by Susan Calder
“Our floors are so solid the smoke that got up to my place wasn’t bad after a little work.” Florence left the five-dollar bills and coins for change.
“Payment on the honour system?”
“I don’t have the time to sit outside.” Florence stuffed the money into the pocket of her baggy jeans. “The important thing is to get the things out of my house and hair.”
A woman came over and asked if there were more microwaves inside.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Florence said. “Come back next weekend.”
In Florence’s hall, the papers that had been stacked on microwaves now rose from the floor to Paula’s waist height. The portraits of the three grandchildren and Johnny and Cynthia skating were cock-eyed, presumably bumped during the process of hauling out microwaves. All the washers and dryers had migrated to this end of the living room, crowding the TV nook beyond use. Clothes lay heaped on everything, although the pyramids of tables, dressers and chairs against the picture window let in more light than before. A ray shone a spotlight in the room’s nearly empty centre, a clearing in the virtual forest. Every window Paula could see was open.
“The boys moved the washers to find out what was behind,” Florence said. “I’d have had them take them out to the yard, but Johnny has a strained shoulder.”
From his fall at the parade? Paula didn’t see Johnny in the apartment. She looked through the gaps in the pyramid to the deck. “Garner has dollies and moving straps for large items he buys at garage sales,” she thought aloud. “Would Caspar have any in his garage?”
“Garner?” Florence’s tanned forehead creased. The turned-up nose that her children had inherited clashed with her rougher facial features: thin irregular lips, uneven eyes, heavy cheekbones. “You mean Caspar’s friend? He called about the funeral. I told him we were burying Caspar with his rubbish in the yard, like a pharaoh with his possessions for the afterlife.”
“You aren’t really?”
“I’d offer you tea if I could find the kettle. It’s buried amongst the blenders and fondue sets we moved from on top of the washers to the kitchen.”
The antique sewing machine still blocked the kitchen entry. Paula sneezed. Dust stirred up by the shifted objects dangled suspended in the ray of sun. Paula could use a glass of water, but was Florence’s sink accessible? Surely her burial remark about Caspar had been a joke.
Florence motioned toward the pyramid. “Grab one of those chairs, if you like. Careful about dislodging them, and don’t count on their legs not to crash. I’m fine on the floor.” She dropped to the hardwood and crossed her legs, lotus-style, with an ease that suggested Johnny’s and Cynthia’s skating flexibility, in addition to their noses, had come from Florence.
Rather than risk a wobbly chair, Paula joined her on the floor. She crossed her legs and straightened her back in an attempt to match Florence’s posture.
Florence picked up a folder from the hardwood. “This cleaning up is kind of fun, a real nostalgia trip. These newspaper clippings Willie saved were under a dryer, of all places.”
“Willie?”
“Wilhelmina, Caspar’s and my husband’s mother. She lived here until she died.” Florence fanned the folder, spreading more dust.
“She died in—” Paula fought another sneeze.
“April 2010. Her husband, Hans, passed away the year before.”
Paula had a hunch. “Was Wilhelmina the drive behind their family cleaning business?”
“I’d say that. Hans was the plodder, but he contributed his share.”
And Caspar had been the plodder son, who had worked steadily and unambitiously in the family business while his older brother, Kurt, Florence’s ex-husband, was the entrepreneurial son with the drive. Florence opened the folder. Interesting that she had referred to Kurt as her husband, without the ‘ex’. They must have divorced, assuming Kurt had legally married Brendan’s mother. Paula stifled a sneeze. The air from the windows might be helping clear out the smoke, but it was also blowing the dust around. She decided to let Florence follow her own tangent rather than start in with questions.
Florence flipped through the yellowed newspaper clippings. “A number of these people Willie worked for were the ‘Who’s Who’ of Calgary at the time. Oil men, a cattle baron, movers and shakers.”
“Are these society pages?”
“Some. Also announcements, like So-and-so’s got a promotion or bought out a company or was asked to comment on Calgary’s future. One of the wives is in a feature with her recipe; another’s home has pictures of its garden and, of course, a lot of them are in suits and fancy dresses at charity balls.”
“That must have been interesting to work in their homes.”
Florence closed the folder. “Willie always said it was a pleasanter environment than a factory assembly line or standing behind a counter all day.”
“I can see that,” Paula said. “The cleaning business was successful to the end?”
“It only wound down because Willie and Hans got old.”
“You and Caspar kept it going?”
“By then we were past our primes, and the younger generation wasn’t … What was it you wanted from me?”
“I’m wondering, who handled the accounting for the business?”
“Willie, before she handed it over to me.”
“Are the books available?”
Florence glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom full of baby carriages, toys and other childhood paraphernalia. “Aren’t you here about the building insurance?”
“I’ll need a copy of Caspar’s and your late husband’s wills, leaving the property to the children, to be sure the insurance is in order.”
“I gave those to the detectives last night.”
“They were here? Do you have copies?”
“I trusted the police not to lose them.”
Paula made a note to get copies of the documents from Mike. “Would you know if Caspar had a safety deposit box?”
“He didn’t have stocks or bonds worth keeping in one.”
“What about other valuables?”
“His notion of value was different from you and me. He kept his treasures close to him.”
Wrapped in plastic and rags that went up in flames.
Florence confirmed she had been absent the night of fire, having left two days earlier for a back-country camping trip with a friend. Paula asked for the companion’s name.
“I don’t see why you need it for insurance,” Florence said.
“It’s routine.”
“Until there’s a need, I’m not interested in involving an outsider.” Florence’s tone remained matter of fact. She didn’t look angry or defensive.
“Did you rent this apartment from Caspar?” Paula asked.
“I paid my share of the utilities and repairs in lieu of rent, and the city taxes for the past two years.”
Because Caspar didn’t have the money for them. “Do you feel you paid approximately what you would have paid in rent for an equivalent dwelling?”
“I could have charged Caspar for using half my premises for storage. I believe I paid a fair amount—more than fair with the taxes. They aren’t cheap. What does this have to do with insurance?”
Nothing, since the property was insured as a rental, and Florence’s payments would be considered rent. “You’re aware that Caspar’s policy doesn’t cover your personal contents? You’ll have to claim under your own tenant’s package if you have one.”
“Why pay premiums year after year for contents like this?” Florence swept the folder in an arc, taking in the whole room.
“Anything here that belonged to Caspar would be covered as part of his extended contents.”
“Most of it’s his. See what I mean about insurance being a waste for me?”
“Tenant’s package coverage has other benefits, such as your liability for—”
“Did Johnny talk to you about us handling the cleaning for Caspar’s apartment?”
“The smo
ke restorers have already started work.”
“I sent them away.”
“You what?”
“We’d charge a reasonable amount.”
Why hadn’t the restorers called Paula about this? Damn. She should have followed up.
“I’d agree to half what your so-called experts would charge.”
Dust tickled Paula’s nostrils. “It’s a challenge, even for professionals, to get fire smell out of objects and every corner of a room or stairwell.”
“You don’t think I saw worse during my forty years in the cleaning business?”
Paula tried an evasion. “Did you enjoy the working environment as much as Willie did?”
“It was a job. I liked having control of my hours.”
“Me, too.”
“I couldn’t be stuck in a factory or behind a desk.”
Paula nodded. “I love that the majority of my work hours are spent outside the office.”
“Some of those rich folks were pigs, like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I know what you mean. I adjusted a claim in a mansion that was filthy.”
“It was satisfying to get those places organized and sparkling.”
“I find that, too.”
“Cleaning your own or someone else’s mess?” Florence’s eyes narrowed. “When you’re the housecleaner, your status is crystal clear. They’re up here.” She raised the folder into the sun ray. “You’re there.” Her other hand brushed the floor. “No matter how kind they are or how many jackets they give you because they don’t want them anymore, you’re both constantly aware of the status.”
Paula’s stomach panged with guilt. If she and Sam hired a cleaning person, she vowed to treat the woman or man as their equal.
Florence rested the folder on her lap. “If your experts go into Caspar’s, what they’ll do is pitch everything into a dumpster. What if there’s valuables buried in there?”
“They’ll keep a lookout for them and set them aside.”
“I told you Caspar’s treasures were personal.”
“I’ll inspect the items and take photographs. We won’t throw anything out without your permission.”
“Why not just have us do it all, instead of your experts and you and us all getting our wires crossed?”
Paula sneezed; she sneezed again and again. Noise from a faulty muffler roared through the screens at the bottom of the picture window.
“Every single object in that apartment had value for Caspar,” Florence said. “It’s not right that people who wouldn’t give ashes for him throw them out. I don’t know why you’re arguing. You’re not paying us a cent until we’re done and all of us, including you, are satisfied with the result.”
This arrangement was bound to end in disappointment and misunderstanding, but the job had already been delayed a week. What were a few more days? “If this is what you want, I can draw up an estimate of the work and the time it should take.”
“The time it should take or the time those experts would charge you for?” Florence’s face came as close to smiling as Paula had seen it.
Paula seized this moment of almost bonding to dig deeper. “You must have found your in-laws’ business satisfying, in some ways, if you continued working with them after you and your husband separated.”
“Someone had to put food on the table. I couldn’t count on Kurt for child support. He was always throwing away his money on business ventures.”
“That must have been rough,” Paula sympathized. “Cynthia told me that during the dry times you had to scrape for food.”
“That’s a lie. I always provided.”
“Cynthia’s memories are probably—”
“She was Kurt’s darling little girl. And look where it landed her? She married a man exactly like him.”
Cynthia had said something similar. “How often did you talk to Caspar during the weeks before he died?”
“He’d come up every day for his mail and the newspaper. If I was around, we’d pass a few words. Ditto when I went down to the lane with my garbage.”
“Do you remember your last conversation with him?”
“The police asked me all this yesterday.” Florence hoisted herself up with grace for a woman of seventy. She seemed to share her son Johnny’s character trait of being cooperative until crossed.
Paula’s rear was sore from the hardwood. She told Florence she would let her know when the appraiser would come by. “Can I leave you my card in case you have further questions?”
“Set it on the papers in the hall on your way out.”
The card would likely get lost among those papers. Something banged between the living room and kitchen.
“Fuck.” Johnny Becker emerged from the interior staircase. The door rested against the sewing machine. Johnny’s gaze slid from Paula to Florence. “You didn’t tell me she was coming.”
A hockey helmet angled sideways on his head. His black shirt and jeans were grey with soot, as was the jewellery he held in his gloved hands. Reeking of smoke, he rolled his shoulder at Florence. “Do you have any ointment for this? It’s killing me” He grinned at Paula. “Seems I’m not as skilled at tumbling to the pavement as I used to be.”
“Served you right for that nonsense at the parade.” Florence voiced Paula’s thought.
Johnny raised his hands to display the necklaces, earrings and a brooch “Look what I found at my uncle Caspar’s.”
“You could get in by the interior staircase?” Paula asked.
“I went round to the yard entrance and moved the stuff blocking his inside door.”
“I hope you wore a face mask.”
“That helmet would be more useful if you did up the chin buckle,” Florence said.
“It’s broke.” Johnny winked at Paula. “Ma’s worried a chair or something might fall on me while I’m rooting around.”
“For mould you want goggles and a respirator,” Paula said.
“Are you my other ma?” He asked.
“Where did you find the jewellery?”
“In Uncle Caspar’s desk drawer, an obvious hiding place.”
Florence snatched a T-shirt from the top of a washing machine. “We’ll clean this jewellery up and get it appraised. Who knew Caspar had anything worth two bits?”
Among the jewellery was a pendant that might be clear crystal under all the dirt. Paula doubted a stone that large could be genuine diamond, but what if it was? “Let’s test its refraction in the light.”
“They aren’t damaged so aren’t part of the claim.” Florence scooped the jewellery into the cloth. “We’ll take care of them. Like I said, leave your card in the hall, and make us that cleaning estimate.”
Johnny followed Paula to the hall.
“To get past the fence, did you open the padlock with a shoestring?” she asked.
“Climbed over the top.”
She left him at the bathroom and continued out the door and to the side yard. No way would she hoist a leg over the fence’s vicious spikes. She checked that Johnny hadn’t tampered with the padlock. Given the jewellery he had found at Caspar’s, it might be prudent to invest in better locks. She had her safety gear in the car and wished she had time for a second look into Caspar’s apartment, but a text from Sam told her that he and her mother were finished visiting with his father. No surprise there. Sam found an hour or two of his father more than enough. Working tonight, Sam added. Can’t stay for dinner.
* * *
At home Paula’s mother was waiting for her on the porch. Paula asked her opinion of Sam, now that she’d met him.
“I don’t know why Sam had to whisk us away so soon,” her mother said. “No wonder David feels neglected.”
“He wouldn’t if he was kinder to his son. As it is, Sam puts up with far more than I would in his position.”
“You and Sam could be more tolerant and understanding.”
The afternoon sun lit up her home’s cream siding. Paula’s work for the weekend was over. Why
waste the day’s glorious weather talking about crabby David?
“How about a glass of wine, Mum?”
“I suppose I can treat myself. I’m on holiday.”
Paula brought out two glasses of Malbec. Her chair’s plastic leg shook. She jiggled it into position. She and Sam couldn’t agree on furniture for their new front porch, assuming the renovation got under way. He favoured a bench. She argued chairs would be more practical when they were sitting out with someone else.
“I’m surprised Walter isn’t here,” Paula said to her mother. “You and he have been getting chummy.”
“He came over when Sam and I arrived but had to go in to make dinner. His wife finds cooking too much for her these days. Poor woman. It makes me grateful for good health.”
Paula loosened her orange bandana. “Are you up for a visit to the Stampede grounds tomorrow?”
“Won’t you be working?”
“I’m done for a while.”
“Could we make it Tuesday instead?”
“What’s wrong with tomorrow? Too tired? How was your night at Erin’s?”
“I promised Walter I’d go to the grounds with him on Tuesday. His wife isn’t able, but she doesn’t want him to miss out. Seniors get in free on Tuesday.”
Even if she could change the day, Paula didn’t look forward to wandering around the fairgrounds with Walter.
“Seniors also get free tickets to the rodeo and chuckwagon races,” her mother said. “A free sky ride, which sounds frightening.”
“It’s benign.”
“Free coffee and doughnuts if we arrive early enough.”
“I can buy you coffee and doughnuts.”
“People your age are allowed in on Tuesday but wouldn’t be entitled to the free—”
“What about Walter’s sprained ankle?”
“From his description, I don’t think it was a proper sprain. It’s improving and should be back to normal in two days. I’m certain he’ll be glad to have you along.”
“You and I will do something different tomorrow, like drive to the mountains.” Paula didn’t care about skipping the grounds this year, but how disappointing to cancel the unique outing with Mike. “I’ll meet Mike when you’re busy on Tuesday.”