by Dolly Dennis
Kids of all ages and backgrounds gathered here. No discrimination. High-school kids, well, you know high-school kids. Grad night parties, birthdays, every day was a carnival. No excuse required. Life was still a party. You’d find empty beer cans in a heap waiting for someone to clean up. Should have told Payton, my tenant, who collects empties, but not too many adults knew about the Pits, and besides I’d promised Cody it would be our secret. It was an exclusive club. Bonfires were a common sight, usually at midnight. Didn’t matter the season. And lovers created hideaways, engraved their initials on the bark of nearby birches: DS + EJ encircled in a heart. I always wondered who DS and EJ were. Even Cody didn’t know.
Developers were moving in and paid no heed to the graveyard, sacred ground, surrounded by a Save-On-Foods and Shoppers Drug Mart. Mill Woods was expanding. Malls were springing up everywhere. The Anthony Henday highway circled a path into Edmonton’s suburban communities; the Pits was left untouched. For a while, anyway. You could still lose yourself in its maze of trees, shrubs, and wildflowers.
That April day — and it wasn’t April Fool’s Day, just saying — “Isn’t this cool?” Cody said and motioned for me to join him on the ripped blue-leather couch. Removed his fleece hoodie and laid it down like a blanket. “Come here,” he patted the scrappy cover and unlocked the sky. A flurry of red paper hearts tumbled over me like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“What the hell,” I said.
Cody had stencilled miniature hearts, cut them up, and flung them into the air. “What the hell,” I kept repeating as though I was born with a limited vocabulary. I found myself lying beside him. Through the gaps in the overhead web of dead branches, we tracked a couple of robins as they built a nest from fallen twigs, preparing for new arrivals.
“Even Mother Nature knows to shelter their own. Humans should take note,” Cody said, and then he turned over to his side, his face parallel to mine. “Mrs. Whitlaw, you know you are a beautiful woman,” he said.
My eyes popped. Guess he didn’t get out much, or was he teasing? “Give me a break,” I said. But he continued to flirt until he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. “Cody,” I shrieked, “I’ll tell your dad.”
“Tell him what?” he said
He was sixteen, after all, practically a grown-up, he said, but I had never cheated on Frosty and wasn’t about to start with this underage boy who could land me in jail; although, I have to admit, I was flattered. I blame his adolescent hormones. Had been a long time since anyone complimented me on my looks, except Payton, and that seemed a hundred years ago. I told him his Jehovah would not appreciate his committing adultery. That set him straight.
Cody’s actions frightened me. I hopped on my bike and took off like a race car over the muddy wooden planks, over the broken walking bridge, and back to the Complex Arms.
“Hey, don’t tell my dad, hey! I was only kidding.” He yelled with a teenage desperation that echoed over the sloughs and meadows of the Pits.
I could hear his voice eventually fading to a low decibel, like the clicking of knitting needles. I didn’t tell Wayne. Cody and I kept our eyes to ourselves after that. That’s why it’s so difficult to accept what happened. I loved him. Like the son I never had.
And Wayne? He didn’t leave his apartment after the accident. One moment Cody was alive and sprinting over Mrs. Lapinberg’s downed body in the hallway, and a day later, gone. July can be a wicked month. Wayne became a shut-in. Didn’t go anywhere. Mental. Everyone goes mental eventually, don’t you think? Humans are so fragile. Can’t blame him. All the tenants tried to reassure Wayne it was a fluky accident, not his fault. I tried to help. Brought him food, took up his mail. Last week he said the carpet store gave him leave of absence until he was ready to return, pending an investigation.
It was in all the papers. A father killing his son. Filicide they called it. That’s not what happened but, you know, bad news sells papers. It was a sad situation but then isn’t life just one big sad situation after another? I kept my eyes on him as he spent his days sitting on his balcony, binge-drinking beer, his eyes red with the despair of loss. He kept Cody’s dead boom box beside him even though it didn’t play anymore. Cody’s favourite song was “Only the Lonely,” by Roy Orbison. That says a lot, doesn’t it? Wayne didn’t want any help. Just leave me alone, he’d say, so after a couple of days we all went about our business.
When I didn’t see him on the balcony a week’s worth of summer after the accident, I went up and knocked on his door. “Wayne,” I shouted, “open up.” But no answer. I asked Frosty to come help me, bring the spare keys.
“Leave the guy alone,” he said.
We unlocked the door and searched all the rooms. Called out his name. No Wayne.
“Satisfied?” Frosty sneered at me. “Told you to stay outta other people’s business.”
“This is strange. He’s never left his apartment since Cody’s death,” I said.
“Well,” the poet cowboy said, “even murderers need sunshine.”
I wanted to smack the life out of Frosty. “He’s not a murderer,” I cried out. “What’s the matter with you?” And I hit him hard on the chest.
Then as we were heading back to our apartment, we bumped into Derrick, moving slow and sad carrying a shoebox. Could I come help him bury his pet mouse, Zooey? I had set up traps for the field mice and somehow Zooey got trapped. Derrick was inconsolable. Another death. We decided to take our bikes and head for the Pits, bury the mouse there with all the other critters. We heard a shot as we neared the area; thought it was a bad firecracker that didn’t make it on that July 1 holiday, but Derrick said it was probably kids shooting at gophers. The older kids got a kick out of killing them. I asked Frosty once why they hated the gophers. They were so cute. He said something about you should see what happens to a horse if his foot catches in one of those holes.
So we get there, over the planks and into the valley we go, and in the middle under the dome of lacy branches lay Wayne. Thought he was asleep. I called his name but nothing. I ran toward him and turned him over and blood gushed out of his ears and mouth. He had shot himself in the head. His gun was on the ground beside his shoulder, and I remembered the one shot we heard earlier as we approached the Pits. Didn’t have cellphones then, so told Derrick to run for help. “Get Frosty or your dad to call emergency and bring them here. Tell them we found Wayne at the Pits near the old couch and he’s hurt.”
“But my dad’s working,” Derrick said.
“Tell your fucking dad to stop working and spend some time with you and your mother for a change.”
I’m screaming now and Derrick starts to cry. I’m not good with children. I can see that now. I told him I didn’t mean to yell at him.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Whitlaw,” he said. “My dad always yells at my mom.”
Oh, Derrick. I wanted to throw my arms around this boy and tell him to just be a kid, but he was already out of my reach, on his bike, stirring up a dust storm, and I was calling after him, “Just find Frosty.”
No one but Zita to teach her son the ways of the world. Poor Derrick. He’d seen too much already. He just ran as though the boogie man was chasing him.
Wayne had left a folded note in cursive script. Couldn’t help myself. I had to read it.
Goodbye.
See you soon, Cody.
Dad.
That’s all. Just that. I returned the note to where I found it near the gun and started to cry, and all I remember is the medics pushing me back and Frosty’s arms circling my waist and his smashing Derrick’s face against my hip to distract the boy from the lifeless body that was Wayne. Oh God! I couldn’t look. This only happens in the movies. But what is real and what is make-believe?
The police didn’t know how long he’d been lying there but it couldn’t have been too long, they said, because the body wasn’t stiff yet, the blood still warm. I mentioned the approximate time we heard the gunshot. “We all have an expiry date,” I said,
and it was Wayne’s turn. I guess he wanted to be with Cody. The despairing state of loss, living without someone you loved, pushed him to do what he did. I know that. Love can do that sometimes.
I still tear up thinking about Wayne and Cody. We never did bury Derrick’s mouse. I think it just sank into the muck as fertilizer under the dead black trees. Derrick witnessed enough misery that summer. Although I sympathized with Wayne’s loss, I didn’t relish the clean-up of more spilled blood. I’m only human.
Nobody heard from Fern again, either. The woman probably went back to Vancouver and purchased a bag of heroin. What else can a mother do when she can never do anything right? As for me, I had a barbecue to organize at the end of the month and another apartment that needed cleaning, so I filed the incident in the archives of my memory bank, where they all remained until further notice.
Anyhow, that’s the story there.
PAYTON
Payton rummages through the Dumpster behind the Complex Arms. With his Bible tethered to his belt like a fancy tool for fixing whatever ails your body or soul, he winces at the sight of the discarded rubbish. A gold mine of cast-offs: an armchair that just needs reupholstering, a saucepan that could be transformed into a planter for growing herbs, old copies of National Geographic, and bottles that could be returned for coins to fill his empty pickle jar.
He is a man of the world, he will tell you. A former registered nurse, a former hippie, too, he is a man of faith now and always grateful for whatever bounty he receives from his Jehovah.
Although raised a Catholic, he followed his mother’s precarious footsteps as she sampled various faiths, searching for the one that would carry her through the demands of married life and motherhood. Payton grew up with four brothers and two sisters in a transient environment, with parents who shifted their lives from one Alberta town to another in search of gainful employment. The result was a dispirited family, short on affection, friendships, and proper education. Finally, they settled in Edmonton. His father eventually found a job as a city sanitary engineer, a fancy phrase for garbage collector. At seventeen Payton’s life began to take a turn for the better.
Every year Klondike Days, celebrated during the last week in July, draws throngs of people to experience the era when Edmonton was regarded as the gateway to the North. Crowds litter the downtown’s main thoroughfare, Jasper Avenue, to view the parade, with all its colourful streamers, floats, and inflatables, while marching bands, cowboys on horses, and the city’s “world famous” celebrities — the mayor, hockey stars, parade officials, entertainers, Klondike Kate — are at the helm of wagons and convertibles. Clowns amble alongside and squirt water pistols, perform circus tricks, shake children’s hands, and always, at every intersection, balloons are let loose into the giddy swarm of spectators.
Since childhood Payton had been obsessed with the summer fair, when Edmonton women would adorn themselves in Victorian costumes, corseted in layers of petticoats or crinolines to give skirts a beehive shape, and parade around the downtown core with open parasols against the hot July sun. The men styled themselves in nineteenth-century era double-breasted jackets and silk vests. Some would dress themselves as prospectors and march with heads down, still searching for the elusive nuggets of gold as advertised by Travel Alberta. The parade was always mesmerizing, offering escape for a neglected teenager with nothing to aspire to. He could be a clown, Payton thought. See the world.
Payton and his siblings would save their pennies from chores and collect bottles year-round — some things never change — so they could attend the fairground and take in the rides, the Ferris wheel being top on their list. They would play the games: hoop the bottles, ball in bucket, knock the cans, and, Payton’s favourite, test your strength on the high striker — any prize for one win and Payton always won, walking away with a herd of stuffed animals because he had a good throwing arm from playing baseball with his brothers.
The best part was the food. Melt-in-your-mouth sweet cotton candy, corn dogs that have no right to be drenched in fried batter, and the homemade ice cream piled high with whipped cream. He loved to hang upside down on the Zipper and spill change from his pocket onto the sawdust floor then perform a search and rescue. The lineups for the rides, the fudge, and the roasted corn on the cob were bonus memories for a deprived middle child seeking love. It surpassed Christmas as a happy remembrance because every Christmas some family member would start an argument, which always escalated into a fist fight after the turkey dinner — too much booze, too many broken souls among all the siblings who vied for their parents’ attention.
Klondike Days offered distraction, respite. Then, one year, they provided rescue, direction.
Throughout his childhood Payton remained rudderless, seeking guidance and stability, but then one summer while attending Klondike Days, he was introduced to a religion that replenished his spirit and provided answers to life’s questions. He met a young woman named Johanna. A Jehovah’s Witness.
She was poised outside the fairground gate, distributing magazines from her church, Watchtower and Awake! Her parents would round her up at the end of the day, but in the meantime she, being a dutiful Witness to Jehovah, worked hard recruiting individuals to the exclusive club, the Kingdom of God. Saving souls was her mission. She was forbidden to enter the fairgrounds, so there she stood on the outskirts, a quiet irritant in the faces of the noisy revelers. Temptation and evil lurked everywhere.
Payton had stopped to examine one of her pamphlets. A shy conversation ensued, and he was drawn into her world. It was easy. He wanted to be saved by someone and she convinced him that Jehovah, who is the Creator and Supreme Being, loved him. She had lifted her arms and invited him to Kingdom Hall to witness for himself, to feel the love, no pressure.
The small packed room contained a study group immersed in readings from the Bible, discovering God’s truth. That knowledge, the leader told him, would save him. “You will escape Armageddon when the time comes. You will be one of the hundred and forty-four thousand souls resurrected to life as spirit creatures in heaven and be priestly rulers under Christ. Hell is the common grave of mankind, a place of unconscious ‘non-existence.’” That’s all Payton needed to hear. Here was a church he could support, someone who made all the decisions and excuses for him, and this religion would bring structure to his chaotic and desultory life. Everything had a pat answer: no divorce, no military participation, no homosexuality, no blood transfusions, no adultery, no tobacco, no drugs; however, drinking in moderation was acceptable. “Jehovah says I can’t” was Payton’s comeback should anyone ask him to do something he feared. This God finally gave him life’s answers where his parents and the Catholic Church couldn’t. And if anything was offensive or disagreeable, he could always point his index finger to the Bible and say, “It’s against my religion.”
Just one roadblock to overcome. That autumn he was registered for nursing school. How could he reconcile his chosen profession with being a Jehovah’s Witness? His church elder reassured him that it was a matter of his conscience. He would be breaking God’s law; however, he could care for a patient but not be the provider of treatments related to blood transfers. Payton was asked to write a short declaration for the church’s record that he would abstain from administering blood and blood products.
So he and Johanna spent time studying the Bible, his face pressed next to hers, staring at the pages. He defined himself as a good person. This religion was easy. He was baptized and became a devout Jehovah’s Witness.
Payton was most grateful to Johanna. He married her, and she bore him a son. He carried out his duties as a missionary and sermonized on street corners, in front of the main public library, on Churchill Square, hawking the magazines season to season, from Edmonton’s bitter arctic winters to its short-lived but intensive broiling summers. His attempts to convert family members and friends failed miserably. Even his mother declined. Identifying herself now as an atheist, she attempted to convince him that the Witnesses were j
ust another religious cult preying on the vulnerable, but Payton was adamant. “You will be banished,” he accused her with a dissociated interest as though someone else were speaking.
“So you mean to say that if I needed a blood transfusion or I would die, you would let your mother die?”
His head rolled to his chest as though he needed a moment to prepare a response. He raised his eyes and, without blinking, said, “Yes.”
After that, he estranged himself from the entire family and no one heard from him, not even after the birth of his one and only child, Francis. Every day he dealt with patients requiring blood transfusions, blood, the elixir of life, the blood of Jesus. He always carried the Bible with him as a reference manual. It gave him confidence to have a response to life’s problems. He could reconcile his two lives, his profession and his religion, by detaching himself from the reality of the hospital, this hell as he called it, and invariably would summon another nurse to perform blood transfusions. Staff always accommodated his requests and left him in peace because he was otherwise a competent nurse.
His life had become perfect, but suddenly it changed. Johanna met a man outside a downtown bar where she was handing out the Jehovah’s Witness literature. He was a tourist, a Catholic fisherman from Prince Edward Island, the antithesis of the western provinces. There, the ocean beckoned Jesus to walk on water, to divide the fish and scatter food among his followers. Here, the Rockies concealed the ocean and no one paid attention to the dying salmon in the Pacific. Christ, we need a miracle. A woman easily swayed, Johanna was vulnerable to this dashing Maritime man, converted to Catholicism, moved to be near the Atlantic, and became his bride. Her life with Payton, she realized, had been a boring seance of Bible readings and hawking Jehovah’s publications.
While the Maritimer was exploring his own spirituality, she, a sheltered Witness, was exploring various aspects of life that had been denied her. Her fisherman taught her to tango and eat lobster, to read forbidden books, erotica, and to participate in sexual adventures, run naked on Cavendish Beach. In many respects, this fisherman was a question mark. Who was he but some handsome rugged stranger who brainwashed her to move with him to the other side of the country? She was desperate for excitement, a fresh beginning. This wasteland of wheat fields and oil wells had smothered her. At least there, in Prince Edward Island, she could breathe the salt air and kick the red sand — the West no longer held any attraction. She apologized to Payton. He was civil, and in some respects it was a relief for him, too. He was never a good father or husband, totally consumed by his religion, his own salvation. To outsiders, he carried the facade of a selfish Narcissus, a jellyfish without a backbone. That defined him completely.