Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  “Ah need my son to help carry the meat, but ah could wait for him here while he accompany you home. He seem strong again to me, but your cheeks so flush, ah believe you catch his fever.”

  Jane and Adam look away before their eyes lock. “I’ll be all right. And Adam has a boat to catch.” She starts walking backward.

  “Well, if you’re sure, Miss Jane. We’ll watch you awhile.”

  “Goodbye, then, Louis,” says Jane, and nods toward Adam, not trusting herself to speak his name. Gomer’s boots prevent her from running, but she breaks into a clumsy skip to be out of their view as quickly as she can. What a foolish girl to be caught up with such feelings. And how does she rid herself of them now? She reaches home without knowing how she got there. Her skirt is torn at the bottom. Did a cougar attack her or was it another branch of holly she missed seeing again? Her mind is too full of silly thoughts to notice anything around her until she is outside her house. Fearing she will be late for supper, she bursts through the door. She is surprised to see Roland Hughes sitting at their kitchen table playing gin rummy and drinking beer with Tommy.

  “Good day, Jane.” Roland puts his cards down to greet her.

  “Hello, Roland.”

  Tommy seems relaxed. Gomer has pulled up a chair behind him, fidgeting and watching his big brother’s cards. Even Mama is in the sitting room knitting, glancing up between her stitches with a contented view of the young men. “Looks like you got caught in the rain,” she says, referring to Jane’s hair.

  Jane touches it, wondering how she had appeared to Adam. “A little. Louis made me a cup of tea and I warmed up.”

  “Why doesn’t the old man pick up his laundry here?” asks Roland, showing no sign of resuming the card game now.

  “He has offered many times. And besides I like to get out for a walk in that direction,” Jane says defiantly. “When the flowers are in bloom, I walk to the bluffs on my way home. The heartsease” — she uses her mother’s term for wild pansies — “on the hills take me back to Catherine and Margaret, and the way things used to be.” She steps out of Gomer’s boots, no longer caring if anyone sees them, hangs up her cloak, and sets the apples in the cool lean-to.

  “The bluffs?” Mama says sharply. “Be you careful on those bluffs. Moira McPherson’s son was playing with another boy up there and fell over and broke his neck. And this is your home now, no use pining for what once was.”

  “Jane’s a big girl, Mama, she can take care of herself,” smiles Tommy. “As long as she doesn’t wear Gomer’s boots to the bluffs. She’d be sure to stumble then.”

  Everyone laughs, including Jane. Roland watches her as she brings the pot of soup from the shelves in the lean-to and sets it on the stove. She is careful not to glance too long at him for fear of comparing his pale thin face and slight body to Adam. She is able to breathe more easily now, relieved for the calm. How could she feel such comfort in the company of Louis and Adam, when now from the familiarity of her home, that world seems off limits?

  “Maybe Roland would like to stay for supper,” says Mama. Tommy clears away the cards and beer glasses.

  “Thank you,” says Roland. “And maybe your sister would like to go to the dance with us tonight.”

  Tommy looks as surprised as Jane. Mama is the only one who speaks. “Not yet. She might think she’s an adventurer, going to the bluffs, but she’ll be only sixteen next month and that’s still too young for a dance hall full of miners.”

  “I’d look after her,” says Roland, with a conspiratorial smile, “in case her brother is too busy with Lizzie Carter.”

  Tommy reddens. “Quiet, Hughes.”

  “Lizzie Carter?” Jane turns quickly from the stove. “She’s been over to Stella’s. How do you know Lizzie, Tommy?”

  Tommy mumbles, “I’ve seen her at the store. And she brings lunches sometimes when her father and brother forget.”

  Roland leans back in his chair, his eyes darting from Tommy, to Jane, to their mother, amused at the reaction he has provoked. Jane stirs the soup vigourously. Lizzie Carter. Big and bossy. Not as silly as Stella, but not as pretty either. She refuses to imagine her shy, moody, hardworking brother in the clutches of Lizzie Carter. Roland likes to tease, so maybe that’s all there is to it, but Tommy is not denying knowing her. At least the talk has shifted from her going to the dance. She is thankful Mama said no, so she would not have to do it herself. Tonight she wants to be home alone.

  She sets out plates and bowls on the table and pulls up another chair, wishing it were for Cassie. They would go for a walk later and she would tell her all about today. In the meantime, she will share their meal with Roland Hughes whose eyes are still watching her every move. She remembers Adam’s eyes — also alert but with a soft detached merriment — and again, she resists a comparison. Later, when Mama has gone to bed and Roland and Tommy are at the dance, she will write a few lines to Cassie, Margaret, and Gilbert. She will not be signing it Plain Jane just yet.

  WOULD I EVER GET ANYTHING RIGHT? Barnwell just wrote our term paper deadline on the board. Not two Wednesdays from now, as I had wanted to believe, but next week. Crane Reese must have noticed the shock on my face because he leaned toward me with the topic list. He pointed to The influence of Sir James Douglas’ early life on his success as a leader. He whispered, as Barnwell exited, “Only one left with references still in the library.”

  I whispered back unnecessarily. “Thanks.” Sir James sounded as good or bad as the others, since I had not given much thought to any of them.

  “I’m almost finished mine.” Crane stood up. “Black immigration. I could give you my books tomorrow or the next day. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t want the competition.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Believe me, you’d do well in competition with me.”

  I followed him out and thought he was going to suggest coffee again but he didn’t. He said goodbye in the corridor that led to the library. I got the hint. A sick, empty feeling took over my stomach. Not from hunger, because I had remembered to bring a sandwich this time, but from my usual procrastination.

  Everyone was leaving the library. Passing me, each carried an aura of superiority, of having mastered everything he or she had to learn. The only thing I was confident about at that moment was that I was the most inadequate student in the college. A familiar sensation that had played many roles recently. After Ray dumped me, I imagined everyone I encountered to be in a storybook-perfect relationship, and not long after that, I was sure everyone I looked at had a mother. Now they were all diligent students. With boyfriends and mothers.

  The librarian informed me they were closing for the day. In a quavering voice that made me think of a punk at his first robbery of a 7-Eleven, I told her I had to have some books.

  “Sure,” she said obligingly. “What would you like?”

  “Something on Sir James Douglas.”

  “You’ve got a lot to choose from,” she said, typing his name into the computer without a hint of impatience. “Anything in particular about him?”

  “His early life.”

  “B.C. Studies has some articles on his school days, and his mother and grandmother. Journals can’t leave the library but I can give you a couple of good biographies. She led me through the shelves and picked off three books. “These should keep you going.”

  She signed them out and smiled as I left. I made a mental note to treat my felons with that kind of respect, because I was nothing more than that: a perjurer who had vowed to pass a course for credit and was about to give up on that vow.

  I got into my car and took the club from the steering wheel. My forehead slumped against the cold hard plastic. I did not know how to write a term paper. I knew who did, but it would be losing my last shred of dignity to ask him.

  Dad.

  Dad? Just then I remembered we were to go to the island on Thursday. That was out of the question now with this paper sending a summons for my days off. If I cancelled, Dad would probably never suggest an outing
again, sensitive as he was to my schedule. He treated me as if I was the hardest-working person at the most important job in the world, a joke if ever there was one right now. It was just after ten. I was in the area. He would still be up listening to comedy reruns.

  He answered the door in his pyjamas. The surprise and concern on his face prompted my next-of-kin visit voice. “It’s okay, Dad, I just finished class and thought I would stop by.”

  The entire house was dark and silent, even the kitchen where he normally kept company with his radio, grapefruit, and yogurt at this time of night. “Were you in bed?”

  He smiled sheepishly, and my face went from worried white to shocked red. “Dad, have you got someone here with you?”

  He added a flattered male smile to his embarrassment, then switched on the lights. I followed him into the living room. “No, actually… in other words, I was consulting my finger.” He gestured for me to sit down.

  I remained standing. “What?”

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry. What about your finger?”

  “I’ve been reading a lot since your mother died. Meditation, selfhypnosis, ideomotor responses. You contact your subconscious mind through deep meditation, then you ask it something that has you in a dilemma. It’s nothing spooky,” he added, seeing the look on my face.

  “Nothing spooky?”

  “Nothing outside your own experience, like, ‘Will the Blue Jays win the pennant?’ You’re simply speaking to your subconscious where all data is stored and ready to be tapped.”

  “Of course. Fingertapping.”

  “You have to practise. I’ve been doing it awhile; I just haven’t been caught at it before. You instruct your finger to act as the indicator of your subconscious, to cut through all the defences and conditioning that might be counterproductive to your best interests. Our conscious mind often sabotages our best interests, you know, and this is merely a means to open yourself to a new level.”

  “Your inner child?”

  “Maybe, except I can’t stand that term.”

  “Well, Sara’s child then. You’re taking over where she left off.”

  Exhaustion was moving in fast and I flopped on the old corduroy sofa, my head and feet braced against the padded arms that were threadbare from years of my imprint. For once Dad had overruled a decorating decision of Mom’s. He had insisted on keeping the old couch upstairs when Mom upgraded the living room with a saffron-coloured — real saffron is reddish not yellow, she pointed out — leather sectional. There was just enough room for it and Sara’s Queen Anne chair in the passage between living room and eating area. Dad had lined the walls with shelves to hold Sara’s books and a small TV: being surrounded by the library he had grown up with provided comfort, he insisted, and Mom had to concede to the little den between her modern front room and dining room. They kept most of their own books in the basement, but these served to remind us all of Sara’s love of literature and knowledge. As a kid I learned the word “autodidact” from hearing my parents describe Sara to strangers. Then “unconventional and strange” took over in Mom’s descriptions.

  “No, I told you, I’m not trying to commune with spirits or see the future, I only want to make a decision from the clearest vantage point possible.”

  “And what were you asking your finger tonight? Or is that private?”

  “I’m at an impasse with Sissipuss.” He grinned shyly. “Should he team up with Cedric the Cockroach and help him redeem his despised insect image, then have Cedric and his family carry off the piece of sponge he pushes upstairs? You do know the myth, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said, thanking Crane.

  “But I wondered if I might be accused of borrowing from archy and mehitabel even though Cedric has been in my repertoire since you were a kid.”

  No way would he get me to ask who those two were. I had enough crow to eat ahead of me. “What’s the alternative?”

  “Two separate stories. The triumph of Sissipuss and the heroism of Cedric.”

  “Dad, these are supposed to be children’s stories and I can’t understand what you’re talking about.” Seeing his expression made me think fast. “Why don’t you have Sissipuss ask his finger for the answer? I mean paw. No, better yet, ask his tail. It’s more like a magic wand.”

  Dad’s face lit up the living room. “His tail. That’s brilliant. Especially since it’s a bobbed tail and could suddenly become functional. Yes, make it funny — ask his tail whenever he needs guidance. Maybe Cedric could come to him, no, maybe…” Dad began mumbling to himself as if he himself were going into a trance. “This is exactly what I needed — a new idea, even if it doesn’t work out.” He bent down and gave me a rare hug before padding into the kitchen in his slippers and returning with two small containers of yogurt and two spoons, handing me one of each. The smooth liquid slid down my throat, easing my gnawing stomach a little.

  “Dad,” I said quietly, “I have something to tell you and to ask you.”

  “Anything.”

  I felt both treacherous and relieved to have my normally undemonstrative father in this state. “I don’t know how to write a term paper. I need your help.”

  “History?”

  “Sir James Douglas.”

  “Sir James has been a tenant in our basement for many years. He was a regular on the departmentals I drafted, so you’ll find all you need downstairs. Which phase?”

  “How his early life determined the leader he was to become.”

  “He was of mixed race, you know. His birth certificate was never found, but they established who his mother was from records of her will in British Guiana. He never mentioned his mother, but did name one of his daughters after her. Martha.”

  I set the empty yogurt container on the coffee table and fell back on the sofa as Dad’s quiet voice repeated much of what Barnwell’s booming one had said in class. Both washed over me, but this time I was soothed into assurance that everything would be taken care of. I was back home, after all, and everything always was. My eyes shut on the wish that I had brought a clean uniform for tomorrow. Mom left spare nightgowns and underwear in my old dresser for unexpected visits, and I doubt if Dad had moved any of it.

  “He was a pioneer. I think it was the discipline of the Scottish schools, his physical stature and strength, and his ability to deal with all races that made him the natural leader he was,” Dad continued. The last thing I heard was, “Then again, his brother was dismissed from the North West Company for incompetence and stupidity, so it wasn’t all genetic…” until I felt Sara’s afghan being gently spread over me.

  “Dad,” I protested feebly, lifting my head. “I have to get home. Do you think Janetta would forgive me if we postponed our visit until after my assignment is in?”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand with your busy schedule.”

  The rest of me raised itself to an upright position. “Thanks, Dad.” I gave him a lazy hug. “I can always count on you.”

  “Ditto,” he said, with a gleam in his eye that told me his night at the drawing table was just beginning.

  My car got back home on automatic pilot. Ironing my shirt woke me up slightly, and I allowed myself a few minutes of bedtime reading after setting my alarm. Did I reach for the book on James Douglas? Of course not. Instead, I carefully unfolded the second last worn letter. The date and first line caught my attention. My great-grandmother and I were connected through more than just dripping noses. We were born on the same day.

  December 8, 1894

  Dear Brother and Sisters,

  Today is my sixteenth birthday and I am not much in the mood for a party. Mama wanted me to bake a sponge cake with fluffy boiled icing for the occasion and Tommy brought his friend Roland Hughes for a slice after their shifts. We also celebrated Tommy’s promotion to timber foreman. He is too shy to bring Lizzie Carter home and will still not admit she is his girlfriend. Roland asked me what I wished for when I blew out my candles and I s
aid, only one thing — to see my sisters and brother again soon.

  Mama tries to teach me to sew well enough that I might take in sewing rather than wash clothes in someone else’s house. There is never any time left over in my days. I cannot take much more of one customer, but I would wash the other one’s clothes for no pay. Sisters and Brother, I wish you were here so I could tell you about the dangerous things I hear from one about the other.

  I am tired now and must find my bed. Tommy and Roland have gone to the pub and Mama and Gomer are sleeping. It is cold and wet and dreary, and I hope my seventeenth year is made up of better days than the past one.

  Please write to me often.

  xxxxxxxxx Your loving sister, Jane xxxxxxxxx

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS, THEN,” says Stella.

  Pulling her woollen cloak around her shoulders, Jane slips a small package from its inside pocket. “For Norman.”

  Stella smiles in surprise at the gift wrapped in red flannel and fastened with a green ribbon. “Why, thank you, Jane.” She opens the fabric to reveal a pair of tiny blue mittens and matching helmet cap with button strap. “I’ll bet you knit these yourself.”

  Jane nods. “You were supposed to keep it for Christmas.”

  “Oops,” Stella giggles, closing up the package like a naughty girl.

  Jane steps outside, the bite of frosty air pardoning her from the Cruikshank house until the new year. She welcomes the close of 1894, but does not greet its successor with the hope she mistakenly held at this time last year. After being forced to quit school, she had not believed her burdens would get worse.

  “You sure you can’t make it just once between Christmas and Old Year’s Night,” Stella’s voice holds onto her. “I don’t know how I’ll manage the washing and little Norman with Lance’s mother and sister coming over from Vancouver. They like things just so.”

  Jane turns back and says firmly, “Maybe they could help with Norman. I promised to give Mama a hand recovering an old chesterfield Thomas brought home, and there’s all the Christmas baking yet to do.”