Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  I try to think of another metaphor. Something other than a journey. Something more original. We’ve been building a house, and now it’s time to move in – or move out? No good. What does the house really represent? We’ve been on a quest to find the holy grail of success and we’ve finally found it. Dumb. A high school diploma isn’t anything like a holy grail. It’s just a high school diploma. We’ve been swimming down the great river of life, and now it’s time to hit the open water. Forget it. The crowd will think about rough waters, stormy seas. Drowning.

  I decide to stick with the journey metaphor. It might not be original, but it works the best. And I’m going to quote from the Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not Taken.” Dad says that it’s a nice touch.

  •••

  Graduation day, I have to admit, is exciting. I try to play it cool, like I’m not really interested in all the hype, but it’s not easy. I feel like I’m about to get married. Our house is filled with relatives on Saturday morning, and everyone is all dressed up. I have to leave periodically to have my hair done, my nails, my makeup. Dad takes pictures of me in my gown. Sophie is like the maid of honour, fussing with the straps of my dress, helping me get into the car without creasing the satin. Mom has tears in her eyes as we enter the church.

  In the afternoon, before the banquet, there is a ceremony in the cathedral for all the graduands and their guests. We don’t actually have to do anything. We just sit in the pews while the priests and the minister bless everyone. It’s not just a Catholic service. And it’s not just in English, either. Father Levasseur does the French part of the ceremony, then a minister from the United Church talks in English for a while. A Ukrainian Orthodox priest is on hand, complete with his smoking ball of incense. Plus two Native elders from Saddle Lake, who chant in Cree while they burn sweetgrass.

  Three Native students from Saddle Lake are graduating – Joe Jr., Clifford Jackson, and Monica Whitford. Mr. Kaushal and my dad made sure that elders would be included in the graduation ceremonies.

  I try to focus on what’s going on in the church, but my mind keeps wandering back to the last time I was in the cathedral, a year ago, for Sister Maria’s funeral. It feels like yesterday. It feels like no time has passed at all. The smell of stargazer lilies comes back to me – so strongly that I can’t believe there aren’t bouquets of them next to my pew. It’s as though her casket is open in front of me. As though her funeral is happening all over again.

  From the church, we go straight to the gym for the banquet, one long row of cars snaking its way down main street toward the school. More like a funeral than a wedding.

  In a way, too, it feels like we’re on the movie set of a John Wayne western. Because it’s Rodeo Weekend, and when it’s Rodeo Weekend, the whole town gets into the rodeo spirit. There are cowboy murals on storefront windows, hay bales in front of the grocery stores and gas stations and all around the pad for the ufo. dj’s from cfcw blare country music from their van parked beside the office of the St. Paul Journal. People walking around town are dressed in blue jeans and plaid shirts, cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats. I half expect to see horses tied up in the parking lot of the high school.

  But we’re back into wedding world once we get to the gym. There are long rectangular tables covered in white paper, streamers and balloons, a stage for the dj, and a dance floor for the dance. It’s exactly like a wedding. It even smells like a wedding; like cabbage rolls, garlic sausage, and roast chicken. Everywhere I look, the grad committee members have hung banners that say “Grad ’89.”

  After we eat, all of the grads leave the gym. We line up outside the gym doors while we wait for the principal to announce our names. Then, one at a time, as our names are called, we walk up through an aisle between the tables, over a little bridge, under an archway of fake flowers, and onto the stage. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed that we don’t get to wear black gowns and mortarboards – mortarboards at the very least, so that the principal can move the tassel from one side to the other, symbolizing our transformation from graduands to graduates. He just shakes our hands, instead, and passes each of us our diploma.

  The whole thing happens fairly quickly – there are only sixty of us – so, before long, it’s time for my speech.

  Which is, without a doubt, one of the finest valedictory addresses in Regional High School history. I practised it so many times that I hardly need to look at my notes. I enunciate all my words, and pause at all the right spots. I speak with feeling.

  Dad squeezes my shoulders when I return to my seat. Mom gives me a big hug. All of my relatives are smiling and nodding. Before the dance starts, Mr. Kaushal comes over to our table to congratulate me on a job well done. Even Mr. Maletski shakes my hand. And Mrs. Webster says that she appreciated my reference to the Frost poem.

  But I still feel like a fool.

  When I ask Sophie if she could see the reactions of my classmates to my speech, I’m reminded of why I didn’t want to go to Grad in the first place. Sophie says that only a handful of them actually heard it. By the time I got to the podium, most of the grads were already out the door, on their way home to change for the Rodeo Beerfest.

  Of course. I should have known.

  My aunts and uncles try to tell me that it’s nothing.

  “Their loss,” says Uncle Harry.

  “Don’t even give it a second thought,” says Auntie Natalka.

  “We heard your speech,” says Auntie Mary. “And that’s all that counts.”

  They don’t understand. I wanted my classmates to hear. I wanted to impress them. It’s not enough that my family heard, and my teachers. I was supposed to walk off the stage, and all the other grads were supposed to cheer. I thought they’d give me a standing ovation.

  Waiting in the women’s washroom for Sophie to come out of the stall before we head home in her car, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look like a clown, with my clown makeup and my curly clown hair.

  I just need red lipstick and black eyeliner to complete the costume. Around my lips, I’d draw a big red frown. Under my eyes, I’d draw two little black tears.

  •••

  I don’t know why I let my family talk me into going to the Rodeo Beerfest with Sophie. I should know better. When we get home, and all the aunts and uncles are having a drink with Mom and Dad, Sophie pours me a stiff rum and coke. It’s probably the rum and coke that does it. I drink it too fast, too eager to forget what happened at the banquet. And then my defences are down. I can’t fight back properly.

  “You’re the Valedictorian,” says Sophie, passing me my drink. “You should go out and celebrate.”

  I shake my head.

  “We’ll go together,” she says. “It’ll be fun! Just pretend the whole speech-thing never happened. Show your friends that you’re bigger than them.”

  “Maybe I’m not.”

  “Come on. You never go out anywhere.”

  “So?”

  “So let loose for once in your life. I’ll drive.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time!”

  After awhile, Mom and Dad join in. They say that they’ll pay for my admission to the Beerfest, and for Sophie’s. They’ll give us spending money for drinks.

  “It’s on us,” they say. “We’ll drive you. Call us when you’re ready to come home, and we’ll pick you up.”

  I shake my head again and again. I’d rather stay home and visit with the family.

  Then the aunts and uncles get involved.

  “Go, go!” they say.

  “You’re young. You shouldn’t be at home with the old people.”

  “Go! Do some dancing, Maybe you’ll meet someone. Some nice boy. Who knows?”

  I tell them that, even if I wanted to go to the Beerfest, I’m not quite old enough. I’m only seventeen, and you have to be eighteen to get in.

  Dad waves his hand as if to say, “Never mind.” He says that some of his buddies from the Old Timer Hockey Team are
selling tickets at the door and selling liquor inside the Rec. Centre.

  “You’re my daughter. They’re not going to say a word to you.”

  In the car on the way into St. Paul, I sulk. I tell Sophie that if the Beerfest is boring, we’re going home. And it probably will be boring. So then I tell Dad that we’ll probably be phoning him as soon as he gets home, and then he’ll just have to turn around and come right back.

  They both laugh, as though it’s a big joke.

  Dad is right. His friends are working at the door, and selling liquor tickets, and pouring drinks at the bar. Ron Stranadka and Bill Chornohus stamp our hands in the foyer of the Rec. Centre. We buy liquor tickets from Dan Zarowny and his brother Dave. Gerry Bidulock hands us our drinks.

  The crowd is a mixture of familiar faces – lots of grads – and people Sophie and I have never seen before. We find a spot at an empty table near the dance floor between a bunch of Junior b Canadiens – hockey players who graduated with Sophie two years ago but who still live in St. Paul – and a group of bona fide cowboys in town for the rodeo. The hockey players are already drunk, they’re loud and rowdy. Their table is covered with empty beer bottles; some of them are drinking straight rye. All of them are smoking Colts. The cowboy table is quiet. It’s hard to see their faces under their cowboy hats but a few of them appear to be chewing snuff and spitting yellowish-brown saliva into plastic cups.

  Before Sophie even sits down, one of the hockey players, Andy Kostiniuk, approaches her. I give her a pleading look so that she won’t leave me by myself. She gets up to dance anyway.

  “Just one song,” she says.

  Sophie and Andy dance for the duration of my first drink. I get a second drink – rum and coke again, best not to mix – and I sip it slowly, trying to make it last.

  I finish my second drink. Sophie is dancing with another hockey player now, Bobby MacTavish. She waves at me from the dance floor.

  On my way to the bar for my third drink, I think that I catch someone looking at me. An older man, maybe twenty or twenty-five. His is one of the faces I’ve never seen before. On my way back to our table, third drink in hand, I’m sure of it: I’m sure that he’s looking at me. He’s a rodeo contestant, obviously. A real cowboy. Maybe he’s a bull rider. His face is tanned leathery brown; his boots look old and scuffed. He wears Wranglers, snug and well-worn – there are faded creases in the denim around his crotch. Very manly. Black cowboy hat, and no wedding band.

  I guess I’ll say yes if he asks me to dance. He’s nice looking. And the idea of dancing with a cowboy is kind of romantic. Probably when he asks me, we won’t even exchange words. He’ll just take me by the hand and lead me to the dance floor.

  My cowboy takes a swig of his beer. Adjusts his hat. Starts walking slowly, nonchalantly, across the Rec. Centre floor. Toward me, unmistakably. His legs aren’t nearly as bowed as the legs of the other cowboys. As my cowboy gets closer, I down my drink for courage. I haven’t liked anyone since Corey, in Dauphin, and that was years ago.

  Closer.

  What if the band starts playing a slow song?

  Closer.

  My heart races. He might kiss me right there on the dance floor.

  The cowboy tips his hat. At me.

  And then I feel a tap on my shoulder. I hear a familiar voice saying, “Hi C’lleen. Wanna dance? You look kinda lonely sitting here all by yourself.”

  My cowboy veers left, heads toward the bar. Sure enough, the band starts to play a slow song, “Amarillo By Morning,” and I’m stuck in the sweaty clutches of Wendel Kotowich. Wendel Kotowich, my old Ukrainian dancing partner. Wendel with chubby, chipmunk cheeks and a bowl haircut and clusters of pimples around his nostrils.

  Wendel, as it turns out, has a hundred things to tell me and we end up dancing to four songs in a row. Did I know that he’s moving to Olds to study meat-cutting at the college there? Did I know that Brad Trachuk and Jodie Sosnowski are going out? Did I hear about the whole mess with Carla Senko and her grandpa? I nod miserably, trying to spot my cowboy in the crowd – and losing him in a set of cowboy hats by the bar.

  The rumour is that Carla Senko’s grandfather has been sexually abusing her. She was living at the Crisis Centre for awhile because her parents kicked her out for pressing charges against him. But then Carla dropped the charges, and now she’s moved back home again.

  Wendel talks and talks.

  Did I know that Wendel’s older brother Glen is playing drums with the band onstage? Did I know that they’re thinking about touring around? That they might be recording an album? On and on Wendel talks, hardly stopping to breathe. With all the talking he’s doing, it’s a wonder he doesn’t miss a step or slip out of time. But Wendel is a good dancer, I’ll give him that. He was born to dance.

  “They go by the name of Jerry Garwasiuk and Sons,” says Wendel, as we lean against a wall listening to the band. “Though the old man doesn’t play anymore, just the Garwasiuk boys. No market for old-time Ukrainian music. No one wants to hear fiddles and tsymbaly anymore. It’s all top-40 country and rock and roll.”

  “That’s Donald Garwasiuk on lead guitar,” he says, pointing to the lead singer of the band. “My brother Glen says he’s a real perfectionist. Kind of a control freak. Hard to work with. George Garwasiuk plays rhythm, he’s the youngest. Nice guy that George. Real people-person. Martin Garwasiuk’s the bass player. And, of course, there’s my brother Glen behind the drum kit. He’s a good drummer, isn’t he?”

  Wendel looks really proud of his brother.

  But I’m ready to ditch Wendel now. Enough is enough. I didn’t come here to spend the night with Wendel Kotowich.

  I tell him that I’ve got to get a drink.

  He says that he’ll get one for me.

  I tell him that I need some air so I’m going to take a little walk.

  He says that he’ll walk with me.

  I tell him that I need to go to the washroom.

  He says, “Me too.”

  “Jesus Wendel,” I say. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you like me or something.”

  Wendel looks uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He might even be blushing.

  “Wendel,” I say, “are you blushing?”

  Out of the blue, Wendel tries to kiss me, pulling me awkwardly toward him and tilting his head to the side – like in the movies. Now would be the time for my cowboy to appear out of nowhere, knock Wendel out in one blow, then kiss me himself.

  No cowboy appears. Wendel’s breath stinks of garlic. I whack him across the head with my open hand.

  I look for Sophie at our table, by the bar, in the foyer of the Rec. Centre. She’s nowhere to be found. Into the ladies’ washroom I go, sure to find her reapplying lipstick or fixing her hair – or both. When I find her, I’m going to tell her that I’m heading home. Wendel Kotowich. Of all people. Wendel Kotowich. Likes me. It’s definitely time to go.

  I peek under the door of each stall in the ladies’ washroom, looking for Sophie’s leg. I call out her name. At first, there’s no reply. But then a voice from within one of the stalls starts to mimic me.

  “Soooo-phie. Soooo-phie.”

  Carla Senko emerges from the corner stall, hair tousled, mascara smudged under her eyes. She stands beside the washroom sinks with her hands on her hips.

  “Colleen Loose-sack,” she says, slurring her words. “Long time no see.”

  Carla is thin. Thinner than the last time I saw her, two months ago, before she dropped out of school. There are dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks are sunken. There’s a long brown stain down the front of her shirt where she’s spilled a drink.

  “Carla.”

  I don’t know what else to say. Since the incident with the French project, we’ve hardly spoken to each other. That was three years ago. Face to face with her here, in the bathroom, all I can think about are the rumours about her grandfather. She looks terrible.

  “How are you?” I ask.

>   “Pissed,” says Carla, trying to wipe off the mascara under her eyes. “I’m totally pissed.”

  While Carla talks, she sways – nearly falling over, once. I reach out to grab her arm, to keep her from hurting herself, but she shakes my hand away.

  “Get away from me!”

  As I leave the washroom, I can hear Carla talking to herself – about me, I think.

  “Little princess.” It sounds like “lil priss-ess.”

  Wendel is waiting for me outside the ladies’ washroom but I charge past him, pretending not to hear him as he calls out my name. I need to find Sophie. Wendel runs after me.

  “Colleen,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Colleen! I’m sorry. Listen, I’m really sorry, I was way out of line. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Wendel,” I say, yanking my arm away from him. “Really, it’s okay, it’s fine. I’ve already forgotten about it.”

  I start walking swiftly toward the doors of the Rec. Centre. Maybe Sophie is outside. Maybe she’s making out with one of the hockey players in the parking lot.

  “Wait up,” says Wendel. “Listen. I’ve talked to the guys. I’ve arranged for you to sing a song with them. Up on stage. You and the band. It’s your big chance to sing for a big crowd.”

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  “I don’t want to get onstage! I don’t even want to be here!”

  Wendel looks devastated. “I thought you’d like it. I thought it would be like a dream come –”

  “We’re going to take a little break, but don’t you go anywhere. When we come back we’re going to have local celebrity, songstress Colleen Lutzak onstage!”

  As Donald Garwasiuk, the band leader, speaks into the microphone, Wendel pulls me by the arm across the dance floor, toward the stage.

  “Just one song,” he says. “Come on. You’ve got to do it. They’re asking for you.”

  “I don’t think this is a very good idea,” I say to Donald as we shake hands on the side of the stage.