by Maia Ross
Luna deposits two cups of tea in front of us and sashays away with a grin. Immediately, I sniff my cup. Luna has a sordid history of trying to make me consume sugary teas. She claims she’s just trying to expand my palate, but I’ve always been slightly concerned she’s trying to kill me.
I take a tentative sip. It smells sweet but is actually quite mild. And…scrumptious. I’m momentarily shocked that mild tea could be delicious but I move past it. We’ve all been wrong about things before, best not to dwell on it.
“You like?” Bailey asks, her brown eyes laughing at me over her cup. “There’s no sugar.”
“It’s very nice, dear.”
The bell tinkles and I glance at the door. It’s young Dr. Julian, the island’s best doctor. He grew up here. Lovely family. His grandfather had excellent small arms skills.
“Good morning, Irma!” He walks over, smiling. He’s lean and tall and angular, just like his grandfather, his sandy hair flopping over his eyes like a lid on a boiling pot, his blue eyes sparkling. “Hey Bailey. I’m looking forward to your solstice dinner, Irma. Anything I should bring?”
Bailey nods hello. “And what time should I get there?” she asks me.
“December twenty-first, six o’clock sharp. And bring your appetites.”
“Are you”—Julian swallows—“cooking, Irma?”
I laugh. “What a merry thought, Julian.”
Julian and Bailey join in my laughter, but they still seem suspicious. I wave a hand. “Don’t be silly. The Club is catering.”
Both relax visibly. The Club is the island’s country club, built to funnel the energy of the island into summer sports: tennis, golf, sailing, adultery. And excellent food, which is always so pleasant. My young friend, Violet Blackheart, says it’s like the Hamptons, but with more beavers.
This reminds me I should really check my email. Violet will be coming as well, of course. I just wish she could call like normal people. Or send a letter.
“I’ll be there,” Julian says with a smile.
“Of course you will.” I pat him on the arm and he makes his way to the counter to get something that’s hopefully not jammed full of sugar. One is never too young to watch out for refined carbohydrates. They are the real killers.
He waves at us as he leaves and Bailey finishes her donut and slurps her coffee. I restrain myself from telling her a lady doesn’t slurp because these days, ladies can do whatever they want. Sometimes I wish I was young now, although most of me is perfectly happy about the time period in which I was born. I wouldn’t give my childhood up for anything. Summers and holidays here, the rest of the year in England, and a few other spots we temporarily called home. I sort of grew up all over, you could say, just like most military families.
“Penny for your thoughts, Irma.” Bailey’s head is cocked to the side.
I return to the present. I’m doing that more and more these days, daydreaming about the past.
“I have something for you.” I wipe my fingers on a napkin and root around in my purse until I find the envelope. I hand it to her.
Her face lights up. “Oh man, this is great, thanks, Irma.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She moves to slide the envelope into her pocket.
Bother. I knew I should have opened it. Nothing good ever comes from not being nosy.
But then she changes her mind and slides her finger under the seal. The letter opens like a flower and she scans the writing. A frown forms on her face slowly as she reads, and by the time she’s done, her mouth is twisted up like she just had some bad cannoli.
I put my hand on hers. “Everything all right?”
She shakes her head. There are tears wobbling in the corners of her eyes. Oh my. I make sure to move my face into a sympathetic expression. Some of my emotions don’t quite…track like normal people’s, even after so many years out of the field. No worry, I just have to help them along a bit.
She smiles gratefully, and I’m relieved that some empathy made it over to her. She’s a wonderful young lady. A little delicate, though.
Then the smile falters.
“Are you okay?” She’s looking down at her lap, but I can still see the tears welling in her eyes. “You can tell me, Bailey. Your mother always asked me to look out for you, and I fully intend to do exactly that. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
She pushes the letter over to me, and looks like she’s trying to get ahold of herself. I knew I should have opened it. I scan it once and then again. Dear Ms. Marshall, we regret to inform you… Bailey has been turned down for a line of credit.
I try to put regret and Christmas and Bailey together in a sentence but it doesn’t compute. It can’t. Christmas is the one time of year when everyone deserves to be happy.
I try to lighten the mood. “Do you know, when I was married in the 60’s, I had to get my husband’s permission to get a credit card?” That was husband number one. I don’t add what I did to the loan officer who looked down his nose at me when he insisted it simply wasn’t possible, so sorry, madam. I bet he looked over his shoulder for years after I got through with him.
She looks at me like this is crazy, which it was. “Yeah, that’s terrible. But…it should have been approved, Irma. I have a work history, a job I’ve been at for over three years.” She looks down at her lap for a long while, then adds softly, “And…I haven’t paid my residence fee for winter term yet, and some of my other fees. I’ve been counting on this.”
My eyes roam the letter. “Are you sure your parents can’t…?”
She swipes a tear roughly from her cheek. “They definitely won’t be helping me. Not unless I go into the family business. Jaydyn says it’ll help me build character, but I want to be a doctor. I want to help people.” She sighs miserably, her bangs airlifting off her forehead. “No, I could never ask my dad or his wife for help. I mean, they’d somehow think I owed them something because of it. And they make too much money for me to be approved for student loans.”
My spoon screeches against the nice china. I put it down on the table and try to compose myself. “I see. I wasn’t aware that was the case. How very unfortunate that they will only support their vision for your life.”
She looks like she’s trying to calm down, but the hiccupy breath that escapes her shows that she’s not quite succeeding and it makes a sharp pain lodge in my chest. “It’s better this way. If I do it all myself, they can never take it away from me. I guess I’ll…” She looks off, past my shoulder, and I can see worry and fear bloom in her. After a moment she inhales sharply and focuses on me. “Irma!”
“Yes?”
“Can you talk to them? At the bank? I mean, I don’t know anything about banks, I just have my chequing account. Maybe you could convince them…?”
I am a very convincing person, it’s true, and I do so enjoy it when people notice this.
She pulls at my sleeve. “I’m really sorry to be a hassle, but…I’m desperate. I have to pay the school, like, right now or I’ll lose my spot.” She looks down and fidgets with her hands. Quietly, she adds, “And I’ve been telling them for weeks that the money is practically there. They’ve been calling and…please, Irma, can you help me?”
Mother would be scandalized if I let regret and Christmas collide for a young, vulnerable person. Not that I would, because that would ruin my own Christmas. She was always so good about following our family tradition of helping others in need at this time of year. Over time it has become, you could say, a calling of mine. And Bailey’s quite right: she has a job and should have been approved, so we definitely have a little mystery on our hands. I look down at the letter and realize it was printed on our island’s credit union stationary.
“Are you done, dear?” I ask as she slurps the last of her coffee. She nods. “Good, get your purse.”
“Where are we going?”
“The bank.”
A beautiful smile breaks over her face. “Thankyouthankyou, I just need to tell Luna.”
She bounces out of her seat the way only young people can and hurries to the back, through swinging doors.
I get up and make my way behind the counter—Luna won’t mind—and wash some of the stickiness from the muffin from my hands. There’s no hand towel, so I shake my hands absently while looking at the countertop. My heart sinks when I see nothing has changed since Luna’s mother left. Andrea’s old-fashioned recipe box is still there, and so is the plastic container she used to stash her employee’s electronic devices in while they worked, two shiny cell phones currently doing time in it. I flip open the recipe box and look for “I”. There it is: Irma’s Muffins. I feel a pang of regret for what could have been. My lovely friend Andrea is only fifty-four. I visit her every week, but…she’s gone, really. Hasn’t spoken since the stroke, doesn’t know I’m there. She doesn’t even know who Luna is anymore.
Bailey bursts out of the kitchen. “Ready?”
I blink back my tears, nod, and we leave.
It’s a perfect December afternoon now, a little sun, a light breeze blowing, warm enough not to be bundled up too much. I take in the storefront decorations as we walk: perky snowmen, frolicking elves, two dreidels, bows on the streetlamps, the sidewalks so clear they look like they’ve been Hoovered. Red and green as far as the eye can see. We pass a slightly risqué Mr. and Mrs. Claus diorama that’ll probably be brought up at the next town meeting.
“Do you mind if I pop into the pharmacy?” Bailey asks. “It’ll just take two seconds.”
I pat her on the arm. “I’ll be at Stu’s.”
She sprints off and I make my way down the block, scanning the sidewalk for potential threats until I reach the hardware store. It has a pink painted façade that drives Stu, the owner, nuts. His favourite niece demanded that exact colour, though, so he really had no choice. She’s a relentless six-year-old. I respect that.
There’s a manger scene in the front window, with a Godzilla toy as the baby Jesus. The bells tinkle as I step in and I make my way across the wide old plank floors to the back. Stu, one of my oldest friends, is working the counter, if watching a fishing show can be called work. Beside him is Edward, another islander and old friend, and an old co-worker of mine. Both are top blokes.
“Irma!” Stu’s cheeks are pink. He’s my age, and most of his hair has migrated from his head into his Santa-sized beard, which rests on the top of his faded flannel button-down shirt.
“Well, if it isn’t Jack Reacher in a girdle,” Edward drawls.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I huff. “I haven’t worn a girdle since nineteen seventy-three.”
Stu laughs.
“Working hard?” I ask.
His grin presses a roadmap of wrinkles into his face. “Killed anyone today?”
I match his grin. “Not yet.”
“Proud of you, Irmie.”
I lean over the counter, which is a bit taxing because I’m so short, but I do love a good challenge. “I need some oil for cleaning my guns, please.”
“Of course.” He reaches under the counter for the supplies he keeps there just for me. He knows the deal: I like good tea, doilies, and a well-oiled gun.
He hands me the package, and I slip it into my purse. He would rather take a nail gun to his frontal lobe than charge me. I saved him from drowning in Lake Ontario when we were children, and he’s been looking out for me ever since.
“New artwork?” I drawl, pointing at the wall. Stu’s six-year-old niece has drawn a picture of his thirty-five-foot sailboat. It’s underwater, but motoring merrily along. The title Submarine Sailboat completes the image.
Stu grins and shrugs.
“I’m not able to make it to the party,” Edward says. He’s wearing his ever-present plaid pageboy cap and fiddling with his pipe. Because it’s Christmastime, I won’t remind him how bad smoking is for his cardiovascular system, although it would be ironic for him to be felled by smoking, considering how much action he’s seen.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Edward,” I say, my good mood deflating markedly.
He pats me on the arm. “I’ll be there for Christmas though.”
I perk up. “How wonderful.”
He tugs his hat, smiling, before taking his leave.
“Do you want me to bring anything?” Stu says, in a please don’t say yes voice.
“No, but is there any way I can convince you to take my money for the oil—”
He shakes his head slowly and I blow him a kiss and take my leave. Bailey is waiting outside and we head over to the bank, Beaver Island Credit Union Ltd. Some old neighbours drive by as we cross the street and all of us wave.
The credit union has snowflakes frosted on its windows, but that’s their only seasonal decoration. It’s hard not to feel disappointed in their lack of spirit, but they are a heartless capitalist enterprise after all. It’s nearly empty of customers inside. Two people linger at the tellers, year-round inhabitants who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I march Bailey over to the information desk, and she stands awkwardly beside me for a moment while I gird my loins.
The woman behind the desk is Snookie Smith, a long-time nemesis who does not bring out the best in me, I must say. And I’ve never quite forgiven her for spiking the punch bowl at my Save the Beavers fundraiser in 1987.
“Can I help you?” Snookie has reading glasses with diamonds set into each corner piece, and she’s peering over them, her gaze resting on me. Like a velociraptor. I force a smile to my face and try not to think about snapping her glasses in half.
“Is Roger in?” I say cheerily. Roger Patel is the head of the bank. Normally I wouldn’t escalate to him so quickly but a Snookie sighting calls for desperate measures. Focus. I square my shoulders. If I don’t sort Bailey’s finance issues out, it will ruin her Christmas. And I simply cannot have that.
“No,” Snookie says, offering nothing else.
“I see.” I pull down my jacket and square my shoulders again. “And when will he be back?”
She smiles thinly. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not his secretary.”
I smile just as snidely back at her. “And when will she be in?”
“I’m sure I also don’t know that, Irma. I’m not her secretary either.”
Oh, she’s good. I tilt my head to the side, feigning normalcy, and waiting to see where it will get me.
“It’s okay,” Bailey says. She’s suddenly firetruck red.
“Problem with your neck?” Snookie asks me.
“It’s an old sex injury,” I say sweetly. “Can I use your phone, Snookie? I’m forever forgetting my cell at home.”
Snookie nudges her desk phone closer to me while Bailey makes one of those noises that only young people who are being embarrassed by old people can make. I hold Snookie’s eyes while I call Roger. The phone rings once, and then twice.
“Hello?” Roger has a distinct East London accent, and it booms through the line.
“Oh hello, Rogerrr,” I say, drawing his name out. “I’m at the bank right now. I was hoping you were available.”
“Irma, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m in Toronto, but I’m coming back tonight. Are you free for dinner? We could go to the Club.”
“Perfect,” I say, smiling brightly, even though this is not what I was hoping for.
“Snookie’s there this afternoon, she can take care of anything you need.”
“Of course.”
Roger hangs up, and I place the phone carefully into the cradle, my hand resting on the desk. I’ll just have to—
“Irma?” Bailey says carefully.
Across the table Snookie is leaned back in her chair, sitting as far away from me as she possibly can. I look down: I have her stapler gripped in my hand and I’m holding it a little like…well, a little like it’s a gun.
“Oh, dear me,” I say laughingly. “One does get so absentminded when one is my age.” I smile widely at Snookie, then Bailey, and return the stapler to the desk. Then I tamp down my desire to staple Snookie’s tongue to her desk blotter
.
“Was there anything else I can do for you?” Snookie asks. Her eyes are…apprehensive.
“Well,” Bailey says. I give her the international don’t say anything more look, but she must not see it.
I put my hand on her arm. “Don’t you think—”
“I’d love to help,” Snookie says, leaning forward.
I glance around, a little wildly, I must admit. Someone, anyone else must be around to help.
Bailey starts to pull the letter from her purse, but I rest my hand over hers. She doesn’t see the danger in asking a semi-sociopath like Snookie for help. She doesn’t see the rumours, the lost opportunities. Once someone like Snookie gets her claws into one of your secrets, you’re never free, not in a town where your family name is its own currency. And whatever the reason behind Bailey’s line of credit being declined, Snookie will be sure to tell anyone who will listen.
Plus, I just don’t like her.
Bailey’s arm goes limp, and she shoots a glance over to me. “Er…no. We’re fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite,” I answer crisply. I’ve just seen Nathan Wells, a young and impressionable lad who works here. “So delightful seeing you, Snookie,” I say, pulling Bailey along with me. “Goodbye now.”
I hustle Bailey toward the exit, taking a detour at the last minute that puts us in Nathan’s path. “Nathan, dear! So nice to see you.” In a lower voice, I add, “Can you help us with a problem?”
“Uh.” He glances from Bailey to me. “I’m actually quite busy—”
“Won’t take a minute,” I say, hooking my arm under his elbow in a move I’ve practiced many times over the years. It’s an easy way for someone my size to convince someone larger to go my way, literally. Grip a few pressure points and you’re all set.
“Uh, okay,” he says, his voice full of reluctance.
“Perfect,” I gush. I throw a glance over my shoulder to Snookie, who’s looking at me like she’s measuring me for a pine box. As if she could ever get the best of me! Careful, both Irmas whisper. Don’t ever underestimate anyone.