The Complex Arms

by Dolly Dennis

  Today, he receives a letter from Francis, who must be around twenty years old. His son wants to see him. Payton doesn’t know what to make of it.

  He stuffs the empties into an oversized recycling bag, lugs it back to his apartment, and sets it inside the doorway. His living room stinks like a pigsty, the decor is that of a warehouse for discarded objects he has found around the Complex Arms, a depot for the salvation of souls and their possessions. In preparation for Armageddon, rows of plastic milk bottles filled with water and containers of flour line the kitchen counter. Always be prepared, Payton’s motto borrowed from his one year with the Boy Scouts. Piles of Jehovah’s Witness literature clutter the living room floor, as though a procession of followers in rapture mode just marched through the apartment.

  As Payton is leaving for the bottle depot, someone knocks on his door, the one papered with all the religious slogans. No one buzzed the front door to the building, so he presumes it is Adeen bringing in another garbage load of bottles for his harvest as is her habit. She is kind that way and always overlooks the messy apartment.

  “Come on in. Door’s unlocked.”

  And when he looks up, a tall, lanky young man sporting black horn-rimmed glasses with the look of Buddy Holly presents himself, a mass of dark curls tumbling over his forehead. There is a familiarity about the eyes, a reincarnation of his younger self on the doorstep.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Francis.”

  Payton’s face draws a pale shade of fright and discomfort. “Your mother sent you?”

  “Actually, no. She’s gone.”

  “Not surprised at all. Always followed anyone who blinked at her.”

  No words follow from either and then Payton says, “Want some water? Hot as a furnace today. Not like Charlottetown. Is that where you guys are living, with all those sea storms and washes to shore? Eat a lot of fish and lobster out there, do you?”

  “Dad.” Those words foreign to his ears; he doesn’t recognize them, but indeed he is dad to Francis. “Dad.”

  “What is it, son?” Again, how odd the word sounds to his ears. Son. “Just like your mother, always beating around the bush. Get to it. I was on my way out.”

  Payton disappears into the nearby kitchen, washes a glass from the sink, pours cold water from a jug in the fridge, and hands the glass to Francis.

  “What is it you want? Money? Don’t have any. I’m a witness to God. You read the Bible, Francis? No, expect not. Your mother being a Catholic and all.”

  Payton opens the “Good Book,” as he calls it, and reads: “Behold, I will throw her on a bed of sickness, and those who commit adultery with her into great tribulation, unless they repent of her deeds. Revelations 2:22.

  “See, it says here a woman can’t leave her husband, but your mother, well, she was … she was what you call … I couldn’t give her enough.”

  Francis flinches, his face a study in embarrassment and animosity at the notion that his father dare speak about his mother in such a manner, a goddess from the ocean as his stepfather called her.

  They sit there for five minutes, each scrutinizing the other, their clothes, their mannerisms, and their awkwardness. Like father; like son.

  “What do you do out there, Francis, besides catch fish all day?”

  “I help with the lobster traps.”

  “Ah, so you are a fisherman, too. Figures. Well, the Lord divided the loaves and fishes. When you can do that, I’ll hold you up higher.”

  They continue to examine one another, Francis shifts his buttocks in the rigid black plastic kitchen chair.

  “We going to keep staring at one another all day or do you have something on your mind?” says Payton.

  “My mother didn’t tell me a lot about you. Albert, her second husband, was devoted to her. They had a lovely marriage. And he has been a wonderful dad to me. Not religious even though he is a Catholic, but he loves me, and he’s a kind and considerate human being. She never spoke ill of you. Just said she made a mistake. Assured me I wasn’t a mistake.”

  “Not religious, aye. That explains it. No wonder she fell from God’s grace.” Payton reaches for his bell, which is always by his side, and sways it like a blessing, a tinnabulation of music without the drums.

  “Redeem, redeem thyself. Ask for forgiveness.” And then he stops. “So how’s the old lady doing these days? She come with you?”

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking, she did. She’s with me now. Wanted to say goodbye to you.”

  Payton peers over Francis’s shoulder to see if Johanna is hiding, ready to jump in and say, “Boo, I found you.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “She wanted you to have this.” Then Francis unbuckles his briefcase and pulls out a beautifully polished dark mahogany receptacle.

  “Some of her ashes are in this box you gave her when you proposed. You can do what you want with it. The family came to disperse the rest of her ashes over the Three Sisters Mountains. She loved the ocean but she always spoke of the mountains, the place she called home. She wanted to be buried here. So we brought her home, me and my dad, Albert, we brought her home.”

  Payton again flinches at the word dad. It doesn’t refer to him this time but some stranger, a fisherman.

  “Where is … is … Albert?”

  “Waiting for me downstairs.”

  Payton’s fingers smooth over the glossy container, half the size of a cigar box, feel the indentation of her name engraved on the cover. Each letter seems to carry her essence: J-O-H-A-N-N-A. He remembers assembling the pieces with such loving care. After the divorce he searched for the box among the things she left behind, not realizing until now that she had taken it with her, that perhaps his thoughtful carving held some meaning for her.

  “Johanna dead?”

  “Aha.”

  “The Bible was right.” He is pealing the bell again. “Behold, I will throw her on a bed of sickness, and those who commit adultery with her into great tribulation, unless they repent of their deeds.” He silences the bell again and turns to ask, “She was sick with the cancer, I bet.”

  Francis just glares at this tiny pathetic man, who once played baseball with him as a young boy, whom he once called Daddy. He rises from the chair, readying himself to vacate this long-forgotten chapter of his life.

  “I’m done here. It was her wish. I didn’t want to come, but Mom will rest in peace now.” And Francis turns away and walks out the door, down the hall where Adeen is washing the lobby floor.

  “S’cuse me, ma’am, and thank you for telling me the whereabouts of my father.”

  “Anything to bring families together is my motto. Hope you had a nice visit.”

  But he doesn’t reply. He is gone.

  Payton wonders what just happened here. He lets the radiant mahogany box, heavy with Johanna’s ashes, rest on the kitchen table and crosses the room to pull out a drawer containing files and papers that he has always meant to organize. He removes a couple of photographs hidden under a pile of folders — one from the day of their wedding posing as newlyweds and the other of baby Francis on his first birthday. He hasn’t looked at them since she abandoned him for the fisherman so many years ago. He positions Johanna’s photo against the receptacle and lays the smaller one of Francis before him on the table. He searches for his bell and then shuts all the lights and draws the drapes until the room is dark.

  He meditates on his life in the pitch-blackness and relives his years as an altar boy, when the priest transformed the Holy Eucharist into the body and blood of the Lord. The bell would tinkle to alert the parishioners that a miracle was about to occur.

  Payton lights an assortment of beeswax candles in various lengths and thicknesses, transforming the kitchen table into a radiant altar. The bell trembles and then peals faster and faster until it escalates into an alarm. Out of control. He opens his Bible and begins to read in a shrill voice: “Romans 6:23. For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Ch
rist our Lord.” And he begins to weep.

  ADEEN

  I told Payton he could live at the Complex Arms on the condition that he didn’t bother any of my tenants with his preaching. “Respect other religions,” I said. “I’ve got atheists living here along with your Muslims, Russian and Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, pagans, and your everyday generic Christian.”

  Me, I’m an agnostic. Don’t talk religion to me. Just causes a lot of arguments and bad feelings all around. That, and money and politics. How can something so good like religion start so many wars and cause such hate? Don’t answer. It’s a rhetorical question. Oh, I am a spiritual person, don’t get me wrong. If there is one God, why are there so many religions? Answer that for me. No. Never mind. Don’t want to waste my day listening to pompous lies. Seems to me if you all honour one God, there should only be one religion, but then every church thinks theirs is the true one. Come on. It’s really about increasing the size of a congregation so more money in the coffers on Sunday.

  Maybe if the Vatican sold off all that gold and distributed the money to all the poor, maybe if they paid taxes, maybe if they punished all those priests and nuns who abused altar boys and Native children in those residential schools, maybe if they weren’t such plaster saints, maybe, maybe, I might become a believer again. So I went against my rule and talked religion. What are you going to do? Burn me at the stake?

  Since Irene was born, I stopped believing. Payton told me once that here, this life, this earth, is hell. We are all living in hell. He tried to get me to join the JWs and I almost fell for his prepared speeches, I mean propaganda. He can be quite persuasive, I tell you, but I’m educated enough and can think for myself. Don’t need anyone telling me how I should live my life. I’m a good person. Better than some of those Christian hypocrites. Am I disturbing you? Yeah, go get a hankie.

  Anyhow, I never met Johanna. He was already divorced when he moved into the building. Said he wouldn’t bother anyone. One of the rules of his religion is to keep away from non-JWs as much as possible. So he isolated himself from the tenants as best he could, except for that bell ringing. Told him to give it a rest. Some of our tenants worked at night, so they slept during the day. I had complaints about Payton, but he was such a sad sack. He kept talking about the next Armageddon. The end was supposed to happen in 1975 and still there is no end in sight. Still waiting. Not much has changed. People are still miserable and wicked. Don’t look at me like that. Told you, get a hankie if you’re going to cry for me, Argentina. The date, as I understand it, has changed again. I let him clang his bell outside in the courtyard. Melded with the ice cream truck’s ring-a-ding-ding. No harm done. Just alerted people that the nutcase was out or maybe the ice cream man.

  Francis seemed like a nice young man, well-mannered. He bumped into me on his way out as I was mopping the floor and excused himself. His mother brought him up well, considering. Anyhow, Payton’s door was half-open so I just walked in as I also needed to get his rent for the month, and there he was sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes beaming on this shining box in the dark and all these candles lit like it was midnight Mass and the choir was waiting in the wings. He was sniffling, or maybe it was a cold coming on. “What you got there, Payton,” I said, and he didn’t even look up. Not an eyeball. He just seemed mesmerized by that polished box. Told him I came for the rent, and he nodded and pointed to an envelope on his desk across the room as though he were expecting me to find it in the dark. I turned on the light switch and he seemed to have been crying. “You okay, Payton? Right lovely son you got there,” I said.

  “Shut the light, Adeen,” he said. “It’s Johanna,” he finally confessed.

  “Oh,” I said, “she coming back?” He shook his head.

  “That’s her in there,” he said, and pointed to the little box that looked like it might contain a jewel instead of her ashes.

  After that day, he would park himself on his balcony and carry Johanna with him for company, set her on the patio table beside him near the jug of iced tea. He’d sit there and talk to the box for hours, like they were just having a friendly conversation. “I knew you’d come back,” I heard him say once.

  Okay, so I’m nosy. After what happened to Wayne, I was more concerned about my tenants than ever. He kept repeating, “We could have been a family, Johanna. Francis is a handsome fellow … you did a good job on raising the boy, even Adeen said so. Johanna … you understand I had no choice but to let you go … funny that you brought me to this religion and then left me hanging. You should have told me how you felt before breaking my heart. We could have been a family. We could have been a family,” he kept repeating like he was trying to convince himself. I felt I was intruding but I was really concerned about him.

  His voice sounded forced and strident, like he was drunk. I know that alcohol is a no-no in their religion, but I guess he had nothing to lose, no Witnesses around, so what the heck. A jug of iced tea could camouflage rum very smartly, which I know he loved because he told me so, but because of his being a Witness and all, he only drank moderately for certain occasions like a wedding … or a death, I guess. Felt sad for him. Felt sad for me. Felt sad for the entire galaxy of stars and planets. I let him talk to the beautiful shining box — what did I care? If it made him feel better … Everyone has had the sharp corners of their lives blunted by bad things that happen. So many broken spirits walking around here like zombies. People’s lives. As long as he didn’t bother anyone or hurt himself, I didn’t see the harm. Maybe Payton was right. We are living in hell. Here, right now. Irene and Frosty … I don’t know anymore.

  S’cuse me. I need a moment.

  Anyhow, that’s the story there.

  SHYLENE

  Shy Shylene is in one of her throw-away-everything moods. Adeen, who has parked herself on the edge of the queensize mattress, watches her rummage through the closet and dresser drawers tossing various garments onto the bed. Shylene wears only expensive designer clothes purchased at Holt Renfrew downtown or in specialty boutiques, so when she posted a notice on the building’s bulletin board that she would be holding a wardrobe sale, Adeen insisted on first dibs.

  “Only winter clothes? How come?”

  Shylene pauses for a moment and caresses the silky burgundy blouse against her cheek.

  “Bought this one in a boutique in Montreal when I was there as an exchange student. Long time ago. Hardly worn. I mean, it’s for special occasions. Here, yours free just because you’re my friend.” And the blouse takes flight, landing in Adeen’s arms.

  “Oh, Shylene, you should keep this. Montreal. My hometown. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned several times.”

  Adeen, deaf to the comment, continues, “Aw, yes. Used to window shop on rue Elle in Place Ville Marie on my lunch hour and drool over all the clothes I couldn’t afford.”

  “Ever want to go back?”

  “No, nothing for me there.”

  “Nothing here either.” Shylene raises her arms above her head and snaps her fingers as though she is a flamenco dancer who has lost her castanets.

  “Oh, Shylene, you sure you don’t want to keep this.”

  “Nah, bored stiff with it. Going to get myself a whole new winter wardrobe.”

  “How can you think of winter when it’s a hundred degrees out there in the shade?”

  “Keeps me busy, plus I like to be prepared.” Snap snap. “Doc said to keep those neurons in my brain busy.”

  “Oh, thank you. I love it.” Adeen throws her arms around Shylene’s neck, concealing her worry about Shylene’s looming change in behaviour. She knows the drill. The finger snapping was the first sign.

  Shylene exists. She was an only child who spent days in her room relishing the solitude; then, without warning, she transformed into an anti-social, rebellious delinquent. At fifteen, she had a breakdown, and her mother took her for a psychological evaluation. The therapist reported nothing positive. Only that signs
of mental disturbance were likely present at an early age, which made her parents miserable. She was diagnosed as suffering from clinical depression.

  “My mind’s not right,” she once confessed to Adeen. “Hope that doesn’t change things.”

  “Why should it?” Adeen said. “We’re all just people trying to do our best with what we’ve been given.”

  “It’s a genetic inheritance.”

  “No explanations needed. Come here. You need a hug.” Adeen reached over, taking hold of Shylene in her arms, and with that gesture alone, their friendship took root.

  Later, as Shylene’s trust in Adeen developed to a closeness bordering on obsession, she shared more of her former life. Her mother had been committed several times to the Centennial Centre for Mental Health in Ponoka, where she was described as having a paralysis of the mind. After three years at Ponoka, her mother returned home, permanently depressed and inaccessible to all until her death. The manic behaviour in the household had sent Shylene’s father to an early death from a heart attack.

  She had no other relatives, except for an estranged distant cousin in Millet whom Shylene presumed dead. She had gone against her parents’ wishes and sold the ancestral farm near Ponoka, and with the proceeds and a sufficient small inheritance, she settled in the Complex Arms and lived a charmed life. She carried herself with some dignity in public on the rare occasions when she went out.