Tell (19 page)

S
UNDAY MORNING,
M
AGGIE WAS ON HER WAY TO
St. Mark’s to sing in the church choir. The sky was perfect and unbroken, as blue as sky could be. Words swirled in her head as she walked, but these were not the words of hymns. She was thinking of lines from
The Mikado,
the intuitive framing of sun and moon. Three minutes of song headed toward the final consonant, the
k
in “awake.” She began to hum, thinking of how she must allow the music to slow and gather, ending with the weight on the final line.

During Thursday evening’s rehearsal at Naylor’s, she had experienced a sudden, wondrous sense of being borne along, up and up, adrift on the moving notes. Zel was at the piano, or Luc, one or the other, changing back and forth as the songs were repeated. The rehearsal went on and on. Maggie, herself, might have been floating. And then, she focused. The rippling movement of the keys carried her forward; she approached the end, became aware of her voice slowing, slowing, finally, to “The moon and I!”

A small triumph. A tiny one, but she had felt it, nonetheless.

But before any triumph, every line had to flow. She must not let her pitch drop on a repeated note. She must enunciate. “If you don’t enunciate, the audience won’t understand the words, Magreet. Gilbert and Sullivan have done their work; now you must do yours.”

Why didn’t she sink into the songs that way every time? Without worries. Trusting what she knew and had practised, trusting what she loved about the music, the lyricism. Singing joyfully in the company of others who also loved to sing. Why?

Well, there were lines of “Peace, Gentle Peace” to muddle through, though she felt somewhat better about them now. Other singers would be standing around and behind her, the entire choral group, despite the fact that she was one of the soloists. After that, there would be volume, plenty of volume for “Hope and Glory.” Under those circumstances, surely it would be impossible to hear individual voices. The audience would join in and sing loudly and enthusiastically. She tried to imagine how much sound that would create.

She wanted to perform well. She did not want to feel as if someone had seized her by the throat behind the curtains. Only one rehearsal remained, and that would be a final run-through of the entire programme, start to finish, the night before the concert.

Andrew’s “Annabelle Lee” was to have choral backup. Maggie’s gypsy solo—it had been decided at the end of rehearsal—would be accompanied on piano by Zel. Luc would play accompaniment for her solo from
The Mikado.
The programme was sent out for printing the next day and there would be no further changes.

She reached the top of the hill, paused to look at the sky again and hurried up the outside steps of the church. In the afternoon, there were things to do. Christmas Day was on a Thursday this year. She had one more day’s work at the library, and after that it would be closed until the second week of January. She had gifts to wrap, food to prepare. She had Christmas carols to go over, songs to sing, notes to remember.
Remember the text and you’ll remember the notes.
Who said that? She had sewed a thick, warm shirt for Am that she knew he would like. She had made a cloth handbag for Zel in beige with crimson lining, a matching crimson cord woven through the neck as a drawstring. She had finished knitting a scarf for Luc. A gift no one could or would notice or talk about. She had worked on it when she was alone in the apartment, and had buried it at the bottom of her knitting basket until it was finished. The wool she chose was dark and vibrant, evergreens in winter. She would not make a fuss; she would leave it in his room next time she visited. If there was a next time before Christmas.

She would make a next time. She was invigorated by the thought. She would visit this evening, after supper. She would tell Am she wanted to deliver a gift before Zel went off to Belleville to her brother’s home for Christmas. She would wrap the new handbag and take it with her. She would visit Zel first. After that, she would take Luc’s scarf to him. She wanted to be with Luc. There. She said it again. And again. She could not stop herself. She hummed, the sun and moon.

She arrived a few minutes before the service began, threw her choir robe over her shoulders and grabbed up a hymn book. Zel waved; Andrew raised his eyebrows, one high, one low. Several
late-arriving children were led to the Sunday school room. The choir proceeded solemnly up the aisle. The service began.

During the last hymn, Maggie stood tall, trying not to sway as the others seemed to be doing. Why were they swaying? This morning, everything was in harmony, in its proper place, in its proper rhythm. The minister said the final prayer and raised his shoulders as if he were about to be lifted by diaphanous wings.

Maggie did not stay on after the service. She whispered to Zel that she wanted to drop by after supper. Zel nodded, squeezed her hand, told her she wouldn’t be leaving for Belleville until Tuesday morning, two more days. The others put on their coats and boots and left the church. It was Christmas week. The choir members had sung well; now they had children to amuse, last-minute errands. School was out until after the new year. The shops were closed Sundays, but the windows were brightly decorated, as was fitting at the end of the year the boys had returned from the war. Citizens had taken to strolling up one side of Main Street and down the other, exclaiming over the efforts the shop owners had put into beautifying their properties. On side streets, wreaths hung from front doors. The town was dressed in its finest for Christmas. The houses settled back and allowed a dusting of snow to drift through the narrow lanes between. Branches of the tallest trees nodded over the streets of the town.

I
T WAS AFTER TEN O’CLOCK, AND
M
AGS WASN’T BACK. SHE
had left the apartment after supper, between six-thirty and seven. Am knew she was concerned about her performance. More than
one performance—she had several pieces to sing. He knew she was concerned because of the way she’d been pacing around the apartment. For days. This evening, she had walked up the road to deliver Zel’s Christmas gift and to practise.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. Go out, maybe. Visit Dermot, listen to his brother talk about politics or his auto. The hotel would be warm and welcoming; fireplaces would be blazing. There would be a large tree in the lobby and another in the dining room, the glitter of tinsel offset by velvet ribbons and bows. Even along the bar there would be pinecones, loops of evergreens, sprigs of red berries.

Kenan hadn’t been by to visit Am for several nights. Am was restless, knowing that Mags was out. He wondered if Kenan would arrive. He didn’t feel like reading newspapers, didn’t want to play solitaire. He had nothing to do on a Sunday night except keep the heat going in the building.

He climbed up into the tower and decided to wait for Kenan, who might or might not visit. If Kenan did leave his house tonight, he might head in the opposite direction. From the peering-out space in the clock, Am could tell if Kenan was coming toward the tower. If there were too many people on the street, Kenan walked east out of town, the same route he’d taken the first night he went out. He’d have tracked a good path through the woods by now, wherever it was he disappeared to.

Am reached for the flask of whisky he kept stashed behind a beam. Dermot had handed it to him the last time Am visited the hotel. Wrapped, concealed, a heavy, oversized flask. Dermot had smiled behind his moustache and wished him a Merry Christmas. Told him to keep the gift under cover.

Am took a large swig and decided he would not wait for Kenan. Instead, he would go out onto the bay, maybe take his skates this time. He’d pulled his skates out of the closet the day before and they were ready, waiting for him to slip his feet inside. He had placed them on the mat by the door where Mags had put hers. This was probably as good a time as any to go out and glide around the ice. There’d be no one around. He dressed warmly, pulled on a toque and wondered if he should leave a note for Mags in case she returned before he did. No, he wouldn’t bother. She’d figure he’d gone to visit Dermot at the hotel.

O
NCE HE WAS ON THE STREET
, A
M REALIZED THAT HE WAS
overdressed. The temperature wasn’t nearly as low as it had been the past days and weeks. The night was mild, the air almost balmy. Soothing, in winter. But the ice would be good. Except during heavy snowfalls, skaters had been out every day since the rink opened. Every evening, too. He’d like to skate with Mags but he didn’t want to ask in case she refused. Maybe after Christmas. But she would have the concert to worry about. After the new year, then. He’d ask her after that. On New Year’s Day. The rink would be full. There would be cheer to spread around. It would be good for the two of them to be in a crowd.

He crossed the street and took his time walking to the rink, enjoying the mild air. When he reached the shack, he went in but left the light off. He didn’t want to draw attention, didn’t want the caretaker returning and wondering if he’d forgotten to flick the switch when he closed up for the night.

He tested himself as he walked on blades across the wooden floor and out onto the path that led to the rink. First time on skates this season. He stepped onto the ice without hesitation and began his long, even strides around the oval. He might not see as well as he used to, but he hadn’t forgotten how to skate. Round and round, a dozen times. He had plenty of strength in his ankles, his calves, his thighs. He opened his jacket so he wouldn’t become overheated and saw, when he looked toward the opposite end of the rink, a still, dark figure. The figure moved. He pulled up short, wondering what his eyes were telling him now. He was certain he was out here alone. He skated to the end, turned, skated back down the middle. He turned again and did a lap around the edges. The dark figure emerged again. He recognized his nephew, let out a low whistle.

“You gave me a start,” he said. “Where did you disappear to?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I move about pretty easily in the dark. When you came round again, I saw that it was you.”

Kenan was wearing boots, not skates. Am saw that he was inspecting his territory, an extension of his backyard, really. Out walking on the bay on this balmy night, almost thaw conditions but not quite. Too early for that. An unusual December night, that was all.

“I wondered if you’d be coming by the tower later,” said Am. “And then I decided to come out myself. I’ll skate around a few more times. Why don’t you come back with me? We’ll have a drink.” He looked away. “I have a flask from my brother. My Christmas present from your father-in-law.” He laughed.

“I generally walk the other direction from here,” said Kenan. “You could come along. There’s a good trail.”

“I reckon there is by now. All right, I’ll come. I’ll take the skates off first, in the shack.”

“Leave them at our side door,” said Kenan. “Pick them up on your way home.”

“Good enough.”

Am went into the darkened shack and pulled off his skates. The stove still radiated warmth; the air was close, almost damp because of the temperature outside. Kenan stayed by the door and kept it ajar. He glanced out nervously several times while Am tied his skate laces together and got into his boots. Am hoisted himself up from the bench and followed, allowing Kenan—head down, sure-footed—to lead the way. The skates were dropped off beside the step of Kenan’s house and the two men carried on. Kenan turned right at the boardwalk. A man walking on the other side of the street gave a nod and raised his hand in greeting. He was headed in the opposite direction, toward the newspaper office. Kenan ignored him, but Am returned the wave. Calhoun, the editor of the
Post.
His wife was expecting a baby any day now. To be sure, Calhoun would make the announcement in the
Post
when he became a father for the first time.

Kenan reached the end of the boardwalk, leading with quick strides. Without a pause, he stepped down into the frozen ruts of the road. Am was more cautious leaving the boardwalk. The shadowy changes in depth were the ones that tricked him the most. He’d be doing just fine on level board and then, without warning, he’d step down unexpectedly and hard, feeling the thump through his entire body because of the shallow drop.

When they reached the eastern edge of town and moved onto the path in the woods, Am used the white of the snow on
either side to guide him. He didn’t want to stray from the trail, though he was only five or six feet behind his nephew, whose moving figure he kept before him. The path followed the edge of the bay, the inlet, and then swerved away from the old pier. Am hadn’t walked here for a long time. Up a rise, then to the right, past a couple of small farms. Kenan didn’t look back, not once. He moved with ease and stealth through the night and turned up a low slope that led to the rotting barn on Zel’s property. Am was surprised. He glanced up at the sagging roof of the old barn. If he had misgivings, he said nothing. Kenan squeezed between a couple of loose boards and Am followed. He knew enough to duck to get through.

“So this is where you come.” Am’s eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackened space and he inched forward, testing before he planted his weight, concerned that his feet might disappear down a hole. He could smell, however. He reeled from familiar scents and odours such as those he had known both on his parents’ farm when he was a boy and on his own farm after marrying Mags. A faint trace of kerosene. His mother had always been fussy about what she used in her lamps because bad oil had an unpleasant odour. The scent of hay and oats, of stored apples, of pig shit, of cow shit swept over him. He could have sunk to his knees and wept.

But he couldn’t see. He stood still, knowing Kenan was beside him. He heard a sound, smelled whisky. Kenan reached and drank, then placed a bottle directly into Am’s right hand.

“I don’t know who it belongs to,” said Kenan. “It was just here. Somebody stashed it; somebody must come here. Besides me. Old Mr. Leary, maybe. He and his wife board at Zel’s.
Tress said they’re away for a few months. Or maybe the liquor belonged to the salesman and he forgot to take it with him. That’s a more likely possibility. Anyway, it’s here for the taking. Or the drinking.”