Shane’s Garden by Nancy Snipper

ONE       The Family

Moira

  The thud was quick and hard, born from a rage as old and prolonged as hatred itself. Moira’s mother had just hit her over the head with a mirror. The first time it happened Moira was nine, and she cried. This time, six years later, there were no tears.  The mirror didn’t shatter as it had on that Sunday when pieces of glass flew every which way, cutting the left side of her temple. It required eight stitches - brave little trophies that Moira wore with defiance.   They left a scar. Moira hated it. Kerry explained it with curt optimism.

       “You were born with the mark. Wear it with pride.” 

        Though the mirror resisted breaking, something else did. Moira’s fragility tumbled into a strange void, instantly crushing any feeling that made her feel soft and loved. From that day on, Moira was unable to trust a single person. Tenderness disappeared, replaced by a comforting numbness that Moira called her abyss. This secret abyss became her ally, a friend with a dark featureless face that could never see into hers.

       Moira had her mother’s thin face, but her soft green eyes bore no resemblance to Kerry’s sparkling blue ones.  A multitude of freckles dotted her slender nose that could instantly smell scents at distances others couldn’t. She had inherited her father’s curly red hair, and that along with the scar, were the two features she most detested. People always commented that Moira could light up a pitch black night with her bushy, fiery hair. When friends reached out to touch it, Moira would instantly back off.  She associated a kind pat on the head to mirrors hitting it.

        When the mirror hit Moira’s head this time, her little brother Shane watched in silence. “Ouch” was all Moira said, and then giggled out of embarrassment, for her precious brother had caught her in a moment of weakness.

        “Mom is in a snit because I refuse to go upstairs and wash my hair,” Moira said, smirking bravely at her mom who was furiously knotting her apron strings. Moira got up and stridently marched upstairs to her room which she shared with Shane. She lay on her bed. A tear descended down her left cheek, making its way into the abyss.

Kerry

       Kerry had given birth to Moira at the age of 18 in Lachine Quebec.  The labour lasted 23 hours, and it was unendurable. That was the word Kerry used every time she talked about Moira’s birth. And talk she did. No matter to whom or about what, she always ended up describing the birth. She took the unlucky listener through the first five hours of her labour within a few sentences. The rest of the description, however, spewed forth fifteen minutes of verbal anguish, and just as she reached her final sentence, she would dramatically draw in her breath, creating a pregnant pause followed by the shaking of her head and the utterance of her final and favourite word: “unendurable”.

      Her voice delivered the descriptions effectively, for it carried a melodic lilt, still clinging to its Irish intonation. Her thin, bony body added poignancy to the whole experience, for Kerry had the look of a sufferer. Her large blue eyes expressed resignation. Periodically, they flashed emotions that not even she understood. Her wiry hair was uncontrollable, so she always tucked it behind rather large ears. Now in her forty-fourth year Kerry was going grey.

“See these clumps of grey,” she would say to Moira, pointing to a particularly dense spot. “They’re from mothering the likes of you.” Not a day went by, when this oft repeated refrain echoed in Mira’s mind.

         When Kerry smiled, an event to which few were privy, her lips had a unique way of favouring the right side of her narrow face, earning her the nickname, ‘Sidewinder’. On the whole, people found her appearance rather appealing

           Undoubtedly, Kerry had a way about her. Perhaps it was her ability to attach importance to otherwise mundane matters that earned her a place in her new community. Her accent was refreshing, and its inflection compelled people to cling onto her words. Moreover, Kerry was a gifted cook. The church bazaar was always buzzing with words of praise for Kerry’s Irish soda bread, cakes, casseroles and cookies.

Kerry functioned best in public. She was accommodating and charming. Her odd smile proved endearing; in private, her smile revealed the true nature of a side winder.

                                        

Shane

         Never was there a shyer baby than Shane. He never looked anyone in the eye. His gaze always headed past one side of a person’s face. He had his own sidewinder tendency that Kerry understood without question, for Shane was Kerry’s love. He brought out a fierce protectiveness in his mother, and though Moira could have resented the obvious favouritism, she too felt the same about Shane.

        A priest who frequently called on the family, recommended the newborn baby be named Sean, but Moira liked the name Shane. Her first crush was on a handsome motion  picture cowboy  called Shane. It was close enough to gain Father Sean’s approval. He often came to visit the little babe, whom he adored.

         Shane was the family’s holy human icon - save for James, his father. He was repelled by Kerry and Moira’s excessive doting on the frail boy.  Kerry hoped her boy would inherit the piety that comes with wearing the frock. She looked forward to Father Sean’s visits which were always marked with benedictions and compliments for his “junior”, as he put it. He would hoist Shane up into the air, catch him, count to three, and then fling the little fellow onto his lap. There, Shane would sit, but there was a hint of discomfort in his eyes which intensified when the priest began rubbing Shane’s arms and legs.

          Often, Kerry would leave Shane with the Father. He would become quite excited when she asked him to babysit for a minute or two while she hung the clothes outside on the line, or went down to Provost Street to pick up some groceries.  Upon returning, Kerry noticed her little boy was sullen which she took for disappointment in her departure.

       “He always seems sad when I get back. Perhaps he knows you’re leaving, or is it because I left?” Kerry rhetorically quipped.

Father Shane would then plant a kiss on the boy’s pale cheek, and run his fingers through his lovely blond hair.

        “It’s like silk,” said Father Shane. “And those eyes – so big, so blue. You’re blessed with this beautiful boy coming into your life,” he said, nodding to Kerry and smiling at Shane, just before leaving.

         Shane’s quietness began to trouble Kerry. On more than one occasion, people at Richelieu Food Store asked her if her child were sick or slow, for Shane’s gaze was notably blank, and he would cock his head to one side whenever he heard his name. Kerry would look indignant. “My boy was blessed by God; Father Sean at St. Mary’s of Miracles Church said so.” She would then march off, pushing her cart with such force that Shane, who was seated in it, would cry.

         Shane and Moira shared the same bedroom, for there was no other room for him. As the years passed, his cradle was replaced by a bed. He had grown used to sleeping near his sister, and though he enjoyed the feel of his comfy new bed, he felt his cradle was still with him… in the form of Moira.

         Often, Shane had night terrors, even though he was nine. Moira was three years his senior, and she felt it right to take him into her bed and comfort him. His sobbing would stop when she held him close, and stroked him tenderly.

         “It’s okay sweet dear; Moira’s here with you. Nothing can hurt you now.”

         The only thing that hurt Shane was life itself which the sensitive lad associated with his parents’ constant feuding. They were so loud, that he often blocked his ears. They frequently fought about money, but more often about Shane.

         “You coddle him so much; he’s sure to become a pansy.  He’s certainly pretty enough,” bellowed James.

         “Well, if you were here to show him some attention, other than spending five minutes with him on your lap, maybe he would be more adventuresome. You teach him nothing, and as for disciplining the kids, you’re hopeless,” Kerry hit back.

         At this point, James would stalk out of the small kitchen that connected to the side door, and go for a long walk. He usually made it home for supper, but when he was particularly angry, he didn’t come home until dark.

         Shane began to feel responsible for these fights, and soon he completely retreated from his dad. Like Mira, he found his own escape hatch. His world was not occupied by humans but by stuffed animals he had collected as hand-me downs and Christmas gifts. They were stored in the attic, since there was no room for creatures in the bedroom. Besides, Shane didn’t want Mira to know his secret friends.

       Shane loved each and every one of his twelve animals. He loved stroking them all over, and would tell them that everything was going to be fine, now that he was there with them. He would disappear for hours, but Kerry always knew where to find him.

        “Mama’s coming, quick, into the trunk!”

        When the door opened, Shane would give Kerry his sidewinding glance, his hands folded in his lap, imagining that Bear and Giraffe were with him – loyal pals that would never say a mean word to him or ask him lots of silly questions.

      “Shane, what have you been doing? You’re always up here. What do you do up here? Talk to me. Why won’t you talk?  You never want to go to school some days. What’s wrong? Father Shane and I are worried about you. You know, your father works hard and he doesn’t have time to talk with you, so I am. Do you want to tell me something? Is something wrong?  Talk to me,” Kerry said impatiently, her trademark temper beginning to rise.

       “I’m not doing anything wrong,” Shane replied feebly. It’s just that I wish I had my own place. I don’t even have a closet. I… I…” he began to stutter.

       “You what,” Kerry echoed. “Just tell me. You know I adore you, but you have to talk.”

      “Oh, nothing,” Shane responded in resignation.

      “Look, supper’s on the table, and your father will be home soon. Let’s see if we can all have a nice time together. Tell dad your baseball is going well, and that you’re the best on the team, which you are. He has hopes for you, you know.”

     Shane glanced back at the trunk hiding his friends, and when his mother’s back was turned, he offered a little goodbye wave to his mute buddies.

  

James

          James knew the minute he first saw Kerry his destiny was sealed. She was splayed out on the ground of Killiney Hill Park. Below its 200 acres of dense woodlands lay one Ireland’s bluest gems, an immense bay with a beach of honey sand “right well known” to Dubliners.  The park was a favourite retreat for James who loved the calm of Killiney. There was only one shop, one pub, and the immense park that offered a spectacular panorama of the sleepy surroundings. He had been coming here for years - his outings were always peaceful and undisturbed - until now.

He was standing on one of the escarpment’s highest and grittiest cliffs, a powerful wind howling in his ear as it mocked the beach below.   

       “It’s so impressive.” thought James, who believed nothing could match such haunting beauty. And then it came, a mysterious voice that seemed to shake the foundation upon which he was standing. It startled James.

         “I’ve sprained my ankle,” she whined, wincing in pain at James, a total stranger to her. It was this straight forward declaration and her intense eyes that stared directly into those of James that caught him off guard. She triggered a feeling in him he had never felt before.

       “I’ll get you down”, said James with authority.  And so that is how their romance began - on unsure footing.  Over the next five months, James picked up Kerry in Dublin, and they would train over to Killiney’s beautiful bay, then take a boat over to Dalkey Island famous for its countless pubs filled to the brim with beer from local breweries that the rest of Ireland had never heard of. But it was Dalkey’s peaceful woodland paths largely ignored by townsfolk and visitors that James loved. He enjoyed the seclusion they offered. The town’s medieval architecture was a mecca for foreigners always eager to sample as many historic pubs as possible, and this worked well for James, for it allowed him and his fiancée to be relatively alone as they strolled along one of the quiet back paths of the charming island. It also allowed him to consummate their relationship during the afternoon of July 25, 1964. 

       Before their walk at Mean O’Malley’s, James had quickly downed two pints while Kerry preferred a Lime Rickey juice. She liked the tart flavour and fizz.  James had never stepped inside one of the pubs before when he was out with Kerry, so this took her by surprise, particularly since he claimed to be a staunch and sober Catholic.  He had also emphasized to Kerry that he didn’t believe in premarital sex.

       The rape had been quick and quiet. James corporal being instantly seemed to land on her as he grabbed her from behind roughly pushing her to the ground. Throughout the ordeal, Kerry kept quiet, and even if she wanted to shout, James hand over her mouth muted any sound. After he had his way with her, he became the gentleman she knew him to be. He held out his hand to her to help her up, just as he did when she had fallen. He led her to the pub to wash up, and gently kissed her as she stumbled in confusion to the ladies room. From the moment she had been shoved to the ground to the moment of fixing her hair in the pub restroom, it was as if nothing untoward had happened, and so Kerry chose to keep it as such. Ten years into the marriage had done little to revive the sordid event. Kerry just couldn’t recall exactly what had happened that day. Like the mirror she had cracked over Mira’s head, the rape was history, and for Kerry that meant it didn’t happen, and even if it had, years were there for the purpose of favourable distortion.

        In 1959, James and Kerry left Ireland for Canada. James was tired of the influx of foreigners, and Protestants seemed to appear at every corner. He wanted to get out of Ireland at any cost. He had moved to Quebec because he had heard Quebec was very Catholic and that there were desk jobs. Many of his forefathers had moved to Lachine, and most ended up building the canal. In 1825, the canal was inaugurated with 15.5 kilometres of navigable water running right along Lachine, and James seemed to take credit for that.

          “It was the Irish who attacked the rock and earth with picks and shovels to forge that canal,” his father would say whenever people spoke about canals that were being built all over Europe at the time. Exceptional prosperity for others, particularly the English, was the result of their hard labour.

         “We Irish know how to build, but it isn’t us who reap the goods,” his father would bluntly blurt out.

        And so it was with pride and some bitterness that James settled the family into a two-bedroom cottage in a middle class neighborhood in one of Lachine’s small houses near an enormous field saddled by Lake St. Louis.  He took a desk job at as an underwriter for Salute Insurance Company, but he loathed it. Still, with Moira on the way, the opportunity for upward mobility within the company looked promising.  His father may have been illiterate, but he made sure to have given James an education at Dublin College. They were Irish; they were Catholic and they were as sturdy as the men that had built the seven locks of the Lachine Canal

Two

Birthday Ritual

          Time.  It hooked its invisible tentacles into each member of the family in different ways.  For James, time was defined by bills: electricity bills, phone bills, heating bills and tax bills.

         “Really, to pay $300 every year for a piece of grass that the government calls our property is hogwash.” James said in the same tone of voice he used when arguing with Kerry which was at least twice a day.

        Kerry took stock of time by counting her grey hairs every other week. The number seemed to by multiplying with increasing rapidity.

       “It’s him and the kids that are the cause of this. It used to be just Mira, but now it’s Shane and James. If I lose my looks completely by next Christmas, I’ll have them to blame for it.”

        Moira felt time in a glorious way. Her breasts were round and prominent. Boys were drawn to her, and her mysterious quiet way seemed to enthral them even more than her ample cleavage which she flaunted on hot summer days.

         “Peter at the Humpty Dumpty Chip Factory always stares at me on the assembly line,” Moira said laughing to her friend, Tina. “He can set up bags faster than the machine pops the chips in.  Wait till I get enough money to leave Lachine. I’ll take him with me,” she said giggling to Tina who stood beside her on the bag closing line.

         For Shane, time didn’t move. Everything stood still. His animals were ageless. They would live forever. He was now twelve.

          “Death is coming for me today,” Shane would say to Enow, his stuffed donkey. “We’ll ride off into the sunset from the bedroom window. We’ll fly over my garden. We’ll ride over the roses, the lilies, the begonias and pansies. We’ll go away where every piece of ground is covered in tall flowers, scented with thousands of different perfumes, some smelling like Mira’s hair does. Looking down from the sky, we’ll see the earth covered in trillions of different colours; and there will be no people, just you and me, Enow.”

       For the family, as a living entity, time was marked by meals. Dinner was greeted with a host of aromas that swarmed around a table of silence that in the beginning, seemed noticeable. But as the years passed, this silence became a comfort, a mute bell signalling that all was normal and well with the O’Teale family. There was a lack of any questions or spontaneous news, other than a few words about the weather. The  masticating of meat and potatoes was the only other sound. There was never any salad, and vegetables were a rare sight on any plate, for the O’Teale family was carnivorous to the bone. The odd tomato or cucumber was sometimes placed as an appetizer, but only on those occasions when Kerry was running behind time which usually happened every day.

       Kerry couldn’t tear herself away from ‘

Coronation Street

’, the one TV soap opera that made her feel superior. She gloated in the problems of all the working class characters on TV.

       Though the Manchester of ‘

Coronation Street

’ wasn’t the Dublin of ‘The Little Land’, Kerry saw resemblances. She was glad to be out of it all. In her new country, houses weren’t stacked up in a line of treeless sidewalks. Here, houses came with grass and big backyards. Here, you could move up in life.  

        Watching the soap opera gave Kerry added gusto for the task at hand: cook fast and have the meal ready. James didn’t like to be kept waiting, especially when it came to food. He got particularly angry when Sean arrived late at supper, returning from his walk along the canal. He would walk the length of the canal all the way from

thirty-fourth Avenue

to First.

         The Lachine Canal rolled along interminably, enclosed in an enclave of locks and water trapped in walls of cement. When Shane went down the street to walk along

Lake   St.

Louis, he felt a freedom to behold such a vast body of moving waters whose waves rippled against the 10-kilometer shoreline of rocks, pebbles and scruff. But when he  finally reached the first lock of the canal with the great stone Convent of St Anne’s looking over it, he felt suffocated, caught in a concrete world where the only escape was water. But Shane couldn’t swim. In fact, there was only one thing Shane could do, and he did it exceptionally well.

          Since the age of sixteen, he had been mowing grass for Kerry’s friends who lived on nearby streets. He also started a garden at his next door neighbour’s, Mrs. Phipps.  It all happened over a birthday cake.

          The garden grew out of a single pansy seed, planted by Mira in a pot which she had given gave to Shane on his birthday.

         “Happy twelfth!” Moira shouted that eventful day.  She also gave Shane a book on Canadian perennial flowers, and when the cake came out topped with 15 burning candles, Shane felt he had found his purpose.  What to wish for?

         “How did she know about my garden dream? Does she know about Enow too?” He was amazed. “Moira always seems to know what I’m feeling. She’s the only one who does.”

       He would keep his sister in flowers for the rest of her life, cut a bouquet every day and place it by her bed. He would grow a world full of colour in Mrs. Phipps backyard and in her front one, too; his lawn-loving father would never allow the family’s grass to be torn up for a garden.

         Regardless of the age of his children, James always insisted both celebrate their birthdays together. Since Shane and Mira were both born in May, James thought it pennywise to purchase one cake to mark their birthdays. Indeed, it was always fun to watch his children blow out the candles together. Then, after their few presents were opened, and their voices found an excuse to be heard in birthday song, Moira would whisper something in her sibling’s ear; then, seal it with a lip kiss. This birthday ritual was re-enacted every year. It was one of several rituals that, at best, defined the fact they were a family.

Four

Eggs

         Kerry was in the kitchen making egg sandwiches. The smell was always detected by James.  He detested the things. It was an egg sandwich that had killed his father, Sean, back in the coal mine in Killiney. It happened during lunch. Sean, along with his two buddies, decided to eat their lunch inside the mine that day to earn extra wages by saving time.

        An explosion cut into the men, burning them alive. They never knew what hit them, but James believed his father did, because his charred body was found four meters away from the other unlucky souls. He had obviously been running in panic, a step ahead of the others as the flames bit into his body.

       James felt Kerry made the sandwiches just to taunt him, so whenever he spotted her putting the mayonnaise on the bread, a fight would always take place – not about eggs – but about money, the other thing that drove his father to his death.

       “Perish those damn eggs you keep getting from Mr. Mackie.”

John Mackie ran a chicken farm in St. Eustache, and claimed his were the best in Quebec. “They’re more expensive than store eggs. We need every penny, Kerry, if Mira’s to go to University. And Shane, God knows what he’ll end up going to, other than some nut house.”

        “I won’t have you talk that way about our son,” Kerry shouted back. And if anything happens to him, it’s your fault. Sticking him in the same bedroom as Mira was fine when he was a baby, but he needs his own room now. We need a larger house.

        “You’ve got to be joking. I don’t have that kind of money. Anyway, Mira’s a good influence on the boy. She’s nice to him, and he seems to open up when he’s around her.”

        “Well, if you won’t come to your senses, you’re forcing me to accept a babysitting job at Mrs. Phipp’s. She’s taken a job at the Wells Lamp Shade Manufacturing Company, and needs a babysitter for her Mike and Lara. I’ll use the money to at least get us new windows.”

       “You’ll do no such thing! I forbid you to work. Your place is with the children. You’re an upstart, Kerry. Know your place. I’m warning you: if you so much as go near that house to baby-sit, you won’t see hide or hair of me. I won’t be sitting at the dinner table, and I won’t be eating any more of your cooking, which by the way, is becoming boring. Always the same stuff: roast potatoes, beef and peas. You ought to learn to cook some poutine, shepherd’s pie and Canadian stew, like our neighbours do. You’re not better than them, and babysitting isn’t going to change that one bit,” James said angrily, strategically taking his exit, for he believed he had won that battle.

         “I make the money in this house,” he shouted to Kerry from the living room.

“And don’t you forget that, woman!”

       “It’s not enough,” Kerry shouted back, peeling the potatoes harshly.

 For Mira and Shane, eggs became the forbidden food, and when they saw their mother preparing them, they rushed upstairs into their bedroom, slamming the door behind them. They knew what was about to follow.

         It seemed the fights never stopped - always about money, babysitting, the house and Shane. The arguing continued long after the sandwiches were eaten. However, a smell of rotten eggs seemed to infiltrate the entire house. It became a permanent odour with or without the sandwiches.

  

The Camping Trip

Best Friends

                                The Camping Trip

By Nancy Snipper

Characters: Larry, the bear; Pete, the boy.

Each paragraph represents a new page of illustrations.

Entire book upon emailing nansnipper@gmail.com

 Larry and Pete were best friends.
They did everything together. 
They played soccer together.
They went skiing together. 
They ate supper together. 
They even slept in the same room.

One morning, Pete and Larry decided to go camping.
They packed up sleeping bags, fishing rods and food. 

The next day, Larry and Pete went fishing. 

They cooked fish over the campfire and ate it. 

They went on walks together and picked berries.

At night, Larry guarded the tent and stared at the moon and stars.
He also made sure no strange animals came near the tent.

After three days, Larry told Pete he loved the wilds so

much,
he wanted to stay in the forest by the water and live like a real bear.

Pete felt sad.  He went back home… alone.

Pete missed Larry a lot. 
He missed his big bear hugs,

the slurpy sounds he made when he ate breakfast, and the

funny way he climbed into the bathtub.

Three nights passed. Pete wished Larry would come home.

Suddenly, he heard a scratching sound at the door. 
What could it be?

He went to the door, and when he opened it, he felt so happy. 
There was Larry looking very happy to see Pete.

Larry gave Pete the hardest hug and licked his face all over.

Larry told Pete he didn’t like living in the wilds. 
It was dangerous there. 
He saw hunters carrying rifles. 
He heard strange sounds at night, and the other bears didn’t want to play with him.  Some were even scary.

Larry said his real home was right here with Pete.

That night, Larry and Pete had a nice, cozy sleep.
They were best friends again, and they stayed that way forever.

Marble Lake by Nancy Snipper

      It’s called Marble Lake for a reason. Patterns of sliver-thin ripples resemble the veins in Pentelic marble. And when the wind whips across the water, they open up like tiny cracks, then disappear. I’ve always associated my sister’s suicide with Marble Lake, not just because it happened there, but because she opened her veins before lying on the wharf. She must have dipped her left hand in the water after she slit her wrists because it lay gracefully in the lake when I found her. Her fingers were so still - in the water rippling red.

Even in death, Jane wore her calling well. She was a dancer. Her lifeless face was as white as a Venus fly trap; her diaphanous body holding a hint of colour lay beautifully on the wooden wharf.  In fact, at any moment, I expected her to rise to her feet and begin moving around in graceful abandon, as she always did every time she was on the wharf.  I used to love watching her dance on that small area. She would leap across it, do two pirouettes and then end it all with a lofty arabesque. I marveled at her suppleness and confidence. One slip could mean hitting her head against the rough edge of protruding nails, or spraining her ankle - an injury from the devil, Jane used to say.

It seemed like I was staring at her forever. It’s amazing how 26 years can replay in seconds. A flood of memories seized my brain – the first one being the pinafore fiasco.    I had always loved Jane’s flare for fashion, so when she picked out her brown pinafore dress for me to wear to my best friend’s sweet sixteen, I was thrilled. She giggled when she saw how grateful I was. It was only after I arrived at the party, that I understood why she had found it amusing. That dress was actually an old school uniform that belonged to Mary O’Halloran, one of her Catholic friends!  Mary had given it to Jane four days before moving to Toronto with her mom. A girl who was at the party used to go to that school. She instantly recognized the uniform. Bad luck. It never occurred to me that Jane had set me up, encouraging me to wear it to the party. I had thought it was pretty; the others thought it was marmy.

So Jane, now 18 was a practical joker after all.  How could that sweet face framed in long wavy auburn hair hold such deceptions?  It would take another 15 years before I would discover just how secretive my sister was, how her outward beauty belied inner anguish.

In 1967, my mother had enrolled both of us in the Razinsky Dance Academy in the Glebe, Ottawa’s ballet school for beauties. It was cruel of Mom to make me go. Of course, Jane was a stand-out. She excelled on point.

My mother used to say: “Jane, you think best on your feet.”  What she meant was, “Jane, everyone is watching you when you dance.”

How could you not? She was ethereal - a Raphael beauty in motion. Her legs were the envy of every student in the point class, and a magnet for every fellow at high school.

            Unlike her, I was short, had mousy brown hair and a long nose destined to be dipped into perfume bottles. I ended up a chemist. There was no perfume, only the noxious carbon dioxide I analyzed during daily tests to measure air pollution from exhaust pipes in my lab of the National Research Council.  

            I hated my mother for putting me in those ballet classes with my sister. I did however love the pink toe shoes. Jane owned five pairs of them. Some had lacy ribbons, others had jet black silk ones, and one pair had purple flowers embroidered across the toe.

One day after class I tied up a pair of her shiny pink ones which she always carried in her back as “spares”. I squeezed my toes into the hard part with no cushiony protection and tried to stand straight up on my toes. I let out a loud “ouch”, and then began cursing. Jane suddenly appeared.

“What do you think you are doing?” Really Anna, you’re not at the same level as me. You can barely plié without toppling over. Your feet are far too wide to wear my points.”

            By now, a least five of the senior dancers had gathered around, staring at me in disbelief; I had broken dance code etiquette. From that moment I was an outcast. Worst of all, I had shown I wanted to step into my sister shoes - as the expression goes. I think Mom wanted me to be like her.

            When Mother miscarried the fourth month into her third pregnancy, she never really recovered. She holed herself up in her room for the better part of the day listening to classical music on the radio. You could hear it when you went upstairs and knocked on the door to tell her you were hungry.

            “There’s pizza in the freezer. Just heat it up in the micro.  I made your favourite chocolate cake for dessert.” All this she said between her bedroom door and Rachmaninoff’s Concerto # 2. CBC Radio always seemed to play it at 12:15. I grew up associating pizza, French fries, hot dogs, and burgers with Rachmaninoff. It seemed normal to me.

            But Ottawa didn’t. Its WASP atmosphere stung me on a daily basis. My grade 11 class was full of blond Barbies with little noses, long nails, pink tops and mini skirts exposing pretty knees. No one wrote poetry; no one liked black, and no one ate burgers to classical music. Jane, proud and slender, fit in perfectly. In the 70’s skinny was your ticket to acceptance. Whenever I attempted to slide into a group of popular girls, I would mention Jane was my sister.

            “I’m Jane Basko’s sister. She and I are dancing a pas de deux for our Cecchetti exams.” They had no idea what I was talking about, but the circle instantly opened up, and I stepped in. Deception seems to run in the family.

We lived in the West End; our home was built by a brilliant architect, William Berona, and the neatest thing about it was the hidden garbage shoot. I loved opening the cupboard below the kitchen sink and tossing all kinds of things down there. I threw tea bags, packages of napkins, mustard jars, even chipped dishes that obviously needed throwing out. My garbage rampage was strategically timed when it was Jane’s turn to empty the shoot.  

            “What the hell,” muttered Jane with a confused look on her face. “It seems every time it’s my day to take out the garbage, it’s always heavier. It’s full of broken china and crap. What in heaven’s name are all these teabags doing at the top? Mom’s got to cut down. No wonder she can’t sleep at night. This family should be recycling. I’m going to sort it all out and put things where they belong,” Jane said self-righteously.

            I thought for sure she’d point the finger at me.  She never did. The garbage was my way of sticking it to my more than perfect sister who never thought it could actually be nerdy Anna who did this stuff. She blamed dad, mom, even the cleaning lady. To Jane, I was a boring innocent. It was only when we went to the cottage that Jane saw my fun side.

            At the cottage, cousins from Montreal invaded every inch of space. They were fat, noisy and lazy. They ate all the food, and when they dove into the water, every roasted marshmallow, hotdog, hamburger, pickle, pork chop and potato seemed to go with them. The sound they made as they hit the water caused a loud echo in Marble’s surrounding hills.  They thought they owned the cottage, and to my horror, mom and dad seemed more interested in them than they were in me. To grab attention, I’d try to impress the twins by talking about my discoveries of toxic level emissions from tailpipes, depending on the make of car and gas octane. Before I’d get to the third sentence, it was always “Pass the mustard, more milk please.”  Jane seemed to forget she had a sister when the twins were around. Yes, they were her age, but were their stupid jokes about Quebec and French people really that funny? I thought they were really cruel. I wanted to take the toxic air I tested and shove it into their mouths. I got the feeling Dad felt the same way.

        

            Mom had married a man who preferred Al Jolson to Mozart, but she totally adored him. She praised his wit and his passion for reading, but she did not share his love for the outdoors. He was a terrific father, even attentive in ways that attracted neighborhood kids over to the house, just to talk to “Mr. Basko”.

            When mother married him, she also married his fishing rod. Dad bought the cottage at Marble to teach us about nature, gas lanterns, water from pumps and fishing. The cottage was only an hour outside of Ottawa, so he would herd us all into the car and head out with mom sitting silently in the front seat - exhausted from the shopping and organizing.

            Dad and I loved our outings on the lake. His beat-up boat coated in ten years worth of ugly green paint was pulled by a five-horse-power motor.  No matter. The tug of a bass on either of our lines meant fried fish on the table within the next hour.  What we caught, mom dutifully cooked. She hated fishing - maybe because she was a Pisces. So, we kidded her that her destiny was to be caught by dad.

        I remember the day dad dropped from fatigue. He had been brushing pine needles off the bottom of the boat using a big cedar branch. He always turned the boat over before locking up the cottage every weekend. Six months later, he died. Leukemia killed him. He was my best friend, so watching my once-rugged father slowly disappear into a frail little man left a gaping hole in my heart. He died stoically, but I was so close to him I felt his silent anguish. It was the only time in my life when I wrote a poem. I had to. It would be the first time I tried writing anything other than letters or monthly scientific reports tabling toxic levels of gases and contributing noxious compounds. The pain of losing him somehow turned into literary pretense; it was my vengeance against leukemia robbing me of a wonderful human who happened to be my father. I needed to share the poem with someone. I wanted Jane to read it, to feel my pain, to say: “Dad didn’t deserve to go that way.” I thought only my sister, the other daughter would understand. I also hoped that Jane’s artistic brilliance was born of empathy – that an abundance of compassion lay beneath her carefree persona.  But it wasn’t to be.

            After writing the poem, I realized, I had better stick to science and syllogisms. Jane confirmed this when I showed her the poem.  She gave it a glance, then replied in a tone as icy as Marble Lake in winter,

            “A poem has to rhyme.” 

            She then shoved it back at me. I couldn’t bring myself to chuck it. I wanted to remind myself of the suffering dad had gone through, and I needed to respect his courage, to remember him healthy, and to hold on to that moment when I cradled his face in my arms the day before he died.

              Some days, when I think I can see dad waving at me from his boat, I feel compelled to unlock the top desk drawer in the lab and take out my poem. Conquering the effects of carbon monoxide, dioxide, and the rest of these mortifying monsters is as impossible as curing acute leukemia. I unfold its four corners and read it, ignoring the lack of poetic punctuation.

Body Breach

Scabbed spindly birch bark

cracks, cracks cracks

over the plate-glass lake

then dives into the shattersound of silence.

Such sudden swift surrender is

Nature’s divine acceptance of death.

Not so with my father.

His fall took the form of a slow bend

Born from a resistance of knowing

that the unknown void below

was waiting to engulf him.

Leukemia’s gravity weighted him down

whittling him into a ghost of bones.

And as he crumbled, bit by bit

into that darkest deep,

the black hush of midnight

ushered in his final bow.

There were no stars that night.

                   

            After dad was gone, mom shut herself up in her room almost all day.  She locked her door. We left her alone; she wanted it that way. Opera became her solace - the sound that opened her heart to swell into a thousand cracks where sadness, bitterness and despair silently seeped in. Her face took on the appearance of pathos. She began to look like Madame Butterfly without the beauty; she had lost her wings. Mom remained positively grounded in her bed. She rarely came out, except when we went to Marble Lake. It was up for sale, but when she was in the kitchen, Jane and I would take the kilometer-long walk down the gravel hill road and remove the offending For Sale sign, kicking it into the bush.  On Sundays we’d always ask mom the time we would be leaving, so that Jane and I would have enough time to walk down and put back the sign.

            The thought of selling the cottage was something we could not accept, and now that the twins were no longer interested in going up, Jane and I could enjoy peaceful weekends, fishing off the wharf, peeling onions in the kitchen, berry picking and refilling the pump hose.

            Jane would call mom to the wharf to attend her solo performance of the dying swan from Swan Lake.  While Tchaikovsky’s music played on the portable tape deck, mom looked positively radiant. She was transported to another place, but as Jane slowly fell as the hapless creature, gasping for her final breath, mom’s smile changed to sorrow, and her eyes welled up. I always found it hard to lose myself in the illusion. This was my sister pretending to be a swan; that’s the way I saw it. 

            “Your dad is watching too,” mom said reassuringly. “His ashes have risen; I can see them floating at the top of the water,” she would say, and together we would sit quietly, contemplative, sad, yet at peace.

            But it wasn’t dad who filled my mind at that moment; it was Jane, beautiful Jane. I would miss her dancing, her teasing, even her insensitive pranks. Why did she do this? Why did she choose to leave us and in such a horrific way? Was it because this was our last weekend at the lake?  True, the thought of losing Marble was awful. Could that cause deadly grief? Did she obsess about it - that we would no longer be hearing the chickadees, nor smell the fresh scent of cedar?  No longer would we be able to watch ‘our’ two loons glide across the lake in exquisite grace.  No more would we hear their ‘whaaawhaaaaw’ sounds echoing across the lake into the Gatineau hills. No more freshly picked berries or nighttime skinny-dipping.

            We had tried over and over again to convince mom that all three of us could handle the chores and challenges of living in a cottage that had mice, leaks and broken doors. But that was futile.

            “Do you think we are characters in La Boheme?” We are not hippies living for the ideal. I cannot continue here, and without dad, there’s no point. Plus, putting his ashes in the lake was a mistake; he can’t fish, he can’t hold me, he can’t complain about my cooking, and he certainly can’t fix anything. No girls, it’s hard I know, but we have to accept that Marble Lake is now the past. Yes, I’ll miss the wild flowers, but I won’t miss the bees, wasps and black flies, nor will you.”

            Mom had a way of quickly setting things straight, but the result was always dismal, just like the direction of an opera hurdling towards tragedy.

            And so it was that Jane ended her life on the last day Marble Lake was to be an integral part of our lives. It was a double finale, that day, that terrible day, one I would never forget, even seven years later.

            Why Jane did this, no one knows, but I suspect underneath that beauty, that style, that edgy humour, she had a secret; one so deceptive that no one ever imagined it could actually exist.  She once said to me in a tone I took as sarcasm. “Clever Jane, the affected cynic, the killer of other people’s pleasures.  “Tragically, I was to find out, Jane was speaking from her soul.

            “You know mom’s operas… well… lovers never end up together.  Beauty is staged, so happiness has nothing to do with how popular you are or how lovely your hair is. Love is what so few people really have. You’re the lucky one. Dad always loved you; I know he didn’t feel anything for me. And do you know why? Because you are normal; no one is afraid of you; you listen, you laugh with others; I laugh at them. You aren’t afraid to make mistakes.  Three days before dad died, he called me into his bedroom. Do you know, he never even told me he loved me? He just told me to keep on dancing and that I would have many marriage proposals, and that I would always look perfect. He didn’t take my hand when I reached out to his. I cried when he told me he needed to rest, and then shooed me out of the room. I cried not because I was going to lose my dad, but because I never really had one, at least one that took me fishing, one that read to me, one that laughed with me and hugged me, the way he did with you.”

            My theory is,  I think Jane longed to be as awkward as I am, as logical and dull as I am, as inconspicuous as my breasts are and as mediocre as my personality is. How strange. All that time she was full of self-loathing. She was the unhappy one. I was envious, but never deeply damaged. Nothing was worth taking too seriously. And I have Jane to thank for that - the pinafore and toe shoe episodes, even the circle of pretty girls at school that liked me for the wrong reason. Living in Jane’s shadow taught me to laugh at myself – to accept myself no matter how the cards were dealt. Although I didn’t have constant approval, Jane did – except from the one person she loved deeply. I knew I had Dad’s love; Jane felt she had to dance for it.

            The heart is a fragile hunter which can only handle so much, and then it’s all over for some. Jane, oh my beautiful Jane!

* * *

            Sometimes it all seems like it happened yesterday. But here I am, head of my department, married and a mother. My daughter’s name is Jane.

            Right now I’m standing outside Mom’s bedroom door. She’s up here, locked away as usual, lost in the music of Rachmaninoff.  But in three seconds I’m going to knock on the door – and, for the first time in my life, insist that she come down and eat with us. Jane is waiting and our hamburgers are getting cold. I wonder if Rachmaninoff ever ate one?  

The Powder Case by Nancy Snipper

 

The door to the bathroom closed quietly. Mrs. Jilasi always did things quietly. Today as always, she was putting on her lipstick in a ritual of silence. She swiftly applied the cherry-flavoured gloss, anticipating a moist shine as it slipped red across her lips like blood from a mosquito bite. Mrs. Jilasi knew she had applied it just right by the scent her nose caught – not too far down, not too high up.

             It was one of the many tiny tasks she mastered at a specific appointed hour of each day, part of a repertoire of actions that one would normally do without thought, but for her, these little rituals were coups of accomplishment. Mrs. Jilasi was nearly blind.

Her enjoyment of makeup was blunted by the fact that Henry, her husband was not standing at the mirror peering over her shoulder, smiling, quietly saying,” You look so beautiful.”  This upset her far more than the fact that she could barely see, particularly at this very moment. Was this the day that she would bid a final goodbye to the shimmers of light amidst blackening blurred forms? 

             She continued to apply her lipstick, then her eye shadow, and finally her powder in front of the milky mirror that had become one of her familiar points of reference. After all, it had reflected her image in its glass for exactly 60 years and three days, as long as Henry had been with her. Was it always like this? Did he come to mind every time she applied her powder, or was it just now? For the life of her, she couldn’t get a focus on this troubling feeling. When had he left her, four years ago or four minutes ago?

            A knock on her apartment door broke her reverie and caused her to drop her powder case, which did not drop quietly. Rather, it emitted a cracking sound that Mrs. Jilasi found most unnerving. Indeed, it was a thud. What’s more, she had no idea where her case had landed. It could be sitting in the sink or on the toilet seat covering; it seemed to fall in that direction. Or was it on the floor by her feet?  A step to the left provided the answer, for in that single moment, she felt it crack into pieces. Not a heavy woman by any means, she was astonished, yet perversely pleased by that fact that her 100 pounds could still crush a powder case which felt strangely heavy in her hand.                 

            The event would mean her wrinkled skin of various shades of age would not be covered up. This was distressing, particularly since someone was knocking at her door. Should she answer it, or was a lady without powder an eyesore to any visitor?

This pressing decision irked her, but at the same time, made her mind leap into fast gear, much like a tiger jumping out of a cage or a heart that was racing far too fast. She abhorred the feeling, yet right now, she relished the spurt of adrenalin that made her feel a tad younger, more focused. Still, an unmistakable throbbing overpowered her limbs. This was new, and for that reason alone, Mrs. Jilasi was frightened. Was it her powder case that really dropped; was that the last thing she was holding in her hand?

            Suddenly she couldn’t remember. A fog was swirling around her. The knock continued growing louder. Her hearing seemed to magnify each of the four knuckles hitting the door. Too bad she had forgotten to dust the desk in the hallway of her spacious apartment. Would the visitor notice that?

            Much as she tried to find her case, it was the floor’s smooth surface she felt against her left cheek. Her arms seemed to lose all sense of feeling. Numbness buzzed throughout her body. Really, it was only a powder case; another could be bought. She was in the dark, completely. “If only he were with me, but he’s not.  Gone for good.”

            And as Mrs. Jilasi ran through a list of stores she frequently visited for make-up and other toiletries, she could not for the life of her remember from which store she had bought that perfect powder compact. This added to her stress, and her heart picked up its pace. This time, however, the pleasant rush she usually felt by the unexpected was not at all present. She felt uneasy, tight and not herself. A wave of nausea overpowered her, and soon the floor was covered in the fish she had enjoyed the night before.

            Yes, she had to dine alone, but wasn’t it like that every night since Henry had left her?  A stench swept through her small bathroom, magnified by the fact that Mrs. Jilasi had suddenly urinated at the time her powder case slipped from her hand. Too much to bear, sweet Mrs. Jilasi closed her eyes, sparkling blue eyes that weren’t doing her much good any way. At 89, everything was a blur or a faint form of something - a dark shroud.

            She was quite a dish when Henry had first held her hand, and slipped a sweet little imitation diamond on her fourth finger, asking her in his shy way if she would care to spend the rest of her days with him. She had loved him from the moment she first met him, four months before the ring slid on her finger. He was a flyer of spitfires with the RAF, and this greatly impressed her – his dark manly uniform with a few medals hanging over his jacket right pocket. His eyes were brown and gentle, and in them, she saw sadness that spoke of war and friends lost in fields of blood. 

        Six years her junior, Henry settled into his wife’s doting, much as a puppy resigns itself to his new master. Domestic docility seemed to both gladden and aggravate him. But as for Mrs. Jilasi, Henry was her everything. And for all those years of marriage, his smile, caress and kindly ways made up for each little annoyance that comes when two people are bound to one another, living together, having to stretch each dollar, burying hushed hurts, voices feigning sweetness, eyes with flat stares or a door closing a tad too loudly.

Such thoughts cluttered Mrs. Jilasi’s mind as her body lay on her bathroom floor, and the last thing she recalled was the store where she had purchased the fish - Loblaws.

She had paid five dollars for it - far too much for that sliver of halibut.

And as she whispered “halibut”, a familiar face appeared directly over hers. The word ‘halibut’ turned into ‘Henry’. Her loving husband had come back from the dead. Why could she see his face so clearly?  Then she noticed two figures – strangers dressed in white and blue jackets. They were carrying some kind of white bed.  She could see that too. But it was Henry who was bending over her.

“Henry, I can see you,” she said quietly, for that was her way, to speak quietly, only this time she noticed she had no choice in choosing the volume of her voice, for she was quite tired.

“Dear Hilda, don’t move; you’ll be fine; you suffered one of your spells, only this time you were out much longer than usual. When you didn’t answer the door, I retrieved my key to let myself in. You know how I hate trying to find my key; I never remember which pocket I put it in. You always get to the door faster than I can find it. But this time, you didn’t. I knew something was wrong. I found you lying here, and called 911. Never mind the mess. I’ll tend to that in a second. Can you really see me? Are you feeling better now?  How is your vision? Did you forget to take your medicine?”

But now was not the time to go into that.  He knew though she would be fine. She could talk, even sit up. As she slowly reached a standing position, her husband supporting her on one side, a paramedic on the other – not need for the stretcher, she gazed at herself in the mirror. Colour returned to her cheeks and her red lipstick seemed even brighter than before.  Her vision was as good as new, well - as good as any diabetic’s was at her age. Behind her stood Henry, his face reflected in the mirror. He handed her the broken powder case. Then a slow smile came to his face, and he said, “You look beautiful.”