Sleepers and Ties, page 5
Before training as a curator, I had similar experiences, years ago, as a novice archivist/conservator at the museum. Because we are a small museum, many of our tasks still overlap. Then, I couldn’t help filling in an historical life story around the objects that had come into the museum’s possession. My boss, Hetty, was more patient then and had said it wasn’t an unusual thing to do. A healthy connection to artifacts, from their origin to their donor, instilled diligence in their management and preservation, but Hetty had cautioned on losing objectivity. Observing me, she’d said that it could be time consuming, unproductive, and distracting at best. In the extreme, in the cleaning, researching, documenting, and placing of museum artifacts, there was the possibility that conservators might temporarily lose themselves in objects if they didn’t pay attention to their own lives. Even misrepresent displays. She’d given the rare example of art restorers. After working on a painting for a long time, they could begin to think of it as their own creation, and perhaps subconsciously modify the colours or shading, ever so slightly, to leave their own mark. Best to maintain some distance. I know I have tried to cope with the grief of losing my only sibling, to try to connect, and give meaning to Shirley’s shortened life story through the objects with which she had surrounded herself. It is the only way I know how to lessen the guilt of not seeing fully who she was when she was alive.
I top up my coffee, sit in the chair opposite, close my eyes, and try to put some context into the last few days. I’ve had half a year to get to Saskatchewan to settle my sister’s estate. I’ve told myself that, once here, I’d just have to sign a bunch of papers, blow through like the wind, and maybe then I could get back to the life I’ve put on hold.
My sister died in British Columbia, while owning the last fifty acres of our grandparents’ Saskatchewan homestead; the law dictates the will probate has to be settled in the provincial court of her last residence, and then resealed in the province where the land was owned. It doesn’t have anything to do with beneficiaries. It is the land that has held up my ridding myself of all attachments to our shared past.
That, and now the letter that is sitting next to an empty glass of water. I’ve read it so many times now that I can nearly recite it from memory.
I am writing this letter in case something bad should happen to me. Did she expect something ‘bad’ to happen? Are there other things she’s kept from me? Is there medical information that she’d known about, but didn’t tell anyone? Something that might affect me or the boys?
For the last few years. Last few years? Hadn’t she only mentioned it when we were sorting mom’s things? I have dreamed of reviving a rail line like the one that Dad believed in. What did she remember that I didn’t about the kind of railway Dad believed in? Why now?
Many years ago, I was talked into investing some money on the advice of a friend and forgot about it. You don’t say? Remember the fellow you called a self-centered schemer? What the heck was his name? Turned out he knew what he was talking about, at least where potash was concerned. Did he ever? I don’t know the exact amount that has accumulated in the account. Well, it’s over eight million. If you are reading this, it means I have not been able to see it through. I know you will finish what I started. How do you know? This was your crazy idea. It has nothing to do with me.
There is a knock on the door. I open it fiercely, and then both the housekeeping person and I jump back, each of us surprised by the other. I apologize, she apologizes, and then asks if now is a convenient time to make up the room. I send the young woman away with a twenty-dollar bill, saying that for as long as I occupy the room, she needn’t check on me, cleaning isn’t necessary, and that I will ring for fresh towels if I need them. She hands me the complimentary newspaper.
June 12, 2007. The front-page headline is all about the province’s boom. POW, bold, large font across the page. Potash, Oil, Wheat: ‘How The Have-Not Province Came to be The Have-Province.’ The second page contains a comparison of property prices throughout the province over the past century.
In the papers I’ve brought with me, just in case, is the original land title for my grandparents’ land. They had bravely left Great Britain never to return, and bought their homestead from the Canadian Government in 1910 for $100.00. Land as far as the eye could see.
As is my habit, I turn first to the international section. There is more on yesterday’s story about the train crash in the Lake District in England, and the train owners blaming the ageing railways, stating there was nothing wrong with the train. It was a ‘points’ failure. The spokesman for the rail line didn’t know when the tracks had been laid or last inspected. I cut out the piece for Adam. It has never occurred to me that the people who own the trains don’t also take care of the tracks. The writer of the piece explains that ‘points’ are also known as ‘switches,’ the place where the train can move from one line of track to another.
Music from the hotel’s garden distracts me. A band is now setting up and tuning their instruments. If the weather stays warm, there might be a good turnout. I take my coffee cup from the windowsill, rinse it, and put it back on the tray where the coffee cups are meant to be. In the desk drawer, I find a notepad, its letterhead a replica of the hotel, and begin to make a list. Land taxes, Massy, Adam, go back to Hall, ashes. I number the items in order of importance, scratch them out and renumber, draw a few arrows pointing off the page, and then write, long hot bath, sleep. I step over one shoe, and am looking for the other under the bed skirt when the telephone rings.
‘Miss me already?’ I ask, anticipating Jake wanting to continue the discussion about the money.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Massy.’ I look out of the window, as if my old friend is in the garden looking up. ‘How are you? How did you reach me here?’
‘Had a hunch you might stay there,’ Massy says. ‘I half expected you last night.’
Her voice still retains the quality of being on the dolce edge of laughter. Everything else about a person changes, I believe, but not their voice. Every voice has its own individual pitch, scale, and tempo. Effected as much by the amplification through the heart or stirred with gall, as by the size of vocal chords or body mass. ‘I didn’t say I would be out there first thing, did I?’
‘No, no. Just thought you might be. It was a great sunset and we could have watched it from the deck.’
I smile, wonder if anyone ever turns away lamenting, what a crappy sunset. ‘I was tired after the trip and had several things to do here, so I’ve had early nights. I didn’t know the Jazz Festival was on.’
‘Yes. Tis the festival season. Jazz, book, folk, fringe. Think that’s the order.’
I walk over to the room-service tray of the night before and pick up a sliver of celery, all that remains of last night’s salad.
‘What are your plans?’ Massy asks.
‘I’ve seen the lawyer, but I’ve got to go back.’
‘Is he dragging another visit out of you? That greedy bastard.’
‘No, it was my fault. Something unexpected came up and it threw me for a loop. We have to finish up a couple of things. I think he said something about me taking back the land from the land trust and selling it.’
‘Of course, and then he could collect a tidy finder’s fee.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. So, what else do you have to do in the city, and when can I expect you?’
‘I’ve just been reading the paper.’
‘It’s a gorgeous day. Why are you holed up in that hotel room? Wait. What am I saying? You have a hotel room all to yourself? I’ll see you in a few days. Order room service.’
I’ve missed Massy’s chattiness. Her breezy company always pulls me into the present. How she stayed so upbeat married to Stan, I’ll never understand. I brush my hand over the Damask curtains.
‘I’m not going to spend days in this room.’
The newspaper is spread open on the bed. I turn the pages. I don’t know why I lie.
‘I’ve just had a bath, and I was looking through the real estate section of the paper. I can’t believe the jump in house prices—anyone who wants to come home will be welcomed with open arms. Lots of jobs, and the farmers’ market will be open now every Saturday and Wednesday evenings.’
‘Don’t get the paper out here. What else?’
‘More on yesterday’s train crash. In England. Not good. Arguments on whose fault it was. What are you up to today?’
‘My daughter-in-law just brought over two flats of strawberries and I am up to my elbows red. You eaten yet? There is a great breakfast buffet downstairs. My usual Mother’s Day spread.’
The smell of bacon and toast wafts from several floors below. ‘The kitchen must be on the same side as my room.’ The band is tuning their instruments.
‘How are the boys?’ Massy asks. ‘I suppose you’ve asked if they’d like the last bit of land.’
I picture my sons’ faces. I wish that one of them had expressed interest in overseeing stewardship of their great-grandparents homestead. But that option was never presented. When I disagreed with Mom on donating the land to the Very Land Trust, that was the end of the talk about the land. When I joined Shirley to place our mother’s ashes next to our father’s, Jake had been too busy to accompany us, and my three sons had given their own reasons for not being unable to make a pilgrimage to their grandmother’s final resting place.
Robert had phoned. ‘The company is sending me to Japan. Not the best time.’
‘It’s crunch time with the PhD, and I’d like to remember Jean the way she was,’—this in a Skype from Russ, studying environmental politics in Montreal.
And Ryan, our youngest, happily following his latest girlfriend around the globe, discovering cultures, and picking up work when he could find it, had offered, ‘I miss Gran, but she made the right decision giving the land over to conservation, so now you can, too. Let it go, Mom. Post some pictures.’
My sons are looking forward through a telescope. How clear the present and future is for them. It seems to me that all I’ve done lately is look back through a magnifying glass.
‘And Jake, how’s Jake?’ Massy shouts, sounding as if she has switched to the speakerphone.
‘They’re all fine.’ I consider telling her about Shirley’s letter, but think it better to do so in person.
The band below is improvising, but I can’t make out the song.
‘Can you hear that?’ I hold the phone to the open window. ‘The band is warming up.’
‘Might be noisy tonight. After the berries, I’m going to pull some weeds. Get out my binoculars and scan the horizon for the lovely Mr. Oak’s return.’
‘Every year, you tell me the Englishman has returned, but somehow your paths never cross. I’m beginning to think he is just a figment of your literary imagination.’
‘Oh, he’s real alright. I saw the backside of him interviewed on our local television station, came into the room too late to see his face. Looks very fit. He was pointing out the pelicans at Plover Lake.’
‘Just drive out there. Plant yourself at the water’s edge and wait.’
‘I couldn’t do that. When might you arrive?’
‘Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow?’
‘I can’t wait. I thought you’d prefer the guestroom downstairs. It will be cool for sleeping.’
‘Please, don’t fuss.’ She is expecting me to spend the night. I leave off saying that I am uncomfortable with the idea of staying in the house that Massy and Stan shared. I am reserving my right to change my mind at the last minute.
‘Okay. See you whenever then. If I’m not here, the dogs are nosy, but friendly.’
‘I forgot about the dogs.’
There is a long pause, and I’m not sure if I should hang up or wait for Massy to do so.
‘We’ll be all right, Margaret.’
I assume Massy is referring to our both coming through grief and not an observation after all these years that our relationship has managed along because we have both avoided talk or analysis about the past.
‘I know.’
‘Margaret.’
‘Yes?’
‘Get outside. Go breathe the land. Don’t put things off, like you usually do.’
‘I am heading down to breakfast, right now.’
‘I’ve missed you. Bye then.’
‘See you soon.’
My eye catches the room service menu. My stomach growls. I find the luncheon offerings and run my finger over the selections. A blast of cool air comes down from the ceiling, then hiccoughs to a rhythmic flow of air. The rehearsal on the old Earl’s lawn is a burst of drumbeats, the guitarist repeating a riff, and the bass player cranking his amplifier. Nothing poncy. I close the window, gather up the box of ashes, and gently place them back into the carry-on. Then I slip back under the covers.
8. TOKEN
There is no getting around it. After a quick phone call, Hall is more than anxious to fit me in between appointments.
‘We won’t be charging for this one,’ his secretary assures.
A good-will token, or a bargaining chip?
This time Hall is wearing a navy blazer, over what appears to be the same shirt and trousers as when we first met.
In a pitiful tone, he almost whispers, ‘I imagine the news of the residue of Shirley’s estate, and the letter she wrote to you were quite a bit to take in.’
I don’t get an apology. He is perched on his desk with a folder in his hand.
‘I had the accounting firm send over all of the details of the eight million since it was deposited. You’ll find everything in order.’
I quickly skim the columns of dates and monthly deposits of interest. What they say is true, it takes money to make money.
‘I’d like you to think about something regarding the land your mother gave over to the land trust. I’ve studied the fine print, and there is the possibility of your taking it back and putting it on the market.’
This makes absolutely no sense to me. ‘My understanding is that I cannot take back the land my mother donated to an organization which seeks to leave fertile land dormant and unproductive. It was handed over to this organization with no obligation for accountability. I’ve gotten used to the idea.’
I shrug and smile, try to counteract my churlish tone, but all this back and forth is just slowing everything down.
‘Technically, dormant would be inaccurate. It’s more about preservation, restoration, protecting the natural diversity. But as your mother donated the land such a short time ago, and you and your sister were the direct heirs, there is a time sensitive provision for heirs to reconsider the donation.’
I lean over the desk to a heavy block of potash holding down several folders, scrape my fingernail over the surface, and rub the salt between my thumb and forefinger.
‘I don’t think I want to go there.’
‘Well, land prices are good, and if you combine it with the left over fifty acres your mother retained that runs beside the old railway line, you could have a tidy sum of money.’
‘You’ve just handed me the accounts for eight million dollars.’
‘You used the words dormant and unproductive. Contributing to the breadbasket of the world, sort of thing, I sense is something that is meaningful to you. If the land were sold to a good farmer, it could go back to being productive.’
He’s partially correct. I love the wildness of the West Coast forests, but too late I had disagreed with Mom giving away the land and allowing nature to take its course. My grandparents had turned sod into fertile fields, picked rocks, pulled out stumps to create wheat fields—bread—survived the Dirty Thirties. Undoing that process seemed to make their lives, their work misspent or meaningless. I’d always judged my mother as someone more attached to the past, but she must have had a good reason for her actions.
‘I have a farmer interested in that entire property. Excellent operation. I’ve done some work for him and his brother in the past. In fact, he probably would have bought it from your mother, if she hadn’t donated it to The Saskatchewan Very Land Trust. Or the VLT as it is referred to for short.’
I wonder if Hall would find this amusing. When Jean first spoke of the VLT, the acronym also for video lottery terminal, I assumed she was about to summarize another afternoon at the casino. She’d won small amounts of pocket money and had taken to going one or two afternoons a week. Hence, my initial ignorance. My mind had strayed to the events of my own work day. I didn’t pay attention, and I never suspected she might want to open a discussion on land conservancy. I had heard, but I had not listened.
Hall pages through an address book, and then tries to wake his computer. ‘Would you like me to get him on the phone?’
‘Him?’
‘The fella interested in the land.’
I wonder if Shirley hadn’t passed, if she would have gotten rid of that last fifty acres. They just seem like unfinished business, more paperwork left over from mom’s estate. I certainly don’t want the boys to have to deal with it in the future.
‘I don’t know,’ I defer. ‘What about that other business? Do you know of anyone resurrecting a short-line railway? Anything will do.’
‘One of my legal interns carried out the obligatory inquiry. Oh, and before I forget.’
