“I’ve seen it,” said Miss Kesstle. “They cut Mother off her morphine for awhile, afraid she’d get addicted. Why it mattered when she was dying, I’ll never know. It’s all right.”
“I’m dying,” said Marilyn. “Can I have morphine?”
“No,” said Miss Kesstle and I together.
There was a groan from the backseat. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it.”
“That’s normal,” said Miss Kesstle. “None of us knows that.”
I began another painting that night, leaning into the smell of the oil paints and breathing between sobs. From paint, canvas, and memory I began to recreate Gladys as she’d been in the theatre. I penciled her in the centre of the stage in her beaded dress. Her long dark hair was swept up away from her face. She was just beginning to take a bow, her feet en pointe, her arms held out behind her, and she was smiling though all the seats in front of her were empty.
As I was slipping into the exhausted sleep of grief, I heard Gladys say, “Is that me?”
“It will be.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I whispered and rolled over to speak towards the armchair, though it was too dark to see if she was sitting there.
“I hoped you’d do it,” said Gladys. “Mission complete.”
“That was it?” I asked. “Just for me to paint? But that’s so easy.”
“Was it?” said Gladys. “Didn’t seem like it to me.”
“But why me?”
“Why not you?”
“I decided I was a very stupid fool not to at least paint as I wanted to,” I whispered to myself softly and with some trepidation. “I’m an artist.” I held my breath. Athena, Greek goddess of the arts, did not hurl her spear at me and the Hindu arts representative, Saraswati, did not reach down with one of her four arms and el kabong me with her lute. I breathed.
“Who’s the Catholic patron saint of the arts?” I asked into the darkness.
“St. Catherine of Bologna.”
“Bologna? Seriously?”
“She was a baker for the convent.”
“Get outta here.” I tried it again, louder this time: “I’m an artist.”
“I know,” said Gladys matter-of- factly. “Did you buy your toolbelt?”
“My what?”
“You’re supposed to start locksmithing school tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, then laughed so hard I cried.
The lady on the phone from the locksmithing school was very nice about withdrawing my registration on the day school started, but informed me they’d be keeping my twenty-five-dollar deposit.
There was a thumping on the front stairs. I went to see. Whitman set his suitcase down by the door and reached to get his jacket from the hook.
“Going home?” I asked.
He put his leather jacket on, reached into the pocket, and placed his dark sunglasses on top of his head. “I have a few projects I need to get back up to speed on. I’ve already said goodbye to Dad. . .” He turned to face me and hesitated. His angular face softened with a smile. “Thank you, Frieda.”
“You too,” I said. “Don’t worry about the other night. A woman has needs too, you know.”
“I know. Take care of everyone.”
“Pffft. Are you kidding?”
“Well, see you.” He picked up his suitcase and turned to the door.
I walked over, put my hand on his arm, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Just for the record,” I said, “I think Jesus and the Punk Rockers was a good idea.” I watched as he went out the door and down the steps and handed his suitcase to the limo driver waiting on the sidewalk. Then he climbed in and closed the door.
I went into the Art Centre the next day to gather up more bird heads to put on eBay. We had five listed and bids were up to sixty-three dollars on one of them already. Not a fortune, but it would supply the Centre with toilet paper for a month or two. I started down the hallway. I could hear the Hootenanny Glee Club beginning a Stan Rogers song. They were rocking, the piano crashing out the chords. Goddamn them all. I was told we’d cruise the seas for American gold. We’d fire no guns, shed no tears. I sang along as I made my way to the back room where we’d stored the bird heads. Now I’m a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett’s Privateers.
I stopped at the bulletin board beside the craft room; everything had been cleared off it, but for one index card neatly pinned in the centre. I leaned in.
Like new camera for sale. Lenses and cases.
Girl doesn’t take photographs anymore.
She needs the time to sleep. Bring offer. Ph. 335-6743
I stopped singing, my breath caught in my chest. I looked around, half-dreading and half-hoping to see a translucent Girl slouched against the hallway wall. There was a whisper so soft I wasn’t sure if it came from outside my head or inside. “You’ve had your turn.”
I exhaled and grinned, imagining some poor git with Girl as a guardian art angel and, as a bonus, advice on the best place to get yourself pierced.
I walked out behind the Art Centre to where the Valiant was parked, a garbage bag of bird heads in each hand. Gladys stood halfway down the alley. “Hey,” I called, “you’ll never guess who has a posting in there.” I gestured with my elbow back towards the Centre. She seemed not to hear me. “Hey!” I called again.
As I watched, her apron faded, her hair darkened, she grew straighter, slimmer, smaller, and the years dropped away, until she was transformed into a young girl in a short green gingham dress with a wide collar and black woollen stockings. It was young Gladys the farm girl. I looked behind her, expecting to see a coop filled with curious chickens, or a stall of bemused cattle, but the downtown alley remained.
I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and run off with her. I wanted to take her away from what would come in her future, to keep her young and unknowing. I took half a foolish step forward, my arms reaching out. Amidst the garbage and the graffiti, wild and sad Czech violin music began to play in the distance. Gladys listened, her head tilted to the side, then suddenly pirouetted, her arms held straight out from her shoulders. With her long dark curls swirling around her face, she danced. Her arms curved and extended, she swayed, bending from side to side, then abandoned herself to the music and turned, kicked, whirled in unschooled motions of delight. Oh, go, Gladys. Go. Dance, Gladys, dance. I laughed aloud and clapped.
The music faded and, as abruptly as she had begun, she stopped. She smiled at me, her face was smooth, but her eyes were those of old Gladys. She already knew what was to come. Raising both small hands to her lips, she blew me a kiss, and disappeared. It was the last time I ever saw her.
I picked up the bags of petrel heads and put them in the trunk of the Valiant, then climbed into the driver’s seat and sat for a moment, looking through the windshield at the empty space where Gladys had been. Whirlwind. Velocity. Zenith.
I reefed the door closed, cranked the window down, and set sail.
Acknowledgements
To everyone at NeWest Press including Anne Nothof, Andrew Wilmot, Paul Matwychuk, and Natalie Olsen, it was a pleasure to work with you.
Many thanks to those that were there at the very beginning, believed in me and taught me so much about both writing and life, among them, Sharon Butala, Larry Bauer, and Gloria Sawai.
To all my teachers at MacEwan University, including Curtis Gillespie, Scot Morison, Don McMann, Jannie Edwards, and Leslie Vermeer (oh, the grammar), immeasurable thanks.
To my dear friends, the Banff 2002 Writing with Style Group, Terry G., Jackie Hogan, my former fellow students in the PROW program, and all the others throughout the years, much appreciation.
I am forever grateful to Mom and Dad and everyone in my large wonderful family for all your support and kindness.
Finally, and most importantly, to my son, Julian, who’s heard too many times, “I’m working right now, Buddy,” my thankfulness is endless.
And the music starts pl
aying and a pretty woman in a long gown takes my elbow and steers me off the stage. . .
Cassie Stocks was born in Edmonton, Alberta. She’s been a biker chick, a university student, an actress, and a rich man’s gardener; she’s worked as a waitress, an office clerk, an aircraft cleaner, has raised chickens, and many years ago, she was even the caretaker of a hydroponic pot factory.
In 2002, she was accepted to the Writing with Style workshop at the Banff Centre, where she received support and encouragement from Sharon Butala and the late Gloria Sawai. Upon her return to Edmonton, she quit her job at a steel fabrication plant and applied to the Grant MacEwan Bachelor of Applied Communications in Professional Writing.
Cassie currently lives in Eston, SK, with her son Julian.
Dance, Gladys, Dance is her first novel.
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