Extensions (27 page)

“Did you sign up?”

“Thought you might like to go see for yourself tomorrow. The boy could miss school and watch the twins. He's wasting his time there anyway. Should be helping put food on the table. I was, at his age.”

Jane saves her words, knowing she will send Llewyllyn off to school and then take Sara and Janet over to Maude Hamilton before Roland gets up. Maude will mind the girls gladly and the pie and potatoes Jane takes over when she picks them up will be appreciated. “I'd like that.”

Roland stands up. Jane sees from his hands that it's time. Not for many years has she tried to stall him. “Would you like a cup o' tea?”

He shakes his head. “I'll be goin' out for a bit.”

He steps into the bedroom, emerging in his rumpled everyday clothes. He hesitates. She feels the old irritation at his prolonged leave-taking. She has poured herself a cup of tea and is on her way back to the front room when he turns from the scullery, the open curtain letting in chilly air.

“Happy Birthday, then.”

The blouse, draped gracefully over the back of her chair, tells her why he's lingering. “Thank you. It's the loveliest birthday I've ever had.”

He steps outside, leaving his soft voice in her head for a moment, reminding her of Mama saying, “He's a Welshman like us.”

Janet is already in her long flannel nightgown and Sara is retelling “Thumbelina” aloud to herself.

“Time for bed, girls. Sara, get into your nightgown.” Jane hears Llewyllyn's footsteps in the porch, again thankful he is safe under their roof for another night. “Do you think you could read your sisters a bedtime story?”

His mother's request takes him by surprise. The twins squeal and jump under their comforter at the prospect.

In the kitchen, Jane stops to pour herself a second cup of tea. An old yearning stirs within her: to write to Cassie about this birthday. She pushes back the curtain of the cupboard and checks under the tea towels, where she keeps her paper. She forgot there is none. The strike has made stationery a frivolous expenditure. Besides, she does not know how to write a proper letter anymore. The landslide of years in Extension has trapped all the words and feelings that once flowed so freely. Letters from Cassie are infrequent now, and who can blame her? Long ago she relinquished her dream that Cassie might move to Vancouver Island, but she has not given up hope of a visit someday. Both sisters are married to men of means who might make it possible.

Jane adds enough coal to the cookstove for a few hours of work; she pushes aside the chintz curtain to allow heat to circulate. She sets the oil lamp on the sewing cabinet and teacup on the machine, then bends to sort through layers of cloth. She must finish a few things to replenish the tobacco tin after emptying it for the train trip tomorrow. She starts with the most welcome rather than the most urgent job: a white baby layette for a doctor's wife in Ladysmith — three smocked nightgowns of batiste cotton, a thick satin bunting bag lined with flannel, and a christening dress and bonnet out of organdie and lace. Rising from her chair, she catches sight of herself in the mirror she uses for fittings. Though her doe-brown hair has not changed colour since she left Wales, wisps escaping her upsweep look gold against the lamplight. The long Owens chin she has always regarded as unbecoming on a woman seems proud and full of resolve in semi-silhouette. Her figure has become more rounded in the bust and hips since the birth of her children, but she still has a waist; her extra pounds are not out of control like some miners' wives her age who have eaten too much starch during the strike. For a few moments she considers the reflection of this mysterious backlit woman who by day is plain Jane. If she is attractive enough for a fine silk blouse, could she still be a fantasy someone dreams of? Where would he be now?

SARA ALWAYS SAID THAT ANTICIPATION — both dread and longing — was more powerful than the experience itself. I was still trying to figure out if my first date with Mr. Wright exceeded or fell short of those wild and changeable expectations of my convalescence.

The evening after my birthday, I dragged myself into The Cactus Club. Mid-afternoon, while delivering subpoenas, I realized that my mending limb was still calling the shots. Warren, already seated with a view to the entrance, sprang up and ushered me back to the booth. We both wore bashful smiles seeing each other for the first time in arranged circumstances. At least our mutual injuries made opening conversation easy.

I was too edgy to concentrate on the menu, so I followed his lead in ordering a glass of red wine and pasta arrabiata. His hair was between the long bushman style from Squires and the remains of the summer brushcut he wore in the hospital. Unruly waves curled at his neck and forehead, his complexion rosy from having run — as he informed me — to the restaurant from his condo. An inspiration from one healed leg to one still in progress. This was my third variation of Warren Wright and I had to remind myself his multiple personality was my problem, that he was one and the same to himself.

He had grown up in Calgary, where his parents and married sister still lived. After earning a degree in graphic arts from the Alberta College of Art and Design, he had moved to Vancouver to take a job with an advertising company. When he discovered he wanted more creative independence, he gave himself options by enrolling in digital visual arts at the Emily Carr Institute and drove a cab to finance his studies. That's when he got arrested.

“Were you scared?” I asked him.

“Of you?”

“Of me or the system?”

“I didn't think I'd go to jail, if that's what you mean. And I hate to tell you, but I didn't feel threatened by you. Your smile is irresistible and you have such an endearing way of blushing.”

“You mean I smiled?”

“Not at me. Maybe at the restaurant owner, I don't know who. But I remember you blushing. You weren't wielding your power.”

“Please don't let that get around.”

“You were very professional, but the vibes I picked up said ‘Maybe I should take this guy in with his friend' for the sake of the keen recruit with you. I could tell he was new to the job and eager for some action. He's the kind who likes power.”

So he can read my mind. Dangerous. And he had the recruit pegged. Recently I heard the guy had been called in for using excessive force. I kept this to myself, however. I wasn't about to admit his judgment was better than mine.

He gave me an update on Tim Lewchuk: moved to Toronto less than a year after the arrest, now married with a son and working in a bank. That night was probably the worst of his life. He was nursing deep wounds from the break-up with his girlfriend and when she called the cops on him, he went over the edge. He hadn't had a parking ticket since.

The chatter went on so easily I hardly noticed we were eating. I could not help myself, however, from going through the checklist. Since Gail and I first became aware of boys as possible attachments, we kept adding eligibility requirements. And if this sounds shocking, I invite anyone to spend five minutes with a group of male cops to see how they rate our gender.

Family body types played a role with both Gail and me. Her dad was short and stocky with stubby fingers and she could never go out with anyone who wasn't solid or who had long, thin fingers. Men didn't come much stronger than Monty, so he was a shoo-in once he got her attention. My height left me fewer choices than Gail, unless I wanted to be looking down on a boyfriend's head; for some short guys, tall women are a turn-on. Dad had imprinted me with a liking for tall thin men and I felt the same way about long fingers as she did about sausage ones.

Gail and I were also divided on the smooth-versus-hairy question, and lucky for Mr. Wright, I was — that is,
he
should be — on the hairy side. Not gorilla hairy but a few tufts certainly didn't hurt. As I watched his long tufted fingers holding his glass of red wine, I wondered about my final physical stipulation: feet. Because of the size of my own, I could never consider even a tall man with small feet. Surprising that I hadn't already noticed the one without the cast in the hospital. Shoes were also important in my demanding little world, lace-ups winning out over loafers. At the moment, Warren's were safely under the table.

Of course, these qualifications were purely hypothetical if I didn't pass the guy's checklist. Again, Gail always had plenty to choose from and that gave her a confidence that attracted even more. No one ever thought I was cute, though Ray told me often that I was beautiful in a striking, original way. That a strong chin hadn't hurt Reese Wither-spoon. Hah! I should have known then where such language from a lawyer would lead.

Two hours passed effortlessly before I finally made a move to call it a night. He mentioned getting together again soon and I surprised myself by saying not until after next Wednesday, because I would be studying for my final exam until then. He was leaving for Hawaii for three weeks the day after. A travel agency he'd done work for had given him the trip in partial payment and he had friends with a timeshare there. He quietly paid the bill and helped me slide out of the booth, escorting me to the door. Outside, I asked him if he wanted a ride home, but he was going to a bookstore after he walked me to my car on a side street. We wished each other a happy holiday, and as he started to leave, I stole a peek at the acceptable scuffed runners on his feet. Then he turned back — as I quickly shifted my eyes upward — and pulled a card out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

www

warrenwrightwebworks

No graphics, just addresses and phone numbers. “In case you get the urge.” He walked off with a jagged smile.

Inside the car, my impression of him as easy company reverted immediately to an elusive, complex infatuation. If Sara said anticipation was powerful, how about retrospection? Would I ever get a true picture?

The history final arrived soon enough. The night before, Warren phoned to wish me luck and to say he had been thinking of me. I had been thinking of him too — almost constantly — but as soon as I heard his voice, reality put up a shield of detachment. When I told him to remember his sunscreen, he replied, “I don't plan on lying around the beach all the time. I want to do some hiking.” One for Sara on the lie/ lay question. We promised to see each other when he got back.

A first for me to be excited about an exam; I had gone through Barnwell's notes three times and supplemented them with Dad's history texts when I needed more. I had even lain awake most of the night like a kid at Christmas pumped up for the occasion to start. Luckily, it was quiet at work all day or I might have used up my concentration.

Barnwell said he didn't know whether to hand back our papers before or after, weighing the possible psychological advantages and disadvantages for the exam. Someone argued we would try harder if our mark was low, and if it was high, it would act as an inspiration. Barnwell didn't need much convincing.

My mark of 90 per cent was a number I had not seen on an exam since my elementary school spelling tests. “
Inventive treatment of topic,
using letters as historical documents. The Strong murder is worth a paper of
its own. House arrest served you well. Congratulations.”

It was enough to propel me through the exam like a howitzer. I was prepared for every question and had a chance to go through them all again, still high on the trajectory when he called time. But academic adrenalin was new to my system and when I stood up, my energy no longer reached my head. I felt myself swaying with giddiness, the kind that comes before a migraine.

We all said thanks to Barnwell and exchanged invitations to stay in touch. Crane waited for me and we walked out together. I asked him if he needed another ride, but he said he and Marla were going for a drink across the street. Would I like to join them?

I declined the offer, my thoughts already on the corduroy couch and an Advil to ward off the head monster. He handed me his phone number and address on a scrap of paper, waiting for me to reciprocate. I knew better. “Thanks, I'm between numbers at the moment, but I might track you down for a cup of coffee sometime.” Had I reached the stage where I only considered men with business cards? Or had I ever had a choice before?

Driving out of the parking lot, I considered the excuse I had given Crane. It probably was time for me to move back to my apartment, and yet I was dragging my feet in every sense of the phrase. Maybe I would be stronger if everything weren't done for me. I couldn't deny I was comfortable at Dad's and knew it would be hard for him no matter when I moved out. But living in my parents' home much longer didn't seem right, especially when I was paying rent on my own place. Before I knew it, I had turned onto the street that would take me there. Approaching, I saw a young couple, followed by two women coming through the entrance. All were laughing. This was a positive sign, because at Dad's I tended to think of my apartment building as dark and forlorn without me in it. Now my mind swung to the other extreme, imagining the place taken over by Club Med types, as if all traces of my former existence had been erased.