by Vicki Delany
“You made those lovely things?”
“By no means all. But some of them.”
“You are a wonder, Aileen,” I said, and I meant it. Businesswoman, artist, former psychologist, tamer of the untameable Jimmy McKenzie. All I ever made was money, which for most of my life was the only thing that mattered. Now it looked pale in comparison.
“Not a wonder, not I,” she laughed. “When I was a practicing psychologist, a large part of my approach involved working with my clients using the therapy of art and crafts. Working out anger, encountering your feelings by toiling with your hands, creating something out of rage and hate. I totally believe in that. I’ve seen it work, time after time. I’ve seen the worst criminals break down at the sight of a lump of clay they molded into what they see as an image of their late mother, even though to everyone else it still looks like a lump of clay.
“And like all of us, I have my own demons. Working with glass and metal tames them. I started making jewelry seriously when my first marriage broke up. It helped me through a hard time. Your niece Jackie is experimenting in stained glass. She made this.” Aileen opened a display case and picked up a pair of earrings. Tiny, beautiful pieces of glass, glowing with perfectly clear green light as if they had been plucked directly from a medieval church window.
“Stunning.”
“These pieces are beautiful,” Aileen said. “And I’m proud to put them up for sale. But Jackie has a long way to go yet. She has perfected one style and tries desperately to stick to it. She is afraid of trying something new.”
“I’m off, Aileen.” Chrissie waved from the front door. She’d put on a coat, too heavy for this weather, mittens, and scarf, and had pulled a woolen hat tightly down over her ears and forehead. “Nice to meet you, Rebecca. Ask Aileen to bring you over to the café for lunch. Perfectly hideous food and horrible psychic energy, but a nice view.” She disappeared with a wave and cheerful tinkle of the doorbell.
I laughed, “That’s certainly a ringing endorsement.”
“That’s Chrissie. Never stops hinting that she would like more hours in the store. But what can I do? This is a seasonal business. Nine months of the year it’s all I can do to keep the wolf from the door.
“But lunch is still a good idea. I have a lot of paperwork to do. You’re welcome to stay here, or take a stroll through town, not that that’s likely to prove dreadfully exciting. Take the car if you want to go somewhere further. Then we can catch up over a late lunch.”
“Can I help at all?”
“No. It’s paperwork mostly. The odd customer might drift in. But there are unlikely to be many serious buyers, it being a Friday in early May.”
“Fortunately I never go unprepared. I have a paperback in my bag. I’ll take a walk and perhaps find a coffee shop somewhere. Is there one?”
Aileen laughed. “All the modern amenities.”
“I’m sure I’ll amuse myself. It’s been a long, long time since my last appearance in this town.”
Like the forest that surrounded it, Huntsville struggled to wake up after a long winter. The sidewalks were thick with mud and dust, not yet washed away after being left behind by the melting snow. I walked slowly through the light foot traffic, stopping now and again to peer into the shop windows. Several were closed, either for the season or permanently, signs still in place but with windows covered by newspaper or cardboard. Algonquin Park outfitting stores were doing a light but steady business. A pretty ice cream store, perfect in the traditional pink and white, beckoned. But storm clouds were gathering, the wind was rising, and the air hung heavy with moisture. It didn’t seem like an ice cream sort of day.
I stopped in the middle of the bridge that crossed the river running through the center of town. The water level was low: A bicycle and several hubcaps littered the shallow water at the edges of the river. The middle of the channel was green and impenetrable.
Presumably this bridge marked the spot where Jimmy and Aileen had met after his release from prison. The bridge that started their romance. A romance that, wonder of wonders, appeared to have lasted longer than the first bedding.
I spent a pleasant, relaxing afternoon exploring the town, watching the traffic pass by, and reading my book over a frothy cappuccino. For the first time in a long time, I had no particular place to go and nothing in particular to accomplish. It felt nice.
I held the door for a customer as she bustled out, clutching a shopping bag and quite obviously thrilled with her purchase.
“A sale. Congratulations,” I said to Aileen once I was inside the shop.
“One of Janet’s. Part of the last batch I got from her.” She pulled two paper bags out from under the counter. “I called Chrissie and asked her to bring some sandwiches and soup up from the café. We’ve had more customers today than I expected, and we can eat here while I keep an eye on the store. Is that okay?”
“Great. Whatever’s in that bag smells wonderful.”
Aileen handed me my lunch and peered into her own bag.
I pulled out a sandwich, a container of soup, a bottle of juice, and a pile of napkins. We ate standing up, leaning on the counter.
“I love your store, Aileen.” I bit into the thick, juicy turkey, tomato, and sprout sandwich. “Wow, this is good.” I peered between the layers. “This dressing is wonderful. I’ll admit that I was rather worried about what I’d get. Chrissie sort of implied that the café food is dreadful.”
“She didn’t imply, she came right out and said it.” Aileen spoke around a mouthful of her own generous sandwich. “The food there is great. It’s a hugely popular place with the locals as well as tourists. She doesn’t like working there, and makes sure everyone knows it.”
“Why do they keep her on then? Nothing worse for business than a disgruntled employee.”
“The owners are her parents.”
I burst out laughing and took a sip of my soup—lentil, thick and hearty. “I appreciate you bringing me out here, to see the store and all. I had no idea my parents were doing this sort of thing.”
“You knew it all along, Rebecca. Your mother always quilted for the church ladies’ bazaar, and your dad has been carving in his workshop for years. But as long as they only made things for charity bazaars or for use by the family no one thought their things were of any value.” She held up one soupspoon-clutching hand. “Hear me out. I don’t mean ‘you’ as in ‘you, Rebecca.’ I mean you, everyone. When I first met them, Bob was selling his furniture for a fraction of the price he could get in Toronto considering the quality of the work. But it brought in a bit of extra income and he was very proud of that.
“Your mother’s work, of course, didn’t earn her anything. She made it for all for charity or family. No one considered it to be art. It was something that women make, therefore not real art. It was crafts.”
I made a ball of my empty sandwich wrapper and stuffed it back into the paper bag. “Was the store your idea?”
She laughed. “Forgive me if I get on my high horse sometimes. It makes me so mad, the way that our world devalues women’s traditional art. But to answer your question, yes. I’ve always wanted to own a craft shop. I love to make jewelry, but I work very, very slowly. There is simply no way I could ever produce enough to make a living out of it. When Jim and I married I still had a bit of my aunt’s money left, and the idea was growing in the back of my mind that I should open a shop. The first time I saw what your mom and dad had sitting out in that shed I almost died. Janet didn’t like the idea of putting her work up for sale. She was afraid she’d be embarrassed, that no one would buy it if they didn’t think they were being altruistic and making a donation to the church at the same time.
“But Jim and I persevered.” She lifted her arms and held out her hands. “And here we are.”
I was literally speechless. In my real life, I’m a vice-president with an investment bank. The people who work for me lend hundreds of thousands, millions, of dollars every day of the year, and all of it mo
ves under my supervision. My people have a good reputation, a great reputation, of being solid, reliable, honest, and their reputation extends through them to me and through us to the bank. Most of our deals are good—only a few turn belly up, and it isn’t often, if ever, because of something we missed or didn’t follow up on. I wasn’t kidding when I told Bob Reynolds I could buy and sell Hope River and every business in it with a phone call.
Yet all the while my family had been struggling to put together this business. This lovely shop that gave my parents pride in their old age along with much-needed income, which put the sparkle into Aileen’s eyes, and some purpose into Jimmy’s life.
“We’ve talked all day about this shop and how Jim and I met, but I still don’t know much about you, Rebecca. And me, the psychologist! What sort of work do you do? Jim told me you’re with a bank.”
“Yup. Bank of Western Canada. Small business loans, mortgages. Boring stuff, but it makes the world go round.” Aileen must have been good at her previous profession, she actually looked interested.
“Tell me, Aileen.” I studied my hands. “Does Jimmy ever talk about our grandfather? Big Jim we called him, when I was a child. And my brother was always called Little Jim? To everyone except my mother, and me. She forbade me to ever say Little Jim.”
The bell over the door tinkled. I was standing with my back to the door and paid it no attention, willing the customer to leave, concentrating on getting an answer to my question. Until I saw Aileen’s eyes open wide and all the color drain out of her face. I whirled around.
“Afternoon, ladies.”
The very last people you would expect to find in a store with a name like Cottage Art and Design.
Jack Jackson and his skinny friend.
Chapter 29
The Diary of Janet McKenzie. April 12, 1948
James. They called him James.
I don’t think that I can bear it.
I took ill while still in the hospital. Pneumonia, I was sick for days. They took the baby and held him to the bottle. Of course he likes it—it is so much easier for him. Now he refuses my breast and my milk has dried up. So I have to give him the bottle. The nurses and the other mothers smirk.
While I lay ill, Bob and his father went to the courthouse and registered the birth. James Arthur McKenzie, they wrote.
I will choke every time I say that name.
April 15, 1948
Home at last. That was a joke. The hospital was better than this. Mrs. McKenzie, of course, dotes on the baby. Little Jim, she calls him. I tried to tell them that his name is Arthur, but none of them will listen to me. Little Jim, my father-in-law said, all the while eyeing me as if I were a prize sow at the autumn fair. Little Jim, he said looking me straight in the eye. And to my everlasting shame, I flushed and looked away.
Once the baby is old enough to travel we will leave. I will take Shirley and Arthur back to England. My father and his wife will be happy to take us in. I know they will.
June 1, 1948
Dead.
Dead.
Dad
is
dead.
A letter this morning from his wife. Her words so drenched in sorrow that I’m sorry that I’ve never met her. An accident, a stupid, stupid accident. He was walking down the road from our house, taking Bonnie for her morning walk. Bonnie, so old now that she couldn’t get out of the way of a speeding motorcar. My father, Arthur, ran into the roadway to save her.
And there they both died.
I have not seen my father for several years, but he is still a presence in my life. His letters have reminded me that I am loved in the world. I have always known that I have someplace else to go.
Now he is gone. And I am alone.
No, I must not think that. I have Baby Arthur and Shirley. And I believe that Bob loves me still.
In his own way.
Chapter 30
Aileen moved around the counter in one liquid movement, all long earrings and flowing skirt. “May I help you? Gentlemen.” The last word was an afterthought, bitter on her tongue.
“Nice place you got here.” Jack casually flipped over the oval sign that hung over the door. It was hand-painted with two scenes of the same lake. One side showed the lake at midnight, the moonlight sharp on the still water; the other, a view in the daylight, children splashing in the sun-sprinkled water. One side said Closed, the other Open.
“Are you looking for a gift?” Aileen asked. She held onto the countertop as intensely as she earlier had gripped the steering wheel of her car when she feared that I would criticize her for her relationship with Jimmy.
I looked at my watch. “Will you look at the time? Almost closing time, already. Clay will be by in a few minutes to pick us up.”
Jack and Pete ignored me and walked into the store. Never before had I really appreciated the phrase “bull in a china shop.” Here we had one bull and one nervous piglet. Jack touched the edges of one of my mother’s bed-sized quilts hanging on the wall. It was made of intersecting circles in shades of orange and brown I don’t find attractive.
“Pretty blanket,” Jack said. I felt the need to pull it down from the wall and wash it.
“What do you want, Pete?” Aileen said.
“Nice store you got here,” the scrawny one said.
“Thank you. If you’re interested in buying a gift for your mother I’m happy to help, but otherwise, I would like you to leave. Please.”
Mistake that. Never say please. A polite word. A woman’s word, therefore a sign of weakness. Always a mistake.
Jack abandoned my mother’s quilt and picked up a glass carving of a duck. It showed nothing but the bird’s rear end in the classic feeding position: tail up, head buried underwater. He tossed it from one huge paw to the other, his ugly face twisted in confusion over what the carving was supposed to represent.
“No need to be rude, Mrs. McKenzie,” Pete said. He wasn’t distracted by the wealth of trinkets; his eyes were only for Aileen, with a peripheral glance for me.
“Well,” I said, “time for me to be on my way. I told them at the police station that I would be back soon to make a report on the theft.”
Pete stood in my way. He was smaller than I, shorter and lighter. But I have never been in a fight in my entire life. And we both knew it. For a wild, insane moment I considered asking him if he wanted to bargain for the rights to the funding deal for a computer company so red-hot the business press were calling it the Canadian Microsoft. Everyone on the West Coast wanted a piece of the action but my top lender, Ling Wong, was on the verge of closing the deal.
Pete sneered at me. Better not to mention the loan. “You got a big mouth on you, lady.”
“You’ve said that before. And I’m tired of hearing it. Tell us what you want and get the fuck out of here.”
“Rebecca, please, let me handle this.” Aileen’s voice sounded small and thin.
Jack tossed the glass duck, caught it. Tossed it and caught it again.
“Me and Jack want to let you know, Mrs. McKenzie,” Pete drawled, “real friendly like, that folks in Hope River are getting tired of that husband of yours fooling around with the girls.”
“My husband isn’t fooling around with anyone.”
“Shut up, bitch!” Pete yelled. His thin face turned red in an instant. The small, dark eyes grew narrow and hostile; the veins on his neck bulged with tension.
“Leave us alone, you jackass.” I made a dash for the phone, prominently displayed behind the front counter. Jack dropped the duck and grabbed me as I passed. The delicate glass carving hit the floor with a crash and shattered into a thousand bits. I stared at it: this duck would surface no more. Jack’s strong fingers dug into my arm. “Going somewhere, lady?” He leered into my face. Beer fumes washed over me.
He held my arm while Pete wandered around the store, picking up a few items and placing them back again, neatly, exactly where they belonged. Aileen watched him, her face so white I thought she might faint.
“If you want something from us, tell us what it is and then get the hell out of here,” I shouted. Jack raised his right hand, the one he wasn’t using to hold me, and struck me hard across the face. I would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding me up. The pain spread though my body, but as bad as it was, the humiliation was worse. Far worse than the pain. No one had ever hit me before. Words were the weapons of my childhood. Hands and fists, never. At least not directed against me.
Aileen gasped and the last of the color drained from her face.
“Me and Jack,” Pete said, “thought that it might help Jimmy-boy recover a bit of his memory, if we paid you a visit. Didn’t know loudmouth over there would be here. But that’s just a bonus, eh? Two of us. Two of you. We can have a nice party, and you can tell Jimmy-boy all about it, later. How’s that sound?”
The bell over the door tinkled once again.
“I see your sign, Aileen, please don’t be mad at me, but the door is unlocked, so I knew that it would be all right to pop in for a quick moment.” A woman filled the doorway, large and round, her face shining with the exertion of walking down the street, her mop of thin gray hair almost standing on end from the force of the wind. Behind her stood a younger woman, a teenager, probably her daughter judging by the similarity of their features. The girl was tall and lanky, with long fingers and a bird-like neck, her chin and forehead dotted with acne, and her mouth stretched in a grin of embarrassment. She, if not her mother, recognized the scene in front of her, not for what it was, but certainly as something private.
“Come in. Come in,” Aileen stepped forward. “Pearl, you are always welcome. This must be your daughter? So pleased to meet you. Your mother talks about you all the time. Here to collect our contribution for the Police Retirement Fund are you? And how is your dear husband, the M.P. for this district?”