Most Anything You Please

by Trudy Morgan-Cole

  “Oh, and what did Marilyn have to say?” Ellen knew that Alf had been on the phone to Frank because he had told her three or four times that Frank agreed with him, that it was unfair to leave everything to Audrey. And this was not the first time Audrey had called Marilyn. Ellen didn’t know which of them was recruiting June to the cause—either or both, perhaps. Her children lined up in camps against each other, like warring armies. The worst nightmare.

  “Well, she had a lot to say, this time around, because her and June and Frank, apparently, all got together and talked it over. And I wasn’t too happy about that at first, but I heard her out and I got to say, she made a few good points. She’s after changing the way I think about it all. Not that I agree with Alf entirely or I mean to give up my rights to the shop, but Marilyn made me see a few things I never thought of before.”

  “Is that so?” Audrey and Marilyn had always been close and if anyone in the family could make peace and suggest a compromise, it would be Marilyn, the middle child.

  “She pointed it out to me, and I have to say it’s been on my mind too, that if I’m whole owner of the shop when you pass on, it’ll all be on me—any debt the business owes. Any money we got to borrow to keep the business going, I got to bear it all. I want to keep the store going, but I’m not sure I wants to be shackled with the whole responsibility of it myself.”

  Ellen had not thought of it in this light. She had always thought of the business as an asset, although in fact they were constantly borrowing money from the bank and paying it back in dribs and drabs. There were a lot of costs in running a business and although it had always made enough to pay her and whoever she had working there a modest salary, there was never much left over. They had to pay the wholesaler, the tax man, the Light and Power and all the rest. Whoever she left the store to, it would be as much a burden as a gift.

  “So does that mean Marilyn’s changed her mind? She wants a share of the shop?”

  Audrey laughed, a short harsh sound. “Marilyn says she wouldn’t take the shop if it came with a farm down south. But her idea is that if Alf wants a share of it so much, he should have a share. That way he’s got to share a part of the burden and the responsibility, too.”

  “And how do you like that? You and Alf would be business partners.”

  “Right now I can’t even stand the sight of him,” Audrey said. “But it’s not like we’d be working side by side in the store every day. It might work out in the long run. Whatever we decide, anyway, it won’t take effect for a good long time. I hope we got you with us for a good many years yet.”

  “I been thinking, too,” Ellen said, and though that part was true, she had been thinking, what she said next came as a surprise even to herself. She had been turning the problem over and over in her mind but until she opened her mouth she didn’t know she had this idea at all. Maybe it came from Jesus (or Wes) while she was praying. “If you and Alf can come to some kind of agreement—and if all the rest of them are agreeable to it too—I don’t want to just make my will. I think we should make the change now. Maybe we should have it in three shares, you, me and Alf. All three of us would have to agree to make a decision. I think—it feels like I’m too old to be the sole owner of a business. I want you to have a share in owning it—and Alf too, if he insists. But I’d be happy enough if it was just you and me.”

  “Holloway and Daughter,” Audrey said, and her laugh sounded a little more genuine this time. “Well, I don’t know what Alf will have to say about that. Or Frank or June, for that matter. There’s a lot more talking it over to be done before we reaches any kind of an agreement.” But for the first time since the lawyer’s office, she sounded more hopeful than angry.

  So they might be able to work it out after all, Ellen thought. If I should die before I wake...

  But she would not die, not then. She would live, and sign papers in the lawyer’s office dividing the business into three equal shares between herself, Audrey, and Alf. She would invite Alf and Treese over for Sunday dinner again and again till he and Audrey were almost easy in each other’s presence. She would not have it, for them to be one of those families with a split down the middle and brothers and sisters who wouldn’t even talk to each other. Not over a corner store, or anything else. Ellen would fight to keep the shop open and in the family, but she would fight twice as hard to keep her family together.

  musical interlude

  HENRY HOLLOWAY

  Deep within my heart lies a memory …

  Friday night at the Strand, the band is on stage picking its way through “San Antonio Rose,” and I’m playing bass. The crowd is lined up in the Mall outside waiting to get in, almost down to as far as where the fountain is—not because the band is any great shakes mind you, but because it’s Friday night and the tables are pushed back and everyone’s ready for a dance. And yes, I know when I say the band it sounds like the way Mom says the store, like it’s the only one in the world. Which it’s definitely not.

  It’s the Bob Eveleigh Band, and Bob’s a bit of a prick who thinks he’s a better singer than he is, and makes us all wear these powder-blue fringed Western shirts. The only reason I’m in at all is that my old buddy Nick Lahey’s the drummer, and when their bass player moved to Toronto, Nick told Bob he should give me a shot. So here we all are, Nick beating away at the drums and me on bass, Davy Sullivan on lead guitar. Davy’s the only one with any real talent but Bob won’t let him have too many solos. He’s jealous if anyone else is in the spotlight too much.

  All the same it’s a gig and I’m grateful for it. If you got to have one thing that eats up your life, better the band than the store.

  I hate that place, the store I mean. When I come through it at night, coming home late after it’s all shut up, the dark shelves lined off with stuff puts me in mind of urns in a—what d’you call it? One of those places they cremate people and stick them up on shelves instead of burying them. Grandma Pickens was put in a place like that while I was down South with Dad and Carol, and it gave me the heebie-jeebies. And the store at night gives me the creeps too, in a different kind of way. Like a place where everything’s dead and finished.

  Final notes, and Bob steps up to the mic.

  —Thank you ladees and gennelmen, “Rose of San Antone.” That’s the song Bob Wills said took him from baloney to steak. Ain’t that what we’re all hoping for, folks? Goin’ from baloney to steak. Well, whether you had baloney or steak for supper I hope you’re all havin’ a fine time here tonight, we’re the Bob Eveleigh Band….

  And on and on it goes. Baloney to steak. Yeah, well, maybe. I don’t mind a nice bit of baloney, myself. Mom thinks I got some big dream of striking it rich in music but she don’t understand, for all the time she spends listening to music she don’t play it herself so she can’t really know. She goes off the head at me times like today, when I turned down a chance to go out on a job with Uncle Alf because I had to come in here for sound check.

  —Waste of time is what it is, trailing around after that little snot-nose Bobby Eveleigh, what call have he got to be puttin’ on airs? Sure his mother was a Walsh from Mayor Avenue. Making out you’re some kind of rock ‘n’ roll star when there’s good, paying jobs to be done.

  She might’ve said more than that but I shut the door behind me while she was still talking, got into the van with Nick and drove over here to wrestle a couple of amps out of the van. Not as many good paying jobs as she thinks, by the way. Uncle Alf calls me in now and then when there’s a big job and he needs an extra pair of hands. He got two guys working full-time for him but you’ll notice his own two sons are up in Toronto area where the work is steady. I went up there for a few months last year, worked alongside Doug, made a bit of money. Played a bit with a band up there, too.

  Never sure why I keep ending up back home, living up over the store and having Mom bitch at me about bringing in a steady paycheque. Some sad, I know, to be going for
thirty years old and still have your mother bawling you out. You don’t have to tell me how pathetic it is.

  —Alright folks, time to pick up the pace a little and get some of you out on the dance floor with this one… Let’s go boys, a-one, two, three, four...

  And then Bob growls “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog…” in a voice that’s more townie tenor than southern baritone, and we follow him into the twelve-bar blues progression. Bob loves to pick out the Elvis songs, thinks he’s got the right voice for it. I think he’s fooling himself, but what the hell, nobody minds playing a bit of Elvis, and he’s right, “Hound Dog” does get people out on the dance floor. If you’re the singer and your name is on the band, you get to pick the set list too. And it’s not like any song is going to show off my amazing talents on the bass. Even if I was playing lead guitar or singing, I don’t have any illusions that I’d be knocking them dead. Or making millions. It’s not about that, never was.

  What’s it about? I can’t tell you, no more than I can tell you for sure why I’m back here when I could still be up in Toronto, or down in the States. Nan thinks I come home because Rachel’s here, and maybe that’s true, but when I’m here I don’t know what to be saying to her or doing with her. Mom and Nan got all the child-raising stuff covered as far as I can see. Sometimes a whole day goes by I don’t even see her, and then at night when I’m on my way out I’ll look into her room. Like tonight, she was already asleep before I remembered to say good-night. Hair all tangled out on the pillow with her radio still playing CJON.

  Looking at her made me think of that song, “Scarlet Ribbons”—Bob likes to throw that one into the set when everybody needs a break and a tear-jerker. Why’s that such a sad song, when buddy looks in at his little girl and she got the scarlet ribbons she wanted? That’s the funny thing about songs, something like “Hound Dog,” all about crying and cheating, gets people out dancing, and a sweet little song like “Scarlet Ribbons” has them all crying in their beer. Something about kids, I guess, people wanting to give their youngsters stuff they can’t give them. And that’s not far from my mind when I look in on Rachel at nights.

  She’s there asleep, the radio still on, and I’m wondering if she falls asleep listening to music because she loves it like I do. Who does she like, what bands does she listen to? I should talk to her more about this stuff, but I never know how to get started.

  They’re all out on the dance floor now. I’ve been at this long enough to know all the dancers—not by name, but by type. That heavy-set woman with the dyed red perm dragging her husband out on the floor—she don’t look like much but she’s going to turn out to be a hell of a dancer, and sure enough, she is. And that tarted-up blonde with the make-up and the hot pants can’t keep the beat at all, but then, she don’t really need to, does she?

  Every woman, baloney or steak, looks pretty good to me right now because it’s been awhile. Not like I can take girls back to my room at Mom’s place. We’ll keep playing here all night, and the crowd will dance and get a little bit drunker, and a bit happier, and then a whole lot sadder. When we’ve packed up for the night and I’m buying a drink with the lousy bit of cash I get for this show, maybe there’ll be some girl low enough down on the totem pole that even the bass player looks good to her. And maybe I’ll go back to her place for a while. I’ll come home tomorrow morning, walk through the store while Mom gives me a lecture and a dirty look, and I’ll go upstairs and fry up a bit of baloney for my breakfast.

  six

  HE HAS A LOVELY DAUGHTER

  1978–1983

  RACHEL

  For most of her young-adult life, when asked about her musical influences, Rachel Holloway will bring out her one-sentence zinger. “The last thing my father did before he disappeared,” she will say, “was teach me to play the guitar.” She will further explain, if pressed, that he taught her to play a G chord, a C chord, and a D chord. “When I knew those three chords, I guess he figured that was enough parenting, and he took off.” Her listeners will not know whether they’re supposed to laugh or feel sorry for her.

  Reality is, as always, messier than the story. It wasn’t as if Henry was there one day, a loving paternal figure helping her with her homework and teaching her basic guitar chords, and vanished without a trace the next. He had been vanishing with traces for parts of the last three or four years, heading off to Toronto for months at a time. Henry vanished bit by bit; Audrey told people he was gone up there to work. Both Alf’s young fellows, Doug and Randy, had good jobs in construction outside Toronto, and it was always the busy season up there. Henry never wrote and rarely phoned when he was away, and Rachel’s life went on much as it always did, school and home, her meals cooked by Nanny Audrey or by Nanny Ellen or, increasingly as she grew from ten to eleven to twelve, by herself.

  Audrey often worked through the supper hour; by the time Rachel was in Grade Six she would come home from school and pick up a box of Kraft Dinner or a couple of tins of tuna off the shelf downstairs and make macaroni and cheese or a tuna casserole for herself and Nanny Ellen. Nanny Ellen was a good cook, much better than Audrey, but her legs hurt when she stood up too long, because of a condition that Rachel, till she was ten, thought was called Very Close Veins. Nanny Ellen also got short of breath, and she was forgetful. More than once she’d let the kettle boil dry and then said to Rachel, “Now, your Nanny Audrey don’t need to know about this. She’d only worry.” Sometimes she would give Rachel ten dollars and send her up to Chalkers to get hot-turkey sandwiches for supper for all three of them.

  When Henry did come back, his presence made little difference to that routine. Rachel would come home from school one day and he’d be down in the store, usually arguing with Nanny Audrey, the two of them gesturing at each other with their cigarettes and stubbing out butts in Audrey’s green ashtray next to the cash register. Rachel’s memory latches onto the last of these homecoming arguments, when he came home a week before Christmas the year she was in Grade Seven. There was nothing to distinguish that from Henry’s other homecomings, except that it was the last. She suspects, later, that she’s weaving together pieces of early memories, likely even putting in some pure fiction.

  Still, she sees him as vividly as if it’s a photograph, hears the ping of the door as she pushes it open and sees him leaning on the customer’s side of the counter, his long thin body wearing his uniform of faded jeans, white T-shirt, denim jacket. Everything frayed at the cuffs and collars, looking hard-used and second-hand, like Henry himself. She sees the look on his face before he turns, sees the sharp etching of frown lines, hears Nanny Audrey say, “Don’t you give me none of your bull, I was talking to Doug’s wife Shelly and she said Doug haven’t seen you since the end of September. You’ve no more been working on construction jobs than I have—”

  The never-ending flow of her words cut off sharp as the door opened and she nodded at Rachel. Henry swung toward Rachel, his face changing. He reached out to hug her and she could feel how much taller and older she was than the last time he hugged her. How much more of a stranger he was, every time he came back. But also how familiar the smell of him was, how she liked hearing him say, “There’s my girl, that’s my girl.”

  “Look at you,” he said when the hug was over. “You’re growing like the weed.”

  In later years Rachel will pick apart this phrase, growing like the weed, so frequently used by both Audrey and Henry in reference to Rachel as a child. She will even try writing a song about it, though once you say weed it’s hard to get away from the marijuana references. Although Henry certainly smoked it and Audrey certainly didn’t, Rachel is one-hundred percent sure neither of them thought of, well, weed, when they said she was growing like a weed. They pictured dandelions or those other spikey things with the sparse white flowers on top—yarrow, was it called? Something unlovely and unwanted but tough and ubiquitous, something that sprang up within a day when you mowed it down.

&n
bsp; She squirmed back a little from Henry’s embrace and said, “Thanks…Dad.” The word Dad always sounded funny in her mouth, like saying merci beaucoup instead of thank you.

  “How’s school?” he said.

  Rachel shrugged. “It’s OK.”

  “You’re doing good though? Good grades and all?”

  “OK, I guess.”

  “She’s doing fine in school, no thanks to you,” Nanny Audrey cut in. “Doris’s young one, Janet, her husband’s working up in Toronto. He sends money home every two weeks, regular as a government cheque, and Janet takes it and buys new clothes and shoes for the youngsters, all three of them, new clothes every month because their father got the sense to go get a good job and send money home.”

  “It’s not like you think it is, upalong,” Henry said. “You think there’s streets of gold, jobs just sitting around waiting for someone to come do ’em.”

  “Isn’t there? Treese is always telling me how good Doug and Randy is doing, plenty of work all the time. Is there a different Toronto they’re gone to, different from the one you goes up to? Yes, I s’pose now, theirs is all full of factories and construction sites and yours got nothing in it but bars and old dance halls and the like. Yours starts up when theirs is just shutting down, and there’s nothing in yours but a crowd of half-assed drunks with guitars, is that right?”

  “Geez, Mom.” Henry tipped his head towards Rachel.

  “Yes now. I got to be careful what I says, I s’pose, so your daughter don’t think—”

  Ping! The note that punctuated their lives cut off Audrey’s words as no warning from Henry could ever do. She didn’t believe in airing the family’s dirty laundry in front of customers. The vast bulk of Selena Ivany filled the door along with a chilly gust of air. “My god, Audrey, what a day out, sun splittin’ the rocks and you step outside thinkin’ it’s going to be half decent but then the wind is enough to cut you—oh Henry, my god, Henry, I never saw you there, is that you? You’re looking some thin, b’y, you haven’t been sick have you?”