Flight of Aquavit (13 page)

have ever entered Anthony’s radar. It was an

uncharitable thought but I was peeved the women

hadn’t even glanced at me.

“The name sounds familiar.”

“Really?” All forgiven.

“I don’t know him personally, but I’m quite

certain I know someone who’s mentioned that

name quite recently. Is he rather new to town—

say in the past few years or so?”

“Yes, that’s him.” I hoped.

He winked at me and threw a twenty on the

countertop. “Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can get

you a contact.” He rose and slipped on a pair of

Anthony Bidulka — 99

kid leather gloves, the only winter protection he’d

brought with him on the mad dash from the store.

“You coming along? There are some new shoes

from Camper you must have.”

Here was the problem: he never let me actual-

ly buy the stuff I tried on. When this happened we

crossed the line from friends to rich father/poor

son and I couldn’t do that more than once a day. I

pointed at my unfinished wine and said, “I’ll be

over in a minute to pick up my old pants.”

He gave me one of his deadly smiles as he

headed out. “Don’t bother, puppy, I think they

were tossed out by accident.”

Cheryl Guest was the manager of J. Thames, one

of several Saskatoon women’s equivalents to gatt.

Although I knew I’d meet Daniel’s wife at the

DGR&R Christmas party on Friday night, I wanted

a chance to observe her on her own turf, with-

out—as promised—her knowing.

The Midtown Plaza, anchored by Sears at one

end and The Bay on the other, is two storeys of

glossy shops that differ little from those in malls

the world over. At this time of year the corridors

are crowded, not only with holiday shoppers and

recalcitrant teenagers, but with carts and booths

that magically appear only at Christmastime, burst-

ing at the seams with calendars and snow globes,

knitted scarves and gloves, fruitcake and gift bas-

kets. Then there’s raffle ticket and craft tables and,

most important of all, Santa’s workshop, where

children can sit on the knee of St. Nick and have

100 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

their picture taken. For some this is the descrip-

tion of hell. I, however, love it. But not if I actual-

ly have to buy something. Shopping in a shopping

mall in December is indeed pure misery but, as a

place to soak up Christmas spirit and people-

watch, it ain’t too shabby.

Procuring an unobtrusive spot against the win-

dow of a negligee store directly across from J.

Thames, with an Every-Watch-for-$10 vendor for

handy camouflage between me and the store, I set

out to observe Cheryl Guest in action. Fortunately,

J. Thames has a wide-open front with easy sight-

lines into the store from almost every angle.

I immediately caught sight of my quarry, rec-

ognizing her from the photo in Daniel’s office. She

was wearing a very smart, winter-white skirt and

jacket ensemble that complemented her sun-dark-

ened skin. Her blond hair was expertly coiffed but

even from a distance I could see she wore an

abundance of makeup that exaggerated her

already too-wide eyes and mouth to almost

clown-like proportions. I watched for a while as

she approached customers with what seemed a

haughty attitude, which instantly became charm-

ing solicitude if they actually expressed interest

in some piece of clothing or other. When this

happened, Cheryl had a practised procedure.

First she would take the dress or blouse or what-

ever it was from the potential customer, and begin

by massaging and feeling up the sample, no doubt

speaking of its quality fabric and the workman-

ship of the stitching. Next she would drape the

piece on the victim—I mean shopper—and smile

Anthony Bidulka — 101

in such a way that indicated she had never quite

seen that particular item look so ravishing on any

of the other hundred people who’d come into the

store before her. And all along, Cheryl made cer-

tain the distinctive blue J. Thames label (or orange

if it was one the few men’s items in the store) was

always clearly visible to the patron and everyone

nearby. In the game of retail, Cheryl was a well-

rehearsed performer.

But I hadn’t seen anything yet—for as luck

would have it, the floorshow was just to begin.

To give the woman some credit, the store was

temporarily devoid of customers when Cheryl

huffed and puffed her way towards another J.

Thames salesperson who’d obviously been

assigned the job of displaying merchandise on a

sale table. And, to be honest, even I could tell that

the employee, young, sturdy-looking and with a

head full of intricately patterned dreadlocks,

seemed something less than enthused with her

task. She was mindlessly moving knitted caps and

scarves from one pile to another and then back

again, all the while letting her big brown eyes

stroll lazily back and forth with each passing

shopper, assessing their outfit or hair or whatever

else she found mildly distracting or interesting

about them.

Cheryl stood behind the girl for a good thirty

seconds, arms akimbo, glaring at the sluggish

movements. Finally, obviously unable to take it

any longer, she opened her mouth. I didn’t need to

be a lip reader to know she wasn’t using the

power of positive reinforcement. The younger

102 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

woman jumped back from the table, startled, her

dreads whipping her face and neck as she stag-

gered into a defensive position to face her superior.

Cheryl’s eyes were bright as sparks, her shoulders

thrown back indignantly, hands making vaguely

threatening motions.

As I stood transfixed to my spot, witnessing

this exchange, I so empathized with the berated

staffer I could feel myself melting into the ground

as if the attack were aimed at me. But the young

woman was tougher than that. At first she just

stood there, eyes growing wide and darting nerv-

ously from side to side, looking anywhere but at

Cheryl’s angry face. Yup, she’d been caught red-

handed being bored doing a boring task. But as

Cheryl railed on, the younger employee’s spine

began to stiffen. I could imagine her thinking to

herself, “All right, enough already, it’s not as if I

dropped the last known sample of DNA from an

extinct species.” She planted her strong-looking

hands on rounded hips, thrust her pelvis forward

and let out a stream of something I’m sure was as

colourful as the beads in her hair. She was handing

back some serious attitude. How I wished I was a

boll weevil in one of the nearby racks of sweaters.

For a crazy moment, as if it were frozen in time,

it seemed to me that the three of us, Cheryl, her

sales assistant and me, were the only ones in that

shopping mall. In total, the exchange probably

lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like an

hour of great theatre played out on stage just for

me. That is until the astounding denouement,

which more than a few passersby couldn’t help

Anthony Bidulka — 103

but notice. With an action befitting any of the

great Disney cartoon mistresses of evil, like

Cruella De Vil or Maleficent, Cheryl brought her

many-ringed hand crashing down on the display

table and, with a swoop, swept all the lovely J.

Thames things onto the floor.

My ears waited for the resultant crash and

more yelling. But of course, from across the way

and outside the store, there was no noise to hear

and there was also no yelling because the young

woman, wisely I think, simply turned heel and

stomped off out of my—and Cheryl’s—sight.

My, my, my, I thought to myself. I now knew of

another reason Daniel didn’t want to be found out

by his wife—she’d whop his ass.

Chapter 6

I WAS ABOUT TO DASH OUT of the Midtown Plaza

when I remembered my mother. Damn! I was sup-

posed to have met her right there, at the front

doors, ten minutes ago and I was already late for

my next planned bit of detective work. Could she

take a cab? Did she know about cabs? I spun

around like a whirling dervish trying to catch

sight of her—or rather her hard to miss corsage—

amongst the shopping throngs. And there she

was, sitting on a chair with hands folded piously

over her purse, coat buttoned tight up to her neck.

The chair was meant for the Salvation Army vol-

unteer who’d obviously been kind enough to give

up his seat while he attended to his work. Seeing

me come her way, my mother stood up and

thanked the Salvation Army man.

“Mom?” What else could I say?

“Goot, ve go. You must be hungry.”

I looked at the bare floor next to my mother’s

feet and asked, “Where are your shopping bags?

Didn’t you find anything you wanted to buy?”

She had a strange look on her face and made a

move towards the front doors. I smiled at the Sally

Ann guy, threw a five-dollar bill and a toonie into

his drum and scrambled after my mother.

“Dees vay, uh-huh?”

Through the glass of the plaza’s doors we could

see that, although not yet 5 p.m., daylight was dim-

ming in preparation for sunset. We made our way

Anthony Bidulka — 105

out and stood in wait for the crosswalk light to

change. The view down 21st Street was truly beau-

tiful. Street posts and ash trees hung with wee

twinkling lights and Christmas decorations were

flickering to life. Shop windows were ablaze with

their colourful wares. The grandiose Bessborough,

a few blocks away, was a fairytale castle. Outdoor

speakers were playing “Joy to the World.”

As the singers were getting to the part about

repeating the sounding joy (does that lyric make

sense to anyone?) I repeated to my mother,

“Didn’t you find anything you wanted to buy?”

“I tought dees vas Valmart. Dere’s no Valmart

here.”

Ohmygod what was she saying? “It—it—it’s a

mall. There are all kinds of stores in there.”

“Ya, I know dat. No Valmart.”

“That’s true.”

The light changed and we crossed 1st Avenue

and headed towards where the car was parked.

I waited a few seconds then asked, “Did you

just sit there by the Salvation Army drum the

whole time?” Please say no.

“Eet vas nice, I met lot of nice people. Olga

Frankiw, remember, Bill’s vidow? She came by

veet her son, Nestor. He vas taking her to doctor.

She has such poor eyes, that Olga.”

Inside I was shrivelling up and it wasn’t from

the cold. I was beginning to realize how little I

knew my mother, what type of person she was,

what her life’s experiences were, what she knew

how to do and what she didn’t know how to do,

especially since Dad had died. And I had sent her

106 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

off alone to shop at the Midtown Plaza as if she

was one of the gals from
Sex in the City
.

So I certainly wasn’t about to send her off in a

cab.

Dropping her at home however wasn’t much

better.

“Okay,” I said as I pulled up to the front of the

house. “See you later.”

She looked alarmed. “Vhere you going? Eet’s

after five. Time for supper.”

Why did I suddenly feel like an eight-year-old?

A naughty eight-year-old. “Actually, Mom, I’m

not going to make it home for dinner.” I called it

dinner because that’s what we do in the big city.

Lunch is at noon, dinner is in the evening—some-

times much later than five o’clock. In the country,

or at least in my mother’s house, dinner is at noon

and supper is at five. “Work y’know.”

“You vork too hard. You haf to eat. I put

borscht on da stove now, eet’ll be hot by time you

take coat off. Dat wrap-up ting from lunch vasn’t

very beeg, you must be hungry, Sonsyou.”

“I’m okay, I’m not really hungry yet. And I

really have to do some work now. I’ll just grab

something later.”

“Oh.”

Here it comes.

The quiet.

“So I’ll see you later maybe?”

“Oh. Ya, uh-huh.”

More quiet. Ebenezer Quant they’d call me.

“So I leave da pot on da stove den? You can