by Lori Hahnel
Thirty
Lita
Regina, Saskatchewan
June 2008
SOME DAYS I LOOK IN THE mirror and can only shake my head. I can’t be ninety years old, I tell myself. Of course, I did the same thing when I was forty, more than half a lifetime earlier. I thought I was old then. And when I was half again as old as that, a girl of twenty, I was a widow. Amazing. So that means I’m now more than four times as old as I was when Bill died seventy years ago. It doesn’t seem possible.
I live in one of these assisted living residences. I have my own apartment, and can choose whether I want to do my own cooking or have them do it for me (they do it for me). I have regular visitors: Sarah, of course. Sofia from Ochi Chornya (Bela and Vlatko are gone now, and Sergei is in and out of hospital). Charlie is a doctor now, lives somewhere in Ontario. Jake’s sister’s girl, Miriam, comes to see me every once in a while. I’ve been here almost three years now. I like it. But I didn’t always like it.
I slipped on some ice outside my house one day when I was clearing the walk, and broke my hip. Sarah gave me hell for it. I didn’t blame her. It was stupid of me to clear the walks at eighty-seven, I knew that. But there wasn’t much snow, it wasn’t that cold out. Jason, the neighbour boy who usually did it for me, was sick with the flu that day. Anyway, I spent some time in the hospital, got a hip replacement. It should have been easier for me to get around after that. But it wasn’t. Maybe it’s all in my mind, maybe I’m just afraid I’ll fall again. For whatever reason, walking has been painful since then.
Sarah never said in so many words that I should think about moving into one of these places, I’ll give her that. She didn’t want to tell me what to do. But she did worry. She phoned once a day, without fail, to check up on me, and bought groceries for me. She or Jason looked after the yard. Except for the perennials out front, that was the end of my gardening days. I started to feel guilty, useless, and decided to make inquiries about these residences.
Then there was the whole process of selling the house and paring its contents down to an amount I could keep in a one-bedroom apartment. I’d never been a great collector of things, but over the course of a lifetime as long as mine it’s difficult not to build up a sizeable collection of junk. Nothing like the tiny amount of personal effects Bill MacInnes left after his twenty-three years on the planet. Sarah was a huge help with all of that. And most of the stuff that was actually worth keeping, furniture and so on, I gave her. Only on the condition, I insisted, that she really wanted it, that she wasn’t just keeping it out of a sense of obligation. But then, Sarah’s always been fond of antiques, so for the most part she was very happy to take the stuff off my hands.
Moving from my house to the assisted living complex was strange. It sounds so cold, so clinical, doesn’t it — assisted living complex? But calling it an apartment doesn’t really describe it. The strangest part at first was how much it reminded me of living in the little house on Dewdney Avenue — I don’t know why, exactly. Something about the way the light came in the front window, that was part of it. And the fact that it was mine alone. I always thought of the house I shared with Jacob as his house. The house on Dewdney Avenue wasn’t mine alone, but I did spend a lot of time there alone. And those days, even though I was there less than five years, were eventful.
After I moved in here I had a long string of dreams with Bill in them, as real and as close as if he stood next to me. Often, when I thought of him during waking hours, I’d get a two-dimensional, generalized image of him: tall, sandy hair, grey eyes — but no real detail. I’d have to get out a picture to remember details (the exact shape of his ears, the tiny scar on his chin from a barroom fight). But in my dreams the detail was all there, from the morning light glowing on his hair, to the warm scent at the nape of his neck, and the lay of faint freckles on his shoulders. Why should this be so, I wondered? Even more interesting, the Bill of my dreams, who’d existed almost four times longer than the real Bill, was a maddening figure. Sometimes he’d be nice, charming, and I’d wake up missing him dearly. But more often he’d flit in and out of the background, and almost as soon as I realized it was him, he’d be gone. Or he’d cuddle up to me and then dash off to talk to someone else. Often he’d ignore me. Sometimes I didn’t even realize I’d had one of these dreams, but I’d be walking around all morning with this vague feeling of frustration, of anger. Then some slant of light or a word in the newspaper would remind me, and the whole dream would rush back.
Was all this my brain telling me that Bill was a jerk? It’s not as if I didn’t know that. I have been painfully aware of it since that day in 1935 when I figured out I was in love with him. What seemed more likely was that part of my brain could recreate him — maybe that tiny little part of me was him, and when I slept it got a chance to express itself. A strange idea, perhaps, but then a tiny part of Bill did once implant itself in my body, the result being Sarah. Anyway, those dreams have subsided now.
So I found myself living in an apartment. I’d never lived in one before. The closest thing would have been the Belleville. For the first while, I found it depressing being stuck with all these old people, sleeping in a little apartment, nothing like the beautiful house Jacob and I shared on Connaught Crescent, incapable of taking care of myself, locked away and waiting to die. Until I started to relax a little, make a few friends.
One of my best new friends was Roger Schmidt, a big man, gruff on the outside, on the inside not so much. He remembered me from the 30s, incredibly enough.
“Lita Stone. Why does your name ring a bell, tell me? Were you ever on TV?”
“No. Well, not really. I was a studio musician for CKCK years ago, but I was never actually on TV.”
“No, no. Couldn’t know you from there. Were you a singer?”
Still always that same stupid assumption. “No. I played guitar. Still do, actually.”
“Lita, plays guitar . . . ” He squinted with the effort of reaching back in his mind. “Your maiden name wasn’t MacIntosh?”
I laughed. “No, my maiden name wasn’t anything like that. But my first married name was Lita MacInnes.”
“MacInnes! Lita MacInnes. You’re the little gal who used to play guitar in that jazz group.”
“The Syncopation Five.”
“Right! Of course. My brother and I used to come out to see you weekends when you played the Hotel Saskatchewan.”
“That was about the best gig we ever had.”
“Really? I always wondered what happened to you. Figured you must have gone off to Toronto, or New York.”
“Ha.”
Eventually I told him the whole story, and we’ve been pals ever since. Roger introduced me to all of his friends and, of course, he had to tell them all about the band. Though I was a little embarrassed at first, it was a good ice-breaker. I started to feel more comfortable here, and wasn’t shy to sit in the lounge or outside and play. Soon I was playing a lot, and my energy levels were way up. I can always tell what my energy levels are like by how much I play.
Life’s been good. I didn’t used to think that. I’ve had some dark times, no question. But then, who hasn’t? A lot of people living in the complex don’t feel good, don’t have the luxury of enjoying their lives so much. But most days I feel pretty good, pretty content. Roger, too, he’s okay most of the time. He has his days, so do I. Everyone does. But I’ve come to accept that, and life mostly isn’t so bad. The socialization part is important, I know. Otherwise I’d go for days without talking to anybody at all. Maybe I would have become one of these little old ladies you read about in the paper, the ones who have a million cats and the city has to come in with a bulldozer every so often and clean up. I know how easy it is to be caught in the sinkhole of your own mind, your own isolation.
For many years I thought things like, “You’re only as old as you think you are. You’re only as old as you feel.” I used to think that if people my age seemed old, it was because they let themselves be inactive
, useless, and were waiting to die. But I figured I wasn’t old. I kept myself busy. I had important things to do. I still think there is truth in these ideas, but now I am old, no two ways about it. And I accept it. My jet-black hair has been snow white for many years. Arthritis has slowed my fingers down, so I can’t play the lightning fast stuff the way I did in the 30s. Of course, there’s a lot of things I can’t do the way I used to in the 30s.
But I can still play. I don’t have stage fright at all anymore. I play “Ochi Chornya” and Django’s “Ultrafox” still, just not at breakneck speed. And I play the old Syncopation Five stuff, too. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Well, just the fingers a bit. I even play “What’ll I Do?” The ladies still love that one. Sometimes when it’s warm I sit outside and play in the sun and think how lucky I am. It makes me happy to think of my family, Sarah, and Elsa and Jacob and young Bill. I think of Jake. I think of Steve. I think of my Bill, of course, and I think of John Lair. In my mind, he’s still young and handsome. I suppose he’s not so young anymore, either. And I think of myself, able to sit in the sunshine and play my National steel guitar. There was a time I thought seriously about giving the National to Elsa. After all, she’s a damn good guitarist, too. I know she’d love it and take care of it the way I did. But then I thought — hell, no. She can wait until I’m done with it. She can wait till after I’m gone.
Something I never expected to happen after I moved in here was writing songs. Even after I started playing again, back in the mid-seventies, I didn’t have the urge to write anything. And now this song has come. It is so strange.
I dreamt I was back at the public library, sitting on a chair across from John. I was showing him how to play something. I clearly saw my fingers slide up and down the fretboard, just two fingers, like Django. And the guitar made a noise I’ve never heard any guitar make before — like a scream. When I woke up, I got my guitar out, and did what I saw myself doing in the dream, and it worked. I couldn’t believe it. And before long it became a new song, “Coyote Rag.”
Many times I’ve wondered why John came into my life, what was the purpose of all that pain? Maybe this was it, this song. Maybe he’s my muse, now. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I have to think there was a reason for all that. Otherwise, it’s just too sad.
It’s a warm summer afternoon, and I sit in the courtyard playing around a new song. Roger is calling for me.
“Come into the dining room, Lita. There’s something on the TV I think you’ll like.”
He knows I rarely watch TV.
“What is it?”
“It’s a short with The Harmonicats. They’re doing ‘Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette.’”
I sigh, put my guitar into its case and start into the dining room with him. I’ll go and see, even though I never could stand The Harmonicats, because Roger is a good friend. I even trust him enough to let him carry my guitar. He holds the door to the dining room open for me.
A big crowd is gathered around a table. I turn back to see Roger’s grin. I should have known something was up. The dining hall is all decorated. A big banner wishes me a happy ninetieth birthday. That feels funny, ninety, like a coat that doesn’t fit. But I’m sure I’ll grow into it soon, won’t even notice it after a while. Amazing the things you can get used to if you hang around long enough. I feel a hand on my shoulder, think it must be Alice from the suite next door, but when I turn around to look, it’s Elsa. Still blonde, still beautiful. I’m so happy I almost cry.
“Surprise, Grandma! Happy birthday!”
Sarah emerges, hugs me, too. “Happy birthday, Mom!”
I want to talk to my daughter, and to my granddaughter, here all the way from Seattle, but of course, all my friends and neighbours are singing “Happy Birthday.” They bring in a big cake on a wheeled cart, and presents. And I tell myself to relax, enjoy the party. Sarah and Elsa aren’t going anywhere, I hope.
After an hour, I plead tiredness and the party breaks up. I get my daughter to carry my guitar, and my granddaughter to bring the pitcher of iced tea from the table, and we sit out in the courtyard on this gorgeous afternoon.
“Elsa. It’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Grandma. It’s been too long.”
“It has. But that’s all right. You’re here now. I haven’t seen you since the divorce. So how are you doing with all that?”
“For now, it’s good. It really hurt. Things didn’t work out after all with Kirk and me, but you know what? I’ve never lived by myself before and I really like the freedom. I do get lonely sometimes. But freedom is so good.”
“I’m glad. Good for you, Elsa. Sarah tells me you sold Curse Records.”
“Yes. And not only did we sell it, we sold it to a massive corporate interest. A faceless, soulless, media giant. But they came around with an offer, more money than I ever imagined Curse could possibly be worth. We did have to think about it for a while, but they said the Curse Records name would live on.”
“That’s excellent,” I say.
“Yeah. They said we were a brand in Northwest rock, and they didn’t want to lose that ‘indie cachet.’ I thought that was pretty silly, too. But, Indie Cachet — awesome band name. And the money’s given me the freedom to get back to my own music, finally.”
I pick up my guitar, start strumming mindlessly. “Elsa. That’s us. We need to be playing.”
“I know. In the end it’s the only real thing.”
“It’s not profound, but it’s true.”
“It absolutely is. And now I have enough money to make my own music for the first time in a long time. And you know what? I’m good with that.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say. I strum a little more, and look over at Sarah. Oh my God, does she look like Bill just now. But you know what? She’s smiling. Smiling in the midst of all this music talk, which used to drive her crazy. That’s lovely to see.
“Oh, Grandma. Holy! What are you playing?”
“It’s a song I wrote a few months ago.”
“What’s it called?”
“Coyote Rag.”
“It’s incredible!”
“Thank you. You’re a sweet granddaughter.”
“I’m not kidding. It’s fantastic. How’d you like to record it?”
I laugh. “You are kidding.”
“I am not. How’d you like to come to Seattle and do a record with my new band?”
“I haven’t recorded any of my own stuff since the 30s. And you know how that turned out.”
“I promise you this will be a better experience. I have a surprise for you. This amazing recording technician from Regina.”
“From Regina?”
“His name is John Lair.”
I stop playing. John. I can’t think what to say at all. My face feels hot.
“Grandma. Really, I’m serious. We want to get some jazz guitar going, and you’re still the best. Come and stay with me for a while. Give me some guitar lessons.”
I look up. Sarah’s expression is still surprisingly benign, though it may be that she’s just not listening. That’s entirely possible.
“Elsa, you know, I just might do it. Well, me and the National.”
Descended from a long line of music lovers, Lori Hahnel is the author of two previous fiction titles: Nothing Sacred (Thistledown, 2009), which was shortlisted for the Alberta Literary Award for fiction, and Love Minus Zero (Oberon, 2008). Her writing has been published across North America and in the UK including CBC Radio, The Fiddlehead, Prairie Fire, and Room.
During the early days of Calgary’s punk scene, Hahnel was a founding member of The Virgins, a power-pop punk group that carved its place in Calgary rock history as the city’s first all-female band. Hahnel lives in Calgary where she teaches creative writing.
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