Practical Jean

by Trevor Cole

  “Recently Milt told me that he was having an affair.”

  Fran recoiled. “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe it. He seems like the last person, other than my Jim. I mean, the two of them, I would have put them in the same pea pod.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Milt.”

  “Well, people have pointed him out to me,” said Fran. “And we chatted that one time, remember?” Fran gave a tug to her sweater and shook her head at the unfathomability of Milt, who had been pointed out to her, having an affair. “It’s so sad. I always imagined you two having great conversations.”

  Jean made an effort to keep her gaze steady and her expression neutral. She admired newscasters for their ability not to look horrified at the crimes they reported.

  “So, Fran, I think it’s going to rain. You should probably get that lily home.”

  “Who was it with? This affair.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s important.” She began to back away as Fran shook her head in apparent agreement; no, it wasn’t important. “Have fun with that lily. And I’m sorry about the jack of clubs before.”

  Fran held up her coin-stuffed fist and gave it a triumphant waggle. “We’re winners!”

  “Yay,” said Jean.

  A sudden seriousness overtook Fran’s face as the ground spread between her and Jean. “Do you want me to say anything to him? If I see him?”

  Jean tried to gather this in. “Do I want you to say anything to … my husband?”

  “Yes, the bastard.”

  “No.” Jean shook her head. “Thank you.”

  She heard thunder, or sensed it, as she wandered past the petting zoo toward the picnic tables looking for Natalie. The skinny girl and bedraggled boys of Swamp Fire made it difficult to hear anything but the screech of children (evolution clearly intending for that sound to pierce any other). But the air itself was a warm body embracing her, and she felt it shudder. She had an image in her mind of Milt and Louise running through the coming downpour, laughing, getting soaked, pulling off their wet clothes in the shelter of the living room she had decorated, standing naked on the carpet she had vacuumed, drying themselves with the towels she had bought on sale at Sears.

  Her mother had always made her believe that in choosing Milt she had failed. Marjorie’s measure of a man, a husband, stood the height and width of Drew, tackled tasks in the same direct, unimaginative fashion, charted his course by the same unblinking stars. And perhaps that had contributed to Jean’s choice not to take Milt’s name, which lingered for years as a small hurt for him. But in the face of what she’d believed to be her mother’s disappointment and disdain, she had always held to the certainty that Milt was a man she could grow old with. Their experiences together had been investments in the memories of their infirmity. Some day we’ll laugh at this – that had been their motto. Twenty-two years ago, when Milt’s stuffy Aunt Agnes was visiting and Milkweed showed her his pink, pencil-thin erection … sixteen years ago, when Jean had done a terrible job tying Milt’s father’s canoe to the roof of the car and it went flying into a roadside cucumber stand … eleven years ago, when they were eating marinated octopus on a bench in Athens and someone snatched Jean’s purse with all their credit cards … six years ago, when Jean collapsed from low blood pressure and awoke to Milt giving panicky directions for the ambulance and heard in his voice how much he loved her … two years ago, when Milt put Styrofoam Chinese food containers in the hot oven … every one of these experiences and dozens more were securities meant to bring returns later, a kind of pension of reminiscence. But the investments had turned out to be worthless.

  Where was Natalie? Natalie would understand, thought Jean. Natalie was divorced. Natalie had her own failed portfolio of recollection. She too faced the prospect of a desolate old age.

  Standing in the middle of Corkin Park, Jean realized that she and Natalie were closer to kindred spirits now than they had ever been. And she saw, with a fresh slap of horror, how she had wronged Natalie. How she had abandoned her own duty by not thinking the best of her friend, by not forgiving her immediately for her lie of omission, by which she had probably only meant to protect her, and even if not, no one was perfect! There were degrees of betrayal, shadings from light to dark, and compared to the hard, black mark against Louise, Natalie’s was barely a smudge! And Jean knew with a ferocious clarity, the conviction of someone reborn into her beliefs, that Natalie deserved her gift. Of course she did. If anyone was worthy of the sacrifice, it was her.

  “Jean!”

  It was Welland, running up behind her. As she waited for him she felt the first drop of rain on her cheek and held her hand out for more.

  “Welland, I have to find Natalie before it opens up on us.”

  Her brother was red in the face from running and couldn’t speak just yet. He put a hand on his chest and bent over as he pointed to another part of the park. “I saw her,” he wheezed. “When I was looking for you.”

  It was a good thing Welland was in Community Services and not doing actual police work, Jean thought; imagine if he ever had to run to catch a jewellery thief, or a murderer. But of course, as a sister, she would never actually say that. She loved Welland. It was crazy to her that he had never found a woman to really appreciate him and care for him. Because he was handsome and big, and wore a uniform, there was never any shortage of floozies at bars who wanted to drape themselves on him like a Roman toga. But he was too nice for that type, too gentle-souled. As she watched Welland trying to catch his breath she had an image of him becoming like their father before he died, silent and isolated, sunk into a chair in the basement, waiting for the inevitable. That was no way for someone to live.

  “Welland,” she said, “are you getting enough exercise?”

  Her brother nodded and heaved with his hands on his knees, and he made a little racquet motion with his arm.

  “Well, if you can walk I’d like to go find Natalie.”

  “Sure,” he breathed, “no problem.”

  They made it past the Animal Zone and the Ferris wheel and approached the chip wagon selling cardboard containers of greasy French fries – there was still no sign of Natalie, and Jean had felt half a dozen more drops – before Welland seemed able to string a sentence together. When he did he became a very sombre presence beside her. Jean thought perhaps he had some advice regarding Milt, but that wasn’t it.

  “Adele Farbridge,” said Welland. “She’s your friend, right?”

  Jean stumbled slightly at hearing Adele’s name and she had to reach to catch Welland’s elbow. She looked back at the ground they’d just passed as if she’d been tripped up by some unevenness. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I saw her just the other day.”

  “I have something bad to tell you.”

  Could it have made the news already? Jean didn’t see how that was possible. She walked along with Welland, through air that carried the scent of malt vinegar from the chip wagon, trying to fathom the logistics of how the information about Adele could already have been discovered and reported – it was only yesterday morning that she had left her. Had the news simply wafted out on a breeze? Beside her Welland was slowing, stopping, his hand on her arm, as if he needed to tell her face to face. A boy passed with a pile of salty, golden fries heaped like kindling on his plate. She heard a man sneeze and looked around.

  “Maybe we should sit down,” Welland was saying.

  It was Milt. He was twenty feet away, wearing his green-checked shirt and his khaki shorts and his brown shoes with brown socks pulled high on his calves, something Jean had never been able to get him to stop doing. “Wear your sandals with shorts, Milt,” she would say. But no, he wouldn’t. He had no regard for her opinions. Her feelings. He did what he wanted, no matter who he hurt. For years she had asked him to apply for a full-time teaching position and he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He liked his freedom, he said. She understood that now. As he walked from the chip wagon toward the Picnic Basket
Zone with his own plate of French fries, he stopped and sneezed again, burying his face in the crook of his arm while holding the plate high above his head.

  “Milt?” she called out, embarrassing herself with the febrility in her voice.

  He continued on, apparently unable to hear her over the squeals and laughter of roaming children, the distant frenetic clamour of Swamp Fire, and, wafting toward them from the Activity Zone, the bossy, blaring voices of the librarians’ husbands.

  “Jean,” said Welland, laying his hand on her shoulder. “We really need to talk.”

  Kotemeeans, at least the ones who came to the annual picnic, were very messy eaters, it seemed to Jean. They produced a lot of garbage – paper cups and cardboard plates and plastic straws and tissuey napkins and waxed paper wrappers and bags of every known material. And suddenly the garbage wasn’t confined to waste receptacles or corralled on top of picnic tables or even dropped discreetly underneath, it was everywhere. Because as the thunder and darkness of a rolling deluge advanced over Corkin Park the Kotemeeans began to scatter, and they left their garbage behind. And when the rain truly came, it came in thick, heavy dollops that thumped the ground and the picnic tables and the awnings of the Activity Zone and the roofs of the snack trucks like falling bits of flesh. And soon it was sluicing the garbage off the picnic tables and out of its hiding spaces and lodging it in the mud underfoot. And Jean ran through it. She ran to find Natalie. After her talk with Welland, she ran as fast as she could.

  Her brother knew that something had happened to Adele, but not because it had been reported in the news. He was checking the police systems regularly now: the CPIC, the RMS, the PIP, and the NCIC. It was all part of his daily routine, thanks to Jean. It seemed to Welland that he was finally doing real police work. He expressed that to Jean with a combination of relief, and pride, and nervous elation. Without any orders to go by, or any real purpose, he roamed the networks and the databases looking for names he recognized, crimes he found intriguing. He had slipped into the station early that morning, he told Jean, before coming to the park. And as he’d scrolled through the identities of victims, he’d seen one he thought he knew. He’d clicked on it, and learned that Adele Farbridge, the finance executive, had been found in her apartment by her cleaning lady, discovered face down on the bed. There was a picture included, a driver’s licence photo, and when he studied the face he knew this was someone he had met … this was Jean’s friend.

  Telling her all of this, Welland seemed the image of torment. Oh, he was such a sweet man, Jean thought. Such a good brother. It broke her heart to think that Welland would be distraught at having to deliver this news about Adele. The last thing my poor sister needs … that’s what he’d be thinking.

  To the south, a pulse of lightning flashed and lit the sky beyond the scrub brush, and a count of two later the thunder barrelled over them. Perched on the bench of a picnic table, Jean tipped back her head as Welland spoke and stared up at the blackening sky. She caught a few lucky raindrops on her cheeks, breathed with a hoarseness she hoped would signal distress, and asked the questions she thought someone hearing this news would ask.

  “How did she die, Welland?” Jean asked. “Do they know who killed her?”

  Welland’s face bloomed with horror. “Oh, no, she didn’t die.”

  Jean blinked at her brother as another drop glanced off her cheekbone. She was quite sure she hadn’t heard that correctly.

  “But –”

  “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean to –”

  “Welland, what are you talking about?” Jean swiped the rain from her lashes. “Didn’t you say her body had been discovered?”

  “She was discovered, thank goodness. Before it was too late. She’s in a coma,” said Welland. “They found some heavy drugs in her system.” He touched Jean’s arm in a way that she knew was meant to be encouraging. “There’s still a chance she’ll come around.”

  This news so widely missed the mark of encouraging that Jean pulled her arm back.

  “It’s upsetting, I know.”

  “Yes,” she said. What could have gone wrong? She retraced in her mind those crucial moments with Adele, when she had spread glob after glistening glob of narcotic into her skin. How could someone so skinny have survived? Part of Jean thought she should admire Adele for that, but she couldn’t because it was so disappointing. She had worked so hard to make those final moments beautiful … and final … and now there was a chance it would all be shattered. There was a chance that at any second Adele would wake up and demand to know what Jean had been thinking. And undoubtedly other people would want to know as well. Jean Vale Horemarsh, what could possibly have been going through your mind? And then it would all get so complicated, and she might not be able to give Natalie or Cheryl their Last Poems …

  “I wish I hadn’t had to be the one to tell you,” said Welland. “It’s just so rotten. Because you’ve already lost Mom, and your friend Dorothy. And now you might lose another.”

  Jean leaned forward. “She might still die?”

  “Well, maybe.” Welland pressed his wide thumbnail into the soft, damp wood of the picnic table, and Jean could tell, as his sister, that he had something else to say. She waited. Welland wasn’t very good at handling being rushed. She waited as he lifted off his cap and used the bill to scratch his scalp through his sweat-damp hair. And she waited as he watched a father run by the picnic table in pursuit of his little tomboy daughter. She could just wait and wait if necessary, without ever letting Welland know how urgent her situation was …

  “The thing is,” Welland finally continued, “the circumstances are suspicious. There were drugs in her system, but no sign of her taking anything. So, according to the report, they suspect foul play.”

  Welland kept talking and Jean tried to listen, even though she found the phrase foul play distracting in its implications of fedoras and whisky and snub-nosed .45s, and even though her imperatives pressed down harder with each passing minute. Welland mentioned that Jean’s name had been listed in the report as one of Adele’s contacts – probably it had been lifted from her address book – and so, just as a routine matter, she was probably going to get a visit from some city detectives. It was no fun talking to city detectives, Welland told her, his face full of concern.

  “Welland,” she said, stretching her arm across the rain-spotted picnic table, “I don’t want you to be too upset about Adele.” She laid her hand on his wrist. “If she does die – and what are the chances of that, by the way?”

  Welland made a helpless flaily-arm gesture. “It didn’t say in the report.”

  “Well, assuming she does, we can just think of her as being lucky. She’s already had a mastectomy. There’s no telling what awaits her. If she dies this way then at least she won’t have to die like Mom did. She’ll have been spared all that pain. And that’s good, don’t you think?”

  Welland looked at Jean and squinted with one whole side of his face. It was similar to what would happen to Drew’s face when he was trying to noodle a thing out, and Jean was sad for her brother that it was just about the only part of their father that he had gotten.

  “She’s young, though,” he said.

  “Not so young, really,” said Jean. “My age.”

  “But you’re young, Jeanie!”

  She shook her head. It was obvious to anyone who looked, without the veils of affection, that she was getting on. When she focused a clear eye on the mirror she saw nothing of the girl she’d been, only the wearing, dragging, unforgiving work of age. Just as when she looked at her friends, the ones she had known the longest, she saw not just who they were but how much they had changed. Their faces and bodies were billboard advertisements for the passage of time, explicit proof of how old she was getting, and therefore how close to her mother’s fate. She was never going to convince Welland of this, though; he was too big-hearted, which made his judgment unreliable.

  But she couldn’t waste any more time. She p
atted Welland’s hand and stood.

  It must have been that abrupt motion that attracted the attention of Fran Knubel because, from the other side of the Picnic Basket Zone, separated by perhaps twelve or thirteen tables, she could be heard calling out, “Jean!” The sound of her voice reached Jean at roughly the same moment the clouds above gave way and the chubby drops began to fall, hitting the ground with their fleshy thuds and knocking the paper cups and bags and wrappers off the picnic tables into the mud and under Jean’s feet as she began to run.

  And as Jean ran to find Natalie, ran to her responsibility, ran through the Kotemeean refuse as fast as she possibly could, it would have looked to Fran as though she were merely dashing to get out of the rain.

  It was a desperate sound, a frantic yelling, that finally drew Jean to Natalie. She found her, to Jean’s great surprise, at the dunk tank.

  The Activity Zone was mostly deserted. Rain pooled in the awnings, slammed down on the lids of coolers and the game tables being folded and packed away by librarians’ husbands slopping through the mud. Natalie stood in front of the dunk tank, hair smeared to her forehead and neck, a spout of water running from her nose, her white blouse showing pink where it stuck to her skin. She had three baseballs clutched to her chest, and one more in her hand, which was raised to fire.

  “Stop! I’m begging you, Natalie!”

  The yelling came from Tina Dooley, who was in the dunk tank. It was an old and very poorly designed dunk tank. There seemed to be only one way out of the Plexiglas surround filled rib-high with grey, sloshing water; that was to stand on the triggered platform on which the dunkee sat, and step from there to a wooden ledge, which led to a set of descending stairs. Natalie seemed to have discovered this design flaw, and every time poor Tina Dooley tried to step on the platform to get out of the tank, Natalie hurled a ball with the accuracy of a sniper toward the padded target, triggering the platform to swing away and dropping Tina into the drink.