by Dolly Dennis
“Yes, Adeen.” Always yes, yes, yes, Adeen, and nothing ever got done.
I had come for the rent. He was a month late, which never happened. He pleaded that his pension cheque hadn’t arrived yet and if I could wait another couple of weeks, he would be good for it. It’s a shame how we treat our seniors. He was always on time. Swank Property had raised the tenants’ rent because the city had increased property taxes. Nothing I could do about that. Jack/Jackie asked me if I could write a letter, telling management about his career as a public servant educating their children, and could they take pity on him and keep his rent at the same level for at least another year. Defer his misery, as he put it.
I felt sorry for the man/woman. Amazingly, Ed Swank, being the humanitarian and philanthropist that he was, deferred his increase for another year. Still, every month, Jack/Jackie needed to budget expenses, choosing between food and makeup or rent. Very often he would go to the food bank to load up on necessities like milk and bread. He could live on that for a week. He was not entitled to welfare as the powers that be considered his pension cheque adequate, enough to keep him in the style he had become unaccustomed to. Often, I would bring him leftovers. Frosty would yell at me, “He’s a Molly, a homophilic.” And I would answer back, “He’s a human being,” adding, “and a very interesting one at that.”
I understood Jack/Jackie. I’ve noticed outsiders are the most interesting people. But everyone needs someone. People do need other people just to live. We are social creatures. My tenants needed someone, needed me. So here I am.
Anyhow, that’s the story there.
THE SUMMER FAIR
Edmonton’s hot season is always filled with family activities: visiting water parks, camping, hiking, swimming, canoeing, biking, and celebrating at street festivals of every make and model. Tourists overrun the province, stop at historical sites, holler at the Drumheller hoodoos — or doodoos, as Adeen called these rock formations in the Badlands where dinosaurs once ruled the earth — and always there are the side trips to the wild, to escape the oppressive heat near a lake or hotel pool: Banff, Canmore, Jasper. City folks blend with the travellers on the highways and roadways where the Rockies reveal themselves in all their glory, and everyone sighs and says, “Oh, wow, look at the mountains!” And then there are Klondike Days for those with no recourse but to vacation close to home.
Adeen carries an unbearable guilt for ignoring Irene, but Mona insists the girl is thriving in her home. If truth be told, Adeen likes the freedom of not having to deal with her damaged daughter and experiences a liberating joy akin to winning the lotto. No parental responsibilities for a change, she can pretend that she is a solitary figure without a past, or present, pretend that she’s been given a chance to redesign her life, obliterate all the errors and misjudgments, a second chance to get it right. If she could, she would run away with a new identity and push life’s restart button.
Mona called instead. “I’m taking Irene to the fairground and thought you might like to come.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? You know how she can get.”
“Adeen, Irene is just fine. She likes the kids around here, and she hasn’t had a tantrum since she got here. I make sure she takes her meds. I’m there until I see her swallow those yellow pills.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault, Mona, that my daughter hates me, that I can’t control her, that I don’t give her proper care? Want to adopt her?”
“Don’t be silly. Irene doesn’t know what hate is.”
Silence on the other end. “Besides, I can’t. Told Zita I would babysit Derrick.”
“Hey, we can take him with us. Irene loves Derrick and it would be fun for both of them and us. Remember fun? Remember all those corndogs and rides and games when you and Irene first came out here? Adeen, you could use a change. Get out more.”
So Mona collects them, Irene sitting in the back seat, clapping to an old Merle Haggard tune on the car radio. When Derrick spots Irene, he comes charging at her like a battering ram, flings open the back door and slides in, his arms almost a chokehold around her neck, knocking her over on the seat, tickling her sides while she shrieks and snorts, her giggles spilling out the open window with pure joy.
Adeen waits her turn to hug and kiss her daughter’s cheek before joining Mona in the front. Irene stops laughing and applauding, joy now deflating like a punctured tire. This breathing space away from each other reaffirmed Adeen’s affection for her daughter. She’d just needed a brief respite from the distress that was Irene.
They park the car on a residential side street specifically designated for those attending the midway. Northlands Coliseum is in a low-income neighbourhood, and this playground, every summer, provides extra income for the residents who open their streets for parking; after all, they have to contend with the cacophonic headache of a carnival and exposition in their midst. The four stroll toward the gate, Irene clutching Derrick’s hand, both arms swinging in wide strides of anticipation. They burst into fits of nonsensical sniggering and deliberate fart sounds over the noise of the midway. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” says Adeen to Derrick’s head shaking while Irene continues skipping and cheering with her hands in a show of I am happy. Just being kids. Behind them, Mona and Adeen drag on cigarettes, blowing gusts of smoke into the density of another hot summer day.
The heat hits them like a heavyweight boxer, but as soon as they hear the roar within the gates, Irene and Derrick release their armholds and sprint in the direction of the music. Mona chases after them while Adeen lags behind, moving in a desultory fashion; her face is devoid of any obvious signs of enthusiasm. They purchase day passes and are in the swim of the moment when Adeen spots him. Payton. Heedful of possible converts, gatekeeper to Jehovah’s kingdom, he has positioned himself in front of the fenced grounds, clutching a handful of pamphlets in one hand. In the other, he cradles a simple small shining box against his heart. The lid carries an engraving, a name, with calligraphic lettering which she can’t decipher.
“Payton?” Adeen says.
“The end is near.” His focus is levelled into the oblivion of some other world he has yet to experience.
“Oh, Payton, that’s enough now. Are you allowed to be here?”
“They will come. Prepare.” And he searches the pewter sky for a ticking watch forecasting the termination of everything that belongs to mankind.
Mona, impatient to jump-start the afternoon, repositions herself next to Adeen, nudges her and says, “Who’s that?”
“One of my tenants. Strange fellow but harmless. Remember I told you about him when we took on the building. He thinks we’re all going to die and go to hell unless we are Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Not before we have some fun first.”
Though the sky has shifted and there is a sudden appearance of clouds, a spot of sun is determined to push through. A prediction of showers is in the forecast, but the day, nevertheless, remains hot and sluggish, overburdened by humidity.
The day’s turnout compares with the largest in the history of Klondike Days, and there are long lineups for all of the rides and for the more popular amusements and games of chance and skill, like hitting a target with either a ball or a weapon. Irene and Derrick are enthralled by the duck pond because it produces a winner every time. The player selects one of the rubber ducks floating in the water. Writing on the bottom of the duck reveals the prize. Everyone is a winner. Mona and Adeen can’t coax the children away until they are bribed with ice cream cones.
By the end of the afternoon fatigue has set in, but Mona wants to guzzle down a cool beer, so they place Irene and Derrick at the children’s centre and make their way to the makeshift saloon after buying a couple of tickets for the home lottery. Adeen bumps into a woman of a plus size, wearing a swirl of pink-and-green chiffon and adorned with bright yellow hair, false eyelashes blackened with mascara, feathers in her pompadour, wrists encased in layers of rhinestones over long-sleeved white gloves reachin
g to the elbows, and at her throat a remarkable display of amber in a silver necklace. It’s Diamond Lil, reincarnated from a daguerreotype photo, a woman from another era, before they fought for emancipation from the kitchen and bedroom. Adeen is spellbound.
“Excuse me,” says Adeen. When she looks more closely, there is a familiarity in the woman’s comportment. Jack in drag, makeup smudged from the smear and sweat of the day, Jackie extends her arm.
“Adeen!”
“Jackie? You look … you look … fantastic. Wow! Anybody else here from the Complex Arms?”
“Oh, sweetie, isn’t it a lovely day for a parade of costumes. Got my photo taken. Look.” And she whips out a shot of herself under a parasol, pouty and sexy. “I’ve entered the contest for best-looking male in drag. Isn’t Edmonton wonderful?”
“Aren’t you hot in that getup?”
“Oh, Adeen, you are too funny. What’s a bit of sweat. Going in?” She harrumphs and opens the old-fashioned saloon door that swings back and forth.
Wall-to-wall patrons pack the room. Anthracitic lighting and a substantial odour choke the air conditioning vents with smoke and stink. The waitress leads them to a table for three that has just been vacated near an open window and returns with the cocktail menus as a starter. In the meantime, while both Jackie and Mona muse about how lucky they are to get window seats, Adeen studies the room. Over the hills of heads, she comes across something that she will archive in her memory folder for many years.
“Let’s go,” she whispers.
“Hey, I haven’t gotten my order yet. I’m starving.” Mona is grouchy. She attributes it to the heat. And Jackie just wants company. She doesn’t want to eat alone.
“See over there?” Adeen points to the other end of the room, opposite to where they are sitting. There is Frosty, dressed as Roy Rogers, sitting at a table with Velvet costumed in red and black boas, corseted like a dance hall girl from the days of the original Klondike. On her other side is a masked stranger outfitted as the Lone Ranger. Frosty leans over to give Velvet a kiss on her cherry-coloured lips and then it is the stranger’s turn. They are all obviously drunk. Joshing, laughing, and slapping the edge of the table like a conga drum, they seem oblivious to their surroundings.
“Oh, my, doesn’t she have a waist!” says Jackie as she soaks in the scene. “I see what you mean, Adeen. It’s getting hot as hell in here.” And she fans herself with her hands, bracelets a jingle like everyone’s nerves.
Adeen dashes out in a fury of anger, and the noise of the crowded room seems to thunder behind her like a distant engine revving up. Mona chases after her.
When they reach the children’s centre, they finally plop down on a nearby bench, breathing heavily, and Adeen cries out, “Bastard! Did you see him kissing that bitch?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. But, yeah, he’s drunk, Adeen. Doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”
“Well, I will. I don’t think I can go on living like this. I do have some pride left.”
They both sit still. What to do next? Each is in their own world of oblivion and then Adeen perks up and says, “I want to go home. Get the kids.”
When they enter the children’s centre, one of the workers is frantic and says Irene and Derrick have disappeared, that they slipped out and volunteers are scouring the grounds.
“We were hoping to find them before you got here.”
“They weren’t here long. How could you have been so negligent?” Adeen yells, her voice rising at each hit of rage.
“These things happen. The kids want to go on the rides, play the games, so sometimes they just wander off.”
“Wander off? You guys are supposed to make sure they don’t wander off.”
Adeen rushes back to the saloon with Mona trailing her again. Frosty is bending over the table, both elbows up, hilariously laughing at someone’s joke, choking on his beer. Velvet sees her first and her demeanour changes to outright fear.
Frosty says, “What’s the matter?”
Velvet motions behind him. “Your wife.”
With a sharp look over his shoulder, he notices Adeen, who is now screeching, “Irene’s missing and you’re sitting here having a grand old time. I hate you, Frosty Whitlaw.”
“I can explain, Adeen. We was just havin’ fun. I have a good explanation. Honest.” He stumbles in a drunken whirl of words that mean nothing.
“Cliché excuse. Go write yourself a poem and shove it up your ass.”
And she is gone, leaving the Lone Ranger and Velvet to muddle through the evening while Frosty stumbles after Adeen mumbling, “What you mean Irene is missin’? What you mean?”
One of the employees at the duck pond reports finding a young girl, Irene’s description, who talks gibberish, accompanied by another child of ten or so. They had been loitering around the stall without adult supervision. The children’s centre pages the fairground, announcing like a broken record: “Mrs. Adeen Whitlaw, report to the children’s centre. Your children have been found. Mrs. Adeen Whitlaw, report to the children’s centre. Your children have been found.”
ADEEN
I wasn’t frantic at the possibility of losing Irene. Isn’t that awful? I was just mad at Frosty and the situation. I’ve had this buildup of anger inside of me simmering for a while. Every time he did something moronic, he’d strip another chunk out of my heart. I’ll be without a heart at this rate. But the weird thing is I didn’t really blame Frosty for all he did to me. No, I blamed his behaviour on the alcohol and the weed. It must do something to the brain. The idiot. Don’t say I was asking for it because I always took him back. No one asked me, not even Mona, but I was relieved that they were found, of course, but, honestly, I wanted Irene dead. Isn’t that awful? Don’t judge me.
I forgave Frosty again. Gave him another chance. I think the medical profession calls it enabling. Anyhow, he told me he just bumped into Velvet at the fair with her friend, the Lone Ranger, so they stopped off for drinks. That’s all. He just tagged along for the ride. I so wanted to believe that, but what the hell was he doing at the fairgrounds alone except he knew she would be there, or they had gone together. The liar!
I wasn’t ready to take Irene back after that. My blood pressure was up again, and the doc said I needed to relax, do some yoga maybe. Find a hobby. Find a hobby? When would I have had time? I get these anxiety attacks sometimes. I know I’m hard to get along with, but what can you expect when I was living with someone like Frosty, who was making all those promises to me about his poetry and how one day he’d be rich and famous and we’d live in a house of our own. Can you believe that I believed him? And now?
Thank God for Mona. She had a way with Irene. I don’t know how she did it. I guess it’s always easier when it’s not your kid. I really needed more time to figure out what I wanted to do. I knew that Frosty was fooling around with Velvet. I’m not stupid. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m in denial. Despite my feelings about her, I felt sorry for the girl. She still couldn’t find that boyfriend of hers, who’d left her stranded here.
Look, I get it. Women are such pushovers. Here was Velvet — God, I keep thinking of Bobby Vinton every time I say her name. Anyhow, okay, I get it. She was alone in this big town, Edmonton, and no boyfriend to meet her. If it was me, I would have gone right back to the Soo. I’m an independent kind of woman. I don’t need anyone. Not anymore. I was keeping my eye on her and Frosty. I should’ve just left. Escaped to some foreign country, an exotic island, and no one would hear from me ever again. No one would miss me, I’m sure.
Anyhow, as I was saying, thank God for Mona, who had the patience of an angel. Irene was in good hands. Mona was just somehow a born mother. Knew just what to do, say, and well, she just loves kids. Loved Irene the best. And she couldn’t have any of her own. She told me once that she had a hysterectomy. Isn’t it always the way? Those who should be mothers can’t, and those who shouldn’t be are like bunny rabbits. Just one baby after the other.
And then there was Zita’s mom. Marietta wanted to control her daughter, organize her life. Never severed that umbilical cord that tied them together. Zita told me she just wanted to hear her mother say I love you. When Marietta ignored her daughter’s birthday, in effect she was saying You were never born. So Zita lost her mother, and then she lost her baby. The pain must have been horrendous for Zita. I can only imagine.
And my mother? Her daughter was the bottle. I know a little bit of what Zita feels. The mother-daughter thing can be special, but it is not without its problems. I’m sure somewhere in this world there are mothers who exemplify Mary, the mother of Jesus.
Nothing is ever easy. I so wanted to believe Frosty, but my trust in people was diminishing every day. People always disappoint me. I’m a good person, you know. I just wanted to live a decent life. Be happy. Whatever that is.
Anyhow, that’s the story there.
AFTER THE FAIR
Mona drops off Adeen and Derrick at the Complex Arms and continues back to the Evergreen Mobile Home Park with Irene, who copies Derrick’s hand movements with a baffled expression. “Bye, bye, Irene.” He waves. She throws a hissy fit inside the car, kicking and screaming, repeatedly calling for Derrick: “De-d-d-d-d.”
Mona brings the car to a halt. “Oh, Irene, you’ll see Derrick again soon.”
And Irene retorts with her own language of love for Derrick: “De-d-d-d-d.” Confusion masks her face until Mona offers a chocolate mint. The distraction calms her, Derrick forgotten for the moment as she focuses on licking the coating from the candy. Then Mona accelerates the car and they are back on the highway.
It is almost suppertime when Adeen hands Derrick over to Zita, who seems out of sorts, tired. Her face is partially hidden by a cotton scarf. She is sitting on the front steps.