Dancing With Chairs in the Music House

by Caro Soles

  He shrugs and walks away.

  “How come you always wear the same stupid dress?” Maisie asks, pushing up her glasses.

  “It’s a tunic,” I say.

  “You’re a dummy.” Maisie flounces away.

  I watch her follow Cedric across the playground. I wish I’d stayed inside. I look up and see One-Eyed Jack, the janitor, standing on a ladder just outside the main doors, fiddling with the bracket that holds the doors open. He really has two eyes, but one is all puckered shut into a permanent squint. I want to go back inside, to join Rosemary in the safety of our classroom, but I can’t risk walking past One-Eyed Jack. He makes me feel as if ants are crawling over my skin. He sees me looking at him and stops fiddling to stare.

  I whirl around and start running. “Cedric! Wait up!”

  When I reach his side, he thrusts the ribbons into my hands.

  “Thank you,” I say. I glance over my shoulder. One-Eyed Jack is gone.

  I have a clean blouse on under my school tunic as I get on the Carlton streetcar ahead of Brian. We sit in the front and I can see Eaton’s College store. The big Recital will be held in the auditorium upstairs.

  “Are you excited about the Recital?” I ask as we rumble past.

  Brian has been quiet all the way down Jarvis Street. All my efforts to make conversation the way Mother does haven’t worked out very well. This doesn’t seem to be working out either.

  Brian sighs and looks at me sadly. “It’ll be a memorable night, all right,” he says and turns away to look out the window again.

  I give up my efforts at social discourse. After all, I can’t be expected to do all the work. For a moment, I wonder what he would say if I told him about One-Eyed Jack and Cedric and the Vipers. Probably that the man was just an unfortunate with a limp and a terrible squint, maybe even a brave serviceman; in short, he would explain it all away just as Mother would. What can I say anyway? There is no way I can talk about the Vipers or what I did to Patricia. Our dance on the roof seems like a long time ago, that day when I told him the truth, what I really wanted.

  By now we’re getting into Little Italy. There is a sign in Italian outside our church, telling everyone that it’s not a Roman Catholic church. I guess it’s hard to tell because we do so much of the service in Latin and use all that incense. When I told Janet about the sign, she was impressed. I think she sees me differently now—not just any old Protestant, but almost like her, only without the Pope.

  Brian seems to cheer up as we walk along Manning Avenue to Euclid. The houses on either side are painted bright improbable colours, giving an exotic air to the place. I know the front gardens later on will be alive with vegetables: vines climbing up thin sticks and creeping over wire arbours, tomatoes peering out from their wrappings of twine, and dusty grapes hanging in luscious bunches. But for now, all this is only a possibility.

  Inside, the memory of incense hangs heavy in the air. Music floats from above as the choir tries out a new anthem. I smile, knowing Helen and Geoffrey are up there. Brian seems to have woken up.

  “Do you know where to go?” he asks.

  I nod and start towards the front of the church, heading for St. Joseph’s altar, which is beside the door leading downstairs to the rabbit warren of bilious green rooms where the Sunday school meets.

  “When you’re finished, wait here by the front door,” he calls after me. Now he sounds like Jonathan, and not my friend who shares secrets.

  I nod and keep going. Downstairs, a group of girls about my age is clustered around Sister Mary Michael while she hands out white veils and demonstrates how to put them on. It does not take a giant brain to figure this out, but Sister goes on and on about it. I tie mine under my braids, choose an empty basket from the pile on the table, and wait, trying to be patient.

  After little Susie Willis goes to the bathroom one more time, we troop noisily up the stairs. Sister puts a finger to her lips before she opens the door to the church and looks at us sternly. Susie catches her breath.

  We file into the church. Everything is quiet. We hear a man’s voice from somewhere, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Then laughter. Sister rings a small bell she produces from her habit, and we fall into a line behind her, two by two, holding our baskets in our left hands as instructed. We genuflect at the main altar, then turn around, facing the back of the church and the gallery where the main choir is. I don’t see Brian anywhere. I thought he would be watching.

  I wasn’t in the procession last year, but I begged to take part this time, and Mother finally gave in after Daddy intervened. She found a white dress on sale at Northways. She says she can dye it later for summer. I know she probably gave up another piece of silverware to do this, and I feel a rush of love so strong I touch the pew next to me to keep my balance. Because of her, I will be part of this ancient rite. On Sunday, the thurifer will swing the censer, the incense will rise in clouds, the choir will sway along the main aisle in their lace and long gowns. One of them looks just like a Velázquez painting, with his black hair longer than most, intense dark eyes, and pale skin. The white ruff suits him. I always watch him, especially during the processional.

  Sister rings the bell again, longer this time. It must have been a signal to Dr. Willan because the organ peals forth and we start to walk: five steps, pause, turn, bend the knee, cast petals, turn, walk. I can hear the girl behind me counting under her breath. Then Susie loses her balance and falls over, spoiling the effect. I have the urge to kick her but restrain myself as the line lurches to a halt. Sister helps her up, pats her on the head, and we start off again.

  On Sunday, everyone will wear white dresses. I see it now: the church full, the monstrance moving along behind us, carried by altar boys in lace-trimmed robes. It isn’t kept in the church for some complicated reason involving the Archbishop, so we only see it once a year, but I remember it from last time, so it’s easy to imagine now. I hear the murmurs from the congregation, the shuffling of feet, the clearing of throats. I see the smiling faces as we move past: girls in white dresses and veils, rose petals cast on the red runner, incense rising like prayers, and the music lifting us all.

  Someone ahead of me trips and everyone stumbles to a halt, spoiling the moment once more. Sister doesn’t say a thing. I feel like crying.

  The choir has finished practising by the time we get our veils off and return the baskets and get our final instructions from Sister Mary Michael. A couple of the girls live nearby, but most are being met by mothers or other family members.

  I rush upstairs to the front door and look around, but there’s no sign of Brian. I wait and wait. It’s shadowy in the vestibule, and odd noises creak around me in the emptiness. The choir has gone. I look inside the church. The dim, vaulted space feels empty without the music, the people, the voices. Flickering candles throw a blood-red glow at the feet of the Virgin. I turn away.

  Maybe everyone left by another door. Maybe Brian did, too, forgetting all about me. What will I do if he has? How can I get home?

  “Sorry,” he says, suddenly appearing. His face is pink and his eyes seem darker than usual. “I met a friend. We lost track of time.”

  I am shivering with nerves. I was right. He did forget. I decide to punish him by not talking, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He chatters on about the music and Dr. Willan and what a great choir it is. He walks to the streetcar very fast, and by the time we get on, I am out of breath.

  He turns to me suddenly and smiles. He looks so happy. I guess the music has cheered him up a lot. “I saw you in the procession,” he says. “You didn’t make any mistakes.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was in the gallery.” He smiles, tells me about some of the singers, mentions Helen.

  “And Geoffrey,” I say. I know it’s rude to interrupt, but Helen is Jonathan’s friend. “He was there, too?”

  “Yes,” says B
rian, turning away. “I suppose he was.”

  It is getting dark by the time we get home. Brian walks me to our living room door, bows with a flourish, and kisses my hand. I lose the power of speech. For an instant I feel the closeness of our rooftop dance, but then from the other side of the door, Mother’s voice rises suddenly to a pitch I recognize. Something bad has happened. I swallow, and Brian raises his eyebrows and backs away with a conspiratorial grin. I open the door.

  “As if a child of mine would stoop to anything so low!” Mother shouts. “My Vanessa is not a thief!”

  Mrs. O’Malley is standing in front of the fireplace, hands on hips, glaring at Mother. “My Patty does not lie!”

  Mother sees me and scoops me up, holding me close to her side. I can feel her trembling. I have one hand in my tunic pocket, holding the prism I stole. How do they know? I feel as if I’m about to throw up.

  “Miss Layne won’t stand for thieves in the house,” Mrs. O’Malley goes on.

  “Vanessa, this woman says you stole a gold bracelet and gave it to Patricia,” Mother says. Her face is red, her eyes glassy with tension.

  “Why would I give Patricia anything?” I say, more honestly than is polite, I realize too late.

  Mother smiles and nods her head emphatically at Mrs. O.

  “We’ll just see how long you last once Miss Layne hears about this!”

  “Between the two of us, I’m sure Rona Layne will know whom to believe,” Mother says to her departing back.

  Mrs. O’Malley slams the door, and we hear her stomping down the hall.

  “God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost!” Mother shouts to the ceiling. “How long, O Lord? When will it end?” She paces back and forth between the dinner table and the window, wringing her hands. “No matter what I do, how hard I try….”

  She falters and collapses onto the floor as if in slow motion. I watch, but she doesn’t move.

  “Mummy?” I feel the tears running down my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mummy.” I crawl across the rug and touch her face.

  Please, God, make her be all right! I’ll throw away the prism! I’ll never steal anything again!

  Her eyes flicker open. “I’m fine,” she whispers.

  “Shall I make tea?” I’m whispering too.

  “Just let me lie here for a moment.”

  Her fur coat has been thrown on the daybed. I snuggle close to her, reach up, and pull it over us. “We can play Park Bench,” I whisper. It’s a game Mother and I play when she wants a nap. We lie down on the bed, covered by the fur coat, and pretend we are on a park bench and it is our cozy place, and Mother starts the story about how we can make a home anywhere, even here. Usually we both fall asleep before she can finish the story. This time I don’t think I will.

  I try not to cry so she won’t feel my sobs. The prism is digging into me as I lie on my side, but I don’t care. I think about Patricia, getting back at me for being mean to her. I deserve the pain.

  17. ONE-EYED JACK

  MOTHER IS WRITING POETRY AGAIN. She writes the stanzas by hand and then types them up on our big Remington typewriter that sits grandly on the oak desk by the window. Then she pastes them in her notebook with the swallows on the front. She calls it her Testament to Loneliness, and all the poems are sad. Sometimes she says she has nothing. Other times, she hugs me hard and says she has everything, as long as she has me and Jonathan. We are her life.

  Even though Mother assures me she knows there is nothing to the accusation, she is worried. We all know deep down that Mrs. O’Malley called the truant officer. “That woman is capable of anything!” Mother says. “She is like a snake, coiled, ready to strike.”

  I think of a cobra, of vipers, of Cedric, of the real stealing I have done, and wonder at this accusation which is false. She could have picked something real.

  Mother is especially worried that this O’Malley threat is erupting just before the big Recital. She wants things to be calm for my brother, for herself, for Rona Layne. This will be a big event for Jonathan—a turning point, says Mother—his first appearance on the professional stage. The Kiwanis doesn’t count because it’s for amateurs, although he won a few years ago, before that boy Glenn Gould came along. That year, Jonathan came second. Anyway, this time his big competition is Brian, and Jonathan thinks they have quite different styles, so he isn’t really worried. Except now he’s worried about all this.

  Mother is going to talk to Mrs. Dunn this morning about Mrs. O’Malley’s threat to get us thrown out. She’s gathering support for us in the Music House, Jonathan says, just in case. He’s the only one who asks me if I did it, if I stole the bracelet. When I deny this with righteous indignation, he gives me a long look. “What did you do to Patricia?” he says.

  I stare at him. “Nothing.” I can hear the quaver in my own voice.

  “Something, I think.” He gives me another long look. “She can’t play your kind of games, can she?”

  I shake my head. His grey eyes bore into me.

  “She was mean first,” I burst out. “Anyway, I already apologized.”

  He nods his head. “Patricia is sly,” he says. “Keep away from her.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me that. I don’t want to ever see her again. I tell Jonathan, and he smiles.

  At school, I find it hard to let myself drift the way I usually do, now that I’ve given up trying to learn anything here. I keep seeing Mother lying on the floor last night; seeing Mrs. O’Malley’s angry, hate-filled face shouting; hearing Mother shouting back. She never shouts like that. At least, only when she’s alone, and she shouts at God now and then. The Music House, our refuge, seems to have turned against us. We’ve only been here six months. If we have to move again, it won’t be the piano’s fault this time. It’ll be mine.

  Eddie is having a fit again. I’m sort of used to it now, but it’s still upsetting, seeing him like that, helpless and jerking. I try not to watch, but I can’t help it. Something draws us all, keeps us all watching, as Miss Beaumont kneels and stuffs the rubber thing between his teeth, motions us all back in a circle around him. How he must hate knowing we all stare at him when he’s like this. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t remember. He never, ever, acknowledges it. Afterwards, he seems to be sleepy, and Miss Beaumont helps him off to the nurse’s office for a nap.

  When Eddie comes back again and begins shooting spitballs at Maisie, I put up my hand to go to the washroom. Usually Miss Beaumont sends two girls at once, but today she seems rattled and I slip out alone. The girls’ washroom on our floor is closed with some plumbing problem, and the closest one is downstairs. I begin to skip down the steps, feeling suddenly free and light. Then I see One-Eyed Jack standing at the bottom with his mop and pail, swabbing the floor. He grins at me. I stop skipping and wonder if I can turn around and go back to class, but I can’t. That would be rude. Besides, although I didn’t really have to go when I started, I do now. I move over to the opposite side of the steps and keep going down. Slowly.

  “Hiya,” he says, grinning.

  I nod my head.

  “So, girly, how come you always wear the same thing every day, eh?”

  I clear my throat. “It’s my school clothes.”

  “Whatcha got on underneath? School panties?”

  I stare at him. Should I answer? Maybe he won’t know about bloomers. Maybe he’ll want to see them.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  I’m at the bottom now and start to run. I’m so rattled I almost miss the door to the girls’ washroom.

  I hear him behind me—“Gotta gotta go, gotta gotta, go”—like a steam engine puffing out of the station. “Hey, I’m only funnin’ with ya, kid!”

  I slam through the swinging door and rush into one of the stalls. I stay there for a long time. By the time I come out and peer around the door into the hall, he is gone. I run t
o the stairs but slip on the damp floor, hitting my knee on the sharp corner of the step. The pain is sudden, but not too bad really. I think briefly of just walking out the door, of walking down Bay Street, along Bloor, down Jarvis to home. But then I remember Mother will be there, writing her sad poems. I don’t want to make her sadder. So instead, I go to my classroom and let Miss Beaumont tend to my wound in her exaggerated way, talking to me as if I’m a three-year-old idiot, dabbing at my knee with such a light touch I grit my teeth in irritation. I think of one of Mother’s favourite quotes, the poem about the king who has a maxim true and wise engraved on his ring: Solemn words, and these are they: Even this shall pass away.

  “Does it hurt a whole lot, dear?” Miss Beaumont asks in her whispery voice. She ties a length of bandage around my leg which makes it look as if I’ve been in major accident.

  I pause for a moment, thinking of all the different ways I could answer. In the end, I smile bravely and say, “No, Miss Beaumont. Thank you for fixing it up.”

  When Jonathan comes to walk me home, he asks about the bandage. By now it looks much more dramatic, with a little blood leaking through.

  “God almighty, don’t let Mother see that,” he says. “As soon as we get home, go into the washroom, clean it up, and put a Band-Aid on it. Even if you need more than one, it’ll look better than that thing.”

  “I just fell on the stairs,” I say.

  My knee’s a bit sore, but he doesn’t walk any slower, and I know he’s thinking about everything that’s going on.

  “Are you worried about the Recital?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t you start,” he says.

  I wince and pull my hand away from his. Everybody seems to be swearing a lot lately. It makes me nervous.

  He stops, sighs, looks down at me. “I’m sorry. Now give me your hand.”

  He doesn’t sound really sorry, but at least he has performed the appropriate ritual so I have no excuse to pull away. I give him my hand, and we walk the rest of the way without a word. By the time we get home, my knee hurts more and I’m feeling as upset as Jonathan appears.