Extensions (29 page)

Dad interrupted with a laugh. “My dad got out of it because of his flat feet,” he said quickly so Wendell could continue.

“So Mother and Dad took over the family farm from his father and stayed on it until 1970, when I took it over — I'd been helping up to that point, living in town, but by then Ella and I had three kids and Howard on the way. Ella was a farm girl and was glad to get back to the land. Mother and Dad moved into town, but he still liked to come out every summer and supervise.” Wendell's chuckle indicated it was more than supervision. “That's why I decided to move right out of the community when I turned the farm over to my son Howard in 1999 — just so's I wouldn't be tempted to interfere. And his wife Cindy would have never put up with me; she's not the welcoming kind my wife was. Cindy's the one got sick of all the family clutter in the basement and put it in the garage sale. Some things dated back a hundred years, so I can't say I blame her. But when I heard about it, I thought it strange she'd sell everything after convincing Howard to move back into town. Claimed she couldn't stand the isolation from her friends and family eight miles away.” Wendell shrugged, shaking off a remark he probably wanted to make about his daughter-in-law. “First time the Mingus homestead has stood empty in over a century. Howard's hanging onto it for the time being. My other son David comes from Swift Current in the summer to help on the farm and he stays there. Works on the rigs in winter.”

I needed a review. “You have two sons and two daughters?”

“Girls came first: Carol, the oldest in Victoria, Gloria in Medicine Hat, David in Swift Current, and Howard back home. David's the only one not married.”

I counted them off on my fingers and had my thumb left for Mona. “Mona's your only sibling?”

“Just the two of us. Mona never married and insisted on taking Mother back to Calgary with her after Dad died, even though Ella and I wanted to take her in. Mona's a queer duck, not very talkative — a lot like Mother, in fact. But you couldn't get Mother out of the kitchen and you can't get Mona into it. My wife and I joked that she took Mother to cook for her. Dad and I were the nosy, gabby ones — maybe you've noticed.” Wendell chuckled again. It was easy to imagine his family ignoring his chatter.

I sensed he was about to ask us some questions, but a glance at the clock told me to keep firing away while we had the momentum. “Tell us more about what your mother told you of her mother.”

Wendell cleared his throat. “It was mainly that last part. She told me she and her sister did their best to help their sick mother lying on a cot behind a curtain in the kitchen. Sara kept cold cloths on her forehead and my mother kept the kitchen going — frying onions to put in a poultice for her chest to draw out the fever. She also mixed liniment with water for her to drink — I guess they used what they could back then. She said they were afraid of their father raging around the house and were glad when he finally stormed off. Said he was going for some medicine in Nanaimo for his dear wife, but it turned out he didn't make it past the bar.

“One thing always bothered Mother. Sara kept taking paper and pen to their mother on the cot. The first time, their father snatched it out of her hand. He shouted that their mother was too sick for writing and put it in the fire. As soon as he left and Janet went outside for water, Sara again brought their mother a notebook. They were doing lessons at home on account of the school being used as a hospital. This time Moth — Janet — screamed at Sara to let their mother rest. She said it was the only time her sister ever turned on her. ‘Mama wants this,' she cried, ‘You don't understand. You don't love words the way we do.'”

Recalling this, Wendell Mingus' eyes welled up. His untalkative mother was stung by her sister's remark and clearly passed on the hurt to her son. I wondered if my face looked as dumbstruck as Dad's. My mind kept detaching itself from this bizarre situation for a reality check: was the incident of the writing paper I had just recalled myself now being confirmed in the Abbotsford air terminal? Had I blotted out the argument with Sara and Janet from Sara's version? No, it was more likely Sara had not wanted to bring the pain of it back to mind, hers or mine.

Wendell spoke more slowly now. “The only other memory Mother shared that day of Dad's funeral was what happened not long after her mother died. Their father had not sobered up since his wife's death, then he heard his son had been killed in France — and uselessly, at that, because it was days before the armistice. His little daughters thought he would drink himself to death. For a while, a neighbour lady cooked for them, but then she got the flu. Mother herself baked muffins and bread until they ran out of flour. Mother remembered lying huddled with Sara under quilts to keep warm and to forget how hungry they were. She said Sara talked and talked to keep their minds occupied.”

Wendell's cheeks had gained colour in the telling. “Hope I'm not going on too much,” he said to the two faces he held captive. “Well, Mother didn't care much for games, but Sara forced her to play pretend people with her. They pretended to be at feasts put on by teachers, mothers, and brides, all kind and devoted women. Strange how these details still stick in my mind, maybe because there weren't too many from Mother to remember. She said they were under the quilt when Sara told her about their mother Jane's last words. Sara acted as if it was a secret and was only telling her because they had run out of games to play. She said their mother had asked her to name her son Lew after their brother Llewyllyn because he was a gentle man and had no one to help him. She musta meant when he died in battle.” Wendell nodded at Dad, who had let his chin drop in his cupped hands. “And I see that she did.” He paused. “This is amazing.”

“But anyways, that's not the saddest part. Mother said she would never forget how hopeful they felt when their uncles — Thomas and Gomer — and their wives entered the cold house with no fire and their father passed out in the front room. That is, until Aunt Thelma said they could only afford to take one girl each. Mother said the shriek that went up from her twin sister lived on in nightmares for the rest of her life. Mother wasn't the kind to make a fuss, but Sara screamed and kicked as Uncle Thomas packed up her few clothes. The last thing Mother remembered was Aunt Lizzie shaking Sara and telling her to hush up, that she should be thankful anyone would take her when no one wanted her. That was the last time she saw her sister.”

None of us could speak. Finally, Wendell looked at his watch and stood up. He still had plenty of time to check in, but I knew from experience with Dad there was no point in trying to persuade someone his age that he didn't have to be early for everything. “We just got to my story. I haven't heard a world of yours yet.”

“We'll have another chance soon, I hope.”

He picked up his carry-on and we walked with him to security. Dad suddenly remembered the picture; we had almost been late trying to find a recent photo of Sara, now forgotten in my wallet. Wendell brought out one of his mother.

We looked upon Sara's double eighty years after that first picture. Except they were no longer doubles. Janet's hair was pure white, the permed shower-cap style many older women chose for thinning hair. She was sitting in a recliner — at Mona's, Wendell informed us — wearing a pale blue printed duster coat with no makeup. She had just opened a gift — a photo album from her grandchildren for her eighty-fourth birthday — and had a half-hearted smile on her face that she held down slightly, as if she had a stiff neck. Sara would never have been caught by a camera without lipstick or in a dressing gown, and I did not want to ask Wendell if this was normal for Janet, or merely a sign of her decline in later years. Surely a woman who worked as hard as she did wouldn't be in a housecoat much in healthy times. Dad commented that it could be Janetta in twenty years, explaining that his younger sister was the namesake of Wendell's mother.

The photo we offered Wendell showed Sara at eighty-six standing in front of the tea room at Ferguson Point in a hot pink blazer over a long black cotton dress. She wore knee-highs, even with sandals, and I smiled to think of her calling them “nylon condoms” because of the way they coiled up when removed. Her hair was grey rather than white and she insisted on keeping what was left of it in a short bob. Her face was also tilted down at an angle, as if she only agreed to the photo at the last minute with a sly, reluctant grin. The more I studied the two pictures, the more I could see a similarity in the general shape of their faces, the way their glasses sat an inch down on their noses, and even their coyness with the camera.

Too late we all wondered why we had not brought more pictures of Sara and Janet when they were younger. We exchanged addresses and promised to send some by mail, so that Wendell's family and Janetta might also get to know their new aunts. I asked him if there was anything else — more pictures, letters maybe — of Janet's early years left in the farmhouse. He shook his head: he was surprised the photo had still been there. He thought Mona had taken all their mother's personal belongings with her to Calgary. Speaking his sister's name prompted him to write down her phone number as well. I could check with her. Dad put his arm around his cousin's shoulder, and I had to persuade myself that the past hour had actually taken place.

THE YEAR WAS DOWN to its last four hours. After such a mixed bag of surprises, I had to be thankful the bad stuff preceded this bit of equilibrium and not the other way around. I shivered at the idea of Mom's death just happening and all that followed now being ahead of me. Our first Christmas without her was not as gloomy as we had imagined — Sara's theory of anticipation/dread again. The dazzling sun on English Bay from the Sylvia dining room left no room for dark thoughts. Later the glistening air and water inspired us to walk off our turkey dinner along the sea wall and back through Stanley Park. Even my foot felt the warmth and forgot to ache.

Gail and Monty would be here any minute. They wanted to put Clancy and Macy to bed before leaving them to their doting grandparents. We decided to gather at Dad's because none of us felt like fanfare and this way he would be included. I had turned down two other offers: Emile was having a party at his place for our old team and Tessa wanted the new team to get together in her loft in downtown Vancouver before going out to a club later. The year was ending on a promising note — ties to the past and future combined with my most timeless bonds.

In the living room, Dad's stack of Guy Lombardo records was playing on the console, so old it was now back in style as a retro piece. I had my pile of
CD
s in reserve to put on politely after his traditional New Year's Eve music welcomed our guests. I wiped the unused sleek leather sectional and lit Mom's big white three-wicked candle in the middle of her glass and marble coffee table. Bowls of chips and nuts and a tray of vegetables stood ready while Dad busied himself with glasses, bottles, and ice in the kitchen. If I could pass my first university course — I ended up with 88 as a final mark — maybe I could take a shot at cooking. But not until next year; I wasn't about to start with the elaborate fondues Mom always prepared on New Year's Eve. Instead, we had a shrimp ring and two deli quiches in the fridge for later.

Gail and I had not managed to see each other yet despite several phone calls. Her schedule was not her own with all the relatives here wanting to see them. I had also been working, other than Boxing Day when I made the mistake of hitting some sales on Robson. After half an hour, I decided to leave the bargains to the teenagers and to the immigrants whose experience with shortages gave them an edge at the bins.

As usual, when the doorbell rang I wasn't prepared for how big Monty was and Gail wasn't. Wouldn't I know by now? She looked sassy in a lacy cream poncho, black turtleneck, jeans, high-heeled boots and dangly earrings. After the hugs, Gail proclaimed her delight at being back in this childhood territory, then stopped short and swallowed, observing the absence of Retha. Dad hugged her again. Once we were all seated with drinks in our hands, Mom lingered as Gail brought up nostalgic incidents from our teenage years. Some I wished she had kept quiet. Like the time Mom and Dad were at a teacher's banquet and we started drinking Dad's Scotch, soon leading us to the bright idea of asking over Gail's latest admirer. When Mom came back unexpectedly to pick up a copy of the speech she was to give — the only time in her life she forgot anything — we hid him in the broom closet. Dad raised his eyebrows, and Monty sat looking amused by the story, the way he did whenever Gail said anything.