The Complex Arms

by Dolly Dennis

  “You snooped? That’s private. Can’t believe you would do that, Adeen.”

  “You didn’t know me then.”

  “And look, you can google Ask dot-com any question and get an answer,” Miss Pauline says with excitement. “For example, let’s ask what causes tornadoes.”

  “All right, I get it. I’ve seen enough. Come on. Let’s play Scrabble, okay? Brought over a couple of beers.”

  “You’re no fun, Adeen.” And with a sigh leaning toward boredom, Miss Pauline shuts down the computer.

  “Let’s go sit outside then and cool off. I’m not liking this hot spell. Feels like déjà vu. Could happen again, and look where we are, Miss Pauline. In the middle of a trailer park.”

  She hates Frosty more than ever. She peers at the skies every ten minutes.

  “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Adeen.”

  “See that smoke over there? I wondered why it smelled so bad, like something burning. That doesn’t look right to me,” she says, pointing out a dark patch in the sky. Adeen runs to her root cellar urging Miss Pauline to follow.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hurry,” Adeen says as she frantically lowers the lid, leaving Miss Pauline outside to fend for herself. She stomps on the iron clad top to get Adeen’s attention.

  Still in a panic, Adeen shouts, “Get off. I can’t get the top up and you’ll be left behind.”

  “It’s over. Just a small dust storm flew by. You’re safe.”

  The lid gently rises and Miss Pauline helps Adeen out of the root cellar.

  “I guess that was a close call,” Adeen says, “Looks like it skipped us. Everything is dry.”

  “It’s okay. That smell is just from someone’s barbecue, probably. Come on. Let’s have another look at that internet.”

  “No, you go ahead. I just want to sit out here a bit. Maybe later.” Adeen, on the wing of an anxiety attack.

  Forests continue to burn near the foothills of the Rockies. Park wardens forbid campers to enter recreational areas and woodlands. Banff and Jasper take a financial nosedive as tourists begin to retreat to their cities and towns; thirsty canola fields forget to bloom; and farmers pray for rain again. We need rain. It is a yearly lament; anthem for a province that relies on agriculture and the oil patch as their main resources.

  “EEEE-eeeeeeeee.”

  “Shit! Now what.”

  Adeen stands in the doorway of their mobile home and ignores the slovenly interior, with its air of fermenting garbage, a treasure trove of wall-to-wall piles of newspapers, magazines, corrugated boxes, empty paint cans, dirty laundry, and dishes spilling over the counter. Half-eaten ice cream melts in bowls arranged like a still life atop the broken-down seventeen-inch black-and-white TV rescued from the rubble at Evergreen. A length of fabric from Fabricland transforms it into another side table. Adeen long ago abandoned the idea of having an immaculate home and has followed Jack’s example, a panacea for her problems, one less thing to care for. Everything now seems overwhelming and unimportant. Nothing matters. Mona would have taken her to see a doctor for her continuous depression and regular anxiety attacks. Frosty always came first with his own health issues and concerns, and always her daughter front and centre.

  Irene lies on the threadbare sofa, a soiled adult diaper discarded on the floor.

  “Eeee-eeeee.”

  “I just cleaned you. Bad girl!”

  Irene, agitated and perplexed, wobbles her head left to right, left to right, faster and faster until Adeen stammers, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Irene is a good girl.” She cradles Irene’s head against her chest and begins to sing “Goodnight, Irene,” the song that is always a magic bullet.

  Irene has a sturdy resistance to medication, so the lyrics, a distraction, always cool her down, allow Adeen enough time to force a tranquilizer down her throat and go about the business of cleaning her thirty-year-old baby.

  Adeen can feel a borderline migraine about to spring. You can’t do this anymore, the voices buzz around her like bees let loose from a hive.

  She dashes to the kitchen sink with a compulsion to cleanse her hands of all excrement and germs. Adeen scrubs with a scouring pad, counting 1-2-3, 1-2-3, letting the cold water dribble in a spray over both her arms like a surgeon preparing to open a heart and insert a pacer. Then, full speed ahead, she rotates the faucet until a waterfall of scalding water gushes over her arms like Niagara Falls. She screams from the burn, so painful that she can’t touch her skin.

  Adeen swivels to face Irene, now scrubbed and decent, sitting on the sofa. Her interest has been piqued by her mother’s activity, her brow is a wrinkled question mark.

  “Ne? NEEEE?”

  “Come, Irene.” Adeen grabs Irene’s scaly elbows and leads her to the kitchen table, opens a colouring book, and slides the box of crayons toward her.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Ma’am? Excuse me.”

  Adeen spins around to face the male voice. A man wearing a ball cap and T-shirt stands outside the screen door, arms clutching what appears to be a pile of posters. His legs stomp back and forth as if he is extinguishing a fire under his feet or has a need to empty his bladder.

  “Yes?” Adeen walks over to greet him.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but everything okay here?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard screaming.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, hot-water burn. I was distracted and didn’t notice until it was too late.”

  She steps outside and extends the man her scalded arms.

  He removes his baseball cap.

  “No one in the office, ma’am. Know where I can find the property manager?”

  “You want Miss Pauline here. She’s probably out shopping. I’m her assistant when she’s not around. Can I help?”

  He scratches his head as though that action alone would produce a solution to his dilemma. “Can I leave her a message or perhaps you can take care of it?”

  Adeen is impatient to press on with her day, not that she has anything urgent to attend to, but she no longer cares to interact with strangers and forces herself to be sociable only on an as-needed basis.

  “Sorry, ma’am, to trouble you but —”

  “Who are you anyhow? I don’t favour strangers,” she says, clearly agitated.

  The man seems rattled by her attitude. “I’m a park warden, work for Parks Canada.” And he flips open his ID card with a photo.

  “You don’t look like one. Where’s your uniform?”

  “Oh, I see. We swapped the stetson and uniform for something less official looking so we don’t scare off folks. It took a bit of getting used to for us, too, a ball cap and T-shirt. Just started the new look this year. Okay with you?”

  “Makes no diff to me as long as you are who you say you are. Well, get on with it.”

  “We’re just making the rounds to let people know about a prescribed burn in the forest near the Boule Range north of here. If anyone has asthma, they may want to evacuate in case the fire takes off.”

  “A prescribed burn, you say?”

  “Sometimes it’s called a control burn, ma’am. Yes. We occasionally set small fires to help Mother Nature with her housekeeping. Here, this will explain it.” He hands her one of the posters.

  Adeen glances at it, not reading the content, and says,“I don’t understand.”

  “See, ma’am, it has to be done because when trees get sick, they die, and the branches and needles drop and pile on the forest floor. Insects love that dead stuff and end up infesting the other healthy trees, and then they get sick and die, too. Fire is just nature’s way to clean up a forest so it renews itself, gets healthy again. Sometimes Mother Nature forgets, so we give her a helping hand.”

  “Well, isn’t Mother Nature just clever? With all this dryness, you’d think she’d remember. Okay then, will have to google prescribed burns on the internet. Give Miss Pauline something to do. She’ll love that.”

  “Yes, you can learn more if you’re interested.
We just want to make sure everyone here is aware what we’re doing when they see the smoke, and not to panic.”

  “So that’s what the smell was. What if it takes off, huh? Then what? Why don’t you just leave Mother Nature alone and when she’s ready, she’ll clean up after herself? Let her take care of her own needles and branches.”

  “Can’t, ma’am. Everyone needs a hand sometimes, including Mother Nature, so she doesn’t get carried away and destroy the healthy trees along with the sick ones.”

  “Really? You sound just like the Discovery Channel, like someone told you to say that. Sure you’re not selling smoke alarms?”

  But the park warden stands his ground. “Give these to Miss Pauline to have on hand for any of her residents if they ask. I would appreciate her posting the flyers around the property in case I miss anyone. It explains everything.”

  “I’ll make sure we also post them around the ‘hot spots’ in town.”

  “Got that covered, ma’am. But thank you.”

  He secures his baseball cap, tips goodbye with its brim, and is gone. “Hey,” Adeen shouts. “When is this tree killing supposed to start?”

  The park warden doesn’t hear and continues his route around the Arboreau Trailer Park.

  She shields her eyes and examines the skyline.

  “Hell. That’s what it is. Hell.” She can already see and smell a ration of smoke in the forest skirting the range. Adeen goes inside to find her binoculars for a closer look at hell.

  ADEEN

  That Miss Pauline. Isn’t she something else? Looking at all that porn at her age. She’s very private in some respects, though. Never married, no kids, no relatives. Reminds me of Shylene.

  People’s lives. Who am I to judge?

  Mona — I mean Miss Pauline — I must have scared her when I went flying out of her trailer into the root cellar. But when I looked up and the sky was overcast, it didn’t feel right to me. I wasn’t going to take any chances. I know, I know. I forgot about Irene asleep, but it was a spur-of-the-moment intuitive decision that just made me run. Like someone was pushing me. Don’t make me feel guilty. I realize now that the haze in the distance was the smog from the prescribed burns. Every summer there seems to be a forest burning somewhere. Now I get it. They burn sick trees to save the healthy. Not unusual to have a rapid dust storm when things get dry.

  Later that evening, I told Miss Pauline about the park warden and we googled “prescribed burns.” We sure have come a long way since television, haven’t we? Anyhow, we had no idea. Imagine Mother Nature destroying the sick trees so the healthy ones could live. What a thing! But come to think of it, I remember that mouse at the Complex Arms, cleaning all her baby pups except for a very weak one who was crushed to death by the mother doe. Only the strong survive, as they say. Mother Nature knows best, right? But that fire over there, it could have gotten out of hand and knocked everything down. I still say, don’t tinker with Mother Nature. Leave her alone.

  After the park warden left, I changed Irene again and gave her a sedative and let her fall into la-la land, asleep on the couch watching Sesame Street. I admit it was easier for me to just pop a pill into my daughter’s mouth and go about my day. What did she know, anyhow? She lived in the comfort of her own body: sleeping, eating, drinking soda — lots of soda — and back to sleeping, eating, drinking soda, sleeping. Oh, and watching Sesame Street. It kept me sane. So don’t judge me.

  Once Irene had been taken care of, I bolted the door and went around putting up some of the flyers on trees in the entrance to the trailer park, one at the grocery store, and one at the community centre, which the warden had missed. Was going to tape one on the door of Bo’s Bar, but I could see Miss Pauline and Frosty drinking and wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. She had a lot of spunk for an old lady, that Miss Pauline. She swore all that beer and smoking kept her healthy. I suppose it depends on your DNA because there was Frosty, dying of cancer and still smoking and drinking like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps there was no tomorrow. We die a bit every day, so maybe we should make the most of whatever time we have left. I don’t know anymore. I just listen to the voices buzzing in my head. Like Payton’s religion, they tell me what to do.

  Anyhow, that’s the story there.

  BO’S BAR

  Located in the heart of the Arboreau, Bo’s Bar is the nerve centre of the trailer park. Bo lives in an apartment above the bar and has expanded the building to include a general store with a gasoline station next door. An active poker game always going in back, it is Frosty’s playground, a refuge whenever he needs to run away from everything that is Adeen.

  Miss Pauline favours a daily pint of beer after purchasing her cigarettes. She says it is the only beverage, apart from coffee, that could be said to give her good health and longevity, so it is not unusual to spot her sitting at a window table, absorbed in the world outside Bo’s Bar.

  She watches Frosty stumble a step or two as he heads for the back door, the familiar cigarette dangling from his lips, shoulders hunched as though it were a cold snappy day in February.

  “Frosty, over here.”

  He scours the room searching for the voice, Miss Pauline in a frantic wave of over here, over here; she rises from her seat and beckons him to join her. A quick nod of his head toward the table, he pops by with a friendly howdy.

  “Sit,” Miss Pauline says. “Since you’re here, I need to talk to you.”

  “Only have a minute. Don’t want to keep Bo and the boys waitin’ for our poker. Feel lucky tonight.”

  “As my daddy used to say, ‘The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back into your pocket.’”

  “Those are wise words your daddy told you. But not much fun.”

  “Okay, Frosty, I’ll get right down to it. You and I have known each other for a while now.”

  “Yep, as memory has it, since we moved out here. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m worried about Adeen.”

  “Well, that’s Adeen for you. She likes the attention.”

  “She keeps talking about seeing these monarch butterflies. Says they are Mona reincarnate.”

  “I know. She’s all beer and skittles. Crazy. I let her just talk. Keep tellin’ her to get some counsellin’ but she says I’m the one that needs it. Like hell. Just let her be, Miss Pauline. Don’t worry. She’s my problem. I married her. We all have pieces of crazy in us, some bigger pieces than others, so just let her be.”

  “All right, Frosty. None of my business. By the way, you’re looking good these days. A bit of weight loss but suits you fine. How you feeling?”

  “Feelin’? Feelin’ right finer than frog hair. Look, Miss Pauline, I really have to go play that game. They’re waitin’.” He’s keeping his eyes on the back of the room.

  “Have to?”

  “Somethin’ to do. I have plans, you know.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Can’t say just yet.”

  They are staring at each other. Frosty reaches inside his shirt pocket and retrieves a pack of cigarettes.

  “Should you be smoking? I mean in your condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “The cancer. I guess it really doesn’t matter at this point. But why rush the afterlife.”

  “I’m not a goner yet, Miss Pauline.”

  “Oh, but we all are dying in some way every day, as they say.”

  He lights his cigarette. “I’m in remission.”

  “Are you now? Does Adeen know?”

  “I shouldna told you, but I trust you not to tell Adeen. I want to surprise her. Hey, Adeen, I’ll be around a lot longer than you thought. Not dyin’ just yet.”

  “Oh, she’ll be surprised, all right. Did you just get the news?”

  “Naw. Right after I finished my treatments, doc said there weren’t any signs. No tumours. Didn’t want to tell anyone, especially Adeen. Better if she thought I was terminal. Maybe she’d stop with her naggin’. Like I said
, I have plans.”

  “My grandpa used to say, ‘Treat a woman like a racehorse and she’ll never be a nag.’”

  “What you sayin’, Miss Pauline? That I mistreat Adeen?”

  “Not saying anything, Frosty. Think what you want. She did tell me once you are a chronic liar.”

  “Then don’t mess with somethin’ that ain’t botherin’ you. And you better keep our secret.” He wags his finger at her. “I’ll let you know when it’s okay to spill the beans. S’cuse me.”

  “You plan on leaving Adeen?”

  No answer. Bo pokes his head out the back door and motions Frosty to join the game immediately. No dawdling. Miss Pauline watches as he lumbers past her in that cowboy stride indicative of wranglers who’ve spent too many years in the saddle. She gulps down the beer, shakes her head from the warm bitter taste, smacks her lips with a loud ahhhhhh, anticipating the pending drama that always unfolds outside Bo’s Bar and into the parking lot if you wait long enough. Showtime — a fight, a blooming romance, an argument, an exchange of illegal drugs — and that is in the light of a sunny day. Nighttime has its own playbill. Today brings an uneventful scene, though, a sluggish summer afternoon when chickadees nestle in comfortable perches to chirp, chatter, and cheep. Miss Pauline usually takes solace in the jargon of birds, but all she can think about now is Adeen and Frosty. A delicate situation. She orders another beer.

  ADEEN

  Been thinking about dying lately. Don’t mean to sound maudlin. I guess because of Frosty’s terminal cancer. I figure death is a sleep but we just never wake up. Or maybe we wake up in another galaxy. Stardust, someone once told me. I think it was Jack after Mona died. He was a comfort. And those dreams about people and places we used to know or read about, I believe they join us wherever we land. I’m not going religious on everyone here. It’s always on my mind and I have no answers. Maybe because of my age. Fifty isn’t old, but so many celebrities are dying now. Not that I measure the length of my years by the death of a pop star.