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Just
Like Family
by Mary J. Breen She looked across the street at the row of red brick houses solidly facing her in the late afternoon darkness. Several had warm lights glowing upstairs and down, but her house was completely dark except for a flickering blue light in an upstairs window. She still wasn't used to the fact that these lights were not hers, that they were Rose and Tyler's lights, that her house was now two flats, that Rose and Tyler now slept in her old bedroom upstairs while she and Emily slept in the dining room below. Her throat had been getting steadily worse all day. That morning Joanne had had her ESL class where, every Friday, while Emily played with the students' children, she stood behind a fat blue curriculum book and tried to teach English to a group of solemn Italian women. Today was supposed to have been a lesson in "table setting"—six pieces of silver, stemware at the tip of the knife, linen and napkins—but after looking into their long-suffering faces, she had packed away her props and started talking to them about what was on her mind: her rotten head cold. She wrote cough, sneeze, sore throat, and fever on the little blackboard, and after a few seconds of pantomiming each of the miseries of a cold, the women had begun to talk, all at once. Mrs. Zafanio and Mrs. Campagna—women whose silence she had thought were sure signs of their smoldering hostility towards her—suddenly started shouting in Italian, alarming Joanne until she realized she was hearing "sora trota" and "suneeza" in there among their rolling vowels. Then Mrs. Palazzolo rose to her feet, drew herself up very tall, and signalled to the others to be quiet. Mrs. Campagna reached out to Mrs. Palazzolo with both arms outstretched, palms up. "Maria Palazzolo, una grande cantante d'opera!" "Opera?" Joanne wasn't sure she heard right. "Si, si. Grande, grandis-s-sima!" Mrs. Palazzolo nodded an acknowledgment, put one hand on her chest, took a deep breath, and sang "Starnuto!" in a ringing soprano. Joanne looked around for help, and the women all began to laugh and mimic huge sneezes followed by shouts of "Starnuto! Suneeza!" Joanne finally understood that their waving arms meant they wanted her to join in, so she took a breath and shouted, "Starnuto! Sneeze!" as well as she could with her raspy, cold-ridden voice. Soon they were all laughing, holding their stomachs with one arm and wiping at their eyes with the other. Joanne wasn't sure if hers were tears of joy or relief or regret that it took her so long to figure anything out. After class, Joanne had driven across town to have lunch with her mother. Mrs. Mulligan was one of those women who was certain that children simply need to be taught—not to cry, not to fuss, not to touch, and not to break. Joanne's assertion that her mother's precious things, not her precious grandchild, should be moved out of harm's way, Mrs. Mulligan saw as the first step towards Emily's delinquency. Today Emily had fallen asleep right after lunch so there were no broken Belleek cups to cry over, however this left time for the inevitable. "I'll never understand how you and John just walked away from your wedding vows. Why you were even married by Monsignor Brennan at the Cathedral!" "Mother, please," she said. "I still go to Mass. Emily's been baptized. John and I just can't live together, that's all." "Well, you should have thought about that earlier. That child needs a father. I'm so ashamed of you, Joanne. This family has never had one bit of trouble before this. Marriage after marriage, and not one bit of trouble! Until you." Joanne thought of telling her mother the truth—that John had left her to live with his new, young secretary from the law firm, that his interest in living with her, his old secretary from the law firm, was now null and void—until she remembered that her mother's disapproval was much easier to take than her pity for a woman who couldn't keep her man. After Emily's nap, they had driven to another church basement for Emily's music class where the kids had spent half an hour banging away on drums, xylophones, and tambourines, and another quarter hour crying and clinging to their instruments when the class was over. Now, finally, Joanne and Emily were home. The gate stood wide open and a deep wedge of snow had drifted up against it. Must have been open for hours, she thought; probably Rose. Joanne made a mental note to remind her, and another to insist that John install a proper latch the next time he picked up Emily. Not that it was easy getting him to do things any more. Maybe if she told him it was for Emily's safety. But he never really understood about fences, never understood the need to keep the right people in and the wrong people out, the need for reminders of how far to go, the need to know whose side you're on. He'd want the whole damn street, their dogs and all their cousins stopping by to play if he could have it. Carrying the half-asleep child, Joanne made her way up the snowy path. She pushed open the front door and grimaced. The door leading up to Rose's apartment was open again, and the smell of smoke and hamburgers, and the whine of TV sirens were spilling down the stairs. She double-locked the outside door, stamped off the snow, and headed up. Rose was standing in front of the stove, watching two thin patties sputter in a frying pan. She wore bell-bottoms and a red sweater, and her hair hung down in a thick black braid. The radio was on, and Rose was singing away with Simon and Garfunkle. "Hi, Rose, how are you? I got you a potato for the one I borrowed last night." Joanne reached into her shoulder bag for a little brown paper bag. The top was creased in two neat folds. Rose picked up her cigarette and inhaled deeply as she turned around. She smiled at Joanne and then at Emily, blowing smoke sideways as Joanne swiped at it with her hand. "Hi, Joanne," Rose said. "And hi, Emily! Didya come to see us?" Emily opened one eye, grinned, and suddenly hurled herself towards Rose. Joanne managed to catch her by the legs, but before she could pull her right-side-up, Rose bent over and gave the child a big smacky kiss under her chin. "You look like Tyler's troll with your hair hanging down like that." Emily laughed and reached out to Rose again, but Joanne took a step back and patted the child into place on her hip. Joanne sniffed, and started searching in her pockets for a Kleenex. Rose handed her the box from the counter and turned back to the stove. "Like a bri-idge over troubled water, I will ease your . . . ." She stopped. "You're not kiddin', are you? One potato," she said over her shoulder. "You don't have to bring back one potato, Joanne. You're my friend. It's no big deal." "No, no, it's only right," Joanne said as she blew her nose. "I was taught to pay my debts, and . . . besides, charity begins at home." She tried to laugh, but Rose didn't join in. She never seemed to get Joanne's little jokes. Rose's voice was still soft and slow and even, but the spatula in her hand now punctuated each word. "I don't want that potato." "I'll just put it on the counter; we've got to go. It's nearly six already, and Em needs her supper." Joanne sneezed again as she put the bag down near the sink and turned to leave. "Lord, I'm tired. This darn cold." "Yeah, I think I'm getting a cold too," Rose said. "Had a headache all day. Look, why not leave her up here for a bit? You go have a little rest, and they can play." She reached for Emily. "I bought some donuts, and she and Tyler can watch their ‘tartoons'. I even bought new crayons today, a set for each of them so they won't fight. She could stay for supper too. It's easy." Emily started twisting back and forth, trying to get down. "No, not tonight." Joanne gritted her teeth as she tried to get a firmer grip on the slippery snowsuit. Why did Rose never understand that Joanne had plans? "No, thanks. I need to get Em to bed early. We're going to a puppet-making workshop tomorrow morning. Right, Em?" She tried to sound normal, but her voice had become just a little louder, a little sharper, as she knew she really should take Tyler along. After all, Rose took Emily to the park every couple of days, but, well, Tyler could be so wild. Emily began making growling sounds deep in her throat as she pushed herself away from Joanne's side with both hands. "Hi Emily!" Tyler raced in, and slid to a stop. "Wanna play with me?" He was wearing green pyjama bottoms and one of Rose's big black sweaters that came right down to his knees and covered his hands. He waved the empty ends of the sleeves in Emily's face, and she started to giggle. "Tyler, stop," Rose said as she reached out to Emily and gently stroked the child's cheek. "It's OK, Em." Emily threw back her head and began to wail. "You come another time. OK? Maybe tomorrow." Tyler continued jumping, waving his arms in the air and shouting, "Mighty Mouse! Look, Emily, look! I'm Mighty Mouse!" Rose turned and told him to stop again. He stretched his arms out in front of him, fists together, head down, and made loud siren noises to propel himself back into the living room. "Has Emily seen that new kids' show, what's it called? Oh yeah, Sesame Street. Pretty cute. Tyler really likes it; I'll bet Emily—oh, wow!" Rose laughed, shaking her head, "What's the matter with me? I almost forgot. My sister, Louise, is in town tonight, eh? I haven't seen her in ages, so can Tyler go to sleep down at your place? I'll come and get him when I get home, like always. And then maybe Emily can play up here tomorrow afternoon . . . after her nap?" Joanne glanced down at her watch, pursing her lips. "I've got my key, so I won't wake you up." Rose said. "He's no trouble, is he?" Joanne took a breath and smiled tightly as she turned to go. "No, no," she said, "he's no trouble." By now Emily's crying was so loud that Joanne had to shout each word as if they had both gone deaf. "OK. How about just after eight? By then Em should be . . . " "Far out. Thanks, Joanne. See you later, Emilygator!" Rose called out as Joanne hurried out with Emily still reaching back up the stairs yelling "'Osie!" Emily and Joanne were propped up on Joanne's bed reading library books when Tyler started banging on their door yelling, "Emileee!" It was seven-thirty. Joanne unlocked the door, and Tyler raced in in his green pyjamas. He threw his bag of cars and a threadbare elephant onto the living room floor, and then slid all the way down the hall still yelling, "Emileee!" Rose burst in after him, telling him to slow down. Joanne gathered Tyler's toys and put them on the pile of blankets she had ready for him on the couch. When she got to the bedroom, the door was shut, and there wasn't a sound. As she opened the door, Rose yelled "Ta-dah!" and threw off the big comforter they were all hiding under. She got up and dumped the comforter back over the kids who kicked it off again, shrieking and bouncing and throwing themselves onto the pillows at the top of the bed. Joanne told them to stop, that someone was going to get hurt, but they just continued jumping and squealing. Rose was still chuckling as she checked herself in the dresser mirror. She turned from side to side to make sure her blouse was still tucked in. "You should go out sometimes too, Joanne. Church people; that's all you ever see." She stopped to check her teeth for stray lipstick. "And don't give me that excuse that you're still married. He's been gone ever since I've known you." Rose gave each kid a big good-night hug and kiss. "Night-night, Emily. Night, Tyler. Now you be good, and you listen to what Joanne tells you." She turned back to Joanne. "I might be late, Joanne, but never mind, I've got my key." She threw on her coat, and rushed to the door. Outside a young man in jeans and a black jacket was slouched against the porch smoking a cigarette. As Joanne locked the door after her, Rose's laughter rang out through the cold air. Next morning, Joanne woke to the unmistakable sound of Woody Woodpecker. She dashed into the living room, and there were both Tyler and Emily sitting in front of the TV in their pajamas. The hall light and the porch light were still on, and upstairs, Rose's bed had not been slept in. Rose had not come home. "Tyler," Joanne asked, "where did Mummy go last night? Do you know?" She was trying to keep her voice light and ordinary. Tyler's eyes didn't leave the screen. "She went out; dontcha 'member that?" "You kids really shouldn't sit so close," she said. They didn't move. "I know she's out, Tyler, but well, um, do you know who she went with, or where . . . ?" She shook her head, realizing the futility of asking these questions of a four-year-old. As she made herself a cup of tea, Joanne kept imagining all the things that might have prevented Rose from coming home. She was thinking that maybe John would know the right thing to do when the phone rang. She ran for it, but it was her mother, reminding her of an aunt's upcoming birthday. Joanne asked her mother what she thought she should do about Rose, but all Mrs. Mulligan could suggest was that she ask Father McCoy. "After all," she said, "you can't be too careful." It was already nine-fifteen, and the workshop was starting at ten. Joanne fed the children porridge, made two hurried lunches, and took them both after all. She left a note for Rose taped to the front door. After the kids got set up with their scraps of cloth, yarn, and buttons, Joanne found a pay phone and called Father McCoy. "Well, Joanne, I think she's taking advantage of your good will," he said. "But then she's not one of us, is she. Not our kind of people." "Well, I don't know, Father, it's just that I'm getting worried." "Of course you are, my dear," he said. "I should think it's time for the boys in blue. They'll help you. Take the lad off your hands. After all, you never know in cases like this." Joanne thanked him and hurried back to the kids. By noon, they were both miserable. Tyler had only wanted to make cars, and Emily was much too young to sew anything. Joanne bundled them back into the car and drove home while the kids ate the middles out of their cold sandwiches and swatted at each other. The note was still there on the front door. After she put Emily down for her nap, Joanne decided it was time to do the right thing. Time to call the police. After only about half an hour, the doorbell rang. On the step stood a tall, tired-looking man in a grey tweed overcoat. He seemed absorbed in trying to clean the snow off his glasses with a narrow scarf. When she opened the door, he pulled out his police identity card and introduced himself as Sergeant Montigny. Joanne led him down the hall past the living room where Tyler was watching TV. While the policeman wedged himself into the breakfast nook, she put out a plate of homemade cookies and made them a pot of tea using her grandmother's Spode. He busied himself checking out the ivy hanging above the table, and Emily's drawing of wild red circles and black dots pinned to the wall beside him. Then he got up and began scanning the fridge, reading her list of "Healthy foods for the two-year-old" stuck on with "God Is Love" magnets. "Ah, I see you go to St. Anthony's," he said, nodding his approval as he pointed to the church bulletin also posted up on the fridge. "Only been there once. The wife and I, we go to Blessed Sacrament." Joanne smiled and thought about pointing out that he wasn't here to investigate her, when he sat down again, pinched the bridge of his nose, and pulled a ballpoint pen and a brown coil-topped notepad from his breast pocket. He licked his thumb to help him find an empty page. Just like in the movies. "Now about this missing friend of yours." For the next twenty minutes, he asked question after question—about Rose's habits, her state of mind, her friends, her husband. Joanne was embarrassed to realize how little she knew about Rose; she couldn't even remember her sister's name. Then he turned the questions back to her, even asking about her ex-husband—where he lived and which law firm he worked for. He also inquired about their babysitting arrangement, asking Joanne if she, in turn, left Emily with Rose when she went out at night. When Joanne told him she tried never to leave Emily with anyone, he congratulated her, assuring her that she was doing the right thing, that children are always best looked after by their mothers, as his wife did with his. Joanne smiled her thanks. Father McCoy was always saying things like this. The "backbone of a country" he called mothers who stayed home and took care of their own. "Well, Mrs. Henderson," he said, "there's not much we can do until she's been gone longer than this. She's an adult, and we don't have any evidence of foul play. If you're willing to look after the little lad . . . I mean, I don't think we should call in Children's Aid unless you're not willing to take care of him. But I think he's better off with you than with strangers, don't you—until we find his mother?" He finished his tea and stared down at his notepad, tapping the coil with his pen as he waited for her answer. "Well, I suppose so. But, I know what you could do. Get in touch with her family and find out where her sister was staying. She's from a reserve near a place called Red Lake. There couldn't be that many families there with a daughter named Roseanne Nelson. They might—" "What!?" He stared at her. "A reserve? You mean she's an Indian? You're telling me she's an Indian and she didn't come home?" He clicked his pen, snapped his notepad closed, and shoved them both back into his pocket. As he pushed himself to his feet, his head bounced soundly off the flower pot above him, tipping muddy water onto himself, the table, and the oatmeal cookies. He marched down the hall, holding the top of his head and calling back to her. "You women! Believe anything, you would. She's drunk, is all! She got drunk and she'll be home when she's slept it off. I can't believe you called us for an Indian." His hand was on the doorknob. He was smiling now, a joyless, mean smile. "Don't look so shocked, ma'am. Indians are always doing this, leaving their kids with other people. They must think they're all one big family. Disgusting. I come from up north. You just don't know them like I do." Joanne hurried after him, not believing what she was hearing. "But . . . but she's not like that! She's never done this before. She's a good mother—" "Sure, right, then where is she?" He had the storm door open now, holding it against the wind. "Aren't you going to help us? What am I going to do?" "Look, lady, I'm a busy man. If you don't hear from her by, say, tomorrow night, call back and we'll start the wheels. But she'll be back, believe me. And yeah, sure," he said, holding up his hand to stop her from saying anything more, "go ahead and call the hospitals if it'll make you feel better." He let the door slam behind him. Joanne watched him stomp past the open gate, wrestle with the locked car door, and then roar away from the curb. The car's tail end skidded widely before he managed to right it, and suddenly Joanne felt dizzy, like she too was in the car being sped away from everything safe and good and true. She snapped the locks on the door and leaned her head against the cold of the narrow window beside it, trying to ignore the panic rising in her throat. Then she heard a little sniff behind her. She turned to see Tyler watching her, his lower lip quivering and his eyes very dark. "Oh, Tyler," she said as she hugged him against her leg, rubbing his dark messy hair. "It's OK, Tyler. It'll be OK. Come on. Let's get Emily up." He nodded gravely, let his racing cars fall on the carpet, and followed her into Emily's bedroom. As Joanne cut up apples for the kids' snack, she checked the kitchen clock every couple minutes. She had decided that she would get the kids occupied with Emily's blocks in the living room, and then start calling the hospitals. Suddenly the kids stopped chattering. They had heard it. A key was turning in the lock, and the front door was being pushed open. They watched as Rose turned back to wave and then closed the door behind her. Tyler and Emily yelled "Mummy" and "'Osie" in unison, and ran to her and each wrapping themselves around one of her legs. She crouched down and kissed them both, nearly toppling over as they hugged her from both sides. "Oh, Rose, Rose! Are you OK?" Joanne shouted over the children's laughter. Rose shrugged, making a so-so gesture with the hand that had been rubbing Tyler's back. She stood up and each child grabbed one of her hands and, still hopping and chattering, tried to pull her into the kitchen. Rose laughed, pulling her hands away so she could take off her coat and boots, and brush the snow off her hair. They led her to the spot where Sergeant Montigny had sat, and she dropped down heavily. She kissed them again, and told them to take their apples and go watch TV for a little while. For the first time, Joanne didn't object. Joanne made them a pot of tea, got her Kleenex box, and sat down across from Rose who was shivering as she wrapped both hands around the mug, hunching over to breathe in the sweet steam. "The kids are great, eh?" "Well, yes, but . . . , " Joanne said as she blew her nose. Rose slouched down in her seat so she could rest her head on the wall behind her. She rubbed her forehead, took a sip and reached for a cookie from the plate still sitting in the centre of the table. "Weird, this cookie's wet," she said as she put it back and felt the others. "Joanne, they're all kinda wet, and it looks like pepper or something on them—" "Never mind the cookies!" Joanne said as she took them and dumped them into the garbage. "Just tell me what happened! Where were you?" "OK, OK." She sat up a bit straighter. "There isn't much to tell. Like I told you, I went over to see my sister at my cousin's place. We talked and stuff, and then they ordered Chinese food, but I only had a little bit as I didn't feel so good. Still don't. I have this damned headache, and now my throat is really sore! Anyway, the others had a few beers, but I didn't. Don't look at me like that. I didn't. Honest! "Then around midnight I went to lay down, and I guess I just fell asleep. Sometime in the night I woke up, and I felt really bad. I threw up a couple times, and somebody else was sick too—I guess it was that Chinese food. When I woke up again, it was ten o'clock, and I still didn't feel so good." She rubbed the ridge along her eyebrows, and Joanne noticed the darkness around her eyes. She handed Rose a bottle of Aspirin from the cupboard above the fridge. "Thanks." She took two, and Joanne put the bottle back. "Then my sister wanted to talk to me, eh? 'cause Charlie, her husband back home, is pretty sick. He's got cancer, and Louise doesn't know what to do: let him stay at home in Red Lake and die there—that's what he wants—or move him to Kenora for some sorta treatment that probably won't work anyway. So Louise and me, we went out for breakfast—well, she did; I couldn't eat anythin'—but we talked, and then we went back and she packed her bag and left. And now here I am." "But, Rose, why didn't you let me know? Why didn't you call me?" "I called this morning, but you weren't home. And I tried again around twelve-thirty but your line was busy. Besides, my sister needed me. I knew you'd take good care of Tyler. You'd let him read Emily's books and play with Emily's blocks, and you'd feed him porridge, right? And I'll bet you all went to that workshop, whatever it was, too, eh?" Rose smiled sadly. She stopped for a few seconds, fiddling with the mushy cookie. "Jeez, Joanne, it was only a few hours. You know I'd do the same for you and Emily." The wind was louder now, whining and whistling in the chimney. Joanne and Rose both shivered. "But Rose, I was worried," she said. "I thought maybe something had happened to you so I phoned the police, and—" "What? You called the police?" Joanne signalled her to hush, so Rose dropped her voice to a hissing whisper. "Joanne, are you crazy?" "But I didn't know where you were! You've never done this before. You could've been in a car accident, or, or, attacked, or I don't know. I thought I should do something." "You called the police on me? But I thought we were just like family! We live in the same house, look after each other's kids . . ." "But Rose . . ." "I knew Tyler'd be safe with you and Em, and he was! He was with you! And he's just a little kid! How can a little kid be such a problem?" "But, but I didn't know if you were safe or what! Besides . . . " Rose now spoke very slowly. "What did you think the police would do, Joanne? Did you think you were on TV where the police send sixteen cars every time someone calls for help? I can't believe you called the police on me." She turned and stared out the window past the cookbooks and Emily's kaleidoscope piled on the sill. A branch of an old bush scritched against the pane. "Oh, what's the difference? You just don't get it. You with all your books and your education and your courses and your church and your fancy lawyer ex-husband, and you don't have a clue. So now I'm in shit for abandoning Tyler. Great." "No, no." Joanne was quick. "You're not. It's all right. It's me he's mad at, not you. They aren't going to do anything because . . . well, he said they wouldn't, I mean, they don't when . . . " Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What do you mean, Joanne?" Rose sat up straight and leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?" "Well, he said he didn't really think it would be necessary, in the circumstances. He, uh, said I shouldn't worry because, because . . . " Joanne stopped. "Wait a minute. Wait a damned minute. Is this something to do with being Indian? Are you telling me that he isn't doing anything because I'm probably just another drunken Indian, that I'm not in trouble because I'm not worth takin' any trouble for? Is that it?" Her eyes were bright with tears. "Didn't you try 'n tell him? Or," her smile was sad and bitter, "or, is that what you think too?" "No, Rose, I don't. I . . ." but Rose had turned away again, again staring straight out at the snow-covered garden. Suddenly, Emily started to wail. Both women looked back. As soon as the children saw their mother's faces, they let go of each other's hands and ran. Tyler tucked himself under his mother's outstretched arm, and Emily buried her head in her mother's lap. Rose stood up. "Come on, Tyler, get your stuff. We're going home." In the hallway, she stopped and dug in her pocket for Joanne's key. She carefully put it in the little dish on the hall table before closing the door behind them. Joanne started to call after her, but no words came out. If there was a right thing to do or say, if ever there were right things to do or say, Joanne had no idea what they were. |
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