Authors: Anthony Bidulka
and temples.
Some moments later, I’m not sure how many, I
heard Barbra let out a low, discerning “woof.” I
picked up my head and opened my eyes. She and
Brutus hadn’t moved from their spot but they
were both staring at the closed door. I listened and
heard it too. A soft knock. I rose up and padded to
the door. Behind it was my mother. She was wear-
ing a high-necked sleeping gown beneath a bright
blue housecoat tied tightly at the waist. Her head
was wrapped in a scarf under which I could see
she’d set her hair into tight pin curls held in place
with bobby pins. On her feet were bright pink
slippers. I asked her to come in even though she
clashed with the decor more than a polyester
leisure suit on a fashion runway. She seemed to
sense the interruption and stood stock still in the
doorway, the garish light from the hallway behind
her seeping into the pleasantly dim room like a
lighthouse beacon. Her hands were clasping a
mug of warm milk so tightly her knuckles were
white and I realized that my mother was nervous.
“Come on in,” I said, stepping behind her to
close the door against the harsh hallway light. That
helped a lot. Her housecoat wasn’t nearly as blue
and I didn’t even notice the slippers anymore. “I
was just relaxing in front of the fire with Barbra
and Brutus. It’s late. You couldn’t sleep?”
“Ya, uh-huh,” she said.
“You want to come sit with us for a while?”
Anthony Bidulka — 189
“Eet’s getting colder outside,” she said by way
of an answer. “I hope no one ees stuck outside in
dis kind of cold. You cood die. You vant milk? I
make for you.”
“No, no. Thanks. I have some wine.” I shrugged
off the inexplicable feeling of guilt at admitting to
my mother that I drank alcohol and realized she
wasn’t going to move unless I did. So I walked
back to the couch and lowered myself into the
same spot I’d left behind, hoping she was follow-
ing me. She was. When she took a seat at the other
end of the couch, the dogs, in unison, once again
lowered their heads onto their paws and practised
closing their eyes. For a moment, the four of us—
this temporary, makeshift family of sorts—sat qui-
etly except for the music, which was slowly doing
its job, relaxing my nerves and filling the uncom-
fortable emptiness between my mother and me.
As we sat there, watching the fire, I recalled that
my mother’s home—once my own—did not have
a fireplace. Maybe she’d never sat in front of one
before now, letting the dance of flames entertain
and warm her. Maybe it bored her.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, not surprisingly.
I shook my head and smiled at her. “No.
Sereena and I ate at the party.”
“Ya, the neighbour voman, uh-huh? Nice
lady?”
I knew she meant to test the waters to see if,
despite what she knew about me, she should start
taking Sereena’s measurements for white silk.
“She’s a good friend,” I told her, sending a definite
message.
190 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“You vere vorking? Eets late to vork.”
“Ya…Yes, I had to go to a client’s Christmas
party.”
“Vhat kind client?”
This was something new. Asking about my
work. Was this my mother trying to get to know
me? I gulped my wine. “Well, you know I’m not a
cop anymore, right?”
“Oh ya, dat’s…when did you do dat?”
“Couple years ago. Now I’m a private detec-
tive. People hire me to find stuff out for them. You
know, like the TV shows you watch. My current
client hired me to find someone who is blackmail-
ing him.”
“Oi, dat’s dangerous, Sonsyou. Mebbe you do
someting else?”
Still more wine. “That’s what I do. I like it. I
like it better than being a police officer.”
“But dangerous, Sonsyou.”
“Sometimes, I guess, but not always. Being a
policeman is dangerous too sometimes.”
Another silence. A sip of wine. A sip of warm
milk.
“I’m glad you decided to spend Christmas
with me this year,” I started. Stopped. Took a deep
breath. Decided to jump in. “But I’m surprised
you’re not spending it with Joanne or with Bill.
You seem…more comfortable with them. You and
I…well, we don’t really know each other too
well.”
“Not true!” she said quickly, rolling the
r
with
a shocked trill, surprised to think one of her chil-
dren thought such a thing.
Anthony Bidulka — 191
It came spilling out. “Well, I just worry, Mom,
that I don’t know what you like to do and don’t
like to do and I worry you’ll be bored here. I work
a lot…this case came up by surprise…I didn’t
think I’d be away from home so much…so I worry
about you here alone when I’m not home.” Then I
just couldn’t shut up. “I know you’re uncomfort-
able with my being gay, just like you were with
Uncle Lawrence. In all the years since I left the
farm, this is the first time you’ve ever stayed in
my home. You’ve always visited with Bill and
Joanne, but never with me. Don’t get me wrong,
Mom, I’m not upset about that.” Right? “I think I
understand, but it makes me wonder why you
would choose to come here now. If you think you
can change me or change my life or change who
my friends are…well, that won’t happen. I have a
life I love and I’m not looking to change it.” Where
did this come from?
I’d said more than I’d meant to, but it just came
out. The words needed saying. I obviously had
more on my mind than I’d realized. My mother’s
presence had turned my life and my home topsy-
turvy. And, if I was being totally honest with
myself, it wasn’t just her. It was Kelly’s odd
behaviour and having Brutus around and work-
ing a case I couldn’t get a handle on and a million
other things that suddenly seemed alien to me. I
looked deep into my mother’s face and hoped I
hadn’t hurt her feelings. What I saw surprised me.
She wasn’t hurt, but she quite obviously didn’t
understand where I was coming from any more
than I understood where she was coming from.
192 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“I don’t vant to change anyting,” she answered
quietly. “But mebbe you’re right about dat one
ting.”
“About what?”
“About your uncle.”
I had to remind myself to breathe. I had never
heard my mother talk about her strained relation-
ship with her brother, Lawrence. I only knew the
strain had existed and imagined I knew why. It
was because he was gay; it was because he was
gay and had a lover; it was because he was gay
and had a lover and didn’t hide the fact. At the
end they rarely spoke to one another. And now he
was dead.
“I love my brodder,” she told me. “But ve
deedn’t know vhy he deed dose tings he deed. Ve
deedn’t like dose tings.” “Ve” meaning she and
my father, “don’t like” meaning don’t understand.
“Ve deedn’t talk, ve deedn’t see each odder…for
long times ve deedn’t see each odder. And
den…he’s gone.” There were tears in her eyes now
as she remembered a brother who had this bigger-
than-life life, so far removed from anything she
knew or understood or ever wanted for herself. It
eventually wedged them apart. Forever. Because,
for Uncle Lawrence, forever wasn’t a very long
time. “I geeve anyting to see heem now. To talk vit
heem. Ay, Maria, but he’s gone, Sonsyou.”
What could I say? I didn’t know what it all
meant. Was I her second chance? Did she come to
realize that what happened with her brother was
slowly happening with me, her son? The same
wedge, the same distance, the same misunder-
Anthony Bidulka — 193
standings? Was it too late for us too? Or not? Here
she was, my mother making the grand gesture,
accepting my invitation when really she would
have been more comfortable, more welcomed,
more familiar in one of my sibling’s homes.
Accepting my invitation…my fake, insincere invi-
tation. If the truth be told, the wedge between us
wasn’t all her doing—it was mine too. I allowed it
and maybe I even pounded it in a little further
each year, by accepting and expecting my moth-
er’s non-involvement in my life.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I told her again, this
time meaning it much more.
The next thing I heard was my mother’s
scream and a flurry of Ukrainian epithets. Barbra
and Brutus jumped up and began to bark. All bad
signs. Barbra and Brutus rarely barked and, as far
as I knew, my mother rarely used the words she
just had. As I jerked to attention my wineglass,
thankfully empty, flew to the ground, landing
harmlessly on the rug.
“What?” I called out, “What is it?”
My mother had risen from her seat and was
now standing behind the couch clutching at the
neck of her housecoat. “Outside, oi bojeh, outside,
I saw a face!”
She pointed at the window next to the fire-
place, the same one where the dogs were directing
their vocal talents. Brutus had rushed up to the
pane and was leaving froth on the glass as he
mixed deep woofs with ferocious sounding growls.
Barbra did the same at another window on the
other side of the fireplace.
194 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Someone was in the backyard.
I knew looking out the window would be use-
less. I raced from the room, jumped into the shoes
and coat I’d taken off when I’d come home and
made my way through the kitchen and out the
back door in what seemed like seconds. I was fast
enough to see a figure disappearing behind a
clump of skeletal mock orange bushes. There was
only one place he could be heading. At the back of
the yard was a gate I used to access the garbage
dumpsters in the back alley. Other than through
the garage it was the only way out. I ran for it
ignoring the bitter cold and enveloping darkness.
When I arrived, the gate was hanging open. I
dashed through it and, because I lived at the end of
a dead end street, I knew the peeping Tom could
have only turned left, so I followed in hot pursuit.
The back alley was even darker than my yard
but as I galloped along I thought I could see a
black-coated figure running far ahead of me. I
wished I could stop, just for a moment, to listen
for footsteps or heavy breathing, but I couldn’t
waste the time. Instead, the sound of my own foot-
steps in the crunchy snow and my own laboured
breathing filled my ears. I kept going. Looking
ahead I saw the figure as he reached the end of the
alley and almost stumbled into a pool of light
compliments of a nearby street lamp. Other than a
dark coloured coat, it was impossible to tell any-
thing more about the runner. He made another left
and I raced forward, not sure whether I was gain-
ing or falling behind. When I came to the end of
the alley I could see him easily, fleeing down the
Anthony Bidulka — 195
street. Was he heading towards a car? Did he have
friends? Was this just a kid playing a prank or
someone truly dangerous? Was he armed? There
was no time to think about the answers to my
many questions. He ran. I ran. It was easier going
on the street with the shovelled sidewalks and
light posts, but I knew the pursuit would have to
change somehow. We seemed to be evenly
matched for speed and kept an unchanging dis-
tance between us. Would it come down to who
was in better cardiovascular shape?
Nope. The figure must have been thinking the
same thing and turned right at the next cross
street. I did the same and saw him duck into a
thickly treed yard. Damn! I reached the yard and
stopped. Did he just run right through or was he
waiting for me in ambush? Well, I’d come this far,
I thought to myself, I might as well keep going.
Bad mistake.
I had plastered my back against the house
preparing to slide along its side into the backyard
when it hit me. Some kind of spray. Was I being
maced? Or was it…hairspray? It smelled suspi-
ciously like Herbal Essences.
I fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, cov-