Circle of Stones (2 page)

I stop at the beach park and point a gloved hand at a new circle. Clean round rocks surround a miniature organ, a framed photo, and a small, freshly planted tree. A dozen small stones clustered in the middle are each painted with a black musical note. A card-sized plaque reads:
IN MEMORY OF MRS. MARILYN MANSON, WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER, ORGANIST.

“It should be the other way around,” I say. “Organist first, then grandmother, mother, and wife. That's how they'd write it for a man.” But when I look up, Nikky is smirking. I'm indignant. It's unlike my grandson to be so rude. Charles chuckles to himself and translates for me.

“Marilyn Manson is also the name of a horrific-looking Goth rock musician.” He places his hand on my shoulder for a moment, a reassuring tap. “I saw him on MuchMusic the other day. Quite the sight.”

Nikky snaps a photo of the plaque with his cellphone. “I can't believe this old dude gets it.” He looks approvingly at Charles.

Charles whistles a little tune into the wind on the walk back to the condominium. Emboldened in the presence of my grandson, I invite Charles in for coffee. I keep the invitation casual, as though it's something that happens all the time. If Nikky notices the chuffed look Charles gives me, or my own coy expression, he keeps it to himself.

I like how Charles looks seated at my dining room table. He sits up straight in his chair and places his linen serviette properly on his lap. Nikky lounges in his chair, but doesn't dare lean back like his father would. I taught him not to. I bustle in the kitchen as the coffee perks. I serve Charles black coffee, on account of his diabetes, then, instead of cream, I slip a shot of Baileys into the china cups for Nikky and myself. I whisk up a double batch of dough, and then re-emerge a dozen minutes later with fresh blueberry scones piled high on my special Limoges platter. When I finally sit down I find myself unable to think of a single thing to say. Charles strikes up a conversation with Nikky about music videos and horror movies, which they both seem to know a lot about. I try to follow along. Even though I watch a great deal of TV, I'm partial to BBC mysteries and
Coronation Street
reruns. I know about the English countryside and British pub slang. What is this emocore business about? A kind of seafood? Like abalone? No. Of course not. I fight the urge to get up and do the dishes, tidy the kitchen. I am mindful of the fact Nikky will only be in town for a week. I think of Geoff, then sit and listen, hoping neither Nikky nor Charles will mind the clatter of my cup against its saucer as I sip coffee with tremoring hands.

“I have to get that.” Nikky stands up suddenly, reaching for something in his pocket. “It's important.” I hear an electronic blip as Nikky grabs his cellphone. It's hardly a ring. The device is not at all like a real phone. Charles and I watch as Nikky strides through the living room and out onto the balcony I almost never use. The sliding glass door
snicks
shut behind him. He paces, head down, staring at beige vinyl deck flooring instead of the sea. Charles looks at me. I shrug, wishing I knew what the call was all about. Charles stands.

“I ought to go.” He bows lightly and pats my hand. “Thank you kindly for the coffee, my dear.”

I try to stand.

“Oh, don't get up, I'll let myself out.” Charles turns, then pauses to look back at me. “We should do this again.” He gestures at the table. “After our walks.”

“Have a beverage and a biscuit?” I smile to myself.

“B&B, I suppose we could call it. Like the classic cocktail.” Charles disappears into the hall. I listen to him whistle as he puts his shoes back on. I recognize the old jazz standard as a CBC radio favourite: “Oh, Lady Be Good.” I feel the wings of a very old moth flutter in my stomach.

The door clicks shut. My cup rattles in its saucer and tips. I shake my head, annoyed by my infuriating tremors. I check to make sure the cup hasn't chipped. I begin clearing the dishes. By the time Nikky re-emerges from the balcony twenty minutes later, there's a fresh linen cloth on the table and four bottles of fine liqueur lined up along the sideboard: Crème de Cacao, Grand Marnier, Chambord, and Crème de Menthe. Nikky shivers. Sea mist glistens in his hair. He smells damp. I hand him a delicate blue liqueur glass.

“This will warm you up.” I lift trembling hands and struggle to pour Chambord into the glass without spilling. “We'll try each one of these and you can tell me which one is your favourite.” Nikky sits down and takes a sip.

“That's really different. Never tasted anything like that.” Nikky tips his glass back again then sets it on the table. He picks up the bottle of Crème de Menthe. “What's this one like?”

“Mouthwash,” I say, taking a sip of Chambord. “Good if you need a stiff drink before you kiss someone.”

“Grandma
.
”
Nikky makes a face.

“I wasn't born yesterday, you know. It's quite clear you were talking to a young lady just now.”

Nikky doesn't reply. He reaches for the Grand Marnier.

“You don't have to tell me all the details.” I pat the back of Nikky's hand. “Just nod your head or shake it.”

He knocks back a near full liqueur glass, then nods his head.
Yes
.

“Here, try the Crème de Cacao.” I lift the angular bottle in both hands and pour a little into each of our glasses. We drink in silence.

“Gecccchhhh.” Nikky wrinkles his nose and squints.

“Not that good, is it?” I stand behind my grandson and rest my hand on his shoulder.

“No. Too sweet.”

“It reminds me of some good old days, though. There used to be a lot more of those.”

“Then I like it.” Nikky reaches a long arm out to the sidebar and pours each of us some more. I set my glass down on the table and study my grandson. I can still see the boy in him. His facial expressions, the way he moves his body. I look him up and down, trying to record this memory of Nikky as a boy. Perhaps the last one. I notice his long-sleeved black T-shirt hangs short.

“Those long arms.” I tug on Nikky's left shirt cuff. “I think it's time we measured you again for the scrapbook. I'm sure you've grown again.” Nikky tips his glass, about to chug. I tap him on the shoulder, like I used to do, when he was a smaller boy.

“This drink is for sipping.”

Nikky takes a sip, puts his glass down, and follows me into the spare room. He watches as I retrieve the big, old
Growing Up
scrapbook from behind the sewing machine table and set it on his unmade bed. He looks at the familiar bright yellow cover and begins flipping through the pages: old birthday cards, ribbons from elementary school sports days, class photos. Neither of his parents kept anything like this.

“Aw, Grandma. You've still got some of my old artwork from high school. These sketches are terrible.”

“I like them.” I unfurl the measuring tape. “Stand up.” Nikky stands against the wall and straightens his shoulders. I reach up, place an old sewing manual on top of his head to flatten his hair, and mark the wall with a pencil.

“You should see the stuff I'm doing now at art school. It's so much better,” Nikky says as I measure a second time for accuracy.

“Goodness, you're much taller.” I turn to the page in the scrapbook where long ago I'd drawn a growth chart with an old wooden ruler. I hand my grandson a ballpoint pen. “Write down six feet, two inches.”

“Whoah. Two more inches.” Nikky writes in the book, his numbers large and blocky alongside my own elegant cursive. “I think I'm done growing now, though.”

“Maybe.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “But we grow in other ways, yes?”

Nikky reaches abruptly into his pocket and pulls out his cellphone. The electronic blip.

“It's her again. Jennifer. Should I get it?”

“Of course.” I stand. I close the door behind me to give Nikky his privacy.

I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted. I roll up the measuring tape, place it on the table beside me, lean back, and close my eyes.

“Grandma.” Something is push-pulling at my shoulder. I feel submerged as though underwater and want to stay in the murky depths, but the shaking is insistent.

“Grandma.” I open my eyes and look at Nikky. His face is out of focus.

“What is it, dear?” I blink, shiver, and straighten my glasses. Nikky rests his young, strong hand on my shoulder. I touch it with my shaking one, feeling heat radiate from his body.

“I have to go.” Nikky straightens up. I look down and see his bag at his feet.

“Where, dear?”

“Back to Vancouver. My gir — Jennifer needs me.”

I struggle up from the chair. “Is she a nice girl, this Jennifer?”

“She's amazing. Super talented.” Nikky hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Everything.”

“No time for laundry? Dinner?” I clutch at his arm, already knowing the answers. Nikky sighs. I look into his eyes and let go.

My whole body shakes. I walk over to the sideboard and rest my hands on it. I need something to hold on to. I need more time to teach Nikky the things he needs to know. “Now you take care of your Jennifer.” When I say it out loud, the words sound more urgent than I expect.

Nikky looks startled. This is the right reaction, because I know he's paying attention.

“When you're young you can feel like you can do anything, and go in any direction,” I continue. “Your career is important, yes, but life is a much grander thing when we're responsible for each other. I want you to be a gentleman. Promise me you'll look after her.”

Nikky nods, solemn and thoughtful. We both know we're talking about his father. How Nikky can be different.

“I promise, Grandma.”

“And next visit stay longer.”

“Yes.” Nikky nods, blinks rapidly, then turns to look out the window. I compose myself, too, though my words still linger in the air, exposed — old sentiments finally said. I open the wooden silverware box, retrieve a small, fat envelope, then pick up the bottle of Crème de Cacao. “Here,” I hand him both. “Take a cab to the bus station. I'll call one now. There should be enough in there for the bus, ferry, and a little extra, too. And put this in your bag. For sipping.”

“And good days.” Nikky leans down and kisses me gently on the cheek.

“And good days,” I repeat.

I wait with Nikky at the lobby door. The cab arrives too quickly. I try to stop the shaking. And the tears. There's still so much I need to teach him.

“Oh, Grandma, I'll be back soon.” Nikky hugs me, shoulders his bag, and opens the door.

“Leaving already?” Charles appears on the sidewalk outside the condo, carrying a small bag of groceries. I watch as Charles and Nikky shake hands. I think I see him slip a twenty-dollar bill into Nikky's palm like a proper grandfather. My ex-husband Tibor wasn't much for goodbyes. Or hellos, either. Charles steps back as Nikky climbs into the cab. I wave as the cab speeds away. Tremors rattle my limbs. I turn down the hall before Charles can see my teary face, but I glance back as I round the corner. Charles is standing by the door, alone.

Back in my condo unit, I pause at the door of the spare room. I should tidy it up and get the bedding washed. But it still smells of Nikky. He left the scrapbook open to a page of small boat drawings. I miss him already. I close the spare room door, fish around in the liquor cabinet for some brandy, and sit down in my chair.
Coronation Street
is on TV, but I can't concentrate. I reach for my glass of brandy and shuffle down the hall, holding on to the wall for support. I set my glass on the nightstand, crawl into bed with my clothes still on, and dab at my eyes with a tissue.

The morning light is suffused through thick layers of cloud. The charcoal grey matches my mood. My head aches. I don't feel like walking, but I know Charles will be waiting. I put on my coat and go downstairs. Charles offers me his arm, but I shrug it away. He starts whistling, then stops, the tune lost to the wind. I clutch my umbrella. As we round the corner to the beach park I look up and sigh.

The third circle of stones is a vision of colour in the rain-darkened dirt. Charles and I walk towards it, gazing with curiosity at beach rocks painted primary-school blue. The rocks encircle a Tupperware spaghetti container full of crayon drawings, two Tonka trucks, and a tiny ceramic handprint labeled
NOAH, AGE 5
. I recognize the perfect rounded letters of a grade-one teacher. I think of what it was like to be a young parent and realize the boy's mother and father wouldn't have been able to lift stone after stone, place the memory of their son in the middle, leave it behind. Charles studies the child's cheaply laminated photo, which will eventually fade in the sun and melt in the rain. Noah had big ears, messy, overlong hair, and a missing incisor. His skin looked orange in the way that school portraits make all children look like carrots.

I clear the catch in my throat with a gentle cough and sit down on the park bench. Dampness seeps through my coat and to my skin, chilling all the way to my bones. Charles seems nonplussed. Undignified with toys and bright, sloppy splotches of glitter glue, the circle appears as though made by
NOAH, AGE 5
. I think of the drawings and paintings that lined the halls of James Cook Elementary School from September to June. How their removal for cleaning at the end of the school year always felt like an incomprehensible loss.

“I give the Tonka trucks two months before someone steals them.” Charles bangs his cane on the cedar-chip path. He yanks on the brim of his cap, zips and re-zips his navy windbreaker. He has lost weight from our walks and his overlarge navy-blue slacks ride so low now they hang over the laces of his black leather running shoes. I watch an odd expression cross Charles's face. For a fleeting moment I think he looks like an old, stubborn kid in school uniform. With white, thinning hair.