After You've Gone Page 7

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “Aw, c’mon, Lita. Have some fun with me, here. We could get a brand new Packard. And I’d buy you one of those guitars like Django plays. That fourteen-hole, oval fret job you were talking about.”

  There we were, on our wedding night, a seventeen-year-old and a twenty-one-year-old, drinking champagne for the first time, dreaming of what might lie ahead. I giggled. “That’s an oval hole, fourteen-fret Selmer. Sure, buy me a few of them. I’m looking forward to playing them.”

  “I’m looking forward to getting back to our room,” he said, running his chin back and forth over my knuckles.

  I was anxious, too, but glad to hear that he was. Sometimes I thought it was just me. “What’s the rush? We won’t be doing anything we haven’t already done before, will we?”

  “Maybe not. But I’m still looking forward to it.”

  On a cool October evening a couple of weeks later Mary MacInnes had us over for dinner. Bill had finally decided that it was time his mother met his wife. Although she was obviously aware that he’d moved out, he hadn’t got around to mentioning we were married yet, and had sworn Ian to secrecy.

  I was nervous, felt like I’d be under a magnifying glass. I tried to find out a little bit from Bill what his mother was like, so I’d have an idea what to expect. He was kind of vague, said she was sweet, old-fashioned, very traditional. Looking back, I’m not sure whether I should have read between the lines, or if that really was Bill’s assessment of her. Then again, how objective could he be about his own mother?

  “You know, for some reason I’m not afraid of what your mother will say,” I said on the drive over.

  “Why would you be afraid?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ll bet she’ll be furious with us.”

  “You need to get some courage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re afraid of so much, aren’t you? You’ve got stage fright. You’re afraid to stand up to people, like your mother, and Gus. You always worry about money, too, you’re afraid we won’t have enough. That’s a bad way to be.”

  “And I suppose you have courage.”

  “Sure. I mean, I’m not the bravest guy you’ll ever meet, but I don’t let little things scare me. I just don’t think about them. I think about something else, that’s all. You ought to try it sometime.”

  I was annoyed with him at first. What he said didn’t even make sense. What was brave about thinking about something else? Wasn’t that pretending? But on reflection, I couldn’t think of any situation in my life where I’d been particularly brave. Then I thought maybe he was right. Only I couldn’t see how I could do it, how I could change from a coward to being brave. Maybe I’d have to watch him and find out. Somehow, though, I didn’t really think that was the solution. We got up to the front steps of his mother’s house, and that was the end of that discussion.

  Bill unlocked the front door. “Mum? We’re here,” he called, as we took off our boots and coats.

  Mrs. MacInnes emerged from the kitchen, a small, square woman with faintly blue-tinged white hair and the same fair complexion as Bill. Her tiny, round, close-set eyes were pale blue, and deep wrinkles criss-crossed her skin. “You’re right on time. The roast’s just out of the oven.”

  “It smells wonderful. Mum, this is Lita.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, and shook my hand.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. MacInnes. You have a lovely home.” I wondered whether I’d be able to conceal my familiarity with it. It was impossible to look at it with new eyes, after spending half the summer there.

  Bill was right about his mother being old-fashioned and traditional. That was certainly the impression she wanted to give you, anyway. But even that first night, I sensed a phoniness about the woman. While we washed the dishes, she said, “When I was a girl, life was so much simpler. Back then we weren’t brought up to be working girls. And we never wore any makeup, didn’t need it in the slightest. We had chores and fresh air and sunshine to keep us lovely, and the boys didn’t mind one bit.”

  “How nice,” I replied through a full face of Max Factor. I could see how the sun had been a definite contributor to Mary MacInnes’ current looks. Hey, I thought, if people don’t want to wear makeup, that’s fine with me. But personally, I knew makeup was simply an enhancement of my good features on good days and the only thing that saved me from looking half-dead on bad ones.

  My new mother-in-law talked through the entire dinner about how her family, the Fletchers, came to Saskatchewan in the 1880s. Her parents were among the original settlers, she said. I was sure Henry Onespot’s family might have a bit of an argument with her on that. Then she said she didn’t know what the government had been thinking the last thirty or so years, didn’t they have any kind of immigration policies and did they let just anybody in?

  “Used to be, in my father’s day, they’d make sure the people they let in were hard-working, would be a credit to the country and contribute to the economy. Now I look at all these loafers they’ve let in and I just have to shake my head. They won’t work an honest day, but they expect the rest of us to provide for them. Put them to work, I say, let them sweep the streets if we have to feed them. Let them find out that a day’s work doesn’t hurt anyone. Those Bohunks they let in are no better than the Redskins.”

  Bohunks? Redskins? This was a sweet little old lady? I looked over at Bill for some kind of clue. Was she always like this, did the sherry bring out something mean in her? Unperturbed, he shoveled forkfuls of the bland meat and potatoes into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten all day. He probably hadn’t, either.

  Years later, I would have given the old bird a piece of my mind, would have asked her why she thought she and her kind were the only ones entitled to live like human beings. Back then, I was foolish and uncertain enough to say nothing. I didn’t want to offend her or Bill, so I sat there in silence. Then I nudged Bill, again, and finally he told his mother the news.

  Mary MacInnes came from a time and a place where ladies didn’t show their anger, or at least that’s what I’m sure she told herself was proper. My mother would have laughed at this notion; anger was her verse and chorus. But Bill’s mum saw herself as a Lady, and Ladies did not yell, scream, or fly off the handle in her version of the universe. Although they could pout, make catty remarks, and attempt to manipulate others. I wasn’t sure which mother’s approach was the better. Mrs. MacInnes was angry, no two ways about it. All the colour drained out of her pink face, and her already tiny mouth pursed into such a small line that I thought, or maybe hoped, it might disappear altogether. She looked from one to the other of us and then her eyes rested on me for a long while.

  “You’ve gone and done it, then. Nothing can be done.”

  Bill was annoyed. “I thought you might congratulate us.”

  “I’m away for a month and . . . You might have told your own mother you were planning to get married.”

  “That didn’t go over too well,” Bill said later as he started the Packard.

  I shrugged. “She’ll get used to it, I guess. Is she always like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “So opinionated. You know, about other people?”

  “I didn’t notice anything in particular.” No doubt. He’d probably been listening to her rant for so long that he’d learned to tune her right out.

  “Didn’t you hear her talking about Bohunks and Redskins?”

  “Oh, that.” As if that could offend anybody. “Well, I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t take it personally.”

  Mary MacInnes’ attitude wouldn’t have gone over very well with my brother, especially not lately. He’d dropped the whole Stephen Knight business and gone back to being Stefan Koudelka. It wasn’t only that being Stephen Knight hadn’t got him anywhere, he said it felt fake, like it wasn’t really him. He told me all this during a set break when he came out to see the band one night when we had a week-long gi
g at the La Salle Hotel.

  “I’m starting up a Regina chapter of the Gypsy Lore Society. You want to join?” The redhead he was with rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette. I wondered how long she’d been around. Steve’s romantic attachments still never seemed to last long.

  “What is the Gypsy Lore Society?”

  “It’s an organization concerned with the preservation of the culture and traditions of the Roma people, the Gypsies. I’ve been doing a little research at the library and it’s very interesting. I tried to get some information about our background from Ma, but she wasn’t much help. She said we should try to forget our background, it’s mostly been the cause of a lot of trouble. I disagree. How can you know what you are if you don’t even know who you are?”

  “Well, maybe later. I’m kind of busy right now. But it does sound interesting.”

  “It is. I feel like I’m finding my place in the universe. I’d like to become a chovihano, eventually.”

  “A what?”

  “A shaman.”

  “Hey, no kidding.” Henry gave a drum roll. He smiled. “My great uncle was supposed to be a shaman. Can anybody join this Gypsy Lore Society?”

  “Sure.”

  “Being a shaman could be handy.”

  Steve and Henry became fast friends almost instantly.

  One night The Syncopation Five played a gig in one of the lounges in the Hotel Saskatchewan. We’d played there about a month earlier and the hotel manager had telephoned Bill to say he wanted us to come back.

  Jacob Stone had dark hair, warm hazel eyes, and always wore suits you could tell he didn’t buy off the rack. You could see from the way they fit. He was not quite as tall as Bill was, and a little more sturdily built.

  “How’d you like a regular gig here?” he asked between numbers.

  Bill was the spokesman for the band. He had the professional persona, the gift of the gab. But even he was a little thrown by the offer, after slogging along for such a long time, picking up weddings, parties, one night gigs in little dives like Indian Head and Melville. “We’d want to think about it for a while.”

  Jacob smiled. “Sure. I saw you last year at the Trianon Ball Room, when you opened for The Guy Watkins Band. You’re much better now, much tighter. And that was a great move getting rid of your old guitarist and picking up Lita. She’s very talented.”

  “She is good. And she’s my wife,” Bill said.

  “Ah, well. Congratulations. Anyway, if you’re interested, let me know and we can draw up a contract.”

  “Oh, we are. Well, I think we are, aren’t we guys? And Lita?”

  It took us about a second to think about it. As if there could be any question.

  It took a long while for my mother-in-law to thaw out. This bothered Bill quite a bit, but I didn’t care. I was used to being estranged from my own mother. When I told my older sister Lena and her husband Jurgen we were married, they had us over for dinner one night and gave us a nice Hudson’s Bay blanket. I thought Lena must have told Ma, but I didn’t hear anything from her. It was several weeks before we heard from Bill’s mother again. She had us over for tea one afternoon and said she’d forgiven us.

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten, mind you. But I will let bygones be bygones. Anyway, I thought it was time to give you this,” she said, and gave Bill an envelope. “In your father’s will,” she continued, “he made provision for when you boys married. It’s money to help you buy a house with. I’m afraid the amount suffered a little from the stock market crash, but there’s still a respectable sum there. With real estate prices where they are, I’m sure you’ll have enough for a good-sized downpayment on a nice house on a good street. Of course, Bill, you’ll want to wait until you have a real job before you look for a place, so that the bank will lend you the money for the rest, but this will help.”

  We did no such thing. We took the money and bought a tiny house on Dewdney Avenue, around the corner from Queen Street. The agent called it a fixer-upper, but we had no intention of fixing it up. It needed paint, sure. It needed new windows. The kitchen was dark and small and dirty. The roof needed new shingles. It was structurally sound, though, and that was all that mattered. A little one-bedroom bungalow with a verandah and a few trees in the yard. We had enough money to pay for the whole thing, and to buy a few pieces of second-hand furniture besides: a couch, a bed, a little red Formica table, and two chairs for the kitchen. That ate up all the money. But we owned the house outright, and no matter what happened, we’d have a roof over our heads. Compared to what life with my family had been like, it seemed like solidity and security. To use the money to get into debt for a house we didn’t want, which would force Bill to take a job he didn’t want, seemed crazy. Bill’s mother probably thought that giving us the money would have the opposite effect, that we’d be forced to drop music and get what she considered to be a real life. I’m sure she wouldn’t have let Bill know about the inheritance if she’d known we’d buy a little hovel on a busy street. She might have put off telling him as long as she could get away with it.

  When she came over to see the place, she was disappointed. But later she tried to make the best of it, said it was a good starter house, close to the downtown office buildings. Neither of us told her that this was it, that not having to worry about rent would help us pursue our musical careers. I don’t think Bill’s Mum could have stood that, even though the thought of it helped me smile many times when I would have rather throttled her.

  Part Two

  Twelve

  Elsa

  Seattle, Washington

  1984

  DROPPING INTO THE SEATTLE MUSIC SCENE after living in Regina was amazing, really. I know now when people think of Seattle music, they think of grunge, of Nirvana and Pearl Jam and bands like that. What most people don’t know is there’s been a strong music scene in the Northwest, Seattle in particular, for a very long time. In 1920, Jelly Roll Morton, the man who claimed to have invented jazz, brought his influential stride piano here on his way up and down the West Coast — the whole West Coast, from Alaska to Mexico. Bing Crosby was originally from Tacoma. Field agents for major labels were recording local acts here as early as the late 20s. In the early 60s, local label Dolton Records brought out music by local bands like The Ventures. Who can forget “Walk, Don’t Run”? Speed Queen even took a crack at that one when we were still in the Queen City. And arguably the whole garage rock movement of the 60s started here, too, with The Kingsmen’s version of “Louie, Louie”.

  Seattle’s fringe music scene was huge, and had been for a long time. Yet just like in Regina, and every other North American city in the late 70s and early 80s, no matter how strong and vibrant the scene was, the people involved in it were still on the fringe. The little mainstream media attention we got was negative — about underage drinking or fights at shows — and suddenly a Teen Dance Ordinance (what a great band name that would have been) was passed by the city council. This ordinance outlawed public postering, which was pretty much all most bands did for advertising, as well as stipulating that anyone holding a dance had to post a million dollar insurance bond. The ordinance didn’t really have much effect on posters. I think if anything there were more posters around. But the insurance thing cut down on the number of shows people gave outside of the bar circuit, for sure. Too risky.

  Crystal Dunn, Speed Queen’s bassist, had moved to Seattle the same time we did. We found a drummer and another guitarist in pretty short order and after we’d practised for a few weeks we had a regular stream of shows. The usual thing: a few hall gigs at first, then we opened for the headlining acts at bars and clubs like The Bird. And it wasn’t long before we were the headliners ourselves. Mark had been busy getting a new band together, too. A slightly different feel than Third Class Relic, this one had a less punky, a more garagey, mid-60s sound. Mark was still lead guitar, did lead vocals, all the songwriting. He found a bassist, a keyboard player with a funky Hammond B-3, and a drummer, and they called them
selves The Green Lanterns after the comic book superhero.

  Neither of our bands had trouble getting exposure. When we came to town, there were bands playing all kinds of what was termed “new” music — for those who enjoy pigeonholing, that could mean punk, new wave, electronica, straight ahead rock ‘n’ roll — in all kinds of venues. Bars, clubs, community halls, the usual schtick, but there were just so many more of them than there were in Regina. There were quite a few hair bands, too, like Queensrÿche, Iron Maiden, and Alice in Chains. This is what I mean about labelling — was Alice in Chains a hair band or a grunge band? A hairy grunge band? I always resisted calling Speed Queen “punk” or “new wave.” I just said we were a rock band. The way I see it, as soon as you’re labelled, you’re limited: if you’re this, you by definition can’t be that. Anyway. The point is, we found ourselves in the midst of a strong, diverse live music scene. It was exciting and stimulating to be around so many people playing so much music. We couldn’t help but get ideas.

  Mark in particular. One night after we’d got Bill off to sleep, we decided to sit and have a beer together, which I’d just recently realized had become an unusual thing for us. Often one or the other of our bands worked evenings. When it was both of us, one of Bonnie’s girls would babysit Bill. More often, though, it was Mark or I staying home while the other was out playing. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. But it got to the point where Mark and I hardly saw each other except in passing, between all that music and his day job at the courier company. This particular night, I don’t know what it was, but we were both at home. The baby was asleep. The stars were out. So we did what any young couple would do — took some chairs out into the backyard and cracked a couple of beers.

  “How’s this for weird?” he asked. “Sitting here with the old lady.”

  “Weird, all right. Sitting here, and neither of us has to rush out to a show. So how are you doing? It seems like I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore. You know what I mean — really talk.”