Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  So that was it. I stayed seated as the four of them passed down the aisle, like the family exiting the pews first in a wedding or a funeral. Each acknowledged me again, the unnecessary raincoat swinging from Jan’s arm.

  Ray and I stood up to follow. A sudden sensation of us as a couple again hit me. A fleeting titillation. We’d had our chance to make it work. I didn’t believe in trying relationships again unless something beyond our own human weaknesses had broken it in the first place. Like a war, an earthquake, or an extended coma. The birthmark that looked like a hickey peeked out from under his dress shirt collar when he turned his head a certain way, the same mark I had duplicated many times on the other side of his neck for symmetry. Strange how the outside of people didn’t change and you could be deluded into thinking the same was true of their insides. Or maybe the delusion lay in the hope that the inside had changed.

  I patted his arm. “Good luck with your case.”

  “Thanks, Bella. With the judge’s smoke breaks, it could be awhile yet.”

  I felt him watching me walk out of the courthouse. Yes, he was good-looking. I couldn’t take that away from him.

  The rain had stopped, and I gulped a mouthful of fresh air. The deepest swallow I’d had in ages. The hookers and other street people had been driven into doorways, cafés, and lobbies of cheap hotels by the heavy downpour, so my car was safe. Disabling an alarm in weather like that can be even trickier than they are.

  I reached in my purse for my keys and pulled out some loonies instead. I fed them into the parking meter. My hands had decided for me: before heading back to my bed, I’d take a stroll through the soft, humid air of Gastown. These inhalations were too purifying to be squelched inside a car just now. I thought of Calgary — was it only four days ago? — and its icy brightness. Bracing in its way, but only Vancouver wrapped you in silky mist like this. I turned onto Water Street at the first corner, inhaling the strong saltwater aroma of the inlet shimmering nearby.

  Soon the barred and boarded-up windows and littered sidewalks were behind me. That Gastown and its cobbled streets and pricy tourist quaintness bordered the poorest postal code in Canada no longer seemed a contradiction. Maybe because I stood equally in both worlds. I thought back to Wanda’s grungy household where I realized how a postal code had saved me from her version of blame and self-pity. But as familiar as her territory had become to me, these shops and fashionable eating places were just as familiar. Mom and I had often met for lunch here, and had then taken our time going through all the boutiques and art galleries. And for Ray and me, a reservation at Aqua Riva was not enough, unless we got a table on the water. They were happy, privileged times. Not to be mourned or regretted.

  I wondered if Jan, Vlasta, and Marek had beaten the paddy wagon to SPSC. Would they be in Jan’s Mercedes or Selena’s Jaguar? Wherever she ended up, none of them would forsake her. Jan would be present at every visiting session, regardless of number.

  I paused under the antique steam clock, Gastown’s crown jewel. Across the street I spotted a rack of scarves in the window of a boutique carrying Asian and African items. I went over to inspect them. A clerk informed me they were knitted in India from silk scraps of sari material left on the cutting room floor: long streamers in a blaze of shaggy, multicoloured threads. I chose the one with the most turquoise in it, feeling a sudden desire for that shade. I paid the woman and wrapped it twice around my neck, letting the ends fall over my oregano jacket. I didn’t look as classy as Vlasta O’Brien, but I could pretend I did.

  I stepped out of the shop onto the corner across from the clock. It would soon be belching steam and whistling the hour in its famous Westminster chimes. Any tourists out on this February day would gather around it in delight. And now my feet made the decision to stand and wait to hear it as well.

  Without warning, my fatigued mind took flight. Rooted to the corner of Cambie and Water Streets, my head filled with visions of pedestrians walking in step around the square of the intersection and across the diagonal. All passing by me as if I were a traffic cop with a whistle directing the choreography. Jane Hughes nodded her thanks for being allowed to cross first. Wiping her nose with a lace handkerchief, she was taller than I expected. She had a large, open face, and her hair was the same no-name brown colour as mine. Her long, full skirt and green woollen cloak made her look as if she belonged under the steam clock when she reached it. Roland Hughes crossed on the other diagonal, stooped but light on his feet, bowing toward me as he passed, then joining Jane under the clock. Louis Strong stayed on the square, plodding around the four corners and tipping his hat at each of them. Adam Strong followed his father with a spring in his muscular body — Yeah, Jane was all I could say. Sara walked against the flow, disobeying signals and winking as she did. Janet, following the stream, met her coming the other way, and they fell into each other’s arms on one of the corners. Grandpa followed with Sara’s coat and stood smiling behind the twin sisters. In a power walk, Mom strode the square, then the two diagonals, blowing me kisses without changing her pace. Dad tried to catch up to her with his deliberate steps, but couldn’t.

  Suddenly the intersection became overrun with people crisscrossing every which way: my two work teams marched through, then Janetta, Lawrence, Mona Mingus, Laura Owens, Gail, Monty, Ray, Wanda, Terry, Selena, Andy Lambert, Marek, Jan, Vlasta. I lost track. Rhythmical stops and starts on the corners, middle X moving in harmony with the square, then a sudden reversal of direction. The musical ride without horses.

  Just then, the steam clock burst into vaporous foghorn song. One shrill honk, and all but one disappeared from my giddy reverie. Across the street, Warren Wright leaned against a wrought iron lamppost with its bouquet of white globes, watching. Then as always, he walked away.

  Once in motion, my feet lurched across Cambie Street. And they didn’t stop.

  “ROLAND HUGHES?”

  Trust Monty to pick out the one dangling detail after more than an hour of Jane Hughes and Selena Kubik.

  Hoarse from talking, I sighed. “I’d hang up on you, except Gail’s on the other phone. What about him?”

  Amplified by the extension, Monty’s bear roar blasted our ears until Gail told him to tone it down. “Thought you were a detective, Bella. We know from Laura Owens that he remarried, but nothing more.”

  “Nice talking to you, Commissioner.”

  He snickered again, then hung up to let Gail and me finish the conversation.

  Monty’s laughter had reached Dad standing at the sink washing dishes. Sleep deprivation in check, I was once again sane enough not to see the world as a conspiracy and had accepted his third supper invitation. Time spent with him was not only valuable but hardly responsible for my messed-up love life.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Monty says we left Roland Hughes out of the investigation. What became of him and his second wife?”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.” As usual, the sight of his bent neck reaching for a high cupboard saddened me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can check him right now on the computer. B.C. Vital Statistics.” He folded the tea towel, hung it on the oven door, and started toward the basement. I followed his slow steps in slippers down the stairs. He turned on the computer and offered me the swivel chair. “Your fingers are faster than mine. Start with B.C. Archives.”

  He pulled another small upholstered chair over next to me. This was Dad’s first den; he and Mom often ate supper and watched the news here after she did a run on the treadmill while he watched Jeopardy! Eating upstairs began as a concession to my broken ankle, then became a habit. But I believe he preferred it down here with his memories of Mom — even in full view of the empty space where her exercise equipment had once stood before I impulsively got rid of it.

  There were two listings for Roland Hughes. One died in Vancouver in December 1942 at age sixty-nine, and the other in Comox in 1975 at the age of sixty-four. It had to be the first.
With a few more clicks, we established that Roland Hughes married Jane Owens on May 2, 1895 and Katherine Odgers on December 24, 1926, both in Nanaimo. More searches determined that Katherine MacDonald was born in 1882 in Nanaimo, and in 1901 had married Harold Odgers, who died in 1918 at age forty-five. Was he too a victim of influenza? Eight years later Kay and Roland tied the knot.

  “Grandpa was fifty-three in 1926. More than ready to come up from the mine, if he lasted that long.”

  I looked at Dad, who had not realized he’d said “Grandpa,” so I didn’t point it out. My guess was that Roland Hughes had never been referred to so fondly.

  Unless.

  I kept clicking and produced more on Kay. B.C. birth records online were only available until 1903, marriage records until 1931 and death up to 1986. Luckily for our purposes, Kay and Harold had a daughter Maria born in 1903, who married Victor Shybunka in 1925 in Nanaimo. Though no more births were listed, Marie and Victor could well have had children who grew up at Grandpa Roland’s bony knee. We did discover that Kay survived Roland for twenty-nine years and died at age eighty-eight in 1970 in North Vancouver.

  Seeing these names officially with a microfilm number beside them made them much more real. As if all our other information might have been made up until proven with statistics. Vital Events, as they were called, could not supply us with the particulars of when or why Roland and Kay moved to the mainland. Did Maria and Victor lead the way and they followed to be near the grandchildren?

  Three cheers for uncommon names like Shybunka and Dryvyn-sydes. We would have spent weeks searching for Williams, Hughes, or Thomas, but only two listings for T & C Shybunka appeared in the lower mainland, both in North Van where Kay ended up. I checked the national phonebook and found fewer than ten Shybunkas in the whole country, so even that number was doable, if these didn’t yield anything. It was worth keeping Monty off my back for good. But not tonight. I was ready for bed and had to stop yet for gas on the way home.

  Pushing the swivel chair back, I noticed an envelope on the computer desk in Dad’s own writing.

  “What’s this? “

  He looked embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just my book returned. I expected this.”

  The envelope was slit, and I pulled out the contents. A form letter from an editor said they were not accepting any new submissions at this time. Nothing personal, nothing promising.

  “I’ve got more publishers to try.”

  “And what’s this?” I picked up another sheet from under the envelope.

  Dad tried to grab it from me. “Nothing. Just a little song that came to me. More like a poem because I can’t write music.”

  “For your next book?”

  “Kind of a musical. Not that I’d ever get anywhere with my old-fashioned ideas. But the words just popped into my head.”

  “And your finger gave you permission.”

  He smiled. I began to read, as he shifted uncomfortably in his slippers.

  When frustration has a stranglehold on all of your senses

  And your best means of expression is a scream,

  Try to realize

  It’s only a disguise

  For a signal that you’re closer

  To your dream.

  Without friction there’s no motion,

  Watch the ships upon the ocean,

  Or the seed under that heavy weight of earth

  You can’t grow without resistance,

  And might I add persistence,

  So take my word for what my word is worth.

  “Hmm. My father, the lyricist.”

  He snatched the page away and put it in a drawer. He clearly did not want to discuss his work any further. And what did I know about writing a book or a musical? So many plots were confusing my brain that I couldn’t imagine weaving any of them into even a simple storyline like Sissipuss. I yawned, walked ahead of him up the basement steps. He never trusted me to turn off the computer, power bar, and basement lights at the same time. On the way through the upstairs den, he pulled out Tess of the D’Urbervilles from the shelves of Sara’s books.

  “I’ve been meaning to give you this. Talk of these poor lost babies brought back a memory of Mother giving it to Janetta and me to read when we were in school. She said her own mother had treasured her copy growing up.”

  “Didn’t Jane’s teacher give it to her when she quit school? Next you’ll have me signing up for an English course.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  On Dad’s note of bravery giving me even that much advice, I took my leave. Halfway to my apartment, I stopped for gas. The pumps were all occupied and I pulled up behind a minivan where a tall young man was just finishing.

  Crane Reese. As he replaced the nozzle, a woman got out of the driver’s seat and walked with him into the gas bar. It was Marla, our classmate, who had jumped on my barstool next to him when I vacated it at Squires after our last class. She had her arm around his waist, pushing open the door. The cashier was close to the window, and I watched Marla open her wallet to pay. Crane brought some snacks and drinks to the counter, and Marla paid again. His contribution to the transaction was a neon smile both to Marla and the cashier.

  Crane exited behind Marla and got into the passenger seat with the drinks and snacks. I kept my head down as they pulled away. Would it be me ferrying Crane everywhere he wanted to go if I had stayed on that barstool? Stools and chairs he so gallantly pulled out for you. Marla was welcome to the job.

  Back in my apartment, I flopped on the bed without undressing. I had a bad habit of waking up fully clothed, as if I were in a homeless shelter, afraid someone would steal my jeans. Flat described my mood best. Was this what those cards meant when they went on about the journey being more important than the destination? Or what painters and writers referred to as process? Were my thumbs actually twiddling when I wondered “What next?” Business as usual could hardly apply after a week where nothing could be considered usual again.

  My great-grandmother had taken up residence inside me. I was not on her shoulders as that image of ancestors goes, rather her life was steeping into all my cells like tea leaves. I could never presume to steal the strength she gained from all she went through when I had faced no such challenges — a shot in the foot didn’t come close. Nor could I claim Sara’s early trials or her knowledge and wisdom as my own. Or Mom’s drive for perfection. How then could I qualify? I felt like the painted wooden Russian doll housing the smaller ones inside her — I was the biggest but also the most hollow.

  My self-pity was ambushed by a crazy dream of the image I had denied. A wobbly totem pole of Jane, Sara, Retha, and me trying to balance on one another’s shoulders.

  I jerked awake, laughing, and sat up on my bed.

  I didn’t have to compete. As the living representative, I held all the power. They now existed only through me, so how could I feel unworthy, when I had full responsibility? If Sara was right — that ignorance is the only sin — was awareness then enough of a mission? Of my lineage, of lost babies, of the misguided and the inspirational? Or even of the sound of willows swishing in the breeze, or the smell of plum blossoms in the air? If so, I wouldn’t need to take over a soup kitchen just yet to insure a sense of purpose. And if nothing was permanent — as Sara also claimed — my co-ordinates just might be on track until further review.

  I changed into my sleep shirt, brushed my teeth, got into bed and picked up Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It fell open at: So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman’s shawl, to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-light, at the cost of a shilling and a pint of beer to the sexton, in that shabby corner of God’s allotment where He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbaptized infants, notorious drunkards, suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid.

  AS PREDICTED, Selena Kubik was granted bail on a surety of $100,000. Her trial date was set for October, eight months away. I did not attend the hearing, and if there were a plea bargain in the mea
ntime, I would not be required to testify at a trial. My association with the Kubiks could well be over, unless I decided to buy new furniture from Vlasta O’Brien. Of course, I’d follow Selena’s case — and life — with interest, but I believed she would survive whatever sentence she was given, and in her own way, grow from it.

  Tessa was back, looking relaxed and more exotic than ever after a visit to her homeland. Heritage will do that for you. She said her father didn’t produce an eligible Guyanese man for her, but she had soaked up the heat and soft, lilting accents, eaten her fill of tropical fruit, and drunk coconut water from the husk every day at the outside markets. That her new guy in polygraph had texted her constantly made the homecoming to rainy Vancouver easy.

  Wayne handed me the phone number of Jennifer Ward, the mother of the young offender who had shot me. She had called to say her son wanted to see me before the trial next month. Should she bring him in? I phoned to say I would meet them downstairs.

  Tyson Ward lived in one of the mansions on Government Road. When he and his mother arrived at the front door of the detachment, I took them into the same room where I had spoken with Jan Kubik. In her crisp white shirt and blonde ponytail, Jennifer Ward looked as if she had come from a home with vaulted ceilings, decorated in pale yellow, cream, and seafoam. After the introductions, she left me with Tyson, dressed in oversized designer garb. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and I asked him to speak up.

  “I’m sorry I shot you.” He looked down, and I couldn’t tell from his expression if he expected me to say “That’s okay.”

  “That makes two of us. My ankle will never be the same, but it’s functional again. Your consequences are just coming up.”

  What sounded like a fit of sneezing turned out to be staccato sobs. I had already seen his face crumpled in tears from the ground, but I had been summoned for this performance and let him carry on. Every crying style was known to me, both the physical technique and degree of sincerity. Yet a polygraph for tears — a lachrygraph? — would be useless, because even the remorseless ones can be genuine at the time; certainly they regret the situation they’re in.