Part 17 (1/2)

Madison took the down vest and hurried out the screen door. The dog bounded across the front porch and down the steps, delighting in his freedom. Behind Madison and Garith, standing in the doorway, Abby waved.

”I'm the proudest mother in Alberta!”

Madison hurried away from the Weiss household, past 10 Garneau toward the university. As usual, the students in the walk-ups were drinking Pilsner and Hard Lemonade on their balconies. They listened to rap music and insulted one another's private parts. Garith pranced down the sidewalk, and in and out of bushes and hedgerows. The threat of rain buzzed in the air.

After a short walk along Saskatchewan Drive, Madison returned to the block. The lights were on in 13 Garneau, but Rajinder Chana was not visible. Garith bounced around on the front lawn of 10 Garneau, which had grown to a ticklish length.

Madison walked toward the sound of a woman singing, ”Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha huh,” repet.i.tively. The spare room window was open so The Magic Flute leaked out into the block. Madison didn't mean to spy but she could see the professor, by dim orange lamplight, kneeling over a large book as if in prayer.

44.

self-concern Three teenage sisters wandered through the Rabbit Warren, arguing quietly over the right gift for their mother. s.h.i.+rley Wong looked up from the front page of the sports section to watch them. The youngest girl was nervous, was.h.i.+ng her hands without water and making too many suggestionslavender bath salts? Moses doll? Smelly candles? Finally the oldest sister, wearing jeans so low-cut that the veins along her pelvic bones were visible, whispered, ”Shut it, shut it. Oh and please shut it.”

s.h.i.+rley stepped out from behind the counter and smiled at the sisters. ”Can I help you in any way?”

”No,” said the oldest. ”We're just looking.”

”For a friend? A relative?”

The youngest sister, her dry hand-was.h.i.+ng less deliberate now, stepped away from the other two and said, ”Our mom.”

”Is it her birthday?”

The youngest turned to the other two, who looked away. One of them sighed and mumbled something. ”Well,” said the youngest girl, perhaps thirteen, ”she's sick and we just want to get her something. We thought flowers but they'll just die and we didn't want to, like...”

For a moment, s.h.i.+rley watched the quiet interplay between the sisters. She understood their mother didn't have a cold or the flu.

”Well,” said s.h.i.+rley, to the youngest. ”I have a few things your mother might like.”

The other two reluctantly joined s.h.i.+rley and their little sister in front of a display in the back of the store. Instead of selling something, s.h.i.+rley wanted to take the girls into her arms and squeeze the worry out of them.

”A woman I know carves these from solid blocks of wood.” s.h.i.+rley ran her fingers along the smooth backs of several small sculptures. ”She only speaks Chinese even though she's lived in Edmonton for thirty years.”

”They're pretty,” said the youngest girl.

Among them was a b.u.t.terfly, a crab, and a crane. s.h.i.+rley took each off the shelf but the oldest daughter seemed most interested in the cicada. She reached for the sculpture and cradled it. After a moment, s.h.i.+rley said, ”The cicada represents immortality.”

”Immortality?” said the youngest.

”Yes,” said the oldest, to cut off the conversation. She turned it over and looked at the price. ”It's nice, thank you, but kind of expensive for us.”

”How much do we have?” said the youngest.

The oldest sighed and they congregated at the counter to pool their money. Between them, they had $37.86. The cicada, before tax, was $45. s.h.i.+rley's cost was $35 so she took the money and wrapped the little wooden sculpture. The youngest and oldest smelled candles while the middle sister leaned forward on the counter. ”Our mom has bowel cancer.”

s.h.i.+rley whispered so the oldest sister wouldn't hear. ”I'm terribly sorry.”

”We've known for a while that she'd get really sick but now she is and it's, um...”

s.h.i.+rley stopped wrapping for a moment and put a hand on the girl's wrist. ”Your mom is very lucky to have such lovely and thoughtful daughters.”

The middle sister bit down hard and looked at the floor.

”How old are you?”

”Fifteen.”

”What grade is that?”

”Ten.”

s.h.i.+rley finished wrapping the cicada and pa.s.sed it across the counter to the middle sister, who said thank you and hurried out the store. The other two girls turned to s.h.i.+rley, thanked her, and followed their sister on to Whyte Avenue. When they realized the middle sister was crying, they put their arms around her and guided her around the corner. s.h.i.+rley watched them go, and sat behind the counter again.

Since Raymond confessed that he was a s.e.xual deviant, s.h.i.+rley hadn't been feeling too sprightly. But it was immoral to be so self-concerned when mothers were dying of bowel cancer. She thought of Katie Perlitz, who had watched her own father bleed to death.

s.h.i.+rley forced herself to smile, and then laugh: she imagined Raymond, her donkey of a husband, asking his ma.s.seuse if she might, you know, perhaps, in a perfect world, er, well, harrumph. The yearning to beat him over the head with a spatula came and went like hunger pains. Someday soon, she would speak to him about why he had not been satisfied with her. It would be a dreadfully humiliating conversation and she hoped, somehow, it would be unnecessary. For now, to avoid thinking about this conversation, there was merchandise to order, a store to keep tidy, and two newspapers under the counter.

Deep in the sports section was a small story about a new team in the Alberta Junior Hockey League, the Edmonton Jesters. Their season was just about to begin and three of the players, from small towns in the north and south, needed to be billeted. At the bottom of the article was a phone number. Before s.h.i.+rley had much time to think about it, she was speaking to the wife of the team's general manager.

”You sure you're interested in that sorta thing?” said the woman. ”Seventeen year-olds can be...”

”Maybe you could bring them by for a coffee?”

”Coffee.” The woman coughed. ”Since the story was in the paper, we've had a few calls. One boy's already found a place. How many bedrooms you got?”

”Two downstairs. My kids lived down there, when they were home.”

”I can bring the boys by tomorrow night, Mrs. Wong, if you're free.”

”Ms.”

45.

best friends unto the end of time Rajinder Chana hooked his iPod to a couple of speakers and placed them at the corner of the front porch. ”What would you like to hear?”

”Something sophisticated, my good man, and in English please.” Jonas sipped his beer. Since he had became Rajinder's new best friend, Jonas had graduated from Pilsner to Grolsch. Inspired by Rajinder's tendency to wear suits for virtually every occasion, even to drink beer on the porch of an evening, Jonas had also taken to s.h.i.+rts and ties.

Earlier in the kitchen, while eating leftover snacks from the Let's Fix It meeting, Jonas had spied a tube or two of decent Scotch in Rajinder's cupboard, which had cheered him. ”The sun is going down, so keep that in mind. We'd also like the music to complement the sounds of lawnmowers and the professor crying in the Weisses' spare bedroom.”

”Is he really crying?” Rajinder sounded worried.

”I don't know.”

A moody art-rock song began playing from the small speakers. ”Is this all right?”