by Myrna Dey
I was too edgy to concentrate on the menu, so I followed his lead in ordering a glass of red wine and pasta arrabiata. His hair was between the long bushman style from Squires and the remains of the summer brushcut he wore in the hospital. Unruly waves curled at his neck and forehead, his complexion rosy from having run — as he informed me — to the restaurant from his condo. An inspiration from one healed leg to one still in progress. This was my third variation of Warren Wright and I had to remind myself his multiple personality was my problem, that he was one and the same to himself.
He had grown up in Calgary, where his parents and married sister still lived. After earning a degree in graphic arts from the Alberta College of Art and Design, he had moved to Vancouver to take a job with an advertising company. When he discovered he wanted more creative independence, he gave himself options by enrolling in digital visual arts at the Emily Carr Institute and drove a cab to finance his studies. That’s when he got arrested.
“Were you scared?” I asked him.
“Of you?”
“Of me or the system?”
“I didn’t think I’d go to jail, if that’s what you mean. And I hate to tell you, but I didn’t feel threatened by you. Your smile is irresistible and you have such an endearing way of blushing.”
“You mean I smiled?”
“Not at me. Maybe at the restaurant owner, I don’t know who. But I remember you blushing. You weren’t wielding your power.”
“Please don’t let that get around.”
“You were very professional, but the vibes I picked up said ‘Maybe I should take this guy in with his friend’ for the sake of the keen recruit with you. I could tell he was new to the job and eager for some action. He’s the kind who likes power.”
So he can read my mind. Dangerous. And he had the recruit pegged. Recently I heard the guy had been called in for using excessive force. I kept this to myself, however. I wasn’t about to admit his judgment was better than mine.
He gave me an update on Tim Lewchuk: moved to Toronto less than a year after the arrest, now married with a son and working in a bank. That night was probably the worst of his life. He was nursing deep wounds from the break-up with his girlfriend and when she called the cops on him, he went over the edge. He hadn’t had a parking ticket since.
The chatter went on so easily I hardly noticed we were eating. I could not help myself, however, from going through the checklist. Since Gail and I first became aware of boys as possible attachments, we kept adding eligibility requirements. And if this sounds shocking, I invite anyone to spend five minutes with a group of male cops to see how they rate our gender.
Family body types played a role with both Gail and me. Her dad was short and stocky with stubby fingers and she could never go out with anyone who wasn’t solid or who had long, thin fingers. Men didn’t come much stronger than Monty, so he was a shoo-in once he got her attention. My height left me fewer choices than Gail, unless I wanted to be looking down on a boyfriend’s head; for some short guys, tall women are a turn-on. Dad had imprinted me with a liking for tall thin men and I felt the same way about long fingers as she did about sausage ones.
Gail and I were also divided on the smooth-versus-hairy question, and lucky for Mr. Wright, I was — that is, he should be — on the hairy side. Not gorilla hairy but a few tufts certainly didn’t hurt. As I watched his long tufted fingers holding his glass of red wine, I wondered about my final physical stipulation: feet. Because of the size of my own, I could never consider even a tall man with small feet. Surprising that I hadn’t already noticed the one without the cast in the hospital. Shoes were also important in my demanding little world, lace-ups winning out over loafers. At the moment, Warren’s were safely under the table.
Of course, these qualifications were purely hypothetical if I didn’t pass the guy’s checklist. Again, Gail always had plenty to choose from and that gave her a confidence that attracted even more. No one ever thought I was cute, though Ray told me often that I was beautiful in a striking, original way. That a strong chin hadn’t hurt Reese Wither-spoon. Hah! I should have known then where such language from a lawyer would lead.
Two hours passed effortlessly before I finally made a move to call it a night. He mentioned getting together again soon and I surprised myself by saying not until after next Wednesday, because I would be studying for my final exam until then. He was leaving for Hawaii for three weeks the day after. A travel agency he’d done work for had given him the trip in partial payment and he had friends with a timeshare there. He quietly paid the bill and helped me slide out of the booth, escorting me to the door. Outside, I asked him if he wanted a ride home, but he was going to a bookstore after he walked me to my car on a side street. We wished each other a happy holiday, and as he started to leave, I stole a peek at the acceptable scuffed runners on his feet. Then he turned back — as I quickly shifted my eyes upward — and pulled a card out of the pocket of his leather jacket.
www
warrenwrightwebworks
No graphics, just addresses and phone numbers. “In case you get the urge.” He walked off with a jagged smile.
Inside the car, my impression of him as easy company reverted immediately to an elusive, complex infatuation. If Sara said anticipation was powerful, how about retrospection? Would I ever get a true picture?
The history final arrived soon enough. The night before, Warren phoned to wish me luck and to say he had been thinking of me. I had been thinking of him too — almost constantly — but as soon as I heard his voice, reality put up a shield of detachment. When I told him to remember his sunscreen, he replied, “I don’t plan on lying around the beach all the time. I want to do some hiking.” One for Sara on the lie/ lay question. We promised to see each other when he got back.
A first for me to be excited about an exam; I had gone through Barnwell’s notes three times and supplemented them with Dad’s history texts when I needed more. I had even lain awake most of the night like a kid at Christmas pumped up for the occasion to start. Luckily, it was quiet at work all day or I might have used up my concentration.
Barnwell said he didn’t know whether to hand back our papers before or after, weighing the possible psychological advantages and disadvantages for the exam. Someone argued we would try harder if our mark was low, and if it was high, it would act as an inspiration. Barnwell didn’t need much convincing.
My mark of 90 per cent was a number I had not seen on an exam since my elementary school spelling tests. “Inventive treatment of topic, using letters as historical documents. The Strong murder is worth a paper of its own. House arrest served you well. Congratulations.”
It was enough to propel me through the exam like a howitzer. I was prepared for every question and had a chance to go through them all again, still high on the trajectory when he called time. But academic adrenalin was new to my system and when I stood up, my energy no longer reached my head. I felt myself swaying with giddiness, the kind that comes before a migraine.
We all said thanks to Barnwell and exchanged invitations to stay in touch. Crane waited for me and we walked out together. I asked him if he needed another ride, but he said he and Marla were going for a drink across the street. Would I like to join them?
I declined the offer, my thoughts already on the corduroy couch and an Advil to ward off the head monster. He handed me his phone number and address on a scrap of paper, waiting for me to reciprocate. I knew better. “Thanks, I’m between numbers at the moment, but I might track you down for a cup of coffee sometime.” Had I reached the stage where I only considered men with business cards? Or had I ever had a choice before?
Driving out of the parking lot, I considered the excuse I had given Crane. It probably was time for me to move back to my apartment, and yet I was dragging my feet in every sense of the phrase. Maybe I would be stronger if everything weren’t done for me. I couldn’t deny I was comfortable at Dad’s and knew it would be hard for him no matter when I moved out. But livi
ng in my parents’ home much longer didn’t seem right, especially when I was paying rent on my own place. Before I knew it, I had turned onto the street that would take me there. Approaching, I saw a young couple, followed by two women coming through the entrance. All were laughing. This was a positive sign, because at Dad’s I tended to think of my apartment building as dark and forlorn without me in it. Now my mind swung to the other extreme, imagining the place taken over by Club Med types, as if all traces of my former existence had been erased.
I parked on the street and walked back. In the foyer I was relieved to see Mrs. Read sitting in one of the easy chairs waiting for her friend to pick her up for their weekly bridge game. Some things hadn’t changed. She said she hoped I was coming back soon.
My mailbox was stuffed, since neither Dad nor I had been here for a week or so. Hydro bill, fundraising address labels, pizza coupons, early Christmas and late birthday cards. I opened the one with familiar handwriting. “Happy Holidays to you and your dad. Ray.” What was he up to? Had he broken up with Blondie? I hadn’t answered his coffee invitation and had not bothered to ask anyone at work if there were changes in the Crown Counsel office. I pressed the elevator button. The door opened on another friendly face coming up from the basement. The manager, Nick Shotenski, obviously held no grudges about my many calls over minor things, his favourite being the stuck bulb in the oven and the broken base left in the socket of the bathroom fixture. It gave him a chance to repeat his favourite line: How many cops does it take to change a light bulb? One, but only if she knows a Ukrainian.
I got off at the seventh floor while he proceeded to the penthouse with his toolbox. When I turned the key and pushed my apartment door open, I expected a breath of stale, stuffy air but was surprised by a pleasant, almost fragrant inhalation. It smelled like a mixture of Sara’s satiny Noxzema cream and her favourite perfume, Je Reviens. I knew it was neither, but I also knew — thanks to Lonnie’s brother Hank — that unaccountable currents somehow rearranged air particles and maybe this was one of those occurrences. I walked through my three rooms, none as dismal as I had imagined. Under the sink I found a plastic bag for my letters and left with the feeling that I still did have a life at this address.
Back in the car, I looked at my watch. Dad would have skipped his supper hour and be waiting to eat with me and hear about my exam. Sure enough, he had a deli lasagna warming in the oven, and when he saw my paper, he brought out the sherry and two glasses.
“If I do as well as I think on the exam and with the mark from your paper and this one, I might end up with a decent grade. These courses could get to be a habit.”
“Why not?” said Dad, prouder than proud, lifting his glass in a toast. “By the way, Janetta called and would like us to go to Nanaimo for Christmas. I told her we had made reservations at the Sylvia for Christmas dinner. That we wanted to keep it quiet this year. And Gail called. She wants you to phone her.”
Gail and I had been playing phone tag since my birthday. “It’s too late now for Saskatchewan.”
“She said she would be up late — at a meeting. You’re to call whenever you get in.”
I flopped on the sofa with the phone and dialled her number. She sounded out of breath. “Just got in from a long-winded committee. But I’ve got interesting news for you about that photo from the Mingus family.”
“What is it?”
“I spoke to Howard Mingus and he said his father is the one you should talk to. He lives in Medicine Hat in seniors housing close to his daughter, Howard’s sister. Here’s his phone number — his name is Wendell Mingus.”
I wrote it down as we spoke. “So what’s the interesting part?”
“You’ll find out. Call him tomorrow.”
“Not even a hint? Torturer.”
“I’m too tired at the moment. But as I mentioned to your dad, we want you both to come for Christmas dinner at my parents’ place.”
“Thanks, but we’ve made a date at the Sylvia.” People were kind, but I was not up to being part of someone else’s Christmas. Mom always made a stylish production out of the holiday and Dad and I agreed not even to put up a tree for ourselves, let alone be reminded somewhere else.
“Okay, but the offer still stands. And it’s not an offer, but a command for you to spend New Year’s Eve with Monty and me, whatever we end up doing. Unless you have a heavy date, that is.”
I gave an “as if” snort. “That’s a deal.”
“It’s minus forty with the wind chill here. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to everything about Vancouver.”
“Have a good sleep. And thanks for the non-information.” We hung up.
Dad was singing along to “Memories Are Made Of This” on the radio when I told him of a possible clue to the photo. He shrugged.
My eyes were closing even before I got into bed. The pillow under my head felt like a cloud carrying me away to a sunny university campus lined with good-looking men holding out their cards.
“MR. WENDELL MINGUS? This is Arabella Dryvynsydes calling from Vancouver. My friend Gail Pelletier in Willow Point spoke to your son Howard and he told her you might be able to give me some information. About a photo I bought from your family at a garage sale.”
Wendell Mingus’ voice held warmth but not age. “Yes, Howard called and told me of your interest. I believe the picture you have is one of my mother and her twin sister as little girls.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother Janet.”
“What was her sister’s name?”
“It was Sara. But she died very young.”
The blood left my head and began racing through my body. “Sara didn’t die, Mr. Mingus. She was my grandmother. She believed Janet had died as a little girl.”
From the pause at the other end, I guessed Gail had found out the revelation from Howard, but had not told him any more than she told me. “Mercy, what a piece of news you’re giving me.”
“Likewise.” Just then I heard someone call “hello” in the background.
“My daughter Gloria has just come in to help me pack. How I’d like to talk more about this. Wait a minute — you’re in Vancouver?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow I’m flying to Victoria to spend Christmas with another daughter and I have an hour stopover in Abbotsford. You anywhere close to that airport?”
“Just tell me when.”
“Gloria is driving me to Calgary for the 5 PM flight and I arrive in Abbotsford at the same time. Time change, you know.”
“We’ll be there. Dad and I will be the two tallest in the terminal.”
“And I’ll be wearing a brown leather jacket. A bit fancy for an old farmer like me, but my kids bought it for me to travel. See you tomorrow.” The Abbotsford airport was small enough to find Wendell Mingus easily, both from his description and from the process of elimination.
The bulk of the passengers departed quickly, leaving only about ten for the connecting flight to Victoria. Dad was first to spot his cousin. I was struck by a resemblance as they offered their hands to each other. Same headshape — elongated at the back — and body language as they bowed slightly when shaking hands in a cordial, almost shy manner. There was also a similar softness in their grey eyes. Dad had a definite edge in height from the Dryvynsydes, but he could finally relinquish his title of biggest ears in the family. And Wendell dominated in hand size: two big rough paws — Gail would have liked them — one sporting only three fingers and a thumb. His face was sun-lined from a life in the field against Dad’s white studious one. I gave Wendell Mingus a hug.
We took a cluster of four seats, one for Wendell’s carry-on. “Where do we start?” he asked.
“How about the end?” I suggested. “When did Janet die?”
“2000. She was ninety.”
“Same as Sara,” I said in disbelief. “Date?”
“September 8. She had been failing for a few years with a heart condition and just got weaker and weaker. Moth
er died in hospital and it was a relief in the end.”
“Mother hung on until October 2,” Dad said, correcting himself to Sara in case Wendell mixed up their mothers, “but I think it was early September that we took her in with pneumonia. Do you remember, Bella?”
“I do. In fact, it was September 8, because I remember phoning Gail for her birthday from the hospital. I told Gail we were afraid she wouldn’t make it,” adding for Wendell’s benefit, “Gail’s my friend in Willow Point who called your son.” How Sara would have loved this cosmic connection in death with her sister.
Dad carried on, “But Mother recovered enough to go back home and she died peacefully of a heart attack a couple of weeks later. Sitting in her favourite chair with her cat and a book on her lap. The perfect exit.”
Even my big frame didn’t offer enough skin surface to produce the goosebumps necessary for this picture. Two complete strangers referring to Mother so casually when these women had shared the same womb. The only encounter more moving would have been watching Sara and Janet find each other. If life cheated those two out of such a meeting, it was now connecting these men before all memories of them were erased. As Wendell began to share his, I had a brief flare-up of possessiveness when he mentioned Jane, the same as I’d had when Jane mentioned baby Sara in her letter. My great-grandmother belonged to me.
“So I guess you know their mother Jane died of influenza when the girls were eight. Mother was sent to Victoria to live with her Uncle Gomer and Aunt Thelma, and her sister was given to another aunt and uncle in Ladysmith — I can’t think of their names…”
“Uncle Thomas and Aunt Lizzie,” Dad provided as Wendell resumed: “Well, Mother said Sara had died a year later.”
Dad slapped his forehead. “How could that have happened? Sara believed the same thing about Janet.”
“Mother — Janet — must have heard it from her uncle or aunt. She had no cause for doubt, so we never discussed it much. She wasn’t one to question things anyway.”