Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  “Wendel tells me you’re a great singer.”

  “I’ve mostly been singing at weddings and funerals, Ukrainian songs. Nothing the crowd could dance to, nothing – you know – upbeat.”

  “Not a problem,” says Martin, the bass player. “We can do a Ukrainian song or two, and we’re about due for a slow song anyway. What have you got?”

  My mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single song I know – fast or slow. I glare at Wendel.

  George suggests “Kazala meni maty,” but I don’t know all the words. He says that “Oi divchyno” could make for a good waltz. I’m not crazy about it. He says that “Balamut” is an old standard, everyone knows “Balamut.”

  Donald shakes his head at George’s last suggestion. “Too many chord changes in the chorus. We couldn’t do it without a rehearsal.”

  “Don’t you know any country?” Martin asks. “Tanya Tucker, Crystal Gayle. Anne Murray. The kind of stuff they play on cfcw?”

  When I tell the band members that I know a few Johnny Cash tunes, the guys all laugh. I don’t know what’s so funny.

  “And a couple of Merle Haggard songs,” I say.

  “Has to be a girl-song,” says Donald. The other guys in the band nod in unison.

  By now, I’m ready to give up. Wendel is grinning at me from across the dance floor, as though he has single-handedly made all my dreams come true. Sophie, for all I know, is having sex in some hockey player’s car.

  I thank the band for trying. I say, “Well, maybe another time –”

  “How about the Judds?” says George Garwasiuk, interrupting me. “‘Why Not Me’ or – what’s that other tune of theirs?”

  “‘Rockin’ to the Rhythm of the Rain,’” says Martin. “That’s a good tune. You know that one?”

  As it happens, I’ve just sung a Judds song at Uncle Charlie’s 65th birthday party in Two Hills. Not “Why Not Me” or “Rockin’ to the Rhythm of the Rain,” but a Judds song nonetheless. I give them the song title. They can play it. At last, a song that we all know.

  We take a minute or two to go over the order of verses and refrains. Donald unplugs his guitar and we all cluster around him while he runs through the song. He’s playing in E, I notice. I sing the song in A.

  “I don’t mean to be difficult, but actually I’d prefer to do the song in the key of A if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “The Judds do it in E,” says Donald.

  “Well, the Judds have higher voices than I do. Way higher voices. To sing their stuff I sort of have to key down. It’s just three chords anyway. Four, I guess, if you throw the minor into the refrain.”

  I take a second to transpose in my head.

  “A, D, and E,” I say. “Those are the chords. Simple three-chord song. And then a quick B-minor at the end of the refrain, if you want.”

  The guys all frown. Who would think that one minor chord would bring about such long faces?

  “Of course, we could drop the minor chord altogether. That would simplify things. It’s really up to you. Doesn’t matter to me. You decide.”

  In fact, I know that the minor chord is crucial – take it out and the whole poignancy of the song goes with it. But I’m willing to compromise just to get this show on the road. It feels as though we’ve been negotiating for half an hour at least.

  “We can do it in A,” says Donald. “Problem is, if we do the song in A then we’ve got to scrap the riff that comes at the beginning and at the end and between all the verses. This riff,” he says, playing it in E. “You can only play the riff in E. It doesn’t work in A. Only a guitar player would know that.”

  “May I?”

  I snatch Donald’s guitar out of his hands and play the riff in A. Flawlessly.

  “To play the riff in A, you just have to be creative. It gives your fingers a little workout, but it can be done.”

  I play it a second time.

  “Then again,” I say, “you could always play in E and set your capo on the fifth fret. Of course, if you use the capo, then you run the risk of playing a quarter tone sharp or flat.”

  I snap the capo onto the fretboard and play the riff in E.

  “Can you hear that? Ever-so-slightly flat. Just enough to hurt the ears. Well. The capo’s the easy way out, isn’t it? The lazy-man’s transposer. I try not to use a capo if I can help it.”

  I try to hand Donald’s guitar back to him.

  “Go ahead and play it yourself,” he says, turning his back to me. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  Glen counts us into the song by hitting his drumsticks together. One, two, three –

  He’s counting us in too fast.

  I can do one of two things: grin and bear it, and muddle my way through the song at top speed; or stop him now and get it right. Four bars in, I make my decision. I step away from the mike and wave my arms for the band to stop.

  “Glen, could you play it a little slower?”

  Glen starts hitting his drumsticks together again. Still too fast.

  To hell with it, I think. Ignoring Glen, I count the song in properly. Martin and George – and Glen, too, thank God – follow my count.

  In a matter of seconds, the dance floor fills with bodies, all of them moving counter-clockwise in time with the music, almost in unison. If we sped up the song now, they would all dance faster. If we slowed down to a crawl, they would crawl with us. Most of the couples careen past the stage without so much as a second glance at us; they seem to take their dancing very seriously. Some of the dancers, though, recognize me as they shuffle along. People from my grad class. Greg Pederson and Cheryl Popowich give me the thumbs-up; Sarah Matwychuk wriggles out of Luc Langevin’s arms to momentarily applaud. As I sing the first line of the refrain – the line about lovers falling in love and staying in love – I see Kirsten Paulichuk and Myles Litwinski strolling onto the dance floor. I see Sophie waving to me from the Junior b table, grinning from ear to ear. I smile back, sing louder.

  The song is all about the good old days. How people used to keep their promises, and families used to pray together, and daddies never went away.

  I know the next words, they’re easy. But at the end of the refrain, I step away from the mike. I can’t continue. Carla Senko is in the crowd. Near the back of the Rec. Centre, she is leaning against a wall, staring at the stage – staring at me. I wasn’t thinking. “Grandpa.” Of all the songs I could have chosen, of all the songs I could have sung. The words are addressed to Grandpa, who is supposed to know all about right and wrong. No one deserves this, not even Carla Senko.

  When it comes time for me to start the second verse, I don’t know what to do. I could stop the song altogether. Make up a new set of words, on the spot? Impossible. I pause on the A chord for several bars as I think. The band follows my lead. They stay on A, waiting for me to sing.

  After six bars of the A chord, George moves close to me on stage. He whispers in my ear that it’s okay.

  “Just sing the first verse again.”

  Now Carla is on the dance floor. And in the split second that it takes for me to recognize her dance partner, I start singing again. The first verse of “Grandpa,” all over again. Carla is dancing with the cowboy in the black hat. My cowboy. Not just dancing with him, flaunting him – pulling him up toward the stage, so that I can’t miss what’s going on. I send my voice like an arrow, clearly enunciating the word “grandpa” over and over again. So that Carla can’t miss what I’m saying.

  Carla drops her hand from the small of the cowboy’s back to the back pocket of his Wrangler’s. She must have seen me look at him, earlier. She must know that I like him. Hovering in front of the stage, Carla nestles up close to the cowboy. As I come to the end of the final refrain, she starts kissing his neck.

  After we’ve finished the song and I’ve left the stage, the band starts up again, without me. Wendel is at the bar, getting a drink for me, I’m sure. Sophie is still with the hockey players.

  As I make my way through the crowd
toward Sophie, Carla steps in front of me, forcing me stop and talk to her. In one hand, she holds a cigarette. The cowboy in the black hat is beside her, holding her other hand.

  “Did you sing that song just for me?”

  She says the words sweetly but her stare is cold and hard. The cowboy’s hand brushes her breasts as he wraps his arms around her waist.

  Carla Senko doesn’t wait for an answer. She leads the cowboy away, flicking her cigarette in my direction as they move toward the foyer. Now that I’ve seen the cowboy’s face – seen it up close – I change my mind about him. There are deep creases around his eyes, patches of grey hair under his hat. He’s older than twenty. Much older. He must be fifty, at least. Carla is eighteen. What is she doing with him?

  For second, I watch Carla’s cigarette smoulder on the dance floor before I crush it with the heel of my boot. Then the room starts spinning. I feel sick. Like I’m going to throw up any second. And I don’t think it’s just the drinks.

  Wendel appears at my side with two drinks in his hands, asking if I’d like to dance. I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry, Wendel. I can’t stay.”

  I need to find my sister.

  I need to end this night.

  I need to go home.

  Part 3: Edmonton/St.Paul

  One

  I can’t sleep in Edmonton. At least not at night. As soon as I start to doze, something outside my window wakes me up again – the sounds of sirens, horns honking. City buses roaring down the street. I see every hour on the new clock radio next to my new bed. I try wrapping my pillow around my ears, pulling the covers over my head. I just can’t block out the noise.

  Daytime is even noisier. There’s more traffic, plus our upstairs neighbours listen to music and stomp around in their apartment in their shoes. Sophie says that our building is quiet compared to other buildings she’s lived in. But I hear everything that goes on above us, and on either side of us. Water running, toilets flushing. Telephones ringing. I usually lie down around two or three in the afternoon, and sleep until suppertime. Not because our building suddenly gets quiet. I’m just so tired from not sleeping at night that I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

  Sophie says that I’ll adjust to the noise in no time. I’m not so sure. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

  Mom and Dad move Sophie and me into our apartment near the beginning of August, which gives us a few weeks to get settled before classes start. Dad wants Sophie to show me around campus, to make sure that I know where all of my classes are. He asks her to help me register for my courses and give me a hand buying my textbooks. Mom says that we should go grocery shopping once a week, so that there’s always food in the fridge. She suggests that we take turns making supper every night. That we draw up a schedule for housecleaning and laundry.

  I can’t wait for school to start. I know that I’m going to love university. Just like Sophie. Sophie has been living in Edmonton for two years. For two years, I’ve heard her talk about the coffee shops that she goes to with people she meets in her classes. They sit around in pubs late into the night, philosophizing over bottles of wine. They go to bars to listen to bands, and to cafés for poetry readings. I can’t wait to do all the same things. I’ve been waiting a long time to leave St. Paul. Since grad, I’ve just been killing time at home until I could start all over again. New city, new friends, new piano teacher. I’m going to be a whole new person.

  Mom and Dad buy me a new double bed, new sheets, and a new bedspread with clusters of tiny blue flowers against a bright yellow background. I buy big, colourful posters to put up in my new bedroom – prints of artwork by Picasso, Monet, Van Gogh. Mom helps me put up my posters while Dad and Wes assemble my bedframe. I hold up the pictures, Mom tells me whether they’re straight or not. Then we tack them up together.

  Dad and Wes move most of the furniture into our apartment – our beds and desks, our dressers. The couch, the kitchen table. Mom, Sophie, and I do the cleaning, put away the pots and pans and dishes in the kitchen cupboards. We organize the linen closet. Hang towels in the bathroom. Moving in takes a whole weekend, and there’s lots to do. But it doesn’t feel like work. We order pizza and Chinese food. Dad buys beer. It’s like one long slumber party. Mom and Dad sleep on my new double bed, Sophie and me on her bed. Wes rolls out a sleeping bag on the living-room floor. We stay up late, talking and laughing. In the mornings, Wes and I run out to buy coffee for everyone, and blueberry muffins.

  Eventually, of course, Mom and Dad and Wes have to go back to St. Paul. At the end of the weekend, Sophie and I say goodbye at the door of our apartment. As Sophie closes the door, though, I decide that I should walk them downstairs. I don’t have anything else to do. So, in the entrance to our building, I say goodbye again, waving while Mom and Dad and Wes cross the parking lot. Then I run out to their car, to say goodbye one more time. I’m not sure why I feel like crying. I want to live in Edmonton. I can phone home as often as I like, and I can go home anytime. I could go home every weekend if I wanted to. It’s not like I’m living halfway across the world. St. Paul is only two hours away.

  But the apartment feels so empty after Mom and Dad and Wes leave. It feels bigger, too. I wander around from room to room, looking at my new walls, my new floors. Somehow, everything seems older and darker once they’re gone. The linoleum in the bathroom is lifting at the seams. Some of the paint on the cupboards is peeling away. On my bedroom carpet, I find cigarette burns that I never saw before. And the noise. When Mom and Dad and Wes go home, I start noticing how noisy our apartment is. I try playing my guitar to drown out the traffic. I try singing. Someone in the apartment next door pounds on the wall.

  Sophie isn’t too keen on my singing, either. She says that once classes start, I’ll have to find a practice room at the university. When she’s studying, she needs total silence in the apartment. My playing and singing will annoy her.

  It doesn’t take very long for me to figure out that everything I do annoys Sophie – not just my music. She doesn’t like me to leave anything out on the bathroom counter. I’m supposed to keep everything in the medicine cabinet or in the cupboard under the sink. Only, there’s no room for my stuff in the cabinet or the cupboard because Sophie’s got so much of her own stuff stored there. I have to put all of my bathroom things on the top of my dresser.

  I’m also not allowed to light scented candles in my bedroom because Sophie says that the smell makes her sick. I can’t leave any books or magazines lying around the living room because Sophie doesn’t like the mess. When I come in from outside, I have to put my shoes in the closet by the door – on the left side, not the right side. The left side is for my shoes, the right side is for her shoes. Same with coats. After I put up a few of my posters in the dining room and the living room – a print of Picasso’s “Three Musicians,” and two whale prints done by a Haida artist – Sophie makes me take them down. She says that they clash with her furniture. Almost all of the furniture in our apartment belongs to Sophie, and it’s all black and white. Black couch, black coffee table, black end tables. White kitchen table, white drapes, white dishes.

  The problem is that Sophie has been living by herself for the past two years, and she’s not used to having a roommate. She’s used to doing things her own way. Shopping for herself, cooking for herself, doing laundry by herself. After Mom and Dad leave, she tells me that she’s not planning to baby me while we live together. When she first moved to Edmonton, she didn’t have anybody to help her. Nobody held her hand. I have to be independent, take care of myself. Figure things out on my own.

  During my first few weeks away from home, I phone Mom and Dad every night. My plan, each time I dial their number, is to tell them about Sophie. About how she’s not helping me at all with registration, or showing me how to open a bank account, or coming with me to get my library card. But I’d feel like a tattle-tale if I told them. They’d give Sophie a talking-to, and Sophie would just get angry. So I keep my mouth shut. Finding
my way around isn’t that hard anyway. I have to get used to being independent. It’s part of the new me.

  Plus my parents are so cheerful on the phone. They’re so excited that Sophie and I are living together, and that we’ll soon be walking to campus together each day, studying together every night. I don’t want to disappoint them by telling them that Sophie isn’t planning to do anything with me. She spends a lot of her time out with her friends. When she’s in the apartment, she stays in her room.

  Mom and Dad pay for everything while Sophie and I go to university, so that we don’t have to worry about anything except our studies. We’re supposed to enjoy our university years without losing sleep over money. On top of paying our tuition, they give us a monthly allowance to cover the rest of our expenses. They do it because, when they went to university, they didn’t have anyone to help them. Their parents couldn’t afford to give them money. Mom worked part-time at a meat-packing plant. Dad had to quit university for a couple of years, and go work at the chemical plant in Duvernay.

  I hate hearing their stories. How Mom used to ride the bus home late at night with pigs’ feet in her purse for soup. How, once a month, Dad used to count up his savings from the chemical plant, dreaming about going back to school. I feel spoiled when I think about how easy it is for me. So what if Sophie doesn’t like living with me? All I have to do is show up for my classes. Do my homework. On weekends, if I want to go home, I can just hop in the car. Mom and Dad buy Sophie and me a second-hand Ford Tempo to use while we’re at university.

  After living with Sophie for a few weeks, though, and after taking the car home to St. Paul three weekends in a row, I realize that I’ve made a big mistake. Mom and Dad have made an even bigger one. They should never have bought us the car. And I should never have used it. I should probably never use it again.

  Sophie refuses to come home with me when I drive to St. Paul. At first, I think that she wants time away from me – she wants to pretend on the weekends that she’s living by herself again. But then, one weekend, when I go home in the car, she catches a ride to St. Paul with one of her friends. And another weekend, she takes the Greyhound from Edmonton instead of driving home with me. Saturday morning, she shows up at the bus depot in St. Paul.