Requiem (14 page)

Ba was the natural storyteller of the two. The skin on her face was tissue-paper thin and moved in crinkles as she talked.

“This is the story of our two-dresser set,” she said again. She had told it over and over, to anyone who would listen.

“We had our store for thirty-two years.” And she nodded because that was the truth. “We raised our child in the upstairs rooms and she helped out after school while she was growing up. The store paid for her education. Sachi went to university,” she added, proudly. “And then, she left home and wanted to travel, so she moved to California. While she was there, she met a man who was studying engineering. They were married in Vancouver, and we were happy that our family was getting bigger. It was the way things should be. We knew when she brought Tom home to meet us that he was very smart. And because there were three sons in his family and none in ours, he took our name when he married Sachi so that our family name would be carried on. A good man,” she said.

“But after Sachi had left home, we no longer needed the upstairs rooms, so we rented them to a young couple. I don’t know which camp that young couple was sent to. After they moved in upstairs, Ji and I lived in two rooms at the back of the store, at ground level. Inside the store, we had a wood stove in one corner, and three benches near the stove. The old men came by in the morning to sit around and gossip with Ji. And argue,” she said. “They gossiped and argued and played cards and had a lot to say about the world. They never ran out of things to say.

“And then, after Pearl Harbor”—there was a pause here—”they still came, but this time they were cautious. Some were confused. I was always listening because I was behind the counter, wiping shelves, cleaning up, serving people who came in. Who had disappeared since the day before? Was there any news? What was happening? Everyone knew that the younger men had been rounded up. Anyone between eighteen and forty-five. That’s what we heard, and we became worried about the sons of our friends, all the young men we knew. Some of them were angry about the discrimination and they escaped, and police called them delinquents, and they were rounded up again and placed in custody or sent to prison camps in Ontario. We were also worried about our son-in-law in California, because everything was happening quickly and we knew that American camps were being set up.

“And then one day, we realized that the police had begun to watch our store. They treated us as if we were running a meeting place for spies. Every day, the police strolled by in pairs. They walked past the front door, pretending to be casual, and then they turned around suddenly and charged in as if they expected to uncover a secret operation. We laughed about this every time. Ji and his friends just blinked and became silent while the police snooped around. The old men got up off the benches and went back to their homes. But one by one, even the old men were taken away. And then it was Ji’s turn, and the police came for him and put him in detention. I didn’t see him again until it was time to board the train.

“When I was alone, I made up my mind to keep the store open. I knew people needed to buy things, even though supplies were running out on the shelves. Because there were no men left, the wives began to come to the store in the mornings. They came to exchange news and to sit and visit and sew. Sometimes, one of the women had a letter to share, and there would be news about where one of the husbands had been taken. But the police still strolled by in pairs, and they charged through the door every few days. We laughed after they left, because it was such nonsense to think that we could be accused of planning something against our country. Every time the police threw the door open and barged in, we fell silent and continued to sew. Just like the men, before they were taken away. We didn’t look up until the police left the store. And then we looked at one another and we laughed. We laughed so hard, we had to hold our sides.”

At this point in the story, Ba pushed her palms flat against her bulging middle to demonstrate. This was also the point at which she sat up straighter, remembering.

“I knew that we would not be able to take our belongings when it was time to leave. I could see what was happening all around. I was certain, too, that after Ji was taken we would lose the store. And when the shelves were empty, no more supplies would be delivered.

“But I did not want to give up my two-dresser set. It was polished mahogany,” she said, and she paused to allow the memory of the rich, dark wood to be absorbed by the imagination of her listeners.

“Imagine. After our daughter was educated, I saved every penny to buy that set. Who ever thought that someone like me would own a two-dresser set!”

Her voice had an edge to it after this part of the story.

“Rather than have it stolen, I decided to sell, and I posted a sign in the store window. I knew that the police would be coming to take me away some morning. I knew that Ji and I would need the money. Whatever we could get.

“I was alone in the store the day the pickup truck arrived to carry it away. I was paid four dollars, the best price I could get. I stood behind the store window and watched two men load it into the back of their truck. I watched my dresser set drive away. The truck turned the corner, but for a long time after it was gone, I stood at the window and stared out. I could not make myself move.”

Even though Ba had finished her story, I knew her eyes were still following the two-dresser set on the back of the pickup as it drove away from her store. She pulled herself up from her chair and went outside to stand in front of the shack. The woodcarver held up a tiny figure of a bantam rooster, head stretched and ready to fight. He placed the rooster on Ba’s table, folded his apron around the shavings and carried it outside to give it a shake.

I went out and stood beside Ba. I wanted to see what she was seeing when she looked up. The mountains that had been topped with snow when we’d first arrived were now almost bare. Pine trees grew down the lower slopes in such regular patterns, they might have been planted in rows. The ground was dry, like pictures of dusky, low dunes I had once seen in a magazine that had come in on the mail boat in our fishing village. Ba looked down, and when she saw me beside her, she patted me on the head. Two puffy sacs above her cheekbones made her look as if she’d been squinting. Then she stared off into the distance, as if her eyes might be able to bore a space through the mountains so that she could see as far south as California, as far as the camp that held her daughter, who had not been heard from since the troubles began.

I went home and found a corner of cardboard, and I drew a tiny, imperfectly proportioned two-dresser set. I made one dresser high and narrow, the other broad and low. I tried to remember certain pages I had seen in an Eaton’s catalogue that Mother had kept for a while in our first home, until the pages were ripped out and crumpled and twisted around kindling to start fires in the stove. From memory, I gave each dresser claw feet and drawers of different sizes. I gave the drawers an extra flourish of ornate handles, which I made up and enjoyed creating. Wishing for crayons, I shaded patches onto the sides, but this was not entirely successful. To the lower dresser, I attached an oval mirror held in place by a thin wooden frame. The mirror tilted slightly forward in my drawing, though I had intended it to be straight.

When I was certain that everyone had left Ba’s shack, I went back and slipped my drawing past the blanket that hung across the doorless entrance of Ba and Ji’s home. I heard it drop lightly on a plank of the cleanly scrubbed floor. Ba must have been near the doorway, because she pulled back the blanket and bent forward to pick up the piece of cardboard. She examined it and looked at me, and then looked at it again and held it to her breast.

“You are a good boy,” she said. “You are a youngest son. I have had my eye on you. You will always be a comfort to your mother.”

I
t has taken three days to get across Ontario, but I’m headed for prairie, or almost-prairie. Somewhere outside Thunder Bay last night, Basil and I stopped at a motel where I was asked to pay an extra deposit at check-in—a damage deposit. I asked the young clerk if there was usually a rough crowd at the place but she shook her head, embarrassed by the question. I had to pay up—thirty dollars above the price of the room. And this was refunded when I checked out early this morning.

Now I wonder if the demand was made because of me, or because of Basil, who was allowed on the ground floor, end room only, but allowed nonetheless. There was even a hook for a leash attachment at the back of the motel, as well as a low wall tap, providing access to water.

The farther west I drive, the more dogs I see. I’m in big-truck country. Dogs ride shotgun or in the rear. Big trucks, big dogs. But I’ll wager that few dogs are as heavy as Basil. A woman stopped to talk to him in the parking lot this morning. She leaned down as if I were not present, though I was there beside him, leash in hand. She was wearing a faded winter parka, tight jeans and high black boots that were too warm for spring weather. She made sure I was watching. She patted Basil a few times, and I was about to warn her:
If he jumps up and bounces against you, he’ll bruise your thighs
. But I held my peace about her thighs. She uttered some endearments and strutted off towards her own big dog in her own big truck. Her hair swung over her face as she left. Not a word had been spoken between us. The encounter made me wonder if I’ve become invisible or if I’ve created my own impenetrable wall. Or was it an invitation and I missed the cues entirely?

By early afternoon, the clouds are thick and muted, full of moisture. Road signs have been ominous: FATIGUE KILLS, TAKE A BREAK. It’s impossible to ignore the wooden crosses that mark highway deaths, most of them at curves where road has been blasted through rock. The crosses stand for speed—the kind of unimaginable speed into which some ill-fated driver accelerated before careening off on two wheels into a wall of granite. At some curves there are multiple crosses, which is even more sobering. These are adorned with painted names, red hearts, gaudy artificial flowers that have been nailed or maybe wired on. It’s as if a special design exists solely for roadside shrines. On the American highways, I remember that the crosses used to be white—in contrast to the ornate creations I’m seeing on this trip.

Earlier today, after breakfast, I drove for a while and then parked the car and took Basil for a walk along the Wabigoon River. Gulls were strutting beside the riverbank, screeching after us once we’d passed. Basil wanted to give chase, but I yanked him up short on the leash. I took the leash off when we were out of town and we walked for another hour each way, invigorated by the air, the river in full spate, flowing swiftly towards its northern destination. This river’s story includes mercury and poison, I told myself. And hopefully, cleanup. I had already passed the divide from the Great Lakes’ drainage system to the Arctic watershed, and I wondered if the river had rid itself of mercury by spreading it north.

Basil, coiled with energy as always, raced ahead, circled back, checked to see that I was still on the path, raced ahead again. I tried to clear my mind but I kept thinking:
I have to phone Kay to let her know where I am. I have to call. She’ll want an arrival date and I can’t give her one, but I have to call
.

Now I’m in the car again, arguing with myself, hating the feeling of having to report. Kay knows I want to be alone but she also wants me to stop over and stay at her place when I reach Edmonton. She doesn’t believe I can do this—withdraw. She’s suspicious of anyone who does, because she can’t, herself. Although, to give her credit, she does stay in touch. She’s the one who makes the effort in the family. And she does make an effort.

I pull over and park beside a roadside restaurant. There’s a phone booth inside the entrance and I drop in a few coins, thinking I’ll invent the conversation after Kay picks up at her end. The coins clatter out again and there is no connection.

“Is the phone broken?” I ask the girl behind the counter.

“Nope,” she says. “But most of the time it doesn’t work.”

Fate decrees I will not speak with Kay today, so I go back outside, where Basil is bellowing like the hound he is. Not only is he howling, but his huge paws are bouncing off the window while he lets the world know he’s been abandoned. Two men are standing beside my car, trying to soothe him by talking through the crack where I left the window down.

“Your dog doesn’t like to be left on his own,” says one of the men, accusingly. His expression of scorn matches that of the second man, his twin, maybe. The two have matted hair, long, drooping faces, skin the colour of cold porridge.

“We don’t do things like that here, Chinaman,” says the other. “How long you bin over, anyway?”

There’s no answer to that. I’ve heard it all before. To them, I could be the heathen stepping out of “Gunga Din.”
This is my own, my native land
, I tell myself, and unlock the car.

I have to clear the inside windshield, it’s so steamed up. Basil aims a sharp bark at the lingering twins and their self-righteous stares, and settles down again to gnaw at his Kong.

“Thanks a lot,” I tell him as I start the car. “I did leave your window down, you know. You have air, you have food, you have water, you have my company twenty-four hours a day. And if you behave like this again, I’ll marry you off to Kay’s little scrapper, Diva. Would you like that? Would you? They marry frogs in Bangladesh to stave off drought. Don’t think I can’t arrange your marriage to Diva to stave off petulance.”

He raises his head, pulls another sound from his repertoire and yips like a fox. He stares at me with innocence and continues to chew.

As I drive, I’m seeing the faces of indignation left behind. I don’t care to think about what the two men were trying to protect. They probably don’t know themselves. Is it about being better? Is it about owning the right to belong?

I can’t pretend I haven’t wondered about Greg since he left home. The unposed questions about belonging. It was Lena, not I, who marched right into his classroom when he was in grade four and had been called
slant eyes
by a boy at his school. Maybe the protest did some good, maybe not. An assembly was held the next day by the teacher, no mention of the name-calling, no finger-pointing. Instead, a discussion on uniqueness and celebrating differences, which Greg told us about when he came home. Who knows if the discussion changed anyone’s behaviour?