by Thomas King
The chili is still on the stove in the pan. I dump it into a bowl and put the bowl in the refrigerator. I leave the bread in the toaster. In the classroom, Emma and Lala are singing a song I don’t recognize.
Something about being happy and clapping your hands.
I turn off the light in the kitchen, grab my jacket, and am out the door.
THOMAS LOCKEN was several removes from ordinary. He understood the complexities and stratagems of wealth and power, but he was fascinated by the arcana and esoterica of human existence.
In particular, by questions that could not be answered.
Why do we dream?
What is music?
What is life?
What is the purpose of death?
He wasn’t concerned that there were no definitive answers to such questions, wasn’t troubled by the probability that any attempt would only create a shifting assortment of patterns.
Locken believed that seeing and understanding those patterns was answer enough.
ON FRIDAYS, the Bent Nail hosts wet T-shirt contests. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, it’s a sports bar. Monday is trivia night. Tuesday evening is karaoke and open mic. Wednesday is board games. Thursday is music.
All of this crammed into a dark, dingy, low-ceilinged space that smells like a holding pond at the back of a brewery.
There’s a picture of Roman and his horn pasted to the front door of the Nail. Half of Roman’s face is in shadow, so he looks aloof and mysterious. The handwritten caption says “One Night Only.”
This is that night.
I have no idea when Roman will start playing, but I have no interest in waiting around in a beernut landfill, watching young men grow old, while a guy on the jukebox tells me why his woman left him, when why was never the question.
So I cross the street, walk into the park, and sit on a bench by the bandstand. The night has cooled, but it’s still pleasant. I have nowhere to go, so here is as good a place as any.
I feel the shadow before I hear the voice.
“Cuz.”
Roman, all in artist black. He looks good. Clear-eyed, clean shaven, hair slicked back and hanging on his shoulders.
“Guess if you’re here, Emma’s not going to make it.” He sets his horn case on the grass. “I mean, she can’t leave Lala alone.”
There’s a family coming out of the Plaza Hotel. Mother, father, two young sons. Dressed for a casual evening. A movie at the mall. A hockey game at the rink.
“She used to come to all my gigs.” Roman lights a cigarette and blows the smoke into the air. “And then I screwed up.”
I keep my eyes on the family.
“Your mum screwed up, too,” says Roman. “Ada says she ran off and got pregnant.”
The family moves off down the street. The older boy runs on ahead, gets as far as the corner before he stops and waits.
“She really kill herself,” Roman asks, “or is that just Ada being a shit?”
The younger boy stays with his mother. The father lags behind, as though he’s already given up.
Roman wets his lips. “Better head in. Don’t want to keep the drunks waiting.”
I smile and nod.
“You and me are a lot alike, you know.” Roman picks up his case. “The difference is that I have to go in there, and you don’t.”
Roman crosses the street. The Bent Nail is aglow in neon. An Open sign in blue. A Moosehead Lager sign in green and red. I’ve never heard Roman on the horn, only heard the reports, reviews that compared him to Baker and Davis, to Farmer and Hubbard. Maybe he’ll play “Almost Blue” or “Body and Soul.” Or “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
There’s nothing to stop me from slipping into the Nail. I could sit at the back, close my eyes, and let the music find me.
Instead, I stay on the bench. No stars tonight, and I can’t see the moon. But there’s heavy cloud cover, so it could be there. Just hidden and out of sight.
Like me.
22
The next morning, the three of us sit around the kitchen table.
“I’m late.” Emma rinses her cup in the sink. “My phone died last night, so no alarm.”
“Pop-Up wants to walk me to school.” Lala taps her spoon on the side of the bowl. “But we have to go to the falls first.”
“Mr. Camp isn’t taking you to the falls, honey.”
“My teacher said I had to go to the falls.”
Emma’s shoulders sag a little. “I don’t think your teacher said you had to go to the falls.”
“I have to draw a picture of the falls for show and tell.”
“I don’t want you going there without me.”
“But you have to work, and Pop-Up doesn’t work.”
Emma is already in her coat. “I’ll pick you up after school. Maybe we’ll go to the falls then.”
“You have to promise.”
“We’ll see.”
Lala looks to me for support. I keep my head down over my quinoa and pretend to be invisible.
“That means no.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I have to go, honey.”
Lala slams her spoon down and bits of cereal and milk fly off in all directions. Then she bangs her elbows on the table and sits back in the chair in a huff.
Emma stands in the kitchen doorway, the patience draining out of her face. “I love you.”
“If you loved me, you’d let me go to the falls.”
Emma smiles at me. “Thank you, Mr. Camp. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
“And I’m not going to school.”
But Emma is gone, already out the door. Lala slumps in her chair.
“Do you have a mum-mum?” she asks.
I finish the quinoa and put the bowl in the sink.
“I’ll bet she’s nicer than mine.”
THE CROWS ARE WAITING for us. As soon as they see Lala, they begin calling out.
“They’re asking if we know any stories,” says Lala. “They like stories.”
They like peanuts and shiny things, as well. Freshly washed cars and garden wagons.
“I know a story about a dragon.” Lala shuffles her feet, kicks up bits of gravel, throws up tufts of dust. “But I don’t want to frighten them.”
We follow the river path until we have to turn in towards the town. The sun feels good on my shoulders. We take our time, stopping to look at the mallards and mergansers as they work the river. When we get to the school, Lala gives me a quick hug.
“I love you, Pop-Up.”
And then she skips off into the building.
SWANNIE GAGNON’S HAIR is bright blue with white stripes. She looks like a Greek flag.
“Les couleurs du Québec,” she tells me, as she puts my brownie in a bag. “Je me souviens.”
Swannie hasn’t forgotten her underarms. One is blue. One is white.
“It is the food colouring,” she says. “I wash and poof, it is gone.”
Swannie has made rhubarb Danishes today. I’m tempted but resist. A routine is only a routine if it’s maintained.
“I am at the bar last night,” says Swannie. “I hear your cousin play. ‘La Vie en Rose.’ So beautiful. I am in tears. Édith Piaf. Such a voice.”
I hadn’t gone into the bar. I sat on the bench and listened to the music as it filtered out of the building, the gabble of voices, the sound of Roman’s horn trying to cut through the din.
I stayed in the park, until the cloud cover broke apart and the moon arrived to light up the night.
“The petition of the crosses?” Swannie makes a popping sound with her lips. “I do not sign it.”
THE PIGGY IS NOT as busy as it has been. The Three Bears are at one table. Wapi has his tablet out and is poking at the screen. Louis and Enola are going through a folder of invoices. Florence and Emma are at the counter.
I set the brownie down and wait.
“Hear Swannie is making rhubarb Danishes
,” says Florence. “Don’t suppose you happened to pick up one of them.”
“I’m sorry about this morning,” says Emma. “Sometimes she can be difficult.”
“You ever had one of her rhubarbs?” Florence puts the beans in the grinder. “They’re really good.”
“Roman was at the Bent Nail last night,” says Emma. “Did you go?”
I watch Florence make my macchiato.
“He asked me to come,” says Emma, “but I’ve got too much on my plate.”
The milk is thicker than usual and gives the espresso the texture of heavy cream.
“Lala takes up most of my free time.” Emma pushes out of the chair, heads for the kitchen. “Roman had his chance.”
Florence sets the cup in front of me. “Okay,” she says. “News, blues, and comfortable shoes.”
“Used to be a woman up north had a radio show.” Louis closes the folder. “Used to start it off with ‘Here Are the News.’ She was pretty popular.”
“Edith Josie,” says Enola. “Up in Old Crow.”
The brownie is particularly moist, the dark chocolate the perfect companion to the espresso.
“On the international front, Chinese authorities have opened fire on demonstrators in Hong Kong and Singapore, killing fourteen.”
“You can bet they killed more than fourteen.” Enola leans in against Wapi and the tablet. “Social media out of Hong Kong has the number closer to one hundred.”
“While in Britain,” Florence continues, “a new survey suggests that voters have lost all faith in their politicians.”
“Not much of a revelation,” says Louis.
“In Montana, authorities are looking for a gunman with a high-powered rifle who is shooting at eighteen-wheelers on the interstate.”
Louis makes a rifle with his arm. “Cabs or trailers?”
“Doesn’t say,” says Florence. “While here at home, the premier is justifying the dismantling of wind turbines and electric car charging stations as an unnecessary burden on taxpayers.”
“The Tao of government,” says Enola. “Build something at public expense and then tear it down at public expense.”
“Or,” says Louis, “build something at public expense and then sell it at a discount to private enterprise.”
“The 407,” says Enola.
“Hydro One,” says Louis.
“Canada Post,” says Enola.
Louis shakes his head. “Only parts of Canada Post are privatized.”
“Just a matter of time,” says Enola. “Any profitable public company gets sold.”
“Sold,” says Wapi.
“While in Gleaming,” says Florence, jumping in before the Three Bears can run away with the conversation, “Mayor Bob has introduced a new anti-loitering bylaw in council that would require any individual or organization wanting to use the plaza for functions or activities to obtain a use permit.”
“This is about the Neighbours,” says Emma. “It’s nothing more than anti-homeless legislation.”
“Mayor is citing public safety as the rationale,” says Enola.
“Man’s the poster boy for public safety.” Louis swings his arm around the café as he makes shooting noises.
Florence reaches under the counter and comes up with the tarot deck.
“Good thoughts, good card,” she says. “Today, I got one of the Major Arcana. Number eleven. Lust.”
I shuffle the deck.
“It isn’t really about lust lust. It’s more about strength and creativity, control of inner beasts and overcoming old fears. Triumph of the spirit. That sort of thing.”
I cut the deck and get The Lovers.
“Look at that,” says Florence, as though she’s found a loonie on the sidewalk. “Another of the Major Arcana. Number six. Relationships, attraction, union of opposites. Finding connections. Becoming conscious.”
I finish my half of the brownie. Florence takes my cup and wipes down the counter.
“This got anything to do with your lady friend?”
I hadn’t expected that Ash Locken would go unnoticed for long. Not with booking the top floor of the Plaza. Not with Oliver Flood and the hounds in tow.
“Hear she comes with her own army.”
I slip the sixth trump back into the deck and slide it to Florence.
“Gleaming’s not a backwater, but we don’t see that many expensive people in town.”
Florence waits. And I let her.
“So,” she says, “you want another macchiato?”
I GO STRAIGHT BACK to the school. I don’t waste time. I change quickly, get the wagon and the chisels, and go into the graveyard. I trowel a stone into place, sketch the name in pencil so I have some sort of guide.
Then I lean forward beneath the warming sun and begin chipping away.
23
Emma and Lala find me in the graveyard stacking river stones and pulling up crosses.
“I got four gold stars and a robin.” Lala holds up a sheet of paper.
“It’s a story she wrote,” says Emma. “About dragons and crows.”
“They save the princess from monsters,” says Lala.
Emma rubs her daughter’s head. “Would you mind if I tape it to the refrigerator?”
Lala picks up one of the crosses. “Can I have this?”
“It’s not a toy, honey.”
“I could use it as a sword and hit the monsters.”
“It’s not a good idea to hit anything.”
“Helen hit Linda.”
“What?”
“Linda pushed Helen’s little sister, and Helen pushed Linda.”
“At school?”
“Pushed her right over.”
“And that’s not the right thing to do, is it.”
Lala turns around in a circle. “Linda started to cry, so we called her crybaby.”
“Children.” Emma sighs. “They’re a blessing.”
I STAY IN THE GRAVEYARD the rest of the day. The chiselling is slow, and I’m only able to do two stones before the light goes and I have to drag the wagon back to the school.
Emma and Lala are in the kitchen. Emma has made spaghetti with meat sauce, and Lala is sucking up each strand one at a time.
“Watch this,” she calls out. “I’m a vacuum cleaner.”
“Honey, that’s no way to eat spaghetti.”
“But it’s fun.”
“It’ll make a mess of your clothes.”
“Then you can wash them.”
Emma holds up a plate. “Would you like some? We have plenty.”
The knock on the front door is quick and hard, and whoever it is doesn’t wait. The door opens and there are footsteps in the hallway. Lala is in mid-suck when Florence rumbles into the kitchen.
“Let’s go,” she says. “Nutty’s in the hospital.”
Emma puts the plate on the counter. “Hospital?”
“Ada took her in,” says Florence.
“Is it serious?”
Florence’s face is tight. “We should get there.”
“Is Grummy sick?”
Emma turns to me. “Can I leave Lala with you?”
“I want to see Grummy!”
“A hospital won’t be any fun,” says Emma. “Mr. Camp might read you a story.”
“I want to see the hospital!”
“We can take her,” says Florence. “Do Nutty good to see Lala.”
I float away from the table, try to slip casually out of the kitchen.
Florence blocks me with a hip. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
FLORENCE’S SUBARU is roomier than it looks. I sit in the front seat. Emma and Lala sit in the back.
“So Nutty’s been complaining about her chest for the last couple of days.” Florence slides through several stop signs, tapping the brakes for show. “Ada and her were watching baseball at Ada’s place when Nutty began having trouble breathing.”
“Is Grummy going to die?”
“No, honey,” says Emma.
“Grummy is not going to die.”
“Helen had a cat,” says Lala, “and it died.”
I wonder if this is the same Helen who hit Linda.
“She had a goldfish and it died, too.”
THERE ARE NO PARKING SPOTS on the street, so Florence has to use the hospital parking lot.
“You believe this,” she says as she takes the ticket from the machine. “They charge sick people for parking?”
There’s a special five-dollar rate after 6:00.
“You got to be real greedy to do that.”
“Even worse in the city,” says Emma. “In Winnipeg, it would cost you twice as much.”
“No wonder Jesus was born in a manger.”
There’s nothing close, and Florence has to park against the back fence.
“Maybe I should start renting out space at the Piggy. Put one of those taxi meters on the tables.”
“Taxi meter?” says Lala.
“First half-hour free,” says Florence. “Eat fast.”
WE HAVE TO WANDER the hospital corridors until we find the reception desk. The place is warm enough, but the lights are the colour of ice. The smell doesn’t help. I try to stay away from hospitals because of the smell.
“Nutty Moosonee,” Florence tells the woman at the desk.
“Are you family?” asks the woman.
“You bet,” says Florence. “I’m her daughter.”
The woman doesn’t look at all convinced.
“And this is her other daughter and her granddaughter.”
“And him?”
“Baby brother,” says Florence. “He’s her baby brother.”
THEY HAVE NUTTY on the third floor, in a room all by herself. Ada and Roman are sitting by her bed. Nutty looks small and shrunken. And out of place.
“Come here, Chipmunk,” says Ada. “You can sit on Nooko’s lap.”
“How’s she doing?” says Florence.
“But you guys got to find your own chairs,” says Ada.
“I’m fine,” says Nutty. “Just get me out of here.”
“You’re not fine,” says Ada, “and there ain’t no way in hell you’re going back to that trailer.”
“Nothing wrong with me,” says Nutty.