quickly."
"Not a good habit to get into," he retorted. And then he got down to the real reason for his visit. If I could find one of Eva's daughters or grandchildren, I might learn more about what happened to him.
"Did Eva shoot you?" I asked.
"Of course not," he snorted. "Eva loved me."
"They all loved you," I said, "but one of them killed you."
He looked startled. "What makes you say that?"
"It makes sense. You treated all of them as if they were disposable. As soon as the newness wore off you threw them away." I paused and then continued, "And you had a very short attention span. It took almost no time for the sheen to wear off."
"That's not entirely true," he said. "Talk to Eva."
"Eva will have to decide to come to me, Grandpa. I can't conjure up ghosts."
"Don't be too sure of that," he said as he left, and then added, "And don't call me Grandpa. I hate it."
Eva didn't come, but Mitzi dropped in. This time she was wearing a leopard skin coat over a revealing low cut black sheath. Her shoes were black patent with leopard skin heels. How did other women do it?
My spare bed was covered in clothing and shoes, and I would not have been able to put together a single outfit suitable for a wedding. The only black shoes I owned were laced up suede oxfords and the only outfit that matched my somewhat suitable brown shoes was an old pair of brown slacks and a patterned silk jacket I'd bought in Beijing about five years ago.. Several silk camisoles were splayed across them. Before I elected to stay home, I had finally decided to wear one of the black outfits with the sporty black oxfords I'd brushed in an attempt to hide their age, and hope that no one noticed.
"Your hair looks nice," she said. "Too bad you had to waste a good haircut in front of a small screen though.".
"I was beat," I said. "Did you know Eva?"
"Everyone knew Eva; she didn't work in the clubs, but she knew all the girls."
"What did she do for a living?" I asked.
"She was some kind of community worker. Ran a soup kitchen kind of place just for women and kids. When the girls were down on their luck they ate there. Sometimes she put them up for a few days. Not sure where she got her money from. I don't think it came from the city. Maybe she had a rich daddy."
"Did she know my grandfather well?"
"As well as anyone, I guess. But she wasn't one of his girls, if that's what you mean."
"He said she had kids; that they might know something."
"Yeah, maybe. I never met her kids. Not likely she'd have brought them down to the Main."
"I wonder if my grandfather did anything besides gamble and date pretty girls."
"He had a wife."
"I know, but he didn't live with her."
"She was a real humdinger, from everything I've heard."
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't disappoint me.
"She was very beautiful ... classy looking ... even though she didn't have lots of dough. She was a nurse, you know, but not one that worked in a hospital wearing a uniform and clunky shoes. She went to people's homes and looked after them there. And she stayed there. Boarded like. Got to meet lots of rich people and their families that way.. That's how she met Paul. She looked after his mother."
"I remember someone telling me that now."
"She was smart, smarter than Paul. And she was different from the girls he was used to."
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
"The girls in the clubs took it all off right away. She held back like a good stripper. And I hear she teased him with tiny little peeks, just accidental, you know, for months before she started to date him. And even then it took him a long time to get into her panties."
"I'm surprised he didn't just say the hell with it." I said. "He sure didn't need to wait around for a cocktease. He had plenty of women willing to give him what he wanted."
Mitzi raised her own eyebrow, and whistled. "Boy you sure don't know much about men, do you? She was very good at holding back and just giving him enough to want more ... and then pulling back again. By the time he finally got her into bed, he was completely infatuated. And more important, so was his mother. She was like a member of the family."
"Why did he marry her if he could have had the sex without it, I wonder."
"She was a nurse, honey. She made sure she got pregnant right away. From what I heard, it took her only a month to get in a family way."
"Good thing," I mused. "His relationships lasted an average of two months. But he'd got women pregnant before. Why did he marry her?"
"His parents insisted. Told him he had a responsibility. And from what I heard his mother really wanted a grandchild."
"She could have had lots of them if she hadn't financed the abortions."
"This one was different. This baby would have a nurse for a mother."
"And maybe she thought Paul would settle down if he got married," I said.
"Yeah, but she hadn't really known the real Marie either," said Mitzi. "As soon as that baby was born Marie was back out working and the baby girl lived with her grandparents."
"How did Paul like that?"
"I think he was relieved. He was back in the clubs within two months of the marriage, and he didn't have anything good to say about Marie. My guess is she began to show her true colours as soon as she had the wedding ring on her finger."
"He said she was a bitch."
"Yeah."
"Was she?"
"The only person who really knew her was Eva. I saw photos and I heard she wasn't nearly as maternal as she pretended to be, but I didn't know her personally."
I wondered how I might conjure up Eva. I decided to do some research on soup kitchens in that area.
7:38 and another 1631 words
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 7
This morning life has led me astray ... but once again, everything gets shoveled into the mix ...
November 7, 2009 Day 7 ... end of first week of Nanowrimo
I dreamed last night of stripping painted furniture with a palm sander, not of women dead for the past many years, women who worked and played and wandered the streets of Montreal in the twenties. My night life is reminding me that I should likely be working and playing with old chairs and other furniture, not trying to solve a mystery for an irascible old ghost, a murder that is almost a century old.
But I keep being drawn back to the computer where I have found as many clues as I have been given in dreams, so the sanding will just have to wait a while.
This morning the first thing I found, though, was an email that shattered me, making me unfit for much of anything. My dearest friend, a woman I have known since we were silly fifteen year olds, sent a message telling me that she was in hospital; that a primary cancer has spread and she is undergoing radiation.
We have spent surprisingly large amounts of time together since Pat moved to England in the sixties, most of those days and weeks and sometimes months when I have stayed with her in London. Hundreds of thin blue aerograms,. her almost indecipherable writing scrawled across them, have crossed the Atlantic in the past fifty years. And now there is email. She got sick in June but in the more than 50 emails we've exchanged in these past five months, we've discussed my children, her grandchildren, art shows, the illnesses and health scares of a mutual friend and of two of my children, one of whom is her godchild, and the illness and deaths of friends we didn't share but whose lives mattered to us.
The only mention of her own illness was in the newsy, cheerful email she sent me September 25th. Embedded in the happy news and chatter was a hint of what has now downed her. Her back was causing her problems and her husband was doing the heavy lifting jobs for now. I never suspected a thing. Perhaps she didn't either.
On Thursday while I was hiking and later limping all around Montreal, I thought of Pat often.
This might seem prescient, but it wasn't really. I often think of Pat. Many things remind me of her, especially trips to Montreal.
This had been her old stomping ground when she was a student at McGill, when she wore long dark clothing, frequented dark intimate places lit by candles stuffed into wine bottles; coffee houses where bearded men read poetry, drank, and flirted with long haired girls wearing black leotards, long skirts and no make-up or bras.
This is where she lived with Tom when they and Peter were my good friends. My thoughts as I tramped around moving my briefcase from one hand to the other were about grungey student digs, and about the meals Pat managed to prepare in the worst possible kitchens, meals in which stewed chicken, hamburger and green peppers figured prominently. Tom had arrived in 1956 from Hungary, a poet who began his Canadian life as a student at Acadia University. It was there that he met Peter. They came to Montreal together when they were kicked out of Acadia for writing about chastity belts in the school paper.
Tom and Pat have lived apart for for waht seems centuries now. Peter committed suicide in 1964. And now Pat is very ill and too far away for me to hug her.
The ghosts who accompanied me as I wandered up St. Laurence Main past Lorne and then returned and mingled with impossibly young McGill students on Sherbrooke, were my friends, not my grandather's.
In Pat's latest email, the one sent by someone close to her from her home computer, likely by Nolan, she mentioned the brilliance of the fall leaves seen from the ambulance that ferries her back and forth between hospitals for radiation treatments. She wrote of the fiery red of the single maple, the one that reminds her of Canada and me. I look out at the shriveled brown leaf remnants that still cling to tree skeletons and think of those who have fallen, and those who are left.
I think I am beginning to understand why Grandpa wants the peace of having history remembered and put to rest, why it is important to him that I, his own flesh and blood, know his story, the story no one really knew while he was alive. Peter remains alive because Pat and I remember, because his sister knew his story. His story will become history when all of us who loved him die. But our children, the ones who never knew him, will still remember the stories we told.
Grandpa was loved by his mother and her husband, I am sure, but his daughter never knew him, and he squandered the love he received from women just as recklessly as he frittered away the money his parents showered on him. He wants to be remembered. He wants his life to have been more than simply a flashy reputation as a playboy.
I decided to find his story. The manner of his death mattered less to me now than the life that has remained so shrouded in mystery because he loved no one enough for them to tell that story.
11ish ... time to stop for a while ...
November 7, 2009 Day 7 ... end of first week of Nanowrimo
I dreamed last night of stripping painted furniture with a palm sander, not of women dead for the past many years, women who worked and played and wandered the streets of Montreal in the twenties. My night life is reminding me that I should likely be working and playing with old chairs and other furniture, not trying to solve a mystery for an irascible old ghost, a murder that is almost a century old.
But I keep being drawn back to the computer where I have found as many clues as I have been given in dreams, so the sanding will just have to wait a while.
This morning the first thing I found, though, was an email that shattered me, making me unfit for much of anything. My dearest friend, a woman I have known since we were silly fifteen year olds, sent a message telling me that she was in hospital; that a primary cancer has spread and she is undergoing radiation.
We have spent surprisingly large amounts of time together since Pat moved to England in the sixties, most of those days and weeks and sometimes months when I have stayed with her in London. Hundreds of thin blue aerograms,. her almost indecipherable writing scrawled across them, have crossed the Atlantic in the past fifty years. And now there is email. She got sick in June but in the more than 50 emails we've exchanged in these past five months, we've discussed my children, her grandchildren, art shows, the illnesses and health scares of a mutual friend and of two of my children, one of whom is her godchild, and the illness and deaths of friends we didn't share but whose lives mattered to us.
The only mention of her own illness was in the newsy, cheerful email she sent me September 25th. Embedded in the happy news and chatter was a hint of what has now downed her. Her back was causing her problems and her husband was doing the heavy lifting jobs for now. I never suspected a thing. Perhaps she didn't either.
On Thursday while I was hiking and later limping all around Montreal, I thought of Pat often.
This might seem prescient, but it wasn't really. I often think of Pat. Many things remind me of her, especially trips to Montreal.
This had been her old stomping ground when she was a student at McGill, when she wore long dark clothing, frequented dark intimate places lit by candles stuffed into wine bottles; coffee houses where bearded men read poetry, drank, and flirted with long haired girls wearing black leotards, long skirts and no make-up or bras.
This is where she lived with Tom when they and Peter were my good friends. My thoughts as I tramped around moving my briefcase from one hand to the other were about grungey student digs, and about the meals Pat managed to prepare in the worst possible kitchens, meals in which stewed chicken, hamburger and green peppers figured prominently. Tom had arrived in 1956 from Hungary, a poet who began his Canadian life as a student at Acadia University. It was there that he met Peter. They came to Montreal together when they were kicked out of Acadia for writing about chastity belts in the school paper.
Tom and Pat have lived apart for for waht seems centuries now. Peter committed suicide in 1964. And now Pat is very ill and too far away for me to hug her.
The ghosts who accompanied me as I wandered up St. Laurence Main past Lorne and then returned and mingled with impossibly young McGill students on Sherbrooke, were my friends, not my grandather's.
In Pat's latest email, the one sent by someone close to her from her home computer, likely by Nolan, she mentioned the brilliance of the fall leaves seen from the ambulance that ferries her back and forth between hospitals for radiation treatments. She wrote of the fiery red of the single maple, the one that reminds her of Canada and me. I look out at the shriveled brown leaf remnants that still cling to tree skeletons and think of those who have fallen, and those who are left.
I think I am beginning to understand why Grandpa wants the peace of having history remembered and put to rest, why it is important to him that I, his own flesh and blood, know his story, the story no one really knew while he was alive. Peter remains alive because Pat and I remember, because his sister knew his story. His story will become history when all of us who loved him die. But our children, the ones who never knew him, will still remember the stories we told.
Grandpa was loved by his mother and her husband, I am sure, but his daughter never knew him, and he squandered the love he received from women just as recklessly as he frittered away the money his parents showered on him. He wants to be remembered. He wants his life to have been more than simply a flashy reputation as a playboy.
I decided to find his story. The manner of his death mattered less to me now than the life that has remained so shrouded in mystery because he loved no one enough for them to tell that story.
11ish ... time to stop for a while ...
Friday, 6 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 6
The characters are leading me astray ... but that's okay ...
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
It is almost 10 and I have eaten breakfast, fed Kenya, greeted Peter, and logged almost 2000 more words ... and now I am going to take a shower and get dressed.
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
It is almost 10 and I have eaten breakfast, fed Kenya, greeted Peter, and logged almost 2000 more words ... and now I am going to take a shower and get dressed.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Wednesday's Very Short Nanowrimo Offering ( Day 4)
Just a shortie today ... I was hiking and teaching and sharing a lunch ... and then too tired to do much more than play with my sketch book and prepare for tomorrow's trip to Montreal. I hope that friday and the weekend witll be more productive ...
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
It's been a slow Nanowrimo day ... sorry
Day 3 ... Tuesday, November 3 ... 3:29 a.m.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
On Monday night a procession of women started to arrive. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on a quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling hooded cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to know where to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch those pictures ... and besides, the nudes in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree, she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear outta one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage. You know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. It looked as if someone had to have been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
You know you are in a Learning in Retirement class when several people arrive pushing walkers or brandishing canes, the man in the row ahead of you farts loudly and no one laughs, and the vast majority of students are cheery women with white hair.
I had met Michelle before the course and she had photographed some pages from my journal to use in her slide show. I was glad she showed my amateurish first attempts before showing the truly accomplished sketchbooks of artists and landscapers. They were works of art. She also showed slides of some of the chairs I have in Art de la Paix. Several women had seen my funky furniture, and a few asked me how they could paint the chairs languishing in their basements.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were as delighted to see me as I was to see them. It was a good day, and one in which I hadn't thought about Grandpa at all. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling, took it up the hill and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like our family, is very sparse, and all the leads are as cold as corpses.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something. Or what?
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year when I have to take my twelve year old car to the station, the car that can't make it all the way up my road once snow falls.
I think I should be getting more sleep. And, anyway, that's when the visitors seem to arrive with clues.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
On Monday night a procession of women started to arrive. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on a quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling hooded cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to know where to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch those pictures ... and besides, the nudes in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree, she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear outta one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage. You know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. It looked as if someone had to have been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
You know you are in a Learning in Retirement class when several people arrive pushing walkers or brandishing canes, the man in the row ahead of you farts loudly and no one laughs, and the vast majority of students are cheery women with white hair.
I had met Michelle before the course and she had photographed some pages from my journal to use in her slide show. I was glad she showed my amateurish first attempts before showing the truly accomplished sketchbooks of artists and landscapers. They were works of art. She also showed slides of some of the chairs I have in Art de la Paix. Several women had seen my funky furniture, and a few asked me how they could paint the chairs languishing in their basements.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were as delighted to see me as I was to see them. It was a good day, and one in which I hadn't thought about Grandpa at all. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling, took it up the hill and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like our family, is very sparse, and all the leads are as cold as corpses.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something. Or what?
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year when I have to take my twelve year old car to the station, the car that can't make it all the way up my road once snow falls.
I think I should be getting more sleep. And, anyway, that's when the visitors seem to arrive with clues.
Monday, 2 November 2009
nanowrimo Day 2 Post 2
Day 2 ... 7ish
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed almost as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m.
Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer.
Two hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Another hour and I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even a Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread and have breakfast.
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed almost as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m.
Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer.
Two hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Another hour and I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even a Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread and have breakfast.
Nanowrimo Day 2
Well, I have found my title, The Men of My Dreams, and I have some idea of where the storyline might lead, but I am still writing dreams ...
Here is the last hour's work ...
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his somewhat adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believ in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words
Here is the last hour's work ...
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his somewhat adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believ in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Nanowrimo Post 2 Day 1
Armand Comes Calling After Fifty Years ...
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.
Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. These dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these nightmares icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.
Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. These dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these nightmares icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden
November 1, 2009
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the others, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes these women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of these dream women had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none of them ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes I know that's an anachronism), looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
I think it was one of the duped women who did the dirty deed. And good for her.
But what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
I too hope it improves! Hope you had a happy Hallowe'en and that the rest of the weekend is great ... in all ways ...
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the others, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes these women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of these dream women had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none of them ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes I know that's an anachronism), looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
I think it was one of the duped women who did the dirty deed. And good for her.
But what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
I too hope it improves! Hope you had a happy Hallowe'en and that the rest of the weekend is great ... in all ways ...
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