“Yes, Addy?”
“I can’t seem to get my head outta the past.”
“I know.”
“Was it the same for you?”
“I had just a little time before the river choked me, but I did think of the past, Addy. I thought of you and Mama and Daddy and Birdie and of the things that happened to me and to everyone I knew.”
“You think of the crickets on the road? Remember how we thought it was a omen of doom? I was thinking about the crickets and remembering that day like it was this morning.”
“I remember the crickets. And I remember that time you got lost, too.”
“I don’t remember getting lost, Leam.”
“You got lost. You were somewhere near six years old. You were living out at Teddy Bishop’s for a while.”
“I don’t remember being lost. And I don’t remember living out at Teddy Bishop’s. If I was six years old I’d surely remember that.”
“It was a hot summer day. I was sickly.”
“I remember you being sickly.”
“You were chasing a little grey kitten.”
“A grey kitten. I do remember a little grey kitten.”
“Whose kitten was it?”
Addy tried to picture the kitten, annoyed when Leam asked again, “Whose kitten was it?” She shook her head and looked out the trailer window, craving a cold bottle of beer. She turned around from the sink, startled to see Sharla standing there holding the neatly folded dishcloth.
Sharla asked for the third time, “Whose kitten was it though, Mum Addy?”
Addy blinked and smiled calmly. She reached for the handle on the refrigerator door, frightened to think she’d been talking out loud and that the child had heard it all. She found the cold brown beer bottle and further stalled as she searched the drawer for the opener. She took a long drink of the crisp Pilsner, sat down in the hard-back chair, and lifted her arms, bidding Sharla to come. She gathered the little girl in an embrace, kissed her cheek, and said, “I do love you, Sharla Cody.”
Sharla nuzzled Mum Addy’s old neck. “Was it your kitten?”
Addy held Sharla back a little so she could look into her eyes. “What kitten, Honey?”
“The one you was chasing when you got lost.”
Addy cleared her throat but didn’t know what to say.
“Maybe it was a stray.”
“Mmm?”
“Musta been a stray,” Sharla concluded, drawing a finger around the edge of Addy’s ear. It was a thing Sharla did that irritated Addy, but she’d never say so and risk hurting the child’s feelings. She pulled the little hand away and kissed the chubby brown fingers, saying, “I sure like that song you were singing. You want to sing for me some more?”
Sharla shook her head.
“You want to sing something else?”
Sharla shook her head again. “You’re coming on our field trip tomorrow. Mr. Toohey said me and Prasora can sit with you on the bus.”
“Well, good.”
“Mr. Toohey said old people are a gift.”
Addy laughed at that. “Wait till he’s old. He’ll be saying old people are old.”
“Christmas is soon.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Mr. Toohey likes that candy-cane ice cream what they make at Blenheim Dairy. Bet I do too.”
“Think so?”
“They bringing Santa to my school. Mr. Toohey says don’t ask for a toy but just ask for a good thing to happen to your neighbour and that’s two gifts for the price of one.”
Several weeks ago, just after Mrs. Pigot’s accident, Addy’d come down with a fever and felt sure it was the end. She feared that Sharla’d wake one morning and find her dead in her bed. When she didn’t die after a few days, Addy knew it was just the flu. She’d been eager to meet Sharla’s Mr. Toohey, but until now hadn’t had the strength to leave the trailer. She liked the changes she saw in the child since the new teacher’s arrival. Sharla couldn’t wait to get on the school bus each morning and at the end of the day she had a thousand stories to tell. Most of the stories began with “Mr. Toohey says…” When the letter was sent home Monday asking for chaperones for Friday’s museum field trip, Addy’d agreed right away. The truth was Addy didn’t even know Chatham had a museum and thought the trip would be educational for her too. She just hoped there wouldn’t be too much walking.
The brown bottle was empty and Addy hesitated a moment before she reached for the refrigerator again. She was thirsty. Lately the water tasted briny, juice gave her heartburn, and she liked to save the milk for Sharla. Sharla watched as Mum Addy opened a second beer and brought the cold bottle to her lips.
“Mr. Toohey said past means ‘old.’ Past means it happened before.”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Toohey said Chatham Museum is our past.”
“That’s right.”
“Is yesterday our past?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Is me saying ‘Chatham Museum’ our past?”
“If it happened before, it’s the past. If it’s yet to happen, it’s the future.”
“Mr. Toohey says you learn who you are from the past.”
“Mr. Toohey say anything about little girls needing a bath before bedtime?”
“My bedtime is the future.”
“That’s right, Honey. Go run the tub.”
A little later, Mum Addy pulled the covers up to Sharla’s clean soft chin and made sure that her doll, Chick, was tucked in too. Sharla hugged Chick to her cheek and said it again. “Christmas is coming soon.”
“Few days off yet.” Addy tried to act casual but she was excited about Christmas this year and had an order in to Krazy Kyle’s Electronics for a used colour TV that Kyle himself had assured her over the phone he could deliver on Christmas Eve day. Addy knew a young child would get bored silly with an old woman like herself. The winter was upon them and it was a struggle to get outdoors. The flu had laid her up half the fall and her hip was giving her grief. Addy realized she was spending most of her hours now just sitting in that hard-back chair at the kitchen table, sifting through unseen photographs and talking to the dead. Least a television would connect the child with the outside world.
Addy adjusted the covers when Sharla complained Chick’s nose was covered up and she couldn’t breathe. She stroked Sharla’s head. “Wonder if you been good enough this year, Santa bring you something special?”
“There’s no Santa though.”
Addy looked at her child, for in every way Sharla was her child, and asked quietly, “Why do you say that, Honey? Why do you think there’s no Santa?”
“He don’t come to the trailer park. Not to my house and not to Fawn’s house too.”
“No?”
“Krystal just gets her a new pyjamas.”
Addy wondered for a moment if it was the right thing to do before she said, “Well, I happen to know for a fact there is a Santa Claus and he is coming to the trailer park this year.”
Sharla wrestled free of her blanket cocoon and sat up in the bed. She looked into Mum Addy’s eyes, vaguely suspicious. “How do you know?”
“I know because I know.”
“You talk to him?”
“Well, yes.”
“You can talk to Santa?”
“Yes I can.”
“You can talk to anybody.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Even if they’re dead.”
Addy held her breath. “What do you mean?”
“Like your brother. He’s dead but you can talk to him.”
Addy smoothed the covers over Sharla’s little legs so she had a reason to look away. How many times had it happened? How often had she talked to Leam and been overheard by Sharla? Or anyone else? Had she done it in public? Why couldn’t she remember?
“Santa isn’t dead, Honey. But I’ll tell you what. You been such a good, good girl this year and I happen to know Santa’s coming here and I happen to know he’s bringing something spec
ial.”
“Something special?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I think I know what,” she said, grinning.
“You think you know but you’re only guessing. Now you get back under and go to sleep now. We got a big day tomorrow.”
Sharla nodded and eased herself back under the covers.
Addy kissed Sharla’s cheek, shut out the light, and started down the hall toward her own room.
“Mu-um…?” Sharla called.
“What, Honey?”
“Did you find him?”
“Who? Did I find who?”
“That little kitten you was chasing?”
Addy couldn’t remember. “Of course I did, Sharla. Now go to sleep.”
THE SMOKE-CHOKED LITTLE SCHOOL bus pulled up in front of the Chatham Museum, but Addy’s eyes were squeezed shut and she wasn’t aware they’d arrived. She loved the children and the looks on their six-year-old faces but their joy was deafening. Her temples were throbbing and she felt sure a vessel would burst if the bus doors didn’t open to let the screeching creatures out. Mr. Toohey, who with his cropped blond hair looked more like an all-American army boy than a folksinger, had turned and caught the expression on Addy’s face. She hoped the teacher would suggest she get in a taxi and go on back to the Lakeview before her head exploded into a million pieces. Instead, he moved to the seat in front of her, opened his fist, and whispered in his deep, smooth voice, “A chaperone’s best friend.” There were three Aspirins in the man’s white palm. Addy took the Aspirins gratefully and felt twice blessed when he passed her a Thermos of sweet milky tea.
She was responsible for four children: Sharla, Prasora, Otto Todino, and the little girl with the rash, Lee-Ann. At first, climbing off the bus and heading past the cedar hedges that flanked the cobblestone walkway to the museum, Addy could see nothing but the heads of her charges and feel nothing but terror at her responsibility. She feared one of them might break free and dart out into the traffic. Or one might fall on the slippery cobblestone and crack open her head. “Stick close to me, children,” she shouted over the din, and wondered if the other chaperones, four young mothers, were as anxious as she was. Once inside the place though, once the big oak doors closed behind her, Addy saw the children were safely confined and she relaxed enough to look around.
The place smelled familiar but she couldn’t say why. She reckoned it was just the musty smell of old age she couldn’t help but know intimately. She was relieved when the museum’s curator, a plump, pink young woman who introduced herself as Miss Beth, gathered the children into a circle near a display of military uniforms and she could settle herself on a bench near the back and just watch and listen.
Miss Beth pointed at a handsome red serge jacket in a glass display case, asking, “Does anyone know what this is?”
Three hands shot up, all of them boys. They shouted without waiting to be called on. “That’s a uniform!” “That’s from the army!” “That’s a soldier coat!”
“Very good!” Miss Beth clapped her hands and went on. “It is a soldier’s uniform. And does anyone know when this uniform was worn?”
The boys looked at each other. The smallest of them ventured, “In the war?”
“In the war, yes, but what war? No one? Well, this coat was worn by a British officer in the War of 1812. That’s such a long time ago that your grandfathers were not born yet and their fathers were not born yet and their fathers were not even born yet.”
The children watched Miss Beth, stone-eyed. They had little grasp of time and none at all of time before them. Addy glanced around the room at the other artifacts, most of them from the 1800s. There were a few muskets and rifles and bayonets in a display case near the big roaring fireplace, and Addy could see some of the boys’ big eyes drifting toward the weapons. She laughed to herself, thinking how boyish the boys were and how Miss Beth could really get their attention if she just opened up the case and let them touch the guns.
In another corner of the room there was a display of cooking utensils: an old kettle, a muffin tin shaped like ears of corn, a rusty rotary beater, and a cast iron frying pan like the one Addy still used for chicken and potatoes. She thought how common they looked and not like things that belonged in a museum at all. Hanging on the wall nearby was a patchwork quilt. Addy clucked her tongue at the sloppy stitching and crooked seams, thinking she’d done better when she was barely thirteen. She even took exception to the fabric and colour choices, which she thought garish and wrong. The young mother sitting beside her mistook Addy’s clucking tongue for admiration and whispered of the careless quilt, “It’s really beautiful, eh?”
Miss Beth was waving her arms, still discussing the significance of the red serge uniform in the case. “And though it’s a historical fact you’ll find in few American history books, the British and the Canadian forces distinguished themselves in the War of 1812 when they defeated our neighbours to the south and…”
There was a butter churn and a butter mould, a rusty pitchfork, an old wheelchair, a washboard, and a loom. Addy remembered her mother coveting a similar-style loom, even though she’d never seen her weave an inch of cloth and Laisa regularly bought fabric from the dry-good store in Rusholme, or clothes ready-made from the catalogue. Addy thought how her mother would laugh at the museum’s collection and say, “They think these things old? These things ain’t old!”
Mr. Toohey found a path through the restless children and whispered something to Miss Beth. Addy reckoned he was telling her what Addy herself was thinking. That the children were far too young for any history lesson on the War of 1812 and why doesn’t she just let them loose to wander and wonder? Miss Beth looked huffy, then announced, “Children, you may take a moment to browse. But do not touch anything. I repeat—do not touch anything.”
Sharla appeared at Addy’s knee with Prasora, Otto, and Lee-Ann in tow. They were smiling and pleased not to be sitting cross-legged on the floor. Otto noticed a tall oak chair nearby. He laughed and pointed. “Got a big hole.”
Addy looked at the chair and nodded. “Mmm-hmm. You know why that hole’s there, don’t you, Otto?”
The boy shook his head. A few other children gathered around. Addy went on, “Well, when you was growing and ready to get yourself out of diapers your Mama put you on a chair with a hole, didn’t she?”
“A potty chair?” Lee-Ann asked, scratching her face.
“Mmm-hmm.”
The rest of the children had joined in looking at the big oak chair.
“That’s too big for a potty chair though,” Sharla said.
“That’s for big folks, Honey. That’s a kind of chair folks used before they got flushing toilets in their house.”
The children squeezed in closer, curious and giggly.
“Used to be when there wasn’t plumbing you had to get into your coat and boots and go all the way out back to the outhouse. That was sure some thing to do in winter.”
“What about summer?”
“In summer, well, you mostly just had to hold your nose. Sometimes, ’specially at night, you used this here kind of chair instead of making the trip all the way out back.”
“But…?” The children looked at the chair, bewildered.
Addy saw a ceramic chamber pot nearby and put it under the hole and the children all at once understood.
“Number one and number two?” a boy asked. “Then what you do with the pot?”
“What do you think you do?” Addy asked with a raised brow.
“Clean it out?!” the children chimed.
“Well of course you clean it out!” Addy laughed.
Miss Beth had been standing nearby, watching enviously, for it was her mission to teach through history and it annoyed her greatly that the children were more interested in the oak commode than the brilliant lesson she’d prepared on the American invasion. She cleared her throat and addressed Mr. Toohey. “Is this discussion really valuable, Mr. Toohey?”
Mr. Toohey grinned at the
woman but said nothing. A little boy with red hair pointed at a strange instrument hanging on a peg on the wall alongside some kitchen utensils. “What’s that?”
Miss Beth stepped up. “That, Young Man, is what we call bellows. A person would open those two ends there and fan the flames of the fire in a wood stove or a fireplace.”
Addy couldn’t help but correct the woman. “Looks like bellows, Ma’am, but it’s not.”
“Oh really?” Miss Beth huffed. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a seed planter.” The children watched as Addy took the thing down to demonstrate. “See, here, you put your seeds in this sack part here, then look inside. Look right there, there’s a tiny hole just the size of a seed. You set down like this. The sharp part goes in the earth right up to the end of the metal. See? That way all the seeds get planted at the same depth. Then you open these ends and just the one seed gets let out and down in the dirt she goes.”
The children fully understood the mechanics of the seed planter and now they each wanted a turn trying it out for themselves. Mr. Toohey sidled up to Addy and whispered, “Can you come on all my field trips?”
Addy grinned but had not a moment to answer as suddenly Miss Beth clapped her hands and cried out, “Who wants to see the mummy?!”
The children shrieked and raised their hands. No one had told them there was a mummy at the Chatham Museum.
Miss Beth threw Addy a look of triumph, then shouted over the clamour, “The mummy is in his sarcophagus on the third floor, but do not run. I repeat—do not run! Children!” Miss Beth was huffing and red before she reached the stairs.
Addy watched the grade-one class and the other chaperones disappear up the stairs. She was relieved Mr. Toohey had been as eager to see the mummy as the children were, and grateful to have a few moments alone. That flu had taken more life out of her than she’d imagined and she was feeling profoundly fatigued. She recalled there was a comfortable-looking sofa near the big oak doors at the front. She held the wall for support as she made her way to the entrance hall. She eased herself down on the sofa and closed her eyes.