Читать книгу The Dead Don't Get Out Much - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 5

Close your eyes. Imagine this. You're stretched out on a cushioned lounge chair at the edge of an endless sandy beach. The sun warms your body. You smile as the gentle breeze ruffles your hair, and you wink at the passing waiter, which is all it takes to get another margarita. You sip the tangy drink, savour the salt and close your eyes in pleasure as the perfect turquoise sea laps at your toes. You feel very relaxed and maybe just a wee bit amorous. At that moment, you are the only person in the world who matters, except me, of course. And hey, there I am, lying beside you with the coconut-scented suntan lotion in my hand, awaiting your instructions.”

I shook my head and stared at the telephone receiver. “Who is this?”

Silence.

I said, “Hello?”

“It's Ray, Camilla.” Oops, chilly tone there.

“Ray, that's great. Uh, what was that all about? I mean the sand and the sun and the amorous part?”

“What do you mean, who is this? Who else would be applying your suntan lotion?”

“No one. Especially in November. And, no offence, but what time is it?”

“About six thirty. I'm getting ready to go on shift.”

“Ah. You mean it's six thirty Atlantic Standard Time. Hmmm. Well, that would make it five thirty here in Ottawa Snoozing Time.”

“Not so fast, my friend, aren't you the queen of the three a.m. calls?”

“Oh, come on, Ray. Why would you say that?”

“Because I've gotten quite a few myself, and I'm not the only one. People talk, you know.”

“True, but most people don't talk to me at five thirty in the morning. However, I take your point. Goodbye now, Ray.”

“I can't believe you didn't know it was me. How many guys call you up and whisper sweet nothings about warm beaches and feeling amorous?”

“Don't forget the margaritas and the sea lapping at my toes. No guys call me to whisper sweet nothings. Nor are any guys whispering anything else, now that you mention it. Especially at five thirty a.m.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think this is probably just a dream.”

“It's real. And?”

“And what?” I tried to keep my voice pleasant, because Ray Deveau is the best damn thing to have happened to me in many, many years. He is worth working hard to be nice to.

“And you are stretched out on a warm beach, blah blah blah.”

“Actually, I am stretched out under a tumbled mass of duvet, which I seem to be sharing with a large, stinky dog. There's a calico cat licking my toes, and that actually seems a bit creepy. No one is filling my margarita, although now that I'm wide awake at five thirty in the morning, I wish someone would bring me a cup of coffee before I head out into the cold, damp, miserable November morning to walk the smelly dog that has been awakened by the sound of the phone ringing.”

“So you're saying the beach does sound like an improvement.”

“Yes. Too bad it's not happening.”

“It should happen. We could take a holiday together. Wouldn't that be good after everything we've been through in the past couple of months? You never did have a proper recovery time following those concussions.”

“Me? What about you? You almost died.”

“That too. So, a holiday, well-deserved by both.”

“Are you the same Ray Deveau with the two teenage daughters you can't leave in the house alone?”

“Yup.”

“Not to be picky, but are they part of the beach dream too?”

“Nope. That would be insufficiently romantic. Anyway, the girls will be in school.”

“How can you just…?”

“All taken care of. My sister, Sharon, the one who lives in Dartmouth, has a few weeks after she moves out of her old house and before she moves into her new one. She's going to spend it here. As the resident guard.”

“Don't you want to spend time with her?” I said.

“Let's put it this way. Are there circumstances where you would opt to spend two weeks in a confined space with one of your sisters and a couple of teenage hormone factories?”

“Point taken.”

“I've got some holiday time coming, and it's use it or lose it. So I've been looking through travel brochures. I keep seeing your face in all the photos. How about Mexico?”

“I don't know, Ray.”

“Okay, Dominican Republic?”

“I'm not sure I can do it. I got so far behind in my work when I was recovering. I couldn't concentrate on anything. You know I haven't even reopened Justice for Victims since we got evicted. There are so many people who desperately need a service like ours when they're dealing with horrible situations and jackasses in the justice system. If I'm not there, who's going to ensure they're not revictimized by vindictive criminals and their bulldog lawyers?” I didn't mention cops, since Ray's a Sergeant in the Cape Breton Regional Police, and he might not want to be on a list with jackasses.

“Thanks for the lecture, but I already know what you do,” he said.

“And you also know people are counting on me.”

“Yeah. I think I might be one of them.”

“You know what I mean. How can I go away after I did nothing useful all fall?”

“When was the last time you had a break that didn't end in an emergency room? Leave everything with Alvin.”

“Alvin? You must be joking. How's he supposed to cope?”

“He'd be thrilled if you were out of the office. I mean, that's just a guess.”

“We don't have an office. We're going to set up in my new house, remember? Which is also not set up. There is junk piled up to the ceiling.”

“Camilla?”

“Yes?”

“I am up to speed on what's been happening to you. We do talk every day, although I'll save you the trouble of saying ‘not usually at five thirty in the morning’.”

“Then you know I'm not unpacked. And you should know I don't feel right about inheriting this house, or about anything else that happened. It's just a really bad time for me.”

“Do something pleasant for yourself for once. Think about swimming in the crystal blue water.”

“Small problem. Other people packed my stuff when I was in the hospital. I don't know where anything is, like, for instance, my bathing suit.”

“I'd be willing to spring for a bathing suit. At least, a small one.”

“And the idea of leaving Alvin in charge, that's just plain scary.” That would account for the way my heart was racing.

“Tell you what, I've got to hit the road. Think about where you'd like to go and call me,” Ray said.

“Okay.”

“New plan, I'll call you.”

“Wait! Today's Remembrance Day. I'll be at the ceremonies.”

“No problem. I'll give you a ring tonight.”

“That'll be good,” I said.

I listened to the dial tone for a long time and reminded myself that Ray was the best. Why was I such a jerk sometimes?

* * *

As we reached the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, “O Canada” was followed by “The Last Post”. The goosebumps lasted after the notes faded. The cannon boomed, marking the beginning of the moment of silence. My personal silence was accompanied by a stream of icy water wending its slow way past my collar and down my back.

Entirely appropriate.

I was squeezed on the mezzanine terrace of the National Arts Centre, too many feet above the sidewalk, along with hundreds of strangers jostling to observe the Remembrance Day ceremonies. Below, thousands clustered in the rain to mark the moment. Somewhere on the far side of the throng, the Prime Minister, the Governor General, the military brass, the Silver Cross mother, representatives of every diplomatic mission and a busload of big shots were assembled.

I jockeyed for position with college kids, moms and toddlers plus one beagle busy nosing crotches. I was too close to a spiny shrub for comfort, and the crowd was so dense I couldn't raise my umbrella without knocking someone's eye out. At least I was close enough to the edge to have a decent view of the street below. I looked down at a sea of faces, young and old, white, aboriginal, black, Asian and combinations. Overcoats, jean jackets and rain slickers brushed shoulders with a wide variety of military uniforms: Canadian, British, American and lots I didn't recognize.

Somewhere on the parade route, my father, Donald Angus MacPhee, would be lined up to march with his fellow vets. I would watch him with pride as I have every Remembrance Day since I was old enough to toddle. I'm pushing forty, but I have trouble feeling like an adult when I see how stooped and frail he's become.

The last few years, I've been at the ceremonies to honour my friend, former neighbour and personal hero, Mrs. Violet Parnell. Mrs. P. would never miss a chance to squeeze into her Canadian Women's Army Corps uniform and march with her head high.

The crowd stretched as far as I could see, jamming the sidewalks on Elgin Street, around and past the War Memorial, spilling onto Wellington Street and up the grassy hill by the East Block of the Parliament Buildings. Every inch of the property surrounding the NAC had someone standing on it. People clung to the small ledges on the flag standards. Over their heads, Canadian flags fluttered, and the provincial and territorial flags cracked and flapped in the wind and rain. Thousands of poppies provided splashes of red.

I scanned the crowd for signs of my three sisters. They'd be wearing their designer sunglasses, like so many others, even though the sun never shines on Remembrance Day, and today the weather was particularly vile. Alexa, Edwina and Donalda would not be pleased if anyone spotted their Christian Dior mascara making black tracks through their high-end blusher.

I was not wearing sunglasses. In my view, if you can't shed a public tear at the Remembrance Day ceremony, what the hell is wrong with you?

Next to me, my so-called office assistant, Alvin Ferguson, stood uncharacteristically silent, his bony shoulders hunched in his black leather jacket, his ponytail drooping, his cat's-eye glasses fogged, droplets of rain glistening off each of his nine visible earrings. A bit of advice to anyone running a small non-profit: if you wish to avoid a lot of headaches, don't allow your aged father to saddle you with an office assistant with the temperament and inclination of a performance artist, the office skills of a chimpanzee and the attitude of a minor dictator. Just a suggestion.

When the second boom marked the end of the silence, Alvin opened his mouth. Whatever he was saying was drowned out as the piper struck up the Lament and four CF-18s roared overhead in formation.

Alvin may be an accomplished pain in the backside, but he has his positive points. He thinks the world of Mrs. Parnell, and rightly so. The feeling, for some reason, is mutual.

As the sound of the planes faded, Alvin said, with a catch in his voice, “Violet loves to see the planes.”

“True enough.”

Alvin nibbled on a finger nail. “Do you think she's okay? It's a long way to march. And this is such friggin’ revolting weather. What if she loses her balance?”

“We've been over this, Alvin. She's not going to trip. She's been doing strength and balance exercises and yoga for months just for this chance to march. She's in better shape than she's been in years. I'm really proud of her.”

“Yeah well, in this rain, she might get pneumonia.” In the last couple of months, Alvin had become extremely protective of Mrs. P. It's weird, considering he's in his twenties and singularly lacking in sensible behaviour, and she's well past the eighty mark without any help from anyone, thank you very much.

“She'll be fine. Mrs. P. is as keen on battle as she ever was.”

Alvin sniffed. “They have ambulances here. If anything happened, they'd rush out to get her. Wouldn't they?”

“Nothing's going to happen. She waits for this moment every year. The ceremony puts a spring in her step.”

“She sounded upset last night when I tried to talk to her.”

“Really? I didn't notice that she was upset.”

“You've been so busy crabbing about your house and your boxes of files, you haven't even seen her this week.”

All right, so that was true, although I'd called her practically every day. Alvin's not the only one who thinks Mrs. Parnell is something special. She'd saved my life on several dramatic occasions, and she's an entertaining conversationalist to boot, not to mention a first-rate strategist. What's not to love?

I lowered my voice. “This is a special moment. Don't spoil it by getting yourself all worked up over nothing, Alvin.”

Alvin continued to obsess in that irritating way he specializes in. His voice got higher with every sentence. “I thought she needed someone to walk with her. I offered to do it. She turned me down cold. She wouldn't even accept a drive. She took a cab to the meeting point.”

“Alvin, your concern is commendable, but Mrs. Parnell has been having the time of her life lately. We can't hold her back. She's getting exercise and fresh air. Been on trips, been up in balloons, might I remind you.”

Alvin said, “Been shot at trying to rescue you.”

“The last time was months ago, and anyway, I think she kind of likes that sort of thing. Takes her back to the war. Besides, she wasn't hit. She loved the adventure. She keeps reenacting it for anyone who'll listen.”

“I still say it would have been way better if I had been marching with her.”

“Shh. Listen to the speeches.”

“Hey, I wonder if I can get a good look at the Governor General's hat from here,” Alvin mused.

I will never understand that boy.

The speeches are always short and heartfelt, but if you ask me, all everyone wants is to see the planes fly over, to hear the gun salutes and the pipers and to applaud the vets. It's our opportunity to think about how goddam lucky we are.

“Every year, it's a smaller number of vets,” Alvin said before honking his nose.

I didn't answer. I was clapping for the passing vets along with everyone else. Anyway, what could I say? My father and Mrs. Parnell were both well into their eighties. I didn't like to think about where all that was leading.

“It's so sad,” Alvin sniffed.

I already had a lump in my throat, since I thought I saw my father marching by. I imagined Alvin felt the same way. My father had lost two brothers in Sicily, and Alvin's grandfather was killed in the battle for Ortona. The uncles were real to me. I saw their pictures, I heard the stories of the mischief they got up to as boys. More than sixty years after the war, they were still important in my family.

People shouted “Thank you!” and clapped as groups of vets marched by.

Alvin slipped off his fogged-up cat's-eye glasses and whipped out black binoculars. They looked a lot like a pair I used to have.

“I don't see Violet yet. Where is she?” he fretted. “Will they give her a wheelchair if she can't keep up? She should have her walker at least.”

“For God's sake, Alvin. This is Mrs. Parnell we're talking about. She's as tough as they come. There are lots of vets the same age, some are even older and much more fragile. Please, try to control yourself. They'll be here,” I said. Not that I was relaxed. A woman with a red umbrella and a bad attitude kept shoving me in order to get a better spot. I wasn't keen to get too close to the edge, since it was a couple of storeys above the sidewalk. You can't really growl at someone at this particular time and place. Besides, I'm still working on my nice side.

“I think she's coming now.” Alvin stretched up and out. He leaned forward and adjusted the binoculars as a small group of marchers passed by. “Lord thundering Jesus,” he said.

“What?” I may have said that a bit louder than necessary since heads turned.

“Something's wrong with Violet.”

“Hand over those glasses.” I snatched the binoculars and peered through, looking for yet another opportunity to prove him wrong. There was an upside to our bickering as the crowd around us had shifted away.

I zoomed in on Mrs. Parnell. I could feel Alvin's anxiety, maybe because he was gripping my arm. I expected bruises.

I stared straight at Mrs. P.

“See what I mean?” Alvin said. “Look at the way she's holding herself. You know how fussy she is about proper military bearing.”

“Please let go of my arm, Alvin.”

“And she isn't keeping step. It's like she's not even aware of the other marchers.”

“There's nothing wrong with Mrs. Parnell that a couple of Benson & Hedges and a tumbler of Harvey's Bristol Cream won't fix.” I hesitated slightly, because Mrs. Parnell didn't appear to be keeping step with the other vets. I wondered for a second if I was catching Alvin's panicky behaviour.

He grabbed the binoculars back. “We have to catch up with her and find out what the problem is.”

“We can't disrupt the parade. She'll be going to the Chateau Laurier for the vets’ lunch right afterwards. We'll catch up with her then.”

Alvin plunged right through the juniper. “We can't wait that long. Let's go.”

Easier said than done. As we pushed our way through the crowds and down the stairs, things got worse. People were lined ten deep around the edge of the street. I couldn't even see where the vets were.

Alvin zigged and zagged through the mass of milling people, using his elbows as weapons. “Get the lead out, Camilla.”

“For heaven's sake,” I puffed, “if you don't stop stressing yourself out, you'll need an ambulance.”

Most likely a lot of fuss about nothing, I told myself as I plunged through the crowd after him.

* * *

“Keep a cool head, Alvin. We don't want to ruin her moment,” I said half an hour later when we'd finally managed to cross Wellington Street and push our way into the green-roofed Chateau Laurier. The hotel was holding a luncheon for hundreds of vets, and the marble hallways were jammed. Excitement ran high. We shouldered our way through the sentimental crowd, everyone wanting to shake the hands of a vet and express their thanks.

Alvin paid no attention to me. He was still cheesed off that I hadn't leaped over the barricades to connect to the marchers. He craned his scrawny neck, ponytail flicking in anxiety, heading for the ballroom where the lunch was being held. A few people attempted to stop him. That was a mistake on their part. I spotted Mrs. P. outside the ballroom. I felt a flood of relief.

“There she is. Look. Now will you relax, Alvin?” I said, nudging a couple of people out of the way and pushing ahead of him.

Mrs. P. sat by herself, in her CWAC uniform, her cap in her hand. Maybe she was still recovering from the march, or maybe she needed a Benson & Hedges. Plus Bristol Cream might not have been on the lunch menu.

“Mrs. Parnell,” I called, galloping toward her.

She looked up blankly.

“Mrs. P.?”

She said nothing, staring beyond me.

I whirled to see who she was looking at. There was nothing but a blank wall behind me. I said, “It's Camilla.”

She blinked and shook her head. Her hair hung loose and straggly. Deep purple shadows ringed her eyes. Her skin was as grey and mottled as the marble floor.

I felt my heart begin to thud. Alvin was right. Where was the perky and upbeat Mrs. Parnell I'd expected? “Has something happened?”

Alvin pushed in like a leather-clad tornado. He screeched to a stop in front of her. “What's wrong, Violet?”

Mrs. Parnell seemed not to notice him, quite an achievement considering he was now on his leather knees.

I bent over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Something wrong, Mrs. P.?”

Alvin blurted, “Violet, what's going on?”

She shook her head and blinked. “I'm terribly troubled by a dead man.”

“What?” I said.

“Whoa,” Alvin said. “How long has he been dead?”

“Too long.”

“That's amazing,” Alvin said.

Something flickered in Mrs. Parnell's eyes. “Precisely. You can imagine how it took me by surprise.”

Alvin's mouth hung open. Not a good look for him.

I said, “Obviously, something's upset you, but I think you must be mistaken. Easy to make a mistake in a crowd like this.”

“There's no mistake, Ms. MacPhee.”

“This is crazy,” I turned and whispered to Alvin.

“Like I wouldn't figure that out for myself?”

Mrs. P. scowled. “There's nothing wrong with my hearing. And, in this case, I would far prefer to be crazy than right.”

I was formulating a sensible response when Mrs. Parnell gasped. The gasp became a strangled gurgle. Her hands gripped her chest. As Alvin and I stood frozen, her eyes rolled back and she slid from her chair into a heap on the marble floor.

412 Dunbarton Street

Toronto, Ontario

October 6, 1941

Dear Violet,

I do hope you are able to receive letters. You are so far away, and you have chosen to take such risks. I know you are afraid of nothing, but I wonder if you have gone too far this time. The war is no place for a woman, and I think you should know that. It is bad enough that Perce has signed up and gone overseas. Now I have to worry about you as well as my brother. There is no one much to associate with in Chesterton, since Hazel is the only person from our crowd still around. She is sillier and more scatterbrained than ever. All she can think about is hats. I suppose she daydreams about men too. Mother says that's the one good thing about Perce going overseas. At least we don't have to worry about her, if you can read between the lines.

So many girls from Chesterton have married boys they hardly know, it is a scandal. These boys have signed up and shipped out, and now the girls are working in factories. Can you imagine that? What is the world coming to? I took your advice and decided not to postpone Normal School. I will be finished my education and back home in no time. Even so, I hated to leave Mother, as she is on her own, with just the maid, especially since it is so hard to get good help these days. She misses Perce terribly. How could the government take a man who is the emotional support of an ailing widow? That is truly appalling. Of course, Perce is so patriotic, he insisted on doing his duty. It is such a shame for a capable and ambitious boy like Perce (and Harry too, of course) to have to put his life on hold. As you like to say, we must all be brave. I remind myself that Perce has a lucky streak, although I realize that is just silly and superstitious.

I am beginning to settle in at the school. I have a nice furnished room with a very respectable family. Toronto is so large compared to sleepy little Chesterton. Some of the other girls are much too frivolous to spend time with. I cannot imagine how they think they'll make competent teachers. However, one or two seem quite solid. Time will tell if they will be worthy friends, as you have always been, Violet.

Yours truly,

Betty