Dear Hearts

by Barbara Miller Biles

  Roberts Hardware is abuzz with customers on Monday morning when farmers, desperate to finish planting grain before forecasted rain, rush in to buy replacement parts for ailing cultivators and seeders, and Bradshaw’s housewives, in the throes of spring cleaning, discover their brooms and wash pails are ratted or leaking and coincidentally they need to buy Royal Albert cups and saucers for the upcoming bridal shower. Geneva hangs at the back of the store until Mrs. Roberts takes bills from the till, makes a list of currency, and places it in a cash sack. “I need you to run to the bank and get some change.”

  Diane Wedder’s brother is loitering on the bank steps, his red hair ruffled, his mouth pressed into a sardonic twist. His eyes, however, widen with puppy optimism as Geneva approaches, offers up her smile, and says, “Hello.” He’s a fifth grader so she understands his admiration; she passes him with an air of great intention to do business with the bank.

  As she stands in line, Geneva spots Mrs. Wedder through the manager’s window, sitting across the desk from Mr. Stewart, her bony frame at odds with the hard oak chair. Mr. Stewart, bolstered by his royal blue cushion, leans back and, with a sober shrug, raises his empty hands, palms up. Mrs. Wedder stands up, her face as red as her hair, and rushes toward the counter. A teller circles around to unlock the gate and set her free.

  Mrs. Wedder brushes past Geneva and barks at her son. “I told you to wait outside,” she says, and the boy grins at Geneva, pretending nothing is amiss. “He can go to hell,” she spits and the boy ducks his head as if he is the target. (Geneva’s mother would say he can go to Halifax instead.)

  A teller calls, “I can help you now, Geneva,” so Geneva turns away to trade the hardware cash.

  On the following Sunday, Geneva, Darla, and Mary Stewart sit in the very back pew, separate from their parents, in St. Stephen’s Anglican Church. A month before they paraded in white dresses and veils, looking like angels or juvenile brides, and tasted their first sip of holy red wine. Today they squelch their giggles for their second communion, kneel with their hands cupped towards heaven, and wait for a sacred wafer to be deposited by Reverend Hill. Geneva turns from the altar and sees Mrs. Wedder with her son, mere witnesses to Holy Communion. The congregation sings “Blessed Assurance,” but when she bursts out of the church, Geneva whispers Bill Haley’s tune with its promise to be in “seventh heaven.”

  Outside Reverend Hill has Mrs. Wedder’s hand sandwiched between both of his—she rushed out as quickly as the girls—only letting go when others follow along to praise the day. As she breaks away, her son looks backward, catching Geneva’s eye.

  “I hear Wedder’s getting out,” says Mrs. Collier, Darla’s mom, as they watch Mrs. Wedder hurry up the street. “My cousin knew them when they lived in Milton. Says it was all an accident. With Pickle showing up drunk at odd times, something was bound to happen. He got there, that last time, at the crack of dawn, just as Wedder was going hunting. There was a scuffle and that was that. Diane still has the notion that her dad would have been a country star.”

  Geneva watches until Mrs. Wedder turns and disappears onto Harley Street, where Patty and Carol will be coming out of St. Cecilia’s with visions of Jesus still hanging from the cross.

  Darla grabs Geneva’s hand and together they jive and twirl on the sidewalk and sing Bill Haley’s tune but refrain from showing their Sunday panties.

  Geneva first sees Mr. Wedder at the Royal Hotel on the following Tuesday, after school. Geneva and Darla order orange crush floats as they slide into a booth. Others join with demands for shakes and fries and flapper pie, all bubbling like carbonated energy uncapped at the end of a school day. Buddy Holly is spinning in the juke box, singing “Peggy Sue.”

  “That’s him,” whispers Patty Schultz. “Diane’s dad.”

  “You mean step-dad,” says Carol Simmons.

  Geneva looks over to the counter. Mr. Wedder is sandy-haired and scrawny, engrossed in his soup.

  “She’s taking off, but don’t say anything,” says Carol.

  Diane and Carol, both in grade nine, collude on things Geneva can’t fathom. “With him?” she asks.

  “Are you crazy?” Carol smirks and whispers something to Patty. Both girls are wearing black eyeliner now, looking more and more like Diane. “She’s going to be a singer. And she’s going to get a guitar.” The two of them giggle. “Diane the Pickle performing with Elvis the Pelvis.” Patty Schultz coughs and sputters, choking on her coke.

  It occurs to Geneva that Diane Wedder—or Pickle, whatever her name is—has been out of sight the last few days. “Is she sick?”

  “Who?”

  “Diane.”

  “Like I said”—Carol shoots another glance at Mr. Wedder as she leans forward and lowers her voice—“she’s going away. In fact, don’t you dare say anything, but she left today.”

  On Wednesday, after school, the girls have almost reached the hotel when a cruiser pulls up in front of the RCMP detachment. In the passenger seat sits Diane Wedder with her eyes fixed on the dashboard. A crowd of school kids gathers while Diane is led inside.

  “They can’t make her do anything,” pronounces Carol. The crowd falls into two different grooves: the restless ones, mostly boys, jostle and tease each other under the spell of an impending event, while the others, like Geneva, Darla, and Mary, huddle and whisper. They are all waiting to see what will happen. Soon enough Mr. and Mrs. Wedder hurry up the street, like celebrities trying to avoid the public glare, and disappear into the office of the RCMP. The venetians are closed tight. Store owners watch from their front doors, seniors lean forward on benches, and young mothers push their baby carriages across the street—all curious but keeping their distance.

  “She’s done it this time,” says Patty Schultz and no one argues. The door finally opens and the Wedders inch down the stairs. The crowd, suddenly subdued, pretends to look the other way until Diane puts an imaginary mic to her mouth and belts out her song.

  There’s a burst of laughter—even Mrs. Wedder’s mouth forms a half smile—and Mr. Wedder waves his arm high above his head, his acknowledgment to anonymous fans. They walk toward Harley Street with Diane in tow. She puts her hands on her hips and wiggles her bum at the crowd. Geneva and Darla roll their eyes but are enthralled as well.

  By Friday the word is out. The Wedders have run off without paying rent; they’ve run out of town without a word about where they went. The girls congregate along Neville, outside Mary Stewart’s door. Carol Simmons says she knows something, but she isn’t telling. Darla repeats her mother’s story about how Mrs. Wedder was broke and Mr. Wedder couldn’t find a job and the bank was no help. Mary Stewart retaliates, saying that Darla’s mother is a busybody; Mrs. Stewart explained this long ago. Patty Schultz maintains that Diane is going to be a famous singer and will be able to buy her own house.

  Geneva looks upward and spies a baby robin teetering on the edge of its nest. It fluffs its new feathers and lifts its wings as two other heads bob from inside. Mom and Pop banter nearby while sounds from the ground, from Geneva’s gaggle of friends, fade away. Geneva watches spellbound until the baby totters back into the nest, but for sure it will try again another time.

  Here’s Looking at You

  IT’S SEPTEMBER, before Geneva’s thirteenth birthday. Martin Fry walks into Roberts Hardware, veers past Geneva as she dusts Royal Albert cream and sugars, and goes right up to the glass-covered cabinet full of expensive knives. Geneva’s father is out delivering an electric heater. Her mother stands behind the counter and stiffens her back when Martin walks in. “Is there something you’re looking for?” asks Mrs. Roberts. She doesn’t sound at all like she wants to make a sale.

  “How much?” he says, pointing to a fish knife.

  “Those are expensive.”

  “How much?”

  “I’d have to look it up,” she says, then finally pulls out a price list, traces her
finger downward, and announces, “Fourteen ninety-five.”

  Martin walks toward Geneva’s mother then stares right past her at the boxes of Imperials and Canucks and Whiz Bangs, stacked like the cartons of cigarettes in Lee’s Grocery Store. He stands there, his broad back to Geneva, arms hanging uncommonly still. He doesn’t say another word. Then he turns abruptly and walks down the aisle. Floor boards creak; rope and cable, axes and saws, and bins of nails jangle; islands of china and glassware rattle. Martin bolts out the door, leaving static in his wake.

  Geneva has never encountered Martin before. He was born the year the town of Bradshaw planted Northwest poplars along the residential section of Main Street. By the time she was born, right at the end of the war, the poplars had already formed a solid column of shade and protection in front of her house. They are part of her assumed territory, along with the caragana hedge, the Siberian crab, the open veranda, even the moon and the stars. As a child she skipped along the sentried boulevard whenever she wished, to and from the hardware store.

  In hindsight people judge Martin according to their favourite theory of human behaviour. He developed, as small-town boys do, into a freewheeling explorer with few constraints beyond suppertime curfews. But in his seventh-grade picture he stands in the back row, looking like he could lift bales much more easily than the gangly farm boys could. His complexion is pale and his smile is ironic, like he is sharing an inside joke, yet his eyes are intense and estranged from others.

  At the time Martin was considered a regular boy who was mainly drawn to car engines and gopher hunting. He hung out at Ralph’s Motors—so often you might have thought he was Ralph’s son (his own father was missing in France)—and tracked home engine grease into Emily Fry’s spotless house. Like other boys he carried buckets of water to nearby stubble fields to flood gophers out of their holes and whack them dead. When he turned twelve he used a .22 rifle to shoot them instead, before cutting off their tails. The difference between Martin and other boys was that he always did this alone, always in private, before taking his booty into Roberts Hardware for pocket money, a penny a tail.

  Mr. Roberts collected the tails in tins and shipped them off to Fish and Wildlife for compensation. His mucking with cars and gophers rankled Emily Fry, who complained to both Ralph and Geneva’s father as if they were to blame for Martin’s pastimes. That her son was a loner was irrelevant.

  All this Geneva has learned by listening to adults reminisce and try to make sense of Martin Fry’s life. That her father kept collections of gopher tails is the bigger revelation.

  “That guy’s up to no good,” says Geneva’s mother.

  “How would you know?” says Geneva who has begun contradicting her mother, turning cheeky, even though Martin Fry gives her the willies.

  “He’s back from Ponoka,” says Mrs. Roberts, as if this explains it all.

  “So? Aunt Terry and Uncle Bill live in Ponoka.” Geneva is baiting now. She knows exactly what her mother means. They sometimes drive to the grounds of the mental hospital on Ponoka’s outskirts to admire the gardens. No one mentions that they might also see the patients, yet once they enter the grand circular driveway they invariably grow silent as if conversation will instigate some mad uprising.

  The hospital has its own water tower and power plant with groves of trees planted here and there. Geraniums and shrubs front the brick anterior while a plotted garden and fields of hay can be seen at the back. It is a large estate with its residents seemingly mute. The most Geneva has ever heard above the hum of her parents’ Ford Fairlane is a magpie bragging or a robin scolding. The inside, she surmises, is hushed and sterile. She pictures the men and women in their separate wings, secretly watching through wire meshed windows, as Martin Fry might have done, though now he would be on the outside looking in.

  Geneva’s father has returned to the store, and Martin is peering in the window, his nose not quite touching the thick pane of glass.

  “He was in here looking at knives and gun shells,” Mrs. Roberts says to her husband. “And he had a strange look about him. Maybe we should talk to Pierce.”

  No one in town calls Danny Pierce constable or officer or anything like that. He’s twenty-three, a neophyte and new to Bradshaw, and is therefore an object of curiosity and skepticism. Corporal Jensen is, as everyone knows, on vacation in Vegas, so Pierce has been left in charge.

  Geneva often watches Pierce slip on his regulation hat as he goes down the steps of the RCMP detachment, right across the street from the hardware store, and into the Royal Hotel. Aside from the coffee shop (she rarely sees Pierce there), most of the hotel remains uncharted territory. She sometimes waits outside the beer parlour with her friend Darla, inhaling whiffs of beer and cigarette smoke while Darla summons her parents for money and permission to go to the Roxy.

  Geneva intends to tell Darla how Martin Fry has been staking out Roberts Hardware and how Pierce could come to the rescue if Martin gets out of hand. She’ll leave out the part where Pierce falls in love with her, since Darla would be hoping for the same.

  In Gigi, the town’s prevailing picture show, Maurice Chevalier sings “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” and then Louis Jourdan, as confirmed bachelor Gaston, sings about what a fool he’s been not to have seen that the much younger Gigi, groomed by aunts to be some rich man’s mistress, has grown up before his eyes. Suddenly he realizes he’s in love and marries her. Geneva imagines herself with Pierce; she pictures him waiting for her to turn sixteen and eventually walking down the aisle in a silk gown and flounced veil with all of Bradshaw watching.

  “I’ll deal with him,” Geneva’s father says to her mother. “You go over and tell Pierce.”

  “If he sees me over there he’ll put two and two together and blame me if he gets caught and sent back.”

  “I’ll go,” says Geneva. “He won’t notice me. I’ll talk to Pierce while you keep Martin busy.”

  Her parents look at each other and mull the idea over. “Okay,” says Mr. Roberts. “If Martin comes in I’ll distract him while you slip over to the office. Be discreet.”

  “I will.” If she could, Geneva would go directly to the phone. Darla, you won’t believe what’s happening.

  “You just keep dusting over there until he has his back to you. Don’t let him notice you.”

  Just then Martin walks in, straight down the aisle, straight to the counter where Geneva’s parents are waiting. He didn’t acknowledge Geneva earlier, and this time is no different. Does he know I exist? He nods at Mr. Roberts.

  “Hello Martin.”

  Martin stares at the stacks of gun shells behind the counter. “What do you recommend?”

  “Depends on what you want them for.” Geneva’s father looks over Martin’s shoulder, raises his eyebrows, and gives her the go-ahead look. For a moment she freezes (Martin could turn and actually look at her), but then she slips out the door, turns right to be out of view, crosses at the intersection (people only jaywalk in Bradshaw), and walks toward the office of the RCMP.

  Through the door’s window she sees Pierce with his cropped sandy hair, feet up on an oak desk, talking on the phone. Potent energy percolates through his fingers as he taps the desktop and flips a pencil from one digit to another. He smiles into the receiver and then, when he happens to look toward Geneva, his eyes widen and his feet slide to the floor. He motions to her to enter.

  “Okay. Gotta go. Ditto. Bye,” he says then turns to Geneva, his smile fading. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Uh, it’s Martin Fry…. My dad wanted me to tell you … he’s in the store right now, Martin is, and he’s looking at knives and gun shells and my parents want you to know.”

  “You’re the Roberts girl?”

  Her face flushes. Who else would I be? She nods at Pierce and replies, “From the hardware.” Now she’s angry. Maybe those questions about Pierce’s competence have some basis in fact. �
��And my name’s Geneva!”

  “Well, Geneva Roberts, I’ll have to make a note of this.” Pierce enters something into a log book, then goes over and peers through the venetian blinds. Martin Fry is just coming out onto Main Street. “I see he’s left the store. I’ll talk to your dad.”

  “They don’t want Martin to know I’ve come over.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “They don’t want Martin to know he’s being reported, in case it backfires.”

  “It’ll be taken care of,” says Pierce in a serious tone, unlike the one he used earlier, when he was on the phone, when his voice was soft and musical. “So how old are you, Geneva?”

  She considers explaining that she’s almost thirteen but replies, “Thirteen.”

  “Hmm.” He smiles vaguely as he looks her over.

  The song “Gigi” plays in her head.

  “Thanks, Geneva. I’ll see you around.”

  So this is how it goes? Her stomach flutters. See you around?

  There is a faded quarter moon. The flank of poplars outside the Roberts’ house wore flashy green-and-yellow uniforms in daylight and then darkened, as evening progressed, into rogue footmen. A figure, under one expansive tree, stands aligned with the gnarled trunk, arms hanging uncommonly still.

  The smell of liver infiltrates every room of the Roberts’ house. There’s no escaping this weekly dose of butchered iron prescribed and cooked by Geneva’s mother in a frying pan with butter and onions and a sprinkling of salt. The smell has fanned out from the new electric stove to the dining and living room at the front of the house and the bedrooms along the side. Geneva, with legs draped over the back of a kitchen chair and head and shoulders down on the seat, is on the phone with Darla. “I was right there in his office. He asked me how old I was … and he’s going to keep an eye on us, watch out for Martin Fry. Ooh, he gives me the willies. So, you want to go to the show on Saturday?”