The Birthday Lunch (12 page)

Laverne does not ask about Lucas and Jan or how Hennie spent her holiday. She wants Hennie to leave but Hennie will not leave until she finishes her tea and Laverne must endure more slurping and clicking until she feels the weight lifting from the bed. “I am leaving now,” Hennie says, “but I will come back.” And she will come back: there is no escaping Hennie Pronk’s relentless goodwill.

The moment Laverne hears the click of the closing door, she is on her feet. Through the living room window she watches her friend pedalling away, back ramrod straight, a small Maple Leaf flag fluttering on the handlebars. Laverne locks the door. She usually locks the door and it upsets her that she forgot to lock it last night. And she’d forgotten about Henrik. Laverne was fond of Henrik. And she is fond of Jan, fonder of him than she is of Hennie, who always insists on taking charge.

Hennie walks her bicycle to the end of the gravel driveway and, mounting the seat, she pedals along Church Avenue. The low grey sky reminds her of the rainy weather she left behind in Holland. It is not bad weather but not good weather either, and she hopes the rain will hold off until the Dominion Day celebrations are over. The bicycle jiggles across the railroad tracks and past the cenotaph where Hennie always lays a Remembrance Day wreath in gratitude for the soldiers who liberated Holland. At the town hall, she rings her bell to warn the Murphy boy to stand back while she turns into the packed earth lane leading to the red-brick house and the pottery she and Henrik built when they first came to Canada. Hennie chains the bike to the stoop railing and as soon as she is inside the house, she locks the door, a habit acquired after Henrik died and Jan moved to Amsterdam. Back then she did not need to lock the door, but with hoodlums racing around the streets at night and she an eighty-year-old woman living alone, it is necessary to take precautions. Jan worries about her and each time they speak on the telephone, she reminds him that she
knows how to look after herself. She also tells him she is safer in Sussex than she is in Amsterdam, where her change purse was stolen from her backpack while she was walking along Vijzelstraat wearing a long skirt, sandals and a straw hat. If she had been wearing overalls and boots, her change purse would have been safe inside a front pocket and she would not have been robbed.

If Henrik saw her now he would cluck like a chicken. He did not like her wearing overalls and boots and insisted she wear long flowery skirts although it meant she had to hitch them up to her thighs while turning the wheel with her feet. Henrik wore a shirt, tie and vest while working at his jeweller’s bench, softening rods of silver with the blowtorch before he bent them into loops with pliers, or flattened them with a mallet. Every second day a clean, ironed shirt, every day polished shoes. The shoes Henrik polished himself.

Henrik’s death changed Jan’s life. After the shock of finding his father slumped onto the workbench, the magnifying monocle jammed into his eye, Jan took to his bed and Laverne stepped in to help. Taking a two-week leave from school, she bought groceries, prepared meals and kept the house in order. His father’s death had triggered what the doctor called a nervous breakdown and Jan never returned to school. Hennie did not encourage him to return. Years before Henrik died, she knew that it was not in Jan’s nature to be a schoolmaster. He could not keep students in order and until Laverne Pritchard joined the staff, he had kept to himself in the staff room. Laverne brought a coffee grinder to school and she and Jan made their own coffee; she brought homemade cookies for
them to share. She was a good friend to Jan and now it is Hennie’s turn to be a good friend to Laverne.

Claudia is making breakfast. She isn’t much of a cook but she can make French toast.

Hal’s appetite is coming back and he says, “Your mother called French toast an excuse to soak up maple syrup, but I wouldn’t turn down another helping.”

Claudia slides a slice onto Hal’s plate and another on her own. When they finish eating, they light up, blowing smoke through the window screen. From where she sits, Claudia can see the red and white balloons tied to the neighbours’ veranda railing. “It must be Dominion Day,” she says.

“Dominion Day.” Frowning, Hal asks, “What day of the week is it?”

“Wednesday.”

The living-room clock pings eleven o’clock and seconds later the kitchen clock warbles the hour. Claudia has never seen the clock before and asks where it came from.

“Lily bought it from a catalogue,” Hal says. “You know your mother. She loved birds and we could never go for a drive in the country without having to stop so she could look at one. She took great delight in seeing a hawk on a fence post or even a crow.”

“Well, neither of them is on the clock,” Claudia says crossly, “and I wish my brother would get himself home.”

Hal hears thumping on the stairs, “Speak of the devil,” he says.

“Well, well, the hunter home from the hills,” Claudia says when Matt appears in the doorway.

“Meant to be funny, I suppose.”

“Where have you been?”

“The Creamery, talking to Carl Reidle about the accident. I wanted to get there before Dominion Day celebrations begin.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

While Claudia pours Matt coffee and makes him French toast, Matt asks about the Honda in the driveway. “Do we have a visitor or is somebody visiting Laverne?”

“The car is mine,” Claudia says. Last night she was almost asleep when she heard the crunch of tires and an idling engine in the driveway; she waited until she heard a closing door and receding footsteps before she got out of bed and looked out the window, but there was no sign of Leonard. She crept down the stairs in her nightgown to retrieve the Honda key and there it was behind the visor inside a folded note
—I will phone you tomorrow night
—written in Leonard’s calligraphic hand. Claudia does not want Leonard to phone, she wants him to leave her alone. “A friend drove it here,” she says and plunking a plate of French toast in front of her brother, she tells him that when he finishes eating, they have to decide on the arrangements.

“Why not decide while I’m eating?” Matt says. “The sooner, the better.”

“Okay. The burial. Alan Harrington suggested burying the ashes after church on Sunday,” Claudia says. “He offered to say a few words at the grave.”

Matt had missed that part of the conversation. Either he
had tuned out or was in the kitchen pouring more wine. “Does he know Mom was an atheist?”

“I couldn’t say but it wouldn’t matter to Alan if he knew,” Hal says.

Claudia consults her list. “Laverne said we should have a reception where people can pay their respects. She suggested Adair’s.”

“I agree,” Hal says. “For Lily Adair’s is a better choice than the church hall, but they are often busy and we should reserve a time today.”

While her brother does the dishes, Claudia picks up the telephone and dials Adair’s. When a young woman answers, she asks if she is Tanya Adair. Claudia was in high school with Tanya and Paul Adair who took over the business after their father died. “Yes, I’m Tanya. What can I do for you?”

“It’s me, Claudia McNab. Remember me?”

“Of course I remember you and I heard the terrible news about your mother. I’m so sorry …”

“Thanks. I’m calling to ask if we can book a reception on Sunday afternoon. Would that be possible?”

“Sunday afternoon is wide open. What time do you have in mind?”

“Between two and four.”

“You’ve got it. Have you thought about what you would like to serve in the way of refreshments?”

Claudia hasn’t given a thought to refreshments and Tanya tells her that on these occasions she recommends a selection of finger sandwiches and a selection of sweets. Tea, coffee, juice, wine if it is requested.

“All of that sounds fine,” Claudia says, and remembering that her mother drank sherry, she adds, “we’ll have sherry, too.” She hangs up the telephone and turns to her father, “There. That’s done. The reception will be at Adair’s on Sunday between two and four. We’ll have to put a notice in the paper. Auntie told me that it should be dropped off at the
Record
office no later than Thursday.”

“That’s right,” Hal says. From time to time he places an ad in the
Kings County Record
.

“Auntie also said a funeral notice usually accompanies the obituary.” Claudia looks at her brother. “Can you write the obituary?”

“Sure, but I will need some input from you, Dad. I’ve lost track of Mom’s side of the family.”

“That’s because after her mother died, her father remarried and moved to Saskatoon and she only saw him once after that.”

“Which reminds me.” Claudia turns to Hal. “You should telephone your brother, Dad. He might like to come to the reception and the family meal we’re having here afterwards.”

“I’m all for that,” Matt says. He is all for the reception and the family meal as long as it takes place on Sunday. Matt has yet to tell his father or sister that he has a crucial meeting in Vancouver next week and will be leaving in a few days. As chief counsel for Lingard Construction, he is responsible for the SkyTrain negotiations and if he doesn’t attend the meeting, the company could lose the bid and he could lose his job.

“I would rather you called my brother,” Hal says. He hasn’t seen Welland in years, hardly knows him anymore, if he ever did.

“Where would I find his telephone number?”

“In my address book. Top dresser drawer,” Hal says.

Matt pours the last of the coffee. “Come on, Dad,” he says, “let’s see if there’s a ball game on television.”

Claudia opens the door of her parents’ bedroom and, marching past the unmade bed, she goes straight to her father’s dresser against the far wall. Removing the address book from the top dresser drawer, she marches straight out again. In the kitchen she flips through the address book for her uncle’s number and then dials his home in Vero Beach. Her stomach flutters. She hasn’t seen her uncle since she was sixteen and talking to him will be like talking to a stranger.

A woman answers and Claudia asks to speak to Welland McNab.

“The doctor is unavailable at present,” the woman says. “To whom am I speaking?”

“I am Welland’s niece, Hal’s daughter. I am calling because …” Claudia feels her chest being squeezed, “my mother died on Monday. She was hit by a truck.”

The woman’s voice softens. “Oh honey,” she says, “how awful for you.”

“I thought my uncle would want to know.”

“Of course he’ll want to know.”

“She’ll be buried on Sunday and there will be a reception afterwards.”

“I’ll tell Welland as soon as he returns from Miami tonight, he will want to talk to Harold,” the woman says. “By the way, I’m Lanie.”

“And I’m Claudia.”

“I’m sure Welland has Harold’s telephone number, but in case he hasn’t, you had better give it to me.”

Claudia gives her the number. After hanging up the phone, she returns the address book to the top dresser drawer and looks at the careless disarray her mother left behind: the coffee mug on the night table, the book face down on the pillow beside the familiar birthday wrap, the nightgown thrown across the bed: reminders that her mother left the house expecting to come back. But she will never come back. She’s gone, which is why Claudia wants a viewing. Even if her mother looks like an oversized doll lying in a box of pillowed satin, she wants a viewing. Her mother wouldn’t want a viewing but Claudia wants a viewing. She wants to see her mother one last time, wants to see her so badly that she heads for the bathroom and stands, crying, under the shower until the water runs cold. She rubs herself dry and puts on her clothes, braids her wet hair, opens the bathroom door and hears the muted shouts from the living room where her father and brother are watching the Dodgers—Phillies game. “Pull yourself together,” Claudia says—like her mother, she sometimes talks to herself.

Claudia stands in the living-room doorway waiting for a commercial break before she tells her father that she called Vero Beach. “I talked to Welland’s wife. She says he’ll call you tonight after he gets back from Miami.”

“Sure he will,” Hal says, though he has his doubts. After Welland moved to Florida, Hal left messages for his younger brother but after years of waiting for return calls that seldom came, he stopped calling.

——

By the time the ball game is over, the clouds have drifted away and the sun has the sky to itself. From downtown the McNabs hear car horns and drums but they are in no mood to join the Dominion Day festivities and Matt suggests a drive in the country. An hour later the family is inside the Mazda: Hal and Matt in the front, Laverne and Claudia in the back. It was Claudia who suggested Matt telephone their aunt. “If I ask her to come she’ll say no,” Claudia told him, “but if you ask her …”

When the four of them are in the car, Matt asks, “Where should we go?”

“St. Martins,” Claudia says. Matt hasn’t been to St. Martins since he was a kid and his sister directs him to turn right out of the driveway and the car climbs the hill, passing the fountain where sulfur water trickles into the stone basin their mother jokingly called the spa. Across from the fountain are the modest bastions of the Roman Catholic Church and the Knights of Columbus. At the top of the hill are well-kept mansions surrounded by sweeping lawns, reminders of the lumber barons who cleared the forests and built the town. The Knoll, the grandest mansion of them all with its gothic arches, curved staircase and English gardens, is long gone, and in its stead is a clutch of pedestrian houses that have a view of the valley farms stitched together by narrow roads and fences. In less than a mile the family is delivered into the arms of the countryside where willows bend over the creek and horses graze in nearby fields. On either side of the road, rolling hills give way to stands of fir and birch. They pass clusters of small buildings, a dog dozing in the driveway, cones of drying wood, a makeshift
shed sheltering a truck, a cornfield where a scarecrow wearing a gown and tiara presides over the scene. A few miles on, Matt nods toward the enormous silos towering over the valley, the long barns with screened windows. “Dairy farming has sure changed since I lived here,” he says.