Chapter Four

THURSDAY

By the time they had traveled well north of the city, Katya had decided she’d heard enough pleasantries about weather and cars and the state of the traffic. If the purpose of this expedition was to beat Elizabeth Preston to her husband’s money, it was time to do the bottom line, “Bena tells us it costs anything from five to eight thousand dollars to stage a proper concert for this orchestra business, Wit. Really that much money?”

“A church you would have cheaper. But yes, a nice hall with good sound and a stage that is big enough and not made of boxes, And we must buy the music, oh yes, some we can borrow, I can make, but some we must buy. And an orchestra must rehearse, we must have rehearsals, and somewhere to do them, schools, they have rooms, not so expensive, but still it costs…” with a big shrug, Ziski’s hands rose to waggle in the air before returning with a slap to the wheel, “…and maybe a nice soloist would do a favour for me and that would not cost so much. And there is advertising you must do, and that can take all the money that you have, or just a little bit. But yes, five, eight, it could be.”

Crunched into a side-saddle sit in order to see and hear Katya and Bena in the back seat, a draught of cold air on Maude’s kidneys made her a touch irritable as she watched Ziski’s hands fan the air, “And just exactly how many five-eight-it-could-bes d’ you think that would  be in a year?”

“We must do four concerts. Not ambitious, a small season, but we must start somewhere. Two months it will take to learn the music for each concert, and that only if we are lucky to find people who already know how to play it. I have to teach them how to play it together, and how to play it…” His hands rose from the wheel to describe a crescendo, “…play it WELL!” And his crashing finis so jarred the wheel that the power steering sent the car into a high-speed waddle that sucked a panicked breath into Katya, a roller-coaster squeal out of Maude, and set Bena’s thighs for a steeplechase.

“Thirty-two, and twenty for you, and twenty for the others, already we have seventy-two thousands of dollars. It is better too much than too little, so we will ask my George for two hundred thousands.”

“Don’t be silly, Bena,” Katya fought for a larger breath, “we can’t ask the man for that much money, nobody has that much money to throw away.”

“Actually,” Maude fiddled behind her shoulder till she was sure the window was up, the door lock down, “Quite a few people do, but they don’t, not if they want to keep it. I may well have it myself, but that’s not what we want, we want George, himself, who he is. George will give us something, whatever he can manage, and he’ll make it permanent somehow, and I’ll have him do the same with some of mine, and he’ll speak to some people and they’ll speak to some people. What we want is some working credit with a tidy endowment behind it.

“There’re quite a few people who like to be seen with money, their own, or someone else’s. Favours get traded. Or they like to be known for having culture, or they owe one for misbehaving, like my sister,” Maude skewed her mouth and winked over the seatback, “And somebody always needs to spread a bit of fast money ahead of the taxman. We’ll need a couple on our Board, a few, actually. We’ll have to pick and choose useful ones who aren’t just looking for a night out once a month. One or two might actually like the music.”

“You have done this before, I think,” Ziski’s mouth was amused, his eyes respectful.

“No, but my husband was a joiner, Wit. You name the club, Harry had a handle on it, the man could follow a dollar through any town he lived in, couldn’t help himself, and he couldn’t help talking about it, either. On top of that, I’ve spent a lifetime listening to my sister manipulate one poor unsuspecting organization after another. She can set a dozen completely agreeable people at each other’s throats in no time. Trickiest job’s going to be keeping Little Beth from pulling a knife on the nice people.”

“Bena has told me what she did, this Madam Princess of ours, and I cannot say it is not… ugly, but… enhh,” His shoulders beginning to rise in a shrug, Maude swatted a hand to keep them both on the wheel, “Enhh, so, we know the prima donna, it is not so bad, no one is killed, it is news. What do they say? It is advertising. Yes?”

“Publicity.” Maude was beginning to quite like this little man’s penchant for making the best of it, she gave him a big grin and raised her voice over the drum of traffic, “Anybody catch the write-up in the Mail ? Lizzie’s little to-do was a ‘neo-happening’, apparently, ‘…neolithic ritual, offering the painted image to the real’, like those cave paintings, you know, the ones in France, or wherever they are, ‘…a libation to the Spirit of Architecture, stone to stone’. Man’s an ass, bought and sold. Isn’t a libation a spilled drink? Suppose that might’ve been a crack at Lizzie, thinking she was drunk. And the Post ! ‘…the casting of stones in the public square’, believe it or not, is some kind of metaphor for… I don’t know, a craft show, I think, throwing pots, or something, ‘…functional integrity in the post-industrial…’ yadayada. I suppose you can’t expect the man to say ‘whore’. That’s publicity for you, spin doctoring, you know. Bet it cost more than one lunch to spin that yarn.”

“I saw the Mail,  but I don’t take the Post.  Have you still got it?” Hunkered forward over her knees, the better to hear, Katya raised a speculative eyebrow at Maude, “Good, save it for me, it mightn’t be a bad idea to hang onto copies. Just some coverage, sort of, in case this orchestra business upsets somebody who doesn’t like your sister, it might help to have the official version handy. When I worked for Fincan, we kept every good word ever said about fur in case the anti-trapping people got after us.”

“Did they ever?”

“No, surprisingly. But the name’s good, lots of people think it’s like Alcan, or it does something with canned fish, pretty good camouflage, really. Company doesn’t warehouse anything, that’s all third party, and the offices are designed to look like expensive accountants’, which scares most people off, so they never seem to have caught on, but we always kept a big public relations file, just in case.”

“Good idea, it may not be the last time my sister’s butt’ll need covering. We’ll ask George, his people are obviously brilliant at it, we could get some advice.”

“Your sister, the Princess, does she know of these… stories that are put in the newspapers?”

“She’s the one told me to look for them. Believe me, Bena, the Princess never misses her own press.”

“She is spoiled, I think, by this pretending.”

“She was spoiled from birth. Best we can do is keep her from rotting out the rest of us.”

“Poor Mister George,” Bena heaved a deeply satisfied sigh, “His life is unhappy, I think.” And she settled back into her capes to consider plans for rescue.

Maude snorted, and with the excuse of easing her aching back, resettled in the passenger seat, chin tucked into collar, to consider ways of convincing George that this carload of gypsies could manage Elizabeth.

What had finally sent Witold Ziski running from the country of his birth was a last straw. His manic genius had taken him to a peak of his profession, Music Director of State Opera, where the magic of his hands wove spells, certainly of music, but as importantly of affirmation, for Ziski had no time for the Party. And the Party, of course, expected its dues from such a position of worth. His vulnerability had preserved him, the fragility of his fine-boned body, the open-handed, genuine embrace of people, of harmonies, of food, and of drink, of any richness of pleasure, had deflected official annoyance from his steadfast distain for the membership of power. In a swallowtail coat and white linen, he appeared not as decadent imposition, aristo-at-play, but rather as popular bandleader, dapper in a slightly silly uniform, and his capacity to drink a commissar under the table and continue on a bar crawl with the commissar’s driver made him a hard act to follow.

But then he refused to put a fat diva on stage. Her tone-deaf boyfriend thought she was perfect, Ziski thought she was lazy, crack-voiced, and too old for the role. He gave the arias to a slender young beautiful voice and finally the straws were too many. The boyfriend had a badge to go with his Party card and Ziski had twenty-four hours to get over the border.

Survival in Germany was possible for a while, the respect for talent and music undimmed in the squarest of heads, but he was a Pole, after all, and that antagonism predated even the most classical repertoire. So he took himself into France, to a very old countess whose husband had converted the heirlooms and six villages numbering twelve thousand souls into French railways the day he met the Mad Monk hanging out at the Czar’s house. The quick-witted count and his fortune had been Russian, but the countess could claim Polish kings, so a long splendid widowhood was devoted to hearing Chopin in Paris. Generous to herself, she paid men to play on her piano, and when she found a good one, she’d take him to the Opéra, and put him on the stage to play. She said she preferred Chopin to chocolate and allowed herself both. Ziski’s fingers were too short, it took both hands and a baton to bring her to Chopin. She paid a full orchestra to bring it on home and his reputation was made. Invited to other houses, Ziski at first demurred, believing her a jealous countess. But she was not, only jealous of death, and she sent him for tailoring to an Hungarian woman she knew for that purpose. Who better to teach stage craft, costume and lines?

“Bena, Pimpuszka, would Rimskaya not have laughed at this adventure? Droshky-ing into the Canadian woods to find the gold to play Chopin. It is a wild west adventure and you are a cowgirl.”

“Will we see the Indian people up here, my Maude?” Suddenly at point, Bena peered at the landscape searching for hilltop signals of smoke, “She would laugh at us, my Pimpus, how far we are from the boulevard she would laugh at, I think. To know that music must beg for its life in this country, she would not laugh. Do they shoot the caribou in this Muskoko, my Maude?”

“It’s not that far, Bena,” Maude chuckled and grinned, “They mostly just shoot up the dancing deer signs on the side of the__ There! See? Like that. Danger! Tap-dancing deer ahead.” She turned her head from the road to speak past her shoulder, “They say the Department of Highways saw a Charlie Pachter sketch of Toller Cranston and just went with the idea. If you kill one with the car, a deer, not a skater, you can eat it, if you like, but not many people know their butchers that well anymore. Who’s the laughing Rimskaya, Wit? And just what would be so damned funny?”

Drawing the first bars of ‘The Laughing Rimskaya’ on the back of his eyes, Ziski hummed some bits of a melody and locked it away in his mind, “She was a Pole. A princess so old__ I mean a long time there had been princesses from that people__ but she too was old, and all her life was music, was Chopin, and I played for her and she sent me to learn from Bena and then I was a conductor in Paris. Rimskaya was a very good countess and, I think, a perfect woman. Although, for me…” He lifted a hand and tipped it with a shrug, “…for that, you know, she was too old.”

All three women shut down their eyes for a ten count and a deep breath, shook heads at one another, and Katya, wanting desperately to ask what he had learned from Bena, asked instead, “How much farther, Maude?”

Three years of Paris and Ziski had become so irritated by the smug French, and so lonesome for love in a hard language, that he sought a way to Canada, from where he believed it was possible to see New York. Words, however, travel and some words of drunken hateful criticism of the lazy sneering patronage of France traveled west along with some words of recrimination from a number of women, and for a year no legitimate offers came. And then a large congregation of Russian protestants in Montreal had accepted his services as choirmaster, offering passage, roof and wage, and installed him in a form of indentured serfdom in an empty room off the vestry with just enough money for sausage and cigarettes. Depressed, but hardly surprised, they were Russian, he was Polish, it was habit, he wangled himself a tv set, stole power on a cord from the vestry, his own room, an architectural necessity of no purpose, being unwired, learned English from game shows and canvassed fellow exiles for rescue.

Bena’d been living in Katya’s house a year when she got wind of Ziski’s desperation while sharing sausage and grass-sweet vodka with the Polish consul at the end of his lawn overlooking the lake. She said, over cheese and vodka, that Ziski amongst the French, as she well knew, could rise to heights that might call question to his exile. “Perhaps,” she said, licking bitter black chocolate from a finger, “He should be here and safely in some place, a nice apartment maybe, where he could work and have food to eat and maybe some vodka to… Yes, thank you. …and you could know what is paid for this by a rich man who should owe some dollars for his passport. I know such a man, it is curiously made, his passport, and I am sure you could convince him of its value.”

Katya, obviously, was good for common sense, Maude considered, if anything, discretion might be her abiding sin. Bena’s a hood ornament, far as I can see, with every intention of parading the men for all the fun she can get out of it. And this one… Maude watched Ziski from the side of her eyes, and thinking she heard music, turned her head to see him staring up the highway, and to her it felt as though the orchestra of harmony swelling in her body was taking its beat from the pulse in the little man’s brow. And this one… Maude knew she was grinning from ear to ear, “You going to give us a tryout, Wit? You know, a… tryout, a whad’y’callit?”

“An audition is what you mean? Yes, I will try you out, because I am the conductor and I must know how well you take direction. I have been on this road, there are Poles very far up, I go fishing. I think we are almost to this Landing. Yes?”

Maude figured she might as well believe that’s what she’d meant.

Well, George blanched. A little red car gunned to a halt in the marina parking lot, a strange man bounced from the driver’s side, Maude wagged and hauled from the other, behind her a familiar face… who?… that friend of… and the man turned to offer a hand and there stood Bena smiling grandly over the red roof, and George went white. It had been his idea to beat Maude’s arrival, fearing it would be Elizabeth driving, intending to get them straight aboard and avoid any chance of that gossipy blowhard emerging from the marina office to wonder in his obnoxious teasing way what George was doing for supplies since he’d not been back to the landing all week, sowing suspicion, looking for cracks in the lives he serviced. Well, forget discretion.

“Surprise! Look who’s here. You brought the launch, didn’t you, George? I knew you would.” Maude squeezed her brother-in-law and couldn’t keep a grin from giggling at his shock.

“Aacch, my George, how delicious you look like a sea captain, but you are pale from our surprise, I think.” An unfurling of capes, a waving of arms and a cymbal clash swept the stranger to attention, “My friend, George Preston, this is my friend, Witold Ziski,” Bena beamed over the handshake, “Maestro Ziski, a conductor of orchestras, and my Mister George, a director of banks, I can see the future, you will be friends and we will all make wonderful music together. I am sure of this.”

Katya winced at Bena’s crass leap to the attack, “Mister Preston, hello, Katya Saarila, nice to see you again. I apologize for descending on you like this, Maude insisted it wouldn’t be a bother, but I think she expects a lot.”

With her hand pressed in his, George recovered his colour and balance, “No, no, not at all, and you must call me George.” He chuckled a happy little laugh, “I wondered how Maudie was going to get here, and this is a very pleasant surprise, you’ve no idea.”

The sternwell deep with the excitement of four crowded, clinging passengers, spray shot silk over deckboard varnish as George sliced the great wedge of mahogany up the slow swell of the channel. Overcast, the sky leaden and still, with the last of the leaves down in yesterday’s wind, what was left of the forested shores stood about in blackened greens rusted to cedar at waters’ edge. The effect, which George had thought gloomy on the run in to the Landing, like dowdy mourners patient for the service to begin, now looked noble and northern, a landscape proud in its furs, brave to the coming freeze.

He had thought to find Elizabeth pacing the jetty, had feared to find she had come for him with accusations and attorneys, an imbroglio of divorce and division that would further mire him in the city’s sludge, or worse, she had come with forgetfulness, if not forgiveness, a practical willingness to balance the books, his crime for hers. She had destroyed a painting, a huge canvas of granite face like the cracked and tumbled headlands that suddenly narrowed the channel, requiring George to steady himself against the swell. He had spanked her. Bad behaviours cancelled, carry on as before. And George blushed at a thriving jack-pine he’d seen dead and blasted on his funereal float down channel.

He had found instead a party of four with a reservation for one, Maude, and her unbooked entourage. Maude, whom he had known was coming. Not Elizabeth. He had imagined that. He had feared it. Elizabeth is fear, this is surprise, he had said to himself in the marina parking lot, Katya’s hand in his, let’s just see where it goes from here. Slipping from the channel into the hook, powering down in the eddy, George took them to land.

While the others drifted about the cottage admiring the comforts and the views, Maude kept George in the kitchen to uncork wine while she unloaded Katya’s hamper, “It’s business, George, we’ve only a couple of hours, so there’s no time to waste, we have to get right down to it. I’m not apologizing, I brought them because they’re part of it, I didn’t warn you ‘cause you might’ve said no and I was damned if I was going to row us out here, I don’t think Ziski’s up to that. We’re here to keep Lizzie from making worse fools of us than she already has, and we need your help. We need…”

“Elizabeth! I knew it, she’s been on to the lawyers, she’s taking me to the cleaners!” George felt his blood pressure fall to his ankles, “What worse fools? What’s she done? Oh, god, she’s gone public!” And his blood bounced to rush thick in his head and boil a sweat from his hairline.

“No, no, no, it’s all right, George, sit, calm down. She’s not after you for a divorce, don’t worry, and it’s not about…” Maude waved an awkward hand, “You haven’t talked to her? She hasn’t phoned you?”

Pointing at the flour bin, “I stuffed it in there after you called,” he tried to glare at her, but a wry grin happened instead, “Maudie, you old brat, what the hell is going on? Did she tell you what I did?”

“Yes, George, everybody knows, and damned well about time too, as far as…”

“Everybody! What the hell’s she been…”

“Well, no, not everybody. Stop squawking and find some plates. She came around Saturday after you left and gave me this big song and dance about you beating her because she’s a bad manager,” Maude held up a hand to George’s protest, “Never mind, I understood the spanking part, believe me, long past time, George, my fault, if anybody’s, should’ve started at birth, but she was already howling when I got her head out. Get out some glasses, George. You know what a load of codswallop she can talk when she’s wound up, well, the worst part is… This just about did me in, George. She seemed to think she liked it, the spanking.” Again she raised a hand, “I don’t care, I didn’t want to hear it, I don’t want to talk about it, I just thought you should know that she seems to think she’s reached some new height of…” Maude couldn’t help the flush and used a tea towel to blot and hide her confusion, “She seems to think… George, has she never had…?” Maude pursed her mouth and bugged her eyes at her brother-in-law, begging for understanding, “Surely, I mean, you’ve been… married for… she must have…”

“She said she had a… had an orgasm when I spanked her?” George felt like a lost dog, didn’t know which way to look, seriously deprived of security.

“Well, she never said that,  but, yah, she said that, in her own mad little way.” Piling a plate with plump napoleons of pumpernickle and moussed salmon, Maude stopped to lick a finger and touch it to a smudge of stove black by George’s ear, “D’ you know, you’re some fella to have loved her all these years.” She rubbed, “Do you?”

“Do I love her? Or do I know I’m some fella? Does it look like it to you? I honestly don’t seem to know, I’ve been trying to think about it and it sure seems to be about a whole lot of pretty bizarre notions. Lord, Maude, I’ve been sittin’ in my mother’s kitchen, I’ve been playin’ ball in the schoolyard, I shot Elizabeth down over the English Channel, I’ve been down river twice to Strawbridge and I…” George felt lead in his chest, braced his hands to the counter’s edge, and let the wind down to his belly, “I don’t know, Maude, does it look like love?”

“Oh, you’re some fella,” She had to lick her thumb to get him clean, “Whether you love her, or not, you’ve put up with her, George. I never loved Harry, and I only put up with him because he left me alone. Once in a while he’d make me pretend to be sociable__ My God, he knew the stupidest people__ and then it dawned on me that I could be alone and  not have to pretend. Or ever pick up after him again. That was me and Harry, it’s not you and Little Beth, no, Wee Bessie’s always made you sit up and bark, George dear, you’re her favourite audience for her favourite stunts, you’re always there to clap,” Maude giggled, “So, you clapped with one hand and she came in her… Oh, dear…” Maude boiled from the hairline and fogged her glasses, “I’m sorry, I didn’t say that, George, I didn’t think that, I’m starting to lose it, you know, it’s not my fault, scarves on my kettle… So, anyway, maybe you’re not Steve and Eadie, but it’s always looked like a pretty good arrangement to me.”

“What? did you tell them, too?”

“Bena and Kat… Oh. Hah, hah, George, very funny, Steve and Eadie, no, but those two know because they showed up like magic, just when your seriously confused wife was ready to share her inner most with me. Bena swooped on her like a mother hen, had us all out to the kitchen table for coffee before Lizzie could get her mouth open. But she managed soon enough, had to take a crack at me. I expect she figured it was all a plot and I’d invited them just to rub her nose in it, and she had to have revenge. So bad at it, she’s always been too paranoid to think straight. So, I suppose what I did wasn’t too much different, George. She was mean to me, she’d been mean to Bea McAlpine, mean to her daughter, mean to everybody, with her Friday night performance, so I smacked her one. I said there was no excuse for her lip, just because you’d spanked her. She was half out the door, and I don’t know what happened, Bena got through to her somehow. Held her hand, for godsake, and, Poof! Lizzie’s off on another run, she’s practically kissing Bena’s rings, and now we’re gonna start an orchestra.”

“Oh, well,” He didn’t even have to sound sarcastic, “Glad to know everything’s under control, then, Maude.”

She grinned weakly and kicked her shoe on the floor, “Well, she made it sound like a good idea. Guess maybe we thought it’d keep her from eating babies. That’s why we’ve got Ziski,” She returned his pointed blank stare with a squint, “For an orchestra, not for eating babies. Bena’s the Inspiration, either she’s a witch, or she knows a hell of a lot of people, George. Where on earth did you ever find her? Never mind, I’m not sure I want to know, some other time. Katya’s the Manager, ‘cause she knows how, and I’m Secretary Treasurer, sort of, for the time being, for looks, but I know you’ll help me with that when it really has to get done, you can lend me that nice young man who cleans out my drawer every spring, and Missus Quaid’s our Auxiliary, and your charming wife is, of course, Madam President, if not Marie Antoinette. She’s a doozy, George, ya gotta love her, don’t ya?” Maude shook her head in sympathy and gave a tug at the phone cord disappearing into the bin drawer, “I’ll bet this’s the only reason you haven’t heard from her yet, ‘cause Ziski says there’s zip for feed in the public trough these days. Actually, I just said that, but that’s what he meant. This whole thing’s got me wound up a bit, we’d better have a little whisky to calm our nerves, George. Oh, good.

“To us, George. Ahh! I needed that. Yes, well, I figure she’ll be after you for support, and it won’t take her malicious little heart long to figure out that a spanking can mean Support, one way, or the other. You’re too much of a gentleman, George, that’s why we’ve come. The four of us are here on a cover-our-ass mission. You let her run with this, we’re all out there on a limb, and she’s maybe just nuts enough to whip out a saw next time. We need protection from the Princess. Give her the hat, if you have to, but keep her hands off the wheel.”

“I could just say no.”

“Oh, right. When was the last time you tried that on, George? You can’t handle her little hissy fits any more than I can. She just made a damned fool of herself in public, and she’ll throw herself back into the ring with this orchestra thing, or we’ll all die trying. We probably will, anyway, but we might end up with a damned good band for the wake. Pricey, but she’d see it as a coup.”

“Frankly speaking…” George looked from Maude to the kitchen door swinging open on the other three finding their way back from the tour, “I think you’re all as mad as my wife.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Katya had fallen in love, “Let’s sink the boat and never go home and live here happily ever after, a mad tea party till we die! What a beautiful place this is!”

Bena thought her friend far too forward. He is mine, after all, “My Katya has decided that your little house is so elegant sitting in its bushes, my George, and your lake is so very much a perfect little lake, that she says it is good enough to be Finnish,” She chose to be patronizing, “My Katya has her standards.”

Catching an agreeable grin from Ziski still in the doorway, and cocking a challenging eyebrow, “That makes one of us, at least, Bena,” Katya waited for the down beat, “Since your idea of landscape is whatever’s behind you.”

Eyes sparking, Bena let a deep generous smile crease her cheeks, “Ah, my Katya, you are ready at last to play, I think. Come, my Witold,” Wrists achime, she swept to the kitchen counter, “What are these most beautiful looking things to eat, my Maude? And that wine you should be pouring into this glass, my George. Ah__ I think perhaps a toast? To the madness that brings us all together, my George?”

Having poured and offered wine, George acknowledged the circle of upraised glasses and lifted his own. He looked ‘round them with questions, “Classical music? A full tilt, symphony playing orchestra? And this is all Elizabeth’s bright idea? If I’m behind this, do I get to say where it plays?” Curious, consulting glances, Ziski hesitated, but a job was a job, so he nodded. George inclined his head to each in turn, taking time to consider consequences, but the sheer deliciousness of outwitting Elizabeth decided the issue for him and he saluted with his glass, “To the Strawbridge Symphony Orchestra, then.” Startled, they eyed him over their rims, but they drank the toast. And then Maude said with a shake of her head, “You know, George, you’re going to need one humdinger of a story for Elizabeth.”

Tillie lay back on the red ferns of a parlour chair feeling old and infinitely tired. It seemed to her that her dry old breast continued to rise and fall at long intervals only as a remembered duty; it seemed it was no longer her body that kept her alive, but her memory. She knew she should think of it as mind, honour it as soul or spirit, believe it immortal and saved, or damned, according to a lifetime’s behaviour, but it didn’t feel to her to have the vitality of any of those things. It was only a memory of how, a battery not quite yet dead. She was determined to be brave, and if she forgot, she forgot; it could all be over in a moment of mislaid remembrance, no bang, no whimper, just absentminded woolgathering and____

She remembered her first sight of Stewart’s naked body and how unsurprised she’d been by the animal parts and the keen coiled bareness. The wedding had been brief, after Sunday service, on the sidelawn of the church between the privies and the cemetery gate. Men led out the horses to stand in their traces beneath the maples along the road, while the women set trestles in the driveshed and spread out the cakes and the cups and white tin jugs of tea. It was a neighbourly toasting, done in an hour, families home to dinner and a bit of a rest before chores. Tillie stayed to tidy away the church kitchen while Stewart drove the team to town, his stiff old mother grim-jawed in the phaeton rolling to doom in Cousin Anna’s big old barnful of houseless women.

Tillie knew Stewart wouldn’t push the horses even on his wedding day, and in a piece of mirror hung above the big iron sink, she watched her fingers unbutton the twenty-six tiny roses down from her chin, loosen the band of white lawn that covered her breasts and raise them cupped into her hands. She was curious to see if they looked any different now that they were no longer hers alone, now that they were Stewart’s to share.

She had examined her groom with the same curious interest to know the shape and the size and the weight of what she now had a piece of till death do part. They had walked from the church, she insisting it wasn’t far, knowing it would please him to rest the team as they ambled and cropped their way along the lanes. She hadn’t cared that the skirts of her dress became streaked with dust and speckled with ticks as she waded the grass after ferns and daisies and wild columbine. She had found the apple sapling on a piece of waste far from any orchard claim; Stewart’s pocket knife had freed its rather pitiful root.

While he watered and curried and threw down hay, she dug a hole and manured it, a big hole between the well and what was now her kitchen door, and when her husband came from the barn, she sent him to the shed for his bush axe, she slipped the best steel needle from her sewing case and under the root of the little crab they buried the last of their lives apart. When she saw Stewart naked, she knew the tree would flower and she didn’t mind the smell of horse.

Tillie breathed the leathery, warm ripe smell of Stewart’s sex and opened her eyes to watch her dry breast fall away with the memory. Still alive. Pull yourself out of this chair, woman, and go make a cup of tea. Her fingers plucked at the red plush ferns as she counted the dead and hauled herself up; the horses, of course, long gone, and the apple had overgrown itself, withered and finally fallen, and Stewart was gone and everyone else as far as she knew.

The skirt, though, the skirt of my wedding dress is still in the trunk up in the attic, dry as Tut’s tomb. The bodice had gone on wearing for years until the twenty-six roses looked like spitballs and badly rolled pills, but she’d wrapped the skirt in dry ferns and stored it, still streaked and spotted from their walk that first day. Walk to the kitchen and make that tea while you can still think of it. And don’t stop in the hall, or you’ll be pulling the petals from daisies worrying he loves you not.

The sight of her kitchen table infuriated her. Who in damnation’s made this godawful mess? That girl’s been making herself fudge again. A pyramid of smudged and crusty mixing bowls, measuring cups, sifter, spoons and spatulas teetered at her approach. White flour drifted from end to end of the oilcloth, dusted the stovetop, smeared the kettle she held to the tap. Lemon rinds choked the drain. A grater, a juicer, paring knives and a crumpled heap of cellophane littered the counter. She snapped on the burner under the kettle and let go with a bellow, “Beatrice!” Waiting in the silence for her daughter’s sneaking footstep on the stair, Tillie glared at the Quaker on a bag of rolled oats, his smooth fat jowls like a baby’s bum – “Beatrice!” – plump on porridge and cobblers and cookies and – “Damn!” – datesquares. Tillie grabbed for a chairback as a hot swoon of shame flushed to her skin. Dizzy with confusion. No you’re not. You’re not confused, you know perfectly well what you just did and you’re afraid. Dizzy with fear, maybe, but not confusion. I made my squares and I got sidetracked and I forgot. Yes. Forgot so well, that I didn’t do it. Forgot so hard, that you thought Bea did it. Yes. And again shame burnt her skin and for good measure ran a cold boney finger down her spine.

You mustn’t be afraid. I’m not. You are. I am. Where are the damned squares, anyway? Oh Lord! Shakey, frightened, Tillie stepped toward the oven, eyes frantic to see the right dials, frantic for time, temperature, memory. Not trusting her skin to tell hot from cold, her fingers fluttered to her temples to aim the search for the oven switch. Off. Thank God. One hand went to her chest to guide breath, the other touched the switch for reassurance and a blessing.

You still don’t remember, do you? No. The temperature’s set, though, three fifty, so I got that far. You’re a winner, Til. Nobody likes a smart-alec. So you say, but they’re still not going to be baked up nice and brown, are they? You don’t even know if they’re in there. That’s enough, you’re being silly, where else would they be? Try one of the buffet drawers, the linen closet shelf, back of the toilet, down cellar behind the axe… Oh, for petesake, they’re in the oven. Sure, so look. She pulled on the oven door hesitantly, trembling for fear of a monstrous emptyness.

Ah hah! Ta da! Not as dumb as I look. Not as old as God, either, but damned near as arrogant. She bent for a closer look at the great shallow bake tin that filled the rack and a gust of hot sweet oatmeal and lemon sharp butter rose in her face. She let the door snap closed.

Have I had tea? I think I’ll put the kettle on. It is. You did. It’s in front of you, lucky you’re not scalded. The squares are done. Yes. You made them, you baked them. I made them, I put them in the oven, I turned it on, I turned it off. I didn’t burn them. No, you’re right there, gold star for Tillie. Don’t be sassy! Well, you were gloating so darn hard about living on your memory – which is getting pretty thin in the portfolio, if you ask me – breathing on your laurels, as it were, and now you’re whining about managing this job perfectly well without a thought to piss in.

Get a grip, girl, you’re headed to the glue factory at this clip. If you’re gonna complain every time you get a lucky break at your age, when it’s mostly hips and the good crystal, I’m not sittin’ still for it. I’d rather pack up and move in with Bea, that pokey back bedroom, even, rather than put up with you going potty in this place. I won’t have it. I can love this house as long as Stewart’s alive in it with me; I can stay in this house just so long as you don’t turn into a fraidy cat. I won’t be a ghost in my own house. If you don’t have the gumption for it anymore, girl, then maybe it is time to go. Would you just make the damned tea!

Tillie wrapped up in three sweaters and carried her tea out to the glassed veranda that crossed the back of the house. This time of year, the sun had already slipped too far south to warm the porch, leaving the white paintwork looking chalky, the chintz pale and brittle, but it was neither heat nor comfort she sought, rather she needed the hard cold light of an autumn day to face up to her future.

So far, she hadn’t given an inch on the subject of leaving this house, wouldn’t give Bea the satisfaction, but that didn’t mean she didn’t think about it. She thought about it in the dark hours between the naps that were now the few unconscious moments (and barely that) her body would allow, as though it felt the empty untouched silence of her bed at two and three and four a.m. and considered that quite close enough to any sort of void. She thought about it in the dark unhappy moments when her mind came back and she knew it had been away without her.

Missing Stewart was one thing, she’d learned to smooth that ache with memory, allowed herself sights and smells and sounds, even the occasional conversation pretending to his presence, but it was quite another thing to have begun to miss herself with such regularity. I should get one of those desk-file things to keep my brains in, an In basket and an Out basket, and then I could tell by the pile whether I was ahead of myself, or not. A lot of In, I’ve been here. A lot of Out, I’m in trouble. Might work if you didn’t start keeping your knitting wool in the In basket. Maybe the hydro bill and the phone bill could go into the Out, and just wander off into the ether like I do. You’re a damned silly old woman. Oh, aye.

Tillie wrapped her thin blue hands around the brown teapot and stared out at her backgarden. Quit stalling. That lilac needs a good… Cut it out! You came out here to think this through, into the cold to keep you upright and here. One can only hope. Seriously, you’ve got to figure this one out. Bea’s back bedroom? That was desperation talking. I’ll say it was. You know what your problem is? No. You do too. You’re too damned proud. Yes. And vain. Yes. And you’re too smart-alecy for your own good. Always. So? So? So, what are you going to do about it? Get the boy to cut it down to new wood and let it come up all over again. Matilda, you stop it! Stick to it.

The Chateau, then. She straightened herself and poured herself a second cup of tea. What a horrifying word that’s become, Chateau. Chateau should be yellow French light and mansards and mustard and sweet bubbling wine. Even it should be those great grey blocks with their rot-green roofs the railroad trapped its passengers in. Instead, Chateau raises the very image of the dead. The moat round lovely Chenonceaux becomes the Styx. Every dreadful congregation of infirm souls and charry minds seems housed beside a river bank, the morbid brick and empty parterre fussed into tidyness, and everywhere a stainless rail to haul yourself to death, and every last one of them called The Chateau. Retirement, my Aunt Fanny, shelving, more like.

Or you have your gaunt old red-knuckled Poorhouse on the edge of town with new swans in the yard and a long Cadillac for a bus. If it has elevators, it’s a Manor. And Villa, there’s another. You’ll find the inmates’ sons are often in the tile and stucco trade. All the lovely names for the finest fabrications of domesticity, Chateau, Manor, Villa, the human-lifesized palaces of family, mocked by a crude pretence.

Oh, give over, girl, it’s but a name. My point, exactly. You’re such a pedant, sticks and stones, you know, names don’t hurt. Oh, grow up, that’s schoolyard courage, a bold-faced lie. Naming without respect always hurts. But this isn’t about the name, not Chateau, or Villa, or what have you; they’re as silly as Bide-a-Wee and Whip-Poor-Will used to be, and there’s no more to it than that, it’s bad taste, suburban, plain and simple, but this is about… What? About waiting. What about waiting? Waiting to die! They’re waiting rooms, nothing but glorified magazine on the table, nurse at the desk waiting rooms. And that’s one thing this house has never been. And never will be. I live here and I don’t wait on any body, or any thing. I’ll not go to a waiting room. Bea’s back bedroom? Bea’s back bedroom, or… Oh dear, she could only get dribbles from the pot. Setting it down, lifting the lid and poking the bags with a spoon, she squeezed another half cup. Awfully melodramatic, don’t you think? Still, true, barren utility with Holly Hobbit appliqué, lots of chairs and nothing to do. I meant Bea’s back bedroom. So do I.

Tillie sat on in her porch, back straight, elbows on the table and caught the last drops of tea on her tongue, and wondered how much it cost to keep a boy around full time. A well-setup younger fellow who’d just be there for what she needed. If I had a man handy, maybe I wouldn’t have to go. Oh Lord, wouldn’t Velma Lettie have a picnic on that – Old Tillie Sutherland and her fancyman – ‘They say she pays for more than the yard work. It can’t be decent’. And it wouldn’t be, if I had that kind of money. And the nerve. You’ve too much pride. I wonder. Well, you’re not likely to find out now, between here and the pine box you’re not going shopping for Chippendale in a beer parlour, I’ll tell you that much. More’s the pity. Get out of the gutter.

What harm can there be in thinking about it? The thought’s the deed. Thank God for that. Heaven knows the deed’s beyond me now. Would I have ever bought myself a man? Did I? Does keeping him once you’ve bought him reduce the sentence? If you buy him with your dowry, is it different than cash? What if he’s not a young man? ‘Oh, he’s just found someone fool enough to nurse him. She’ll have his insurance, you know.’ Velma’s not going to let anyone have seconds when she and poor Vera haven’t even had firsts.

Of course, I could just not give a tinker’s damn and buy myself one of these unemployed youths you hear so much about, and go to hell in a handbasket with a big grin on my face. Oh sure, and Bea wouldn’t shove you in the booby-hatch before you got a leg off the ground. You wouldn’t have a house and you probably wouldn’t even have shoelaces; leather bracelets and plugged into the hydro once a week. The Merry Widow’d never fit you, you’ll want the Modest Widow, suitable for performance in church basements, felt-board optional. Lord, what a narrow stoney path.

Back to the issue. Yes. But she rolled the teacup between her palms and let her eye linger in the yard on a brawny arm slicing through a leg-thick trunk of lilac, purple-veined and hard as wood can be, and smiled and let it go.

Okay, Til, you’ve thought about what you won’t do, and you’ve thought about what you can’t do, now how about thinking about what you are going to do. Tillie’s mouth shaped a rictus, her eyes skated paintwork and glass for an opening, her mind rattled casements and slapped at the locks, “Damn it all anyway! What’s the use of senility if you can’t get away when you need to?” Rising slowly, unfolding joints like old folded paper, she reached for the teapot, “This’s going to take another round of orange pekoe, Stewart, a move takes planning. I’ll brew us another pot and then we’ll talk. You’ll be sorriest to see the horses go, so we’ll figure that first and then worry about us. If you can’t think of better, Jack Fuller’s always got an empty box in that big barn of his, he’d find a bit of work for them.” Teapot cradled in one arm, Tillie felt for the jam of the house door and spoke as far as her shoulder would turn, “Sure you’re warm enough? You could come in by the stove while the kettle boils. No? I won’t be long, then. Don’t worry, we’ll get them well settled.”

When they left the farm because it was too old, and without sons, grown too poor, Tillie knew her own pain was the embarrassment of seeming failure. Stewart’s pain she could feel, but not quite place. She knew he didn’t miss the heavy work, his body was tired of bending to the soil and to iron machines; a hundredweight of anything was still a hundred’s weight. And it wasn’t the horses, for he could drive up to Fuller’s whenever he liked and walk his old team, tend their harness, spoil them with apples. And now he had the time to work Fuller’s trotters and – Heaven help her! – drive the races. It was never the farm, it was always the horses, so his pride wasn’t hurt.

No, the best Tillie could figure was sightlines. Stewart had been able to see the land all his life, to watch the rain walk it, the moon to light it, sun bleach it, horses crop it; had spoken to it and listened, bargained each year for another, and now he could circle his yard faster than he could get a proper light to his pipe. Yes, she thought that was more likely his pain, and it worried her, but he wasn’t going to mention it, and if she could keep her embarrassment to herself – what the hell should she care? She didn’t even know the neighbours yet, she could tell them what she liked, and as far as family opinion… Well, we’re not the first to sell up and move to town, for petesake! What d’you suppose Eve did for packing boxes?

So, get over it, let him sit with his pipe, let him paint the empty henrun, let him drive the sulkys on a Saturday night, so long as you’re up for Church in the morning. You can worry all you like, but you don’t have to watch him drive, and it keeps him from turning into an old woman. Too many of them do, fussy and fretful. And you know you like the smell of horse on him when he comes home and takes you now and then.

Well, I know there’s drink in it. Why d’you believe that? There wasn’t drink on your wedding day and he took you then. I had breasts like apples then, now they’re applesauce, skin of an apple-betty. He still kisses them and draws his finger round, and if that’s a swallow or two from old wall-eyed Fuller’s bottle, well, you’re a sorry dog-in-the-manger to be belly-aching over that. He’ll be home before long, you’d best look he’s got a decent shirt for Church in the morn… Oh Lord!

Clutching the teapot to her belly, Tillie stared through the kitchen doorway at the clutter of her baking. Damn, I almost think my nipples were hard. This’s getting to be ridiculous, Til. I think it’s time you called Bea. Why? She’s the one who calls, never fails. I mean, I think it’s time for you to make the call to Beatrice. And I just said that she’s the one who… Smarten up! You’re being childish, and you can’t afford a second childhood now. It’s one you won’t grow out of. Call your daughter. Time to start being nice. Tillie fixed a smile to her face and picked up the telephone.

George had never thought sentiment a particularly responsible reason for philanthropy, until Maude pointed out the need for an explanation that would appease Elizabeth. ‘Strawbridge! What gave you that damn fool idea? Of all the godforsaken places!’ was Maude’s expression of her sister’s likely reaction. At which point magnanimous gratitude to a community close to one’s heart appeared such an obvious, unquestionable reason for endowing an orchestra, that he needn’t even mention personal tax advantage. He saw moral advantage as well, for if he really was retiring from business, the forthcoming gratuities, those benefits that coax the withered hand from the lever, would need balancing with a gift of his own, and this might appear less self-serving than the usual business school scholarship. But still, why Strawbridge? Certainly the absurdity would appear proof of his decline to anyone who disapproved. He didn’t care. He felt foolishly lightheaded. He knew he wanted to see Bea McAlpine light up and a gift of music might go some little way to compensate for Elizabeth’s behaviour.

It was left to Wit Ziski to come to the aid of common sense, “Do we not talk foolish to make an orchestra in this place? Who will be the audience? Who is here in this Strawbridge to buy tickets to a concert of music?” He was fairly sure he had the solution to his own question, in fact was quite excited by the possibility, but the establishment of his authority was a delicate thing, and so he waited first for faces to fall.

“But this Muskoko we are in, is it not full of the people like my George who are rich? The houses on this lake I saw, they are certainly not little people’s houses.”

“Ah, but they’re summer places, Bena, like this is,” George cast a hand at the room, “The people who own them, people like me, go back to the city come fall and only the locals are left. That’s Wit’s point, the number of them with any interest in classical music’s bound to be pretty limited. Maybe it’s not such a bright idea after all.”

“But it is so simple! Is it not? We will make our music in the summer time when the people are here,” Problem solved, Bena wolfed down salmon mousse and wagged her empty wineglass.

“A summer concert season for the cottagers, eh? Brilliant, Bena!” Maude was grinning again, “Can we do that, Wit?”

“Pimpushka, again you are the Inspiration!” With a sweep of his arms, Ziski clasped Bena to one side, Katya to the other, “Yes, my Maude, that is my thinking of it, yes. A summertime season will be small, but that is good to start, perhaps two, maybe three concerts, we will see. The musicians we must have will like to be working in the summertime when they have no money in the city. Where the problem we will have is the rehearsing to begin. That must start early and they will still be playing. But, it is schedules, it can be done,” He gave Katya a squeeze, “You can do this, I will help you. The others I will rehearse them in the springtime and make them work hard for the music. We will be small, a small chamber, and we will play what everybody knows.” Dropping his arms from the waists of the women, his eyes sought George and his slender little body seemed to draw in upon itself to rise in a supple ascendancy till his head bowed with a question that acknowledged command, “Yes?”

George shook his head and choked out a laugh, “Ohh, by god, you do know how to stroke the cat, don’t you, Maestro?” Still shaking his head he looked around at the four of them, “Am I going to catch holy hell for this. But then, what the hell, in for a penny… Why not?”

Maude raised her glass, “Well then, shall we have another toast? To the Summer Concert Season of the Strawbridge Symphony Orchestra!” They drank to that and grew hilarious and George took it upon himself, quite rightly it was agreed, to inform his wife, as expeditiously as he saw fit, that she’d been hijacked.

Katya’s wide-eyed suggestion that the crew of them should stay on for the weekend and plunge right into the business of investigating performance venues, perhaps boating down, could they? how nice, to consult with the local talent__ Maude remembered Anna’s flute, knew the church possessed an organ, pipes, yes, and a piano in the Hall, she thought__ and just generally take the lay of the land, seemed a brilliant plan on the next glass of wine all ‘round, but then Maude remembered she had only the day’s medication with her, and Bena really required a plank in her bed, though she avoided saying it, so it made more sense, if Maude had her driver’s licence with her, did she? good, for Wit to stay on for the leg work, and did he have any ideas for a bit of music for the Supper? And Ziski, aware which side the butter was, offered his empty glass, some light Chopin? and himself, of course, to play this piano Maude spoke of, if it had any hope of a tune.

George avoided any mention of Bea McAlpine throughout the melee of practical planning that followed until Maude declared it had to be now or never, if she was expected to find her way home in the dark. He thought it only reasonable that he not complicate the issue of his choice of Strawbridge as anything more than Maude’s serendipitous proposal of grateful largesse to the local backbone of cottage country. There appeared to be something of a suspicious twinkle in his sister-in-law’s eye, but he chose to see that as anticipation of Elizabeth’s reaction to the news, rather than speculation about his motive. Now, back from the Landing, where Bena’s dramatic exit to Ziski’s operatic adieus had drawn the unctuous attentions of the marina operator duly noting merriment and lack of sea-legs, George blew a huge sigh of relief, handed Ziski wine and the corkscrew, if he liked, poured himself a stiff scotch, untangled the phone from the pillow in the bin and sat down to tell Bea all about his big surprise.

When the phone rang, Bea’s heart made a jump for her throat that had her off the couch gulping a breathless hello before the second ring, but it wasn’t George. So sure had she been in the instant, no alternative possible, that she tumbled the receiver back into the cradle without thought. By the time she got back to the couch, the phone rang again and it was then that her mother’s voice registered through the dull fog of disappointment. Mother!?

Oh, good Lord! What’s wrong? What’s happened? Something terrible’s happened, she doesn’t use the phone! Bea was close to gagging on her heart by the time she picked up again, “Mother? What is it? Where are you? What’s wrong? Have you fallen? Can you call 911? Get off the line and I’ll do it. Can you get to your pills? Where are you?”

“I’m here at home!” Tillie couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice, “Always ready for me to be dying! For petesake, it’s not as if I never phone!”

“Well, you don’t.”

“Well, what did you hang up for?” She’s up to something, Til, all this excitement, she’s found some kind of trouble. Well, that’s good, because you can be helpful then. You’re being nice, remember? Oh, yes, well… “No need to get your shirt in a knot, girl, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong. I just thought how long it’s been since I telephoned. Out of the habit, I guess, and I thought, why don’t I call up Bea, spare her the expense and let her know I’ve a grand big pan of date squares baked up brown and nothing left to do but wash up my mess.” There, Tillie nodded satisfaction to herself, nice.

“What?” Bea’s fear turned to outrage. I haven’t phoned soon enough? Late with my duty call, am I? Spare me the expense? Snide old bat, woman’s never had a nickle I could use. As if I ever cared about her grand old pan of brown horse buns! That childish heresy brought Bea to shame over her mother’s next remark.

“It helps me go on, d’ you see, Bea, to know I can still be useful.”

Mortified by her own brattyness, Bea took to Tillie’s tone of humility with whole-hearted concern, “Oh, now Mother, you aren’t useless! Sometimes a little…” Good Lord! Her squares? Don’t tell me she thinks it’s Friday? “…sometimes you get a little absent-minded, we all do, days mixed, but you aren’t useless, Mother, you still dress nicely and you do have a way…”

“Did I say I was useless? Did I? I seem to have managed my baking without your help, so don’t you start patronizing me, young lady. Of course I dress nicely, easiest thing in the world, if you ever learned how.”

She must think it’s Friday! Bea gripped her temples with her free hand and squeezed.

“You never know when to leave well enough alone!” Tillie winced from the realization that she was letting herself go again. But really, she just deliberately aggravates me. “And why did you hang up when I rang? Have a little spell, or something? It’s not like you. You’re not into the whisky, are you?” She snorted contempt at herself for even imagining the possibility.

“Mother, for pity’s sake!”

“Oh, I’ve no need to avoid it, myself, it’s just best to keep it out of the house for Stewart’s sake because… uh…” What am I talking about? I’m not useless. No. I have a way with… I have a way with…… “What? Are you trying to change the subject, girl? You’re trying to avoid this, aren’t you? Just leave me rattling around this great big old barn of a house all alone, eh? Too much for me to keep up, even with the boy. Look at this mess all over my kitchen. You could’ve cleaned it up. Oh, I don’t like that fat Quaker. You are coming to get me, aren’t you?” Querulous, childish with self-pity, Tillie was ashamed and unsure of all that she’d said. But the important thing is… the important thing is……

“Well, actually…” Scrambling backward from an explanation of George’s offer of the car, hiding from her mother’s tongue, Bea lit upon the oddities with alarm: What Quaker? What boy? “Mother, have you had company, people to the door? You said Quaker. Was it a boy, a young man? Have they been to the door with pamphlets and things? You haven’t had them in, have you? I think Quakers are supposed to be quite nice, not pushy, I don’t know they go door to door, though. You didn’t give anybody money, did you? You haven’t signed anything, have you? Mother?” Bea squeezed a wave of panic in her throat until it it came out bland, “It’s a terrible thing now, preying on the seniors like they do. They had some police people up at the Chateau there the other week to give a talk about not opening your door to just…”

“What on earth are you yakking about? There’s nobody at the door. It’s that fat old baby on the rolled oats bag, makes my skin crawl, all fed up on lard, looks like. He’s no boy, that’s for sure, don’t know where you get that idea. Been around longer than me. All fat and sanctimonious. Have the Witnesses been talking to you again, Bea? Their heaven’s paved with gold, y’ know. I’m not surprised, the fancy cars they’re driving these days. You should shut the door on them, girl, I’ve told you before, you’re too easily led. Why’d you call me, anyway? Oh, to help with my squares. Well you’re too late.”
“MOTHER!”

“It’s a joke, Beatrice, it’s a joke. I called you, because you’re right. It’s time I thought… we thought… you and I thought about me… about this house being more than I need.” There, okay? I said it. “I just want you to start thinking about what we should do, how to go about it, and all. There’s room enough we could put in a proper closet.” Tillie was thinking that dinky wardrobe in Bea’s back bedroom wouldn’t hold her nightgowns, let alone dresses. “D’ you hear? So, my squares are done and I’m fine and I’ll clear up this mess and I’ll be ready for you tomorrow.”

The house! A stab of hope_ But she does think it’s Friday_ slumped into despair. What do I say to her? Then a finger of ice poked Bea in the back. Closet!? Enough room? What room? Oh, Lord Jesus, no! “I uh… Mother, there’s…” Oh, Lord! “Mother, it’s Thursday, not Friday, and a man named Clarence will come to pick you up Saturday in a car with a nice young woman called Darla to keep you company on the ride up and I’ll get all the latest brochures from the Chateau so we can talk about your future when you get here and you’d better wrap your squares in wax paper not to be too stale for Sunday. Okay? I really am glad you called, it’s nice to get these things cleared up so we know where we are, isn’t it? I’ll speak to Ted, I think I remember there’s a McGee in real estate down your way, and we’ll get some idea of what it’s worth and then we’ll know what you can afford. The suites are just as nice as the maisonettes, if we find them a little pricey, so don’t you worry…”

“I haven’t heard anybody called Clarence since I was a girl, and I’m not goin’ to the Chateau. You’ve been told that before! You’re not sellin’ me to the lowest bidder. Just Thursday, is it? You’re sure of that, I suppose. Guess that kind of makes tomorrow a bonus day, eh? Well, I’ll manage. Maybe get my hair done, then. I’ll have to look see, I might be out of waxpaper. Now, who’s Clarence, and this woman you say are…?” Tillie suddenly felt the need to get out of her chair, to stand, to run, to… “Whoa, now! Are you sending those poorhouse prison guards after me? If you think for one minute I’m gonna hold still for bein’ treated like a… like a…”

Down, Mother, down, Bea searched for a stick, a word of command, a bone, “George Preston, Mother, you met him at the…ah… the bank, his bank, you remember, you liked him, quite liked him. D’ you remember? He’s…

“Bessie Everett’s husband. Handsome. Like a loon! Me, like a loon, I mean. I’m not feeble-minded, I won’t be treated…”

“No, no, no, Mother! It’s George Preston’s car, Clarence is his driver, his chauffeur, and this Darla is his secretary, or something. Mister Preston, George, is up here at their summer place on Joe and he turned up Sunday night thinking the Supper was on, that’s Bob Ross, foolish with the sign again, and he ended up at the manse and Bob quite took to him and he’s going to stay up for this Sunday and he thought it’d be nice to give you a treat sending his car for…”

“Why? He afraid we’re going to sue that berserk wife of his? Trying to make up for her turning Katherine’s picture into kindling, is what he’s doing. He tryin’ to kiss up to you? Bob Ross get into the whisky? He’ll take to anybody, with a drink in his hand. What’s going on up there, Beatrice? That man’s not trying to get you to sign anything, is he? They’ll be trying to weasel their way out of paying Katherine whatever it was she was supposed to get for that picture.”

“Oh, Mother, you don’t… he’s not trying to… No!” She wasn’t going to believe that for a minute, but she felt a seed of doubt find a warm spot. If she were to give Tillie’s accusation house room, there’d be a little cotyledon tickling for the surface in no time. House room! She wants house room! Room to put in a closet! She’s talking about the back bedroom, my  house room. Oh, Lord! She can’t do this to me now, she has to go into the Chateau. I can’t take it. She can’t come here. I couldn’t go. And there’s George. I can’t have her. Katherine should take her. She could. She should, this wouldn’t be happening if Mother wasn’t so shaken up by that fiasco of Katherine’s. It’s the humiliation, that’s what’s doing it, she won’t go anywhere other people’d know all about it. She wants to hide in my back bedroom and wait till she dies. A little late in her life for stage fright. It’s me who’s tired of being out in the world. I’m the one who was going to quit, is going to quit, and now she’s trying to horn in and quit first. And leave me responsible. I hate it! I can’t stand it! I’m going to go mad, “Rum punch! We had rum punch, at the Rosses. I did tell Katherine to make sure she got paid. And fruitcake, we had Anna’s fruitcake, it was her night, you know.” They wouldn’t not pay her something, surely. No, he wouldn’t. “And we had cards, a bit of canasta, and he went home, up to the lake, I mean, in his boat, and then he called… Tuesday? Tuesday. …to tell me about sending the car for you, and I should’ve phoned before this to tell you, shouldn’t I? Of course, it is only Thursday.”

“Yes, I got that point, Beatrice. I think you’ve lost your thread, dear, you’ve never been much with a needle. Just what are you up to? Canasta at the manse? Rum punch and Anna? Speaking of fruitcake. Playing cards and phone calls and boats and chauffeured cars? You haven’t gone and grabbed yourself Bessie Everett’s man, have you? __Beatrice? __I’m asking a question.”

Entirely unprepared to process that information, certainly not in the form of a question from her own mother, Bea chose not to hear it and tried for control, “Mother, you’ll be lucky if they let you into the Chateau, you go on the way you are. They don’t allow advanced cases, you know. You’re going to have to learn to be nice and get along with people, or they won’t have you, they don’t have nursing. You’d have to go into the Home, for that, but maybe that’s what it’s coming to, the Home. I’m afraid if you carry on the way you’re going, you…”

“Oh, can it, dear. No Home. No Chateau. We’ll talk. What time’s this boyfriend of yours sending the limo for me?” Tillie teased as she always had, knowing no other way to have fun with her daughter.

Irritated to eruption, Bea ground her molars and spoke flatly through her teeth, “I would have thought, Mother, that you would have recognized the behaviour of a gentleman. He may be married to a thoroughly disagreeable woman, but that doesn’t make him incapable of offering a very considerate service to you, someone he met only once, and not in the best of circumstances. And, if I remember, you flirted with him disgracefully.”

“Oh, so he’s my boyfriend? You’re such a liar, Bea.”

“I’m not listening to any more of this. Friday, that’s tomorrow, sometime tomorrow, this Darla Samson will phone you, it’ll be during the day, and she’ll arrange the time with you for Saturday. Can you manage that? And remember, this won’t be me, so you’ll have to be ready on time, they won’t sit around waiting on you like I do. I have to go now, I have…”

“I’d like to think it’s true, Bea, I’d like to think you’re having fun for once. Don’t pretend too hard it’s not happening, it might not.”

George had cradled the phone once again with a gentleness of patience, a look of such longing in his eye, that Ziski felt certain it wasn’t Elizabeth who was failing to answer. That the telephone had been buried in a kitchen drawer had seemed curious to Ziski, until he realized that the antiquity of the handset very likely predated the unpluggable phone, an old and anxious time, he remembered, when an endless urgent ringing could be its own revenge. Curious, but not odd, for Ziski, though he packed a cellphone himself, thought it quite normal that any man should avoid contact with the unknown however he could, even when that man was a banker and unlikely to be ducking the money lenders. Or, maybe that’s what bankers did, too, Ziski had never been very clear on financial matters other than his own. But the man would have reason, Ziski was sure. That wife of his, I would hide from. No, it is not that królowa osa that he telephones, it is someone he loves, or wants to love, I think. The telephone rang.

“Well, there you are. Finally!” Elizabeth was not grateful, “I’ve been phoning since yesterday afternoon, George, getting no answer. Getting a busy signal. Where have you been?”

So full was he of the anticipation of surprising Bea with having found a gift to please Bob Ross, a gift of music for the church supper, for the village, that George was dumbfounded.

“George? That secretary of yours, she said you called Tuesday and ordered the car for Saturday. George? What’s going on up there? I need to talk to you before Saturday, I’ve something important to discuss. George!”

“The car… Yes, uunh… Darla, Saturday, yes… and Sunday! Did you know they still have the church supper down at Strawbridge, Elizabeth? It’s this Sunday. At the church. A fowl supper. Your old church, Elizabeth. The women all…”

“Of course they do! They chop the chickens to death with their bare hands and mash the potatoes with their feet, they’ve been doing it since Adam. Listen, George…”     “Well, they’re having it this Sunday, and…”

“Yes, George. I know, George. I was forced to call Velma Lettie last night when you failed to answer. Velma Lettie, George, is a vicious old gossip I had hoped never to speak to again. You can imagine how I enjoyed that, thank you so much.”

“Well, I’m staying up for it.”

“Oh, you’re not, George, you’re back Saturday, which isn’t nearly soon enough for me to talk to you.”

“We’re talking now, Elizabeth. What is it you want?” He knew that would slow her, she wanted eye contact when she wheedled.

“I need to see you. Stop this nonsense and come home, George. Really. People are starting to talk. They say you’re losing hold. It doesn’t look good, George. People imagine all sorts of things, suspicious things.”

“What suspicious things, Elizabeth?” Nobody knew how he felt about Bea McAlpine. Even Bea doesn’t know how I feel about her. Who’s imagining all sorts of… “This Velma Lettie, would she be your ‘people’, by any chance, Elizabeth? And just what does she imagine, that I’ve come unsprung, have I?”

When she had run amuck with a cheese knife in the Imperial Trust, Elizabeth had been having a go at the other woman, any other woman, every other woman who wasn’t playing in her game, according to her rules, and that certainly included her husband’s strange friends. She didn’t believe George had affairs with the creatures that he found, for god knows what reason, interesting. His apparent fondness for Darla Samson, for instance, she thought gauche, even weird, but not threatening, just annoying, really. No one would believe he was sleeping with a lesbian, but she was, after all, the help. There’d been a German woman he’d met for years on his walks in the Ravine. Elizabeth had seen her once, she looked like a walrus. They walked and talked, he’d said. She’d helped design some fighter ship, or plane, or bomb, something German for the war. Elizabeth was glad of it, otherwise he might have kept a dog. She had never supposed in a minute of their marriage that her husband wasn’t perfectly satisfied with her performance of what she called in her own mind, having to do it. His liking for very odd women, she attributed to his War, an experience which seemed to her to make men very attractive, but awfully boring, and, of course, to his mother, a very odd woman whose only words to Elizabeth had been, how d’ y’ do, and were certainly never meant as a question.

But the spanking, the effect of his hard hand on her round, perhaps too round? bottom, had for the first time in her life cast doubt on her satisfaction. If that… not emotion. Feeling, she supposed. That fall from a high place, that hot melting of flesh she hadn’t known was in her, if this was what the fuss was about, if this was what had been expected of her all these years, well, my god! Where has George been getting it? Could Velma Lettie be right? Were there things about George she didn’t know that mattered? Was there a slut? “Velma Lettie seems to think you aren’t alone, George. I said, of course, you are, and taking a much needed rest from all your important work in the solitude of our lovely summer home, on your own, all by yourself, alone with the landscape. Are you? Resting? Amusing yourself out in a boat, just you and a fishing pole. Are you, George?”

Oh, Christ! That miserable woman’s told her I’ve got somebody here. You do, Ziski. But she thinks I’ve got a woman here! All these years and she starts now, just when I wish there was, when there might be yet. Tell her Ziski’s here, that’ll put her off. Sure, and then she’ll want to know why, and that’ll dump the whole can of worms. She’ll get into a spit about them stabbing her in the back and she’ll be back on the phone to this Lettie, and the whole thing’ll be all over Strawbridge before I ever get a chance to surprise Bea and the Rosses. Son-of-a-bitch! She doesn’t want to believe this, she never has before, wouldn’t even have gotten wired-up about Bena the other night, except they’d already been in a street fight. But what if Maudie’s right and she’s just discovered she… Oh God! I don’t want to think about it, “Unhuh, just me and a pole, you’ve got it, dear.”

Dashing the heel of his drink down his dry throat, George caught Ziski’s startled frown, re-heard what he’d just said, choked, and sprayed scotch in a coughing fit into the round black seive of the mouthpiece. Unsure, but smiling, Ziski rose to offer a slap on the back, the squeeze, if necessary, but George waved him down and touched a finger to his lips for silence, and to contain the giggle in his throat, “Oh, excuse me, Elizabeth, I beg your pardon,” He cleared his throat with a series of rasps and wiped the phone with a dish towel, “Sorry.” He had to shift ground, it was his determined practice not to tell lies in his private life, “It isn’t Missus Quaid, is it? She hasn’t taken to wearing the curtains, has she?”

“Don’t be silly, George. She has been getting above herself, though, almost took a drink with company, if you can believe it. Damned sister of mine ruins servants. I’ve had to take a firm hand. Quaid’s like that when you’re not here, something you don’t realize, she gets bolshi and things just aren’t done right. I quite often have to tell her more than once.” He’s changing the subject, he’s hiding something. It’s a good thing he doesn’t lie, he’d be terrible at it. Tell him about your symphony. I can’t, he’ll want to know who’s paying for it. I have to see him, “Call Darla Samson, George, and have the car up in the morning and you can be back for lunch. Missus Quaid’ll do us something nice, she’ll toe the line with you in the house, and we’ll have the chance to talk properly. Okay?”

“Elizabeth, I’ve committed myself to staying up at least through Sunday for the church supper,” Careful, “Okay? I ran into Bob Ross down in Strawbridge, he’s the Reverend at…”

“Oh, for crying out loud, I know who he is, heard about him from Velma Lettie! Married to that dustcloth, Anna McGee. What were you doing down there? You didn’t go to church, Velma didn’t see you.”

“I needed groceries, not much here.”

“Why didn’t you just go into Tier? It’s a lot closer, and it’s all Ted MacGee’s money, according to Velma.”

“Ah, well, the poor old launch didn’t get a good run all summer, Elizabeth, needed to clear her throat. If I’d gone in to Tier, I’d have had to put up with that creep at the Landing cabbing me there and back. Besides, it was a beautiful day, hardly another soul on the…”

“Why did you order the car for Saturday?”

“Yes, well, I didn’t really commit myself till… Tuesday night, I guess,” You certainly did that, Georgie, a gift of silk drawers couldn’t be more committing than offering to help Bea with her mother. My god, you get a long way from a dozen roses, don’t you? I’ll send her some, in the car with her mother, two birds with one discretion, two dozen, “And I’d spoken to Darla earlier in the day about the car, and then I felt I should take some interest in the community, after all, we do rely on these little places and the good people here for our comforts, and you always say we need to do more for the better institutions, so I felt I had to say yes to Bob Ross and stay up for the Supper.”

“You sound like you’re running for mayor,” Elizabeth was sharp with frustration, “You’d better not be! I won’t have you wasting your time up in that godforsaken back-end of nowhere, all whisky and gossip and those vulgar inbred McGees. Why, that’s where those…” And then she thought perhaps it wasn’t best to mention Bea and Tillie, considering George’s recent violence. She wasn’t sure he didn’t think some part of that godawful disaster was her fault, better to keep after him, “Now look, George, I’ve gotten a busy signal since yesterday afternoon, you haven’t been talking all that time.”

“No. You’re right. The receiver wasn’t sitting properly in the cradle, I guess, and I didn’t notice. These old phones, eh? Forgot my mobile, too, didn’t I? Sorry about that, getting absent in my old age. So listen, I’ll tell you what, Elizabeth, whatever it is you need me for, the answer is yes. Okay? We’ll make it work somehow. We’ve always managed to come around to some kind of agreement on things, haven’t we? I’ll be here until Monday, anyway, so you carry on, my dear, fly the flag, get on with it, keep busy, and don’t worry about me. Red sky tonight, I’ll be out in the boat with a Pole tomorrow. Okay? You’re all right, then? Goodbye, Elizabeth. Love ya, you be good.”

Cradling the receiver with two gentle hands, George looked up at Ziski, “You’ll do a bit of fishing, won’t you? Not what it used to be, but I know a spot. Or should we get you right down to Strawbridge and see what it is they’ve got in the way of a piano? It’d only make sense to find that out, wouldn’t it? It’s a lot of years since Maude lived up here, she might be ‘way off-side. Bea could tell us for sure, if I could only get in touch with her. One more time,” Lifting the receiver and spinning the dial, “Help yourself to the whisky, Wit, bachelor hall.”

Rely on those dreadful little people for comfort? I don’t think so! Elizabeth was suspicious. Interest in the community? Just what are we interested in? Who? No. The man’ll be eaten alive by those harpies. Velma, that weasel, Vera… God! Bea McAlpine, and that battle-ax Tillie, they’ll talk to him. If he says a word, I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t care, I never need to see those people again. I don’t. They mean nothing. Because the answer is, Yes! George says to carry on regardless, fly the flag, and get on with making better things happen. So, phone Maude, she can talk to the other two, and I really must have a meeting with Witold.

Maude was blowing great puffs of air between gulps of hot coffee and deep drags on a cigarette, grateful for the burn in her belly that said she was still alive, not numbed to death at the wheel of a little red car that went too fast in the gully full of hurtling steel that the road had become since she’d driven it last. “I’d forgotten how much I hated night driving, lights bouncing off my glasses, I go paralytic on the wheel and pray the other guy can see, ‘cause I sure as hell can’t. Leaving Ziski behind was a lot better idea in daylight. “You know, you two,” She twisted her head to include Bena in the backseat, “If we’re going to pull this thing off in Strawbridge, we’re going to need some locals up there on the Board. Should’ve thought of it when we were there, the boys could do some scouting this weekend. Maybe this Bob Ross, the minister, Anna’s man, maybe he’d do it. Even Anna, if we have to. I don’t know who else’s there any more. Ted McGee, I suppose, but we’re not a hockey team, so he won’t care. Somebody up there’s got to help carry the can, because I’m just not cut out for this traveling thing. I’ll have to give George a call,” She set her coffee on the dash and lit another cigarette, “Sorry for not sitting inside, but I can’t do this without a smoke. Are you warm enough? One of these buttons must be for heat. Can you see that bunch there, Katya, those slide things? That’s it? Oh, right, the car has to be on. Well, we might just as well go, then.”

“Enough, my Maude, sit still, be comfortable for a little while,” Bena reached a hand between the seats to touch Maude’s shoulder, “You have done well, we are almost at home.”

“I still have to get us downtown,” Moaning, Maude gulped more coffee, “I’ll have to go back in to use their washroom.”

“We will go together. Will we not, my Katya? And what is downtown? Not like these highways that are everywhere the same, downtown we will all know where we are, so easy.”

“No more backseat driving, Bena, we’d be in Manitoba by now, if we listened to you,” Katya slapped the map she’d dug out of Ziski’s glovebox and tried to see where they were by the parking lot lights, “You’re doing fine, Maude, just fine. We’re almost to the 401, we go left to Yonge, and down we go. Like Ziski said, ‘A piece of chocolate cake.’ He was plastered, good thing we did leave him behind, he’d have killed us all. Have you ever eaten Polish chocolate? Bena, you must’ve. Where else would you find a taste like that?”

“Yes, it is true. The Poles have few pleasures and they prefer not to mix them. My Witold and my George, what do you think they are talking of at this minute? My General of business and my…”

“Sex. They’ll be talking about sex, take my word for it,” Maude drained her coffee, “Harry and the boys… Sex. It’s always the same. I read in a magazine they call it a circle jerk, start ‘em as cubs, boys in a circle talking like jerks. Sex, for sure.”

“They will speak of beautiful women, I am sure, my Maude, they know beautiful women. Together they can share a beauti…”

“Back off, Bena, you promised to behave yourself!”

“…share a beautiful Canadian evening up there in Muskoko, my Katya, talking of…”

“Sex. I’m telling you. I really do need to find the washroom,” Maude hunted for the door handle, “Except, I also want another cup of coffee. What do you two say? We’ll go, if you want.”

“Katya, you will show our Maude to the washroom and you will get us each another cup of coffee and I will guard this car. We will not lose Witold’s…” Bena’s eyes darted in the dim interior, “…Radio. Is that a radio?”

“The heater,” Katya was laconic, “I suppose you’d like us to turn that on, would you? So you’ll be comfortable while we stand in line.”

“Well, yes, if the car must be running to make heat, then it is most important that I guard it. You must learn to forsee these dangers, my Katya.”

“You’re right,” Katya voiced regret with a shake of the head, “If I’d seen you coming…”

“You two fight it out,” Maude keyed the ignition, wrestled the door open and struggled her feet out to the tarmac, “I’m going to pee. I’ll get coffees.” The bickering had given her an idea. She’d remembered who else would surely still be alive and kicking up in Strawbridge, and as she squatted in a stall, she allowed herself an evil grin at the thought of Velma Lettie harping at Elizabeth across a boardroom table.

When first she got no answer from Maude, Elizabeth kept her patience by stomping through the house looking for evidence of her housekeeper’s failures, found a shortage of toilet paper in the Elizabeth Ashley powder room, only two rolls left, and started a list. Checking George’s dressing room for signs that the dusting had been let go and finding a belt slipped to the floor of the closet, she set off for further proof, absently slapping her flanks with a fold of black leather. She found a month old New Yorker  with a damp-wrinkled cover in the rack in the big bathroom, two withered leaves on the ficus, and the fold of belt kept curling in steady slaps.

Two more tries at Maude and irritation drove her to find the list of numbers Katya had given her at the end of Monday’s meeting. The Countess first, though, call the Countess, she should be the first to know that George does what I ask. Does without asking. I’m  the one who’s flying the flag, after all. Stabbing out the numbers with an authoritive finger, she took a deep breath that on the tenth empty ring exploded in a spit of frustration. She stabbed out Maude again. Nothing. Where the hell is everybody?

She couldn’t bring herself to call Katya, the woman would want to talk money, to know how much and how. I’m certainly not discussing that with her at this stage, it’s still a private matter between George and myself, and it really isn’t the point, is it? If one doesn’t ask, one can afford it, obviously, An idea quite beyond that woman’s imagination, I’m sure. Call Witold, the artistic temper understands. As long as he knows he’s getting paid. I really should have someone to make these calls for me. The empty ringing of Ziski’s phone finally took enough wind from her sails to bring Elizabeth to rest in the elegant box of a Regency chair, George’s belt in her lap.

Doesn’t anyone else care about this? Am I the only one home worrying myself sick trying to make this happen? I’m sure I feel a headache. Thursday night already, and not a thing’s been accomplished by anyone except me. Always the way. You do all the work and the worrying and everyone else has a lovely time. Well, that has to stop. How am I supposed to organize them if they’re not there? Martin is always there when…

A cracking boom echoed in her head and a hundred images, mercifully blurred, shot through the back of her eye. I was bad, very bad. In public where people saw me. And her breath emptied out in defeat, and she cringed and shrank in the chair, clutching the phone to her breast as the belt slid from her lap. I can’t go on. You have to go on. You have to do it again, they mustn’t forget who you are. You’re not just anybody, y’ know. You saved Martin from those horrible people, remember, that kidnapper and those… well, terrorists is what they are. You’re the brave one, Elizabeth. And she smiled through a whimper and a tear as she telephoned Martin.

Resting her foot just so on the pedal, Velma rolled the Rambler down to a creeping crawl that she could sustain for miles, could loop around a dead-end circle without any sudden moves, that allowed her, and Vera, too, to pan the streets, the houses and the people in a steady-cam of vision, seeing who was where, and who wasn’t. At the manse, Reverend Ross kept a lamp lit on his study desk by the window, a pile of open books and an elaborate pen set staging the effect of a sermon in progress. Although it couldn’t be seen from her distance, Velma knew quite well that it was solitaire, not Solomon, that lay on the blotter beneath the light. No lights at the Hardware, which was really just a boathouse now, locked for the season. Ted McGee had better things to do with his money. Bea McAlpine was sitting on her livingroom couch, half the lights in the house on, staring at the TV. Something wrong there, for Bea was parsimonious with the electrics, as any decent person should be, and there wasn’t a thing worth watching at nine o’clock on a Thursday night, as Velma well knew, otherwise she and Vera would be home instead of out here in what surely felt like winter doing their civic duty.

Jack Wilson’s car was in the hotel parking lot again. It was necessary to swing in one side, around the back, and out the other to spot it tucked behind the barrel shed, but Velma knew her neighbourhood. No sign of George Preston anywhere, nothing was docked, nothing parked, that didn’t belong to the village one way or another by blood, by marriage, or by legal immigration. The one local car for hire was delivering pizza to that lazy Ginny Whelks who seemed to think a new baby excuse enough to quit cooking, “Not that she was ever much good in the kitchen, went out for sports, didn’t she, Vera, you had that class for Home-Ec that year. Well, you had it for a week, and she wasn’t much good, I expect. Of course you remember, you had them all bake cakes for a week and spent the entire grocery budget for the term.”

The Rambler rolling back along its circuit, Velma was loath to go home without a sniff of something amiss, “What do you suppose Bea’s doing with all those lights on? You take a good look when we go back past. She was strange there, at Helen’s yesterday, all that foolish business about that copper bowl, trying to pretend we didn’t know where it came from. Do you suppose she’s had a present, too? We haven’t dropped in on Bea for a while, Vera, perhaps we should take a minute right now, have a look around, see she’s all right.”

But Helen McLean, putting out re-cyclables on her side porch, had recognized the boxy silhouette creeping along the curb and phoned, “The Girls are on the prowl.” Warned, Bea had shut down in a hurry, made tea by the stove light and sat to the kitchen table waiting for the phone to ring.

“It’s not like her to miss the news. Something’s not right,” Craning past Vera’s shoulder, Velma’s eyes bored through the darkness to the faintest of glimmers at the back of Bea’s house, “Oh, tea at the kitchen table. She must have slipped into that rag of a dressing gown already. I don’t wonder she’s depressed. Well, perhaps tomorrow we’ll get by again and she’ll be glad of the company. Sit up, Vera, we’re passing the church.”

When the phone rang, Bea jumped from the table and plugged in the kettle. What if it’s Mother again? It’s him. She’s got to be in bed by now. He said he’d call. Please, God, “Hello?”

“Beatrice!” George’s breath leaped from a tree limb, “Whew! There you are, at last. Good to hear your voice. How are you? You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

He divorced her. He can’t have, not yet. Velma’s found out he was here and she… “What? What’s happened? You haven’t done in another dock?”

“Hah! No, Bea, you’re still my only dock. Listen, I can’t wait to tell you. But, oh, first… What’s Bob Ross got in the way of a piano at the church? Is there one where the Supper’s going to be, in the Hall?”

“Uuh, yes. Not the greatest, an old upright grand, but he keeps it tuned. It does for choir practice. Why do you…?”

“Great! Have I got a treat for the Rosses, then. Do you remember, Beatrice, when we were leaving, we were talking about the Supper and…”

“You asked what he lacked.”

“Yes, yes, and I said, not food and certainly not rum, or something and he said…”

“Music.”

“You remember.”

“I remember.”

“Yes. You’re a wonder, Beatrice.”

“So. What? You’re going to play the piano at the church supper?”

“What! No, no, no, not me, not me, tin ear. No, Beatrice, you’ll never guess who’s here at the table with me right now. You’ll never guess. Witold Ziski, Maestro Witold Ziski, an orchestra conductor, Beatrice. And he’s very generously offered himself to play music at the Supper. How’s that for a treat for Bob Ross? He thinks some Chopin, or whatever’s appropriate, anything Ross could ask for, he says. And, that’s not all, Beatrice, Maestro Ziski has agreed to raise his baton as the first… Are you ready for this? …as the first conductor of the brand new Strawbridge Symphony Orchestra! How d’ ya like them apples, girl?”

This’s all going too fast. Why is the kettle boiling? Who… “My mother knows… she… I told her about the car, George. She said… she said… Yes. She said yes. Not the uh… not your uh… Darla, yes. No. She said no, that’s not necessary. She’s going to… I’m going to… There’s no water in this kettle. She’ll be fine. Yes. An orchestra?”

“You all right, Beatrice? You sound a little… Oh, god, I didn’t get you out of bed, did I? Here I am, all excited about this business and never even thought about bothering you so late.”

“No! No, it’s fine, George, I was up. I’m up. Talking to my mother tends to throw me for a loop. And then a friend called to warn me the local busybodies’re on the prowl, so I turned off the lights and hid on the floor. It’s what we do around here, nothing unusual. Just let me fill this kettle. What do you mean, an orchestra? A real orchestra, with violins and everything?”

“Unhuh. I think so. It’s my…” Oh, maybe not, George, save Elizabeth for later. “uh… my sister-in-law, Maude, came up with the idea. She came up, eh, and she brought Ziski here, and Bena, you remember her, and Katya, her friend, and they’ve all got this wonderful idea of starting a new orchestra. Just a small one, I think, to start with, and I had the bright idea that it should be right there in Strawbridge. A community thing, d’ you see. It’s the new thing, y’ know.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t know that. Are you sure? Maude’s not musical that I ever heard of. Does your friend, Bena, does she play the violin, then?”

“Not that I know of, but nothing would surprise me about Bena. Just a sec, I’ll ask__ Wit says not that he knows of, but nothing would… Yah. __But she found him, known him forever, and they both know all kinds of musicians, and Katya, apparently, is an excellent business manager, and I’m to help Maudie with the finances, so… What Wit and I’ve been thinking is, that what we need now are some local people on board. We can’t possibly do this without community support, and I know you’d be an excellent choice, Beatrice. And Bob Ross’d certainly be another. So, will you think about that? Please. I’ll speak to Maude and we can probably do a nomination by phone for the time being.”

“Nomination?”

“To the Board of Directors. The Strawbridge Symphony Orchestra. You and…”

“Oh, I don’t think so, George. I’m not one much for that sort of thing. I’m afraid I…”

“You’re on church committees aren’t you? It’s no different.”

“Oh, surely it is. Much more complicated, and businesslike, too, I’m sure. We’re just amateurs, nobody really takes the executive very seriously, except Velma Lettie. She lives to be bossy. Reverend Ross, now, he would be a good choice, he’s used to working with the wardens and the Bishop and whatnot. He knows how these things work. I’m only good for keeping the minutes now and then, and for organizing some of the food.”

“And that’s what we need, just those very skills, Beatrice. And there’ll be only one Board meeting a month, so it won’t take up a lot of your time that way. I’ll have to speak to Maude about having meetings up here, it only makes sense, and if they can’t all get up from the city, maybe we can arrange for a conference phone. I’ll have Darla see to that.” Sucking in a deep breath, George decided on a gamble, “You know, Beatrice, I seem to have heard of this Velma Lettie. Something of a gossip, I think. She wouldn’t be the reason you’re hiding with the lights out, would she?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she and her sister are out minding everybody’d business tonight. It’s what they do. Have you not met them? They must’ve been at your wedding. When we were all girls, they used to be great friends with… uh… Elizabeth. But then, she’s never back here much, is she? Not to see us, anyway. And I suppose they wouldn’t quite be her cup of tea anymore.”

“I believe that is who mentioned her. I’m not sure just what kind of friends you’d say they are now. But you say this Velma’s something of a committee woman, then. Would she be interested in coming onto the Board?”

“Oh, good lord! I doubt you could keep her off it once she finds out, George. Maybe it’s not my place to say so, but still, she’s too used to having her own way, and she’s not the easiest person to deal with. I’d think twice, if I were you.”

“Sometimes it’s best to take the bull by the nose, if you can’t keep him out of the china shop. I know the gender thing’s wrong, but you get the idea. A little guidance can minimize the damage. There’s more than one of her, I take it?”

“Just the pair, the Lettie Girls. Vera’s her sister. Much more managable, but you can’t have Vera without Velma. She has to boss everybody and everything, and Vera’s only allowed to tag along and keep still. They pretend to be twins. Their mother started dressing them alike and they’ve never quit. Personally, I’ve always suspected they hate each other. It’s an awful thought, but you might be right about taking her by the nose, she could make a lot of trouble for you with this orchestra thing if she’s not asked to help.”

“Unhuh, sounds like it might be just the answer, put a rope on her and stay out from underfoot. Anyway, we’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’m bringing Wit down to see to this piano and music business, and we’ll talk to Bob Ross… oh, and Anna, too. Maude said something about Anna playing a flute. Does she? She any good?”

“Actually, to tell the truth, she is. She’s kept it up and you can hear her from the manse once in a while, when a window’s open. I’m no expert, but I think she’s very good. Would you put her in your orchestra?”

“Sure, if Wit thinks she can handle it. We need as much local content as we can get, otherwise it’s not a community thing. We can hire the chairs from the city, if we have to, but we need locals for the rest.”

“Chairs? We’ve more than enough chairs at the Hall to seat…”

“No, no, Beatrice, the principal chairs are the first violin, the first cello, the first… whatever, d’ you see. I’m just learning this from Wit, myself, and I can tell you I’ve a lot to learn. I’ve gone to concerts, listened to the music most of my life, my mother knew her music, but I’ve never paid much attention. The rest of us are all pretty well starting from scratch, far as I can tell, you don’t need to feel awkward about that. So, listen, we’ll be down in the morning. You’ll be home? Will I see you? Can I bring Wit to meet you? We could have lunch somewhere. We could…”

“Meet at the Rosses. I think that’s best, don’t you? I’d love to hear about your plans, and to meet your conductor. But don’t go counting on me for this Board business. D’ you hear? Especially if you have to take on Velma. I just don’t think…”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. We’ll aim for ten o’clock…” George noticed Ziski wrestling the cap off the scotch bottle, “Make it eleven, why don’t we? Might as well take the time to enjoy this. Might even have time to do a little fishing on the way down. Do I need to give Bob Ross warning, d’ you think? I’d really rather surprise him, just for the fun of it, but if he’s got a busy schedule, I suppose maybe I’d better.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that, he never leaves the house before noon. Says he works on his sermon till then. Anna says he drinks coffee and listens to opera till it’s coming out her ears. He’ll be there. I’ll see you there at eleven, then.”

“At eleven, at the Rosses. Goodnight then, Beatrice. Sleep well.”

“And you. Goodnight, George.” Oh, goodnight! What am I doing? I can’t let this happen. We can’t carry on like this. You’re not carrying on. I am. You’re not! Well, Velma’d think so. Well, Velma can go take a jump in the river, then, can’t she? You are not ‘carrying on’. You’re going to meet this conductor fellow, at the Rosses, at the manse, for crying out loud, and hear what the man has to say about this orchestra, that’s all. With George Preston. Oh, lighten up!  Kettle’s boiled, make some more tea. I shouldn’t, it’s late, I‘ll be up half the night. It’s not that late. He’s an awfully nice man.

She added a bag to the pot. Why is he doing all this, this music thing, and sending his car for Mother, being so nice? So you won’t sue his wife for assault. Don’t be silly, that miserable old woman’s only trying to get your goat. Well, she got it! Bea thumped down the kettle unpoured. If she thinks she’s moving in here, she’s got another think coming. I’m not having her in my road for the rest of my life. Oh, now you’re going to have a life? Well, for what’s left of it she’s going into the Chateau, she can like it or lump it. I’m going to be too busy. Doing what? A very small smile curled her lips as she lifted the kettle again and filled the teapot, and as she carried that to the table, she found a thought she could live with. I’ve always been interested in the classical music.

Maude felt pretty much a wreck by the time she pulled into her drive and stalled Ziski’s car to a stop when her legs went rubber. Katya had navigated her in through the twist of old streets that laced the rail line to her house, and Bena had directed a particularly obscure route back out onto the cusp of Rosedale to her place, then Maude was on her own to find Davisville. She tried to press into the back of the seat to crush the ball of pain under her shoulderblade. You need to get out more. It’s about as far as a crow spits, from her place to here, and it took you… oh, damned near an hour to do it. Half. Yes, well, get out of the car before the neighbours think you’ve died at the wheel. Not that they’d do anything. Drunk, sure, 911, we know she drinks, a danger to us all, but dead already, don’t get involved. Oh, for godsake, woman, get your ass to bed!

The phone was ringing as she stumbled through the side door of the house and let her purse fall to the kitchen floor, rather than drop the bag with the two salmon sandwiches and the pumpkin tart Katya had rescued from Ziski for her. She sorted herself out, kettle on the stove, coat in the closet, her old brown Jaeger over a nightgown, socks and slippers, letting the phone ring on, quite certain it was Elizabeth frantically wondering where everyone was. I’m not home, and if she’s tried any of the others, they aren’t home either. We’re all off the hook till tomorrow, Lizzie. Tomorrow we’ll tell you how things stand. I wonder if George’s still off the hook? I should try him, tell him to talk to Velma. I’d love to set her loose on Lizzie. She’ll catch your line busy and she won’t stop all night. She won’t anyway. She’ll call 911. No, I don’t think she’ll ever do that again. With tea, and Katya’s treats on a plate, Maude climbed into bed with a book. Save George till morning. Something to get up for.
Tillie

Ten o’clock, time for the news. And too late for another cup of tea. What’s gossip without a drink of tea to wet your whistle? It’s your bed you’ll wet, y’ old fool. And Tillie sagged on her chair. What use was she anymore? Why did she stay? Mostly all of her body was uncomfortable one way and another, sensations having traded places, itchy bones and brittle flesh, and she was only too aware of how seldom she took her pains in hand and tended to the chores. This baking mess, for instance, you haven’t rinsed a spoon yet. Tomorrow, in the day, when I can see it’s clean. Oh, that’s a good reason. I made my squares, didn’t I? And then..? I’m not up to it. No. Vitality and will and vitality and will and chicken and egg. Which comes first? And which goes first? Now, you’re just feeling guilty for being old, Til, go see the backdoor’s snecked. You can be sure if the egg lands on the floor, there won’t be any chicken. Won’t be any fancy cakes, either. An omlette with hair, if it’s your last one. Why do I have to stand up at all?

It had been thought enough when she was a girl, to let her great-aunt Nell nod the last of her years away talking nonsense in a good chair in a corner. To wash and dress Old Nell, and feed her and take her to sit amongst the family, no matter where she thought she was, had been considered fair enough reward for a farmwife. And, ‘If it was good enough for Nell, it’s good enough for me,’ was pretty much what Tillie figured she could handle on a good day. The received wisdom of elder-care, that activity, activity and more activity equaled quality of life, the practical pep-talk forever pumped at the old, couldn’t even irritate Tillie on a bad day. Bad days, she seriously regretted not having taken an interest in guns, or curious mushrooms, and envied her granddaughter’s familiarity with pills. She wished somebody’d just shoot her. No one had told Nell she should be square-dancing Tuesday nights.

Heaving to her feet, holding for balance, Tillie tottered her way to the backdoor to see it was locked. Reassuring herself with a grab at the doorknob, backing to turn, her heel caught on a rubber toe and down she went in a pile of boots, but her hand on the knob slowed her fall to a sit and she knew she’d seen it before. “On my rump in a heap of boots, beside the door, cold down here, from under the door, tell Pa there’s a draught.” Tillie heard herself and blinked. Oh, dear, out loud and sounding psychotic. Surely I’m not. What in the name of God is wrong with… “…using your voice, giving it a stretch, letting it out for a run? One, two, three, exercise! Touch your toes!” Maybe if you didn’t swear, people wouldn’t mind so much. Oh, you think, eh? Wrapping her arms around her knees, she considered her position and tugged her sweater high on her neck.

Over years the lightning had slowed, the sudden shocks of image had time to glow into memories, and déjà vu had become déjà been there, déjà done that. And just like déjà vu, it was a whole experience. In a flash, a jolt, the body, mind and spirit knew. But the body, mind and spirit having seen it before, now took the time to discuss the details. And it could go on quite some time. “Thank God I ducked out on that one, I’d freeze to death down here if I went rabbiting off about Pa’s boots.  …And then when I was three…  Blah, blah, blah. There was always a pail by the door, something always needed carrying, and a clutch of egg baskets, and here behind my back, a cupboard for the sleigh robes to hang in and…” Yes, dear, unhuh, just like that, in another place and another time. Get up now, while you still can. “Papa did you love me? Papa did you care?” Knock it off, old woman. You start singing Stephen Foster ditties in the boot tray and you’ll be gettin’ more than pressure pills from the doctor. Lift it now, girl. Unwrapping an arm from her knees, rocking for traction, Tillie strained for the doorknob, caught it in her fingers and willed herself to her feet.

Safely away from the door, she stopped to have a look back at the tumbled boots: her fancy yard rubbers, an exasperated gift from Bea, made her feet look like duck’s; her old barn boots, too tall to get on and off anymore, and too heavy, the reason for the duck feet; a pair of gentleman’s galoshes imitating spats that Stewart had never worn, too fine a sight to throw away; her own snow boots with their foolish pretense to a heel. That’s all that’s there, count ‘em, eight. Yours and Stewart’s, four pair, that’s all, you don’t have time to go wandering off with your father again, sitting on his boots, not right now, anyway. I need to stay here and stay alert, there’s life to be seen to. Whose? “Mine, for petesake! I sold myself down the river today, woman! We’re in danger, y’old fool. I tell Bowpeep I’m ready to give up the house, and she’s already got people chasin’ after me? My own daughter sending strangers to pick me up? Stick you up, more likely__ ‘Hand over the house, old woman, or we’ll send you to the Home. And give us the jewelry, too.’ __Stick to your own boots, Til, you’re gonna need them to hightail it out of here if she’s set the dogs on you.” She pulled her head away from the boots and hated the Quaker on the oat bag. God, I don’t want to go! You’re supposed to be going to bed. Yes, why not? Switching off the kitchen lights, she headed up the hall to test the front door. “Maybe I just won’t wake up tomorrow. That’d serve her.” The phone rang.

“Tillie,” Fear she’d not know him stabbed his chest, “It’s David.”

“Oh, my land! David!” Delight poured hot tears from her eyes. He still called, she still knew him, and they grinned at each other down the length of the line.

“So, I’m calling to know if the church supper’s still on for this Sunday, Tillie. Hasn’t been shut down by the culture police for being too Waspy, yet, has it? Or being a hot-bed of perversion, what with the church and all?”

“Oh, no fear, David, we’re as correct as a Mennonite market. The fall kill’s a Harvest now. Not going to feed a hen, if she’s not going to lay, eh?  The old ways, y’ know, before the home-freezer, a Heritage Moment. Are you going up then? You and Kath… Oh, well… Excuse me, David, none of my business, mind, but I’m not sure I know what’s up with you two.”

“Whooo, Tillie,” Empty of breath, David couldn’t think what to say to an old woman whose grandaughter he loved but no longer liked, “Not sure I do, either. I’m out, y’ know, got my own place, really just a bed-sitter, no matter what they call it, a loft, if it was downtown instead of uptown. How many lofts do y’ think they’d rent if they called them attics?”

“I think of hay, myself, and rats in the granary. You  wouldn’t be looking at this as a permanent thing then, maybe? You’ve just run away from home, so to speak.”

“Tillie, she wants you to want everything that she wants, and you can’t say no to the least little thing. Because if you don’t want what she wants, what use are you? By you, I mean me. All men, apparently, are ‘like that’. I just can’t live with it anymore. I don’t know what I want myself. I’m sick and tired of what I do, I feel more like Simon Legree every day. I used to think I was helping, hell I was  helping, it used to be that way, it might have been begrudging, but it was still help. It’s not anymore, it’s immoral to be poor in a rich country, Tillie, a sin, not to consume, and the punishment’s to be left to starve in the street. It’s terrible, I hate it.”

“You know what else’s terrible, David? That we charge money for the church supper, that’s terrible. It used to be we all gave what we had and sat down to eat it together. Everybody knew what everybody else had to give, and we knew who didn’t give as much as they could. Those Fullers, all that bottom land and a herd of Guernseys? one boiled rooster and a gallon jar of milk, long as I remember. Milk, mind. And yet Grahams, way out the twelfth line, that family never had more than the one cow and a sack of flour. Ten mouths, when I was a girl, and they ate like starvation, but the lightest rolls and the cream on the table came from Grahams every time. We said our grace and ate together and always knew what to expect from each other.

“No, it was strangers made us charge a ticket, people who didn’t belong to the church one way or the other, summer people staying on into the fall, newcomers. Now, I do have to say, there was the one useful thing Velma Lettie ever did, y’ know. There was an idea to let all these people bring their own contributions to the supper table, let’s just go pot-luck all ‘round was the idea, but Velma upped and said there was no way she was going to stand for any heathern hippie rice messes, wasn’t going to be any of that Madame Benôit cooking in her church kitchen. Well, you can imagine the eye-rolling that went on over that little speech, let alone it’s her  kitchen, and the woman can’t even pickle a cucumber,” Tillie snorted a laugh at her own persistent calumny, “We tried reason, said the church couldn’t afford to feed everybody without help, said the church had to reach out. Velma said, in that case we’ll reach out and accept the price of a decent hot meal, and we’ll figure in the tip, because they’ll likely think they needn’t do that in a church hall.

“Thing was, David, pretty much all Strawbridge thought the same, didn’t really want that salsa stuff on their chicken, garlic in the potatoes, so they printed up tickets, stuck to the menu and the old way of doing it, and now we feed two, three hundred people never set foot in the church. Have to give it to Velma, we’d be eatin’ fried beans and octopus, if she hadn’t dug in her hindlegs. Mind you, the money’s a squirt in the bucket, what it costs to keep a church now-a-day, still, every mite’s a help. But I tell you, Grahams’d never have afforded tickets for all those mouths, makes me think who’s not getting supper anymore. So, what about you? With her, or without her, are you going to go? I, apparently, can offer you limousine service Saturday, if you’d care.to be my date.”

“What? You’re not driving? Oh, you mean with Bea. No, I’m not so sure I want to be trapped in a car with my mother-in-law right at this point. She’s a good woman, Tillie, she’s your daughter and I know there’s not a mean bone in her body, but I just don’t think I can handle the guilt.”

“Oh, no, no, David my boy, not Goody Twoshoes, she isn’t coming to get me. She’s sending a car,” Arch with sarcasm, Tillie dripped honey, “She’s sending a car on Saturday, with a driver named Clarence, and some woman… uh… whatever, some woman for a keeper. Isn’t that a nice how d’ you do?”

“What!? I beg your pardon, Tillie, but who’s Clarence? Whose car’s she sending? What do you mean, keeper?”

“Exactly. That’s just what I’d like to know. She says  it’s that George Preston’s car, Clarence is the driver, and this woman’s his secretary, or something, that’s what Bea said, or something. A nice gesture I’m supposed to be grateful for. I’m checking for inside door handles. He was at Ross’s the other night, Preston was, he’s up on the lake, apparently. Pretty late in the year, if you ask me. Or something, that’s what has me worried. I tell her it’s maybe time for me to think of giving up this place, for her sake, mind, just to please her, and before you can say… whatever it is you say, y’ know, she’s sending… Jackie Robinson, is that it? …she’s sending people after me with cars and Clarences and… jack rabbit?”

“Whoa, Tillie! George Preston, Elizabeth Preston’s husband? You’re sure you haven’t got this all… mixed up with… Well, you know Friday night was pretty confusing, and maybe you…”

“What, you think I’ve gone wacky? The old girl’s finally dropped her marbles? Thanks, David.” Bile rose on her tongue with the fear he might be right, “I thought we were friends.”

“Oh, lighten up, y’ old goat, of course we’re friends. Don’t pull that on me now, after all these years, after all we’ve been through together, you and  your neurotic offspring. I’m not saying you’re ‘round the bend, I’m just trying to sort the details, okay?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry,” Tilting on the hall chair, Tillie ran a hand up thigh and buttock, wondering should she be feeling pain, “This whole business has landed me on my backside already, so maybe I am a little sensitive. But I’m not confused. Well, I am, actually, very confused, but not about George Preston. According to Bea, he’s up there, and from the sound of things, dear Elizabeth isn’t. Bea was pretty coy about running into him, something about him turning up thinking it was the Supper. Something about Bob Ross and the sign getting mixed up, they were into the rum, she said. So now he’s staying up for this Sunday, too. But what’s he doing up there in the first place? Something’s fishy, d’ you suppose he’s left the fool woman?”

Her words in his ear echoed a shudder of cold down David’s spine propped on a squalid tangle of bedclothes in the out-folded couch and he strove to put the twist of his guts into words, “It happens. She’s a hard one. I can’t say I’d blame him.”

“Understandably, David,” Tillie was amused despite her sympathy, “You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you? Lads, you’re all lads. D’ you think there’s an epidemic?”

“Empathy’s a thing, you know.” Pinched by her sarcasm, he pinched back, “You’re a vicious old woman.”

“Hah! Just as I said, a lad, and one with a mean mouth, too. David, my dear, I wish you’d known my Stewart, you’re so like him, such a bad boy, and such a good man. Without him laughing at me, I’d never’ve been civil, wouldn’t be now. He made me silly. You know, he once came at me with a set of harness, he was always rubbing grease into some piece of leather__ bring home the hitches from Fuller’s and work ‘em all winter for the trotters come Spring __he claimed it was a hackney hitch he’d put together specially for me. If I was going to be such a high-stepper, I’d need the check rein, wouldn’t I? Well, I helped him, didn’t I? That was a time…” Her voice faded for a moment of memory that shocked itself back to the present, “David, don’t you tell Bea that, ever, she’d have a stroke. __David? You still there?”

“I’m not sure that wasn’t too much information, Tillie. Bit of an overload, maybe. Better I should think of you in… I don’t know… Church, in church, yes, at the…”

“Sink! At the old iron sink, Stewart, you wouldn’t believe what I did on our wedding day!” And Tillie smiled into a mirror and saw her breasts unwrapped for one long moment.

“…altar rail, actually,” Surely that wasn’t the hot breath of sex in Tillie’s voice? “ David, it’s David, Tillie, and I think we were wondering what George Preston’s doing up in Strawbridge.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, yes. Thrashing off the end of Bea’s line, is what he’s doing, I’d guess. Believe it or not, strange as it may seem, I can read my daughter like a book, only two chapters, after all, Bea manned, and Bea unmanned, one much longer than the other, but then it’s easier to remember the single incident, being kind of a miracle, it sticks, doesn’t it? Well, I listened to her on the phone, didn’t I? I’ve heard her sound like this before, she was a living fib from the day she set her cap for McAlpine, she let on there wasn’t a thing happening and had herself in the family-way faster than you can shake a stick. And then she tried to tell us, Stewart and me, that we should get off the farm, too. She was so glad to go, she just wanted to share it with us, had no notion how cruel that was for him. And here we go again, thirty some, almost forty years later__ thank heaven for menopause __she finds a man again and I’m supposed to give up my house. Well,” Tillie was arch once more with malicious amusement, “This time, she’s in for a big surprise. I’ve already said I’ll give it up, but I don’t think she’s caught on yet just where I’m going. Every day’s going to be a picnic!”

“You old wolf in granny clothes, you’re going to go live with her, aren’t you? Are you? Really? You sure you can handle that? You’ll have to behave all the time, Tillie. You’d better take your own teapot, that dinky one of hers can barely make two cups. What room’ll you go for? She’s not going to move out of hers, and that middle one feels like a cell, it’ll have to be the,” His voice echoing horror, David quavered the words, “back bedroom.”

“Yah. Think I can take it? I told her already it has to have a closet built. At least it’s big enough.”

“There’s that, you’d still have plenty of space for a bedroom, but you don’t want to have to spend your life in it, and you know what she’s like, ‘Don’t move that, it’s right where it’s supposed to be!’ What you’re like for that matter, poking your stick at things until they fall over, moving people’s lamps and chairs, if I recall.”

“Oh, she has no sense of style, she’s plain function, couldn’t make a room nice if her life depended on it. I suppose I’ll just scrap with her as long as I can keep it fun, then I’ll go to my room. I’m pretty low maintenance, you know.”

“You are low maintenance? With that great barn of a house full of…”

“I don’t care, David!” Tillie’s eye swept the hall for an object of possession and landed glaring on the square of oak beneath her elbow, “It happens, you know, you can outlive your own furniture, a hall table can be a hall table you’ve known all your life, and then you just one day sort of notice that your heart doesn’t stir at sight of it, hasn’t stirred for who knows how long, and you realize that table might as well be dead, for all the pleasure or pride you get out of it. So it can go into memory, where you don’t have to dust. Last winter I got up one morning and noticed the bed wasn’t a piece of furniture I’d ever have bought. Stewart’s and my bed, his parent’s bed, and I thought, what a lot of fuss and bother, you could float down the Nile and not look out of place. I wouldn’t mind curling up in one of those nice Gordie Tapp beds he has on the tv.”

“Those electric sex beds with the seventy-three positions of the Kama Sutra? You gonna get one of those? Hah! Bea’d have a fit. Seriously, is that what you’re going to do? get rid of your stuff and move in with her? You’re really sure that’s better than the Chateau? Where she’s been trying to talk you into ever since I’ve known you. You still don’t think so, eh?”

“David, the last thing I want right now, in whatever time I’ve got left, is to be bored to death having to put up with a bunch of people I’ve managed to avoid all my life. D’ you think I want to spend my time listening to that old coot, Percy Wettlauffer, drivel on about selling eggs off a wagon, thinking he’s a real heritage moment? watch some sanctimonious old fart like Thelma Wilson bless herself for her great big wonderful family and smear cake all over her frilly party frock? The woman cackles when she eats! They’re either lonesome, or nuts and, believe me, it’s not interesting, I know. I don’t care if the Chateau has hot tubs and butlers, it’s all old people, people like me who don’t know their boots from their backsides half the time. Some of them are happy enough, I’ll grant you that, but not one of ‘em really gives a damn about anything anymore, they want comfort, and that’s all. I’d rather live with Bea. Comfort’ll be something to look forward to, something to work for. She’s never understood the need for more than one sugar bowl, we’ll have years of fun. I’ll pack a few things, little stuff that’ll keep her going, it doesn’t take whole diningroom suites, I got some pretty fair action out of her there the other day in the restaurant with that old brooch. I’ll need my armchairs, of course. They won’t fit up her stairs, they won’t match her drapes, we’ll have to redecorate, she’ll have to spend some money. I ask you, David, can you imagine me enjoying myself any better than that?”

“Listen, Tillie, have the two of you never thought about her moving in with you?” David interrupted snorts of derision, “No, seriously, your house is twice the size of hers.”

“My house! I don’t want her underfoot again. She’ll never leave Strawbridge, thank God.”

“You’ll be the one underfoot, you move in with her.”

“Yes, I will. Won’t I, David? It’ll be quite the challenge, see who breaks first. She’d be useless here, I’d just sit on her and she’d collapse and there’d be no fun at all. At least I’ll put up a fight when she tries to sit on me. That’ll keep me active, eh? And who knows, David, maybe I need a little sittin’ on before I go, just in case they’re serious about pride being a sin. Myself, I’ve always thought it a consolation. But so are all the other sins, eh? So, maybe there’s something to it and I’d better scrape up a little humility here, before I inherit my six feet’s worth. What d’ you think?”

“Poor, innocent, unsuspecting, Bea.”

“She’s not so innocent as she lets on, David, I tell her George Preston’s smarmin’ her so we won’t sue him, and she sets her cap for him. And poor she’s not, either. She can afford whatever we need to make it work and I’ll have the price of this house to keep her sweet when I have to. She’ll want a dollar for every nickle she spends, so I can’t push her too hard if I want some time to enjoy myself. I’ll need you to help me calculate, David__ What’s left of me minus the cost of a closet? Is a second toilet worth the time I’ve got left? __that sort of thing.”

“Poor, innocent, unsuspecting Beatrice. You haven’t actually discussed this with her, have you? You just decided this all on your own, didn’t you? Damn the torpedos, hitch up the horses, Tillie’s mounted and ready to ride.”

“Well, now, you know, David, she really does worry about me being alone with a kettle, and her kitchen is a lot warmer than mine, smaller, not as handsome a room, but it has all you need, and you can reach it, so it only makes sense to be kind to her and lift that burden of worry from her. Of course, I’d be giving up my privacy, but Bea’s lonely, I think. She’ll be glad of the company. It’s not as if I’m useless, I can still bake, and that’s something she’s never been much at. And I can certainly dress myself without any help from her, thank heaven, she’d have me in one of those zip-lock smock things, if I wasn’t able to keep her hands off me. With a bib! When I can’t button a decent dress, that’s when I’ll go, David, but for the time being, if I can give Bea a little peace of mind, well, that’s my duty. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Tillie, I can see your house sitting on the market for quite a while, maybe. It’ll be pricey, where it is, and any yahoo with that much money will just have  to re-glaze, you know, and re-wire for the PCs, and a new kitchen with those restaurant appliances, and turn your barn into a potting studio for the wife. So, we’re talking people with more money than sense, aren’t we? and there are a lot of those, aren’t there? so… Humph, maybe I’m wrong and it’ll sell in a day. What do I know?”

“Uumhum. Now you’ve got me thinking, David, if it sells right away, she could say no to her house and push me right into the Chateau, but if it takes ages… damn! she could still say no and try to push me into the Home! Good Lord, David, I’m in trouble!”

“Have you not got enough…”

“No touching the capital, David, Stewart’s business rule number one. Nobody gets to pet my bit of money except the trustees when they milk it. It hardly matters, this close to buying me a box, but it puts her over a barrel. No Chateau! The longer the house takes, the more time there’ll be for my closet to get done up, and me to settle in. There’s need of another bathroom, you know, save the stairs every time, she could fit a toilet at least, there under the stairs, or off the kitchen. She’s always been too cheap. It’s her has the money, David, she’s smart that way, and everybody knows it. Knows she has the money. She’d be shamed to dump me on the county, put me in the Home. Wouldn’t she?”

“Yah, but what if she uses her money to buy you into the Chateau, whether the house sells or not, buys you a condo instead of a closet? She could, you know, she might see it as an investment.”

“Don’t be silly, David, you must know her better than that by now, she’ll spend a few pennies on her own house, but she won’t do it for mine.”

“That’s what I mean, though, Tillie, she might see the Chateau as her own future and you just a short-term tenant, a capital expenditure guaranteed by the sale of your house. Like you say, she’s smart, might be a good tax move, buying herself a granny house and parking you in it.”

“Dear Lord, David, what if you’re right? I wouldn’t put it past her to expect rent, either. I’d be better off burning this place to the ground. No house, no guarantee, no Chateau, it’d have to be the back bedroom. I should just walk out the door and throw a match over my shoulder.”

“Oh, now, you can’t…”

“I’m just saying  it, David. What are we going to do?”

“Sidetrack her, we’ll have to come up with a plan to keep her sidetracked. Listen, Tillie, I am thinking of going up Sunday. Why I called was to make sure the Supper’s still on__ and to hear your lovely voice, of course __but I asked Paul Magarry to come with me, I’m sure you remember him from the other night, wasn’t his fault what happened, though I guess he kind of told The Preston where it’s at. Anyway, he’s a good guy, and what I hear, Katherine’s not going to be turning up, and I wanted to make sure it’s happening and it’s all right with you. Is it?”

“Of course, David, you’ve no idea how glad I am you’re still there.”

“Good. Thank you. So, put your mind to it, and I’ll do the same, and Sunday we’ll figure out a way to keep Bea offside till you get a grip on things.”

“You know, David, if Bea’s up to no good with George Preston, maybe she’s worried that thisor something is something more than just a secretary. Now I think of it… Darla! that’s the name. Yes, Darla. And she kept saying this  Darla. Now that’s a sign of worry, she’s already suspicious, as if taking a run at Bessie’s husband isn’t wild enough, she’s getting all worked up over the competition. Oh, she’s headed for a fall, David, she’s headed for a fall.”

“Yaaah, I’d say… I… Are you sure about this, Tillie? I mean, it just doesn’t sound like the Bea McAlpine who’s my mother-in-law. You know? It’s never seemed to me like she’s got any… what? …sex life, I suppose.”

“She hasn’t, she chose worry instead of sex when McAlpine left. She got a passion for normal, nice, no waves, don’t mind me, fine, everything’s fine. She went meek. Well, she was always meek, she just got worse, doormat meek, but self-righteous as all-get-out. She’s a true believer, she really fell for the if you can’t say nice, say nothing, New Ideals, what will the neighbours think, bullroar. I mean, it’s fine on Sunday, but you can’t live that way. She’s pretty much limited to clergymen and insurance salesmen for male contact. The poor girl, how I’ve pitied her. I had my Stewart and she didn’t get anything like that, d’ you see, part of why she’s cranky with me. Pitied her and cursed her with my good luck. And out of nowhere, boom, she’s gonna take another run at the fence and she’s got competition. Oh, David, I think we’ve got the thing to keep her busy, don’t you?”

“She shoots and she scores. You’re a dog, Tillie. Put the skates to her and keep her away from the puck long enough for you to make the switch. Yup, you need to be right in there with your stick up.”

“Well, maybe I should just see this Darla comes along, she’s to call me tomorrow to say when. If she sounds nice, I’ll… Oh, dear. ‘A nice young woman to keep you company’, that’s what she said, what Bea said. How do these things come back to me? Can’t remember my own name half the time. So there you are, ‘a nice young woman’, and I worried she was trying to sell me a nurse. Poor Bea, the competition’s got the advantage. Dear, dear. Well… it can only help to keep her sidetracked, eh? I think we’ve got a plan in the works already. What d’ you say, David?”

“I say we’ve got a purpose in life, Tillie. We’ll meet out the end of Bea’s dock Sunday afternoon and plan strategy once we get the lay of the land, you take the cherries and I’ll bring the rye.”

“Whisky sours on the end of Bea’s dock? Testing my balance, are we? It’s a date.”

“Goodnight then, Tillie, sleep well.”

“Bless you, David.”

Martin went to bed with a smile on his lips. The Dragonlady was determined to find fault with someone, and he was just so glad it wasn’t going to be him. When the phone had rung, he hadn’t been expecting to hear a word from her ever again, not directly, anyway. Possibly something biting and dismissive secondhanded to his mother, who would pass it on to him in the flat, disinterested voice she used to everyone but dogs., certainly, he hadn’t expected the placating tone, the almost apologetic reference to Friday night’s disaster.   “Perhaps we were all suffering from a bit too much stress, what with the excitement of it all,” Elizabeth spoke in her best grave-side manner, “I find it best to put these things behind us and just get on with making life better for people. Don’t you, Martin? I’m quite sure dear Madge would think so.”

He was quite sure his mother thought only of making life better for her corgis. Still, if he was being forgiven for calling Elizabeth a chicken-footed old dragon, he wasn’t about to argue, “Of course, Elizabeth.”

“Martin, if you’ll just admit that you had too much to drink the other night and went a little too far, we’ll forget all about it.”

What!? I went too far?  You expect me  to take the blame, you back-stabbing, destructive bitch who almost killed people? “Hold on now, Elizabeth, I’ll apologize for whatever I said,” I only remember the chicken-foot part. You might’ve said worse. I doubt it, “But, you were the one who went over the edge and made a scene and trashed the art. So, really, I hardly think I’m supposed to bear the burden here, Elizabeth.”

Her left eye was winking at a tremendous speed, “Well, I think we can agree, can’t we Martin? that that Katherine Bailey and that… that charade of a painting of hers was the real cause of all the trouble. I don’t know what dear Madge sees in these modern, abstract things, how she can like them.”

She doesn’t, she never saw it, I lied, “The painting was a rock face, Elizabeth, a cliff. Super realism, maybe, certainly not abstract, my mother doesn’t recognize the abstract,” And she can pass blame faster than you can, too. “But you’re right, there’s no getting around the fact that nothing would‘ve happened if Katherine hadn’t turned nasty,” Bitch thinks she can throw drinks and dump me for some greaseball geronimo! “You express one little doubt, that maybe every single thing she does isn’t just perfect, and she goes ballistic.”

Pressing a finger into her temple distracted the tic, “And that pathetic mother of hers,” Elizabeth warmed to the slaughter, “In that awful hat, turning up like that. Without any invitation from me, I can tell you. And that self-righteous old…farmer, Tillie Sutherland, ripping her cane through the picture like that! I mean, really, just because it was so obviously unsuitable, she needn’t have been such a philistine about it. I’m sure I don’t know where you find these people, Martin.”

Oh, you are so transparent. “Well, you meet people, don’t you? Get to know them, they’re not what you thought,” Think I don’t know where you come from, Dragonwoman? “Apparently it’s a bit backward up Strawbridge way, Elizabeth, makes for some pretty socially-challenged behavior, I guess. Not really our sort, as my mother would say.”

Wouldn’t she just? Dear, homely  Madge, the snobby bitch, she’s told him some horrible lie. Or those pathetic Sutherlands have. Father was a gentleman  farmer. He kept a man. “My father, you know, had land up beyond Strawbridge, when we were girls. Quite a bit north, you might as well say Muskoka, really. He took an interest in breeding. Cows. Not one of those little hobby farms people have, quite an acreage, really, very professional, he used men for the rough work. Lovely.” Elizabeth sighed for an artificial memory and missed Martin’s startled snort of laughter.

“But then came school, you know, Havergal, with your mother, and marriage to George, and his career, and my heavy social obligations, and well, I never did get back. All in the past now, of course. Some of these old traditions simply can’t keep up with our busy modern lives, I’m afraid. We think it’s enough now to have our summer home, although it is a rather grand old family lodge sort of place with boats, right in the lakes, you know. George is there now, taking a little rest from his duty, relaxing with a fishing pole, he tells me. We just spoke on the phone, he likes to know I’m happy wherever he is, and you know, Martin, he’s such a good man, he gave me complete approval for my new project. He told me to fly the flag and get on with it, and he doesn’t even know what it is. Isn’t that wonderful?”

A new project, eh? I see. Need slaves, do you? “A new project? Terrific. And what would that be, Elizabeth?” Prison reform from the inside?

“Well, you understand this is strictly in confidence until we get the groundwork laid, but I can tell you, because I know you’ll be inspired by the whole idea and wild horses won’t be able to keep you from wanting to jump right in and help out, Martin.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, I know you will. Such an exciting chance to rescue something of what’s been lost. Your reputation in the culture industry could get quite a boost out of this. You’ll be very useful to me.”

My reputation? It’s yours that’s all over the floor, you maniac. “Elizabeth, I can’t afford to be useful to you. I’ve just resigned from the mattress industry.” You haven’t told your father yet. I’m not going back. They haven’t missed me, not a phone call. You are the boss’s son. He won’t notice and they won’t tell him. They might keep banking my salary for ever.

“Oh, then you’ll have plenty of free time, how nice! And, good heavens, Martin, this project isn’t about money, it’s about music. A symphony orchestra! A new one, a sensible one to play only the best music, not a ponderous old business like the TSO. A few Europeans for the hard parts and then some ordinary local people who just like to play, it’s how it’s done now, apparently. Hardly any cost at all and George says he’s behind that all the way, so we just can’t miss. Isn’t it wonderful? And I want you on the Board.”

You’re mad. Over the top. Insane. Madwoman of Moore Park. Could be worse, might’ve been Punk. “So, are you talking a Heavymetal sound, Elizabeth?”

“The classics, Martin!”

“Pinkfloyd, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Chicago? No, you said Europeans. Abba?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I mean the classical European repertoire, as our Maestro calls it, the very best of the very…”

“Whose maestro?”

“Will you stop interrupting me and let me tell you. Please, Martin. This is an important step we’re taking here, the creation of a vital and worthy cultural initiative for the sake of the larger community. An institution fo…”

The criminally insane. “So, you’re not just getting a band together for a few gigs?”

“Will you please! An institution for the good of the world that I can be truly proud of because I will make it happen, Martin. My symphony orchestra. It could well lead to the vice-regal hat, you know. That old fool, Monteith, did it with a summer festival, for godsake, Shakespeare in a tent, I ask you. And that bleach job, what’d she ever do but marry the baker’s boy? At least I’ll deserve it. That’s the future, of course, so for now we have to buckle down and get to work. I want you to find out everything there is to know about this Katya woman, what is it? here, Saarila, with two ‘a’s, for some reason, in the middle, and the Countess, too, she’s…”

“There’s a Countess, too? That’s one Maestro, one Countess, a Mad Hatter… Any Prince Charmings? I’ve discovered I have a new use for Prince Charming, Elizabeth, I’m gay.”

“Well, of course you are. I’ve never doubted that for a moment, Martin, you have that marvellous sensitivity that you all have, why we’ve worked so well together in the past. Not at all like men. So refreshing. I expect you’ll find that sort of thing amongst concert musicians, quite a few bachelors, I’d suspect. Discreetly, of course, and I want you to know, here and now, that it’s an asset I value very highly in you, Martin, you just know what’s best instinctively. And that’s why you’ll be so useful to me on the Board.

“Oh, I know you’ll want to get your hands in and get the job done, you’re very good that way, rolling up your sleeves and getting them dirty, and whatnot, but it’s your finer sense of things I rely on. My sister, you know, Maude, insists on being involved and I don’t see any way to stop her and, of course, I’m sure she can be useful somehow, but you’ve seen how badly she dresses and she can be awfully cruel with her tongue. And this Katya Saarila’s rather frightening, not just those dreadful outfits, but she seems so… efficient, I suppose. Rather like George’s Darla Samson, though I don’t think that’s her problem.”

“Darla Samson? Who the hell is…”

“Oh, haven’t you met Darla the Dyke? George’s secretary. Won’t do a thing I ask. It’s why I need you. I’m not good with the difficult. I’m always looking for the positive, the full bottle not the half empty, you might say. Pleasant people are my forté, chatting them up and making them feel special is what I do best. Don’t you think?”

I think you’re out of your cotton-picking mind, woman. My life has completely changed and you think that’s just dandy. He’s free and he’s queer, how handy! You’re a monster and you think you’re charming. Nothing I can say will change what this woman tells herself. She needs serious correction. Martin took a deep breath, blew out his cheeks and leaped in, “So, we have a maestro and  a countess already! And your sister. And the Katya woman, I take it? You have been busy.” He allowed himself a malicious grin, “Listen, I just met the Last of the Mohicans the other night, now he’s someone you could chat up with a full bottle, Elizabeth. Playing the native card’d make us look good. Oh, and Mother has that pet bishop she might lend us, he manages quite a bit of purple and that’s always nice in a room.”

“Don’t they do colour well? Marvellous thought, Martin, the Church is a good thing on a Board. But this other… I gather you mean an Indian person, our own kind of Indian, is he… does he…”

“Drink? Yes, but forget it, Elizabeth, that was a joke, just teasing. Hey, what are we going to call our band?”

So, Martin settled himself into bed, lay on his pillow and grinned. An orchestra. Me on the Board of Directors. A culture maven. Not advertising. Art. Real art, not that painting thing. Madge’s right, it’s all been done, enough of that. Neo Boho, who cares? The Dragon and I will make Music, the Great Art. Classical European repertoire. I’ll be in white tie!  Irresistable. A star. I’ll get my Paul. He’ll want me.

FRIDAY

Maude was up and at it, coffee on, face washed, and into a housedress, before she noticed she was out from under the covers and it was barely nine. What on earth’s got into you, girl? You’d better slow down, or your blood pressure’ll be squirtin’ it out your ears. Lay off, old woman, you just can’t enjoy yourself, can you? You’ve been whining and pining and going mad lately and you don’t know fun when you see it. I’m calling George before Lizzie thinks I’m alive and starts phoning. He mightn’t have pulled his phone out of the drawer yet. He mightn’t have, but you won’t die for trying.

“George! Good, you are out of the bin. I thought of something important and I wanted to catch you before Elizabeth starts ragging at me. Have you been on to her yet, told her the good news?”

“She caught me last night, Maude, it wasn’t pretty. I had the phone out and there she was at the other end insisting that I have to come home because she needs to talk  to me. Which means she wants to shake me down. Top of that, she’s got on to some gossip that I’ve lost my marbles, and gone native and taken up with floozies.”

“Well, have you, George?”

“Maude, please..”

“Just asking. So, did you tell her?”

“I told her I’m not nuts and I can’t get back before the weekend, because I promised Bob Ross I’d stay for the church supper. Said I needed to fly the flag and show a little support for the community. Now she thinks I’m running for mayor, or something. I wasn’t ready for her, Maude, she took me by surprise. So, no, she doesn’t know her orchestra’s the Strawbridge Symphony. I didn’t even let on I know what she’s up to, and she wouldn’t say, because she wants me eye-to-eye when she starts talking money. I told her, whatever’s so important, to just get on with it and we’d sort it out when I get back. Sorry, guess I wimped out, Maudie. Isn’t that what they say these days?”

“They do. And you did. Well, I can’t say I blame you, but it’s still your job, I’m not telling her. She’ll be after me the minute I hang up, so I’ll have to play it by ear, let her talk at me, and then tell her to just keep organizing away. Let her go on thinking she’s the boss, best we can do till we get this thing off the ground.” Maude pursed her lips and her eyes twinkled, “So, listen, George, I had a thought last night on the way home; we have to have some of the locals up there on board. I don’t mean just musicians, like Anna Ross, and whoever else is lurking in the bushes with a fife and drum, I mean right on the Board with the rest of us. We shouldn’t look like we’re imposing ourselves on the yokels, they need to do some of their own imposing. Don’t you think?”

“Maudie, you’re psychic, I was saying the same thing myself last night. I thought of Bob Ross, for sure, man’ll jump at the chance from what I’ve seen of him. And I happened to be talking to Beatrice McAlpine, you know, I thought she’d know about the piano, d’ you see__ That’s how Elizabeth caught me, I had the phone out to call Beatrice__ and she thinks he’d be good for it. And I’m asking her, too, Maude. I think she’d be…”

“Bea McAlpine? And Lizzie? D’ you not think you’re asking for trouble, George?”

“Well, no, I don’t see that needs to be an issue, Maude. Speaking of trouble, what d’ you know about these Letties, this Velma and her sister?”

“Lord, George, we’re both psychic, that’s just who I was wondering about. Great minds, eh?”

“Or very small ones, Maude.”

“Could be, could be, but I think we should look on the positive side; Velma is certainly local and she’s always been one to swing her weight, and she swings Vera too. They know everybody alive and dead, and everything that ever has, or ever will happen up there. The Lettie Girls are Power in Strawbridge. No way to avoid them and Velma’d be sure to get huffy if we didn’t ask her. Only for our own good, George, she’d be hell to get on the wrong side of. Old friends of our Lizzie’s, you know.”

“So I understand. And I think I understand what you’re up to, too, Maude, my dear.”

“So? And just what are you up to with Bea McAlpine, George, my dear?”

“Okay, we’ll go for both, and Bob Ross too. How’s that?”

“Deal. And listen, we’re going to have to do something sane about meetings, then. I’ll die on that highway, if I have to…”

“Already thought of that. I’ll have Darla set us up with conference phones all ‘round, and we can sign whatever needs a signature by fax, or courier, or whatever. How’s that? Was your drive home awful?”

“Suicidal, and it didn’t help having those two friends of yours at each other’s throats the whole way. That’s what reminded me of Velma.”

“Controversy’s a good thing to sort out right from the start, I always find. You know where you’re at, once the air’s cleared.”

“Why do I have a feeling there’s a little deck-clearing going on here? Where exactly is my darling sister going to be when all this gun smoke clears, George? ”

“Oh, now, Maude, I said air. You should get some. Wit and I are packing ourselves up right now to get out and take our rods down the river for a bit of…”

“Sex, I told them that’s what you’d be on about. Bena was sure you’d be discussing Great Thoughts. I said sex. You sure you know what you’re headed for, George? I do like you, y’ know. I don’t want to lose you.”

“We are headed for Strawbridge, for the manse, to tend to the business of the Strawbridge Symphony Orchestra, Maude. Perhaps a little trolling on the way, with a fishing pole,  Maude. I’m taking a Pole fishing with a fishing pole. Amuse yourself with that, girl, and stop imagining things.”

“Okay. Fine. We still have a deal?”

“We do. I’ll speak to Velma Lettie as well as the others.”

“You have my proxy, George. Say hello to the Maestro for me. Happy fishing.”

Resting the receiver after talking to George, Maude had to choose between more coffee, and the bathroom, quite sure the phone would ring halfway through either. Lizzie’ll have to know where I was yesterday, and she’ll be rarin’ to go after talking to George. We need some time to think here. The thought of George and Ziski lazing on the river, lines drifting, a sudden leaping of silver gilt, inspired Maude with the perfect fabrication to keep her sister at bay. It’s not a lie if it’s self-defense, and with any luck, it’ll keep her off all our backs for the rest of the day. Having chosen coffee, she sat and locked her knees when the ringing started.

“We went to a fish market, Elizabeth, a place Katya knows, she wanted to get some more of those nice trout, a whole bunch, and Bena wanted to see the fish-market men with their sleeves rolled up and their big arms all shiny with fish scales. They’re a good-looking lot, dark, and very friendly. And then we had a wonderful bouillabaisse in a little trattoria. Filthy. The place, not the soup, it was full of every kind of cockle and mussel and floating with fish bits and… Elizabeth? Elizabeth? You’re not upset? We’d have invited you, but I said you’d be much too busy organizing things to waste time poking at a lot of dead fish. Live ones too, actually, a lot of… Elizabeth? That choking sounds iffy. I’d best let you go, get back to you later. You take something for that throat, now, Dear. D’ you have a lozenge? A Fisherman’s Friend’s a good…” Maude listened to the dial tone for a moment before hanging up and racing to the bathroom.

It was cold on the river. At a glance, Wit Ziski, huddled in a bulk of wool and flannel might appear frozen in misery, his hands nowhere to be seen, one poorly shod foot poking from the clothes bundle to pin the butt of a fishing rod to the floor deck. George Preston felt a host’s concern for possible discomfort, his own shinbones were icy, but he recognized the unstrung stillness of the body wrapped in his old shirts and sweaters topped with a car rug folded for a headscarf, and he knew the look of the loose-browed eyes focused beyond sight. George smiled to himself and settled to his own rod. The Pole had a line in the water, he was busy fishing, plenty of time to be cold later.

Ziski’s problem was how to make music about La Rimskaya, a woman who had lived for Chopin, without sounding like Chopin, how to drown the voice of his own old passion in order to hear a new. For this church affair of George Preston’s, he had said he would play Chopin, it was what his fingers knew best to do, and he would. A great gallop of music and then bang shut the door. And then once again he must find, at least temporarily, a new ear, a new voice, throat, touch, a new heart. He must fall in love to make music. It was his method and it worked indifferently or well according to the quality of passion, or quantity when he was working with Italians.

Something over a year past, he had seduced, or had been seduced by, a bit of red-headed ambition. Feeling foreign, foolish, a thin man, emaciated rather than ascetic, with bent legs, he’d been overly grateful for what appeared to be love. And perhaps it was, of a kind, for she lived in a Harlequin Romance. Two marriages had begun happily-ever-after and ended with frogs, obviously chapters and not the whole book, so she had waltzed into the arms of a conductor of orchestras sure that she had reached at last her rightful place beneath the chandeliers. Her sole object having been achieved as a legitimate courtesan, she proved indolent, and though popularly adoring jazz, she proved as well to have no music in her whatsoever. The musical life was hard and querulous, but it was Ziski’s love and he only needed her. And when, all too soon, having in her boredom and anger reheated previous affairs, which allowed her to despise him for his jealous hysteria, she had slapped herself and charged him with assault, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t.

Problematically, he feared he’d become so red-eyed and wizened with loneliness and cheap liquor that his charms might prove inadequate to the conquest of more than a homely second cello, and what he needed again was a rush of red-headed lust. Would there be any such thing in this Strawbridge? Do they really mean that? I don’t remember any sort of bridge when we drove up. Doesn’t sound like a safe way to cross water. Should have asked Maude. Will they be straw-haired in Strawbridge? I would settle for that.

Maudie, Maudie, Maudie, sex you think, eh? George fixed the edge of an eye on the ripple over a shoal of rock to gauge the drift. You think two tired old fishermen__ well me anyway, though he might as well be, from the looks of him he feels as old as I do__ you really think we’re out here in this cold, sitting on this icy water, going on about sex, do you? Jesus, Maudie, I always thought you were brighter than that. Though I suppose being married to the ever-tumescent Harry could give you that idea.

We’re out here fishing, Maude, and we probably won’t even talk about that. Men can’t talk body parts and sex acts like you can, we can’t trade douche recipes and yak about foreplay as if it’s the be all. Do that, show your hand, might as well roll over. You gotta take a look at the other guy, figure if he’s getting it, if he needs it, if he doesn’t care. Is he on the make, or has he got enough? Adjust your pitch and do business. You get talking targets and goals, you don’t want him thinking pussy and trying to fuck you over. That’s your Harrys and those guys, all those buddy clubs of pickled adolescents doing business as if a cheerleader’s the prize, warping all the school spirit crap into a clown act with an out-sized cheque for every act of charity, wankers who never leave the locker room behind. They’re the ones buy the magazines, the videos, talk tits and ass and teamwork. We’re not all… Son-of-a-bitch! Keel grating on rock, George scrambled for power. Oh, for the love of mike, Maude. There, you happy? I was thinking about sex. Damn! Now I need to take a leak.

There’d been a time when  he could piss overboard, but no longer. On a summer’s night at Stratford, having beaten the rising houselights to the washroom at intermission, only to find himself stalled at a urinal, trying not to look furtive till long after Lear’d been blown back onstage, George had come to the sorry conclusion that the apocrypha of public washroom perversion denied the prostate. It’s not about sex, if you can’t even piss. What I need now’s solid ground, a decent tree to lean on and enough concentration to watch I don’t soak my knees. Still better than diapers. He geared up the cruiser as his eyes raked riverbank for a beachable inlet. I’ll tell you this for free, Maude, we don’t talk about our pecker problems. Would you just get ashore before you wet yourself.

Ziski rocked to the surge of the throttle, sensing the coming harmonic swell, sustaining, sustaining, suspended, and suddenly dropped in a wallow that capsized him into the stern. Poking his head up out of the car rug, he gave George a peevish look. George, tying with one hand and steadying a leg over the gunnel with the other, threw a sheepish grin over his shoulder, “Need a leak. Coffee in the thermos. Won’t be long.”

My pole, my fishing pole. George’s forehead pressed into birch bark to take the weight of his body, his hands holding himself and his pant legs as far as possible apart. You making bad pecker jokes, or bad ethnic jokes? Yah, bad, both. It’s not funny. Which? They’re both to be pitied, not laughed at. Oh, pity? Pity the poor prostate, for sure, but I think the ethnic wants respect. So no jokes. Christ, I’ve nothing but respect for my prostate, but it has to be teased, you know, it has to be humoured or I’ll blow up like a piss bomb. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Ah, shut up and please just let me pee. Nerves that had been squealing ‘let me pee’ since the keel touched rock screamed to connect and his entire strength strained to open the stream and he was washed with a need to lie down and sleep, to call the vet and be put to sleep for ever, and he managed a faltering flow. He tucked and zipped, still pressed to the cool white tree, and the winking pulse in the centre of his forehead reminded him to be grateful.

You knew she’d never had an orgasm. George winced and pushed himself erect, found his feet and turned them to the river. All those years. Yah, I know. All her life. I know. I didn’t think she could. Yah, sure. Fuck off, you know I tried. Well, now we know you didn’t try hard enough, don’t we? I didn’t think she could! You said. You never asked her. Oh sure, ask the Queen if she squats to pee. I tried. I did. I used to ask her if it made her feel good. You sticking it to her, you mean? Yes! I tried everything I could think of. Obviously not what she was thinking about, eh? She said she liked it. No, not really, that isn’t what she says. What’s she really say? ‘It feels just the way it should.’ And you’ve always taken that to mean…? Ah, shit. It’s what she always said. And you didn’t want to think you weren’t doing your job. Am I right? So, mea culpa, I just had to figure she never stops thinking about who she is and where she is and how she looks long enough to come. Too busy arranging the sheets to know she’s in bed.

Jesus, man! I know. I know. But it’s different now, there’s counselling and therapy and stuff. Sure. So, it’s not so much a secret anymore. Oh, I know, shout it from the highest hills. It wasn’t so simple then. Oh. Okay, so it was easy. Yes. I liked it that way. Yes. Well, you know what she’s like. Oh, yes, how is she? If she got horny on top of everything else, I’d be dead. A nymphomaniac Margaret Thatcher. We’d all be dead. And you think this justifies… Holy shit! She has  had an orgasm, asshole, and you gave it to her with the palm of your hand. Oh, Christ! George had to sit down on a rock for a moment and look at his hands.

Huddled in his heap of wool, Ziski idled his line in the still waters of the dock and watched George on his rock. He is watching his hands. Looking at his hands. Yes. He turns to see the palm, lift up, to see the back, and hush, the palm, the back, the palm… ah, fortissimo, he commands the brass… and raises it to his face, Otello, Lady McBeth… no, he folds his hands, a book, a prayer, Mikado, Peggy Wood… and bites his thumbs! “How are you, George?” He waited for a nodded head, “You are cold? We will have a cup of coffee. It is here.”

George slid a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled himself up until his spine curved back and he blew a deep breath from his belly, “Sure, serve it up, Wit. Thank you.”

They puddled their way on down river without much more conversation. Having already confessed to the priest, George didn’t care to bore the piano player, too, and tried to imagine himself buying a leather paddle in one of those shops, and thought maybe a real toy store’d be safer and a pingpong racket would do. Wit stared at his spindle bobber and listened hard for notes of the Laughing Rimskaya’s lament. The old princess’s hands had been terrible with arthritis and he strained for the melody of her pain.

Fridays, for a scheduled twenty minutes, mid-morning, David met with his supervisor in hope of locating any lurking disaster in whatever new policy complications had leaked from ministry administration in the course of the week, a usually vain effort to prevent weekend panic calls from clients, and he was accustomed to responding to memo requests for items of documentation on short notice. With his eye on the clock, he obeyed a demand for a numbered file, pulling it up to the departmental net with a few raps on his keyboard before grabbing a coffee on his way to the stairs. The presence in his boss’s office of the investigating supervisor frowning into a computer screen was an unwelcome surprise that could only mean trouble and David didn’t bother to supress a deep sigh, half-heartedly disguised as a cooling blow on his coffee, annoyed that his already overburdened schedule was about to be screwed for the day.

Feigning nonchalance with an off-hand gesture at David to take an empty chair, his supervisor’s apprehension was apparent in silent, darting glances at the woman poring over his monitor. He’d be the one to take the hit if some client had pulled a fast one on his department. He might be ready and willing to sacrifice staff if things got ugly, nevertheless, it would mark him. He played with a pen and tried to form fear into a look of judicial concern. David swallowed coffee and counted down from a hundred as slowly as he could. He was eager for his planned escape from the city and that part of his mind that had already left the office in anticipation of packing and route-planning, for Paul had warned that it was tricky avoiding the grasping sprawl of Peterborough and he needed to consult a map, had to be dragged back to deal with god knows what nastiness the social police had unearthed. Digging up one of their cardboard coffins. He winced with the memory of Paul’s nagging conversation. Why can’t whatever this is wait until Monday, goddamn it, I’ve still got to find a car to rent!

The investigator lifted her face from the screen, her lips pursed with disapproval as she turned her attention to the two men. There’d been a squeal. A living violation. Client reported to be sharing accomodation at a secondary address. All files under scrutiny. Looks too damned clean to be true. Highly suspicious. Requests out to all sources. David’s case. What did he have to add to the allegations? Evidence? David was stunned, he’d keyed up the requested file without looking. The target was the old lad he’d left to kick his heels in the waiting room while he’d tried to track down Paul two days before.

Certainly there were things not in any file that David could tell, if he wanted to, the business of the boxes, for instance. He had always possessed a covetous eye for pretty objects of wood, and he hadn’t lived with Katherine without learning more than a thing or two about the beauty of form and line, so his attention had been taken, on his first required visit to the man’s apartment, by a collection of small wooden boxes. He’d supposed they were folk art, or conscious primitives, exquisitely carved with figures and patterns and highly polished despite simple, even crude construction. Pleased by David’s comment, the man had modestly confessed to them  as a means of occupying his hands and assuaging his guilt while tuned to mindless television. His interest piqued, David asked if they were ever sold, or was that even a consideration? They were difficult and unbelievably time-consuming, he’d been told, and there were too few people willing to pay what they were worth for their individuality and his labour, consequently most were given as presents to friends. Still, on occasion someone would offer money of a kind and, if he had an immediate pressing need, he would arrange to sell a box through an old friend’s business as a means of keeping everything kosher, with a record for the taxman. David had felt constrained to ask, for the sake of the record, whether he had any personal interest in the business.

“My interest is that the business lends some measure of dignity to them. I think they deserve that, don’t you? Even if I say so.” There was something about that answer that David had sensed to be equivocal, perhaps it was the stony stare that accompanied it, but he had satisfied himself with a steely look of his own.

“It’d be great if you could make yourself a living from them, but I know what you mean about getting people to part with real money for art. They like to appreciate it, they love to own it, but they don’t want to have to pay for it. Just make sure, if you do sell one, you report the income. And include a receipt from your friend’s business when you send it in.” He’d lingered his tongue on ‘friend’, but the man’s look hadn’t wavered and David had chosen to make the distinction, that he owned to no business that need be officially considered of value.

“He was just here on Wednesday,” David stared at his boss, searching for a glimmer of charity and shutting out sight of the investigator’s throat, to keep control of his hands, “I did a six-month on him.” The man had shown up to a regular appointment for case reassessment and as always had treated David’s ministering of social assistance with gentle amusement, following  through the liturgy with the ritual responses and signings. Unfailingly polite and apparently grateful, he seemed neither humiliated nor resentful of a dependancy forced upon him by the disease of an unexpected genetic weakness that had suddenly diminished an energetic life and left him with a need for drugs he couldn’t afford. Not old enough, or sufficiently crippled, to be pensionable, he had had to come and ask for help.

“I can’t believe he’s screwing around. Not us, anyway. Maybe he’s got a… an overnight friend he stays with once in a while and somebody else’s jealous. Far as I’m concerned, he’s got a legitimate need and he’s always been straight with me. Tell you the truth, he can sometimes irritate the hell out of me, but I still trust him. He’s nobody’s fool.”

When David had informed him that policy would require him to show the use of any savings he might possess toward the down paying of any current debt, that he would be allowed to continue with neither savings nor debt of significance, he had accepted the requirement with good grace and said that he recognized the reasoning. But he had asked David if he didn’t think it rather short-sighted, even foolish policy, to so clearly separate the needy from the rest of the public, in that capital and credit were virtual necessities for participation in a modern society? If they both hoped that his present situation would prove to be temporary, what was the lesson in stripping him of his last vestiges of independence? Was a vow of chastity expected as well? Wouldn’t it be more sensible perhaps, to create some mechanism of suspension, some sort of holding trust that put both his small savings and his credit card out of his reach until he had pulled himself back up by his bootstraps? The kind of thing expected of polititians when they went to sit on a government bench and think up ways to earn their keep. Surely it made more sense to keep a carrot on the end of the stick, rather than poke out an eye to the future. All he was seeking was the wherewithall to afford his medication and maybe, initially at least, he might need a little top-up to keep the roof over his head, until he regained strength and employment enough to get by.

David was far more used to being yelled, or whimpered at, inappropriate behaviour justifying a stern assertion of authority, so that the calm reasonableness of the objection had irritated his impotence to do anything other than force the round man into a square hole, “It doesn’t work like that. If you want your drugs covered, you have to enter the general welfare system and abide by the rules. You’ll be required to actively seek employment, get out and look, check the listings everyday, and keep a record. These are the forms, keep them up to date and send them in with the statement you’ll receive in the mail with your drug benefit card and a cheque for any allowance we calculate you’re eligible to receive. Declare the income from any part-time work, like I said, that means anything you sell, too, and send the receipt with your statement, which must be in the office by the due date, or your assistance’ll be automatically suspended until we get the situation corrected. Any bank accounts, etcetera, will be open to scrutiny, as is your residence, although you’ll usually be notified of a visit in advance. Would you tell me how much money you have in your pocket right now. Thank you. I have to read this through to you, and then you can sign it to acknowledge that you’ve understood. Okay? Here, here, here and here. And this form grants us the right to examine any accounts and records we consider necessary. There, and there. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

The investigator looked back from a glance at the screen, “We’ve been carrying him too long. What’s he still coming to us for? File says he’s employable.”

“Yah, with limitations. He needs his drug card. He’s not as old as he looks, but he’s got a lot of old guy problems. There aren’t a whole lot of real jobs out there for anybody, let alone a middle-aged white guy who needs a cane and a handy urinal.” David thought that might get a little sympathy from his boss’s own bladder problem, but all it got was a crossing of legs and an angry frown, and he knew he was on his own.

“Anybody can get a job if they want one,” Dismissing David’s comments, she narrowed her eyes again at the screen, “It says here,” She fiddled with the mouse, “He’s paying his rent to this same company that he’s claiming part-time work from. That looks cozy. What the hell’s that about?”

David wanted to yell, ‘Back off, fuck off, leave the guy alone and let me out of here to get some real work done’. Instead, he took a deep breath as quietly as he could. “He sublets, landlord’s an old friend, gives him a good deal on the apartment, it’s a studio, really, an old warehouse, pretty primitive. He gets paid for keeping the guy’s books and doing maintenance on the place and whatever else he can manage. Pretty sensible, he can work at home and…”

“I don’t like it. There’s not enough money showing here, rent’s almost his whole income, nobody can live like that. What’s he eat? I smell a rat. So does somebody else. We’ve got this information that he’s not living where he says he is, and now I’m starting to think it’s bigger than that. He’s pulling a two-time on us somewhere and I’m going to bring him down. He’s mine. Understand?” She wasn’t asking David a question, she was giving an order, “I’ve had my people just poking around so far, but now it’s official. Okay? I’ve got to feed Ministry with a report the end of next month and I need numbers. We’ll pull him in and make him show us every nickle he’s ever seen. I’ve got a feeling we can dump this loader, chance we can hit him with fraud and squeeze it all back. You stay out of it, give us what we need to play him, but avoid contact. If you’ve just done a reassessment, you don’t need to see him again anyway, just let it roll,” She turned to David’s boss, “Move his file, snail him notice he’s got a new case worker and keep him spinning as long as you can.”

“I think you’re ‘way off-side. I think you’re wrong about him,” David tried to keep his hackles down, “He goes by the book, does everything he’s supposed to and then some, never complains. If he’s been staying somewhere else, he’s probably got a good reason, maybe the heat’s off, or the plumbing’s busted. He’s my responsibility, why not give me the chance to find out? He needs help to stay healthy, and you’re gonna put him through all this bullshit?”

Her eyes watching David over the top of the screen registered male aggression and darted for a put down, “We’re not running a charity, you know.”

“Oh, for godsake!” Blowing his breath in a hard slump in his chair, David turned out a palm toward them, “What else are we? We’re…”

“David!” His boss slapped a hand to his blotter.

“… a publicly administered charity,” David looked from eyes to eyes, “Where do you people come from? We exist because churches can’t do it anymore. According to my wife’s grandmother, they can’t even afford to feed people one decent meal in the whole year, anymore, without charging a ticket. And it’s not cheap, I know, I’ve got two. Steep user’s fee,” David wondered if they were deaf, “When everybody went to church, they could do it. Everybody takes up golf, we need social services. So we don’t believe in God, we still have to share.”

Straightening from her hunch at the screen, the investigator looked down her reading glasses at Paul’s boss and asked in a colourless voice that questioned his faith, “Can you control this?”

Backing himself against the load, David felt the tongue of the wagon snap in his bones, “He doesn’t have to worry about me. I understand his problem. You, I don’t think I’d like your problem,” Rising, standing, he shouldered his empty coffee mug, “Excuse me, I have a client waiting,”  He lifted his chin in salute, “Have a nice day.” Opened the door and closed it behind him.

…

Lifting the needle from Callas when the doorbell rang, the Reverend heard Velma’s voice in the hall. Dear Lord, what have I forgotten? The letterboard’s my only responsibility for a Fowl Supper and that’s taken care of. I’ve the grace to say, but I don’t need to prepare for that, and the morning’s sermon’ll be Mark catering the loaves and fishes as always. What has that woman thought up to bother about now? He quickly sat to his desk, spreading a sheaf of grubby sermon notes over his game of solitaire. It wasn’t unknown for Velma to sweep past Anna’s intervention and throw open his study door. He was a servant of God, a servant of the Church, and Velma often took it upon herself to speak to the servants.

“Anna, can we not have those ice cream mellorolls, as we used to? So much safer as a serving. The individual rolls, you know. Very nice.” Velma Lettie rode a good stiff chair in the manse parlour, her hands reining her purse in her lap, eager to charge any problem head on.

“Toilet rolls!” Vera faded on her own exclamation. Since childhood she’d dreamed of ice cream whenever she sat in a bathroom, “I  always imagined the…”

“That’ll do, Vera. They’re nothing like. They’re a quite decent roll. Meant to keep it firm and not get on your fingers when you handle it. Certainly they’ll have the vanilla rolls, Anna, you must speak to them. They needn’t bother with the chocolate, everyone has vanilla.”

“The Dairy…” Anna Ross was bone weary of having to go through this one more time with Velma Lettie. For the umpteenth consecutive year in a row, you fathead, the Dairy does not make and never did make your jeezly mellorolls. Anna shivered to herself. They’re a defunct item. You think I don’t know what you’re obsessed with? Handling a nice firm roll? Oh, Lord, if I could say the things I’m not supposed to notice. If the thought were truly the deed, Velma, you’d have been the town pump. You’re not charitable, Anna Ross. No. The sex-starved old twat. And poor old Vera, now I’ll have to make tea, she won’t get any after that crack. She’s so starved she doesn’t even need a toilet, long as she’s got a hanky in her sleeve. What a sideshow.

“The Dairy is so good about our order as it is, Velma, I just couldn’t bring myself to bother them about it. It’s a big order for them, this time of year and they never fail us,” And they always fail to bill me for it, and if you think for a minute I’m going to lose that happy little arrangement by demanding mellorolls, you’re a full suit short of a deck, my dear. Anna shuddered again. Oh, my goodness, it’s days since cake night and I can’t stop this thinking. It’s the terrible black Irish McGee in you, you’re as mean in your mind as Grandad was with his tongue. Just be glad you weren’t raised Catholic, you don’t have to tell, remember. Don’t you go giving away any secrets. Do you suppose she’s found out about George Preston? “Have you spoken to Bea, Velma?”

“I haven’t, you know. We were by last evening, just out for a drive, Vera needed the air, and there was something not quite right, we thought, going on there. Lights all over the house at first and when we looked again she was hiding in the kitchen. We’re quite worried she’s not herself. She was odd there, at Helen’s, Wednesday. Didn’t you think? Certainly she was. About that dirty bowl. Well, I don’t wonder, considering where it came from. But something else’s upset her as well. Could be that daughter of hers. Not a happy marriage, we think. Or her dear old mother. Failing badly, you know. She never once stopped swinging her feet through that whole meeting, Beatrice didn’t. And twitching her chest. It wasn’t just the tight sweater. She’s been putting on a show with her bosom since we were girls. What got her into trouble in the first place. Some say she buys too small. I believe she shrinks them in the wash on purpose. But no, as I say, she’s used to that, so I’ve no doubt she’d something else uncomfortable on her mind.”

It wouldn’t possibly have been that she was trapped in a roomful of grown women playing ‘I spy the china cat’, would it? Not daring to speak, Anna shook her head and puckered her lips in a display of sad sympathy. You blundering, blind old fool, Velma Lettie, why on earth do we let you take yourself seriously? I guess we’re just sadistic.

“We plan to drop in on her next,” Velma ran a finger over a sidetable at her elbow, “See she’s keeping up with the housework, you know, it’s always a sign.” Examining the finger, she brushed it clean with her thumb, “Have a quiet word over a cup of tea, we’ll get to the root of it in no time. Beatrice, I’m sure, will give us a cup of tea.”

Or masochistic. “If I put the kettle on, would you stay for a cup of tea, Velma? Vera?”

Velma made a pretence of consulting the watch on her wrist. High time, I’d say. With a condescending smile and a tip of her head at the door to the hall to indicate the study, Velma allowed for tea, “Very well, and if he could join us, I’ve a word to say.”

Only one? That’d be a first. Anna rose to obey. I can think of a word, but I won’t say it. “It’ll just take a minute for the kettle,” A stirring of Velma’s feet sent Anna scurrying  to intercept, “I’ll slip in first and ask if he can spare time for a cup. Hard at his sermon, you know.”

Bea changed twice before settling on the outfit she’d intended to wear in the first place, a botany pullover, its matching cardigan, and a pair of slacks with a crease and a cuff that said these aren’t just any old pants. Mother thinks she’s the only one who knows how to dress, because that’s what she wears, a dress. They’re not pants, Mother, they’re slacks! Where’s my purse? Oh god, why am I doing this? You have to go out there and say what you think. Say what I think? I don’t… You have to. Where’s my list? And you have to tell your mother what you think, or you’re going to have her in your back bedroom and you’ll never get to think again. Make sure you’ve got enough jello. I think the man’s gone foolish, this orchestra thing’s just an excuse to… Jello!

She went through her cupboards and into the fridge checking on the ingredients for her salads, picking at packages, judging quality and fail-safe quantity. She caught herself underlining cottage cheese on her list, as though it would be possible to forget to stop by the Dairy on her way home from the Rosses, and told herself to get out of the house. Go now, you’ve got five minutes left to get there. I’m not joining anything. Who says you have to? He wants to put me on this Board. And you want to be put on a pedestal? Don’t be silly. So, what are you worried about, you can’t say no? I can say no. No to what? Never mind that now, get out the door.

Shivering with cold, Ziski shed the car rug, a red-checked jac shirt and a moth-holed pullover that reached his knees. This George Preston didn’t seem to be any sort of a clothes horse, dressed as he was in baggy corduroys, an old flannel shirt and shapeless tweed jacket, and Wit would gladly have re-wrapped himself in the plaid blanket, but they were on a social call with more than one ulterior motive and he thought it best, since he, himself, was some sort of gift, to try and look presentable. His tie having somehow dipped itself in whisky the night before, he looped a wool muffler around the neck of his shirt, buttoned a thick sagging cardigan beneath his suit jacket and squeezed into his topcoat.

Trooping along behind George on the flagged walk between church and hall, his spirits rose, much better pleased by the sight of cut limestone and slate in an old harmony, than by the cement and steel clamour of his imagining. He looked beyond at the broad lawns studded with eccentric towering pines and hedgings of cedar, and thought perhaps there was hope here after all. Perhaps this is not so bad an idea that George has to make music here. I think these people could know what is good. And if they do not, well… When they pay me, I will teach them what is good.

George was in a hurry of anticipation that carried him unseeing from river to manse, his sight focused on the happy gratitude of the Rosses and the warm tender… Tender? Yes, tender, the warm tender smile that would light Beatrice’s face when he introduced Ziski and sprang his surprise. He could almost wish he hadn’t spilled the beans to her over the phone, that he might see the first leap of pleasure to her eyes, but he satisfied himself with the thought that she would be sharing the fun of revelation with him, and that that could help soften any resistance she might still think to offer to his desire to have her on the Board.

He was shod in an old pair of buffalo desert boots he’d forgotten he owned and, encountering them again when he’d dug down the bootbox to find the moccasins, had passed over as heavy and dried to painful stiffness. But off the phone from Bea, he’d not even bothered to remember fearing falling on his ass in her company before he was back to the table with Witold and the whisky, the boots and a bottle of neatsfoot oil. They drank Queen Anne alone from a pair of stubby old Waterford juice glasses George favoured for ritual occasions and told each other bear stories, embroideries of brave deeds and fearful doings, of dares and luck and the curious thing at the bottom of the well. Rooting a pen and fold of paper from a jacket pocket, Ziski had sketched stave and clef to lend himself dignity, but the scotch got his tongue and his hands and they only stopped wagging to listen and drink. George had worked oil into leather and the old hide was grateful, gradually took to his fingers and came soft in his hands. So, he strode up safely to the manse step, booted and spurred with excitement.

“Apparently he’s not answering. She’s obviously quite desperate,” Velma paused in her flow to shake a frowning face at Vera surreptitiously accepting a refill from Anna’s teapot, “She telephoned to us, d’ you see. She blames it on Central having disconnected him, or some such, as if we aren’t all automatic now and not still at the mercy of Elsie Hoy off changing a diaper instead of minding the switchboard. The idea is that he’s up there all alone. She’d brook no doubt about that, though I had to wonder. Be that as it may, I suspect trouble. He may’ve had robbers in, those home invaders up from the city, or he’s done himself an injury and he’s lying in a pool of blood, either way, the receiver‘s off the hook. It could, of course, simply be…” Bunching her mouth and raising her brow, Velma finished her sentence with a knowing look, “A man tires of a sharp tongue, Father always said.”

Never able to convince her husband that it was safer to abstain whenever Velma Lettie held the floor, Anna maintained the myth of an allergy and dutifully kept him supplied with clean handkerchiefs to mask the choking astonishment that often sprayed tea from his nose. If he didn’t finish sputtering and say something soon to give her some direction on the subject, she knew she’d speak out of turn and the cat would be out of the bag. It was unthinkable that Velma should know that George Preston had spent Sunday evening here drinking rum and playing cards at the kitchen table, that he had come and gone with Bea. They had promised dear Bea, poor Bea. Poor Robert, he can’t lie, he doesn’t know how. Her breath locked in her throat, blood drained from her head in a dizzy panic and Anna wobbled on her chair.

Poor Robert would’ve stayed muzzled into his handkerchief till he could think of an appropriate diversion, but a glance at Anna forced him to speak before she should slip to the floor, “A wise man, your father must have been, Velma Lettie, I regret not having known him. Before my time, of course. And this Elizabeth Preston, although Anna has spoken of her__ Have you not, my dear? __again, I believe I’ve not had the pleasure. Perhaps she is, as you say, something of a trial to her husband and he’s taking an opportunity to rest his spirit in the peace of our lake country. Solitude can be of great benefit to a man of affairs…” Oh, dear Lord! “… a man of business, of business affairs. The world of finance, as you know, is quite topsy-turvy these days and the pressures must be…” Oh, Lord! She didn’t say he’s…

“Enough to sink a man, if he’s not careful to take the time to think,” Her cup rattling in its saucer, Anna pulled out of her swoon to rescue her husband, “Yes, I believe I have said that he’s quite important in the Imperial Trust.” I just did. “And we do know, Velma, that Elizabeth can be, as you say, a trial. Perhaps he’s been…”

“Out on the water!” It was good of Anna to cover his back like that. Despite the seeming aimlessness of her mind, or perhaps because of it, she’d long proven herself invaluable to the concentration of his thoughts, and the Reverend thought it best to clear off from the dangerous ground of marital friction. He knew, after all, as the others did not, what George had done. “Out in his boat. Does he fish? I expect he fishes and that’s where he’ll be and the telephone has simply been knocked awry in his hurry to be out of doors in this lovely autumn weather, his line in the water, drifting in the sunshine.”

“Drifting in the sunshine, downriver on a raft,” Vera spoke sweetly to herself, for she thought Huck Finn the most perfect thing in all creation and had always known he wandered awaiting her just beyond the raspberry patch.

No response was expected, of course, and ordinarily Velma would have taken the opportunity to express her displeasure with her sister’s repeated nonsense by hustling her off, her tea unfinished, but she’d been looking forward to a mission of mercy, was dissatisfied with this dismissal of George Preston’s misconduct and wasn’t about to lower her sights, “That’s all very well, Reverend, but there’s not been a sign of him anywhere in the village and it might be a good thing, if you and I were to just slip up and have a looksee. If we find nothing wrong, we’ll have satisfied ourselves, at least, that we’ve done our Christian duty.” Drawing Anna’s attention to her empty cup with a waggle of the saucer, she was preparing to share her suspicions at length, when the doorbell rang.

The moment Bea passed through the pines and spotted George with a foot raised to the manse, her own knees had knocked into reverse almost spilling her to the ground, but a quick fill of wind buoyed her on. George felt her eyes, stayed his step and turned to see her cross the lawn. Ziski read the lyric in the turn of a head, the shy lift of a wave, and his hands had risen to pluck notes from the highstrung air.

“Beatrice.”

“Yes.    George.”

“Yes.    Goodmorning.”

“Yes.”

The little man who stood two feet from George finally taking her eye, Bea’d started and wondered how long she’d been staring. Ziski ripened the blush of introductions with operatic manners that conducted their climb to the stage centre door and the bell.

Ah, the wee cowerin’ timerous sleekit beastie! What a panic’s in thy breastie? I don’t believe we’ve met. I do know most of the church mice to speak to. Are you just in for the season, then? Shall I call you Bobby? I’m Vera.

Trapped by the quarter round, the mouse halted in its frantic scurry and raised its muzzle in a quivering search for the sound of sweetness, or was it smell of sweetness? he wasn’t sure which of his senses picked up on the good vibes, except it certainly wasn’t his eyesight. Having spent the summer in a perennial border, he had found the manse gloomy and didn’t trust most of what he saw. He sat up on his haunches for a better look. Oh, hello. He sniffed a female and squinted to see if the set of her legs threatened a pounce. He’d been indoors for a month, but he still found it incredible that nobody was trying to eat him, quite the opposite, in fact. He’d found a number of cheese trays offering some very nice cheddar in the kitchen cupboards, and once he’d mastered the over-designed serving mechanism, Italian he’d thought until one flipped over and he saw China on the bottom, he’d done so well for himself he’d begun to worry about his cholesterol. Fortunately, there was oatmeal in the pantry and bread crumbs after every meal.

Would you care for a bit of Nice biscuit? Or is it nice, d’ you know? I’ve never been sure. You often can’t tell with the English. They have a Bourbon creme, so maybe it is Nice, but then they just might say nice to be mean. Oh, don’t come closer, I’ll throw. Snapping off a corner of cookie without upsetting her tea, Vera wound up for a surreptitious toss and caught the mouse on the chin, causing an upset and a scurrying recovery of claws on hardwood that swung Velma’s vigilence to the scene of the crime.

“…an unhealthy flush, Beatrice. You have mice, Anna, mice in the parlour. They’ll be at the wiring next. You’ll burn in your bed. You must use the pellets,” Her eyes boring into her sister’s fingers picking at a broken biscuit in her saucer, Velma edged her tongue with malice, “Eventually they wither up and die of thirst.”

Even if she hadn’t hummed, no one could have helped looking at Vera. The force of her sister’s distain drew every eye to the faltering smile, to the fingers dithering a cup and saucer in her lap. Bea and the Rosses glanced their usual disheartened sympathy and George, who upon introduction had sized up what was useful to his scheming, bestowed a banker’s smile on a small account. But Ziski had heard what the others hadn’t, a sweet humming of pain, a doleful whimper that was not fear and not complaint, but a perfect note of pain embraced, so that when he followed the general look, his eyes were lit with music and his arms rose to embrace the laughing sorrow of his Rimskaya.

Vera Lettie had never been hugged. Her mother,  once or twice exasperated by Vera’s childish timidity, had patted her on the head, but that was it for affection, and the only male hand ever to touch her had been Doctor Johnson’s cold knuckles rapping her back for pleurisy the winter before her father died. Doc Johnston knew the miserly old bastard was probably freezing his daughters to death and out of pity almost patted her shoulder, but it was naked and it was Vera, so he didn’t. In the first year of her teaching, children had touched her, or had tried to. A small hand would reach out, mistaking her nerveless inertia for a gentle invitation, but the burning fierceness of her desire to sweep the small bodies into her lap, to curl herself about their warm moist limbs with a smother of love, had been forestalled by Old Albert’s primary dictum, that there was no money paid for molly-coddling and she’d look a right fool old maid if she got up to any of that. No child ever volunteered to approach Velma and, although Vera never achieved her sister’s fearsome armour, in time the two Letties were confounded in childish legend and Vera was lost even to innocent love.

Frightened from her chair by the approach of Ziski’s outstretched arms, Vera felt the corner of Nice biscuit crush to crumbs beneath her orthopedic heel, reinforcing her shame and squeezing a higher note of anguish from her panicked breast, a note that further lit the strange man’s eyes with dreadful fire. All of the stories that she knew, had ever read, or seen, were insufficient preparation for this moment. What was she to make of a man’s piercing look without a plot to go by? Of the grinning rictus of Beelzebub, of the doctors Jekyll and Sardonicus, of murder, of madness, of Rhett and romance, of Heathcliff, of Indian Joe, of hot hate, of contempt, of a fate worse than death, what was she to know? The piercing glance swept up Vera in the rollercoaster ride she’d never been on, the gallop to the hills, the slide to the pool, and she recognized without objection that what she felt was the heating of her loins. Some slight vertigo causing her to lift arms for balance, and quite sure in the instant that her sister knew nothing of this, Vera gave the first hug she’d ever been in.

David had pushed his afternoon from chore to chore, crowding out possible contact with rumours of his disaffection and made himself late enough to excuse a cab ride through the homeless, to rent and drive back through the homeless a car whose name he couldn’t pronounce, that he had to trust to his escape in exactly__ He consulted his watch. Please god, make it soon. __In exactly twelve hours. Get some sleep. I’m going to phone that guy. Yah, okay. Warn him. Okay. What if he really isn’t there? He’s got a machine, you know he’s got a machine and you know he’s not stupid, he’ll check his calls. Cover his ass. Yah, so it won’t hurt to warn him it’s showing, ‘cause they’re gonna make him bend right over and lick. Their lives suck, why shouldn’t his? You need to eat something. Yah, I’ll make coffee. Get yourself wired. Okay. He fired up the coffee machine and left a message for the guy to call him without fail by midnight, later if he had to. I’m probably gonna lose my job for this. Could. You don’t have to. I’m in the wrong place. What’re you gonna do? Right now I’m gonna eat peanut butter off a spoon. Then he threw himself into the couch with a full mug and smokes and let himself think.

The trouble was, the guy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, for quite suddenly the climate had changed, with new rapacious policy that bottom-lined, flat-lined, what was said to be a too generous sense of social responsibility. A generation once greedy for freedom had grown greedy for comfort, the old communal style had been satanized and ‘what’s mine’s my own’ made new again. Lines everywhere swelled with people cut adrift for the sake of corporate bonuses. Holes were ripped in the safety nets and left unmended until the number of lives falling through became scandalous, until the duct tape of privately contracted solutions was bought to attempt repairs. The resulting administrative nightmare had driven not a few of David’s fellow workers to despair and their clients into the street. The false language of job search, retraining, educational opportunity, volunteer participation, masked an onerous burden of bureaucratic paperwork, of aimless seminars and pointless peptalks that achieved little but the junk of more paper and the justification of a coordinator’s salary.

Despite political trumpetings of job creations, they must have been for neurosurgeons and physicists, because they certainly didn’t appear in the pathetically thin listings available to David’s clients, who increasingly found themselves volunteered into serial serfdom on the pretext of earning emancipation through new job skills and permanent employment with the undercapitalized charities and businesses which had been bamboozled into pretending to the charade in exchange for the continuation of their own reduced funding.

David had been grateful to the old lad, both relieved and curious to follow his progress as he patiently plodded his way through the proliferating fiefdoms of a disintegrated, once civil, authority, doing his duty, carting his paperwork from office to office, careful to guard his passport against arbitrary confiscation for the crime of a missed appointment, an incomplete checklist. For the sake of the medication that kept his heart from exploding, he fulfilled the requirements of a forty hour week aboard a bureaucratic merry-go-round that left him exhausted and with too little time left to earn what he could. Real work was allowed, encouraged, the income docked, of course, not to allow advantage, and balance was supposedly maintained with a reduction in required carousel riding, but the erratic availability of part-time work tended to interfere with appointed ritual and he was too often caught revolving in circles when he could have been earning a wage.

It was a trap, one that David knew had been designed, on appearance anyway, with the good intention of replacing an older trap, the ‘too generous’ trap of ‘welfare dependency’. Previously, the fact that the poor are always with us had been accepted in a virtuous spirit that had tried its best to maintain a minimum of decency and dignity. Body and soul had been granted value and at least a bare sufficiency, though David had been too often embarassed by his inability to help a client hiding a gap-toothed mouth behind a hand, or by the noticeably obvious choice of food over deoderant, to believe that the old trap had been all that generous. Of course there were cheats, there are always cheats, and occasionally a client was struck from the rolls, though more often than not, that very threat was sufficient to restore sober common sense and the proper application of benefits toward roof and groceries.

But the mean spirit that had risen to power focused on the cheats with demogogic bombast and solipsistic language that shouldn’t have passed a grade nine comprehension test, successfully tarring everyone in need of social assistance with a sweep of the brush. A second swipe, the rhetorical substitution of ‘taxpayer’ for ‘citizen’, blacked the poverty line and caught everyone below with an identifying lick behind the ear. The harrassed middle class was encouraged to conceive itself a beleagured gentry beset by an irresponsible peasantry, obscuring the fact that in the absence of philanthropic landlords the poor paid their share of property and school taxes with the rent, and that shoes and shampoo were taxed the same in the slums as the suburbs. The sloppy logic of the implied denigration depended for meaning on income, very much the dog in the manger barking at those without, and incometax payers of conscience were relieved to consider themselves burdened rather than fortunate. Mean spirit was transformed into virtue, and Beadle Bumble could once more deny Oliver’s plea with righteous complacency.

As the relentless change progressively strangled his department and his clients’ lives, David had participated with growing dismay. He had taken his degree in sociology and come into the job, not with any inflated ideal of messianic intent, not even with the mind-set of bureaucratic ambition, but simply with the expectation of being useful, of applying his intelligence and an easy competency with people and their problems that had come more naturally to him from a comfortable small town upbringing than had the study of academic paradigms. Now he found his authority to offer assistance increasingly restricted, as clients were suffered to lose their way in a confusion of compartmentalized services. Deliberately uninformed of the purpose of a summons, they arrived for appointments unprepared and fearful, and that vulnerability was exploited for easy acquiescence; they gave up their rights to privacy, protest and appeal for barely the price of a roof, or a meal, no longer enough for both. The survivors were those young, energetic and cunning enough to dodge with excusable innocence or ignorance, those who got by on little rest to scrape extra money where they could and artfully conceal it. Without doubt there were sufficient cases of the successful training and placement of clients in real employment, every department had a quota to meet the press with. That they were almost invariably meager jobs at minimum wage, the first to go in the next dip, was not noted in the statistical congratulations.

The new trap worked. The policy had taken effect and could be displayed on the hustings as a great success. The balance was righted, the rolls had been stripped, the sum of payments hugely reduced and the money rescued from the hands of the undeserving was now very properly paid into the hands of the ‘taxpaying’ multitude hired to take it from them. Halleluia, you’re a bum.

When the call came, David picked up the phone and told the guy he was in deep shit, “You’re gonna have the whole team on you. Drop and tuck, nothing else you can do. They’ll tell you you can have a lawyer with you, but you say yes to that, they know  you’re bad.” David’s throat dried to cracking when he made himself ask, “Do you need a lawyer for this?”

A short hollow pause ended in a huff of amusement, “If I could afford to need a lawyer, I wouldn’t be in this situation, would I?”

“Do you think you need one? There’s always Legal Aid, I su…”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“There is nothing I’ve done that needs a lawyer. Okay?”

“Somebody says you haven’t been living there.”

“Oh, I’m still here. Can’t afford to live anywhere else. If I could, believe me, I would. But yah, I’ve been staying with a friend a lot lately. Most nights, I suppose, last two months,” From a long intake of breath, his voice surged back in a whisper, “She’s dying.”

“Shit.”

“Yah.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Resignation rising again with amusement,
“There isn’t anything you can  do, is there?”

For a furious moment David saw himself fling a naked corpse onto the investigator’s desk, then heard her voice say, ‘We don’t care about that, we’re after his accounting’, and knew he had nothing better to offer, “You getting paid? Sorry, but that’s what they’re really going after, every nickle.”

“Well, I’ve been eating my way through her fridge, if that’s a bonus. She sure liked a good piece of beef. Makes up for the freezer burn. But no, this one’s for friendship.”

“Only thing I can think of telling you to do is, you might give up your benefits voluntarily and they might not chase you, but I wouldn’t count on it. She’s doing a report and looking for numbers; she’s got cuts, now she wants recovers. I’m afraid you’re a duck.”

“Well, sonofabitch, y’ know… I knew I should’ve said something Wednesday. I knew it. This’s just about the lousiest timing…  You get down to a dollar and a choice between bread or noodles, you dither. I wasn’t ready, but I should’ve said it. Damn. I’ve been working myself up to the point of coming in to ask you how to climb off this ride without falling and losing my pills. I’ve discovered I can handle this palliative care thing. I’m not bad at it, a little practice and I could qualify for the tickets,” Deep breaths faded into silence before his voice came back exhausted, “Well, shit, I should’ve told you Wednesday. Bad timing, eh?”

I hate this. It’s too cruel. I can’t take this. It’s too TV.  David knew he was panicking, he had to get out of this conversation, this man’s life was about to get more painful than it already was and his own life was going to explode. He’d already lit the fuse this morning and now he was blowing on the spark, “Listen, I’m sorry, but you didn’t hear any of this from me. Okay? It’s out of my hands and I’m not even supposed to talk to you, but I’ll keep an ear open and if there’s anything I can  do, I’ll call you. Okay? I’ve got to go. Good luck.” He hung up before the man could be grateful.