Authors: Anthony Bidulka
have ever entered Anthony’s radar. It was an
uncharitable thought but I was peeved the women
hadn’t even glanced at me.
“The name sounds familiar.”
“Really?” All forgiven.
“I don’t know him personally, but I’m quite
certain I know someone who’s mentioned that
name quite recently. Is he rather new to town—
say in the past few years or so?”
“Yes, that’s him.” I hoped.
He winked at me and threw a twenty on the
countertop. “Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can get
you a contact.” He rose and slipped on a pair of
Anthony Bidulka — 99
kid leather gloves, the only winter protection he’d
brought with him on the mad dash from the store.
“You coming along? There are some new shoes
from Camper you must have.”
Here was the problem: he never let me actual-
ly buy the stuff I tried on. When this happened we
crossed the line from friends to rich father/poor
son and I couldn’t do that more than once a day. I
pointed at my unfinished wine and said, “I’ll be
over in a minute to pick up my old pants.”
He gave me one of his deadly smiles as he
headed out. “Don’t bother, puppy, I think they
were tossed out by accident.”
Cheryl Guest was the manager of J. Thames, one
of several Saskatoon women’s equivalents to gatt.
Although I knew I’d meet Daniel’s wife at the
DGR&R Christmas party on Friday night, I wanted
a chance to observe her on her own turf, with-
out—as promised—her knowing.
The Midtown Plaza, anchored by Sears at one
end and The Bay on the other, is two storeys of
glossy shops that differ little from those in malls
the world over. At this time of year the corridors
are crowded, not only with holiday shoppers and
recalcitrant teenagers, but with carts and booths
that magically appear only at Christmastime, burst-
ing at the seams with calendars and snow globes,
knitted scarves and gloves, fruitcake and gift bas-
kets. Then there’s raffle ticket and craft tables and,
most important of all, Santa’s workshop, where
children can sit on the knee of St. Nick and have
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their picture taken. For some this is the descrip-
tion of hell. I, however, love it. But not if I actual-
ly have to buy something. Shopping in a shopping
mall in December is indeed pure misery but, as a
place to soak up Christmas spirit and people-
watch, it ain’t too shabby.
Procuring an unobtrusive spot against the win-
dow of a negligee store directly across from J.
Thames, with an Every-Watch-for-$10 vendor for
handy camouflage between me and the store, I set
out to observe Cheryl Guest in action. Fortunately,
J. Thames has a wide-open front with easy sight-
lines into the store from almost every angle.
I immediately caught sight of my quarry, rec-
ognizing her from the photo in Daniel’s office. She
was wearing a very smart, winter-white skirt and
jacket ensemble that complemented her sun-dark-
ened skin. Her blond hair was expertly coiffed but
even from a distance I could see she wore an
abundance of makeup that exaggerated her
already too-wide eyes and mouth to almost
clown-like proportions. I watched for a while as
she approached customers with what seemed a
haughty attitude, which instantly became charm-
ing solicitude if they actually expressed interest
in some piece of clothing or other. When this
happened, Cheryl had a practised procedure.
First she would take the dress or blouse or what-
ever it was from the potential customer, and begin
by massaging and feeling up the sample, no doubt
speaking of its quality fabric and the workman-
ship of the stitching. Next she would drape the
piece on the victim—I mean shopper—and smile
Anthony Bidulka — 101
in such a way that indicated she had never quite
seen that particular item look so ravishing on any
of the other hundred people who’d come into the
store before her. And all along, Cheryl made cer-
tain the distinctive blue J. Thames label (or orange
if it was one the few men’s items in the store) was
always clearly visible to the patron and everyone
nearby. In the game of retail, Cheryl was a well-
rehearsed performer.
But I hadn’t seen anything yet—for as luck
would have it, the floorshow was just to begin.
To give the woman some credit, the store was
temporarily devoid of customers when Cheryl
huffed and puffed her way towards another J.
Thames salesperson who’d obviously been
assigned the job of displaying merchandise on a
sale table. And, to be honest, even I could tell that
the employee, young, sturdy-looking and with a
head full of intricately patterned dreadlocks,
seemed something less than enthused with her
task. She was mindlessly moving knitted caps and
scarves from one pile to another and then back
again, all the while letting her big brown eyes
stroll lazily back and forth with each passing
shopper, assessing their outfit or hair or whatever
else she found mildly distracting or interesting
about them.
Cheryl stood behind the girl for a good thirty
seconds, arms akimbo, glaring at the sluggish
movements. Finally, obviously unable to take it
any longer, she opened her mouth. I didn’t need to
be a lip reader to know she wasn’t using the
power of positive reinforcement. The younger
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woman jumped back from the table, startled, her
dreads whipping her face and neck as she stag-
gered into a defensive position to face her superior.
Cheryl’s eyes were bright as sparks, her shoulders
thrown back indignantly, hands making vaguely
threatening motions.
As I stood transfixed to my spot, witnessing
this exchange, I so empathized with the berated
staffer I could feel myself melting into the ground
as if the attack were aimed at me. But the young
woman was tougher than that. At first she just
stood there, eyes growing wide and darting nerv-
ously from side to side, looking anywhere but at
Cheryl’s angry face. Yup, she’d been caught red-
handed being bored doing a boring task. But as
Cheryl railed on, the younger employee’s spine
began to stiffen. I could imagine her thinking to
herself, “All right, enough already, it’s not as if I
dropped the last known sample of DNA from an
extinct species.” She planted her strong-looking
hands on rounded hips, thrust her pelvis forward
and let out a stream of something I’m sure was as
colourful as the beads in her hair. She was handing
back some serious attitude. How I wished I was a
boll weevil in one of the nearby racks of sweaters.
For a crazy moment, as if it were frozen in time,
it seemed to me that the three of us, Cheryl, her
sales assistant and me, were the only ones in that
shopping mall. In total, the exchange probably
lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like an
hour of great theatre played out on stage just for
me. That is until the astounding denouement,
which more than a few passersby couldn’t help
Anthony Bidulka — 103
but notice. With an action befitting any of the
great Disney cartoon mistresses of evil, like
Cruella De Vil or Maleficent, Cheryl brought her
many-ringed hand crashing down on the display
table and, with a swoop, swept all the lovely J.
Thames things onto the floor.
My ears waited for the resultant crash and
more yelling. But of course, from across the way
and outside the store, there was no noise to hear
and there was also no yelling because the young
woman, wisely I think, simply turned heel and
stomped off out of my—and Cheryl’s—sight.
My, my, my, I thought to myself. I now knew of
another reason Daniel didn’t want to be found out
by his wife—she’d whop his ass.
Chapter 6
I WAS ABOUT TO DASH OUT of the Midtown Plaza
when I remembered my mother. Damn! I was sup-
posed to have met her right there, at the front
doors, ten minutes ago and I was already late for
my next planned bit of detective work. Could she
take a cab? Did she know about cabs? I spun
around like a whirling dervish trying to catch
sight of her—or rather her hard to miss corsage—
amongst the shopping throngs. And there she
was, sitting on a chair with hands folded piously
over her purse, coat buttoned tight up to her neck.
The chair was meant for the Salvation Army vol-
unteer who’d obviously been kind enough to give
up his seat while he attended to his work. Seeing
me come her way, my mother stood up and
thanked the Salvation Army man.
“Mom?” What else could I say?
“Goot, ve go. You must be hungry.”
I looked at the bare floor next to my mother’s
feet and asked, “Where are your shopping bags?
Didn’t you find anything you wanted to buy?”
She had a strange look on her face and made a
move towards the front doors. I smiled at the Sally
Ann guy, threw a five-dollar bill and a toonie into
his drum and scrambled after my mother.
“Dees vay, uh-huh?”
Through the glass of the plaza’s doors we could
see that, although not yet 5 p.m., daylight was dim-
ming in preparation for sunset. We made our way
Anthony Bidulka — 105
out and stood in wait for the crosswalk light to
change. The view down 21st Street was truly beau-
tiful. Street posts and ash trees hung with wee
twinkling lights and Christmas decorations were
flickering to life. Shop windows were ablaze with
their colourful wares. The grandiose Bessborough,
a few blocks away, was a fairytale castle. Outdoor
speakers were playing “Joy to the World.”
As the singers were getting to the part about
repeating the sounding joy (does that lyric make
sense to anyone?) I repeated to my mother,
“Didn’t you find anything you wanted to buy?”
“I tought dees vas Valmart. Dere’s no Valmart
here.”
Ohmygod what was she saying? “It—it—it’s a
mall. There are all kinds of stores in there.”
“Ya, I know dat. No Valmart.”
“That’s true.”
The light changed and we crossed 1st Avenue
and headed towards where the car was parked.
I waited a few seconds then asked, “Did you
just sit there by the Salvation Army drum the
whole time?” Please say no.
“Eet vas nice, I met lot of nice people. Olga
Frankiw, remember, Bill’s vidow? She came by
veet her son, Nestor. He vas taking her to doctor.
She has such poor eyes, that Olga.”
Inside I was shrivelling up and it wasn’t from
the cold. I was beginning to realize how little I
knew my mother, what type of person she was,
what her life’s experiences were, what she knew
how to do and what she didn’t know how to do,
especially since Dad had died. And I had sent her
106 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
off alone to shop at the Midtown Plaza as if she
was one of the gals from
Sex in the City
.
So I certainly wasn’t about to send her off in a
cab.
Dropping her at home however wasn’t much
better.
“Okay,” I said as I pulled up to the front of the
house. “See you later.”
She looked alarmed. “Vhere you going? Eet’s
after five. Time for supper.”
Why did I suddenly feel like an eight-year-old?
A naughty eight-year-old. “Actually, Mom, I’m
not going to make it home for dinner.” I called it
dinner because that’s what we do in the big city.
Lunch is at noon, dinner is in the evening—some-
times much later than five o’clock. In the country,
or at least in my mother’s house, dinner is at noon
and supper is at five. “Work y’know.”
“You vork too hard. You haf to eat. I put
borscht on da stove now, eet’ll be hot by time you
take coat off. Dat wrap-up ting from lunch vasn’t
very beeg, you must be hungry, Sonsyou.”
“I’m okay, I’m not really hungry yet. And I
really have to do some work now. I’ll just grab
something later.”
“Oh.”
Here it comes.
The quiet.
“So I’ll see you later maybe?”
“Oh. Ya, uh-huh.”
More quiet. Ebenezer Quant they’d call me.
“So I leave da pot on da stove den? You can