by Pat Mestern
“That would be Serena and Lorraine,” Don said.
“That’s it. That’s the names I couldn’t remember. I heard the kid became a pianist and ended up living somewhere in Europe, Italy I think.”
Good heavens, Ramona thought. Lorraine was her best friend but never mentioned she had lived in London. Her mother and she lived with Grandmother Carmello for at least six months before they moved into an apartment close by. Lorraine played the piano beautifully. She and her mother eventually went back to Italy after her mother was diagnosed with cancer. She wanted to die in her ancestral homeland. To help pay the costs of living in Italy Lorraine gave piano lessons. After her mom died she came back to Canada, to the village. “You heard correctly. My close friend, Lorraine, teaches music,” Ramona said.
“Song of Joy. The kid would stop eating when someone played it on the jukebox. Truth is that Mr. Forest bought the 45 for the machine and paid me to play it a couple of times whenever the three came in for a meal. I can’t say the other regulars were that taken with the song. Come to think of it he was also chummy with a rough-looking teenage boy. He treated all of them to a lot of free meals. The boy’s name was … John … Joe … The boy’s favourite singer was Johnny Cash. He loved anything Cash sang.”
“Another side to Harry that few knew about,” Ramona said. “His gesture doesn’t surprise me. I always thought he was a generous man; eccentric but kind.”
A bell dinged twice at the back of the room.
“Your food’s up,” Gertrude said. “I’m the twosy.”
Deep in thought, Ramona focused on a velvet Elvis picture on the wall behind the cash register.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Don said.
“I’ve finally figured out Harry’s connection to the DiBruitsos but I have no idea who the other fellow was.”
“I’m going to play the devil’s advocate again,” Don said. “What if Harry’s continued adoration for Charlotte was fueled by guilt?”
“Guilt?”
“Yes, guilt after an indiscretion deepened to the point where it really became a fixation for him to continue to remember her through deep contact with another woman?”
“No. Given what Grandmother and Mother told me about the connection between Harry and Charlotte I can’t accept that theory,” Ramona said.
When Gertrude arrived with the platters of food, Ramona asked, “Where is, or was Harry Forest’s barbershop? I know it was on this street but can’t recognize the building.”
“See that ugly glass and metal claptrap on the other side of the street, halfway down the block? Harry made a killing when he sold his property to the developers of that mess. Oh, he held out for a while but eventually caved to the pressure.”
“Probably sold it just before he moved back to the village,” Don said.
June 1952
Harry lowered his newspaper and watched the woman wearing an old-fashioned housedress, something like his mother wore during the 1930s, pass his window for the fourth time. She held the hand of a young girl whose clothing was just as dated but clean. The child’s hair was long and scraggly looking, completely unruly. Harry, who’d seen the woman on a number of occasions, assumed that she lived in the neighbourhood. She’d never before passed his window so often in such a short period of time. He raised the paper again, anticipating what might happen next. It didn’t take long.
The bell on his door let him know that she’d entered. Pal looked up from his blanket but didn’t bother to rise to the occasion. The dog was a good judge of character. His actions indicated that whoever entered wasn’t threatening in any way. Harry folded the paper, put it on the counter, stood, and waited for the woman to speak.
In broken English, with a heavy Italian accent, the woman said, “I am Serena DiBruitso. My daughter, Lorraine, is getting first communion. She needs haircut. I have no money to buy a pretty dress for her or to have her hair cut. Could I clean the room to make some money? You do this for her?”
Harry motioned toward the chair and said, “Ma’am, of course I will. I will trim the young lady’s hair, no charge.”
“No, give me broom,” the woman said. “I start now. When I finish you cut the hair.”
Harry didn’t say he would give Serena money to buy a communion dress. It was obvious to him that although she needed it, the woman would not accept any form of charity. Harry pointed toward the dog. “Pal won’t hurt you if you call him by name and talk to him softly. The broom and dustpan are against the wall by the stairway, Mrs. DiBruitso.
“Thank you, sir. Lorraine went to sit with the dog.”
“Your English is good,” Harry said.
“I learn hard in school so I can help my mother understand everything,” Lorraine said.
“And, where is your father?”
“He was killed in the war.”
Serena swept the room from front to back. The dog grudgingly moved as she swung the broom close to him. Not one word passed between the woman and Harry.”
Harry walked across the shop and sat on the bottom step, close to the dog. “How did you come to Canada, to Ontario?” he asked Lorraine.
“My mama nursed a Canadian soldier and hid him until the Underground sneaked him away. After the man came home to London, his church sent money to bring us to Canada.”
What does your mama do now?”
“She used to play the mandolin and piano but now she sometimes cleans houses and stores. Sometimes, I go with her if there’s a piano in the house, when I’m not in school. She teaches me the scales.”
“Do you like to play?”
Lorraine held up her hands so Harry could see long, slender fingers. “Mama says that I was born to play.”
Subtle glances toward the mother confirmed his suspicions about the two. The church may have paid their passage to Canada, but it was obvious that the pair were living in poverty. The woman was so thin she couldn’t possibly put a decent meal on the table. She probably lived in a third-floor walk-up that boasted a hot plate and one bed. Their clothes were ragged hand-me-downs.
Serena put the broom and dustpan away. “Grazie! Grazie!” she said, bowing to Harry. “Now you cut.”
Harry stood and went toward his chair. Lorraine followed him and climbed into the chair. Harry, who’d never cut a young girl’s hair before, was very careful not to touch her in any way. While he cut, he talked to the mother. “Ma’am, would you clean my shop once a week? I’d pay you. I’d share the produce and other food that some of the farmers barter for a haircut. I can guarantee a dozen eggs and a good-sized basket of potatoes …”
Serena understood enough of what Harry said to answer. “Si. Si.” She grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it.
The move was so quick Harry didn’t have a chance to react. When was the last time a woman touched him? It was in 1939 when Nibi impulsively hugged him just before he boarded the train for the trip south.
Harry stepped back to avoid further contact. “Saturday afternoons, after 6:00 p.m. would be the best time.” Finding it more comfortable to talk to the child, Harry turned to her and said, “Lorraine, tell your mother to stay a moment. I have several dozen eggs, upstairs. I’ll get them. I won’t eat them and Pal shouldn’t eat what could be put to better use.”
Chapter 4
July 2004
The London Grill
“So honestly, what are your thoughts about the relationship between Serena, Lorraine, our mysterious young man, and Harry?” Don asked.
“Serena and Harry were no more than friends. From what Gertrude said, there was definitely no closeness between them, as in love-like. But I think Harry enjoyed having a child or two in his life. That closeness almost appears to be a father-to-daughter relationship. And as far as the young man is concerned, I don’t know.”
“Perhaps mentor would be a better word; mentor to the woman; mentor to Lorraine; mentor to the young man.”
“What about the connection between Serena, Lorraine, and your grandmother?”
&n
bsp; “As far as I can now ascertain, in 1953 Grandmother took a tumble down some stairs and injured her back. Bed rest for several months was prescribed. She needed help. Mother and Dad were both working. Grandmother insisted they shouldn’t take time off. Dad must have mentioned the situation to Harry. They both must have agreed, with grandmother’s permission, that Serena should move into her house to help her. I mean Serena spoke Italian. She cooked Italian. Lorraine was my age. Thinking back now I figure that Harry introduced dad to Serena. Dad and Mother arranged the move to town, probably by train. The agreement suited everyone. Serena and Grandmother became close friends. Lorraine had access to a piano. If I’m not mistaken, Grandmother paid for the tickets when Serena and Lorraine went back to Italy - something Lorraine said. I think they had tickets on a ship called the Samaria, first to England.”
Your grandmother played the piano?”
“No, Charlotte did. She was good at it too, played in church and for local dances. But she was no match for Serena. As it turned out, before the war, Serena played with some of the best orchestras in Europe. She desperately wanted to pass her expertise along to Lorraine.”
“And, of course, you were part of Lorraine’s life from a very early age.
“Yes. We are the best of friends. She’s like the sister I never had. Eventually her mom was hired at one of the stores. She and Lorraine moved into an apartment after Grandmother didn’t need help anymore. They lived just down the street from Mom, Dad, and Grandmother. After school, Lorraine often dropped in to play grandmother’s piano while she waited for her mother to finish at the store.”
“I gather that even while they lived in town someone made sure Serena had enough money for taxes, heat, and light and gave a bit toward food too.”
“Yes, Harry might have helped out. Between Grandmother, Dad and Harry she didn’t have any bills to pay. Grandmother and Serena were like sisters.”
“By the time Harry retired from barbering in London Serena had died in Italy and Lorraine was back in town. That would be around 1969.”
“I wonder if they ever spent time at Harry’s place?”
“No. I’m sure they didn’t. Lorraine never mentioned Harry. I’m sure that Harry would never spend any time alone with a woman, except Nibi when Ollie was away.”
“Man and woman in a small, remote cabin,” Don said.
“Remember I told you Harry had his own little … cabin,” Ramona said. “Think Charlotte, always Charlotte. Everything he did was done with Charlotte in mind, including the bone picking and burying.”
“Bone picking and burying?”
“Just another of Harry’s quirks, another piece of the puzzle that was unique to the man,” Ramona said. “That’s a story that needs telling!”
“I have to ask, do you think that Harry would have confided in your dad if he’d … if there’d been an indiscretion?”
“Perhaps, but then Dad would certainly have told mom. Look Don, there was no indiscretion.”
“How do you know? Did he ever confide in you?”
“Heavens no! Ours was an odd sort of relationship, one that involved very little physical contact.”
“Interesting.”
“I think that he saw me as Charlotte. Physically I looked like her. To Harry, mentally, psychologically, and spiritually, I was Charlotte. But, in all the years I knew him, he never touched me. When it came to shaking hands I always offered my hand to him, quickly, first so he couldn’t refuse to take it.”
“Strange, eccentric man,” Don said.
“Eccentric, old-world gentleman,” Ramona said. “And, a gentle man in the true sense of the word. But, from what I heard from Uncle Tomas he wasn’t so eccentric while living in the north.”
“Well, just to clear the air, Ramona. Some questions I need answers for before I can close the book on Harry’s estate, have to do with what happened between 1939 and 1990.”
“And there are some things I have to seriously think about,” Ramona said. “Life sure throws some curves, doesn’t it.” The first thing she had to consider was an incident in 1953 …
July 1953
Ramona was not the sort of girl one would expect to see roaming the countryside. She was petite, not five feet tall but fearless. Her honey-blonde, waist-length hair was always in braids. Piercing blue eyes missed nothing. Her skin had duskiness to it, a salute to her First Nations blood which came directly from an ancestor of her mother whose connections went back to the Mayflower and British Colonies.
What Ramona lacked in physical height and strength she made up for with a feisty nature and great sense of humour. She dutifully attended school and got good grades but longed for summer and the freedom to roam where she pleased, when she pleased. Although Ramona’s mother felt that a thirteen-year-old shouldn’t wander about on her own, the only caveat imposed by her father was that she always took Heinz with her. Heinz, a huge brown mongrel had arrived at the railway station in a crate, a tenth birthday present from Uncle Tomas.
Ramona crossed the West Road meadow and entered the cedar bush near the bank of the river. Heinz—as in “57” her mother loved to say in jest—worked the path from side to side. He sniffed a rotten tree trunk here, a large stone there, chased a black squirrel up a tree, and growled as it scolded from a high branch. He stood perfectly still when a porcupine crossed the path in front of him, looked back at his mistress, and waited her command to move again.
When the dog and girl reached the spring that gurgled from a crack in the limestone underlay, they stopped to drink. Every year after the ice went out, and floodwaters subsided, someone put a metal cup on a hook that had been screwed into a branch that overhung the spring so that anyone passing by could enjoy a cool drink.
On her knees, Ramona scooped leaves and small twigs from the water’s surface then dipped the cup. Beside her Heinz growled, not in warning but to alert his mistress that someone, or something, was close by. When Ramona looked up she saw the figure of a man, small in stature, standing in the shadow of an elm tree’s trunk.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Ramona Carmello,” Ramona answered, feeling not the least bit threatened by the man who appeared to be no taller than her. “Dad said it was OK for me to come here, to the spring. He didn’t think the owner of the land would mind.”
“Miss Carmello,” the man said. “Ramona Carmello, daughter of Tomas or Frankie?”
“My father is Frankie.”
The man seemed to stare through her. He then whipped his cap from his bald head, bowed slightly, backed up several feet, turned, and disappeared quickly into the undergrowth.
“Well, Heinz, you approved the fellow. If he’d been a threat you’d have chewed his knee caps then gone for the throat, according to Uncle Tomas. Odd fellow, though. So much like a leprechaun, if such little creatures live around here.” Ramona laughed. “This is another little mystery that I won’t mention to Mom or Dad.” Strange, but the man looked like someone she’d seen before, someone who had been at her Grandmother’s house several days ago, just before she met Lorraine.
September 13, 1969
Nibi and Ollie:
I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed my days on the lake with you. I miss the north when I come south much more than I miss the south when I am north. Given my responsibilities here which I accept as interesting challenges, I couldn’t now move north.
Responsibility is not too strong a word under the current circumstances. One person is turning out very well. The other is taking a different and difficult path. You, of course, will know which one is turning out very well and who is taking a different path.
Nothing about life is a given but birth and death. Life is full of difficulties and surprises. I’ve known and experienced them. Life throws challenges that must be accepted and dealt with to survive. Challenges can’t easily be rejected as some people think. I am committed to working through the good and the bad, helping without physically interfering when or if necessary.
You will hear from me again at Christmas. Be well.
Harry F.
September 1975
Autumn spread its colour throughout the river valley, the beauty not lost on Ramona or her mother, Eve, as they returned from a drive around the back roads of the county. Tootling, as Ramona called it, was one of the few things she and her mother enjoyed. The car’s seats cushioned arthritic bones. Eve’s sight was still good. Her mind was as sharp as a tack. Her claim to fame was that she knew every family who lived on every sideroad within ten miles of the village, even if her information was outdated, in some cases by twenty, thirty years.
Ramona enjoyed the intimacy the drives provided between daughter and mother, the knowledge given—transferred, Eve liked to say—from one generation to another. History not talked about in polite circles … secrets revealed …
Ramona slowed the car as she approached the cemetery corner. He’s there again, she thought as she looked toward the sharp bend in the road, a short bald man, always wearing coveralls, a large dog by his side, and a burlap bag in his hand. The fellow slowly walked the shoulder of the road, his eyes to the ground. Occasionally he bent to retrieve something which he examined then placed in the bag. When the fellow realized that a car had slowed to pass him, he glanced up then stared at Ramona, his eyes never leaving her face.
Ramona experienced a spark of recognition—a distant memory of a warm summer day and cool spring water. “Your riddle for the day,” she said, looking at her mother. “Have you ever seen that man around here before?” Ramona slowed the car to almost a crawl so both could take a good look. Ramona stared as hard at the man as he did at her.
Eve immediately recognized the short stature, thick neck, muscular shoulders, large ears, and bandy legs. “It’s Harry Forest. I’d recognize him anywhere. I heard that he was living on the old homestead again. His mother died six months ago. It’s time he came home. He has a few ghosts to confront. Strange fellow though. Old fashioned, doesn’t talk to women; lives like a recluse.”