Every Happy Family (25 page)

Debby Boone sings “You Light up My Life” alongside the picture of the college dropout mugging in front of a cooking school in Turin, while Annie tells them this was the year she and Les met. Though everyone but Holly has heard the story more than once, she goes on to describe their first encounter in the airport.

Jill snores softly throughout the photos of her and Les's wedding and Wham!'s “Wake Me up Before You Go-Go.” Kenneth points ironically at his sleeping sister while Pema and Holly get up to dance again, pulling a reluctant Quinn off the arm of the couch. He takes Holly around the waist and dances holding on because no way is he going to let Beau watch him dance.

“Mom looks so pretty,” says Pema, wistful. “I want a veil when I get married.”

“If you get married,” says Beau, earning another slug.

“I made her veil and that dress,” says Annie. “Pieced together from two wedding gowns I bargained for at the Salvation Army. Your mom wanted a short skirt so I attached a train to the waist and let it just sweep the floor.”

“Her tail,” says Les.

“That's what you kept calling it,” laughs Annie, swatting at a shimmery half moon in front of her right eye. Migraine aura? “There were some really bad jokes going around.”

“When I get married,” Pema says pointedly while looking at Beau, “I'd like to mix a classic wedding dress with a chuba.” She turns to Annie. “Could you make something like that?”

“Do birds shit while they fly?”

Nancy frowns at the language and opens her purse to peer inside.

“Separate Lives” by Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin accompanies Quinn's baby pictures.

“Kid was born with a perfect mohawk,” croaks Les and can't help wonder what portentously silly song will top the charts on the day he dies.

The slide show over, Holly heads outside for a smoke and Beau follows, challenging Quinn to a game of ping pong. “You enjoy humiliating yourself, don't you?” says Quinn.

“I'm watching this,” Pema says.

With what's left of his voice, Les tells Annie that there's a cake in the freezer looking for meringue. “We were doing an Alaska bombe. With triple sec. My cooking partner has skipped out on me.” He reaches over to stroke Jill's arm.

“Oh, so that's what the eggs on the counter are for. Don't worry,” Annie says, “I've whipped up many a meringue in my day.”

“I know everything about meringue,” says a defiant Nancy.

“Thank God, ‘cause I was lying through my teeth,” says Annie and she offers Nancy a hand up off the couch.

Les reclines the chair, shuts his eyes, only half listens to Kenneth talk about an American conspiracy behind the Toyota recall scandal. “It was just a pack of lies to help Detroit back on its feet. Poor Japanese had no choice but to apologize and pump zillions into ads.”

Nancy insists on wearing an apron – a thing she expertly mimes tying behind her waist – and Annie finds the one she once made for Les that incorporates old plasticized menus. Suited up and with her purse over her arm, Nancy instructs Annie how to crack the eggs on the counter and not against the side of the bowl. When the whites and yolks are separated, Nancy mysteriously places the bowl of yolks on the floor.

“Kenneth,” Annie calls over to the family room, “when you were growing up did you have a dog or cat?”

“Nope and nope.”

Annie beats the whites with the electric mixer while Nancy slowly adds the sugar and cream of tartar stopping Annie every ten seconds to have a look and a touch before gesturing with a karate chop to begin again. When the eggs are ready to Nancy's specifications, Annie lets her do the honours of spreading the meringue over the cake-encased ice cream. The cake is only half covered when Nancy licks the knife, places it in her purse and returns to the family room.

“Your mother just put a knife in her purse,” Annie says to Kenneth.

“It's for the pâté,” he calls back.

Annie finishes up and puts the cake in the oven. She watches it through the oven window and gives Nancy, who's sitting back in the family room, a continuous report on the colour of the peaks. When she says, “Starting to brown,” Nancy calls out, “Now!”

“Les asks are the tips toasted,” calls Kenneth.

“Just toasted,” says Annie, carefully setting the masterpiece on the counter.

“Dusting of dirt on the snowy mountain asks Les,” Kennth adds.

“We did it,” says Nancy.

Pema enters from the back yard.

“I bet you've always been a good cook, Nancy,” says Annie.

“Very good.”

“She makes the best gingerbread in the world,” says Pema.

“In the world,” says Nancy.

The sun has gone down when the Alaska bombe is positioned on a TV tray in front of Les, along with a demitasse, a bottle of triple sec and the tall box of fireplace matches. The picture windows now reflect the objects and people and light inside as though all that exists in the world is contained in this small heartfelt space.

“A lady's in my chair,” says Nancy from her seat on the couch.

“The lady's not feeling well,” says Quinn as they both look at Jill, whose arms are crossed over her chest and whose mouth hangs open to the point where her tongue shows. He takes another picture, feels badly about this and deletes it.

Nancy huffs. “I want to sit in front of the birthday cake.”

“The wake cake,” whispers Les, and Holly hears him and laughs. “Nancy can sit on my walker,” he says to Holly. “It has a seat.”

As Nancy is settled in front of the Alaska bombe, the others gather on either side of her to form a half-circle in front of Les and Jill.

“We have to turn off the lights,” says Beau.

“Wait,” whispers Les. He wedges the demitasse into the top of the cake, removes the top from the bottle. His hand shaking, he pours booze into the cup until it overflows its rim and meanders in rivulets down the cake's sides, pooling around the rim of the plate.

“More,” urges Beau and Les gives the cake another dowsing.

“I love the smell of booze,” says Quinn with a fat sigh and Pema smiles sadly at the floor.

This evening could have been grim, thinks Les, screwing the top back on, but it isn't. It's good. He'll remember to thank Jill later. He'll thank her slowly and he'll thank her twice. “The lights now,” he says, pointing with his chin.

“What's the difference between this and baked Alaska?” asks Kenneth.

“Not much,” says Quinn.

“How it burns,” says Les. He slides a match from the box.

Beau switches off the overhead light in the kitchen and Annie turns off the lamp behind Les's chair. Only six of the eight candles still burn on the mantel.

“Shouldn't we wake Mom?” Beau says. Everyone looks at Jill.

Les gives her arm a few pats. “Jill?” He tries again. “Here in spirit. She worked hard to make this day happen and deserves her sleep.”

“Let's make it all dark,” says Pema.

Holly helps her blow out the candles. When a street light becomes apparent, Kenneth draws the shade. The room goes black and slowly their eyes adjust to the meagre light that sifts through the windows from vague sources.

A wave of vertigo shifts the ground under Les's chair and he rides out the accompanying nausea.

Annie can't see a thing and removes her glasses.

“Good night,” says Nancy.

“Huddle,” says Beau, stepping in closer to the cake. He puts his arm around Pema's shoulder, because he can, and everyone follows suit.

“Drum roll,” says Kenneth. He stamps his feet, running in place.

They follow his lead and the low rumbles fill the room. Nancy looks at Annie then lifts a foot, shakes it in the air while Jill groans and rolls over to face Les but doesn't open her eyes.

Les strikes the long match, once, twice and feeling the room's concern, gives a push of effort for a third time and it sizzles into being. A single transfixing light that shifts to a gentle quality as it begins to burn wood. Raising the match reveals his family, a ring of bright spirits looming over, surrounding him here in the valley of his life. A fine valley it is. He draws down a slow line of flame and whispers, “Three, two, one.”

“Happy birthday to you,” Nancy begins to sing in a small, clear voice.

A single whoosh and the liquor in the cup erupts with fire. Nancy's singing stops.

“Whoa,” says Annie in a low voice.

Les secures his hand over Jill's.

In the hushed quiet, Jill opens her eyes in time to see the blue-and gold-tipped flames roil and rise from the peak of the cake and cascade down its sides like clear and weightless lava. A ragged flame races around the rim of the plate, chasing the circle closed. For a long moment, the tiny mountain dances with light.

Acknowledgements

I'm extremely indebted to my early readers – Joan McLeod, Bill Gaston, LFC's Eve Joseph, Janice McCachen, Jennifer Frazer, Carol Matthews, Lucy Bashford and Patricia Young. I'd like to extend a special thanks to Jampa Gyaltsen for sharing his stories of escaping Tibet and of being a refugee.

Thanks to everyone at Coteau for making this book happen, especially Nik Burton for his sustaining influence and his Nik Burtoness, and my editor Sandra Birdsell for her keen insight, her frankness and all-round brilliance.

The writing of this book was made possible by a B.C. Arts Grant. The first and third chapters of the book were first published in slightly altered forms in the
Malahat Review
and the
Fiddlehead
respectively.

About the Author

Every Happy Family
is Dede's second publication with Coteau Books, following the acclaimed short story collection
The Cult of Quick Repair
in 2008. A two-time finalist for the city of Victoria's Butler Book Prize, Dede is the author of the novel
Sympathy
and two YA novels, and was a co-editor of the collection
Great Expectations: Twenty Four True Stories about Childbirth
. Her first published story was short-listed for the CBC Literary Awards; her stories have been published in numerous literary journals.

A former professional ballet dancer and choreographer, Dede Crane has studied Buddhist psychology and psychokinetics at Naropa Institute in Colorado and the Body-Mind Institute in Amherst, Massachusetts, respectively. She currently calls Victoria, B.C., home.