Red Jacket (18 page)

Gramps Travels

19 August 1979

Dear Gracie,

Sorry I never get to say much when I phone on the first from Mrs Sampson house to tell you the news that Gramps take in bad, but you know I dont like to take advantage. Gramps never last long once he reach hospital and he pass on the 7
August. We sorry but is only Thursday just gone your Pa find out his office never send you the telegram they promise to send and Mr. Wong say he try your number whole day Friday and yesterday but nobody answer. we going keep on trying but is so long now I make up my mind to put pen to paper for maybe something wrong up your way with the phone. We bury Gramps today Sunday afternoon it was a good turnout. Pa handle all the church arrangements. No mind it was Methodist chapel Rev. Leslie the Anglican parson from Hector Castle that teach your father from early school days insist he will do the honours. he and Gramps was in primary school together and he was one of those that was groomsman when Gramps and Miss Elsie get married he retired now but he refuse for anybody else to do the service. Wentley Park people turn out well out of respect for your father. We bury Gramps right there in the churchyard the boys hold up good to make their grandfather proud but Princess and Sammy never stop cry when I see Pansy and Mortimer and the children it come to me that taking in Gramps is four generation of Carpenter people in the church. The boys look so much like big somebody that I frighten. Not going on more for I crying right here as I write Gramps living here with us and helping us in every way this long long time so is like a piece of my own body that is gone.

Some more lines to follow soon everybody send love God bless.

Ma

30 August 1979

Dear Ma and Pa,

Thanks, Ma, for your letter. The phone in the dorm has been giving trouble this last little while sake of construction outside that mess up the connections. We complain but it hasn't done much good up to now. I'm sorry Gramps is gone, but I'm not devastated. When I think of him and “water come a my yeye” like the song says, I swear I can feel him behind me, hand on my shoulder, saying, “Death is the end of life, Gracie. That's how it is, and I can't say that I'm not grateful, for the world is a mighty trying place.”

Then I hear him chuckle, and I laugh too, and I see him putting infusions into white rum, and I smell them, and I smell him, his jackass rope, the coffee that he brew for us on Sunday morning, and the wet earth when he come to the door with mud on his shoes from his cultivation. I'm not saying it don't hurt plenty to know that I won't see him again, but it's as if I can call to him, as if he hasn't gone far.

Steph says I can ask the priest to say a Mass for him, and that seem like a good idea. I don't go to Beloved so much these days, for it come easier to follow Steph to Thomas Aquinas, which is the university church, and the Catholics have those things organized. Edris's grandaunt and Ma's parson at Evangel would be alarmed if they knew that I even light a candle now and then. I know you won't be upset, Ma, for you always had your own ideas about those things. I like to think of that flame flickering when I'm no longer there, keeping my prayer going.

I hope you and Pa are keeping well, especially after the stress of Gramps funeral. Please take care of yourselves. Hope Edgar, Stewie, Conrad, Sam, and Princess are doing okay too, and Pansy and Mortimer and their babies. Also please say hi to Mr. Wong for me, and to the Williamses. I'm rushing as usual but promise to write soon again.

Much love,

Grace

She loves Gramps, but she's still furious with him. Brooding through her library job and an extra stats course during the summer, she sometimes wondered why he never gave her Phyllis's letters earlier, sometimes why he gave them to her at all. She is not to blame for any of this mess. Why should she have to fix it? But it is clearly up to her, for it seems like this other mother has no clue where she is or what she's doing. So what ought she to do? Phone her and say, “Hello. This is your abandoned daughter, Grace”? Humph, as the comics say. And why has the word “abandoned” come into her mind? She never felt that way growing up — different, yes, but not neglected. It surprises her at first, but after a while she perceives how accurate it is. Dumped — by Phyllis, Daphne, Evadne, Gramps. And of course, Papa God.

Grace Meets Phyllis

Annesley Hall,

95 Queen's Park Crescent,

Toronto, Ontario,

Canada, M5S 2C7

8 September 1979

Dear Phyllis,

I don't trust myself to phone yet, though that was the first thing that occurred to me. I hope you understand. It's taken me long enough to get around to putting pen to paper. I also hope you don't mind my calling you “Phyllis.” I fretted for a while about what would be the right thing and then gave up. I don't mean any disrespect when I use your first name. My roommate calls her parents by their first names, and she respects and gets on well with them. I couldn't write “Mother” or “Ma.” It's Ma Carpenter who's been that all my life.

Gramps, bless his memory, said he would let you know that he'd given me the letters, and that you needn't write anymore, because we could now be in touch and talk, person to person. He never mentioned his writing in response to any of those letters, nor any other communication with you. He did say he and Miss Evadne kept in touch, but I guess it wouldn't have suited their purposes to mention me to you. I don't suppose you have any idea of what I look like either, so I've included a photo of the skinny, freckled, red girl who is your daughter. That way you will know what to expect, if ever we meet.

I think it's better to talk by letter first, for I am still unsettled by all these things, not to mention Gramps's passing. It's been a lot for me to take in at one time.

Right now I am beginning my final year at the University of Toronto, having spent much of the summer in the same library job I've had for a couple of years now. I am working towards a degree in economics with some sociology and a bit of psych on the side. So far, I'm doing pretty well. I don't have much of a social life, and though I found a church that I like, haven't been going regularly. I tell you this up front because it is plain that you are religious. I live in the dorm and have a white Canadian roommate named Stephanie Scott with whom I get along very well. She is a Catholic and I sometimes go to church with her, so at least my most immediate influence is a good one.

I am curious about your day-to-day life. Where exactly do you live? I don't know much about New York, so your address doesn't tell me anything. I read about a convent in your letters and assume that you still work there. What is your job now? Why didn't you leave the convent as soon as your schooling was over? Surely you must have been dying to get away from that atmosphere and those memories? What about my grandmother, Daphne? And my great-grandmother, Miss Evadne?

I look forward to hearing from you. Please take care.

Sincerely,

Grace Carpenter

She can do no better. She thinks about whether to add the “Carpenter,” for Phyllis is her blood mother, after all, and in a way it is not kind to add her surname, but she decides she's going to do it. She's going to stand firm in her displeasure. If anyone is to blame for her abandonment, it is Gramps, he and Miss Evadne. She can bet he was the one giving Miss Evadne advice, concocting her life like one of his infusions. Her birth mother is least to blame, and everybody had the best intentions, she's quite sure. But, sake of them, there is now, and has always been, all these crosses in her life.

She can't dwell on it. She has work to do.

23 September 1979

My dear Grace,

I was so happy to get your letter. I could hardly believe what it was that I held in my hands! I've been trying to behave in a composed fashion ever since, but without much success. I long to talk to you and to meet you! However, I respect your position. We can write letters for as long as you wish. Still, I'd be glad if you would let me know when you decide that it would be all right for me to call you.

Forgive me. I should have started by saying how sorry I was to hear about old Mr. Carpenter's passing. Please accept our sympathies and prayers. We know you will all miss him very much.

As for what to call me, I am perfectly happy with Phyllis. I am old-fashioned in a lot of ways, but it would be silly of me to expect you to relate to me as your mother — not at this point, anyway. By the way, I think you have a wonderful name. I hope you like it. I have never been especially happy with mine. They say it means leafy or green bough. I don't know how leafy I am, and if I am a bough, I grow more dry and brittle every day.

Congratulations on your success at school. Those are not areas about which I know much, though I enjoy reading popular articles on economics and even a little layman's psychology. These days we all need to understand how the world works, as well as what makes people tick. What kind of career do you plan? Of course, it's early days yet, so you may not have decided. Thank God you have a roommate whom you like! When that is not the case, it can be horrible.

As for your questions: I live in an apartment in a charming old building at the corner of Riverside Drive and 114
th
Street in Manhattan. Riverside Drive runs along the west side of Manhattan Island, close to the Hudson River. It is the apartment that we lived in with your Grandma Daphne, and that your great-grandma and I have continued to live in since Daphne married and went to live with her husband and his family in New Jersey. I haven't told her that I've heard from you yet. I thought it might be wise to wait a little. She's a young woman, just fifty-two, very smart and determined. She and her husband have set up a beauty business and are doing very well.

I still work at the convent. The nuns were good to me from the beginning, and they operate a miraculous institution. They are mostly bright, talented women who love life and enjoy giving service, and they have an excellent program. I have no desire to leave. I have a good job: I am responsible for managing the kindergarten and child-care centre. I've always loved the babies, and that is where I did practical training when I first came.

Last but not least, thank you for the photo. I am indeed glad to know what you look like! I won't go on any longer, and you mustn't feel obliged to reply at length. I'll be happy just to hear back from you.

With love,

Phyllis

Having read the letter, she plunges into the dark of the covers. No mind the pills she'd taken, her head feels like an anvil in a busy smithy. True, Phyllis hasn't acquitted herself badly in the letter, but her resentment still sputters, refusing to be put out. Whatever fear, confusion, and isolation she's ever felt, she now puts down to what they'd done, the lot of them. While everybody else is living life, she's been scrutinizing herself, assessing, deciding she wasn't good enough, and then setting herself some giant task to prove she was not only good enough, but better than everybody else. More than once she decides that the migraines are a way to punish herself, inflict pain as a reminder of her sentence to perfection.

She'd been out earlier to see Carlos, Sylvia's baby, a wonder child, to hear Maisie tell it. They are relocating to Calgary at month end and not planning to be back for three years, by which time she'll have moved on, where she has no idea. In all likelihood, she'll never see them again.

It's October twenty-first, a Sunday, and twenty-four degrees Celsius outside, some kind of record, according to the news. Rugs of leaves in love-bush colours curl over themselves. From a payphone near a window upstairs in Robarts Library, Grace looks at people scooting about on bicycles and on foot, in shorts and T-shirts. Lord! It's not that hot! Still, better a bright, warm day to do what she is about to do. After hours of debating about whether, when and how soon to call her birth mother, she has decided the phone conversation is inevitable and so better done sooner than later.

“May I speak to Phyllis, please?”

“This is she. To whom am I speaking?”

“It's Grace. Grace Carpenter.”

“Grace? Grace! Can you hold one minute, please?”

“Yes, of course.”

A few seconds' silence during which Grace recalls Phyllis's letter in response to hers, a kind of proper, stiff writing, nothing as simple and forthright as the letters she'd written to her as a teenager.

“Sorry, just closing the door. Are you all right? Is everything okay?”

“I'm fine. Everything's fine, thanks. I was just calling to touch base ... finally ... I'm ... I'm sure you must have heard that Gramps, old Mr. Carpenter, passed away last month?” It's the first thing that comes to mind, and a stupid thing, for of course Phyllis knows. She'd sent condolences in her letter.

“We do know. Someone sent a telegram to Granny Vads, a man named Mr. Hector. But thanks for making sure. How are you?”

“Like I said, things are fine. Not easy, but that's nothing new. I'm sure you know how it is.”

“How is the weather, Grace? It doesn't seem too cold yet.”

“It's colder here than in New York.” Small talk, white people talk. Safe.

“Since you wrote, I glance at the Toronto weather too.”

“I'm now accustomed to it, more or less. I don't really think I'm ever going to like it. Gramps says ...” Grace stops, remembering there's no more Gramps. “Gramps gave me advice about staying warm, from when he was in the war. I have good boots and I make sure to wear something on my head.”

And, she recalls absurdly, a stolen green plant in my room.

“Do, take his advice, dear. I still hate all the clothes, but every time I cheat, I regret it. Garlic and white rum and honey take me through every winter.”

Grace takes comfort from the mention of the white rum. She wonders what Phyllis would say if she knew that, though white rum may be hard to find, there's plenty of ganja in her dorm. She thinks,
Why not?
“Garlic is easy to find, but white rum would be a different thing. There are other herbs I could put my hand on easy, though.”

“That mayn't be worth the risk!” A chuckle. “Of course, your Granny Evadne still swears by Mr. Carpenter's infusions.”

“I was there. I saw him make them, and give them to people and treat himself with them. I can tell you for sure that they work.”

“I still think you'd better not try any remedies of that kind. Not till you finish and get the white people's piece of paper.”

The two of them laugh.

“You know what you're doing for Christmas, Grace?”

“Well ... not yet.”

“No pressure. Just asking. You could come here if you want. Granny Vads and I can offer a rollaway bed and of course some good St. Chris food.”

The cooking tempts her, but Grace thinks, Don't spoil things by rushing them. So far, so good! “Thank you, but I don't know yet. I might have to stay here and study. The last couple Christmases I spent at my roommate's house, and I can go there again if I want. I usually don't decide till the last minute.”

“No pressure at all, Grace.”

“I have to go now. I have a class.”

“Thanks for calling. Call again whenever you like, and reverse the charges next time. Okay?”

“Okay.” Grace appreciates her offer. She doesn't have a lot of spending money. “Thanks a lot. Bye.”

It's just as well things happen the way they happen. Since the first phone call, she and Phyllis talk on the phone a couple times and write letters now and then. So when Phyllis calls the Scotts on Christmas Day to wish her Happy Christmas and say that she just now found out she has to come to Toronto for a meeting right after Christmas and is wondering if she could spend the evening of the twenty-seventh with her, Grace isn't sure what to do. She feels she shouldn't say no, especially as it is Christmastime, the season of goodwill and all that. However, according to plans, they are supposed to stay in Warsaw till the thirtieth, then go back to Toronto to meet Gilberto, Steph's boyfriend, who is coming back from LA so the two of them can go out on New Year's Eve.

After three Christmases, Grace and the Scotts are good friends. She spends a few days there during the year too. They are down-to-earth people. If you factor out house, car, and middle-class comforts — ha-ha — they are not so different from her family. Gramps would say they have class; Ma and Pa, brought-up-cy. She feels kin with Andrew Scott, Bruce, and Susie, maybe sake of their red hair, freckles, and red skin. Not that her red and their red is the same, but still. Mr. Scott puts her in mind of Pa, not saying much but always there, so you feel he will fix anything that needs fixing.

Phyllis says Grace must consider and let her know. When Grace tells Steph why she may have to go back to Toronto on the twenty-seventh, Steph spins out of the room and rattles downstairs. “Alicia, can Grace's mother stay with us? She's coming to Toronto on the twenty-seventh and wants to see Grace.”

“Heavens! Is she coming from St. Chris into this cold?”

“No, Ma. Not that mother; her New York mother. She's coming to Toronto for a meeting after Christmas.”

“If you two sleep in the study, she can have your room.”

“That's what I was thinking.”

“And if she takes the three o'clock bus, she can be here by five.”

“Cousin Albert, Alicia! She can get a ride with him.”

So Phyllis is coming to the Scotts, where they will meet each other for the first time. In a way, she's glad that somebody else decides. She is still put out by this whole two-mother business.

Three days after Christmas, at a quarter to six, Albert's BMW stops in front of the square brick farmhouse. He hops out, scoots round to the passenger side, and opens the door. A tall, slim woman steps out, wearing a long, fur-trimmed black suede coat, leather boots, and gloves. Over her shoulder is a commodious bag made of tie-dyed African cloth, its purples, blacks, greens, and reds a little faded. Her head sports a low Afro of feathery reddish hair. She smiles thanks at Albert, looks around, observes Grace, and makes straight for her. Grace sees puss eyes, red skin, a face freckled on cheeks and nose. A “fine” nose.