“Sure, I’ll sign her book, Mum.”
“ ‘Big and tall, we have them all!’ ”
“Where the heck did you park?” asked Duncan.
“Sorry, it’s the construction—”
“Just like Ottawa.” He nodded ruefully. “We have two seasons: winter and construction.”
“Phyllis Boutillier’s grandson,” said Dolly.
Mary Rose looked around; was this too written on a sign? “Where?”
“He was married to her, but they got divorced,” said Dolly.
“He … What? Married his grandmother?”
“Don’t be saucy.” Dolly pretended to slap her.
Mary Rose winced reflexively. “Mum, please don’t—”
“How’s the book coming?” asked Duncan.
“It’s on hold.”
“Take your time. Do it your way, Mister.”
“Hurry up and write it so I can buy all three in a box set, you know you’ll sell more that way, Mary Rose.”
Duncan laughed. “Your mother’s going to save the publishing industry.”
“Catherine!” exclaimed Dolly. “The gal with the book—Eileen, I mean—dammit, I’ve got it written down.” Dolly slowed and made to open her purse.
“Don’t open your purse!” cried Duncan. He winked at Mary Rose. “We’ll be here all day.”
Dolly laughed and hugged her purse to her little pot-belly as though to resist the temptation to open it. “Dunc, you know exactly who I’m talking about.”
“Her name is Catherine not Eileen,” said Duncan in a tone of beleaguered management consultancy. “I don’t know who Eileen is, I’ve never heard of an Ei-leen since Germany. Cath-er-ine was married to Phyllis and Mike Boutillier’s son.”
They pressed on through the white-collar lunch rush, Duncan pushing the stroller with the inexorability of an icebreaker.
“You know he died,” said Dolly.
“Who?” asked Mary Rose.
“Mark, Mick, Mike.”
A laugh escaped Mary Rose, dry and humourless no more, she felt suddenly like herself. But her father’s tone was reverent. “Mike Boutillier. Heart attack, just like that.” He snapped his fingers—no mean feat, considering he’d lost the tip of his middle one during a stint in the coal mine more than sixty years ago. “He’s the one got the condo association to sue for new magnolias to compensate us after I discovered the cracks in the foundation.”
Sobered, she nodded; a man’s dignity was at stake.
“A great bear of a man. You wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley, boy, but you couldn’t ask to meet a nicer fella, give you the shirt off his back.” He cleared his throat.
“Druggers Shop Mart,” said Dolly.
Duncan and Mary Rose turned and stared at her as she continued, “Druggers … Shoppers Drug Mart!” she exclaimed.
Duncan grinned from ear to ear, his gold tooth flashed. Dolly went silent, overcome with mirth, her face a carnival freeze-frame.
“Breathe, Mum.”
Dolly bent and grasped her knees with her hands.
“Dad?” There had to be a defibrillator in the vicinity, they were under three bank towers.
Finally they laughed out loud—they were breathing. They wiped their eyes and walked on.
Dolly described how she stood in the train aisle and sang “My Best to You” for the newlyweds and everyone clapped, including the head porter, “a lovely French-Canadian gal, she remembered us from last year, so I said, ‘Then you probably remember we had the stateroom west of Toronto,’ and she upgraded us on the spot.”
“I should have bought stock in Via Rail when I had the chance,” said Duncan. “Your mother’s got customer service whipped into shape and, if you’ll notice, our train arrived on time.”
“Yeah.” Mary Rose smiled. “Only Hitler and Mussolini were able to do that.”
He laughed.
“ ‘Puddle Duddle Rain Wear,’ ” said Dolly. “Look, Mary Rose, will I buy you a pair of rubber boots?”
In the shop window were boots with dots, boots with stripes, boots with triangles and zigzags that looked like the scintillations she used to see prior to panic attacks. She looked away. “That’s okay, Mum, I’m pretty much fixed for boots.”
“Not for you, for the kids, oh, look at the ladybugs!” Dolly stopped in her tracks.
“Maggie already has rubber boots,” said killjoy Mary Rose. “Boots!” cried Maggie, reaching toward the ladybugs in the window. Dolly leaned down, eyes wide, clapping and chanting, “ ‘Ladybug ladybug fly away home! Your house is on fire, your children at home!” ’
“Adybug adybug!” Maggie drummed her heels wildly.
Duncan steered the stroller into the store, Dolly followed, still chanting.
Mary Rose stayed outside and watched them hunt for the right size. Watched Maggie patiently submit to the trying-on process.
Maggie had her legs extended when they came back out, engaged in a staring contest with the big black ladybug eyes.
“We haven’t got anything for Matthew!” cried Dolly.
“It’s okay, Mum, we can shop later.”
“I’ll buy you an outfit, Mary Rose.”
They headed for the sign marked P and an arrow pointing down.
Duncan asked, “How’s big Matt doing, you got him up on skates yet?”
“He’s getting there.”
“No rush. Gordie Howe didn’t own a pair of skates till he was twelve.”
“Although Maggie might play hockey—”
“ ‘Wokking on Wheels,’ ” said Dolly.
“Mum, do you need a snack before we get in the car?”
Duncan said, “Women’s hockey is better than some of the nonsense you see in the NHL nowadays. I remember Gordie Howe’s last game at the Montreal Forum …”
Mary Rose knew this story like the back of her hand, but she also knew her father didn’t talk hockey with her sister, and even A&P wasn’t much of a hockey fan—which, according to some, made him virtually gay. She savoured her position as honorary straight son. “Wow, he went the whole length of the ice like that?” she enthused.
Dolly bobbed between them. “Have you heard from your brother?”
“Not recently,” said Mary Rose.
“Is he still seeing that nice little gal, what’s her name?” asked Duncan.
“Shereen,” said Mary Rose.
“He lives here now,” said Dolly with an air of sudden realization.
Was it just a blood sugar thing? Even Mary Rose had trouble remembering he lived in the same city as she did—not to mention the name of his latest squeeze—did she have early onset? Her mother had always done ten things at once, got hilariously confused, interrupted herself and everyone else. Apart from how much her mother had mellowed—which was a good thing—what was the difference?
Within moments of their arrival home, Mary Rose’s kitchen counter was littered with itty-bitty items that Dolly had deposited like the incoming tide. Packets of jam from the train, half a Tim Hortons doughnut, dollar-store gifts for the kids—lead paints, made in China—a pop-up lint brush/comb, “That’s for you, Mary Rose!” A baby food jar of stewed prunes resembling stool samples, another of candied chickpeas that pass for treats in Lebanon; a bag of Skittles … the visual equivalent of white noise. And amid the debris, some good stuff: Dolly’s homemade baba ghanouj.
“My favourite!” exclaimed Hil, leaning down to hug Dolly.
Along with the Christmas cake.
“I didn’t bake that, my cousin Lena did. She died.”
Hil laughed but stopped short when she realized it wasn’t a joke.
“Really, Mum?”
“Wait now, when did Lena die?” Shouting toward the living room, “Snuggles, when did Lena die?!”
The answer came, adamant if reedy, “Nineteen seventy-four.”
Dolly turned back to them. “Oh, I guess I baked it after all.”
All three of them laughed.
“Your father wa
nts a cup of tea.”
Duncan was in the living room, reading the paper with his eyes closed. Mary Rose dutifully put the kettle on—she’d laid in enough Red Rose to sink an American Revolution—while Dolly opened her purse and came out with a paperback copy of JonKitty McRae: Escape from Otherwhere.
“Did I tell you, we ran into Catherine on the train—was it Catherine or Eileen?” Shouting, “Dunc, was it—”
“It was Catherine,” said Mary Rose.
“She was thrilled when she saw me, she said, ‘You’re Mary Rose MacKinnon’s mother!’ I used to be Abe Mahmoud’s daughter, then I was—”
“Sure, I’ll sign it, Mum.”
She looked in the telephone drawer for a pen, but there was none to be had. How do pens migrate? “Mum, have you got a pen?”
“A pin or a pen?”
“A pen.”
“You don’t have to shout, doll.”
Dolly plunged back into her purse and Mary Rose watched as a bingo ball of objects churned into view; a folded tartan tote bag, plastic pill container stamped with the days of the week, a rosary, a small grey velvet box, half a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, a brooch—“There’s my CWL pin!”—a one-inch square of plastic that opened to a full-size raincoat, a pair of rolled-up nylon slippers knitted by dead Aunt Sadie, a church pamphlet called Living with Christ, which sounded like Living with Cancer, a pussy-cat change purse … Mary Rose looked away, starting to feel hazy.
“Eureka!” Dolly held up a Best Western pen.
“Is it Catherine with a C?” she asked, preparing to sign.
“No, this one’s for Phyllis’s granddaughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Phyllis.”
“The granddaughter’s.”
“That’s right, it’s for her granddaughter.”
“What is Phyllis’s granddaughter’s name?!”
“Linda Kook,” said Dolly.
“Really?”
“Yes. What?”
Hil and Mary Rose were laughing.
“Mary Rose, you’ve heard me talk about the Kooks, I’m in the choir with her mother-in-law, Dorothy Kook, Dotty Kook.”
“Mum, stop.”
“Phyllis has lupus,” added Dolly. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry, Mum.”
Mary Rose wiped away tears, and signed the book.
“Every time I turn around,” said Dolly. “Last week at choir practice this new little girl”—Mary Rose knew this meant a woman under fifty—“came up to me and said, ‘Are you Mary Rose MacKinnon’s mother?’ ” She raised her hand and began to slice the air. “I used to be Abe Mahmoud’s daughter—”
“Mum, why do you have Skittles?”
“For my diabetes.”
It was not worth going there again. Dolly had type-2 diabetes, Dolly was a nurse. Dolly knew better, but she also knew best.
She went there. “Mum, fruit is what you need, not candy, candy is—”
“ ‘By your children be ye taught!’ ” Dolly pretended to slap her face. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mum.”
“Do what, I’ve always done that.”
“No, it’s recent, it makes me feel like you want to hit me.”
“Well, if I did, it would be a love slap.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms.”
“You kids are so sensitive, you’re all MacKinnons!”
Thus the jocular banishment. Mary Rose and her siblings were each subject to it from time to time, stripped of any claim to the Mahmoud side, shorn from their mother. “If your hand offends you, cut it off,” said God. He also said, “Psst, Abraham, take Isaac for a picnic and bring along a knife … Never mind, I was just testing you.” God did go through with killing his son, however. People are always harder on their own kids.
“You know, in the old country, a woman didn’t believe her husband loved her if he didn’t beat her.”
“What old country was that, Mum? Cape Breton?”
“Don’t be saucy.”
“Was your mother born in Lebanon, Dolly?” asked Hil. “I would love to go there sometime, I know it’s a beautiful country.”
And you have beautiful manners, Hil. WASP avoidance strategy.
“It is a beautiful country, Hilary,” said Dolly, sounding quite WASP herself now.
“Have you ever visited, Dolly?”
“Yes, once.”
“She went during a ceasefire in the seventies,” said Mary Rose.
“Oh my goodness.”
“Hilary, it was amazing. I walked down the street and everyone looked like me!”
Hilary rested her chin on her hand, and looked at Dolly with genuine affection. “I can imagine what that must have meant to you.”
“But your mother was born in Canada, right, Mum?”
“That’s right, but Puppa wasn’t, he was from the old country, and you know in the old country a woman didn’t believe her husband loved her if—”
“I guess that’s why you married Dad.”
Dolly looked comically nonplussed. “Your father didn’t beat me.”
“That’s what I mean. But somehow you could tell he loved you.”
She was suddenly coquettish. “Oh, I could tell, I had six babies. Five. Wait now, how many are you?”
“Mum, are you saying your father beat your mother?”
“Sometimes a woman needs a good slap.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“No one can tell me Mumma didn’t love Puppa. When’re we going to play Scrabble?”
The kettle shrieked.
Hil made tea. “I thought you were going shopping,” she said, no doubt desperate for some peace.
Dolly turned to Mary Rose. “I was going to buy you an outfit.”
“Oh, um, I’m pretty well fixed for outfits, Mum, but is there anything you—”
“I need a new bra.”
“Okay, I know the perfect place, it’s right on Bloor, let’s go—”
“Don’t go just for my sake, Mary Rose.”
“I’m not, that’s where I buy my bras.”
“Do you need a bra?” Dolly pronounced it bra-a as in brand.
“No, Mum, but they can help you find one, they’re professional bra fitters.”
“What do I need another bra for, I’ve enough bras, I got bras coming out the yingyang. And you know, Mary Rose, it’ll be you kids having to go through all that stuff when I’m dead, I’m not buying any more stuff!”
“Okay, let’s just go for a walk, then.”
“No, let’s go to the bra store.” Hollering to the living room, “Dunc, we’re going to the bra store on Bloor! I’ll buy you a bra, Mary Rose,” she said, and burped.
Hil was preparing a tray for Duncan.
“Don’t forget the sultanas,” said Mary Rose. She turned toward the cupboard and walked into a kerfuffle, her mother was tossing something at her—did Dolly’s purse harbour a false bottom? She caught it before it could put out her eye.
“You forgot that in the summer.”
“Oh. Thanks, Mum.”
The foot calendar. Mary Rose had “forgotten” it in Ottawa. She pinned it to the corkboard next to the dead clown.
Dolly was ready at the back door, bundled in her coat, hat and … nylon slippers.
“We’re off, Dunc!” she called, and sang out, “ ‘Auf Weiderseh’n, Sweetheart!!’ ”
“Mum, you’re going to need your boots, it’s chilly out.”
Hilary appeared at the top of the four steps with Dolly’s boots.
“Are ya ever nice!” said Dolly. “You’re almost as nice as Dunc!”
“How’re you fixed for cash?” called Duncan from the living room. “Need any mad money?”
Dolly winked. “Your father’s so good to me.” Then she called in reply, “I’ve got my credit card, dear!”
“Look out!”
Mary Rose waited while Dolly bent to pull off her slippers and almost fell over.
r /> “Can I help you, Mum?”
“What for?” She sat—kerplunk—on the step and struggled to pull on her boots. She would soon overheat in her puffy coat. “Mum, you might want to take your coat off while you—”
“I can’t be bothered with all that rigmarole.”
She managed to jam one foot into one boot with a grunt. She reached for the other.
“Mum, let me help you.”
“I can do it myself, Mary Rose.” Do it Me-self!
Mary Rose backed off and waited.
At last, Dolly stood up, wobbled, staggered theatrically and steadied herself.
“What’s going on with these boots? Have I grown out of them at my age?”
Mary Rose looked down. “They’re on the wrong feet, Mum.”
“Get out, they’re not.” Dolly looked down and laughed. “I must be going senile, look what I’ve done. Dunc! Come look at your wife, dear, I’ve got my boots on the wrong feet!”
“What’s that?” came the sleepy voice from the living room. Could the brain take only so much lurching between chemical states before it lost elasticity and plaqued over? Had Dolly mood-swung herself into atrophy? It used to be called “second childhood.” If so, it says a good deal about the founding personalities of those so afflicted. Judging by these criteria, Dolly Mahmoud had been a cutie-pie. A handful. But a honeybun.
She kicked off the boots, steadied herself with the railing, sat back down on the step and renewed her efforts, saying sotto voce, “I’m not really senile, Mary Rose. Just preoccupied.”
It hadn’t snowed much for January, all was damp and grey. It was as though Earth had forgotten how to do winter, or else was mixed up as to which season came after which—the planet itself in the grips of dementia. They reached the corner of zooming Bathurst Street. Dolly was wearing the tam Mary Rose had given her for Christmas—leopard print like the one she’d had back in Kingston.
“ ‘Archie’s Variety,’ ” she read aloud. “Are they from Cape Breton?”
“Korea.”
Mary Rose waved to the lady through the window.
“Who’s that?”
“The lady who runs the store.”
“Will we go in and say hello?”
“What for?”
But before she knew it, her mother was in the store. She followed, already hearing the greeting sung from behind the counter, “Hello, how are you?”