Brewster
Clotilde’s resourcefulness and the way she entered into the project makes him smile. He’s certainly intrigued by this woman and how she has coped with the changes in her life. She can’t hear the jets going over, the buses going by or the chirping and twittering of birds in the garden. He wishes he knew more about her. Maybe one day. He loves her drawings and knows that Melanie would be over the moon at what’s transpired even though he was a total grouch and very uncooperative at the beginning. Working with Clotilde and wondering what it must be like living in her silent world has calmed him.
#
“G’morning, Jane,” he says as he walks into the office, feeling very upbeat. “I’ve always liked Thursdays because that means tomorrow is Friday, and that’s the end of the week.” She laughs and tells him Joel will not be in until about 10:30, at which point he mentions that Irene will be in around 10:00.
“I’ve put the final papers on your desk for the transfer of the flower shop, and there are a couple of messages here for you to call tenants. Otherwise, things are quiet,” she says. “But it’s early yet.”
He watches as she pirouettes her wheelchair around to put away some files. Here’s another woman who has overcome her difficulties. This is what a car accident did to her. Could Melanie have ended up like her? He settles into his office and reaches for his in-tray. Which is better, a wheelchair or a coffin? Handicapped or heaven?
These dark thoughts are pushed aside as he tackles the paperwork Jane has laid out for him. He checks through The Blue Aster transfer to Jo and Danny and signs off. He’s busy talking with one of his tenants when Jane wheels in and signals him that Irene is here and waiting.
“That’s okay, Tom,” he says. “Good to talk with you. I’ll get Brian to drop in and follow through. Thanks for your comments.” He hangs up the phone.
“C’mon in, Irene,” he says, coming round from behind his desk. “Welcome to my world up here, the headquarters of BAM Inc.”
“BAM?” she says.
“Well, our roots are the sheet metal and plumbing business, so we thought BAM was pretty good. Brewster and Melanie. Simple and catchy.”
“Coffee or tea?” Jane asks from the doorway. “That’s fresh water you have there in the pitcher.”
“Very traditional admin you have here,” Irene says. “I pictured you as one of those manager types who gets his own.”
“Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s get-it-yourself around here,” Brewster says. “But Jane said this morning that things are pretty quiet, and she likes to stay busy. Besides, you look important today in a suit. You must have a client meeting.”
Irene acknowledges his accurate assessment and tells about her possible new client, in town from Seattle. “They tend to be a bit more formal than us Canadians.” She takes the manila, letter-size envelope from her briefcase. “I have to sign these divorce papers—sign off on a lump sum settlement, and that’s it.”
He sees she is devastated by what has to be done. “Any word from Mark at all?” he asks.
“Very brief,” she says, showing him a one-page letter. “He says he wants to marry the mother of his three—yes three—children, and he’s been advised to settle his affairs in Canada.” She pauses, bites her lip and looks away. “That means I am nothing but an affair. How can he say that? We were in love. We are married, we had a mortgage. I’ve waited 20 years for him. Good grief. An affair.”
He asks about Mark’s whereabouts, hoping to calm his hurting friend. She shakes her head. “Not known,” she says. “Obviously not here in Canada, from the tone of the letter. That’s not to say he wasn’t in Toronto to meet with his lawyer.”
Brewster walks to the door and asks Jane to have Joel look through the divorce papers as soon as he gets in. He looks at Irene. “I hope you don’t mind me showing them to Joel. He has great eyes for detail and is more in tune with this than me.”
Irene nods. “What should I do? He wants to pay me $100,000 to just sign and settle.”
He thinks back to his days of rehab and what people had talked about: of bitter divorces, of relapse, of forgiveness, of depression, of not letting go. Then he reminds her of their conversations at Revelstoke. “You said you loved being on your own, being independent and fulfilled. You enjoyed the life of a bachelorette with a great circle of friends. Does this still hold?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it does. But this is like the clock has been wound back 20 years.”
“My gut tells me that you should sign all this stuff and bring the whole matter to a close. Find peace in knowing what you have always held inside, anyway. This way you move on and develop your life wherever and with whomever.”
He hopes his words have not hurt her any further. Before either of them can say anything, a cheerful Joel appeals in the doorway.
“Come in, Joel. Meet Irene Steele. Irene, meet Joel Cohen, my best friend, business partner and accountant.”
Joel’s timing couldn’t have been better. The whole room seems to relax with his presence. He has that way, with his wide grin. “Two days running,” he says to Brewster. “Glad to see you here in the office. And Anna wants to know if you’re still on for supper tomorrow.” He reads the legal documents. “These papers look fine to me, Irene. I’ve seen them before—kinda standard stuff, procedural and formal. No flaws or catches in here. Basically, Mark wants to end the marriage with the least amount of disruption in your life so that you can both embrace whatever life holds for you. He’s offering you a lump-sum settlement.”
Irene looks at the two men—probably two of the very few people familiar with her background. She asks for a pen and, with Joel as a witness, signs off on all the documents.
“If you like, I’ll have Jane copy all these and get them into the courier this afternoon,” Joel says. “Outta your hair, and you’re on your way with your life.”
“Hug?” she says, and Joel and Brewster suddenly find themselves swept into a group embrace. With teary eyes, she grabs her briefcase, smiles at each of them and dashes from the room, half-crashing into Jane.
Joel and Jane exchange glances and look at Brewster as Irene pauses, turns and lifts her hand to her ear, mimicking a telephone.
“You two an item?” Joel asks.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After a day dealing with finances and tenants, Brewster looks forward to a pleasant dinner at the home of his friend. It’s Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, and in summertime Calgary that means arriving before the nominal sundown. Joel and Anna greet him at the door and welcome him in.
“Oh, Brewster. You okay?” Anna asks. She sees through his happy face veneer. “Come, take your troubles, put them in the pocket of your coat and hang it right there.”
She lights the two candles on a table in the entryway. The unruffled atmosphere wipes away his tension as he’s embraced in a very family affair. Anna gently moves her arms above the candles, drawing the light to her. She covers her eyes and quietly prays: “Blessed are You, Lord, our God …”
She uncovers her eyes and hugs Joel. Their two children hug each other then leap and hug Brewster. “Shabbat shalom,” they shout as they move through to the dining room. Brewster knows the ritual from the many times he and Melanie had been here together at this time of the week. The Shutdown at Sundown, he’d called it. With the candles lit, the Sabbath has begun in this warm-hearted home.
While standing at the dining room table, he notices the chairs and the place settings. There’s one too many—six places instead of five. “That’s the setting for our absent guest,” Anna says, recognizing the look on his face. She doesn’t say it, but Brewster knows she has included Melanie.
Joel says the blessing of the children. “May God bless you and keep you. May God show you favour and be gracious to you. May God show you kindness and grant you peace.”
Anna and Joel kiss David and Naomi, and Joel softly
sings the final verses of the Book of Proverbs, commonly titled “Eishet Chayil, a Woman of Valour,” as a tribute to his wife. Melanie you were a woman of noble character, Brewster says to himself.
David and his sister fidget. Joel blesses the wine and offers a prayer of thanks for their day of rest. He passes a glass of grape juice to Brewster and the children, and a glass of wine to his wife. They say amen to finish and take a drink before scampering to the kitchen to wash hands. As learned from earlier visits, Brewster takes off his wedding ring and leaves it at his plate, just so there is no part of his hand untouched by the ritual water. Joel reminds him of the words of the blessing. He dries his hands and moves back to the table.
No words are spoken as the family follows the age-old custom of not speaking until everyone has been given a piece of bread. David and Naomi recite a prayer of thanks, the bread is cut and pieces are handed round.
A satisfying aroma drifts around the table when Anna lifts the lid from a casserole prepared well before sundown. Brewster senses the rest and spiritual enrichment of Shabbat.
He slips easily into the family warmth, and after their meal, he relaxes in their living room. “Joel, you asked me about Irene, and I gotta tell you there’s nothing going on between us. She is a good friend, and we’ve enjoyed each other’s company. She’s been a great help to me as we talk about our different pathways. Don’t get me wrong, though,” he adds, noticing Anna’s curious look. “I think she’s a terrific person, and I wish her well in her life. I think we’ll always be friends. Anyway, she might be off to a new job in Nicaragua soon.”
“I certainly didn’t mean to intrude,” Joel says. “It’s just at the office today, the two of you looked pretty cosy, familiar.”
Anna reaches for her husband’s arm. “Joel.”
“Sorry, my friend,” Brewster says. “We’re just two people who connected when we shared our stories. Besides, I’m certainly in no shape to have feelings for another woman.”
David and Naomi challenge him to the wordgame Upwords while Joel relaxes in his chair and Anna reads a book in her corner chair. He finds it a bit tough to fully concentrate and is soundly beaten by the two bright kids.
Later at home, Brewster sits quietly in the dark, reflecting on his business day and the significance of ritual to Anna and Joel. His house doesn’t seem so silent tonight.
Sleep triumphs in the comfort of his chair as he prays, “Lord God, help me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Automatic doors swish closed behind him, and Brewster looks beyond the community centre offices and the many people in the concourse to see a small white dog in a red coat drinking from a blue plastic bowl in front of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Clotilde stands at the grey steel table, extracts some papers from her green briefcase and arranges a large black presentation portfolio on a chair. The associated snack bar shares its delightful smell of espresso coffee as he nears. Two foam-topped white china mugs are at a centre table. It’s a busy little place with people coming and going from the library. Brewster feels like the silly schoolboy again as he grins widely and slips opposite her at the table. He puts his folio case and laptop on the table, and with a great deal of effort, he clumsily moves his hands to sign a greeting. “How are you?”
Clotilde beams and signs. “Great. We are close to the end.” She follows this with another question, and when she sees he doesn’t get it, she laughs and voices, “Nice work, Brewster. Where did you learn?”
“I looked it up online,” he says, staring directly at her and hoping that his direct look didn’t look like he’s ogling. She is beautiful. At the close of each of their update meetings over the past few weeks, he’s been increasingly eager to meet again and enjoy her remarkable quiet nature, her talent and her ability to overcome challenges—especially him. “I think that by the end of this week, I will have completed all my pictures for you,” he says. “The 100 wildflowers on our list.”
“You will be done? End of the week?” she asks. “I think I’m close too. I want to do a glossary—you know, plant shapes and forms. This will add to Melanie’s notes and the botanical contribution from the park.”
Brewster’s mind is far away, thinking more about how he can get to know her better. He’s found it difficult up till now to distinguish between her deafness and her seemingly intractable opinion on what their combined efforts should include. Their unwieldy system of communication, a combination of her voice and lip-reading skills with his note-passing, bugs him. He’s curious about life beyond the project.
“There’s one flower we do need in the project,” he says. “I haven’t given you the picture yet because I need to find it again for a classic shot of its beauty.”
“You want one more picture?”
“Yep. We need a striped coralroot. The flower was important to Melanie, so I think we should have it.” Tapping his chest, he adds, “My photo.” Pointing directly at her, he says, “Your illustration.”
Clotilde raises an eyebrow. He’s not entirely sure she’s understood. He scribbles a note. As she reads it, he scrolls through his computer photo library to find an image of the coralroot.
“I have to find this in the park,” he says. “Those tiny striped flowers have an amazing translucent sparkle. The trick is to picture that.”
She nods and repeats, “In the park?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t we use that picture?” she asks.
“No, no. We must locate one in the park. The project, our guide, must only include the flowers we have found in the park.” I must be speaking too quickly, he thinks. I don’t think she gets it. He writes an abbreviated note, “Just flowers in the park. This picture is taken in Kananaskis.”
“But don’t they look the same?” Clotilde asks. “I haven’t seen this. We could use this picture and not have artwork, perhaps.”
Their strange mix of voice and note rolls back and forth as Brewster declares his point of view that this one flower is the most important. To Clotilde, a flower is a flower.
Frustrated, his emotions colliding through loyalty to Melanie and his inability to convince Clotilde, he slowly stands and through gritted teeth blurts that nothing, absolutely nothing, will be presented or published without a photo of the striped coralroot taken in the park.
Sensing that Clotilde has not absorbed the significance of his words or his notes, he explodes. “I can’t work like this! This whole flaming exercise is just crazy!” Waving his arms, he stalks off down the wide-tiled atrium separating the library from gymnasiums, a swimming pool, the coffee shop and offices. He shouts and calls the world a stupid place.
Clotilde stares after him. She hasn’t heard a word, but his actions speak louder. It’s déjà vu, a repeat of the same frustration with Pierre in those first months of her deafness. In disbelief and shock at Brewster’s theatrics, she sweeps her samples, the finished pieces and her pencils and sketchbooks into her folio case. Holding back tears, she tells herself she’s finished. It’s not the first time she’s experienced this, but somehow she’d hoped Brewster might be an exception. She loves her work too much to allow some miserable, self-absorbed malcontent ruin the delight she finds in her botanical drawings.
She looks at Bebo, her very attentive friend. His eyes give that doggie, “Yes, I know how you feel” look. He stands, shakes and wags his tail.
“Yes,” Clotilde tells him, “it’s time to say goodbye to that handsome misfit.”
The open laptop, a couple of books, a coffee mug and a folio case are all that remain.
Three women at the next table watch and resume their gabfest about what has just taken place. A man, a woman, a blow-up. They wonder what it is all about.
“They looked so happy just a minute ago,” one woman says.
“Yes. I’d say they were working on a project of some sort,” another says.
“I thought they were
lovers,” says the third. “She is so beautiful.”
A librarian approaches Clotilde as she returns her mug to the barista. The women watch the silent conversation of moving hands and gestures, rarely seen and so different to their noisy world.
“They go fast, don’t they?” says one.
“It’s amazing how they do that,” says another.
“I wonder what it’s like—you know, not being able to hear anything,” says the third.
Clotilde tells the librarian not to be concerned about the remaining articles at the table. “That man can stew in his own juice. I’ll have nothing more to do with him,” she signs. “No, we’re not married or anything like that. We were working together on a field guide project.”
The librarian signs that her son is deaf, and as a result she’s learned to sign. They understand each other. Clotilde heads to the car park, finding comfort that she’s made a new friend.
#
Brewster is at the far end of the atrium. He watches through the landscape windows as a couple of magpies strut about the grass. He’s distressed that after several meetings, Clotilde would even suggest they use a photograph he’d taken of the striped coralroot at the Mount Lorette Ponds in Kananaskis. He is sure he told her right at the beginning that each flower must be actually photographed and drawn in the park, along with Melanie’s notations. No ifs and buts, or sleight of hand. That was the way Melanie had seen their project, so that was the way it would be. Besides, it was what he’d said during his presentation: only Fish Creek Park specimens. The magpies hop, hit out at each other, and then continue together, presumably happy (or at least tolerant) of each other’s company.
Feeling a bit sheepish about his behaviour, he turns back to the table, surprised to see Clotilde has left. His gear is still on the table next to the three women. A man holding a coffee mug and plate of food is looking round for somewhere to sit because all the tables are taken. He quickens his pace and waves to the man, indicating his table will be free. He stuffs his books and laptop into the folio case.
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