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[birchkillchronicles]

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[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Thirteen

Teal, Citrine, Lime

            “You’re not my favourite colour.  But I could see you working okay beside my bed at Mommy’s house if you were a blue-ish shade of green.”  Tara was addressing a small antique rug which hung attractively over the rung of a vintage pine quilt holder.  “She’s got too much red in her, don’t you think, Ms. Jeanie?  After all, my comforter is mostly teal with gold swirly lines...” 

            Jeanie contemplated the rug as seriously as the child had done.

 “I think you’re right, kidlet.  Teal and red?  Mmm. Not not so hot a combination.  But you might not want to go with aquamarine, either.  How about picking up your comforter’s golden accents instead?”

            “You don’t think that would be kind of—I don’t know—garish?”

            “Well, there are golds—and there are golds.  A butterscotch-gold—you know, one with a very warm undertone—might be a mistake.  But a cooler lemon-gold could be just the ticket.”

            Tara cocked her head to consider this suggestion and then nodded earnestly.  “I can see that, Ms. Jeanie.”

            The May-December window shoppers were having a marvellous time at the indoor antiques and collectibles market.  Long after the rest of their party had retreated to the book and video game stands, Jeanie and Tara were still agreeably absorbed in critiquing the merchandise. 

            Here, they found a vendor who specialized in milky Depression glassware.  There, one who featured cast iron bulldog doorstops.  And, over here, one whose cases were brimming with vintage crystal perfume flasks.

            Of course—since they were purportedly on an educational outing—as soon as they’d arrived, Jeanie and Tara had spent the better part of an hour gazing in fascination at the tightly packed showcases of the Barbie Doll Museum. 

Tara had been especially drawn to the fashion designer dolls.  And, after rolling names like Oscar de la Renta, Givenchy and Dior around on her tongue, the little girl had fallen passionately in love with the extravagant Bob Mackie creations.

Opal rhinestones.  Amethyst sequins.  Silver lame…

My gosh. 

What wasn’t there to adore about those?

However, as tempting as it had been to purchase one of the fetching Barbies, it had been clearly understood by both Jeanie and Tara that real shopping with actual money for tangible goods was forbidden today.  So, with no prospect of filling up a bag with fashion treasures—and their purses no lighter—they’d eventually turned their attention to the rest of the sales floor.

Strolling casually through the crowded market aisles, the odd-sized pair paused to point out antique furniture that caught their eyes.  They compared tastes in chinaware and vintage jewellery.  And fantasized about where unusual objet d’arts might find a perfect home in their décor.  

And—since they were outlawed from buying anything—the price on the tag didn’t matter at all.  So, Tara could speculate about where she might wear an art nouveau citrine and amethyst pendant necklace.  And Jeanie could consider the unblemished mahogany veneer on a nineteenth century chest of drawers.  And neither felt compelled to consult with the respective dealers about either the cost of the jewellery or the machinations needed to deliver such an unwieldy item back home.  

Sadly for Jeanie, poignant reminders of Sylvie were everywhere.  Yet, she never mentioned a single memory to Tara.  Today was solely for the little girl’s amusement, she argued to herself.  And it would have been just as wrong to burden Tara with the heartache that the sight of Sylvie’s favourite style of Nova Scotian Chippendale chair awoke in her breast as it would have been to similarly encumber Bernie.

Therefore, Jeanie stayed mum—and she and Tara blissfully prattled on.

Finally, the congenial gal pals came upon the tables filled with jellies, jams and pickles.  But, just as Jeanie and Tara embarked on a lively discussion vis-à-vis the merits of apple butter versus lime curd versus classic strawberry jam, they were rudely interrupted by an ear-splitting shriek.

“Tara! What on earth are you doing here?”

Startled, the little girl and Ms. Jeanie swung around in tandem to witness her mommy bearing down upon them like a runaway freight train. 

But Dolores’ headlight glare wasn’t fixed upon her daughter.

Nope.  Not at all.

“Jeanie!  I thought I told you that I didn’t want you taking Tara out shopping!” the outraged woman barked as she rolled up.  “I hope you’re proud of yourself.  You’ve just screwed over Chuckie—but good!  C’mon, Tara,” she snarled, grabbing her daughter’s hand.  “You’re coming home with me!”

“Mommy!” cried Tara, pulling back from her infuriated parent. “We’re not doing anything wrong!”

“Please don’t take this out on Tara and Chuckie,” pleaded Jeanie, putting a restraining hand on Dolores’ arm.

“Back off, Jeanie!” snapped Tara’s mother, shaking her hand away.  “Tara!  C’mon—!”

“No!”  Tara sank to the floor in a flawless imitation of a boneless chicken and lay as one dead.

“Get up!”  Her mother continued to tug at the child’s flaccid arm.

“Dolores!  It’s my fault.  Please leave her alone!” begged Jeanie, as other shoppers muttered and edged away from what was obviously a domestic dispute.

“Dolores?  Tara?” inquired a fourth feminine voice. 

Jeanie glanced up to see a woman, perhaps a little older than herself, off-loading a bunch of shopping bags to Tara’s stepfather, Mark.  And, behind them, dashing through the market at a rapid trot, she spotted Chuckie, with Bernie and Don right on his heels.

“What’s going on here?” asked Mark. “Hi Jeanie!  Nice to see you again.” 

“Dolores?  Mark?” quizzed Chuckie, pulling up in a cloud of dust.

“Chuckie!” began Dolores, red-hot. “Tara’s being a complete brat!”

“What? Why?” Chuckie squatted down to talk to his kid. “Bugsy, get up.  You’re gettin’ all dirty down here.”

“I’m not getting up ’til Mommy says I can stay!” wailed Tara, still prostrate on the floor.

“Well, they’re closin’ up in a coupla minutes anyhoo—”

“I mean—stay with you, Daddy!  And Ms. Jeanie and Ms. Bernie and Mr. Don—!”

“What?”  Still on the floor with Tara, Chuckie took a big breath and blew it out.  “Dolores, what’s this all about?”

“I told Jeanie that I wouldn’t put up with any more materialistic crap!” Dolores glared from above.  “And here she is out shopping with Tara anyways!”  Taking a firmer grip, she tried once more to haul her unruly daughter upright.

“We weren’t!” howled Tara, losing all muscle tone once more.

“They really weren’t…” echoed Don, with quiet sincerity.

“And, by the way, if it’s so evil to shop—what are you doing here?” asked Bernie, hovering nearby with a saccharine smile.

Her cheeks scarlet with the exertion of tugging on Tara’s dead weight, Dolores refused to even acknowledge this insolent question from Chuckie’s latest squeeze.  “Ta-ra!  Get!  Up!”

“And the fact of the matter is,” explained Jeanie, virtuously, “we came here to visit the Museum.  It’s the only one that’s free.”

“What museum?” snorted Dolores, resentfully giving up her assault on Tara’s arm to face off with Jeanie again.  “There’s no ‘museum’ here!”

“Yes, there is,” interjected the older woman who, by now, had been joined by an older man.  “A Barbie Doll Museum.  Did you enjoy seeing it, Tara?”

“Yes, Gramma K!” exclaimed Tara, almost knocking her mother over as she suddenly bounced to her feet. “It was amazing!  Did you see the beautiful Bob Mackie dolls?”

“Oh, yes!  Weren’t they spectacular, honey?” nodded Tara’s Gramma K. “And did you notice the Christmas collectible dolls in their ballgowns?  So pretty!”

“That’s not a real museum!” objected Dolores.

“Yes, it is!” chorused Tara and her Gramma K.

“It’s says it’s one on the internet,” stated Bernie, blandly exhibiting the entry on her phone screen to Dolores, who clucked her mistrust of the obviously spurious listing in reply.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be closing in five minutes,” a loudspeaker announcement suddenly blared.  “If you need help with your purchases, please see a vendor for assistance”

“We’d better get a move on, folks,” suggested Don. 

“Yep.  Sounds like they’re ready to shutter the bazaar,” said the other older guy.  “I’m Mark’s dad, Allen Boxer, by the way.”  He shook hands with Don and gestured to the woman by his side.  “This is his mom, Kendra.  We drove up on Christmas Eve from Hamilton to hang out with the grandkids for a week or so.”

“Don Todd and Jeanie Dinmont.  Bernie Todd—and you’ve already met Chuckie?” returned Don, shaking hands while indicating who was who.  “I hope it’s not a problem that we’ve got Tara with us until New Year’s—?”

Allen smilingly shook his head, “Not at all.”

“We shared a lovely Christmas Day,” beamed Kendra.

But, “Not any more you haven’t got her!” Dolores overrode her in-laws’ pleasantries.  “I expressly barred Jeanie from—”

“Shush, Baby,” soothed Mark in a low voice.  “You’ve already caused too much of a scene.”

“But she isn’t supposed to—!”

“Okay, okay.”  Mark turned to his stepdaughter.  “Tara, honey, what did you buy?”

“Nothing! We were just looking—!”

“Okay, Tara, you simmer down too,” cautioned Mark.  With a sly nod to the little girl, Mark gave Dolores a sideways hug. “See, Baby?  She’s just been window shopping.  It’s not really the same thing—”

“It’s emphasizing stuff over substance.”  Dolores wasn’t giving up, but she was calming down.

“It’s an outing to an antiques market with her daddy and his girlfriend’s family,” stated Kendra, calmly.  “Seriously, Dolores, there’s no reason to get your knickers in a twist.”

“But material junk is all this woman cares about—”

“No, it’s not,” stated Bernie, flatly.  “In fact, my mom’s absolutely a people person.”

“Yeah,” agreed Don. “So much so, she’s determined to put on a huge family reunion next summer where—for our sins—we’re going to be sporting plus-fours and flapper skirts all week long.”

“Not forgettin’ that supa-cool Roarin’ Twenties play she’s got Lindy pennin’ for it.  Starrin’ moi and my band o’ merry thespians!” added Chuckie, with a theatrical bow to Tara who giggled and bowed dramatically back.

“Well, if it’s as good as the one we saw you in last summer, it’ll be hilarious!” grinned Allen.  “Can we get in on this reunion thing?”

With her family rallying around her, Jeanie felt heartened enough to answer honestly.  “I’m afraid you’d have to—”  But the jam and jelly vendor cut her short with a gruff, “You guys need anything else?”

“We’ll take a jar of the apple butter—and a lime curd, Tara?—and one of the strawberry, please,” requested Bernie. 

“Is that okay, Dolores?” asked Jeanie, archly.  “They’re consumables.  Not something that’ll clutter up a shelf.  And we’ll be sure to recycle the jars.”

“If you guys hadn’t—” responded Tara’s mommy, stiffly.

“Oh, please don’t worry about Dolores,” broke in Mark, with a smile. “She’s a just teensy bit cranky today because it’s the first time she’s left our twins with a sitter.”

“I am not cranky! And I—” bristled Dolores, but it was pretty clear that she was on the verge of tears. 

“You, Baby, you are going to say bye-bye to your daughter and the nice folks,” broke in Mark again.  “And we’ll see Tara on New Year’s Day, just like we planned.”

“That really would be for the best,” agreed Kendra.

“Mm-hm,” nodded Allen, tapping his watch significantly.

So, Dolores—still looking as if she didn’t agree at all with this course of events but was unreasonably outnumbered by the people who did—muttered, “Bye, Tara…” and suffered herself to be drawn off by Mark and his parents.  Who merrily waved and smiled “Bye!” to Tara and the others as they left.

“You need a bag?” asked the jam and jelly vendor, handing Bernie change for a twenty-dollar bill.

“No, thanks,” said Bernie, tucking the jars into the side of a large cloth sack.

“You bought something else?” asked Jeanie, surprised. 

“Just a video game,” smiled Bernie. 

“It’s a classic,” nodded Chuckie.

“That’s a big bag for just one video game,” said Jeanie, eyeing the bulging sack suspiciously.

“Not if there’s a cool crazy quilt an’ a bedside lamp for me in it too,” laughed Chuckie.  “Here, Cutie.  Let me make like a Sherpa an’ haul that load.”  And, taking the bag, he gestured for Bernie and Don to proceed him to the car.

“So—” Tara’s major pout from earlier was reclaiming her face.  “Ms. Bernie and Daddy get to buy jam and a quilt and a video game and a lamp?  And I don’t get to buy anything?”  

“No,” returned Jeanie, cheerfully. “But I’ve got a couple of belated Christmas presents for you to open in my craft room when we get home.”

“Oh,” said Tara, her expression clearing instantly. “Is one of them a kit to make jewellery with?”

“That would be telling,” said Jeanie, but her answering smile gave her small friend more than just a little hope that it might be so…

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Twelve

Blood-Orange, Heliotrope, Chartreuse

            “One pony ride is enough.  I like the bouncy castle more.” 

            As usual, Tara knew exactly what she wanted out of life.  So, it was off to stand in line for the bouncy castle again for Jeanie and her strong-minded junior charge…

            Except that—when she looked down to take Tara’s small warm hand in her own—Jeanie realized that it was Bernie who stood beside her… 

Not Bernie as she appeared now, though. 

Bernie as that pale, skinny little girl with the perpetually runny nose…

            And she realized that they weren’t walking towards a rainbow-hued bouncy castle.  They were floating like ghosts toward Lindy’s decrepit old house where, waving them on from the ruined windows, were Chuckie’s dead mother and his wretched little sister… 

And could that blood-orange wraith in the doorway be Sylvie?  Stretching her mouth far too wide in a silent scream?  Urging them to join her in her untimely tour of hell—?

            A jolt of fear shocked Jeanie awake.  Her heart was fluttering like a netted bird, and she had to gasp for air before it would settle it down.

            That was something that had been happening far too often recently.  So ridiculous…            

Really, she blamed that stupid play about ghosts and séances that Bernie had made her attend in November.  She’d explained to her daughter that the story hadn’t sounded like one she’d be interested in.  But—“Chuckie’s in it, Mom,” Bernie had said.  And she’d insisted that Jeanie go. 

            That one had turned out to be far worse than even the first Lindy’s play she’d seen.  It had been very funny—once more, she’d had to admit that—but it had been also nasty, creepy and, ultimately, very sad. 

Why anyone would want to produce such a festival of misery, Jeanie had no idea.  But, apparently—according to Bernie and Don—it was “a brilliant piece of black comedy.” 

A comedy?  Hah!

Not by my standards, Jeanie thought, it sure wasn’t. 

It hadn’t even had a happy ending! 

But, in order to maintain a decent relationship with Chuckie and Lindy, she’d decided to keep her opinions largely to herself.  And so, after the show—while everyone else had been fawning over the playwright and the actors—she’d merely commented that it had been “a very interesting topic for a play…”

Yeesh.

Returning to her present state of heebie-jeebies, however—it took a moment for Jeanie to gather her wits and realize that it was early Christmas morning, and she was safely in bed with Don. 

Her husband was still in a deep snooze, so she gave herself a purely mental shake to get the cobwebs out and gently tossed back her side of their heliotrope duvet.

Padding to the bathroom, Jeanie managed to get herself more fully awake with a splash of cold water and a vigorous tooth brushing.  Then, as quiet as a Christmas mouse, she grabbed her robe with the holly berry collar and cuffs and made her way down to the kitchen for a bracing cup of coffee.

Jeanie—who’d been brought up in the United Church by casually pious parents—hadn’t been particularly interested in religion since she and Don had left British Columbia many years ago.  But she very much enjoyed decorating her home with the symbols of the major Christian festivals.  And so, glancing into the family room, she was gratified to behold the glorious Christmas tree that Sylvie had helped her re-theme from Country Casual to Pastel Sugarplum just four short years ago.

Naturally, changing the decorating scheme to suit Jeanie’s newly purchased eight-foot-high artificial fir had upset Bernie.  She’d whined that all her favourite decorations were going to be sent to the Sally Ann thrift shop. 

So, that first year, Jeanie—ever the accommodating mom—had set up a faux tabletop pine in the living room just to display some of her daughter’s favourite baubles.  And, there, among the snow-flocked tree limbs had nestled a reserved selection of jolly tin Santas, German straw stars and wooden clothespin reindeer. 

Still, Bernie hadn’t been particularly grateful, as far as Jeanie could recall.  She’d rarely ever visited the living room tree and had persisted in describing the new one as ‘hardly Christmas-y at all.’

In sharp contrast, Tara had immediately loved Jeanie’s Pastel Sugarplum fir. And, on her mid-December visit, the little girl had spent many happy hours helping to unwrap the delicate decorations and hang them artistically on the tree. 

Unlike Bernie, Tara had oohed and aahed over the meadowsweet-pink and cornflower-blue Christmas fairies.  She’d appreciated the detailed craftmanship of the chartreuse ‘candy canes’ and citron-yellow ‘lollipops.’  And oh-so-carefully positioned the sparkling lilac glass balls where they would shine most brightly against the dark evergreen branches.  Instinctively, she’d understood the need for negative space and never bunched or crowded the ornaments or obscured the ‘popcorn’ garlands.  And—once Jeanie had secured Sylvie’s handcrafted Hansel and Gretel cottage to the very tippy-top of the tree—Tara had actually danced with pleasure to see the exquisite results of their mutual labours.

“Oh, look—look—look, Daddy!” she’d crowed to Chuckie.  “Ms. Jeanie and I have decorated the most beautiful Christmas tree!”

Yes, truly, it had been pure joy to have the little girl help her trim the lofty fir...but then— 

It’s a real crime that Tara won’t be here to open her presents under its lovely boughs, Jeanie groused to herself as she poured coffee from the insulated jug she’d set the machine to fill automatically.  You’d think that—with newborn twins—Dolores would be glad to let Tara visit her daddy for the day…

But no. 

Obviously, sniffed Jeanie to herself, it's never occurred to Dolores that she might find it slightly hectic to deal with the demands of two little babies and a seven-year-old girl on Christmas morning.  I can’t imagine how Tara’s going to get the attention she deserves while her mom is juggling feedings and diaper changes with gift giving and preparations for a hearty family brunch!  And, of course, she’s got a gala Christmas dinner to prepare for the evening, too… 

Now, I’ve got an egg, sausage and kale strata waiting in the fridge for its final breakfast bake, thought Jeanie, complacently.  And there’s a very nice beef rib roast that I’m going to serve with all the Christmas trimmings to my little crew of four…wait…is that it?  Just four?  It seems like there ought to be…oh, heck…of course, Sylvie and Nick always used to add to my count at holiday dinners…but, then—

This isn’t a day for regrets! Jeanie chided her undisciplined mind.  And gosh, she figured—pushing herself relentlessly back to the subject at hand—with today’s busy gifting and cooking and cleaning agenda, even I might be hard-pressed to give Tara her due.  So, I expect that Dolores will certainly be snowed under… 

Earlier in December, Jeanie had mentioned these thoughts to Chuckie, but he’d just shrugged his shoulders and laughingly commented that he was sure that—no matter how much was happening around her—“Tara’s gonna find a way to take a starring role.”

But—with two new babies in the house? 

Jeanie’s mind remained wracked with doubt…

Fortunately, however, Dolores hadn’t been so unreasonable about the rest of the winter school holidays and had told Chuckie that his daughter would be welcome to stay with him for a whole week, if he wanted her to. 

Which, as a loving dad, of course, he did.

Duh…

So, the good news was that Tara would be coming to them the day after Christmas and staying until at least New Year’s Day.  Since she wasn’t permitted to have the little girl visit earlier in the holiday, Jeanie had decided to be very pleased with this schedule.  And she’d had lots of fun planning a roster of activities that she hoped would appeal to the child.

There’d be the usual home-based fun, plus snowfort building and skating, of course.  There’d be outings to shopping malls and museums, as well as a family movie matinee at the Mayfair Cinema.  And—the cherry on top!—there’d be a very special trip to the National Arts Centre to see The Nutcracker ballet.

With an eye to efficiency, Jeanie had stockpiled assorted drawing and crafting materials which would compliment the whimsically wrapped Christmas presents she’d sent to Dolores’ house.  For, along with the natural lamb’s wool mittens and beret that matched Tara’s new icy-pink coat, she’d loaded Chuckie down with a bag full of crafts, puzzles and games, several adult colouring books, and a huge fancy tray of glass beads and jewellery findings.  She’d added some Christmas candy, of course, and she’d tucked in a basket of trinkets for both Tara’s and the babies’ stockings.

Also, she’d purchased a couple of junior looms on-line—one for her house and one for Dolores’ place—and a few skeins of wool to get the child started.  That way, Jeanie reasoned, she could instruct the little girl on one loom during her visit, and then Tara could take the other one with her to work on when she went home. 

And, last but not least—with her little friend’s help—Jeanie was planning to get all of her Olde Fashioned Reunion invitations written and posted.  So, it was going to be a very busy week for Tara, indeed! 

Now that Lindy had come around to being sensible—at least as far as writing a short play set in the Roaring Twenties was concerned—Jeanie had been able to timetable their Olde Fashioned Family Reunion.  

Thinking that it would be perfect to see everyone over Canada Day, she’d pushed for her seven days of Reunion to begin in last week in June.  However, Lindy—always frustratingly selfish—refused to even consider any dates in July, or even in the first three weeks of August, because her Excursion Theatre Company ‘would still be playing the parks.’  If Jeanie wanted her artists involved, Lindy’d proclaimed, the Dinmont-Todd Reunion would have to be scheduled for the very end of the summer holidays. 

Which Jeanie—albeit reluctantly—had done. 

After a brief consultation with Don—and a briefer one with Bernie—she’d gone ahead and programmed her Reunion festivities to start on the last Sunday in August.  They’d continue through that week and then end with the guests’ departures on the first Monday in September. 

It had been a major compromise. 

I certainly would have preferred, sighed Jeanie, to have chosen a very different set of dates.  But then, of course, by the end of August the younger families will probably be finished sending their kids to camp.  And—even with travel on Labour Day Monday—they’ll be sure to arrive home in time for the beginning of the new school year, if that’s a concern…  

So, all in all, Jeanie mused—as she paused to admire the heap of gifts she’d so thoughtfully selected and lovingly wrapped to co-ordinate exactly with her Pastel Sugarplum Tree—I’m not totally dissatisfied with my Reunion plans…

And when my relatives get their hand-written invitations—oh, boy!  Then the whole darn clan’s just going to be so amazed by the fabulous activities on offer in my Master Schedule…that’s for gosh-darn sure!

Smugly, Jeanie tossed back the last drops of coffee in her mug.  Then, filled with anticipatory joy for this morning—and for next August as well—she scooted upstairs to rouse up Don and then Bernie and Chuckie.  All of whom absolutely deserved to share in her excitement on this most glorious day of material delights..!

* * * * *

“Why not russet apples?”  Impatiently, Tara repeated herself. 

But Ms. Jeanie wasn’t listening to her.  She and Mommy were having an intensely smiling conversation.  And neither one seemed interested in Tara’s questions about the recipe that she and Ms. Jeanie had been reading before Mommy showed up at the house again without the twins. 

Why Mommy had come back after dropping her off half an hour ago wasn’t clear to Tara.  But Mommy was sure getting in the way of Ms. Jeanie’s and her plans for tonight’s tarte aux pommes dessert.

“Ms. Jeanie!” Tara insisted, tugging on her sleeve.  “Why not—?”

“Hush a minute, Tara,” said Mommy, with a warning shake of her head. “In fact, why don’t you go play upstairs in your room right now?”

“But—”

“Do as your mother says,” said Ms. Jeanie, shortly.

So, heaving a giant sigh to show Mommy and Ms. Jeanie just how annoying all of this was, Tara tromped upstairs.

Once the little girl was out of earshot, Dolores dropped her fake smile.  “Tara already has two sets of grandparents.  My mom and dad in Ottawa and Mark’s in Hamilton.  And, as I said, although I appreciate you and your husband’s good intentions towards my daughter, she doesn’t need a third.  So please don’t make major assumptions about your place in her life without consulting me.”

“I wasn’t assuming anything,” replied Jeanie, steely-eyed.  “But since her dad is living with us—and she’s a regular guest—I would expect you to accept that we would have more than just a passing interest in Tara.”

“An interest would be okay.  Showering her with gifts and over-the-top attention is not.  You are not her grandparents.  She is not your grandchild.  A small Christmas present would have been fine.  But I don’t want my daughter to see the holiday as a time for greed and over-indulgence.  A couple of the stocking stuffers you sent—the Santa pen and the jelly snowmen—were more than enough for Tara.  That’s why I had her donate the rest of your gifts to the Christmas Tree Drive—”

“You had no right to do that!” hissed Jeanie through clenched teeth.

“I have every right to determine how I want my kid to experience Christmas,” continued Dolores, coldly.  “I took off the labels and unwrapped each gift.  And I didn’t tell Tara that they were meant for under our tree—don’t you worry about that!  And I kept the mittens and the hat—which obviously went with that ridiculously expensive coat you bought her—and I’ve brought them back now so that you can give them to her for Valentine’s Day.  And then Tara and I went to the nearest donation centre and gave away all the rest.  I could tell she was reluctant to part with some of the stuff, but it was an excellent lesson in charity.  I was able to teach her that it’s only real generosity if you feel like you’d like to own the things yourself.” 

“And did the twins only get a few little things too?” spat Jeanie.

“Peyton and Frankie are too small to notice.  Besides, that’s not the point—”

“And the point is—?”

“The point is that—unless you’re willing to rein in your emphasis on materialism with my daughter—I’m going to have to tell Chuckie that I’m not happy to have her coming here to visit—”

“You wouldn’t!”

“—and that—if Chuckie wants to continue to see Tara as often at his own place of residence as he has in the past—he may have to change where he’s living.  I don’t know if Bernie would want to move too, but…” 

No Chuckie.  No Tara.  And no Bernie, too.  That was plainly the threat Dolores was waving.

“Oh.”  Jeanie had to bite her lip hard so she wouldn’t blurt out the words that sprang to the edge of her tongue. 

“Do I make myself clear?” demanded Dolores.

“Perfectly clear,” acknowledged Jeanie, bitterly. 

“So, Jeanie.  No more extravagant presents.  No more day-long shopping trips.  No more emphasis on what my daughter has—rather than what she does.  Fun activities—like cooking or painting or going to the museum—those are okay.  But celebrating materialism—by over-shopping or starting collections or just generally accumulating stuff—that’s not.”

“I understand.”

“I hope so,” cautioned Dolores, “because, otherwise, I’ll have to—”

 “You won’t,” Jeanie cut her off. 

“Okay.  And I hope—for Chuckie’s sake—that I can trust your word on that.  Tara!” she abruptly called up the back stairs. “Mommy’s leaving again.  Come down and say good-bye.”

“Coming!” came the muffled answer as Tara scampered from her room to run down to the kitchen.  And, after hugs and kisses, Dolores left to answer the needs of her newborn twins.

            “All right,” began Jeanie to Tara, as cheerfully as she could muster. “Let’s have a look at that apple tart recipe again…”

* * * * *

            “We have an ice dam over the mudroom roof,” reported Don, coming into the kitchen on the first Sunday afternoon after Christmas.  “That’s why there’s water dripping through the ceiling and puddling on the floor.”

            “Want me to make like a mountain goat an’ shovel it off?” asked Chuckie, seated beside Bernie at the kitchen island.

            “You’ll kill yourself, sweetie” warned Bernie. “That side is really steep.”

            “Perhaps we should call the roofers, Don—if you think it’ll help,” suggested Jeanie, stowing the clean glassware from the dishwasher into its usual blond maple cupboard locale.

“Maybe not just yet,” frowned Don. “It might only need a patch, and I don’t want to get into anything major on a weekend.”

            “I’m bored,” complained Tara, as she coloured in the family room.  “May we please go to the mall, Ms. Jeanie?”

            “No!” chorused all the adults with a united finality. 

            “O-kay!” said Tara, rolling her eyes. “I was only asking…”

            “We thought you might like to go to the Children’s Museum, instead,” proposed Jeanie, in a softer tone.

            “I go there all the time with Mommy and Tío Mark,” pouted Tara. “I like going shopping with you.”

            “Well—that ain’t in the cards right now, Bugsy,” said Chuckie, ruefully shaking his head. “Where else would Mademoiselle Princesse deign to progress with her royal staff?”

            Tara let out a long-suffering sigh.  “Maybe we could all go down to the Glebe to window shop?”

            “Oooh, no, Bugsy, the Glebe is definitely off-limits for any action like that,” said Chuckie, echoing her sigh. “How’s about the Nature Museum instead?”

            “Or the Museum of Science and Tech?  That used to be my friend Sylvie’s son’s favourite outing,” suggested Jeanie, casting about in her memory for an acceptable kid-friendly alternative.

            “I’ve been to those places a ba-jillion times!” whined Tara, with another huge sigh.  “Why can’t we just go shopping at the mall?  That’s my favourite Girls Day Out.  We don’t have to buy anything—I got tons of presents for Christmas.  But I love to walk around and look at all the neat stuff with you.”

            “Oh, Tara, I’m so sorry—” began Jeanie, but—“How about an antiques and collectibles market instead?” suggested Bernie, who was scrolling through her phone.  “There’s an indoor one in the far west end of the city that’s open this afternoon…”

            “Why, yes,” said Jeanie, hope dawning. “In the old days, Sylvie and I used to source there quite a lot.”

            “Hey, yeah,” said Chuckie, reading over Bernie’s shoulder.  “An’ its gotta Barbie Doll Museum too.”

            “Oh, I’d forgotten about that.  So,” reasoned Jeanie, shutting the cupboard door, “we wouldn’t be shopping, really.  It’d be more like a visit to an exhibition—”

“Absolutely, Momsy!  More of an hysterical outin’ for Tara.”

“—so, You-Know-Who couldn’t very well object,” continued Jeanie. “Especially if the rest of you guys are willing to come along on an ‘educational outing’ with Tara and me—”

“I’d be up for a drive,” nodded Don.

“And we could all go to the Swiss Chalet restaurant afterwards,” added Bernie, whose fondness for that particular Canadian institution hadn’t faded with adulthood.

“That’d work, Cutie,” grinned Chuckie.  “So—whaddaya say, Bugsy?  Sound like some fun?”

“Sure, Daddy!  I like Barbies and antiques and Swiss Chalet,” nodded Tara, hopping up from her colouring book.

 “Then it’s a plan.” Don was smiling broadly. “So—you guys go get yourselves sorted, and I’ll just go stick Tara’s booster seat into the car…”

“Aye, aye, sir,” saluted Chuckie, while Tara prepared to skip up the back stairs to get her fluffy swan purse—“Just for show,” she allowed—with Bernie and Jeanie following close behind.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Eleven

Icy-Pink, Mint, Almond Cream

“Oopsie-daisy!” cried Jeanie. “Spot the mom!”

The elderly man had slipped and fallen on an icy patch on the city sidewalk in front of Lindy Styre’s house. 

“Are you okay?” Jeanie enquired, offering a friendly hand-up.

“Fine!” snapped the man, ignoring her help to stagger to his feet under his own power.  “Now—bug off!”  Brushing the ice crystals from his knees, the old grouch limped away.

Jeanie let Mr. Boor go without further comment.  The world has gotten less and less courteous over the last few years, she frowned to herself.  Thank goodness that Chuckie and Dolores made sure to teach Tara her p’s and q’s…

Turning on her heel to resume her walk down to the convenience store post office with her bag full of Christmas cards, Jeanie skidded sideways just a little bit.

“Watch out for that icy patch, Jeanie,” came Lindy’s voice.  “You don’t want to fall like that other guy did.”

“Maybe you should throw some salt on it,” muttered Jeanie.

“Sorry?” said Lindy from her open front door.  “What did you say?”

“I said, may-be—” over-enunciated Jeanie, “—you should—”

“Ms. Jeanie!”  Warmly wrapped in the icy-pink lamb’s wool coat that Jeanie had purchased on their last shopping expedition to complement the child’s Deep Winter complexion, Tara came running up the sidewalk to where she stood. “I said I was coming with you!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, kidlet,” said Jeanie, completely changing her tone to address the little girl. “I thought you were searching for something upstairs with your daddy.”

“My new winter boots, Ms. Jeanie!  Daddy put them in a bag inside my wardrobe, instead of in the mudroom where they belong!”

“That was very silly of your daddy,” readily agreed Jeanie.  “It only takes a moment to sort things into their proper spots—”

“That’s what I told him!” nodded Tara.  “But he always just laughs or makes a dumb joke.”  The seven-year-old sighed at the foibles of her elders.  “Boots go on the boot mat, I told him—even if they’re brand new from the store—!”

“Tara?” called Lindy, still hovering in her open door.  “Can you take a script from me to your dad?”

“Sure, Ms. Lindy!  But first I have to help Ms. Jeanie post her Christmas cards at the store.  She always sends hand-signed cards to her West Coast relatives on the first Saturday in December.  But I’ll pick up whatever you want on my way home.”

“Thanks, Tara,” called Lindy, disappearing inside her house.

Jeanie and Tara made quick work of their mission and were soon ringing the doorbell at Lindy’s place. 

“Hi, guys,” said Lindy, as she opened the door. “I’m having some trouble getting my printer to work.  Do you two want to come in and wait for a minute or so?  It shouldn’t take much longer.”

“Okay,” replied Tara, readily stepping into the front vestibule and unzipping her coat.  Scenting an opportunity—at long last—to buttonhole the playwright about her Reunion skit, Jeanie followed suit.  For a moment, the pair stood quietly with their boots dripping onto the scruffy red linoleum floor.

“Lindy?  Have we got company?” came a masculine voice from the hall and then Malcolm stuck his head around the vestibule door.  Spotting Jeanie, his tone soured.  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, coolly.

“It’s me too!” piped up Tara, as she slid from behind her companion into his line of vision.

Malcolm’s face lightened and his voice warmed.  “Oh, hi there, Bugsy—”

“Mr. Malcolm.”  Tara’s eyes narrowed accusingly.

“I mean, Miss Tara, of course.  Please come inside...”  And Malcolm gave them a royal wave into Lindy’s home.

Slipping off their boots, Tara and Jeanie hung their coats on hooks and, crossing the hall, seated themselves in the shabby living room where, as far as Jeanie could see—despite her perceptive comments in August—nothing had changed at all.

“Would you like a hot chocolate or a soda pop?” Malcolm asked Tara very pleasantly.  Then, losing his smile, “Drink?” he enquired of Jeanie.

“Thanks, Mr. Malcolm,” replied Tara, politely. “I don’t drink soda pop, but I do like mint hot chocolate.  Do you have any of that?”

“I’ll check the larder immediately,” said Malcolm, with a serious nod.  “But—if we don’t have mint—will regular do?”

“I think so,” said Tara, equally seriously. “As long as you add plenty of whole milk or table cream.”

“I’m on it,” guaranteed Malcolm, heading for the kitchen but, at the doorway, he paused and turned to ask Jeanie, in a slightly kinder voice, “Tea?  Coffee?  Soda?”

Again, mindful of where the coffee had come from the first time she’d been there, Jeanie requested black tea, with no milk or sugar, “Thanks very much...”

Malcolm nodded and disappeared.

Left alone, Jeanie and Tara settled into an amiable silence that was only broken by the entrance from the dining room of a beautiful silver-grey cat.

“Phyllis…!” called Tara, lightly twiddling her fingers toward the feline.

Phyllis sat down on the rug well out of range of the little girl’s reach and licked a velvet paw.  Why should she bother having her fur ruffled by a miniature intruder who clearly admired her a lot?

Tara sighed.  “She never lets me pet her unless Ms. Lindy makes her sit on my lap.  Why do you suppose that is, Ms. Jeanie?”

“Cats are pretty contrary creatures,” replied Jeanie, but her mind was on something else.  “So—have you been here often?” she asked the little girl.

“Pretty often,” said Tara, still trying to get Phyllis to come over to her by wriggling one of the pompom tassels that dangled from the edge of her tunic top.  “One time, Daddy brought me to a table reading when he couldn’t get a sitter.  And a couple more times when Ms. Lindy was having a party.  But I see her and Mr. Malcolm a lot more when Mommy drops me off at the parks or at the playhouse when it’s time to go to Daddy’s place.” 

“We did have mint hot chocolate, Miss Tara!” announced Malcolm, triumphantly, as he brought four mugs into the living room on the plastic Hawaiian tray and placed it on the coffee table.  “That’s yours, and yours, and mine,” he said handing them around.  “Lindy should be here in a minute.  She says the paper ran out—scat, Phyllis!” he growled, when—the very second he sat down—the cat sidled over to rub her furry body against his leg.

“She won’t ever come to see me,” lamented Tara and took a cautious sip from her mug.  “This is perfect, thank you, Mr. Malcolm,” was the considered verdict once she’d swallowed a mouthful.  “Not everyone puts in the correct amount of milk.”

Malcolm smiled.  “That’s high praise from you, Tara.  Thank you very much.”  He drank some coffee and then gave Jeanie a quizzical look.  “Did you just happen to be wandering around with Tara or were you—?”

Jeanie took a delicate sip of her tea and smiled as sweetly as she could.  “No, no.  Tara and I were posting Christmas cards and Lindy invited us in to give Tara a script for Chuckie.  That’s all…”

 “Posting Christmas cards?  I didn’t realize that anyone did that anymore.”

“Oh, I know.  E-mail’s easier.  But I think it’s important to reach out in a more personal manner.  That’s why I’m trying to put together a Family Reunion for next summer—all in the old-fashioned way.  I’m sending snail-mail invitations and including postal reply cards and envelopes—"

“Sounds expensive.”

“A little, I guess.  But people spend way too much time—and a whole lot of money—on their devices.  You know, phones and computers and tablets—”

“Skyping has kept me a lot closer to my daughter and grandson in Calgary than handwritten letters ever could—”

“Okay—I’m not saying that—”

“It’s finally done.”  Lindy came in through the hallway carrying a folder of paper which she tossed on the coffee table as she flopped into an ancient armchair.  “I guess I could have just e-mailed it to him but then he’d have to print it out anyway so he could use it for rehearsals—”

“But then Chuckie would have paid for the printing, Lindy—”

“Oh, quit being such a Scrooge, Malcolm!” chuckled the playwright.  “It’s practically Christmas, and he obviously has other places to stick his cash.  Thanks for the tea.”  She took a swig from her mug.  “So—what were you all talking about?” she asked Malcolm.

“Oh, one of your favourite subjects,” he replied.  “Phones and computers versus old-fashioned contacts with folks.  You know, sending actual Christmas cards and invitations through the mail...”

Lindy took another sip and shrugged. “Nobody does that anymore.”

“I do,” said Jeanie, while Tara faithfully echoed, “She does…”

“Really?  Oh but, of course, you told me that you hate phones—”

“Those and the other devices.  Which is why I want to put on an Olde Fashioned Family Reunion with a Roaring Twenties theme—”

“Yeah, you said—”

“—but I can’t send the invitations until I know your schedule.”

“Jeanie,” sighed Lindy, “I already told you that I don’t want to accept your ‘deal.’  I’m comfortable with my house the way it is.  So, you might as well set any date you want—”

“I can’t do that until you tell me when—!”

“I haven’t got a clue when—!"

“But there won’t be a Grand Finale to our Reunion Week if you won’t be reasonable about writing the skit—!”

“For the last time, Jeanie, I don’t write skits—!”

“LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!” interrupted Tara.  She’d put her hands over her ears to block out the racket.

Both Lindy and Jeanie came to a screeching halt.

“Tara—?” enquired Malcolm, with a worried look.

“I hate it when people argue about stuff I don’t understand,” moaned the child, hands still guarding her ears.  “Mommy and Tío Mark are always doing it—and sometimes Mommy and Daddy too!  I wish everybody would just stop!”

“Sorry, kidlet,” said Jeanie, contritely.  “You didn’t need to hear us bicker.”

“Yes, that was very rude of us, Tara,” added Lindy. “We ought to discuss matters more quietly.”

“Okay,” said the little girl, slowly lowering her hands.  “But I really hate it when the people that I like fight with each other.”

“You’re quite right, Tara,” said Malcolm, scooping up Phyllis and handing her over for a petting. “Those are always the most painful words to hear.”

Tara nodded, holding the cat gently but firmly on her lap.  “I worry that sometime it will get so bad that they’ll just give up and never talk to each other again.  And then where will I be?  Maybe all by myself ’cause they can’t agree…”  She ducked her head to give Phyllis a kiss between her ears to hide her trembling lips from the grown ups, but it was clear to them all that she was definitely on the brink of tears. 

“Well—maybe we can work something out,” mumbled Lindy to Jeanie.

“I’d appreciate that,” replied Jeanie, softly.

“Now, I’m not crazy about the idea of turning A Tale into a skit.  But perhaps I could write a short one-acter set in the nineteen-twenties anyway.”

“That would be good.”

“But you’re going to have to pay me a stipend.  And I don’t want you messing with my house.”

“Okay,” nodded Jeanie. “I understand.” 

Although she didn’t. 

In Jeanie’s opinion, Lindy’s house was as dark and cluttered a hole as Bernie’s bedroom.  About as liveable as a hollow stump.  Which something as simple as applying a coat of almond cream paint to the scruffy wooden trim and a soft brandied-pear colour on the walls would instantly lighten and brighten—but—

Jeanie didn’t have to live there. 

And a win was a win. 

And Tara, diligently stroking purring Phyllis, had begun to smile. 

So, everything was working out fine.  She could call it a victory for rationality—and a huge step forward for her plans.

Now Jeanie could finally pick the dates, fill in the blanks and get those invitations into the mail.  Swiftly, the RSVPs would start flowing in, and the Olde-Fashioned Dinmont-Todd Family Reunion would be really and truly an upcoming event.

The Event of the Summer.

The Event of a Lifetime!

And, then, every other family reunion would be green with envy. 

Because Jeanie was going to make this The Greatest Family Reunion in The World—no!—The Greatest Family Reunion in the History of the Universe!

As Sylvie would have said, ‘Just watch this space…’

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Ten

Daffodil Cream, Pistachio, Mulberry

            “Sixteen ways to use oatmeal.  That’s a lot!” piped up a small voice by her elbow.

            Jeanie jumped. “Oh my gosh!” she yelped.   

It was a Friday in late October, and Jeanie was expecting Chuckie’s kid to turn up with her mother sometime this afternoon.  But it was still pretty early, and—deeply involved in reading her magazine—she hadn’t heard the little girl sneak into her craft room.  

            Turning to study the solemn olive-skinned child with deep-brown eyes and jet-black curls, Jeanie added more calmly,  “You must be Tara Suarez.  I didn’t realize that you and your mom were here yet.”

            “She’s still downstairs with Tío Mark and Daddy and Ms. Bernie.  You must be Ms. Jeanie.  Daddy said I could come upstairs and look at my bedroom.  I guess this isn’t it, though, ’cause of all the bookshelves.  Besides, there’s no bed in here for me.”

            “This is my craft room, Tara,” explained Jeanie.  “But your bedroom’s nearby.  I’ll show it to you.”

            Waiting patiently to be guided to the room where her Daddy had said she should sleep for the next two nights, Tara watched with quiet interest as Jeanie put her magazine carefully away. 

Now, of course—in deference to the youth of her visitor—Jeanie had been tempted to change out the guest bedroom’s usual linens and décor.  But then she’d decided that she’d simply put away the Royal Doulton lady who customarily graced the dresser, switch out the Waterford crystal lamp for the one that she’d replaced with the mid-century-modern beauty in her craft room—and call it a day. 

Who knew if the little girl would be freaked out by the unfamiliar space and simply refuse to stay?  And why put in all the effort to make the room kid-friendly for just a couple of overnight stays a month, anyway?

So now, crossing the hall to the guest bedroom, Jeanie clicked open the door and ushered Tara inside.  Where—out of the blue—the seven-year-old came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the light-beige carpet and, eyes wide, spun slowly around. 

“This is so beautiful!” she exclaimed at last. “The sunlight just streams in!”

“Well, the room has a northern exposure, which can be tricky to brighten,” explained Jeanie, oddly gratified that the little girl had noticed, “so I used white lace sheers.  And there’s a white roller shade that you can pull down when you want to go to sleep.”

“Oh, I just love the colour that you painted the walls,” continued Tara, still standing transfixed in the middle of the room.  “Mommy said that I couldn’t paint my bedroom yellow because it would be gaudy—but this isn’t like that at all!”

“I used a neutral shade called Daffodil Cream,” specified Jeanie, surprised by how chuffed she felt by the praise from the child. 

“And the bed is so pretty—” continued Tara.

“—it’s an antique birdseye-maple sleigh bed—”

“—and what kind of comforter is that?”

“That’s a vintage Irish lace counterpane, and I crocheted the pillow shams in a similar pattern to match—”

“Oh, can you crochet?  Mommy can’t.  She can’t crochet or knit or sew or do anything important.  But Tawny Owl is starting to teach us at Brownies.  We’re going to learn to do potholders—but I’d rather make something like those instead!”

“Well, I’ve got lots of yarn you can use, and maybe I can help you—”

“Hi?” A very pregnant woman in her early thirties stood smiling in the doorway.  Tara’s mom, of course.  She had the same olive-toned skin as her daughter and the same jet-black curls.  “I’m Dolores Suarez-Boxer,” she introduced herself.  “You must be Bernie’s mom.  Your home is just lovely!  Is this where Tara’s going to sleep?”

“Yes, well, thank you—” began Jeanie, again absurdly pleased, but Tara interrupted her.

“Mommy—!  You said that yellow was not a restful colour or appropriate for a bedroom.  But look at this—!”  Tara indicated the whole room with a wide sweep of her arms.  “Ms. Jeanie says it’s painted daffodil-cream—and she used white sheers on the window to bring in the sunshine—and the counterpane is vintage Irish lace—and she’s going to teach me how to crochet pillow shams like that!”

“Well, that’s very nice of her,” said Dolores, with a smile.  “But don’t let Tara wear you out, Ms. Todd.  She’s a bit of a fanatic about crafty stuff—”

“It’s Ms. Dinmont—but please call me Jeanie—and I don’t mind at all,” Jeanie found herself replying.  “I’ve got tons of supplies in my craft room.”

“Yes, that’s right, Mommy,” said Tara to Dolores, obviously carrying on a long-fought argument. “Ms. Jeanie has a room just for crafts!  And she’s going to teach me all about crocheting.  And she doesn’t mind if I use some of her yarn!”

“Tara.”  Dolores sighed, shaking her head at her forthright daughter.  “Don’t be a pushy kid.  Jeanie probably has a lot to do without spending gobs of time on you—”

“No, not really,” countered Jeanie. “If Tara’s enthusiastic, I certainly don’t mind.  Bernie was never very interested in needlework as a child.  Mostly she read by herself in her room.  So, it’ll be fun to teach Tara a few tricks of the trade if she wants to learn.”

“How’s it goin’ up here?” came Chuckie’s voice from the hall.  “You guys got Bugsy cornered yet?” 

“Daddy!” exclaimed Tara, as he entered the room with her rainbow kitten suitcase and a bag full of books, paints and craft supplies.  “Just look at how beautiful my bedroom is!”

“Ya sure there ain’t no bogie-men hidin’ under the bed?” he grinned.

Tara rolled her eyes and laughed.  “Look at the sunlight, Daddy!  Look at this room!  How could anything bad be living in here?”

“I’ll just check the wardrobe—”  Chuckie dropped his daughter’s suitcase on the rug and swung open the wardrobe door with great bravado—to reveal nothing but assorted hangers on an otherwise empty pole.  “Nope, it’s safe.  Ain’t nobody home but us chickens!”

Ignoring her silly parent, Tara knelt by her suitcase and clicked it open it to reveal its neatly folded contents.  “Ms. Jeanie—will you help me hang up some of my clothes, please?”

“Absolutely,” said Jeanie, stooping to take the sparkly deep teal top the little girl proffered her. “And we can stow the rest, if you like, in the dresser drawers.”

“That will be perfect,” said Tara with great satisfaction as she handed Jeanie a bunny rabbit hoodie.  “Mommy—Daddy—you can go…”

And, with that, Dolores and Chuckie were dismissed. Then Tara and Jeanie spent a pleasant ten minutes stashing the child’s belongings while they chatted companionably about her choice of clothes and books. 

In terms of clothing, Tara liked classic little girl attire.  She didn’t like cheap plastic materials—like you saw sometimes at second-rate stores—and was extremely wary of mixing uncomplimentary colours and patterns. 

Furthermore—despite her mommy and daddy insistence on reading her all the familiar children’s stories—Tara preferred books about ‘real stuff.’  

Like books on how to bake cookies.  Or how to craft bead bracelets.  Or how people around the world lived inside their homes.

“But what I really like are colouring books for big people,” Tara specified.  “Especially if they’re very fiddly…” 

By which, Jeanie understood, Tara preferred the intricate ones that were sold to adults as an aid to relaxation.  She, herself, had a trove of those books which, if the child was as careful with her colouring as she was with her wardrobe, Jeanie quietly decided that she could share. 

This decision was boosted when, among the trove of personal treasures that Tara had deemed necessary to bring for a two-night visit, Jeanie uncovered a large case of professional-quality coloured pencils.  Which, from the very neat and subtly hued examples from her colouring books which Tara proudly displayed—pistachio art nouveau lilies, intricate lemon paisley teardrops and whirling marigold sunbursts—the little girl was highly adept at employing.  

Faced with such a meticulous child’s naturally artistic personality, Jeanie easily persuaded herself that it would be quite okay to invite Tara to store her pencils, paints, and colouring books in Jeanie’s craft room for the weekend.  And, with this accomplished to the little girl’s satisfaction, Tara and Jeanie trotted down the back stairs to say good-bye. 

While Bernie, Chuckie and Dolores—her belly bulging with the fraternal twins due to arrive in December—were gossiping idly in the kitchen, Tara’s stepfather, Mark Boxer, was sitting in Jeanie’s Danish-modern living room talking to Don.  So, leaving the little girl to inform her mommy that “Ms. Jeanie says I can do whatever I like at her craft room desk,” Jeanie walked down the hall to find out what the men were discussing.

“Take my word for it.  Whenever you folks are ready to downsize,” Tara’s stepdad, Mark, was saying, having appraised their home with a professional eye, “I can get you top dollar for a place like this.”

“Well, that’s nice, Mark,” Don replied, mildly. “And the minute that I have a near-fatal stroke—or Jeanie decides that she’d rather live in a fifty-six square metre condo—you can be sure that your number will be the first one we’ll call.”

Refusing to take offense, the real estate agent smiled.  “Right now, you’re not interested.  I get that, Don.  But in a few years—when Bernie has moved out and there’s no one here to help with the yard work and the shovelling—perhaps what I’m saying tonight will ring a few more bells.  And then—if I’m still with my Ottawa brokerage—I’ll be delighted to show you your best options.”

“Thank you,” said Jeanie, briskly taking a seat on one of the teak armchairs. “But if Bernie is gone, and Don and I are too old to handle the grunt jobs, I’m sure someone younger will be glad to take a few bucks to give us a hand.  For example,” she added, with a perky smile, “we’ve already got a lady who comes in to dust the woodwork and mop the floors—”

Which was because—in order to allow her to relax and recuperate while she’d endured her cancer treatments—it had been crucial that the level of household spotlessness had been upheld to Jeanie’s own high standards.  So, Don had hired an energetic and very competent Filipina housecleaner named Mrs. Ramos as daily help. 

As it turned out, having the extra leisure time to spend on cooking, gardening and hobbies had been quite appealing.  And so—although Jeanie took pride in maintaining the sparkling kitchen and bathrooms herself—Mrs. Ramos had continued to come in for one morning a week to clean and do some of the laundry. 

“—and also a contractor who handles all of the snow.” added Don.

Yet, Mark could not be dissuaded.  “But—now that you’re retired—you’ll certainly prefer to spend five or six months a year somewhere warm,” he countered. “And, in the long run, buying a condo in the sunny south is cheaper than renting one.  So, if you had one condo apartment here and another one there, you could live a pleasant turn-key life.  You could summer in Ottawa and winter in, say, Florida or Costa Rica or Belize.  And you’d never need to buy another pair of snow boots—”

“How very nice of you to assume that’s how we want to live,” scoffed Jeanie.  And, “Just how much commission are you planning to make off our house, anyway?” chuckled Don. 

“Now, folks,” backtracked Mark, still smiling pleasantly, “I’m not saying that being snowbirds is what you want right now.  But time never stands still.  And eventually you’re going to find that a house of this size is more of a burden than a benefit.  The taxes alone must take a huge bite out of your budget.  And why heat and air condition a giant place with rooms you hardly ever see?  Now, I can—"

“Thanks, Mark,” said Don, standing to stretch. “But we use all of our rooms pretty regularly.  And, for the present, we’re even more booked up than usual.  Besides, next summer we’re hosting the family reunion to end all family reunions, and we’ll need every square millimetre in the place.  So, what do you say, Jeanie?  Do you have nefarious plans for supper tonight?  Or shall we just phone for a pizza?”

“Pizza might be okay,” considered Jeanie, rising as well.  “I had thought we’d do fish and chips because we’ve got a little kid here.  But Tara might have more sophisticated tastes—”

“Tara!” laughed Mark, sliding up out of his chair.  He’d recognized present defeat, but was glad to have planted the seed of real estate possibilities in the old couple’s minds. “She’ll let you know what she wants.”  He smiled fondly and shook his head.  “You never met such a persnickety kid in all your life.”

“I think your stepdaughter is charming,” said Jeanie, frowning as Mark dropped even lower on her personal hit parade.  “There’s nothing wrong with a girl knowing her own tastes.”

“Um-hm,” said Don, with a raised eyebrow.  “That’s certainly what you’ve always believed about Bernie.”

Jeanie turned sharply on Don.  “I’ve always tried to keep Bernie’s best interests in mind—”

Don wasn’t going to get into that argument.  So, he merely shrugged and softly replied, “I’m not saying that you haven’t, dear.  So, what about supper?  Shall we go consult the gang?”

“Yeah—and Dolores and I should be off,” said Mark, a bit disturbed that he’d awoken an on-going friction between the older folks.  The statistics guys reported that more and more long-term pairs were heading for the divorce courts.  But—although marriage break-ups often presented an opportunity for those in the real estate business—Mark still had enough romance in his soul to prefer the ideal of happily-ever-after.  Especially for himself and Dolores—as well as for couples in his own parents' generation. “That drive to Hamilton’s not going to get any shorter.  Dolores!” he called upon reaching the hall. “Grab your boots, Baby!  We need to hit the road!”

Dolores appeared in the kitchen doorway and awkwardly skirted her burgeoning body around Don and Jeanie into the front hall. 

“It’s been wonderful to meet you two,” she said as Mark helped her into her mulberry jacket.  “I’m sure Tara’s going to be happy here.  Like I said, though—don’t let her wear you out!  We’ll be back Monday afternoon to pick her up after school.  And Chuckie knows the drill.  Bye-bye, Tara,” she called, gesturing for a hug to her daughter who was watching her leave from the opposite end of the hallway. 

“I already said bye-bye,” returned Tara, distracted by some snippet of conversation behind her.

“Well—come give me one more cuddle and say so long to Tío Mark.”

“Okay.”  Willingly, Tara came forward to hop into her mom’s arms and give Mark an affectionate embrace. 

“We’ll see you on Monday—”

“I know, Mommy—you already said so.”

“Well, I—”

“Dolores!” frowned Mark, but with a gentle chuckle.  “Enough with the good-byes.”

Laughing a little too, Dolores gave Tara a final kiss and allowed Mark to usher her out.  Tara watched until the front door closed and then skipped back to the kitchen without another word.

Jeanie and Don followed the little girl down the hall to where Chuckie was sitting having a cup of coffee with Bernie at the granite island. 

“Okay, Tara.  Fish and chips or take-out pizza for supper?” asked Don.

Tara took a serious moment to consider her options.  “What kind of fish is it?” she finally enquired. “I’m only asking ’cause cod is too fish-y.  And I don’t like much breading.  And I do like some chips—but not ordinary French fries.”

“Mademoiselle Princesse.”  Chuckie bowed low before his daughter’s exacting tastes.

“How about pizza then?” asked Jeanie, who—supposing that most small children like nondescript offerings that remind them of fast food—had bought a package of brand name battered fish sticks and some uninspiring frozen potato fries.  “We can order a couple of different ones and then everyone can have the toppings he or she prefers.”

“Can we have anchovies?” asked Tara.

Bernie smiled. “If cod is too fish-y, Tara, how can you like anchovies?”

“I like anchovies,” asserted Don.  “And bacon.  And black olives.”

“And I like bacon and black olives on my pizza, too,” nodded Tara.  “So—if you don’t, Ms. Bernie—then Mr. Don and I can share a pizza and the rest of you can get whatever you want.”

“Horse feathers and porkypine quills it is, then!” cheered Chuckie, “But I got a call at seven-thirty tonight.  Could we all go eat-in, instead?”

“Okay, yes.  I was thinking you might need to hustle off,” nodded Don.  “Let’s all drive to the pizza place downtown.  And then we can drop you off at the theatre after supper.  Bernie, do you want to phone in a reservation?”

Nodding, Bernie unpocketed her phone and wandered into the family room to make the call.

“And maybe I can go see Daddy’s show tonight?” piped up Tara.

“Not a chance, Bugsy.”  Chuckie gave her a serious shake of his head.  “Mommy and I said ‘no,’ remember?  This play’s too scary for you.”

“Yes, but—”

“What’s Rule Number One?”

Tara sighed, but dutifully recited the rule.  “If Mommy and Daddy have talked about it, what they’ve decided goes.”

“And Rule Number Two?”

Tara rolled her eyes ceilingward.  “No whining about Rule Number One.”

“And Rule Number Three?”

“When in doubt, refer to Rule Number One,” Tara grumbled and then offered, “But I was allowed to see you in your play last summer—”

“Different play.  Different role.”  Chuckie gave his disappointed daughter a sympathetic smile.  “You’re going to come back here tonight and start heading for bed at eight like always.  Any questions, my darlin’ daughter?”

Tara sighed.  “I guess not, Daddy.”

“Then, give us a big smile, Bugsy!  At least you don’t gotta eat horse feathers on your pizza like me,” groaned Chuckie.

“Or banana peppers,” smiled Bernie.

“Or ham and pineapple,” shuddered Jeanie.

“Oooh—I hate those too,” winced Tara. “You won’t ever make me eat a Hawaiian pizza, will you?”

“No, never!  Just anchovies, bacon, black olives—and kale,” winked Don.

“No kale!” specified Tara.

“Okay.  No kale,” promised Don.

“See?  Now you’ve got everything going your way,” smiled Jeanie.  She was really going to enjoy having a little girl around the house…

“It’s the little things that make life worth living,” chuckled Don. “Right, Bugsy?”

Tara levelled a stern look at him. “Mr. Don.  Don’t you start calling me that!”

“Sorry about that, Bugs—er, Tara,” apologized Don. “It’s an easy habit to pick up…” 

“But her name is Tara,” emphasized Jeanie, lending the little girl her earnest support.

“Understood,” acknowledged Don, seriously.  And, exchanging amused glances with Tara’s daddy, he went into the mudroom to pick up the portable booster seat that the seven-year-old girl would need for a trip downtown in their family car.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Nine

Royal-Blue, Chestnut, Verdant-Green

            “Is all this plastic stuff ready to go?”

            “Yeah,” said Don. “And—with those cans in the blue bin—I’m pretty sure that’s the lot.”

            It was now a Tuesday night in mid-October, and Jeanie’s husband and Chuckie were gathering recycling items for the city to pick-up at the curb tomorrow morning. 

But, sighed Jeanie, there’s nothing unusual in that… 

Because, over the last two months, Chuckie Calamansi had become a fixture in the Dinmont-Todd home.

            Now, it was true enough that the first time that she’d seen him skipping down the back stairs to her kitchen for breakfast—as cheery as a stray dog who’d found a new home—she’d bristled with concern for Bernie. 

Yet—as her daughter had continued to invite her boyfriend to stay overnight in her mole’s nest—Jeanie had become quite accustomed to the sight of the lean and always hungry interloper foraging in her fridge to find ingredients for a daube Provençal…

Or standing over Don’s computer trying to figure out which wrong key Bernie’s dad had pushed this time…

Or popping out of the family bathroom in her daughter’s royal-blue TARDIS dressing gown…

Of course—as Bernie had archly pointed out—Chuckie hadn’t been there every night.  Only about three times a week.  Still—to Jeanie—it had certainly felt like he was constantly in her hair and underfoot…

            The one good thing—that Jeanie had been surprised to note—was that Chuckie seemed to have absolutely no interest in changing Bernie.  As far as she could see, the brazen young man assumed that any alteration in the normal expression of his girlfriend’s diffident personality or her reticent lifestyle was completely up to her. 

So, Jeanie had never heard Chuckie comment on her daughter’s lacklustre style of dress…or whether she used make-up…or how she wore her hair…

And he never seemed to expect Bernie to put aside the responsibilities of her job just to please him, day or night. 

In fact, most of the time Chuckie seemed too busy chasing after his own theatrical lifestyle to interfere with Bernie’s natural penchant for solitude.  But he obviously enjoyed her company whenever they hung out.

Actually, Jeanie had had to admit to herself—as she’d watched him sitting in their kitchen idly strumming his guitar or stretching his long-limbed frame into another improbable yoga pose in their family room—Chuckie was a pretty mellow boyfriend. 

And being with him seemed to make Bernie very, very happy.

So, Jeanie had decided thatuntil the shine had begun to dull on their still new-ish romance, she wouldn’t worry about finding a way to break them up permanently.

Certainly—when A Tale My Father Told Me had closed after its successful-whenever-the-weather-cooperated summer run—Jeanie had hoped that Chuckie would just pack up his bike and leave town.  Maybe find another role in Toronto or Halifax or in one of the other Canadian cities where he’d said he’d sometimes played on stage.

That would have ended her daughter’s unfortunate affair rather neatly, she’d assumed. 

But—to Jeanie’s dismay—Chuckie had found a part-time job teaching clowning at a local theatre school and then quickly been cast in Excursion Theatre’s autumn show. 

As he’d explained between ample forkfuls of Jeanie’s best Italian pot roast one September night, a senior member of the company had been forced to drop out of the production because of complications associated with an inheritance that he was receiving.  So—to Bernie’s delight—the show had been reworked with Chuckie playing one of the two villains’ roles instead.

Now, on the one hand...Jeanie had hoped that Bernie wouldn’t expect her to go see her boyfriend in his new show.  Judging by the hammy performances she’d seen last summer, it probably wouldn’t be something she’d enjoy. 

But, on the other hand…attending the play might finally give her the opportunity to reconnect professionally with Lindy about skittifying A Tale. 

Given the rude reception she’d had in August, she’d preferred not to make her loopy neighbour another spontaneous house call.  But she was beginning to realize that—since nobody in the Excursion Theatre office had ever replied to her repeated phone messages and e-mails—she might just have to.

To Jeanie’s mind, not only had this professional discourtesy been mystifying—who else would have offered such a generous deal for very little work on Lindy’s part?—but deeply annoying too. 

For how on earth could the Dinmont-Todd family move ahead with their Olde Fashioned Reunion plans if Lindy and her theatre company refused to cooperate?

            In early September, Jeanie had been excited to pick up the printed invitations and reply cards with their respective envelopes.  And, when the sales clerk had opened the boxes for approval—even without Sylvie being there to admire her triumph—she’d been thrilled.  Because her line drawings had looked just perfect for their Roaring Twenties theme! 

But of what use was all of that if she couldn’t specify which summer week had been scheduled for their Reunion?  After all, with so much travel involved, family members would need lots of lead time to get their plans in gear…

Thus, it was critical that Lindy get back to her—and soon!—with available dates for her theatre company.  Because only then could Jeanie fill in the blank spaces and send her handwritten invitations winging across the land.

            Unfortunately, Jeanie’s hopes that, under the circumstances, Chuckie would have felt an obligation to act as a liaison between her and Lindy had proved unfounded.  Whenever she’d brought up the subject, he’d just grinned and said, “Sorry, Momsy.  Can’t help ya there!”

            Having Chuckie call her ‘Momsy’ was another irritant, of course.  But with besotted Bernie leaping to her boyfriend’s defence at any tiny question or remark, Jeanie had decided early on to choose her battles extremely carefully.  So—despite enormous temptation—Jeanie had spent a lot of time this autumn leaving the young couple to peacefully follow their own pursuits.  And learning to bite her tongue hard.

Plus, maddeningly, even Don had become awfully grumpy whenever she tried to quiz the guy down.  And, with Chuckie around—rather than remaining the quiet, laid-back husband she’d always known and loved—he’d unexpectedly morphed into another source ongoing frustration. 

Because—no matter how ridiculous the clowning—Don had always found Bernie’s boyfriend funny and charming.  He’d chuckled at the slimmest jokes and glowed with approval over the tiniest glimmers of talent.  And—worst of all—he’d acquired an aggravating habit of complimenting the guy enthusiastically on every single dish he cobbled together in Jeanie’s kitchen. 

Which Chuckie the Clown had done with tiresome frequency. 

Whistling a brisk La Marseillaise as he’d juggled her pots and pans, he’d commandeered any ingredients that he’d happened to root out of her fridge, freezer, garden or pantry.  He’d even taken it upon himself to brine the Thanksgiving turkey last weekend—!  Which had been something that Jeanie had been planning to do for ages, but simply hadn’t gotten around to yet…

“This turkey is the best I’ve ever eaten!” her dumb husband had crowed, begging for another helping of the chestnut bird.  And Bernie’s incandescent pride in her boyfriend’s ‘gifted’ cooking had made Jeanie want to heave her beloved kidlet gently out of her third-floor window and serenely watch as she plummeted to the garden below…

Oh, gee whiz.  Wouldn’t that have been a Thanksgiving treat?

Well—at least Chuckie seemed to have a penchant for washing up afterwards.

Otherwise, mused Jeanie—checking through the refrigerator for any stale-dated food that Don might have missed—I’d have gone as loopy as good ol’ Lindy!

“That all the moldy kitchen scraps, Popsy?” she heard the clown politely ask Don at the mudroom door.

“Aaah—yes, I believe so,” her husband replied. “Oh, wait.  Did you get that take-out pizza box?  That goes in the green bin too…”

“Yep.  Got it, Chief!”

As she shut the refrigerator and climbed onto a kitchen stool, Jeanie could faintly hear the rumble as Chuckie rolled the green bin to the curb. 

Don came into the kitchen through the mudroom door.  “Well, Jeanie, we’ve done the deed, and ‘That’s all folks!’”

“Oh, Don,” sighed Jeanie.  “Don’t you start talking like a cartoon character too.  I’ve just about had all that I can stand.”

“Sorry about that, um—”  Don had the grace to look abashed as he pulled up another stool and sat down. “It’s kind of an easy habit to acquire, dear.”

“Well—don’t.”  Jeanie heard Chuckie come inside and lock the outer door behind him.  “Oh, good gravy, not again!” she moaned to Don, but, “Staying tonight, then, are you, Chuckie?” she asked brightly as he came to join them in the kitchen.

            “I invited him to,” announced Bernie, sliding into the kitchen from the front hall. “We’ve got something important to share with you two.”  Seeing the horror dawning on her mother’s face, she smiled. “Not that, Mom.  And not the other thing you’re thinking of, either.  Keep your hat on, and Chuckie and I will explain.” 

Soberly, Bernie and her boyfriend took seats at the island.

            “Okay,” began Chuckie in an oddly serious tone, “here’s the scuttlebutt.  My landlord sold the building where I’ve been paying month-to-month on a teensy one-bed apartment for the last coupla years.  That’s not a tragedy, folks, but the news that the new owner wants everybody out by the end of the month kind of is.”

            “So, you think that we should—?” Jeanie wasn’t pleased about where this particular narrative might be going. 

“Shush, Mom,” urged Bernie. “Let Chuckie fill you in first.”

            “Well, no,” he continued, still strangely straightforward, “I sorta thought I shouldn’t impose.  But Bernie says that you’ll be all right with everything once you understand.”

Bernie nodded with an expression of such undying love and encouragement that Chuckie reached out to squeeze her hand.

“You see, folks, it’s not that my bum will be tossed out on to the street.  I’ve couch surfed plenty of times before.  It’s just that—seeing how tight and expensive renting’s become in this burg—I’m afraid I won’t be able to smell out a place that I can afford and still pay my child support.  And if that cheque bounces,” Chuckie grimaced, “Mommy Dolores will probably let Hubby Mark talk her into shoving off to his hometown.  And if they move house to Hamilton, I won’t be able to see Tara anymore.  Or, at least, not three or four times a month like I do right now.”  He shook his head in frustration.  “See—if it was just me—it wouldn’t matter where I lay my weary bones.  But to keep Bugsy in my life, I’ve got to get a decent place that’ll satisfy her mom.  Now—I don’t expect any favours—but you folks can see my problem, right?”

            “Of course, they can, sweetheart,” sighed Bernie. “And they’re going to be delighted to help.  Aren’t you, Dad and Mom?”

            “In any way that we can,” Don assured the lovebirds, fervently.

            “You…you…have a daughter—?” faltered Jeanie.

            “Yeah.  She’s seven.  And—”

            “Named…Bugsy?”

            “Well, yeah.  But, really, Tara.  Like the street in Ottawa where I grew up.”

            “And—where—how did you get her—?”

            “Well, Mom,” snorted Bernie, rolling her eyes, “the little bird says ‘Hi, honey!’ to the bee, and then—” 

But Chuckie gave her a quick wink and a nod, so Bernie shrugged and hushed while he turned earnestly back to Jeanie.  “Tara came about when Mommy Dolores and me had a one-night fling at the wrap-up party for a Fimbria Fest show we were both playing in.  That was the June after I got home from France.  When she decided to go ahead and have the baby, I promised I’d do my best to come up with a little steady dough and make up the difference by kiddy-sitting.  So then, after she pushed her out, Mommy Dolores and me settled on a schedule and an amount.  And so, as long as I mind Bugsy when Mommy wants me to—and I pay up regularly—I’m supposed to be able to see my kid.  But nothing formal’s ever been written down, and so—legally—Dolores has got full custody.  So—if she thinks I’m living in a garbage dump, she can refuse to let Tara come stay with me.  Or just pack her up and leave for Hamilton whenever she wants.” 

“Well, we can’t allow that!” asserted Don with genuine feeling.

“So…she’s seven—?” Jeanie was still having trouble with the basic facts.  Chuckie the Clown was a father?  Who paid regular child support?  With a daughter he actually cared about?  “What do your parents think?”

Chuckie shook his head.  “Momma died when I was twelve.  And then Dad croaked when I hit twenty-one.  About six months before I went to France.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jeanie, sincerely.  “You never told us.  And how did—?”

“Her—suicide.  Him—heart attack,” Chuckie filled in, briefly. 

Jeanie reeled back in shock. 

Bernie gave her clown a side hug and kissed his cheek. 

“And brothers?  Sisters?” asked Don with a furrowed brow.

“Nope.  Well, I had a baby sister who hadn’t started kindergarten yet.  But Momma took her with her when she went.  Dad wasn’t up to any funeral stuff and I never saw…” Chuckie’s voice trailed off.

Everything in the kitchen went very still. 

Jeanie felt tears clog her throat.  

Sylvie…oh, no.  She couldn’t stand to blend Chuckie’s abysmal-blue grief with her verdant-green sorrow tonight.  Gulping fiercely past her tears’ watery chokehold—“Where does she go to school?” she rasped, instead.

“What?” Chuckie regarded Jeanie as if from far away.

“Your daughter, Tara?  Where does she go to school?”

“Oh yeah.”  Chuckie gave himself a shake. “She’s in Grade Two just over the bridge at Mutchmor Elementary.  Mommy Dolores gave up the stage and became a government hacker—like Bernie here.  They live about twenty-minute’s walk from your house in a new-fangled glass and steel heap in the Glebe.  Hubby Mark sells real estate.”

“Couldn’t he help you to find a suitable place to live, then?”

“Mom.”

This is serious.  Get with the program.  Don’t be such a selfish cow. 

“No, that’s okay, Cutie.  Your mom’s just askin' a question.  But I’ve got to answer that one, ‘Definitely, nope.’  Actually, hubby Mark would prefer it if I fell off the face of the earth.  Then he could get Mommy Dolores to—”

“—to move to Hamilton, Mom!”

Jeanie could see that her daughter was well past impatient with her.  But she just had to know, “But Bernie—did Chuckie tell you any of this?  I mean—before he parked his toothbrush by our sink?”

“Yes, of course, Mom!” snapped Bernie. “If you really must know—Chuckie told me everything about his life that day you were so mean to Lindy Styre.  And he’s been nothing but honest with me ever since.  And I’ve met his daughter Tara—multiple times!—and she and I get along just phenomenally!  So, I think having him move in here would be simply perfect.  He’s already pulling his weight around the house—even you’ve got to admit that!—and Tara’s mom couldn’t possibly object to her daughter visiting here.  She can have her own bedroom, for god’s sake—the guest room on the second floor?  We sure never use it for anyone else!  And Chuckie will be right upstairs with me.  And you and Dad will just love her—she’s the sweetest little kid—and Chuckie can relax about losing her to Steeltown.”

Steeltown?

Oh my gosh.

Chuckie had really contaminated her daughter’s mind.

Nevertheless, Bernie seemed genuinely passionate about this particular matter.  And Jeanie certainly couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her string so many words together in a row…  

Plus—she did have to concede—with only the three of them, they were kind of rattling up and down the double staircases in this enormous old red-brick house…

And—it had been her original plan to have a large family of kids or, maybe, just lodgers to fill up its plentiful bedrooms… 

And—if Sylvie were still around—she’d definitely advise Jeanie to ‘err on the side of generosity…’

So…

“Okay, okay,” Jeanie said. “I only wanted to get a few things straight.  Now—is Chuckie going to be paying rent?”

“Mom—” began Bernie but, again, Chuckie silenced her with a subtle wink. 

“I sure as shootin’ aim to pay my share of the household expenses,” he declared.  “But if it’s more than what I pay now, I won’t be able to afford my child support and—”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about rent, son,” interrupted Don, earnestly.  “We’re very happy to have you and your little girl join us any time for however long you’d like to stay.  Call it our contribution to the Ottawa theatre scene.”

“Hey!  High five, Popsy, my man!” exclaimed Chuckie, fitting the action to the words, while Bernie sat beaming at her dad.

And that, as my mother would say, is the name of that little tune, thought Jeanie.  

Oh well.  It can’t be helped.  Chuckie doesn’t seem to have any place else to go.  And as long as it cheers up the rest of the family, I’ll just have to see how it all pans out. 

That is…until Bernie gets tired of her boyfriend’s sneaky schemes… 

Or for however long freeloading Chuckie and his dreadful offspring choose to mess up my house…

“So that’s all arranged,” Jeanie nodded, her lips curved into what she meant to be a big-hearted smile.  “And when can we expect to meet your delightful daughter?  Soon, I suppose?” 

“Yeah,” returned Chuckie, clearly relieved.  “Soon as possible, I hope…”

[birchkillchronicles]

More...

If you'd like to read the back story of the summer theatre characters in 'Getting to Marigold,' my first original novel, ''The Dogged Desire of Lindy Styre,' which is mainly about Lindy and her theatre troupe, is available in both paperback and e-reader formats from various on-line sources, (ie., Amazon, etc.)

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Eight

Turquoise, Banana-Yellow, Peaches-and-Cream

            “Rough day all around,” said Don, neatly summarizing Jeanie’s calamitous encounters in the last few hours.  “Why don’t you go relax in a hot bath while I handle dinner tonight?”

            “I don’t need any more water,” Jeanie bitterly replied, roughly rubbing the turquoise towel her husband had fetched through her hair. “I already feel like a drowned rat.  And dinner won’t be a problem for me.  I’ll be only cooking for two!”

            “She might turn up—”

            “No, she’s gone.  She told me that she’d ‘send someone for her clothes—’”

            “You were both having a bit of a—”

            “Don!  She said she was never coming back!”

            “I know she did,” acknowledged Don. “But Bernie was—actually both of you were—speaking in the heat of the moment and—”

            “And what?  And we’ll both return to daisies and sunshine when we calm down?  I doubt it, Don.  I really do!” Jeanie wrung the towel between her fists.  “You should have seen her.  You should have heard her!  Yelling like a drunken hooligan right out there on the street—!”

            “Well—you were clobbering her boyfriend with an umbrella—”

            “I had to defend her somehow!  That evil jerk was taking advantage of the silly crush she’s got on him—”

            “Or maybe, ” ventured Don, “they actually like each other?”

            “Whose side are you on, Don?” wailed Jeanie.  “Do you want your only child to disappear forever?  And with a goddamned clown!”  She’d kept her anguish in check so far, but this was the final straw, and suddenly she was wracked with shuddering anxiety.

            Don moved in quickly to hug his wife and whisper comfort in her ear.  But, after a moment, Jeanie pushed him away and got herself under control.  “Sorry,” she muttered.  “I didn’t mean to lose it so completely.  You’re not to blame, and I shouldn’t be hollering at you.”

            Don sighed.  “Jeanie—my feelings don’t matter right now.  Yours do.  And Bernie’s.  And you don’t want this one mishap to screw up your relationship for life—”

Jeanie was reluctant, but she had to agree with Don there.  “Right—”

“So, try to reach some perspective—”

“But she’s not—”

“—because you knew that she was going to grow up and leave sometime, dear,” he continued, soothingly. “And, heck.  Just last week you were saying that it was a shame that Bernie had seemed to have reached a plateau in her life and was never going to move out of her mole’s nest upstairs—”

            “Yes.  Okay.  I did say that,” Jeanie grudgingly admitted.  “But I never meant that she should go like this.”

            Abruptly, Jeanie and Don heard the side door open, and then there were voices in the mudroom.  Bernie’s reedy soprano voice and an increasingly familiar robust tenor one. 

The voice of that trashy clown—

The mudroom door cracked open, and Bernie’s pale face peeked in.

“Hi?” she tentatively inquired.  “Is it okay if we come in?”

“You can come in—” began Jeanie, but her voice was overridden by Don’s hearty greeting. “Sure!  C’mon in, guys! We were thinking about making supper plans!  Hello, young man!” he continued, extending his hand to Chuckie as Bernie drew him through into the kitchen.  “Nice to see you again!”

“Nice to be seen, Popsy,” grinned Chuckie, as he readily shook Don’s hand. 

Traitor!  Jeanie’s eyes seethed at her turncoat husband, witnessing this exchange of pleasantries. 

Bernie, on her part, seemed vastly relieved by her dad’s open reception of her new boyfriend and—encouraged by the actor’s nods and winks toward Jeanie—attempted a truce with her mother. 

“I was pretty steamed a little while ago,” Bernie allowed.  “But Chuckie convinced me that we should try to smooth things over with you, Mom.”  This said, Bernie looked directly at her mother for the first time and, from Jeanie’s sour expression, instantly saw that—however good her intentions—mutual forgiveness might not be in cards.  “Unless, of course, you don’t want to move past this.  C’mon, Chuckie—I told you she’d be impossible—”  Bernie spun and grasped Chuckie by the hand to pull him back through the mudroom door.

“Hey, hold yer horses, Cutie!” urged Chuckie, quietly standing his ground. “Give the old gal a break.”

“Who’re you calling old?” hissed Jeanie.

But Chuckie just grinned and said to Bernie, “Momsy’s had a helluva wake-up call.  But she ain’t gone for her bumbershoot since we rambled in.  So—as long as she ain’t walloping me like a dusty carpet—I think we can safely hang out here for a sec.”  

“Absolutely!” cried Don, delighted that he had another reasonable male on the premises.  “Jeanie—the kids can stay here for supper with us, right?  What were you thinking we’d eat?”

“I don’t think I’m up to being the chief cook and bottle washer for these two tonight,” sniffed Jeanie.  “But, if you—or they—want to prepare something half edible, that’s fine...”

“Ka-blam!” exclaimed Chuckie, unexpectedly. “Point me to yer cookin’ box, and I’ll do the deed—you bet!”

“You cook?” scoffed Jeanie.  “I’d like to see you try—”

“Well, ya sure didn’t gag on those pissyladders I brought to Lindy’s hacienda this aft!”

“Pissy-what?” frowned Jeanie.

“Pissaladières,” clarified Bernie, proudly.  “Those French pizza things with the black olives and such?  Chuckie told me he learned how to make those when he was living in France.”

“What were you doing in France?” asked Don, with real curiosity now.

“Studying clowning,” said Chuckie and Bernie together, and then cried, “Jinx!,” followed by a gleeful hug and a fresh peck on the lips.

Despite feeling her hackles rise in defence of her clueless daughter—“You have to study to be a clown?” blurted out Jeanie, distracted by that particular snippet of Chuckie’s personal history.

“Yep-pers!” Chuckie bowed to the applause of the throng.  “Got my nez rouge at the École internationale de théâtre Jack Leacock in Gay Paree.  Alors—for two years, I hadda figure out how to feed myself real good on about eleventeen bucks a week.  Et—voyla!—I became un grand chef PDQ.  So—stand back, ladies and germs!  Show me to your spice shelf, and I’ll faire un dîner incroyable pour vous tous!”

Jeanie scowled.  Still suspicious of Chuckie’s basic intentions, she didn’t approve of where the conversation was going at all.  Did she really want this nutbar burning holes in her cookware?

But “Be our guest!” invited gullible Don, signaling with a generous wave of his hand that Chuckie was welcome to take charge of Jeanie’s stove any time.

“Whaddaya say, Cutie?” grinned Chuckie to his new girlfriend. “Wanna fry up some Spaghetti-O’s with me?”

Bernie’s cheeks dotted with pleasure once more.  “Just wait one minute while I run upstairs!” she cried and dashed toward her bedroom with more oomph than her parents had seen her exhibit in the last thirty years.

“Whadda gal!” laughed Chuckie, then asked where he could take a powder too?  Directed to the half bath around the corner, he left Don and Jeanie contemplating how much dead air was left in the room once the young people had gone.

“He seems…nice,” hazarded Don.

“He’s…” Jeanie wasn’t sure she had adequate words to describe the dark misgivings that were buzzing through her head.  “Do you think that he’s got any education other than…clown college?”

“We can ask him.  He seems to be okay with providing, well, fairly straightforward answers.”

“And how come Bernie already seems to know so much about him?”

Don shrugged. “Internet?”

“Do you think that they—oh, hi again...” 

Ablutions complete, Chuckie was back for another round. 

Jeanie thought she’d take the bull by the horns and quiz him down.  “So—have you been stalking our daughter?”

“No, ma’am.  Not at all,” Chuckie assured her, with a sober mien. “In fact—your daughter’s been stalking me.  Creeping, actually.  Not exactly lurking...”

“What—?” chorused Jeanie and Don, largely unfamiliar with internet-speak.

Chuckie laughed. “Readin’ up on me an’ following my tracks on the social without actually contacting me, folks.  Until today, that is—when she replied to my tweet about how our play was gonna be rained out an’ asked me what else we were up to instead?  An’ I tweeted back that I’d probably be strummin’ a lament at my director’s crib.  So then, I trundled this old carcass to Lindy’s—and three guesses who showed up batting her flirty eyes?”

“You’re making me sound bad, Chuckie,” objected Bernie, with a shy smile.  She’d snuck down the back stairs without anyone noticing.  “I’m not really much of a femme fatale.” 

“It’s all good, Cutie,” laughed Chuckie.  “As long as you ain’t no belle dame sans merci…”  And he dropped another kiss on Bernie’s unusually rosy lips.  “Mmm—lipstick…” he purred when he resurfaced.

“I remember that poem,” interrupted Jeanie, attempting to gain some control of the situation.  “It’s Keats.  We took it in first year English at Simon Fraser.”

“Chuckie went to Ottawa U—if that’s what you’re asking, Mom,” returned Bernie, lightly stroking his still slightly damp banana-yellow tee shirt, which oddly featured the saying, ‘Your Design Here.’  “He got an Honours B.A. in Theatre and then did two years in France.”

“So, I ain’t as dumb as I look—”

“—nobody could be that dumb!” finished Bernie with a chuckle.  And the enamored pair fell naturally back to canoodling.

“And are your parents still living where you grew up?”  For the sake of her sanity, Jeanie needed to break this nonsense up.

“Mom.”

Enough with the questions.  You’re being a pain.  He’s a wonderful guy.

* * * * *

Later, as Jeanie lay in bed—trying not to listen for her daughter’s long-awaited return from a lengthy after-dinner stroll with her clown—she rolled over and poked her husband.

“Do you think she’s all right?” she asked.

“Is that any of our business?” Don replied, as he sat on the edge of the bed fooling with the last puzzle on his tablet.

“She’s been gone for so long—”

“She’s an adult—and this damned puzzle is unsolvable,” Don sighed.

“But he’s so much more worldly—”

“I thought he was nice.”  Abandoning the stubborn crossword, Don powered down his tablet, rolled into bed and thumbed opened a paperback thriller.

Jeanie watched her husband resentfully.  She hadn’t expected him to cave so completely on the first guy Bernie brought home.  And she thought that he ought to show a lot more concern about Chuckie’s pedigree.

“He’s an actor, you know,” she emphasized. 

“Hm, what?”  Regretfully, Don lowered his book. 

“He could just be pretending.”  Jeanie stared hard at her husband.  “He could just be leading her on.”

Don shrugged.  “Isn’t pretending what actors do?” 

“But with our Bernie?”

“Well, if he turns out to be a rotter, that’s her problem, dear.”  Don glanced longingly at his thriller.

“But we should protect her—”

“I repeat—she’s an adult.”  He picked up the book and found his page.

“And you let him take over my kitchen like—”

“That shrimp quiche was delish,” stated Don with finality as he dipped back into his novel.

Jeanie wasn’t about to give up so easily.  “It was okay, I guess…it needed less salt…” 

Then the memory of Chuckie zipping out through the sliding glass doors in the family room to raid her herb garden stained her cheeks blood red.  He’d teased her as he’d scuttled back into the kitchen by saying that he ‘coulda used some marjoram, Momsy” but ‘thyme and oregano’ll do in a pinch...’ 

The nerve of that two-bit fraudster—!  But wait…no. 

Jeanie wasn’t going to give Chuckie the satisfaction of ruining her naturally peaches-and-cream complexion.  Scrunching her light summer sheets in her fists, she redirected her anger and felt her face cool.  

Then, as calmly as possible, she commented to Don, “I would have added dill, maybe, or—listen!  Is that her coming in?  Quick, Don—turn off the light!  We don’t want Bernie to think we’re worried about her.”

“No.” said Don, tossing away his book and flicking the lamp switch. “We wouldn’t want her to think that we cared.  Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight.” 

And, having heard only one pair of footsteps tripping lightly up the attic stairs to her daughter’s mole’s nest, Jeanie was finally able to relax into a restless doze…

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Seven

Copper, Parchment, Pomegranate

“Who’s that?” enquired Bernie, pointing at the back row.

“Not a clue,” grimaced her dad, glancing at the stiff figure in the old photo.  “Your Gramma Todd would have known, but I really couldn’t say.”

“And that’s why we need to have a photo sharing table,” said Jeanie, in her most reasonable voice.  “So that the relatives in those ancient pictures can be identified.  Then we can craft a photo family tree and make sure every branch has a copy of it to take home.”

Bernie was leafing through her paternal grandmother’s photo albums.  After his widowed mother’s funeral in Vancouver three years ago, Don had been the only sibling interested in keeping the hefty volumes.  And—since Jeanie’d regarded the copper daguerreotype and black-and-white photos as cherished heirlooms—she’d gladly encouraged Don to pay the extra luggage fee to fly the albums home.

Today—on the Sunday following the August weekend when they’d all seen the play—Jeanie had called another family meeting at the kitchen island.  Worn down by her enthusiasm, Don and Bernie were pretty much on board with a Roaring-Twenties-themed Olde Fashioned Dinmont-Todd Family Reunion right now, and she didn’t want to lose any momentum. 

“Mom,” asked Bernie, closing the photo album she’d been studying and hauling over another to peruse, “did you get in touch with Lindy Styre?” 

Lindy’s absence from the play last weekend had been a major setback for Jeanie.  She’d nipped down the street to knock at the playwright’s door on Monday morning, then Wednesday afternoon and, finally, Friday at noon.  But there had never been an answer.

Did Lindy travel much? Jeanie wondered.  And, if she did, how long would she be away?  Jeanie didn’t know, and it was exasperating that they hadn’t been able to connect.  Lindy’s show—or at least a more compact and palatable version of it—was the keystone to Jeanie’s whole enterprise.  And she couldn’t set the final date for next summer’s Reunion until she knew when Lindy’s company was available to perform. 

Jeanie could have called the number on the Excursion Theatre website, of course.  But she suspected that questions about Lindy’s whereabouts, even from a concerned neighbour, would be met with some scepticism.  Besides, Jeanie’s request—accompanied as it would be by a lavish bribe—required a personal touch, and she wanted to look Lindy in the eye when she offered her generous proposal.

The rest of the Reunion plans were going quite well, though. 

Last Tuesday, she’d convinced Bernie to trade up her brown paper bag lunch for a sushi restaurant a couple of blocks away from her office.  And, from there, Jeanie had managed to get her daughter’s desultory blessing on her choice of stationery at a fancy papery store nearby.  So, while Bernie’d moped like a little grey cloud about getting back late from her noon break, Jeanie had ordered one hundred parchment invitations and envelopes—just to be safe—and the same number of reply cards with their smaller envelopes as well. 

Unfortunately, adding the spritely question ‘Do you remember the Twenties?’ had never appealed to Don or Bernie.  And—after some resentful deliberation—Jeanie had decided not to die on that stony hill.  So, on the front of the invitations, there was going to be a simple line drawing of flappers and gangsters riding merrily in their Tin Lizzie—which Jeanie had copied for free from a library book—and a banner proclaiming ‘The Dinmont-Todd Roaring Twenties Family Reunion’—which Jeanie had hand drawn herself.  Then, inside, there were blank lines to follow the questions of Who?, When? and Where? which Jeanie aimed to fill in with her round script once she knew the complete answers to those important enquiries. 

The reply cards, which also featured the jalopy and the banner, asked the standard questions of ‘Are you coming?’ and ‘How many?’  And—just as she was planning to do with the invitations—Jeanie was going to stamp the reply envelopes and address them all by hand. 

Meanwhile, Don had been making a list of the relatives on his side of the family and their present locations.  He didn’t have an old-fashioned address book like Jeanie’s, so they’d had to go onto the internet to track down the information that she didn’t already have.  But why be too strict at this point? he’d argued.  And—not seeing any other way around it—she’d had to compromise.

But that, Jeanie had sternly warned Don, was the only time that the curse of modern technology was going to blight their Olde Fashioned theme!  Don had muttered something about how ‘Gutenberg must be printing our invitations then,’ but Jeanie had chosen to ignore his negative vibe…

“Mom?” Bernie was waiting, strangely impatient, for Jeanie to answer her question about Lindy Styre. “Have you gotten in touch with her yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” admitted Jeanie. “But I thought—since there’s nothing but dark skies and liquid sunshine outside—she might be home this afternoon.  I thought I’d give her door a tap, at any rate.”

“I’ll come-with, if you don’t mind,” offered Bernie.

“Really?”  You could have knocked Jeanie over with a silver lining!  Bernie wanted to come along?  That was tremendous!  Maybe this whole Reunion idea had finally set her daughter’s pond on fire! “I mean, sure, kidlet, that would be great!” she exclaimed. “We’ll try around three, shall we?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Therefore, promptly at three o’clock, Bernie was standing beside Jeanie on Lindy’s front porch when her mother rang the bell.  This time, however, the attractive older white guy, whom Jeanie had occasionally seen doing chores in Lindy’s yard, answered the door. 

“Hi, ladies,” said the man. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, hi,” replied Jeanie, a bit nonplussed.  From inside the house, she could hear the chatter of assorted voices and someone strumming an acoustic guitar. “Um, is Lindy around?”

“May I let her know who’s calling?” asked the man, with a pleasant smile.

“Bernie and Jeanie from three doors down,” broke in Bernie, unexpectedly pressing forward as she strained to see through the front vestibule doorway into the house. 

“We’ve got a business proposal that she’ll really want to hear,” clarified Jeanie, who’d got back her normal brisk tone. “That is—we’re here to offer Lindy a fabulous deal!”

“Oh, in that case, ladies, you’d better come in.”  Indicating the hooks where they could hang up their umbrellas, the man waved them through to the hall.  “Lindy!” he called, “You’ve got a couple of neighbours here with a fabulous deal—”

“What, Malcolm?  Who?”  

Lindy appeared in the shabby living room’s dark-oak trimmed doorway.  Behind her in the dining room the voices and the guitar quieted into a listening hush. “Oh, hi, Jeanie and—?  Sorry—I should know your name—”

“Bernie,” volunteered Jeanie’s daughter, as she pushed past her mother into the hall. “And I have to tell you, Ms. Styre, I’m one of your biggest fans!”

“Oh, um, that’s nice,” said Lindy, clearly taken aback.  “I mean, thanks.”  She looked uncertainly from Bernie to Jeanie. “Would you two like to join us?  We’re just having a small pity party over losing another two performances to this damned rainy August.”

“Sure!” piped up Bernie before Jeanie could reply. “That would be great!” 

And, to her mother’s astonishment, the usually massively timid young woman practically ran toward the French doors.  At the dining room entrance, however, she halted, greeting the occupants with a more tentative and Bernie-ish, “Hi..?”

“Hey, Toots!” responded a jaunty masculine tenor which Jeanie thought that she recalled hearing sometime, but she wasn’t sure when. 

“Have a seat, babe!” encouraged an incisive feminine voice that, again, seemed familiar to her.

“En tout cas, we’ve got more than enough—” offered a second softer tenor.

“Yes, my dear.  Do come indulge in our simple repast,” invited a deeper male voice in a courtly tone.

And—once more to Jeanie’s surprise—Bernie disappeared with alacrity through the dining room doors.

“Well done, my dear!” praised the courtly voice. “Now take a chair here beside me and say ‘Hello’ to Leo, my comrade-in-arms—”

“Oh, yeah, ha-ha, Darrick,” came the first tenor voice. “Sorry, Cutie.  Ya gotta excuse the old guy’s waggish attempts at humour.  He should be leavin’ those up to Leo.  Wanna a beer?  Or a coffee?  Malcolm’s buyin’—”  And Jeanie again heard the strumming of the guitar.

“I guess you’ll want to join us, too,” was Lindy’s half-hearted invitation to Jeanie.  “Malcolm, we’ll need at least one more chair…”

Jeanie followed her reluctant host into the warmly lit dining room and, taking her cue from Lindy’s wave towards it, settled herself in the same rickety wooden chair where she’d sat during her first visit.  Glancing back into the living room, she noticed Malcolm beginning to clear a pile of books and papers off a footstool to provide an extra seat.  And then she turned to assess her fellow guests. 

A lean and lanky whippet-faced white guy—the cheeky actor with the fedora who she estimated was the same early-thirty-ish age as Bernie—was seated at the far end of the table playing the guitar.  Framed by the French doors, the insolent mid-thirty-ish actress with ultramarine hair sat opposite him.  And, to Jeanie’s left, the slender fellow of indeterminate age, who she’d last seen driving off from Lindy’s house, greeted her with a sweet smile.

Across the table sat the dapper grey-haired actor who’d shamed the ringing-phone lady.  But only when she turned her full attention toward him, did Jeanie realize to her horror that, not only was vastly allergic Bernie seated beside a man who was holding a tiny green-canvas-vested chihuahua in his lap, she was also petting the miserable thing!

“Bernie!” she exclaimed, without thinking.  “Be careful of that awful dog!”

The little pup startled, the guitar music came to an abrupt halt and the room went completely silent again.

“Madame!” spat the tiny dog’s owner. “Please do not presume on our hospitality!  Your charming daughter is merely giving Leo a pleasant salutation, as any polite person would do.”

“Yes, Jeanie!” added Lindy, with a flash of temper. “Leo’s a leading member of our theatre company—and if you’re not happy with that—well, you know your way out!” She gestured toward the vestibule with a scornful wave.

“Mom!” hissed Bernie, crimson buttons flaring on her cheeks. “Relax!” And then to the entire group she apologized, “OMG!  I am so sorry!  My mom is so way out of line...”

“Thank you, my dear,” sniffed Leo’s owner.  “But it is not your contrition that we seek.  What says your uncouth mother?  Jeanie, is it?” And her name fired off the old actor’s tongue like a bullet to her heart.

“Yes, Jeanie,” she replied, tartly.  She was beginning to have serious qualms about whether her genius inspiration to involve her family with Lindy and her theatrical friends was a great idea after all.  “And, gosh, I’m sorry if I upset the apple cart.  But Bernie is highly allergic to dog fur and it could be deadly for her to touch that animal.”

“Mom.”

Calm down!  Don’t be rude!  You’re embarrassing me!

“What?  That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“I’ve taken my meds.”

“But you know that they’re pretty hit or miss.  With your luck—”

“Am I wheezing or breaking out in hives?”

“Well—no, but—”

“Then just drop it, Mom!”  Bernie’s glare would have peeled the rind off a pomegranate.

“Oh, okay—but—”

“Drop it!” snarled Bernie.

And stunned by her daughter’s over-the-top hostility, for once in her life, Jeanie did.  “Sorry,” she said.  And this time she sounded as if she meant it.

Recognizing that the mother and daughter skirmish had run its course, their tablemates bestirred themselves again. 

The chihuahua’s owner handed Bernie an organic doggie treat to feed as a peace offering to a now calmer Leo.  The ultramarine-haired actress began spreading a toasted bagel with cream cheese.  The slender young man took a taste of his red wine.  And the impudent fellow at the end of the table grinned and winked audaciously at Bernie—whose button blushes flared again—while he strummed a few more melodious chords.

From her seat on Jeanie’s right hand side, Lindy made brief introductions around the table.  “That’s Rochelle and Philippe.  Malcolm, who you met at the door.  Darrick and Leo.  And there’s Chuckie with his guitar.  Bernie and Jeanie.  They live three-doors-down.”  Everyone made polite greeting noises or smiled hello.  “There’s lots of stuff on the table to share, and I’ll get you a couple of plates.”  Lindy disappeared into her dreadful kitchen.

“So, may I get you ladies a beverage?” enquired Malcolm, standing as well.  “Beer?  Wine?  Coffee?  Tea?”

“I’ll take a beer, please,” said Bernie, flooring Jeanie once again.

“Heineken?  Stella?  Blue?”

“A Stella, thanks.”

“And for you, ma’am?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeanie answered, distracted.  “A coffee, I guess?” But then—recalling the horrible freeze-dried crystals that Lindy had used last time—corrected herself firmly. “No. Wine.”

“Red or white?” asked Malcolm, patiently.

Jeanie took in the triangles of snowy-rind brie and wine-marbled cheddar, the dish of burlywood hummus and orange carrot sticks, the poppy seed bagels with pots of smoked salmon and dill cream cheese, the pair of golden-brown onion-and-black-olive flatbreads, and the rainbow of French macarons which graced the table and answered, “White.” And then belatedly added, “Thanks.”

As Malcolm made his way into the kitchen to fetch their beer and wine, Lindy came back with plates.  And—despite already having eaten a filling lunch—soon both Jeanie and Bernie were busily sipping and noshing along with the rest of the company.

“So…this fabulous deal you were mentioning?” Lindy dipped a carrot stick into the hummus she’d spooned onto her plate and tried to look interested.

“Mm-hm,” nodded Jeanie, her mouth full of delicious flatbread.  She swallowed and continued, “We want to hire you to cut your play down to a skit so that you can perform it at our Olde Fashioned Family Reunion next summer.”

Lindy looked confused.  “The play we’re doing this summer?  A Tale My Father Told Me?”

“Yes—A Tale—you know, whatever.  We thought—”

“You thought,” specified Bernie, rolling her eyes to distance herself from her weird parent’s request.

“Okay,” Jeanie wasn’t going to rise to her daughter’s bait, “I thought that it would be fun to have the show as the finale for our Roaring-Twenties-themed week.  It would be scheduled for a Sunday afternoon picnic, and we’d have all sorts of Roaring-Twenties-themed family events leading up to it.  You said that your indoor theatre would be ready by then, so it could happen rain or shine.  And I’ve got a terrific service to trade for the show!”

“We usually perform for cash,” suggested Rochelle, with a wicked grin.  “You know—twenty bucks a person or something like that.”  And, “Gee, I don’t know how suitable A Tale would be—even cut-down—for, well, a family reunion…” hedged Lindy. 

“Yeah,” agreed Malcolm.  “The plot isn’t particularly positive about domestic relationships, I’d say.”

“That’s what Dad and I have been trying to tell her,” sighed Bernie, and looked like she might have said more.  But, with another broad wink, Chuckie caught her eye and, lowering her lashes, Bernie subsided into a self-conscious game of hide-and-seek with her napkin.

“But it’s very funny,” maintained Jeanie. “And I’m sure you could adapt it so that the father and daughter—”

“Have you actually seen the show?” Philippe wanted to know.

“Yes,” Jeanie assured him.  “Twice, in fact.  And I think—”

“And did you stiff us with a fiver the second time through?” asked Rochelle.

“No,” replied Jeanie, very patiently, she felt.  “A twenty.  Sixty, actually—no eighty!—from the just three of us—”

“Ooh, much better, babe.”

“—and so, as a down payment, you’ve already got way more than your due.”

“Our due—?” snorted Darrick, eyebrows shooting sky high.  But Malcolm overrode the old actor with a practical question of his own, “So what exactly is this service that you’re offering to us, Jeanie?”

“Well, not so much to all of you,” she explained. “Mainly to Lindy, of course.  She’s the one who’s going to be writing the skit.  But, as you’ll see, it should be more than enough to compensate for her labour.”  Jeanie smiled, supremely self-assured.  “So, what I’m thinking is—if Lindy will provide us with a lively exclamation point for our Reunion—I will give her the benefit of my twenty-five year’s experience in interior design!”

“To do what exactly?”  Lindy sounded alarmed.

“To consult with you and make plans.  To provide an inspiration board and a detailed budget, as well as a perfectly-scaled conceptual sketch of each room.  And then, Lindy, you’ll be able to confidently undertake the alterations which are necessary to update your home.”

Lindy’s face took on a stubborn pout.  “My home’s fine.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Well—it’s okay for me.”

“No. it’s not.”  Blithely ignoring the tremor of disapproval that shuddered through the dining room at this bold declaration, Jeanie finished draining her glass of acceptable Chablis and continued undeterred. “Lindy—your home is a disaster.  It’s shabby and cluttered and dark.  Your furniture is tattered, your carpet is ragged, and your hardwood is scuffed and worn.  Your window treatments are dingy and, quite frankly, gross.  Besides which, you’ve let your cat completely ruin the ornamental woodwork, which—to my mind—is a cardinal sin in a Craftsman house!  The Victorian pieces in your dining room are too large for the space, and your kitchen—well, let’s just say it’s beyond dated and ugly.  And that hideous bathroom upstairs!  Holy doodle!” chuckled Jeanie. “That’s the worst!  An absolute nightmare in amber and harvest-gold!” 

For a second, Jeanie’s evaluation hung in the air, and then, “Fuck ostie!  You nasty, horrible woman!” gasped Philippe, summing up neatly what everyone else was thinking. “Shut your repulsive mouth and go away!”

With a startled, “I beg your pardon—?” Jeanie began.  But “Mom!” interrupted Bernie.  She’d sunk low in her chair, as white as an albino mole, and looking for all the world as if she wished the floor beneath her would turn to dirt so that she could dig her way out.

“What?”  Jeanie couldn’t for the life of her understand why all of Lindy’s other guests were eyeing her coldly and muttering what sounded like veiled threats.  Even little Leo had bared his teeth and was growling deep in his tiny throat.  “Everything I’ve said is simply the truth.  You’ve got to admit that.  Because—as you can all plainly see—Lindy’s home is an outmoded, grungy mess!”  Honestly puzzled by her valid appraisal’s frosty reception, she gazed about.

“Mom…” Bernie’s voice was thickened with tears as she staggered up from her seat.  “We should just leave! Th-thanks so much, L-Lindy,” she choked.  “I’m—I’m so, so sorry—” She broke down into dry little snuffles and, scrambling from the room, stumbled into the vestibule and out through the front door. 

“Way to go, Momsy!” snapped Chuckie, leaping up in pursuit.  “Hey, Cutie—?  You forgot your bumbershoot—!” they heard him bellow as he burst through the entryway and on to the porch beyond.

Rochelle emitted a snotty laugh.  “I’ll bet he’s the son-in-law of your dreams, right, Jeanie?  An actor?  A travelling player?  Chuckie the Clown—?”

Philippe snickered too but, of course, Jeanie chose to ignore such a ridiculous insinuation.  Obviously, these people had misconstrued everything about her and Bernie’s visit.  Gathering her dignity, she started again, “I only thought—"

“My house isn’t all that bad, is it, Malcom?” quavered Lindy, cutting Jeanie off.  “Darrick, you don’t think that it’s actually ‘grungy’ in here?”

“Of course not, my dear,” stoutly proclaimed Darrick. “Leo and I are always supremely cozy in your delightfully eclectic home.  Everything within is most kindly appointed for the sole comfort and convenience of your guests.”

“It’s not a showplace like yours and Leo’s,” granted Lindy. “I don’t have paintings and sculptures…and my kitchen appliances are a little bit old—”

“Each to his own, my dear.  Each to his own,” soothed Darrick, and Leo gave an encouraging, “Arf!”

Malcolm, who up to this point had been too rankled to speak, now turned coldly towards Jeanie and tightly said, “I think, lady, your daughter was right.  You should just leave.” 

To add emphasis to his words, he grabbed Jeanie’s plate and wine glass and whisked them back into the kitchen.

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” Lindy muttered, her eyes fixed on the tabletop.

“Good-bye,” waved Darrick and Leo. 

“Adieu,” added Philippe, with an air of finality.

Jeanie was entirely nonplussed.  What was the matter with this pack of idiots?  Couldn’t they see what a dump this place was?  “All I was trying to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!  Give it up and go, already!” cried Rochelle.  “Nobody here wants your stupid deal!”

“Okay, fine,” returned Jeanie, as levelly as possible.  “You don’t have to use gutter language.  You know,” she added, rising from her decrepit chair with as much grace as she could muster, “there’s a reason the neighbours call her ‘Loopy Lindy Styre.’ And you people sure aren’t helping her shake that reputation!” 

“Let me help you find your way out!” grated Malcolm, returning from the kitchen to take Jeanie’s elbow in a firm grip and steer her implacably towards the vestibule.  “Here’s your umbrella, what’s your hurry?” he snarled as he shoved her outside on to the porch.

As Lindy’s front door slammed shut behind her, Jeanie opened her umbrella to shield her face against the driving rain.  Then, clinging to the soggy rail, she carefully watched her step as she descended the slippery porch stairs. 

Once she had gained Lindy’s front walk, however, she lifted her umbrella to get her bearings. 

Now, it is a fact that the ratty clumps of black-eyed-Susans in Lindy’s front garden and her dandelion-infested lawn would usually have been what caught Jeanie’s critical eye. 

But the sight which stopped her in her tracks today had nothing to do with either of those blots upon their Avenue’s residential beauty.

No, indeed. 

The sight that sent a thrill of alarm through Jeanie’s core had utterly nothing to do with the scandalous state of Lindy’s front yard.

Because out on the sidewalk—under the dubious shelter of the gangly maple trees—stood her rain-soaked daughter, Bernie. 

And, holding her tenderly in his arms—with raindrops streaming from his hair as he kissed her passionately on the lips—was the actor who played the evil father in A Tale My Father Told Me.

The one the program named ‘Chuckie Calamansi.’ 

Also better known as—

Chuckie the Clown.

“What are you doing?” Jeanie screamed, rushing to save her only child. “Get away from my daughter, you disgusting freak!”

But starry-eyed Bernie only briefly pulled away from her soggy swain.

“Mom.” 

Go away.  Leave me alone.  I love him, can’t you see…

And then—obstinate to the core—Jeanie’s daughter swam dreamily back into her disreputable lover’s sodden embrace.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Six

Ruby-red, Grape, Fuchsia

            A Costa Rican holiday would be best.

            Sun, sand, palm trees galore.  Passion fruit and coconut crème cocktails by the pool.  Natural hot springs, jewel-throated hummingbirds, and rainforest tours… 

            What other vacation could be more appealing?

            Jeanie and Sylvie had loved to pull out her scrapbooks to play the game of ‘Would You Rather?’  It was relaxing—yet revealing—and they’d often laughed a blue streak over the unforeseen results.  

Don was a workhorse who had to be tricked into taking his vacation days.  And Bernie was, predictably, a difficult and often queasy traveller.  So, Jeanie had left most of the actual bon voyage-ing to Sylvie and her intrepid son, Nick. 

Over the years, she’d relished her pal’s stories about Alpine hikes and Caribbean sunsets and the Venetian carnevale.  She’d dreamed of the day when she and Sylvie, both retired, could hop a cruise ship and, together, sail all around the world.  And—until that happy moment arrived—she’d loved to hear Sylvie’s honest reports about the local colour that her women’s magazine so unfailingly romanticized.

On the whole, Sylvie had revealed, it had been cheaper to backpack in Austria than in Switzerland.  And Jamaica wasn’t particularly friendly to gays.  And the ‘all-inclusive rates’ on Mediterranean cruises really weren’t… 

Gosh, thought Jeanie, who would have known those little snippets of truth from simply reading the enthusiastic descriptions of those places in her magazine?  It really took hearing from someone who’d spent actual face-time there to find out…

            Sadly, however, Jeanie reflected, playing ‘Would You Rather?’ by herself wasn’t nearly as much fun.  But—even without Sylvie sitting beside her to second-guess her choices—it had been better than doing nothing.

            This afternoon, therefore, she’d lifted down the scrapbook where she’d pasted her favourite fantasy vacation articles from its designated shelf.  Comparing one page with the next—and the winner from that pair with the next—had determined in the end that a Costa Rican holiday would be best. 

It was a narrow thing, though. 

Paris had been the winner for much of the scrapbook.  And then Maui had briefly come out on top.  But, in the final round, Costa Rica had trounced the Hawaiian island.  So, that’s where Jeanie was vacation-bound…

            Except, she wasn’t really planning a vacation. 

She was simply taking a break from designing her invitations to The Dinmont-Todd Roaring Twenties Family Reunion.  Invitations that would be critical to upping the number of participants that they could expect to attend…

            Actually, she’d already decided what kind of stationery she wanted and figured out the basic design.  But she hadn’t yet finalized the week’s program on her inspiration board, so she hadn’t finished planning the inside of the cards.

Predictably, neither Don nor Bernie had proven to be of any use when it came to good suggestions.  And so she’d accepted that the onus was entirely on her to come up with a full slate of enticing unplugged activities to fill her relatives’ days.  

            Like a mini-golf tournament.  Or a volleyball at the beach.  A family tree planting ceremony.  Or an apple-picking trip.  A classic picnic with children’s games.  Or an all-adult pub-crawl.  An outing to Gatineau Park.  Or a visit to Upper Canada Village.  An old-fashioned photo booth.  Or a portrait-crayoning cartoonist’s stand...

Or any of them.  Or all of them…

All to be savoured in a ‘Roaring Twenties’ unplugged atmosphere.

            And the pièce de resistance? 

The Roaring Twenties Family Skit written and adapted for the Reunion by Lindy Styre and performed solely for their relatives by the skillful actors of Excursion Theatre. 

            It was going to be amazing!

            Of course—as yet, Jeanie hadn’t actually asked Lindy whether she’d edit down her play.  She was waiting to catch her neighbour when she, Don and Bernie attended the early August performance at Windsor Park tonight.  But she couldn’t see why there would be any problem…

            Around four o’clock, she heard her daughter’s reedy voice.

            “Mom?”

            “In here, kidlet.”

            Bernie poked her head around the craft room door. 

            “What time are we going?  Dad wants to know.”

            “Right after supper.  We want to get a good view of the show.”

            Bernie sighed and sidled halfway through the doorway.  “And what time’s supper?”

            “A little early.  Around five-thirty.  And then we’ll toddle over to the park around half past six.”

            “But the show starts at seven.  All the good spots will be gone.  Shouldn’t we just go before six and take some sandwiches?”

            Jeanie smiled tolerantly and shook her head.  

“Bernie,” she said, “if you wanted to picnic at the play, you should have told me sooner.  I would have oven-baked some chicken.  Whipped up a niçoise salad or maybe a pot of ratatouille.  And bought a watermelon to cut up.  Then we could have dined al fresco in style.”  Bernie was still such a naïve little girl sometimes, thought Jeanie, fondly.  She really didn’t have a clue about these things.  “So, we’ll just eat here and then dash off in plenty of time.  Okay?”

            “Mm, I guess…”  Her face screwed into a scowl, Bernie slid back out of the room and slipped down the back stairs to relay the news to her dad. 

            A titch after five o’clock, Jeanie took a couple more minutes to tidy up her scrapbooks, clear her desk and visit her en-suite bathroom.  And then she nipped down to the kitchen to prepare a light supper.

She opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic container of mixed greens from the crisper drawer and a plate of cooked lamb and a triangle of blue cheese from the refrigerator shelf.  Carefully, she placed the food on the granite-topped kitchen island.  And it was only when she reached over to retrieve her favourite salad bowl from a lower cupboard that she spied the note… 

Dated from 5:05pm and written in her husband’s crabbed longhand, it was addressed to her and said, ‘Decided to picnic after all.  Took some sandwiches.  See you there, Don and Bernie.’

For an endless second, Jeanie forgot to breathe.  Then all the air went out of her lungs in a rush and she gasped for oxygen.  Clawing her way around the end of the island, she collapsed on a leather-topped stool.

What in the heck was going on?

It was almost too preposterous to believe! 

For—instead of simply letting her know what they were up to—her husband and her daughter had thrown a fly-by-night-snack into a bag—and left! 

Without.  Even.  Telling her.

Good gravy!  Why?  

Because—if she’d known that that’s what Bernie and Don had wanted to do—she could have easily tidied up much earlier, made a decent picnic supper and walked over to the park…

So why hadn’t they just come up to her craft room and said, ‘Hey, we’ve decided to make some sandwiches and go have a picnic at the play.  Want to come along?’ 

But they hadn’t even given her a choice. 

No, they’d snuck out like a couple of little kids running away from home—with a plastic sack of sandwiches and a favourite teddy bear tucked under their arms—and had never even had the courtesy to give her a heads-up!

What was it with Don and Bernie, anyways? 

Was she the only functioning adult in this house?

Jeanie’s chin went up defiantly.  

Other women might whimper or cry over this kind of rubbish.  But not me! she vowed.  I’ll show them how a mature adult acts when she’s scorned and excluded—!

It only took a few moments for Jeanie to throw together a truly delicious single serving of lamb and blue cheese salad and tuck it into a clear plastic container with a ruby-red lid.  So that the greens wouldn’t get soggy, she poured a light dressing into a small jar.  She also wrapped up a few multi-wheat crackers and half-a-dozen homemade oatmeal cookies—those dummies Don and Bernie had probably forgotten to bring any dessert!—and added a small thermos of apple juice, a fork and a napkin to her pile.  Everything went neatly into a reusable lunch bag, and then Jeanie was ready to freshen her lipstick, tuck her picnic into her light summer tote, grab her folding chair and zip out the door.

Windsor Park was a fifteen-minute stroll away and, on her pleasant walk, Jeanie enjoyed checking out the state of her Old Ottawa South neighbours’ houses.  Now, there were a few contemporary stone, glass and steel in-fill homes, plus a number of townhouse lanes stretching down to the Rideau River.  But the tree-lined streets mainly featured charming brick or stucco two- and three-storey homes from the early twentieth century, many with long, deep porches and orderly front gardens and lawns.  The occasional place looked a bit less well-maintained but, on the whole, Jeanie approved of the tidy domestic streetscape as she loped by.

Crossing busy Bank Street at the massive red-brick Anglican Church, Jeanie headed past the dry cleaner store that had been there long before she and Don had bought into the neighbourhood.  She then continued down several more streets to reach the parking lot entry to Windsor Park. 

Once onto the green, she immediately spotted the neon-yellow-roped audience area in front of Excursion Theatre’s portable stage.  And there, seated on folding chairs and munching on sandwiches—while staring fixedly at their electronic devices—she spied her callous husband and heartless child. 

“Hello!” Jeanie cried cheerfully—all hail-fellow-well-met!—as she invaded their camp from behind and proceeded to unfurl and plunk her chair down between their treacherous bodies.

“Oh, hi—” mumbled Don, shifting his chair half a metre to the left, his mouth full of peanut butter sandwich. 

“Oh, please don’t get up!” implored Jeanie, cutting him off. 

“Want a sandwich?”  He gestured toward the plastic bag at his feet.

“No thanks.  I’ve brought everything I need." 

She arranged her napkin on her knee, pulled out her scrumptious salad-for-one, snapped off its ruby-red lid and dumped dressing all over it.  

“Anybody want an oatmeal cookie?” she blandly asked.

Bernie looked up briefly from her phone and skipped to the chase.

“Right.  You’re mad at us, Mom.  Obviously.  But you always want to make such a big deal over everything.  This was so much easier.”

“Sneaking out without telling me was ‘so much easier?’  Oh, yes, I can see that,” replied Jeanie, with a vicious smile, as she ferociously forked a chunk of pink lamb and stuck it in her mouth. 

“Easier than carrying a watermelon,” muttered Don, going back to his tablet again.

“Well, I hope the peanut butter sandwiches are tasty.  I’m enjoying my gourmet salad, thank you very much.”  Jeanie crunched into a cracker with a show of delight.  “Mmm.  So good.  Any takers for those cookies?”

“Did you inject them with arsenic?” asked Don.

“I should have…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” said Bernie, reaching to take a couple from her mother’s outstretched hand.

Don took a pair too and, for a moment, there was family peace as everyone munched on their homemade oatmeal treats and then washed them down with sips of their chosen beverages.   

“You know, Jeanie,” sighed Don, at last, “I’m sorry.  But Bernie is right.  You turn even the simplest of activities into major campaigns.  We just needed something to fill our bellies before the play started—and, well—”

“—ratatouille was not it,” Bernie completed the observation for her dad.  

“But we could have all had lovely lamb and blue cheese salads—” Jeanie protested, not ready to give up.

“But that’s not what this situation calls for,” stated Don, as he watched his wife tidy up her lunch bag like a fastidious jigsaw puzzler. “It’s summer theatre on folding chairs in the park—”

“—and we wanted to be spontaneous and casual,” added Bernie. 

“But I like to plan—”

“Yes, we’re well aware of that,” muttered Don, returning his attention to the game on his tablet.

“Planning makes things go smoothly—"

“But if you would learn to relax a little, Mom, we’d both appreciate it.  And stuff would still turn out just fine,” maintained Bernie, once more staring at her phone.

“I doubt that—” began Jeanie.  But the others had gone back into their screens.  So she left off trying to argue with them and had a look around for Lindy.

The grassy hollow where the stage was set up made for a slightly different setting, but the same black-tee-shirted teenagers were performing the same tasks she’d seen them doing the last time she’d attended the play.  Carrying on the bench, hanging the fabric on the metal pipes, setting up the props table.  The only difference that Jeanie could see was that there seemed to be portable standards for lighting being installed for this evening’s show. 

So far, no Lindy, though.

Don and Bernie had arrived too early to obtain programs, so when Jeanie took everyone’s trash to the garbage and recycling bins, she got them one to share.  

Don just gave the thin pamphlet a cursory glance.  But, surprisingly, when he passed it over to Bernie, his daughter settled in to read with what Jeanie took to be avid interest.

“There’s not much of importance in there,” offered Jeanie, but Bernie seemed engrossed by the text.

“Rochelle Orangette and Philippe Tangor are in this, Mom,” she murmured with approval. “And Chuckie Calamansi.  I’ve seen a couple of plays he’s done since I left university.  And me and my friends from work saw him at the Fimbria Festival last year as Chuckie the Clown.  He was a riot.  And his blog is a total scream.”  A tentative smile flickered wanly on Bernie’s pale face at some hilarious recollection.  And then she flipped the program over to scan the director’s notes on the back. 

 The audience had begun to thicken, but Jeanie still couldn’t spy Lindy anywhere. 

Maybe she doesn’t always come to every performance, she thought.  She must get pretty tired of seeing the same old play over and over again...

Eventually, the plump and pretty woman in black arrived on stage to ask the spectators to turn off their phones and handheld devices.  In her haste, Jeanie had forgotten to bring hers, but Don and Bernie obediently powered off.  Then, to the live music of flute and violin, the show began.

On her second viewing, Jeanie wasn’t bored, exactly.  She laughed and chuckled along with her family and the rest of the audience.  And she understood the story line a bit better this time through. 

But, in her opinion, it was all still pretty stupid.

Once more, Jeanie was entirely unable—or unwilling—to empathize with the girl on stage.  She wasn’t one for navel-gazing, and she’d never been forced to grasp the rosy reality of her deep-dyed social advantage.  So, Loopy Lindy’s dysfunctional-father-and-daughter plot remained unreasonable to her.

Good gosh!  Just tell your dad he’s out of line! she counselled the cringing daughter in her head.  You don’t need to be such a Nervous Nelly about it!

During the intermission, Bernie insisted on standing in line to buy an overpriced grape tee-shirt.  It displayed the logo of the production prominently on its front and a long list of tour dates on its back. 

Jeanie figured that her daughter might just as well toss her cash in the river.  Where would she want to wear such gaudy attire?  But the cease-fire with her daughter seemed to be presently holding so, uncharacteristically, she decided not to comment on the foolish purchase out loud.

Meanwhile, Don had gotten into a convivial conversation with the man seated beside him and had to dash at the last minute to the portable restrooms.  When he returned, the plump and pretty stage manager was already admonishing the audience to stifle their phones once more.

Unfortunately, Lindy hadn’t appeared during the break.  So, as the second act began, Jeanie was wishing that—instead of insisting on accompanying them—she’d been smart enough to just send Don and Bernie to the play and stay comfortably at home.

What a phenomenal waste of time! she privately lamented.  I could have spent three more hours planning my Reunion!  There’s no help for it now, though.  I’ll just have to wait the pathetic thing out…

Twenty-five minutes later, the show was bubbling along towards its finale.  The nasty father—who’d just found out that the money that he’d expected from a sure-fire investment had vanished—was having an apoplectic fit.  His doctor was ready to appear with the bogus news that the itchy rash from which he’d been suffering meant certain death.  And all the while, his daughter was snickering with their ultramarine-haired neighbour behind the very solid white wooden bench. 

That’s when a phone two rows over sounded a clarion call.  

Panicking, the owner scrambled to find her device so she could shut it off.  But she wasn’t having much luck, and the phone continued to blare. 

Suddenly, the actor with the chihuahua tucked under his arm blew out from behind the set.  He stormed into the audience and, snatching the phone from its startled owner’s hand, powered it off with a vicious jab. 

“Madame!” he thundered, tossing the contraption back with a fierce scowl. “Your disruption of our entertainment is despicable!  Never again do as you have done tonight!”

As their colleague hustled backstage with his canine friend, the actors on stage, who’d halted mid-scene, applauded.  Much of the audience cheered.  Meanwhile, a number of spectators hastened to recheck their phones, and the mortified transgressor, red as a beet, cowered back in her chair.  And then the play seamlessly resumed from the moment from which it had been so rudely interrupted.  

Jeanie glanced over at her daughter and was taken aback to find Bernie glowering balefully at the negligent phone owner.  In fact, her normally anaemic daughter looked as if she’d like to hop over there and smack the woman upside-the-head!  When Bernie noticed that her mother was watching her, however, she gave a tight little grimace and turned her full attention to the action on stage.

Nothing else—not even the slight chilly breeze that stirred the air as the sun set behind the trees—spoilt the rest of the play.  And the show concluded, flood lamps aglow, on the same triumphant note as when Jeanie had seen it last performed. 

In the darkened audience, people surged to their feet in a standing ovation.  And, realizing that both Don and Bernie had leapt up clapping like mad, Jeanie hauled herself slowly out of her chair to add her applause to the general acclaim.

But just like last time, she noted—once the racket cooled down and the flood lights were swivelled to illuminate the audience area—even before the spectators picked up their blankets or folded their chairs, most of them reached for their phones. 

Jeanie was going to point this out to Don and Bernie, but they were already too busy with their screens to care.

However, as she was reaching for her lunch bag and preparing to depart, the lanky actor, Chuckie Calamansi—who had played the mean father with what Jeanie felt was an unnecessary serving of ham—trotted by shaking his fedora and chanting a cheeky, “Alms for the poor?  Alms for the poor?” 

“Over here!” exclaimed Don and, to Jeanie’s dismay, her husband dropped three crisp twenty-dollar bills into the hat.

“Thank you, sir!” cried the actor, sweeping Don a deep bow. “You, sir, are a gentleman and a schooner!”

Really Don? frowned Jeanie.  You thought the show was worth that much?

But Bernie was beckoning the actor over to her too.

“I think you guys deserve an extra special tip,” she breathed, lightly tossing in another twenty.

“Hey, thanks, Toots!” exclaimed the actor with a broad grin. “You’re my kinda gal!” And he blew her a kiss before dancing away to intercept another audience member who was waving a fistful of cash.

Watching this last scene unfold, Jeanie was stunned. 

But not by the incredible and entirely gratuitous generosity of her daughter. 

Rather, she was astonished to see her dour and introverted kidlet react to the actor’s extravagant flirting with a smirk and a giggle behind her raised hand.  Her daughter’s normally dull hazel-grey eyes were glistening like smoky-brown quartz.  And were those fuchsia dots on her pallid cheeks Bernie’s version of a maidenly blush? 

“Okay,” announced Don, shouldering his chair.  “Are we ready to split?” 

“Sure,” sighed Bernie, but her gaze still followed the actor’s brash progress through the crowd.

“Ooh, it’s getting cool,” shivered Jeanie, trying to get her daughter’s attention.  “Anyone else up for a mug of hot chocolate when we get home?”

“That’s sounds nice,” agreed Don, but Bernie was too busy craning her neck to watch the fedora disappear backstage to reply. 

Once the actor was out of sight, however, Jeanie saw the fuchsia dots fade and the sparkle die in Bernie’s eyes.  Stooping languidly to retrieve her chair, she immediately reverted to her usual colourless self. 

“Hot chocolate?  Sure,” she sighed and, tagging after her parents out of the park, plodded back to their big, old, empty house.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Five

Tangerine, Charcoal, Heather

“That’s an odd way of saying it,” remarked Don, ripping his eyes away from the puzzle on his tablet to stare quizzically at his wife.

But Jeanie was determined not to let anything Don or Bernie had to say sidetrack her on this Sunday afternoon.

Just let them try!

She’d awoken last Monday morning with a clear sense of purpose and—without arousing the slightest suspicion in her family—had spent the entire week getting her ducks in a row. 

She’d started in her craft room—as Sylvie would have definitely recommended—with an eleven-page, hyper-specific, ‘free-fall-ideas’ inventory of tasks.  Which she’d only set briefly aside that evening—so she could prep and eat dinner with her family—before returning to categorize the resulting list into a variety of subdivisions.

As her mother would say, ‘If you fail to plan, you plan to fail!’

Subsequently, on Tuesday she’d driven to her favourite craft supply store and bought a large cork panel.  Which she then covered with tangerine-and-white-checked gingham fabric to make an inspiration board. 

She’d divided the board into six uneven sections—Budget, Invitations and RSVPs, Accommodations, Activities and Events, Transportation, and Food.  And neatly applied a label for each section with a select colour of ink—charcoal, magenta, seafoam, heather, silver, or gold. 

Then, she’d sorted through her files of magazine clippings to retrieve articles which referenced anything about the planning and achievement of a big family reunion and pinned them to the appropriate section. 

Satisfied that each section was overflowing with creative suggestions, on Wednesday she’d curated the articles into empty scrapbooks with similarly colour-coded labels.  And then, for the remaining days of the week, she’d meditated over the scrapbooks and sought out further inspiration through extensive forays into her laptop computer. 

By Googling with abandon, she’d been pleased to discover that there were infinite tourist-y resources in the sightseeing hub that Ottawa had become. 

There’d been a whole slue of museums, galleries and historical sites.  There’d been boat excursions, bus trips and walking tours.  There’d been public gardens, picnic parks and hiking trails.  And the list had gone on and on…

She’d made orderly notes of the most appealing activities—those that had seemed to fit in best with her unplugged Roaring Twenties theme, that is—and had painstakingly interfiled them with the clippings in her scrapbooks.

Then, she’d weeded out the experiences that had been obviously too pricey—like chartering bi-plane rides over the city for every Reunion invitee.  And others that had been too complicated or demanding—like building wooden cars and running a soap-box derby down Sunnyside Avenue. 

Some ideas had been too kid-centric—like bead-stringing, toy-painting and hat-decorating.  And some had been too adult—like a day at the racetrack or night at the Gatineau casino. 

Some had been too date-specific—like pre-purchasing passes to the annual Jazz Festival in late June.  And some had been too culturally-specific—like arranging for a family religious service at a local church.

But, maybe, Jeanie had mused, there could be a croquet tourney.  And a dress-up family photo booth.  And a film night at the local cinema.  And a wonderful vintage market ramble with a knowledgeable picker as guide.  And, of course, a really big surprise event at the Sunday picnic finale which would end the week with an incredible bang!

And who knew what other brainwaves Don and Bernie might want to throw into the ring? 

Maybe her husband had worked with a woman who’d taken ballroom dancing and could advise on them on where to find a studio that could hold a Charleston class for a crowd? 

Or, maybe, her daughter had an on-line acquaintance who could fix them up with a vintage clothing store to rent out the costumes at a discount for the family photo booth?

Who knew?

It had all been extremely exciting!  And—having called a family meeting at the kitchen island for this Sunday afternoon—she’d brought down her scrapbooks full of articles to illustrate her vision for the week. 

Armed with the optimistic belief that she’d surely be the recipient of her husband’s and her daughter’s undivided support, she’d prepared herself to be modest in response to their praise for her undoubtably excellent plans. 

In her dreamiest moments, in fact, she’d imagined Bernie saying, “Mom!  That’s genius!” and Don chiming in, “Jeanie, you always come up with the most amazing schemes!”

“Oh—I’m not that great…” she’d envisaged herself murmuring. 

But in her heart, Jeanie would know that she was really quite a whiz—!

With all of this in mind, Jeanie now repeated herself for emphasis. “The theme of next summer’s Olde Fashioned Dinmont-Todd Family Reunion is going to be ‘The Roaring Twenties.’  On the front of our invitations, it’ll say, ‘Do you remember The Twenties?’ and then inside we’ll answer, ‘We do!’  And then there’ll be a preliminary Schedule of Activities for the—”

“But we don’t,” Don protested, frowning.

Bernie nodded, bored.  “I wasn’t even born until 1989.”

Trying to remain upbeat, Jeanie pushed aside her awakening frustration.  “Well, of course not, guys.  It’s just a hook to get people interested in our Olde-Fashioned Reunion idea.  A way to get them to want to participate—”

“And you don’t you think that a summer family reunion is kind of its own theme?” interrupted Don.  “You know, seeing the folks you haven’t seen for years?  Reconnecting with the ones who’ve fallen off the Christmas card list—?"

“But we’ve got to find a way to attract as many relatives as possible!” countered Jeanie. “And I just thought that we’d get the most people to come if there was a really snappy theme.”

“But—'The Roaring Twenties?’  What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”  Don still looked pretty blank.

“Well—if you’d listen to what I’ve got to say, you’d might have some idea.”  Jeanie tapped the thinnest scrapbook—distinguished by a charcoal ‘Budget’ label—which lay on the top of her pile.  “Now, using our Travel and Holiday savings account as a resource, I’ve run up a financial plan for—”  

“I hate to say it—but Mom might be right,” Bernie interrupted in turn.  “Perhaps we should hear her out before we dump all over the concept.”

“Why should today be any different?” objected Don, but he was powering off his laptop.  “Besides, I like the reunion idea.  Maybe not for an entire week…”

“I like it too,” agreed Bernie, quite readily, to Jeanie’s delight.  But her daughter’s following explanation proved true to form.  “I was worried that, when Mom called this meeting, she was about to announce another round of house renovations.”

“Oh, boy, no kidding!” nodded Don.  “After the bathrooms and the kitchen and the back yard, I think we’ve really had it up to here with all that noise and chaos.”

“And remember when we had to move into that rickety summer cottage for six weeks so they could build on our family room?” pouted Bernie.

  “Yeah,” snorted Don.  “This idea’s a lot less scary.  And your mom is correct in saying that we’ve spent an awful lot of time flying out to the West Coast to see our relatives and that, for once, they ought to be the ones who make the trek.  Heck, I don’t even mind having a ‘themed’ reunion.  But why that particular theme, dear?”

“Well, if you’ll both shut up for a moment, I’ll explain!” snapped Jeanie, all her good intentions to keep a cheery demeanor abandoned.  “Now—are you two listening?”

Unabashed, Don and Bernie made ‘um-hm’ noises to indicate that they were.

“Okay.”  She took a deep breath and plunged ahead.  “You know how I went to that play in the park several weeks back?”

“The one that Lindy Styre wrote?  Geez, Mom,” scoffed Bernie. “You go to one play in your whole life and—”

“Well, the stage designer set it in the Roaring Twenties,” continued Jeanie, undeterred. “And I thought—since they have the costumes and all that already, and it’s about a family, and it’s pretty funny—why not hire Lindy to cut it down quite a bit—so it’s more of a long skit, really—and then we’d get them to perform it at our Sunday picnic as the highlight of our reunion?  And then, I thought, leading up to it, we could have Roaring Twenties themed activities like—”

But, before Jeanie could present her best suggestions, both Don and Bernie leapt in again.

“Yeah, let’s highlight our reunion with a play about a dysfunctional family where the daughter hates the dad,” chuckled Don, aware of the play’s plot from Jeanie’s brief review.  And, “Do you really think Lindy would want to cut a two act play down to a skit?” demanded Bernie, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, but Lindy could leave out all the bad parts and just leave in the jokes,” Jeanie stoutly maintained.  “And everybody knows that actors are always looking for chances to show off.  Besides which—I’ve got a great way to bribe Lindy to do it!”

“This I have to hear…” murmured Don.

Bernie just gave her absurd mother a hard stare.

“I’m going to offer to pay her—cue the trumpets, please!” Jeanie announced, pausing dramatically to add an air of expectation, “—with my professional services as an interior designer!”

“Mom.”  Her daughter used the name like a sledgehammer, while scepticism oozed from her husband.  “Really?” Don objected, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes, really!” returned Jeanie, with supreme confidence.  “You should see that woman’s place.  Her bathroom hasn’t seen a contractor since nineteen-seventy-two.  Her kitchen looks like something out of The Addams Family.  And she admitted to me that most of her furnishings date from before the nineteen-sixties.  She’ll jump at the chance to get my advice for free!”

“Maybe she likes her house the way it is, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Bernie.  Nobody wants to live like that.”

“Okay,” sighed Don.  “Perhaps we should discuss the details of this later.  Like after some of our relatives say that they’re actually willing to hop on a plane—”

“But, Don, if we’ve got a really wonderful theme to entice them here—"

“Jeanie.”  Don put up his hand to stop his wife.  “Let’s just test the waters before we dive in all the way.  Now—Bernie, can you run up an invite on your computer?  And we’ll send—”

“NO!”

Both her husband and her daughter turned startled faces Jeanie’s way.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” she cried.  “I don’t want any of this to have anything to do with phones or computers!  That’s why I want a Roaring Twenties theme!  I don’t want e-mailing or Skyping or Zooming or anything else that’s not from ninety years ago!  Do you hear what I’m trying to say?”

“No, dear,” dead-panned Don.  “Could you speak a little louder?”

Bernie snickered at her dad’s joke and looked around for her phone.

Unexpectedly, Jeanie nabbed the device before her daughter could reach it and held the phone hostage while she continued her rant. 

“I’m telling you, guys!  I want real handwritten snail-mail invitations on real stationery with real reply cards and real pre-stamped envelopes enclosed!” she exclaimed, and then listed off a few of her favourite activities on her fingers.  “I want real outings like picnics or Charleston lessons or croquet.  And real visits to craft fairs or museums or art galleries.  And I thought that having a real live show presented just for our family would be the perfect finale to a week of nothing but real face-time!” 

Jeanie noted that, by their perplexed expressions, Don and Bernie seemed to be at least listening—if not seriously considering her plans—and continued more calmly.

“An Olde Fashioned Roaring Twenties Family Reunion, guys—that’s what we should have.  With old-fashioned conversation and fun.  Otherwise,” she concluded, “if everyone’s just going to bury themselves in their phones and tablets and computers like everybody normally does these days—I’m not interested in putting in the effort to get a full week of family reunion off the ground.” 

Bernie looked to her dad to see if he was buying any of this and exchanged a mutual shrug before turning back to her mom. 

“People still use snail-mail letters for stuff like weddings, I guess,” she conceded.  “But you’re not going to be able to ask everyone to drop their phones and tablets in a box at beginning of the week and never touch them ’til the end, you know, Mom.  People just won’t stand for it.”

“That’s for sure,” Don nodded his hearty assent.

“No, but we can keep them so busy with interesting activities that they won’t mind being off of them for most of the time!” declared Jeanie, and then switched to a wheedling tone. “C’mon, Bernie.  C’mon, Don.  Let’s at least try to make this all about face-time.  Think of the wonderful, real memories everyone will have…”

“Oh, all right,” granted Don. “If you think you can pull it off, dear.  I still don’t know about that Roaring Twenties theme, though.  But I guess I’m with you on the unplugged reunion thing.”  He considered for a moment, then added, with a frown, “Unless my sister, Sharon, shows up, that is.  Then being able to concentrate on my tablet will simply be self-preservation.  How about you, Bernie?”  He reached for his device.

“Sure, I’m in,” nodded Bernie.  “As long as Mom gives me my phone back right now—”

“Here you go, kidlet,” said Jeanie, handing it over with an indulgent smile.  “And thanks, you guys, for the vote of confidence!  I think the Olde Fashioned Roaring Twenties Dinmont-Todd Family Reunion is going to be a blast!  And you don’t have to worry—I’ll plan everything out.  See here…I’ve brought down some ideas from my clipping files…” 

She sorted through her scrapbooks for a moment and opened the fattest one with the heather label that indicated Activities and Events. 

“Now, here’s what I thought we should do about getting everyone fed and up to speed on the first night.  According to these articles, our local pub or our favourite pizza place would be glad to rent out their whole space to a single party if they get enough notice.  So, then I thought—”

But at this point, Jeanie realized that Bernie and Don were already long gone into their screens and she was only talking to herself.  But that’s okay, she decided.  I’ll take this first victory and run with it.  I’m the chief planner of this event, and I won’t need any more input from either of them for a long, long time.

Plus, I might as well face it now, thought Jeanie, bravely.  Sylvie won’t be around to lend me a helping hand.  But I can certainly remember the creative suggestions she would have made—about activity schedules and menu design and party décor—and plan them out as if she were still sitting there right beside me...

And, with this in mind, Jeanie left her oblivious family behind and carted her scrapbooks back upstairs to spend the rest of her Sunday afternoon resolutely envisioning and scheming and organizing at her craft room desk, alone. 

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Four

Harvest-Gold, Dark-Oak, Blueberry

“Yellow is the colour of shit.” 

Despite compelling arguments from the students in her first-year seminar, that’s what Jeanie’s Art History professor at Simon Fraser University had stubbornly maintained.

And yellow shit is what my life’s become since Sylvie died! raged Jeanie inside.

Flinging her scarf around her neck and raising her umbrella against the steady rain, she stalked down her driveway to the Avenue. 

At the sidewalk, she paused.  For so many wonderful years, her first instinct would have been to turn west to find solace in Sylvie’s cordial welcome at her condo down by Bronson Avenue. 

But that was impossible now. 

Sylvie was no longer there.  And her son, Nick, grown into a civil engineer, had recently sold the apartment and now lived at some unknown address all the way out in Calgary with his boyfriend, Josh.

Taking a deep breath, Jeanie turned eastward. 

Where she was going, she didn’t know.  But she wasn’t prepared to just throw in the towel and slink back home to her negligent husband and unappreciative child. 

No way she was going to sail under those false colours—

That was for gosh-darn sure!

Unfortunately, as Jeanie tore past Lindy Styre’s house, she noticed that she was feeling physically uncomfortable.  And the truth was—once she’d shown the lovely lamp to her family—she’d meant to visit the powder room. 

But circumstances had determined that she hadn’t had time. 

A few more vigorous strides, and it became clear that her plan to zip up to a Bank Street café wasn’t in the cards.  Besides which—in her haste to escape—she’d forgotten her tote bag and wouldn’t have the money to indulge in a mood-soothing chai latte anyhow.

Bitterly, Jeanie realized that she’d better just give up and go home.

“Jeanie—?”

Jeanie glanced back and saw Loopy Lindy Styre standing beside a slim young man at the top of her porch stairs.  Although she couldn’t place him specifically, Jeanie thought he might have been one of the actors in Lindy’s play.

“Um, Jeanie—I think you dropped something?”  Lindy pointed to Jeanie’s scarf, laying bedraggled in a puddle a few feet behind her. 

“Oh, darn it!” cried Jeanie, backtracking impatiently to retrieve the muddy article.  “Nothing’s going right today!”

“That’s too bad,” returned Lindy, automatically, and then exchanged a quick hug with the young man.  “Bye, Philippe!  Thanks for the ride.”

“Pas de problème,” smiled Philippe, tripping lightly down the steps. “See you on Tuesday...”

“I’ll pray to the sunshine gods.”

“Moi aussi!” exclaimed the young man and sprinted to a car parked across the Avenue.

Jeanie’s bladder gave an urgent tweak.  And there stood her neighbour, still lingering on her porch as she watched Phillipe drive away.

It was an opportunity not to be missed.

So—before Lindy could disappear—Jeanie leapt into speech. “Lindy?” she called. “Would you mind if I use your facilities?  I’ve been caught short, and I’m not sure I’ll even make it home...”

Lindy’s face took on that doubtful look again.  But, still, “Use my facilities?” she echoed. “Oh—did you mean my bathroom?  Sure, Jeanie—if that’s what you need.  It’s just at the top of the stairs…” And she waved her neighbour in through the open door behind her.

Jeanie hustled up the porch steps, dropped her umbrella, raincoat and scarf onto the hooks in Lindy’s small front vestibule and tore up the stairs to relief. 

Only then did she pause to look around her with what was, initially, idle curiosity—and then total disbelief. 

The entire bathroom was an unspoiled artefact of the nineteen-seventies. 

The toilet and sink were harvest-gold.  The dark-brown wooden vanity was topped with gold-flecked laminate, and the harvest-gold bathtub featured a brass-framed enclosure with sliding glass doors.  A tawny glass swag lamp provided some dim yellow light, and, above the vanity, the mirror was flanked on either side by brass Hollywood strips.  Apparently, authentic replacement globe light bulbs were hard to find, so the strips had been fitted with random LED ones, which provided the only un-seventies touch.  But—to complete the fly-caught-in-amber effect—harvest-gold ceramic squares lined the walls, and the floor was covered with faded terra-cotta-brown linoleum, patterned to resemble Spanish tile. 

Aghast that such a hoary old relic should still lurk amongst the meticulously renovated bathrooms on her fashionable Avenue, Jeanie numbly washed her hands in the admittedly pristine sink and dried them on an assuredly clean mustard-yellow hand towel before making her way back down the creaky wooden stairs.

Waiting patiently in the hallway, Lindy appraised her unexpected guest’s preoccupied face and asked nervously, “Is everything okay, Jeanie?”

“Ye-es,” stammered Jeanie, looking through into Lindy’s living room.

Her expression went even blanker.

Lindy turned to see what the trouble was—but clearly couldn’t spot a thing. 

With mounting disapproval, Jeanie took in the old, worn furniture and the archaic décor.  A podgy liver-brown sofa squatted under a dark-oak-framed casement window.  A cluttered dark-oak coffee table displayed numerous nicks and scratches over its legs and sides.  And an enormous pair of dark-oak shelves, crammed full of old books, photo albums and tchotchkes, loomed over the room. 

The splotchy beige walls cried out for a fresh coat of paint.  A threadbare rust-and-ash-blue faux Asian carpet lay upon the scratched and gouged dark-oak flooring.  And the shredded dark-oak trim around the doors and windows certainly looked as if the owner’s cat had habitually used it to sharpen its claws.

“Is there something else I can get for you?” Lindy anxiously enquired of her ominously silent guest. 

But Jeanie simply stood there surveying Lindy’s house with wide baffled eyes.  How-in-the-heck could anyone live this way?

“Tea, perhaps?” 

“Coffee,” blurted out Jeanie at last.  “I need coffee—"

“Oh, okay,” Lindy agreed, flipping her greying bob behind her ears. “Is dark roast okay?”

“Whatever you’ve got is probably fine,” breathed Jeanie, as she moved into the shabby nightmare of Lindy’s living room to finger the gathered silk window panels which obscured the view of the city buses that buzzed down the Avenue.  Then thinking that—surely!—the whole house couldn’t be quite so obsolete, she trailed Lindy down the hall to her kitchen.

Oh my.

Except for the appliances—which rejoiced again in that peculiar nineteen-seventies hue of harvest-gold—the pink-cabbage-rose wallpapered room appeared largely original from when the house was constructed.  Probably in the nineteen-twenties, estimated Jeanie.  Her own adapted Edwardian Foursquare dated from 1906, and this house had more of a Craftsman flavour...

Lindy filled a kettle and put it on a front burner coil on the well-scoured stovetop.  Then she fished out a jar of instant coffee crystals from one of her hand-painted white wooden cabinets and placed it on her enameled metal countertop. 

Oh, yuck, flinched Jeanie.  But, before she could say anything out loud, Lindy had spooned a generous teaspoon of brown coffee crystals into a china mug for her guest and plopped an English breakfast tea bag into a second one for herself.  She then filled a floral china creamer with milk and placed it on a plastic souvenir tray from Hawaii with a matching sugar bowl, a couple of teaspoons, two paper napkins and a plate of grocery store digestive biscuits.  Once the kettle had boiled, she made the hot drinks and conveyed the whole shebang into the living room. 

Jeanie stopped trying to evaluate how much it would cost to take the kitchen down to the studs and renovate the whole kit and kaboodle and followed Lindy back into the living room. 

“Or would you prefer to sit in the dining room?” asked Lindy, hesitating with her burden above the already overloaded coffee table.

Jeanie looked through to the dark dining area.  It was the only room she hadn’t surveyed on the main floor.  So, “Sure,” she agreed and watched as Lindy shuffled sideways through a set of multipaned French doors to flick on the overhead milk glass pendant light and finally set her tray down on a lumbering antique table.

“Would you like to take a seat?” Lindy suggested, shyly.  

It was pretty clear to Jeanie that the woman wasn’t used to entertaining anyone in her home, and she didn’t want to appear rude.  But still, instead of immediately lowering herself into the rickety wooden chair that Lindy was waving her towards, Jeanie looked narrowly at her host and asked, “How old is your décor?”

“I’m not exactly sure about this table and these chairs,” Lindy replied, taking another seat.  “My friend said they were Victorian.  The sideboard that we use for glassware is from the nineteen-twenties, I think.  That’s when my grandfather built this place.”  She waved at her guest to sit and this time Jeanie warily eased herself down.  “Some of the stuff in the living room was bought by my parents in the fifties or sixties, though.  Um…there’s milk and sugar, if you want…for your coffee?”

“I take it black,” said Jeanie, and then realized her response was a tad ungracious.  “But I’ll have a biscuit.  Thank you.”  And, as she took the lacklustre treat, she offered Lindy what she thought Sylvie would regard as a companionable smile.  Then she watched while her diffident host added quite a lot of milk to her tea, stirred it and reached for a digestive in turn. 

An awkward silence fell. 

Uncomfortably, Jeanie searched for something else to say. 

Once, several years ago, Jeanie had stopped to speak to Lindy just as the woman had finished mowing her front lawn.  Encouraged to see her taking care of her yard, Jeanie had asked—in a purely neighbourly way—whether she’d like Jeanie’s help to select new plants for her garden?  But Lindy had immediately mumbled, “No, thanks,” and fled inside. 

So, that had gone no further.

Otherwise, Jeanie couldn’t remember a time when she’d said more than a couple of words to her loopy dog-fearing neighbour who—ever since she and Don had moved into their house in the eighties—had always lived a mere three doors down.

Although…she had spoken to Lindy last Sunday at that outdoor show…

She took a tentative sip of her ersatz coffee—which didn’t taste as bad as she’d feared—and began.  “So, I suppose that the weather��s too wet for your play today...”

Lindy glanced up from the biscuit she was nibbling and sighed, “We perform at the pleasure of the weather gods.  So, yes, I’m afraid we’ve had to cancel our matinee—and tonight as well.  It’s a bit of a financial blow.  We’re hoping to get into our new indoor venue—you know, that I told you about?—well, we’re hoping to get a city permit to start moving into it by the end of the month.  Then we’ll be able to advertise that we’re staging our rained-out dates there.  But—with our luck—it might not be ready in time for this summer’s performances at all.” 

Jeanie smiled and nodded pleasantly.  Although she couldn’t have cared less about Lindy’s theatre company problems, she loathed awkward silences.  She got enough of those at home with Don and Bernie.  So, to keep the conversational ball rolling, she ventured, “I guess there’s plenty of things that mess with an outdoor show.  Weather.  Bugs.  Freeloaders in the audience.  Ringing phones—”

By chance, Jeanie had hit upon one of Lindy’s most hated bugbears. 

“Oh—ugh!  Phones!” she moaned, setting down her teacup with a clunk.  “You know, Jeanie—we do our best.  We remind people to turn their phones off before the play.  We remind them again at intermission.  But—damn it!—they still ring in the audience during every third show!  What is with people today?  Why can’t they survive for fifty-five minutes without checking the messages on their damn phones?  I mean, we had one guy last Thursday who watched a football game all the way through the first act.  And then he got really stroppy when our house manager asked him to put his phone away during the second.  He kept sneaking peeks—and he was sitting in the bloody front row!”

“Well, mine was turned off last Sunday and stayed that way, of course,” returned Jeanie, complacent in that memory. “But—the very second the actors left the stage—everyone around me couldn’t wait to stick their face in their phone again.  Addicted, I’d say.  And I know that my daughter can’t stand to leave her phone alone.  That one time when she had to drop it off overnight to be repaired, she almost went nuts.”

“I see that kind of stuff to some extent with my techies and my actors, too,” allowed Lindy.  “But doing theatre is, by definition, doing face-time, as the kids call it—”

“Yes—face-time.  That’s what Bernie needs more of—”

“—and you have to be off your phone to hoist the scenery and deliver your lines.  It’s old-fashioned in that way, right?

“Right!”  Jeanie nodded in complete agreement. 

“You can’t put out the props or act your role on a phone or a computer—well, you can Zoom or something, I guess—but even putting a video of a stage play on television makes it look…wrong, somehow.  Kind of stiff and…overwrought.  But seeing a living play unfold before your eyes…well, they’ve done studies that say that—to a human brain—it’s like witnessing an actual event.  You perceive it in the same way you’d see, for example, a dinner party.  And it forms similar lasting memories in your mind…”

Now Loopy Lindy was losing Jeanie. 

Blah, blah, blah…

She wasn’t going to continue spewing psychobabble forever, was she?  Where was the fun in that?

“…and, therefore, to your brain,” Lindy was finally summing up, “theatre occurs in the present, in person, and in real time.  And being interrupted by a ringing phone does nothing to add to that experience!” 

Jeanie wasn’t interested in Lindy’s weird theatrical theories.  Yet she wholeheartedly agreed with her last point and was happy to say so. 

“No kidding!” she sniffed.  “And I hate it when you’re with someone and they can’t get off their phone long enough to have a decent conversation with you.  Phones and tablets and computers are the worst thing that ever happened to old-fashioned relationships.  And my daughter’s social life proves it—that’s for darn sure!  She spends all her time talking and texting and skyping with people she’s never actually met.  I tell her—get out in the sunshine and have a life!  But does she listen?  Nope.  She’s too busy with her nose stuck into some darn screen...”

* * * * *

Later—after Jeanie had bid adieu to Lindy and her dilapidated house—after she’d returned home to Don’s anxious apologies and cobbled up a modest supper of stir-fried chicken and veggies, and a beautiful dessert bowl of fresh-cut summer fruit—after she’d watched a British baking show on television while she stitched a new runner for the dining room table—and after she’d placed the lovely mid-century lamp in her own craft room—Jeanie lay awake on her and Don’s king-sized bed while he slept…and thought hard about her relationships…

About Jeanie and Bernie… 

Jeanie and Don… 

Jeanie and her mother... 

Jeanie and her dad…Jeanie and her brothers…Jeanie and her in-laws…Jeanie and her more distant relations… 

With both Don’s and Jeanie’s dads gone—and most of their extended family still living out West—she really only saw and heard from everyone but her housemates on the phone or by e-mail or by Skyping or Zooming on the computer…

Everyone simply followed each others’ family updates on social media, and, unless she and her guys flew out to the West Coast, the family never shared any actual face-time with them at all…  

But, Jeanie wondered, what if today were still like the good old days? 

Those days before computers.  Those days before cell phones.  Those days before face-time had become a rare option for only the oldest or the bravest?

Wouldn’t it be fun to do something like Lindy does? Jeanie thought, feeling her eyes begin to sag.  Something right now…in person…in real time…something that made lasting real-life memories in your brain…

Not a play, of course.  That would be too complicated.  And I’d need an audience for that. 

But—how about some kind of an event?  A real time event.  Like the ones I read about in my magazine every week…

Perhaps—a party…a big party. 

The biggest party!

How about a party for everybody—and their partners—who ever worked for Roberta? 

A reunion party, perhaps?

But, no—that would leave Bernie out.  And, really, the main reason I’m thinking about all of this is for Bernie…shy, lonely, self-conscious, little mole Bernie…

So—how about a family reunion party next summer?  Or—even better—an entire week of family reunion next summer?

Yes—that would do the trick!

I could invite everybody from both sides of the Dinmont-Todd family here to Ottawa for a whole week next summer to celebrate our relationships.  In the old fashioned way…

An Olde Fashioned Family Reunion…yes…what fun that would be…Jeanie thought, as she slipped further toward sleep…

And in her waking dreams she could see it all…

A jolly Olde Fashioned Dinmont-Todd Family Reunion with cloudless azure skies and gingham picnic baskets and Bernie welcoming everyone in a Argus-eyed chintz sundress and honking Canada geese chasing off peacocks and Don in Roaring-Twenties plus-fours playing croquet with her younger brothers and Sylvie in a spicy-orange marigold flapper dress bringing her famous crumb-topped blueberry pie and women and children watching a play about smashing harvest-gold sinks from the swing sets at Brewer Park and a great flaming oak bonfire into which everyone gleefully tossed all of their phones and tablets and computers which exploded into a rainbow of colours which splattered a row of mid-century modern lamps sitting upon an enormous antique tabletop…

Yes, that’s the ticket! thought Jeanie-in-her-dream.  I’ll just put on the best Roaring Twenties Family Reunion the world has ever seen! she sighed, as she directed the restaurant server to place the ravioli just so… 

And then—with that all that figured out on a giant inspiration board—she drifted off into a contented slumber…

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Three

First Frost, Bittersweet, Linen

            “Peacocks are the birds I’d shoot first,” grimaced Roberta Tsang.  She flicked a contemptuous finger at the damask cushion’s turquoise, plum and gold Argus eyes.

            Seven unremarkable days had slipped by since Jeanie’d attended Lindy’s play, and here she was picking through the merchandise at the city’s biggest neighbourhood garage sale in July. 

Her former boss—a savvy businesswoman who hailed from a family of Chinese immigrants—regarded the hapless cushion with unveiled disgust.

Roberta was renowned for hating chintz.      

Today’s weather isn’t being particularly kind to soft furnishings either, sighed Jeanie.  It’s threatening rain, and we’ll be lucky if we can avoid a real soaking… 

But—‘Let a smile be your umbrella…’ 

So—“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeanie objected in what she hoped was a perky tone. “I’ve always been attracted to iridescent plumage myself.”

            “Except that peacocks are actually just trumped up chickens with attitude,” laughed Roberta, averting her eyes from the odious item.  “In real life, you wouldn’t want one messing up your lawn.”

            “That’s probably true,” granted Jeanie, scanning the shabby treasures offered by this vendor.  “It’s always important to keep your grass free of large feathery fowl.”

“You bet,” agreed Roberta, with mock gravity. “Look at the way those dreadful Canada geese have absolutely ruined our parks!”

            For Jeanie, this offhand banter felt comfortably familiar.  And—without Sylvie to accompany her on all her favourite outings—‘comfortably familiar’ was exactly what Jeanie craved.  

A familiar outing. 

With comfortable conversation. 

That was all…

Don and Bernie, Jeanie had to admit to herself, are dreadful at familiar outings and comfortable conversation.  Neither one of them really wants to go with me to garage sales or antique stores or on shopping trips to the mall.  And, if I do insist, they just trail behind me—all glum and bored—and completely spoil my happy vibe.

Not like Roberta. 

Not like an honest-to-goodness friend. 

Not like Sylvie—that’s for darn sure!

Sylvie…my soft-hearted Sylvie…the greatest gal pal of all time…

On another cool, wet day more than twenty years ago, Jeanie had met Sylvie Dandie in the Algonquin College ‘A to D’ registration line.  And, vividly, she remembered Sylvie’s dazzling choice of attire—

A marigold rain cape that set her ivory skin aglow… 

It wasn’t a shade that Jeanie could have pulled off, and she’d never have selected that outerwear style.  But—for Sylvie—the spicy-orange garment enfolded her body in late summer sunshine, perfectly complementing her Deep Autumn ginger-red hair and golden-brown eyes.

And there they’d been—two mature married moms—completely surrounded by fresh-faced teenagers.  So, naturally, the pair of thirty-something women had fallen into conversation.  And very quickly they’d discovered that their lives jibed. 

They’d both wed slightly older guys while they were still in university—Jeanie at Simon Fraser, Silvie at Mount Allison—and quit their Bachelor of Fine Arts halfway through to work in the antique and vintage furniture trade…

They’d both moved away from their extended families—Jeanie from British Columbia, Sylvie from New Brunswick—so their brainy husbands could come to Ottawa and climb skyward in their Federal Government careers… 

They’d both been stay-at-home moms whose challenging kids—Bernie and Nick—were finally heading for First Grade.  And, searching for flexible, creative, mom-friendly jobs, they were both at the college enrolling in Interior Design…

They’d gossiped and they’d laughed and they’d shared their points of view.  And, by the time they’d reached the registrar, Jeanie and Sylvie had known for certain that they’d been fated to meet in that slow line.  Because—as Sylvie had noted with mock solemnity—if Jeanie had taken Donald Todd’s surname instead of keeping her own, she’d have been on the opposite side of the building in the T to Zeds line!

And they’d both always agreed that a first-time meeting in the hustle and bustle of unfamiliar classrooms wouldn’t have felt the same at all.

They’d never have shared that first long, friendly chat… 

They’d never have agreed to divvy up the drive to their weekday classes between their minivans… 

And, missing those companionable forty minutes a day, they’d never have cemented their unbelievably firm and lasting bond.  

Cheering each other on—together, they’d crossed the stage to accept their Interior Design diplomas.  Together, they’d applied for jobs.  And, together, they’d been hired as part-time junior consultants by Roberta Tsang’s Bank Street firm.

Very quickly, Jeanie had realized that ‘consulting’ all too often meant compromising her creative design ideas with those of the pesky customers.  And that, inevitably, her daughter had needed more care as a grade-schooler than she’d been anticipating.  So, she’d gladly accepted Roberta’s offer to have her manage the front desk as a part-time receptionist instead.   

Which had proven to be a perfect fit.

She hadn’t been bilingual like Sylvie, but she’d perfected such a poor French accent to answer the phone—‘Hello, Bong-jure?’—that their Quebec customers had immediately switched to English every time.  And, with feisty Jeanie in full terrier mode, backsliding clients with delinquent accounts had nowhere safe to hide!

Always more willing—as Jeanie’s mother would say—‘to go-along to get-along,’ Sylvie had pushed forward with her career.  But, even as she’d earned more professional qualifications and been promoted to a full-time position at Roberta’s firm, she’d always discussed every project with Jeanie.  And, invariably, her best friend’s exacting taste in colour had influenced Sylvie’s final designs.

In fact, for years and years and years, Jeanie and Sylvie had spoken daily.  With nary a break, they’d researched and sourced and conceptualised.  Each February, they’d hopped the morning train to spend the day at a major design fair in Montreal.  And, almost every weekend without fail, Jeanie and Sylvie had savoured a Girls Day Out.

They’d rummaged through antique and vintage markets and treated each other to delicious lunches...

They’d shopped for clothes and shoes and hunted through discount stores for craft and scrapbook supplies...

They’d purchased First Frost hostas to plant in each others’ gardens.  Picked up iced shortbread cookies at the local bakery.  And bought each other presents of make-up or jewellery ‘just because!’

Sylvie had been the best garage sale chum, reflected Jeanie—always able to winnow the wheat from the chaff…the best shopping buddy—always quickest to find gold on the mark-down racks…and the best coffee confidante—always bringing clarity and sympathy to both sides of every juicy debate…

After a while, Sylvie’s marriage had gone sideways.  And Jeanie knew that, as a loyal, loving partner, Sylvie had been truly broken-hearted when her snake of a husband had announced that he’d fallen in lust with his secretary and would be slithering out the door. 

But, in Sylvie’s usual resourceful way, she’d taken it as an opportunity to move with her teenaged son into a low-rise condo across from the university in Old Ottawa South.  And so, for almost eleven happy years, as fast friends—true sisters in all but blood—Jeanie and Sylvie had been able to trot over to each others’ abodes whenever they’d felt like mingling their professional or domestic lives.

Yes, those were fantastic times, sighed Jeanie.  The Virtual Twins—Don’s moniker for us—were truly the closest, the warmest, the very best of gal pals! 

And when breast cancer reared its ugly head in both of our bodies, we supported each other faithfully through the squishing and the poking and the prodding...through the surgeries and the rounds and rounds of chemo…through the weeks and weeks of radiation…through the endless oncology appointments... 

Until, in the end, I came out healthy and strong—if scarred and missing a chunk of my left breast—and Sylvie died.

Sylvie died…

“Oooh, look, Jeanie.  A mid-century teak sideboard!” Roberta was pointing to a nearby driveway.  “There’s something you’ll want to snap up!”

Dragging her mind back from the brink, Jeanie straightened her shoulders and plastered on a glassy smile.  “Right up my alley!” she cried, gamely heading over to take a closer look.  

Jeanie couldn’t abide whingeing from others, and she certainly wasn’t going to tolerate it in herself.  No good ever came from concentrating on downbeat feelings, she thoroughly believed… 

As Sylvie would say, ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope!’ 

So, yes, Sylvie is gone, Jeanie told herself, striding doggedly toward the promising sideboard.  But she wouldn’t thank me for maundering over her death like some weepy heroine from a cheesy romance novel.  Not when there are exciting bargains to discover and so many other material joys to be had in this living world!

As my mother would say, ‘Don’t think.  Don’t feel.  Just do.’  

And Sylvie would certainly want me to follow that advice!

The teak sideboard was less impressive up close—it was dented on one side—and the churlish vendor didn’t have anything else in better shape.  So, Jeanie and Roberta moved rapidly down the street to a tag sale display at an old greystone house.

And, suddenly, there it was! 

The most perfect mid-century-modern table lamp! 

Its textured off-white matte glazed body was highlighted with smooth tongues of soft-pink, lime-green, citron-yellow, bittersweet-orange, navy-blue, carob-brown and royal-purple.  The solid dark wood—probably walnut?—neck and base were unmarred.  And, although it had no shade, the harp and finial were shiny brass, and the cord and plug showed little wear.    

“That’s got to be an original from the nineteen-fifties,” approved Roberta as Jeanie carefully lifted the lamp from its surrounding objects.

“It sure looks like it.” Jeanie ran her hand blindly over the base to feel for cracks or flaws.  There were none, and so she allowed herself to picture the piece—complete with a new drum lampshade—brightening Bernie’s gloomy old mole’s nest.  “I wonder what the seller wants?”

When they did finally track down the sour-faced householder, to Jeanie’s delight, she obviously didn’t have a clue what the lamp should actually be worth. 

“Oh, that damn thing,” she shrugged. “It belonged to my mother, and I’ve never liked it much.  Would ten be too much?  Or—since it doesn’t even come with a shade—say, five?”

Hiding her glee, Jeanie handed over a five dollar bill and, borrowing Roberta’s car keys, tucked her booty under her arm and jogged back to wrap it up securely in a blanket in the trunk.  Then she rejoined her former boss for another half hour of congenial bargain hunting—until, that is, the rain began to wash down in sheets and drowned out all of their rummaging fun.

Still, there was lunch to look forward to, and Roberta was keen to get a table at a popular Italian bistro.  They found a rare two-hour parking spot on a side street and—although it was a near thing—the busy host promised she’d manage to squeeze them into a corner at the very back.  Waving blithely to designer acquaintances at other tables, they threaded through the late lunching throng and were soon seated at a repurposed cherrywood dinette.  They ordered a half litre of Riesling to share and began to debate whether to go with the featured pasta or the fish. 

Not quite an hour later—with delicious plates of porcini mushroom ravioli and seared arctic char tucked away and coffee and dessert declined—Jeanie and Roberta were ready to spend a final gratifying hour searching in the nearby vintage shops for a perfect mid-century-modern lampshade.  Jeanie was seriously considering spending almost fifty dollars on a not-quite-right silk one at their second last stop—before ultimately finding a textbook linen shade in a thrift store for a super-frugal ten bucks! 

Now giddy from her shrewd purchases, Jeanie asked Roberta to drop her off at home.  Scurrying inside, she hung up her damp umbrella, coat and scarf in the mudroom and toted her prizes into the kitchen.  There, Bernie and Don were digging into left-over homemade lasagna at the granite-topped island.

“You two are eating kind of late, don’t you think?” Jeanie frowned, as she carefully off-loaded the lamp and the shade and slipped her tote bag from her shoulder to hang up on its usual peg.

“It’s Sunday,” returned Bernie with her mouth full and her gaze unwavering from her phone.  “Who cares?”

“I had a big breakfast,” added Don.  He’d positioned his handheld tablet so he could work on a solitaire puzzle while he ate.

“Just sayin’…”  Jeanie fitted the vintage drum shade onto the colourful lamp base.  “There.  Isn’t that beautiful?”

“If you say so,” muttered Bernie, swiping left as she chewed on a piece of broccoli.

“Well, I hope that you like it,” said Jeanie. “Because it’s for your bedroom.”

“Mom.” 

Come on.  No way.  Forget that.

“What?” asked Jeanie, briskly.  Her daughter hadn’t even bothered to look up at her amazing purchase.

“I don’t need another lamp in my bedroom.”

“Sure you do,” coaxed Jeanie.  “During the day, it’ll provide a pop of colour and, in the evening, it’ll light up all those murky corners.”

Bernie put down her fork and her phone and faced her mother.  “I don’t need—” she clearly enunciated, “—another lamp in my bedroom.”

“But it’s so dull and dreary in there—”

“I like my bedroom the way it is.”

“—and it would only be just a little change—” 

“I like my bedroom the way it is.”

“—and just adding a teensy bit of lightness—a teensy bit of colour—would make—” 

“No, Mom!” Bernie decisively cut her mother off. “It’s my room, and I’m keeping it the way I want.  Stick that thing someplace else.”

“Fine!”  snapped Jeanie, already tired of arguing with her frustrating kidlet.  “Where else would you like me to put it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” sighed Bernie, picking up her phone and feeling around for her fork.  “Put it in Daddy’s study or something.  He won’t even notice.”

“Won’t even notice what?” asked Don, dog-whistled by the word ‘Daddy’ but still eyes-down on his game.

“Oh, I give up on both of you!’ snarled Jeanie. “I try my best!  But you’re nothing but a couple of blind, ungrateful moles!”

With that heartfelt insult, Jeanie ditched the infuriating pair.  And, grabbing a dry scarf, her raincoat and umbrella from the mudroom, she stormed outside once more.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter Two

Grass-Green, Black, Ultramarine

            Jeanie wasn’t signing up for yoga or Pilates classes anymore.  Which was because—for some reason—her classmates seemed far less friendly without Sylvie around.  But, then again, a brisk walk in the open air had always been Jeanie’s exercise of choice.

Today, however, as she crashed out of her house to stride down the Avenue, the late morning heat and the weight of her folding chair served to slow her usual headlong pace.  And, by the time she’d made it over the Rideau Canal bridge and into the more citified Glebe, the physical effort had calmed her down. 

But Jeanie still wasn’t back to her preferred buoyant disposition—and that vexed her immeasurably… 

            Cheer up, Jeanie! she chided herself.  As my mother would say—‘The world’s not against you!’ 

She hadn’t stopped for a coffee or a delicious wood-fired bagel after all.  Those treats had been irrevocably connected to this morning’s disappointment and rage.  But—priding herself upon her practicality—she knew that her Solo Day Out would be spoiled if she neglected her growling tummy. 

A further five-minute walk up Bank Street, the Glebe grocer sold healthy take-out salads and sandwiches. There, Jeanie selected a likely looking item from the ready-to-eat food cooler, as well as a bottle of sweet tea, and got in line for the twelve-items-or-less cashier.   

They should call it the candy lane, Jeanie thought, as she tugged her folding chair strap further up on her shoulder so she could juggle her debit card holder out of her tote bag.  I wonder how many useless calories every checkout line gloms onto gullible people’s waists? 

Still, she selected a plain bar of chocolate from the banked treats and threw it on top of her salad container.

That’ll balance the vitamins in the broccoli, kale and quinoa, she told herself, tucking a free wooden fork and a small wad of napkins in her tote bag.  And my temper sure could use a bit of a sweetener…

After paying for her take-out meal, Jeanie crossed Bank Street and continued several blocks north until she reached the stone steps leading down into the park.

Resolutely, she descended the stairway and began to scout out a likely picnic spot… 

Beneath the leafy canopy of a giant oak tree, Jeanie slung out her chair on the cool grass-green lawn.  Steadfastly ignoring the chime that notified her that her phone had received yet another text, she fastidiously unfolded a napkin on her knee and dug purposefully into her food and drink. 

The tart, tangy salad dressing is okay, she ruled, automatically comparing it unfavourably to her own homemade recipe.  But the sweet tea is almost too sickly.  And overindulging in sugar is never recommended…

Virtuously, Jeanie recapped the tea and stashed it away in her summer tote with the softly melting chocolate bar.  Then—with her tummy rumbles quashed and her salad container laying tidily on the grass beside her—Jeanie sat back in her chair and took stock of her surroundings. 

Under the clearest of clear-blue skies, a variety of people were enjoying the park. 

In a nearby patch of shade, three bronze-skinned women were seated on folding chairs, sipping coffee and snacking on muffins as they consulted their phones. 

On the central pathway, a rosy-cheeked boy zipped by on a skateboard.  While his head ducked up and down to watch out for dogs and strollers, he never lost a beat as he defeated the villains on his handheld game console. 

A bit further in to the park—near where the stage had been set up—a Black middle-aged couple with two kids arrived on foot.  They stopped to scan the site, checked their phones, set up their chairs, spread out a picnic blanket, re-checked their phones, shared out food and drink—and dove back into their mini-screens.

Just past the picnicking family, Jeanie could see a couple of high-school-age kids—one olive-skinned, one tan—in black shorts and tee shirts.  They were setting down what looked like a rather solid white wooden bench on a low wooden stage.  Next, they unrolled several panels of some kind of stiff-ish cloth.  The fabric was painted with what seemed to be a watercolour garden scene, and, as she watched, the kids reached up to hang the panels from metal pipes installed high across the back of the raised platform.  Once those panels were in place, both of the kids unpocketed their phones and wandered off, heads down, behind what Jeanie assumed was ‘the set.’

Then, in the zone where Jeanie expected the spectators would sit, another assortment of black-garbed kids began to lay out neon-yellow ropes.  They caused a wee kerfuffle when the picnicking family had to pause in the scrutiny of their phones to move their blanket and chairs so that the rope-laying kids could clearly delineate what Jeanie supposed was the ‘centre aisle.’ 

            Now the first stagehands—phones holstered—reappeared carrying a folding table which they set up behind the neon-yellow rope.  A third kid soon followed hauling a large plastic bin, and all three delved into it for a ragtag collection of objects which they carefully placed in an obviously fixed arrangement.  Then, the first two kids headed backstage with their phones in their hands, while the third remained scrolling through her device beside what Jeanie thought from her limited knowledge of theatre must be the ‘props table.’

            At this point, the audience area began to fill in. 

A number of unaccompanied thirty-ish women, some grey-haired retirees and a couple of groups of university-age kids arrived.  And Jeanie couldn’t help but notice that all of their eyes seemed to be glued to the screens of their phones… 

A flock of bicyclists wheeled in.  They offloaded their folding chairs from their shoulders and then—even before locking their machines to a nearby rack or freeing their toddlers from their bike carriers—reached into their pockets for their phones. 

Then an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair was pushed into position by his female attendant. 

He wasn’t on a phone, however. 

Nope.  Not at all. 

He was, instead, concentrating on his laptop and barely looked up when his younger companion settled him close to the outer edge of the spectator zone.  And then she took out her phone and proceeded to text a message as well.

            But now the three bronze-skinned women in the shade were stirring and—realizing that all of the prime audience spots were quickly disappearing—Jeanie decided she’d better get a wiggle on too.  Folding her chair for portability, she tossed her salad container into the correct recycling can and loped over to a black-tee-shirted usher who was handing out programs.  Jeanie took one and, after a quick survey of the best spaces that were left, decided to sit close to the back near the centre aisle. 

            That way, she reasoned, it’ll be easier for me to slip away quietly if the play doesn’t live up to its hype…

            Settling into her chair once more, Jeanie opened her program.  It appeared that the work she was about to see—a so-called ‘two-act domestic comedy’ entitled A Tale My Father Told Me—was based on an old story about a mean father who treats his daughter unkindly. 

            Really? Jeanie thought with surprise.  Why would Lindy chose a such depressing plot for a summer show?  Now, if I—

“Jeanie—?”

Interrupted mid-criticism, she glanced up to see her loopy-neighbour-from-three-doors-down, Lindy Styre—playwright and director of this afternoon’s entertainment—regarding her from the centre aisle with what was, frankly, a look of total disbelief.

            Swiftly, Jeanie decided that she’d ignore the implications of Lindy’s expression and greet her—as Sylvie would have—with both warmth and confidence.  “Why, hello, Lindy!  What a lovely day for a matinee.  Your play seems to be drawing quite a crowd!”

            “Um, yes…Jeanie,” replied Lindy with an unsure smile.  “Thanks for coming out.  I just have to—”  And, without finishing her sentence, Lindy fled.

Jeanie rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

What a weird-o that woman was. 

For one thing, she was absolutely scared stiff of all the local puppy dogs.

Why, just a couple of years ago she’d witnessed Lindy melt into a quivering puddle on the sidewalk when a dogwalker had let his friendly mutt bark at her just a teensy-weensy bit.  

What a nut.

Of course, there was also that time when she and Sylvie—but no, Jeanie cautioned herself, don’t think about that…

Although, she now recalled, Sylvie had always been much more sympathetic to what she called Lindy’s ‘eccentricities.’  And she’d repeatedly pressed Jeanie to give the poor, lonely woman the benefit of the doubt…

But then, Jeanie sadly reflected, that old saw is true.  The good often do die young…

Alarmed by the morose direction her ruminations were taking her—definitely not a good place for a woman who prided herself on her unflagging optimism!—Jeanie firmly wrenched her mind back to the topic at hand. 

So, what was she thinking about—? 

Oh yes.  Pride, wasn’t it?  House pride…

Well, for the last few years Lindy has squatted in the Styres’ old wreck of a two-storey without the slightest titch of house pride, frowned Jeanie.  And that’s truly a crime. 

Everyone knows that a house needs tons of Tender Loving Care!

Of course, mused Jeanie, when Lindy’s dad was alive, the Styre’s place did seem a bit less neglected.  But, still, its porch and trim haven’t seen a paint brush for fifteen years…

And Lindy’s front garden—good gosh!—if you can call it that, she sniffed. Well, it’s nothing but a few sparse tulips in the spring, a tangle of ox-eye daisies and black-eyed-Susans in the summer and a raggedy show of purple asters in the fall.  And she only mows her grass when it reaches jungle height…

Of course, Jeanie had to admit, Lindy couldn’t be blamed for the gangly pair of city maple trees that overshadowed her front yard.  But, even with the help of that attractive older white guy who sometimes raked her autumn leaves, Lindy always seemed to be the last one on their Avenue to bag them up for the recycling truck…

I’d be mortified to let my property get so run down, Jeanie snorted to herself.  If Lindy would only—

But, suddenly she was aware that the audience had hushed around her.  A plump and pretty woman in black had hopped up on stage.  She was welcoming everyone and asking that all of their phones and handheld devices be turned off.

Complacently, Jeanie obeyed.  She really didn’t need to hear from anyone she knew for quite a while…

Now, with a musical flourish, the show began. 

And, yes, it was certainly funny—Jeanie had to grant Lindy that.  She was easily caught up in the waves of laughter and applause that rolled through the highly appreciative audience.

But it was all pretty foolish too. 

The characters postured and mugged and hammed up their parts.  The bombastic father bullied his daughter in a completely unrealistic way.  And the father’s nasty sidekick played his whole role with—for gosh sake!—a live chihuahua stuck in the crook of his arm.

At least one element did meet with Jeanie’s complete approval, however. 

The Roaring Twenties costumes—flapper dresses, sailor blouses and plus-fours—were authentically styled, yet sewn in striking flamingo-pink, malachite-green and carrot-orange hues. 

Quite appropriate for an outdoor venue where you have to compete with plenty of visual distraction, nodded Jeanie.  The costume designer, at least, deserves some applause.  Not every colour range would have been so bang on

Although, Jeanie smugly reflected, appropriate colour selection had always been her forte.  When it was all the rage in the mid-nineteen-eighties, she’d even considered becoming a professional Seasonal Colour Palette Consultant.  But then Bernie had been born—and she’d had to drop that idea.  Which was too bad, because a lot of women she’d seen around the neighbourhood could have certainly profited from her advice…

Nevertheless—colour had remained a central preoccupation for Jeanie, and she could never understand why so many folks seemed to simply overlook the fascinating nuances of tint, shade and tone. 

‘Be precise!’ her Algonquin College professor had been forced to remind the duller kids in Jeanie’s ‘Colour in Décor’ class.  ‘It’s not brown—it’s burnt sienna.  It’s not red—it’s carmine.  It’s not green—it’s jade!’

Well, as Bernie would say, ‘duh...’ 

Burnt sienna.  Carmine.  Jade.

What had been so difficult about that? 

As far as Jeanie knew, only a few very unlucky people were colour blind.  So, why had some of her fellow students been unable to distinguish the hues which were plainly in front of their eyes? 

Well, again—duh…

And, with that less than charitable thought, Jeanie returned her critical attention to the play, searching for something else to like.

Upon reflection, she decided, also okay was the live violin and flute music.  And some of the jokes were pretty funny, too.  And she really couldn’t have expected a traveling outdoor theatre company to have constructed much more elaborate sets.  But, still—

That plot.  That idiotic plot.

It was impossible! 

Why did the daughter have to involve her bossy ultramarine-haired neighbour and her father’s lawyer and his banker and his accountant and his doctor in such an elaborate ruse just to get revenge upon her dad?

Surely, in real life, Jeanie reasoned, the girl would have simply told off her domineering parent and stood up for herself when he pushed her around? 

That’s what I would have done, she maintained.  Stood up for myself—and told my evil father to take a long hike off a short pier! 

Although, she further mused, my own father was always pretty meek and mild.  Of course, with Mom being such a bossy-boots, what else could the poor man have been?  In fact, when Dad came down with viral pneumonia five years ago, my brothers and I were kind of amazed that Mom had actually let Dad go ahead and die on his own say-so.

But then—if she were being perfectly honest—Jeanie had to admit that she’d never felt scared of any guy in her entire life.  The only man she’d ever let raise a violent hand to her was her cancer surgeon, and it was his job to attack her with a knife. 

But, whatever… 

As she’d advised Bernie—on that day when her daughter had complained about being a bully’s target in middle school—if something felt wrong, simply bring it to the guy’s attention and then fix it. 

Whining about being a victim wouldn’t help. 

For, as Jeanie’s mother would say, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you.  Cry and you cry alone.’ 

Now, if Jeanie had been insulated from the worst outrages of patriarchal abuse by her white, Protestant family’s upper-middle-class status—by her mother’s strong and forthright personality—by her father’s kind and gentle character—by Don’s distaste for uncivil behaviour—by her choice of Fine Arts and Interior Design studies at college—by her obliging female boss and agreeable female or gay male colleagues—by her safe neighbourhood and generally benign city—and by so many other extremely lucky circumstances in her life—well, that fact had never occurred to her. 

And—even if Jeanie had been confronted with the truth—she probably wouldn’t have understood its implications anyway.  Like a goldfish, she didn’t recognize the filtered water in which she swam.  So, as the first act wore on, she continued to chide the wimpy daughter in her head. 

When you come right down to it, she lectured, it’s each gal’s own responsibility not to accept that kind of baloney.  And all you have to do with a mean father like yours is speak up and exercise your gosh-darn rights! 

At long last, the twenty-minute intermission arrived. 

While the incontinent stood in line at the portable restrooms and the extravagant snapped up the overpriced souvenir tee shirts at the refreshment stand, Jeanie sat and scanned her program.  She felt it ought to provide some sort of explanation for Lindy’s ludicrous plot.  But, other than learning that the actors were playing ‘in a style derived from 16th century commedia dell’arte, the theatre of the absurd, and classical farce’—“Whatever those things are supposed to be,” Jeanie grumbled aloud—she found the program irritatingly uninformative.  It merely summarized the story and gave short bios of the people associated with all of this nonsense.

But watching the play seemed a better alternative than anything else Jeanie might be doing on this hot July afternoon.  At the very least, the show was amusing enough to keep her from dwelling on gloomy thoughts.  Such as—how on earth could any child of hers have grown up to be such a stick-in-the-mud—?

No!  Don’t let negativity win! Jeanie scolded herself.  As my mother would say, ‘Let a smile be your umbrella!’ 

That was the secret to life… 

Meanwhile, most of the audience had revved up their phones so that—when a bell rang to signal that the intermission was over—the plump and pretty stage manager had to ask everyone to mute their devices again.  

Jeanie didn’t need to.  She’d never turned her phone back on.  In fact, she’d never even checked the messages that she already knew were there… 

Under the lengthening shade of the lofty catalpa trees, A Tale My Father Told Me rollicked by.  And when, in the final scene, the newly rebellious daughter revealed that she and her friends were the ones behind her father’s downfall, Jeanie laughed and applauded along with the rest of the audience at his powerless rage. 

No matter how dumb the story, she thought, it’s always fun to see a nasty man lose at his own game.   

But why did Lindy’s plot have to be so long and winding to get to that end?

All that fuss and foofaraw!

What was the point?

During the standing ovation, Jeanie didn’t jump up with the rest of the crowd.  Well, why should she when she’d found Lindy’s play so completely implausible?  And, when the actors came around begging for cash, she dropped a more-than-sufficient five-bucks into the cloche hat that the ultramarine-haired actress who’d played the cunning neighbour waved her way.

“You know, Madame,” said the actress with a wicked grin, “we take credit and debit card payments too.  At that table over there.”  She indicated a line-up of chattering audience members in front of the table where the black-tee-shirted teens had set the props before the show.

“No thanks,” Jeanie replied with a breezy smile. “I’m good.” 

“Must suck to be so poor.”  The actress gave her a saucy wink before turning to accost the elderly man in the wheelchair who readily threw a couple of twenties into her hat.

Jeanie was tempted to crush the ultramarine-haired woman with a snappy rejoinder, but decided it was best not to lower herself to the actress’ level.  So, she simply made a show of complacency as she folded up her chair and stuffed it into its holder.  Then she fished through her coin purse for change for the bus so that she wouldn’t have to make the hot and dusty walk home.  The seating area was draining very slowly, however, so, as she stood looking for a clear path, her gaze ranged around the park.  And, after a moment, she noticed a very peculiar thing about her fellow audience members. 

Having tossed their contributions into the hat or paid for their entertainment with plastic, most of them were busy folding up their chairs and blankets and marshalling their bicycles, kids and dogs.

But the majority of them were also focussed on their phones. 

Either they were texting, or reading texts, or telling someone at the opposite end of the line about the super-duper play they’d just seen.  In fact, most of them were so busy with their handheld devices—except for the elderly man in the wheelchair who sat perusing his laptop—that they weren’t even discussing the play with each other!

Jeanie, with her phone still turned off and stashed securely in her tote bag, allowed herself to be appalled. 

What are all these foolish folks thinking? she scoffed.  I’ve often heard that kids are addicted to their phones these days, but I didn’t realize that the adults are too!  They ought to be talking to each other.  Not just texting and blabbering away to folks who couldn’t even be bothered to come with them on a fun Day Out!

“So, Jeanie?”  Lindy was suddenly standing at Jeanie’s elbow, regarding her with a tentative smile.  “Did you enjoy the play?”

Good gravy, thought Jeanie.  What should I say? 

She always highly valued plain-speaking.  Say what you mean, Jeanie believed, and let the chips fall where they may. 

But Sylvie had often recommended that—in circumstances where being completely candid might sting—Jeanie ought to dress up her comments a little bit.  Tell fewer hard truths, Sylvie had often advised, to prevent trampled feelings all ’round… 

Therefore, taking a leaf out of Sylvie’s book, Jeanie decided to be gracious.

“Oh yes, Lindy,” she fibbed.  “It was absolutely wonderful!  Really funny.  I could never write something like that.”  Which was true.  Because, if I wrote a play, it would make sense, Jeanie thought.  But—“Where the heck do you get your ideas?” she enquired. 

“Um, I sort of follow the advice that you should write what you know…kind of…” Lindy trailed off.

“Well, it was very good!” Jeanie said, brightly, picking up her tote bag and hoisting the strap of her folding chair onto her shoulder.  “Maybe you should put on another one sometime?”

“Actually, um,…I already did…at last June’s Fimbria Festival, and—”

“Where?  Oh well, never mind!  Next time, you should really let Don and I know!  Imagine!  A gifted playwright living just a few doors down the Avenue!”

“Oh, I’m not that—" 

“Too bad your wonderful plays can only be seen outside at a park in the summertime,” commiserated Jeanie, laying on thick what she supposed Lindy would interpret as Sylvie-like empathy.  “Don and I don’t often—"

“Yes, okay,” hastily interrupted Lindy, “I’m part of a theatre company now, and we’re looking into a permanent space—”

“Oh, good for you, Lindy!” Jeanie was on a benevolence roll. “Maybe, once you’re up and running, I’ll come see another one of your funny little shows.”

Lindy gave her an odd look.  “Sure, Jeanie.  That would be great.”

“But I won’t keep you now.  Places to go!  People to see!” exclaimed Jeanie, as she swung smartly around to make her escape into the departing crowd.  

But, even as she fled, she could distinctly hear the voice of the ultramarine-haired actress asking, “Sooo…who’s that bitch?”

Her spine stiffening, Jeanie didn’t hang around to catch Lindy’s reply.

[birchkillchronicles]

Getting to Marigold

Chapter One

Mushroom, Raw Umber, Tobacco

            A mole’s nest. 

A dark, stuffy mole’s nest. 

That’s what Bernie’s bedroom is, sniffed Jeanie Dinmont. 

A dark, stuffy mole’s nest where—for the last fourteen years!—my daughter has chosen to burrow her silly head.

Gazing around the offending room, Jeanie was stumped. 

Why, she wondered for the trillionth time, had Bernie—back when she was a cantankerous sixteen-year-old—cruelly demanded that they chuck the lovely ivory-and-cream French Provincial décor—with pops of cherry-blossom-pink!—which her mom had so lovingly designed? 

And for what? 

For the Gothic-Victorian-techno mishmash of her current dismal lair?

What a waste of effort! Jeanie had mourned at the time.  And, frankly, she hadn’t seen the need to let Bernie have her own selfish adolescent way.  In her opinion, the sweetly feminine bedroom had been perfect for a young lady of tender years and, at the time, she’d wished that her daughter would just leave it alone. 

Yes, well…

As Jeanie’s mother would say, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’

The hollow-eyed teen had moped and sighed and sulked and pined, until—bowing to her best friend Sylvie’s parenting advice—Jeanie had yielded to Bernie’s unfathomable desire to transition her room into a ‘more grown-up space.’

Still—loathe to give up all aesthetic control—Jeanie had energetically counselled her daughter on how to curate her attic retreat. 

“Now, kidlet—with these small windows and sloping ceilings,” she’d cautioned, “you’ll want to keep everything light.  A neutral palette is the ticket here.  So, if I were you, I’d switch out those ivory pieces with a blond Danish-modern suite.  And then freshen up that matte cream wall paint with a semi-gloss buttermilk hue...”

But had her daughter listened? 

Nope. 

Not a chance.

Stubbornly insisting on her own dour notions for the space, Bernie had pushed her perplexed mother to repaint and then cram far too much dark-walnut furniture against stodgy mushroom-gray walls.  

Next—during an increasingly rare mother-and-daughter shopping jaunt to Sears—the cranky teen had opted for equally bleak soft furnishings. 

Then, she’d staged a weekend hunger strike—which her scrawny body could barely abide—in order to gain a plush area rug in a regrettable shade of raw umber. 

And, to complete the desecration, she’d insisted that her pleasant sitting area be transformed into a video gaming lounge!

So, now, an olive-drab duvet smothered the heavy Victorian double bed.  A battleship-grey slipcover obscured what had once been a delicate ladderback desk chair.  And over Bernie’s flat television screen lurked ugly posters featuring the sombre wizards, pointy-eared boys and snarling white wolves from her ghastly video games. 

The window treatments were no better. 

Inky-black roller shades masked every pane.  And tobacco-brown curtains shrouded each implacable shade so that Bernie could never be startled awake by even the slightest stray hint of rosy dawn. 

No sunlight.  No birdsong.  No air…

            Gee whiz, grimaced Jeanie.  I’d go mad if—even for a single night!—I  had to endure this frumpy old nest.  Let alone for the past fourteen years…

            Still—once she’d let Sylvie persuade her to allow the gawky girl dress her third-storey refuge to her own leaden taste—Jeanie had to concede that her best friend had been right.

Concede that Sylvie had understood far better how to assuage the pain of Bernie’s murky adolescence and her ensuing prickly twenties than Jeanie had ever wanted to.

Concede that Sylvie—a seasoned campaigner in the teenage wars with her flamboyant son, Nick—had been entirely correct when she’d warned Jeanie to forfeit the small battles to Bernie and save her energy for the big conflicts to come. 

            Yes, but—

Where was Sylvie now?

            Gone. 

Gone forever…

And that, decided Jeanie—vigorously refusing to be slurped into an insidious bog of regret—that abandonment, no matter how involuntary, certainly meant that now—right now!—Jeanie was allowed to decide for herself that enough was enough!

            With her usual deliberate stride, she wooshed across the deep-piled rug to the window, threw back the heavy curtains, snapped up the roller shade and wrenched open the double hung window. 

A waft of mid-July heat met the chill of the air-conditioning and died on the sill.

            “Jessica Bernadette Todd!” she carolled in her cheeriest voice. “Rise and shine!”

            Beneath the heavy duvet, a slight figure stirred.  Then, an unaccountably tidy head of dark-brown hair turned to reveal hazel-grey eyes peering dully out of a small pale-white face.

            “Mom.”

            With that single word, Bernie neatly expressed everything she wanted to say.

Don’t fool around with my window.  Leave me alone.  Go away.   

            Jeanie decided to ignore it all.

            “The day’s a-wasting!” she chirped.  “It’s time to greet the sun!”

            Her beloved kidlet—never ‘Jessica’ since that September afternoon when she’d announced that, with three other Jessicas in her fifth grade class, she would henceforth be known as ‘Bernie’—dropped a limp hand over to her bedside table to consult her phone.

            “Mom.”

It’s only nine-thirty on a Sunday morning.  Close my drapes.  Leave me alone.

Bernie’s pallid face swivelled inexorably back towards the wall.

            Jeanie decided to ignore that too. 

            Leaving the window wide open, she nipped over to her daughter.  Tugging off the unspeakable duvet to reveal Bernie’s frail powder-blue flannel-wrapped back, she plopped herself down on the bedside for a bracing chat.

            “Look, Bernie—” Jeanie began. “If our loopy-neighbour-from-three-doors-down, Lindy Styre, can get over herself long enough to write a summer play, you can get over yourself long enough to get up and go see it.” 

Bernie’s hibernation remained undisturbed. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake, kidlet!” Jeanie continued, relentlessly.  “According to the radio, Loopy Lindy’s done such a cracker-jack job, her theatre group’s gone and scheduled a whole extra matinee in the Glebe today!  Now, the show starts at one.  And I know that—if you stop for breakfast—it’ll take you at least an hour to get up and out.  So, I thought that, after you’ve had your shower and got dressed, we’d hike over to Starbucks for our coffee and then trot across the Bank Street Bridge.  Once we’re in the Glebe, we’ll pick up a snack—and then window-shop our way up to the park—”

            Heaving a deep-dark sigh, Bernie flopped back over to confront her intolerably perky parent.  “Mom.  There was a headline in the Old Ottawa South paper that said Excursion Theatre’s coming to Windsor Park in early August.  Why can’t we go then?  It’s not as if this matinee’s a case of now-or-never.”

            Delighted with this multi-sentence response, Jeanie seized upon her daughter’s argument with gusto.  “See?  You’re planning to go see Loopy Lindy’s play. Why not take advantage of this lovely golden day?  That August date could be rained out and then we’d miss everything!”

            “Mom—”

            “So why not sling our folding chairs over our shoulders and march on down through the Glebe?  We’ll buy fresh bagels, and it’ll be so much fun—!”

            “Mom—” groaned Bernie, attempting to retreat beneath her bedclothes once more.  

But Jeanie had scented victory in her daughter’s former lengthy reply. 

“Oh no, you don’t!” she laughed, wrestling the awful duvet from Bernie’s feeble grasp and tossing it to the floor.  “We’re overdue for a Girls Day Out!  So, get cracking, kidlet!  And I’ll go rustle up those chairs…”

            Filled with happy purpose, Jeanie scampered down two flights of stairs to her blond maple kitchen.  There, her husband, Donald Todd—an unpretentious man in his late sixties who’d recently retired from the Federal civil service—sat on a caramel-leather-upholstered stool at the pink-granite-topped kitchen island.  He was just as fair-skinned as Bernie and three inches shorter than his long-limbed wife of almost forty-two years.  And, as he sipped his second cup of coffee, he was puzzling through the cryptic crossword from yesterday morning’s paper. 

Always the intellectual, thought Jeanie, indulgently.  Can’t simply do the regular crossword like the rest of us mortals…

            Don had popped his golf shirt collar up on one side, so Jeanie straightened it out for him.  Then, planting an airy kiss on his greying temple, she offered, coyly, “You’ll be glad to hear that your devoted wife and darling daughter won’t be underfoot for most of the day.”

            “But I’ll miss you both so sadly,” returned Don, evenly.  Without even a glance his wife’s way, he filled a long word into his puzzle grid.

             “We’re having a Girls Day Out.  No men allowed!” Jeanie brightly informed him as she disappeared into their recently refreshed mudroom.  There, she pulled a couple of bagged folding chairs out of the closet and leant them against the wall.  Now, she thought with satisfaction, those will be close at hand...

Returning to the kitchen, she double-checked that the box for today’s date on the Inuit art wall calendar was empty.  She wanted to fill it in with the lively acronym ‘GDO!’  But where was the pen that ought to be laying on the shelf nearby?

“Don,” she asked, “have you seen the calendar pen?”

            “Mmm…what?”

            “The calendar pen.  The one that we always leave here on the shelf.” 

The pen wasn’t on the counter.  It hadn’t been knocked to the floor.  So where was the calendar pen? 

Had somebody moved it on purpose? 

Jeanie felt a buzz of frustration arise in her mind. 

“Not this one, is it?”  Still concentrating on his crossword, Don waved the pen he was using at her.  “I found it over there somewhere.”

Jeanie’s mouth pursed in to a strained smile. 

“You know, Don,” she admonished her husband, as if spelling out an indisputable fact to a little child, “you should leave the calendar pen where it belongs.  Then—whenever we need it—we  won’t have to search all over the house.”

“Sorry, dear.”  Don kept reading his puzzle clues and, again, didn’t bother to look up at his wife.

“And I know that you don’t mean to be careless.  But it doesn’t take much to throw everything into disarray.”  Jeanie didn’t like to be a nag.  And since it was only about a month ago that Don had reluctantly retired from the long days of his government career, he could be forgiven for not being on board with her household routines.  But there was a limit to her patience.  “If you start picking up stuff at random and just using it for whatever, pretty soon the whole system will be in a shambles.”

Don nodded thoughtfully and wrote another answer.  “As soon as I’m finished, I’ll put it back,” he said.  And—although her fingers itched to grab the pen out of his selfish hand—from long experience with her husband’s talent for sly evasion, Jeanie knew that she had to be content with that.

Restlessly, she surveyed the kitchen.  What other mischief had Don been up to?  There weren’t any of his used breakfast dishes cluttering up the counter or the sink, so she unobtrusively checked in the dishwasher to see if he’d put them away correctly.

Aha!  Don’s cereal bowl was in the appropriate slot on the bottom rack.  But he’d stuck his juice glass in the widest row of the upper… 

Juice glasses go in the narrow outer row, frowned Jeanie.  Any fool should know that. 

With an air of great tolerance, she lifted the offending glass and placed it in its proper spot.  Then she snapped the dishwasher closed and, with a pen selected out of her cache in her kitchen junk drawer, wrote ‘GDO!’ in today’s calendar box.        

With her good mood restored, Jeanie placed the substitute pen on the designated shelf and turned to Don with an unfeigned smile.  “Don’t you wonder where your girls are going?”

Don glanced up briefly from his puzzle and took a swig of coffee.  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll eventually tell me,” he said.

            “We’re off to see that play that Lindy Styre wrote.”

            “Uh-huh.” 

            “It’s got great reviews, and they’re doing a matinee today in the Glebe.  So, Bernie and I thought we’d give it a peek.”

            “Great.”  Don’s slate-blue eyes drifted back to his crossword. 

            “It’s supposed to be really funny.”

            “No doubt.”  He picked up the ex-calendar pen again and wrote.

            “But you can’t come with us—”

            “Mm-hm…”

            “—because we’re having an exclusive Girls Day Out!”

            His brow wrinkled in deep thought, Don looked up and past his wife to stare vaguely at a spot over the kitchen stove.  So, giving him up as a bad job, Jeanie retrieved her phone from its charging bay to check for messages she might have missed while she was upstairs rousing Bernie. 

There was nothing too important.  Just a reminder from the clinic about Jeanie’s follow-up mammogram.  And a text from her former boss, Roberta Tsang. 

Nearly twenty years ago, Roberta had hired Jeanie as a part-time receptionist at her Bank Street interior design company.  And, now, she was asking whether Jeanie would like to come bargain hunting at the Westboro garage sale next Sunday? 

Jeanie deftly texted Roberta that she’d ‘love to go pickin’!’ and ‘how ’bout lunch too?’ And then stuck the details of the medical appointment into her phone calendar. 

‘Done like dinner,’ as Sylvie would have said. 

‘All good and proper!’ as Jeanie’s mother would amend. 

Pocketing her phone, Jeanie ran up the back stairs to refresh her lipstick in her marbled en-suite bathroom.  Once there, however, she paused to admire her newly-dyed hairdo in the vanity mirror. 

Keenly aware that her aging Clear Spring complexion now benefitted greatly when she lightened her colour palette to a Pastel Spring’s lower intensity hues, she’d instructed her stylist to tone her hair down to a soft-honey tint.  She wasn’t ready to go grey, she’d explained.  But she certainly didn’t want to look like one of those desperate ladies in their early sixties who try to offset their wrinkles with a brash shade of copper or platinum blonde…

Then again, Jeanie was a realist, and she wasn’t going to hide from the fact that she was getting old.  Yet, even with their fortieth anniversary in the rear-view mirror—and a year’s hiatus during her health scare—she and Don were still having it off a couple of times a month.

I might be vintage, Jeanie reminded the smiling woman in the mirror as she lightly touched up her coral lip gloss, but I sure ain’t antique!

As usual, Jeanie had dressed very carefully this morning and, assessing her appearance in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door, she was quite pleased.  She hadn’t painted too much tawny colour on her cheeks, and she liked the nice summery effect of the plain gold hoops in her ears.  Her flowery aqua cotton top bloused enough to disguise any imbalance in the size of her breasts and, with a nod to her mature status, she’d opted for a pair of faded denim-blue shorts which left only a tasteful stretch of her long legs bare.  And—playing peek-a-boo with her neatly coral-polished toes—sprightly new espadrille sandals completed her flawless attire. 

“You look like a million dollars!” she told her beaming reflection and giggled when it responded with a duck-lipped super-model pose. 

Next, knowing that—even at the best of times—Bernie never moved fast in the morning, Jeanie detoured for a few minutes to her craft room, which was located across the hall from the guest bedroom on the second-floor.  She wanted to finish cutting and filing a couple of articles from her favourite women’s magazine. 

Of course, Jeanie knew very well that this was the age of the computer.  But, in some fundamental way, she preferred winnowing real pages to simply downloading images from a screen.  And she wasn’t about to give up her favourite hobby just because it wasn’t modern…

In fact—through years of careful scrutiny of homemaker’s magazines—Jeanie had assembled a tangible ‘vision’ of what her family’s life should ideally be.  And via scrapbooks, files and inspiration boards, she continued to pursue that vision with passion and zest.

Now, donning her reading glasses, Jeanie flipped merrily through the latest issue’s glossy pages.  She clipped illustrated instructions on how to host a gingham-themed summer picnic.  And then a page of chowder recipes with both seafood and vegetarian options.  She usually filed the ‘Simple Sewing Crafts’ feature, as well as the fantasy vacation pages, so she plied her scissors there too.  Then, making sure that the paper remained uncreased, she stashed the articles into appropriately multi-colour-labeled folders, ready to be pasted into one of the many tidy scrapbooks that lined her craft room shelves.

Gratified with this bit of orderly housekeeping, Jeanie skipped up to the third floor to monitor her daughter’s progress.  But—

There wasn’t any. 

Or, at least to Jeanie’s mind, there hadn’t been.

Perhaps, in Bernie’s opinion, there had.

            The window was once more firmly shut.  The inky-black roller shade was pulled down and the tobacco-brown curtains had been yanked across.  The olive-drab duvet had been restored.  And it was painfully obvious from the bedclothes’ unruffled façade that the small silent bulge beneath hadn’t moved since Bernie had rearranged her mole’s nest back to her own heavy dark taste. 

            Wordlessly Jeanie stood and stared dumbfounded at her daughter’s dead heap.  She felt like she’d been slapped in the face with a wet fish… 

And then blistering incredulity replaced her initial shock.

How could any kid of mine, gasped Jeanie’s mind, so brutally reject my efforts to engage her in the wonderful al fresco pleasures of life?  Haven’t I tried beyond hope to understand her ridiculous reserve?  Haven’t I given her the benefit of my sunny philosophy every single day?

So, why this obstinate refusal to participate in a cheery Girls Day Out?

As my mother would say—'What’s the worst that can happen?  What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger, girl.’

So, get out there in the fresh air and have a ball!

It all seemed so easy to Jeanie.  But then again—as she was the first to admit—tolerating the personal quirks of her deeply loved but totally mystifying kidlet had always been the major challenge in her life. 

Jeanie had miscarried multiple times before Bernie had finally been born, and the doctors had decreed that she’d have no more kids.  So, there went her plan to have a troupe of children skipping through the halls of the three-storey, two staircase, six-bedroom, white elephant of an Edwardian red-brick house that she and Don had optimistically purchased in Old Ottawa South.

Then, Bernie had been a difficult, hyper-sensitive baby, hard to put to sleep and often screaming with colic.  And—long past the ‘making shy’ stage—her finicky daughter had strenuously objected to strangers.  So, Jeanie’d had to shelve her new scheme of housing international university students too. 

No matter, she’d rationalized, and industriously repurposed the four superfluous bedrooms instead.  On the second floor, she’d allocated a study for Don and a craft room for herself.  And, in the two bedrooms on the third, she’d set up a box room for storage and—in the larger one—a quaint gabled playroom for her only child.

But then it had turned out that Bernie’s immune system had been massively unforgiving of even hypoallergenic pets.  Reluctantly, Jeanie’d had to re-home their Labradoodle dog and Balinese cat.  And, for the last twenty-eight years, the only animals in their home had been the mindless goldfish swimming endlessly around their bowl in Don’s study.  

So, no brothers or sisters or boarders.  And not even a furry pet…

With puberty, of course, Bernie had insisted on moving her bedroom up to the third floor.  And—remembering her own dramatic middle school years—Jeanie had indulged her twelve-year-old kidlet’s sudden need for privacy.  Efficiently, she’d hired a builder to tear down the wall of small attic box room and install another full bathroom for Bernie’s exclusive use.  And then she’d happily decorated her daughter’s new en-suite bedroom and sitting area in that delightfully feminine ivory-cream-and-pink colour scheme.  

Next, the generous walk-in closet in Bernie’s former second floor bedroom had been renovated to become Jeanie’s and Don’s en-suite bath.  And—after purchasing an antique birdseye-maple bedroom set which included a spacious wardrobe—Jeanie had refurnished the remaining space for the use of overnight guests. 

But then, as an ungrateful older teen, Bernie had stubbornly chosen that woeful attic décor.  And—all the way through her Carleton University days and right into her nerdy government computer system analyst career—she’d persistently ignored her mom’s every encouragement to brighten it up. 

Unfortunately, to Jeanie’s mind, thirty-year-old Bernie seemed to be stuck in a teenage funk.  And—equally unfortunately—the end of their tense mother-daughter journey seemed to be nowhere in sight. 

Which was because—as far as Jeanie knew—her persnickety kidlet had never led a normal social life.  No gang of gal pals, no best friend and not even a whiff of romance had given a dash of spice to her daughter’s achromatic existence.  Day in and day out, she’d simply slunk off to class or to work.  Or sat at a computer.  Or stared at a phone…

And when, a couple of years ago—at Jeanie’s urging—Don had offered to help with a substantial down payment, Bernie had balked at moving into her own place. 

So, it had become increasingly obvious to Jeanie and Don that their daughter wasn’t planning to decamp anywhere else anytime soon.

Holy doodle, grimaced Jeanie.  Imagine a thirty-year-old woman deliberately living at home with her aging parents.  Still single and perfectly content to be buried alive in her dark, stuffy mole’s nest—

That was Bernie in a teacup! 

And now, Jeanie realized, bitterly, the world’s most exasperating daughter wasn’t even going to disturb her self-centred agenda to venture forth on a rare Girls Day Out with her long-suffering mom!

Swiftly, Jeanie’s incredulity morphed into fury.  And—aware that she was on the edge of saying or doing something unforgiveable—she abruptly spun on her heel and swept down the back stairs to the kitchen where Don still struggled with his puzzle. 

“Bernie’s not coming!” she snapped.  “Your daughter won’t even get up out of bed!”

“She won’t?” returned Don without looking up from his crossword.  “What a surprise.”  With a grunt of pleasure, he filled in one of the last two answers and, surveying the final clue, nonchalantly offered a helpful suggestion.  “Maybe you could call somebody else to go with you.  Probably Sylvie—oh, dear god, Jeanie, I’m so sorry—!”  Too late Don realized his indefensible mistake and, red-faced, sprang up from his stool to give his wife his full attention.  “Jeanie, I didn’t mean to—!” 

But there was really no excuse.

“She can’t be bothered—and you don’t mean to—!  That’s the story of my life!” snarled Jeanie, snatching her light summer tote bag from its peg.  “But don’t let it bug you, Don!  Sylvie may be gone.  But I’m not beaten yet!  I’m going to Lindy’s play—all by myself!”

Helpless with guilt, Don shrank back on his stool. 

And, ditching her miserable husband, Jeanie stomped into the mudroom, seized her folding chair and slammed through the side door to face the pitiless hot and sunny world.

Alone.