She wanted the viewer to wonder what lay beneath. She stood back and shook her head. What a mess. Tempted to grab a wide, commercial paint brush, slather white gesso over the entire surface and begin again, she resisted the urge and took her brushes to the sink in her tiny minimalist kitchen. Better to forget the painting for the time being and work on it later. Maybe inspiration would filter into her subconscious while she did something else.
Something that made money. Dollars and cents mattered now that she’d relinquished a regular paycheque from the Ottawa community college where she’d taught history.
She moved carefully to her work space, a long trestle table set up on one side of the room. Being almost six feet tall, she had stopped bumping her head on the sloping roof only after several weeks of living in the small apartment.
At the trestle table, she created life-size papier-mâché animals. Mostly cats and dogs, but there was a waiting list for parrots and other birds. Although she loved malevolent crows, brightly coloured macaws appealed to a wider audience. The craft store on Yorkville Avenue sold them as fast as she produced them and charged astronomical sums. These beings weren’t “art”, but they engaged her energy, and she enjoyed the creative process. Each animal acquired a personality as she worked. When she finished but before she sent the creatures into the world, she attached appropriate name tags.
Chickens, a flock of five, sat partially assembled on the oilcloth-covered table. She finished wrapping and stapling chicken wire around their wooden frames and reached into the container of thin plastic gloves. These not only protected her hands, they also allowed her to dip paper strips into paste without feeling the paste’s slimy consistency. She applied a first coat of paper strips.
Not her day.
The last chicken, supposed to have its head down and tail up as if pecking in the dirt, was lopsided. She ripped off the paper and pried the wooden frame apart. Before she forgot, she scribbled “Buy eyes” on her shopping list. The chickens would look great with beady black eyes. Buttons would do, but eyes would be better. The doll hospital sold a good variety. The question was, would buyers like chickens with blue or green or even violet eyes? Hollis felt her mood lighten when she considered making them with a variety of colours. Maybe she’d name the group—chicks flick eye tricks. Different rhymes, some scatological, raced through her mind, and she laughed aloud. Oops, this was scary. She definitely needed to get out more if this was the kind of conversation she was having with herself.
While she cleaned up, she listened to the noon news on the radio.
Lunch time. She headed downstairs. MacTee bounded ahead of her.
When she knocked on the shiny black door, she noted a patina of small handprints on the lower half. Maintaining a pristine house and a happy toddler were mutually exclusive goals. She smiled. Invited to enter, she stepped into the kitchen, which was immediately to the left of the front hall. The entryway’s cream-painted wainscotting continued in the kitchen. The glass-fronted cupboards with old-fashioned brass knobs, green slate floor and green granite countertops gave the room a warm country kitchen appeal. Elizabeth, bibbed and waiting, sat in the high chair beside an antique pine table.
“Hi Howis, hi Tee.” Elizabeth accompanied her greeting with a barrage of spoon-banging on her high chair tray.
“Sorry if I’m late. Sometimes time escapes me when I paint.”
“Elizabeth napped longer than usual. We haven’t started yet,” Candace said.
Clean chinos and a pressed blue button-down had replaced the baggy jeans and stained T-shirt. Candace had made an effort to return to her “take charge” persona, but the tight lines around her mouth and raised shoulders told another tale.
Impatience gripped Hollis. She knew that Candace would feel better once she told what she thought had happened to her brother. Unspoken fears stripped away your confidence and your equanimity like piranhas moving in for a kill. If only they could bypass all the domesticity and get on with the story.
“Grilled cheese sandwiches, carrot sticks, applesauce and tea okay?” Candace asked. She cut bread into strips and handed them to the child, who abandoned her spoon to scoop them up with pudgy fingers. “I’ve pretty much given up gourmet delights for the duration. I did try her with smoked salmon and capers, both of which she adored, and sushi, which she didn’t. Probably just as well. If the experts suggest pregnant women give up sushi, I’m sure children should avoid it too.” She was babbling.
“Anything I don’t prepare for myself is wonderful.” Hollis munched a carrot stick and watched Elizabeth mash the bread on the tray before she dropped it to MacTee, who snatched it in midair.
“That should keep her entertained if not well-nourished,” Candace said. Candace’s cell phone shrilled as she motioned for Hollis to sit at the table.
After she flipped it open and said hello, a range of emotions that Hollis identified as relief, anticipation and anger sped across Candace’s face. “No, this is not a good time to call. I don’t give to charities that phone.” She clicked the phone shut. “Damn. I hoped it would be Danson.”
“I thought about Danson. I remember his intensity when he talked about lacrosse. You said he had other passions—what’s he doing that worries you so much?”
Candace gave Elizabeth a bowl with raisins and chopped apricots along with more cutup bread before she spoke. “You’re right. Danson reacts with passion when he loves or hates something. Even as a little boy, he fixated on issues, particularly injustices, and always wanted to take corrective actions.” She grimaced. “You may think it’s weird that he’s an adult, and we’re so close. But there’s a reason—I feel responsible for him.”
Responsible—an odd word to use to describe a relationship with a functioning adult man. “Why is that?”
“I’m more like his mother than his sister. Poppy isn’t maternal. I’m glad she had us, but given her personality, it surprises me that she did. I’d say she’s never visualized herself in a traditional mother role. One small example—from the get-go, she insisted we call her Poppy. She’s never married, never lived with a man.”
Speaking of men, there were no signs of one in Candace’s apartment, nor had Hollis ever heard Candace mention Elizabeth’s father. Maybe single parenting was genetic, or maybe, if that’s what your mother did, it was what you did. Interesting idea. Not that she could ask. That sort of information had to be volunteered.
“Poppy always provided for us, by hook or by crook.” Candace frowned. “I’m not sure she always draws the line between the two and, however politely I inquire, she won’t discuss her financial affairs. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The day she and Danson came home from the hospital, she passed him to me.” She paused, widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “I was seven.”
“You cared for him by yourself?” Where had the social service agencies been?
“Not exactly. To give you the background, Poppy was fifteen when I was born. My grandparents opposed her decision to keep me. When she insisted, they decided they didn’t want her living with them or even staying in the same community. Unwed mothers weren’t part of their world.” Her lips drew down. “I never got to meet them. They died when I was five, and unfortunately Poppy hadn’t reconciled with them. To give them their due, they weren’t prepared to allow Poppy and me to suffer real hardship. They paid Adele, a housekeeper who’d worked for the family, to step into the breach and care for me while Poppy finished school.”
“Times were different
