The Second Life of Samuel Tyne (10 page)

“Yvette?” she said, but no answer came.

The next morning, while Chloe showered and Ama helped Mrs. Tyne with the breakfast dishes, Yvette came in to beg her mother for new clothes.

Mrs. Tyne wiped her hands on her thighs. “After the stunt you pulled yesterday? What do you expect me to say to that?”

“But I’m tired of looking like Chloe, like some nondescript goof,” said Yvette.

Mrs. Tyne seemed impressed by the use of the word “nondescript.” “Give me a single good reason.”

“I thought you wanted daughters. Don’t you want me to dress more like a lady? More like her?” Yvette gestured to Ama, who felt a thrill of pleasure. Her cheeks reddened. “In our era it seems more necessary than ever to clearly define gender. Otherwise, you leave me open to censure and the prospect of unmarriageability. Who knows? I might be driven to throw myself on the pyre of parliament. I might actually thwart the divine comforts of housewife-hood and become prime minister. And where would that leave me?”

Mrs. Tyne looked at her daughter. She was too surprised by Yvette’s sudden articulate outburst, her erudition and splendid vocabulary, to sense the insult in the girl’s comment. “You’re a piece of work. I’ll think about it.”

That evening, when the girls retired to their rooms, Yvette and Ama discovered a package on Yvette’s bed. Tearing it open, Yvette sat back, astonished at the colourful, frilly dresses that fell from it. There were five in all, with matching underwear, and even a single, unadorned training bra. The bra mortified twelve-year-old Yvette.

Ama sat beside her on the bed, and whispered, “I’ve started wearing one, too.”

Yvette gave her a look of such disgust that Ama went back to her side of the room. But Ama wasn’t offended; she knew how insecure Yvette was. Yvette flung the bra on the floor, and stepping from her old clothes into the new, she sampled dress after dress, twisting in front of the dresser mirror. Ama rested her head against her knees and watched.

Mrs. Tyne appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Like them?”

Chloe coughed in the Iron Lung, and Yvette looked warily at the wall separating the rooms. Ama said, “They’re beautiful.”

Mrs. Tyne walked up and ruffled Ama’s hair. “Gorgeous, aren’t they? But you’ve got some just like them.”

Ama nodded, enjoying Mrs. Tyne’s attention. The older woman exuded that motherly smell of laundry and clean skin.

Even in striking reproductions, Chloe could never have embodied the grace these clothes gave to her sister. Like love, they called all Yvette’s beauty to the surface. Mrs. Tyne even forgot herself for a moment and exclaimed, “You’re as beautiful as Ama now!” She’d used a good deal of what remained of her savings to buy them. Ama and Mrs. Tyne oohed and ahed so much that Yvette begged her mother to let her show them off outside.

“You want to go for a walk
now?”
Mrs. Tyne admonished, but anyone could see she was pleased to have finally done right in her daughter’s eyes. “Okay, but just for a few minutes. I’ll go get Chloe.”

“No,” said Yvette in a voice that darkened a little. “Just us three.”

Mrs. Tyne shrugged. “All right.” Gathering the dresses off the floor, she noticed the bra. “How about this?” she asked her daughter, almost shyly.

Yvette’s face became cold. “I don’t see what you’re referring to.”

“This. The bra.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see anything. Let’s just go.”

Exasperated, but still in high spirits, Mrs. Tyne ushered them downstairs and into the streets. Despite dusk’s descent, the pavement was still warm. Not a trace of that burning plastic smell remained in the air. They walked up and down MacDonald Street, almost vacant at this hour, returning home in a joking mood.

They entered the girls’ bedroom to find the dresses cut to shreds on the floor.

Mrs. Tyne looked as though she would cry. Ama wasn’t entirely surprised. Either truly upset, or because she could get away with it, Yvette screamed at the top of her lungs.

Mr. Tyne appeared in the doorway, breathless. He had obviously been napping, for the skin around his eyes swelled, and he looked bewildered. The buttons of his vest were wrongly fastened, as though he’d stopped to do it up. This detail surprised Ama.

Samuel looked once at the clothes on the floor, once at their faces, and shaking his head, he proclaimed: “Young Tragedy and Comedy are at it again.” He left, thinking only,
Maud’s been hiding money on me
.

Mrs. Tyne stormed out of the room. In the silence they could hear her confronting Chloe. Dragging her by the arm, she pushed her into the centre of the girls’ room and forced her to look at her scraps, as though disciplining a dog.

“Do you know how much this cost?” she said. Her anguish had no effect on Chloe, who stared indifferently at the pile. Mrs. Tyne grabbed Yvette’s arm and drew the two together. “You two have to learn to get along.” And nonsensically pushing both into bed, she turned out the light and shut the door with a slam.

No one spoke. The tension made Ama’s skin itch. Nervous, she opened the door and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Sitting on the cracked toilet seat, she stared at the red bath-mat. The Tyne house seemed crazy, full of conflict and hatred and things she couldn’t understand. She checked her thoughts, feeling she was being judgmental. Certainly things here were odd, but wouldn’t others make the same judgements about her own house? She washed her face and returned to the room.

It was moist and hot, and she could hear the twins breathing in the darkness. Slipping into her cot, she prayed they wouldn’t attack her, or each other, or do any of the other drastic things she believed them capable of. Clenching her teeth, she fell asleep only to wake four hours later with a feeling of dread in her chest. The room was close and musky, but she felt no presence in the room.

“Yvette?” Ama turned on her bedside light.

On the floor lay the dress Yvette had worn on their walk. It had been severed, its pieces entangled with the white bra, which had also been destroyed. The twins’ beds were empty.

chapter
TEN

A
ster’s town hall sat on its outskirts like a kind of afterthought. Built with its back to the town, it loomed huge and vacant, surrounded by spruce and birch. Certain buildings have something human about them; attempts to revive the hall had only made it look older. The paint flaked away. The wood creaked. Woodlice devoured the foundations. Anthills rose like piles of sawdust around it. To the right of the doors sat two adjacent baseball diamonds, where the old legendary team used to play. The fields were derelict now, the grass a blond colour, the fences sagging and rusted. Only a nearby grove of sweet-smelling cedars gave the area any beauty.

Under the building’s eaves, a painted board proclaimed: A
STER
C
ULTURAL
C
ENTRE
. A Canadian flag gleamed underneath it, impervious to the rain and wind that had so aged the hall. Ray Frank parked abruptly behind a second red truck, fingering a cigarette in his chest pocket.

“It’ll be a big one tonight,” he said.

“You bet,” said Eudora.

Maud sat between them. For the duration of the drive, Eudora had felt it necessary to lean across Maud’s lap whenever she had anything to say to Ray. Not only that, but with Eudora being so obese, the cab was only large enough for three, so that Maud constantly turned in her seat to make sure the children, tossed around in the pick-up’s open back, weren’t falling out.

When Ray helped the girls down, Maud checked them for scratches.

“Oh, Maud, you’re too much of a worrywart,” said Eudora. “Kids are the most durable thing in the world.”

Maud wished Samuel had come. He’d made excuses about being behind on his commissions, but Maud knew he just didn’t care about anything beyond himself. To be fair, Samuel actually was behind on his business. But what he didn’t tell Maud, what he didn’t wish to, was that meeting the mayor had left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He’d taken the car and gone to his shop.

Inside, the hall was bright and almost modern, and someone had strung streamers across the stage, as though for a festive occasion. A long white table of sweet drinks and finger foods flanked the left side, while at the right a row of elderly women tended coffee and baked goods. Underneath the wonderful smells ran that scent of mothballs that haunted each building in Aster. An antique piano sat in shadow by the farthest entrance door. Maud was surprised at the sheer multitude of people.

Rows of bright-orange chairs had been set up, and the seats nearest the stage were taken. The Franks and the Tynes negotiated the crowd, Ray nodding at every few people, or Eudora stopping to say an enthusiastic hello. There were so many people that it was difficult to hear anything distinct. Maud kept looking behind her to make sure the children followed; only when they’d found seats did she feel at ease. Crowds had always been a challenge for her, especially the mix of crowds and children. Tying her sweater around her waist, she sat down.

“What are you doing?” said Eudora, smiling. “It’s mingling time, time to meet everyone, gossip a little.” Her cheeks were red from the heat in the room. “How long have you lived in this town, and you don’t know anyone?”

Ordering the girls to stay put, Maud followed Eudora, who whisked her into a group of three old women whose beige sweaters and faded features made them difficult to tell apart.

“Oh, hello.” Nervous, Maud shook their hands. When she gave her name, none of them understood.

“Nah, Joanie, it’s
Maud,”
said Eudora, her smile revealing her jutting tooth. “Maud Tyne,” she enunciated.

“Oh,
Maud!”
said the woman on the end, whose sweater parted to reveal an almost concave chest. “Well, that’s easy!”

“I’ve never been too good with accents,” said the woman closest to Maud. Maud studied the good-natured face, the eyes colourless with age, the veins unconcealed by fragile skin. The woman was so obviously from a different era that Maud refused to take umbrage.

“I’ve heard about you,” said the woman in the centre. She wore a pair of telescopic glasses, which gave her an inquisitive air. “You’re old Tyne’s daughter. That Jacob who used to live out on Porter’s land.”

“Porter? No, it was Jacob’s own. And I’m not his daughter—my husband’s his nephew.”

A surprised murmur passed between the three women.

“I’ll be damned!” said the old one closest to Maud. “Learn something new every day.”

Eudora seized Maud’s hand. “I’m taking her off now, girls. We’ll talk later.”

When they’d gone a little ways, Maud said,
“Porter’s
land?”

“Eloise is a bit senile.”

Eudora dragged Maud to meet group after group, most also failing to understand her accent, which, in truth, she knew was hardly noticeable.

“Like Eloise said, not too many outsiders come in,” said Eudora. “Oh, look, there’s Ray.” When Eudora waved, the skin under her arm swayed. Ray walked to the microphone, and a little too officiously, he insisted people take their seats.

Maud found the girls where she’d left them. “Any new discoveries since I left?” she said.

Ama shrugged, while the twins exchanged glances.

“Sorry,” said Chloe in an imperious voice. “I can’t understand your accent.”

Maud was shocked. “Sometimes you two behave like two-year-olds!”

The look of hurt on the twins’ faces made Maud angry with herself. Though in general a strict woman, she rarely belittled her children. Feeling guilty, she turned a little away from them in her seat. The woman on her right noticed this and used the opportunity to introduce herself.

“Tara Chodzicki,” she smiled. “Said, ‘Shud-it-sky,’ but spelled C-H-O-D-Z-I-C-K-I. These Asterians have problems with my name, too. I’ve heard about you. So glad you could finally come out.” And taking the thin, aristocratic hand, Maud felt relieved. She made small talk with the woman until Eudora reached across the children and seized her thigh.

Appalled, Maud moved her a leg a little, smiling nervously.

Eudora set her lips. “I just wanted to tell you that Porter’s wife is by the south doors.” And without greeting Tara she faced the stage.

“His wife?” hissed Maud, and forgetting her own manners, she reached across the sullen children to touch Eudora’s arm. “All this time he’s had a wife? And she wasn’t Christian enough to call on me?”

Eudora looked amused. “Well, she’s
not
Christian. First one died, the man goes all the way to India for the second one. But shh, it’s starting.”

Maud craned her neck. A tall, well-built woman stood at the rear doors, half of her face obscured by a kente headdress. So she was from Gold Coast too! Seeing her skin, it was easy to see how Eudora had mistaken her for an Indian. She was the colour of weak tea, slightly darker at the joints, with full, blood-coloured lips. Maud strained to see the woman’s eyes.

“Welcome, welcome everyone,” boomed Ray’s voice through the loudspeaker. He looked dwarfed by the huge stage. “You all know me, but I’ll introduce myself to any newcomers.” He paused at the few claps. “I’m Raymond Frank, second to the mayor, and allow me to introduce the other people up here tonight, who, if you don’t know, you should. At the end we have Constable Robert Parry.”

An apprehensive man stood up, blinking in every direction. Instinct told Maud he must be at least forty, but he had that look of preserved innocence women seek to protect and men take advantage of.

“Wilma Flint, on our security council.”

Stocky and self-possessed, Ms. Flint waved with great condescension. She sat down long before the clapping came to an end.

“She acts like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” muttered Eudora.

Ray went on to introduce two nondescript men before he got to the mayor. Maud couldn’t believe her eyes. The mayor could not have stood any taller than five feet, and if the brusque way he moved was supposed to conjure height, it only made him look shorter. He had an old-plains moustache and richly pomaded hair. Maud imagined him smelling of fresh tobacco, maybe even lavender oil. He looked like a working-class man trying to play the aristocrat.

Ray lowered the microphone for him. The mayor beamed, his oily skin radiating warmth. “Great to see you this evening. As Asterians, we all have a right to know what’s going on in our town, and to know that government is not in the hands of a few elect, but is everyone’s business.”

He paused for the ecstatic clapping and few appreciative calls. Maud looked around, startled.

“As you know, the most pressing matter of business is the fire at Thorpe’s Diner. But as we expect this to take some time to discuss, we’d like to get other matters out of the way first. Let’s start the open forum.”

People from the crowd rose and, approaching the microphones, discussed everything from whether a building permit was needed to erect a fence to the unseemly number of stray cats lately plaguing Aster.

Next, parking regulations. When that order of business was settled, a coalition stood to lobby in favour of Article 9, which restricted people from making changes to any town property without consulting an elected Board for Historical Preservation. The minority coalition, who’d prepared notes, rose to state why such a thing was not only unfeasible, but bordered on immoral.

“No one should support this article,” said a man with unnaturally large ears, craning so close to the microphone they could hear him breathe. “It’s a load of crap.”

Maud couldn’t believe the energy people put into their arguments.

“All right, all right, enough discussion,” said the mayor, at last fed up with everyone’s pettiness. He cleared his throat. “Thorpe’s was very dear to us all, and has been with us twenty-three years, a cherished, welcoming place.”

Yvette shot Ama a look.

“We are extremely lucky no one was hurt. And Thorpe’s will be restored, but we must think of our future.” He gripped the podium. “This is our fourth fire in almost as many months. We must give this a long, hard looking-over. We cannot allow what happened in Athabasca in 1913 to happen here. We cannot allow our entire town, our businesses, our
lives
, to be destroyed by fire.” Recovering his gentle voice, he said, “Please welcome Constable Parry.”

People seemed confused over whether to clap or not. Stepping awkwardly from his seat, Constable Parry approached the microphone almost with fear. He tapped it, hesitating. “Thank you, Mayor Gould. Everything you’ve said is true—we cannot allow what happened in Athabasca to happen here. We must protect our businesses, our homes, our lives.” He breathed a laugh. “Now, I can’t discuss the specifics, obviously, except to warn you that these were not so-called acts of God. We do have a possible arsonist, that’s unconfirmed, who may or may not be a townsperson, who may or may not even be an Albertan. What we
don’t
need is … what, what we don’t need …”

The constable raised his head, as did the entire audience, at the music filling the room. It was a whimsical aria, played on the high register of the antique piano, a variation with so many notes it was dizzying to listen to. The swift, piercing notes rose and fell over each other. The longer it went on, the more people strained in their chairs to see who was playing. Maud paused, stricken. Sitting on the piano bench was Chloe.

She hadn’t even realized the girl had left her seat. More bewildering was that neither twin had taken a single piano lesson, neither Maud nor Samuel knew how to play, and yet Chloe’s playing was so dexterous it seemed the product of years of study.

Tara Chodzicki nodded along with the music, tapping a finger on her knee. “Bach,” she said to Maud, smiling.

Maud rose from her seat and walked to the piano. Placing a firm hand on Chloe’s shoulder, Maud hesitated before the staring audience, whispering to the girl, “I think we should go back to our seats now.” With complete indifference, Chloe closed the lid of the piano and followed Maud up the aisle back to their chairs. When Chloe was firmly seated between her sister and Ama, Maud nodded in general apology to the audience, bowing a little. From the back doors, Porter’s wife stared at her, and Maud imagined she saw contempt. Blood rushed to her face.

People murmured to each other. Ray frowned, walking around on stage as though he did not know what to do with himself. The mayor nodded at the constable to continue, and clearing his voice, he said, “As I was saying, what we don’t need in this town is a witch hunt.”

A man in dungarees near the front stood up. “I heard this fire was different from the others. Like it started differently.”

The mayor took the microphone from the startled constable. “Open forum is finished, Mr. Jennings. Please be seated.”

Another wave of muttering went through the room, and Ray made no attempt to hide his anxiety. Maud was mortified. Even Eudora seemed to regard Chloe with apprehension.

Maud was aware of an aversion growing in her, an inability to even look at Chloe, and her guilt over it made her cheeks burn. “Sorry,” she said in a soft voice, but to no one in particular.

“Oh, dear, we know.” Tara Chodzicki placed a cold hand on Maud’s arm. It was as though the woman had known embarrassment and grief, and gently sought to tell her so.

Eudora shot Maud a look. She turned and continued to listen to the constable’s speech, which had weakened and digressed. He was so green a public speaker he couldn’t overcome being interrupted. He sputtered, calling on the people to be vigilant, but not overly so, to report any “strange business,” to “do their bit in the way of good Samaritans.” When he finally stepped back from the microphone, his hands were so white from clutching it that those seated as far back as the twelfth row noticed they glowed like ice.

When the meeting ended, Maud rose to leave as quickly as possible. Tara Chodzicki, her earrings swinging like horseflies about her cheeks, touched Maud’s shoulder.

“It’s so rare to hear the piano played with such talent, especially Bach, and especially by one so young,” she said, with a great deal of breath in her voice. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I used to teach at a conservatory. I should very much like to have the chance, of course, providing she’s not already in someone else’s hands, to train that little girl. I know you were embarrassed, but really, she’s quite astonishing.”