Flight of Aquavit (24 page)

and temples.

Some moments later, I’m not sure how many, I

heard Barbra let out a low, discerning “woof.” I

picked up my head and opened my eyes. She and

Brutus hadn’t moved from their spot but they

were both staring at the closed door. I listened and

heard it too. A soft knock. I rose up and padded to

the door. Behind it was my mother. She was wear-

ing a high-necked sleeping gown beneath a bright

blue housecoat tied tightly at the waist. Her head

was wrapped in a scarf under which I could see

she’d set her hair into tight pin curls held in place

with bobby pins. On her feet were bright pink

slippers. I asked her to come in even though she

clashed with the decor more than a polyester

leisure suit on a fashion runway. She seemed to

sense the interruption and stood stock still in the

doorway, the garish light from the hallway behind

her seeping into the pleasantly dim room like a

lighthouse beacon. Her hands were clasping a

mug of warm milk so tightly her knuckles were

white and I realized that my mother was nervous.

“Come on in,” I said, stepping behind her to

close the door against the harsh hallway light. That

helped a lot. Her housecoat wasn’t nearly as blue

and I didn’t even notice the slippers anymore. “I

was just relaxing in front of the fire with Barbra

and Brutus. It’s late. You couldn’t sleep?”

“Ya, uh-huh,” she said.

“You want to come sit with us for a while?”

Anthony Bidulka — 189

“Eet’s getting colder outside,” she said by way

of an answer. “I hope no one ees stuck outside in

dis kind of cold. You cood die. You vant milk? I

make for you.”

“No, no. Thanks. I have some wine.” I shrugged

off the inexplicable feeling of guilt at admitting to

my mother that I drank alcohol and realized she

wasn’t going to move unless I did. So I walked

back to the couch and lowered myself into the

same spot I’d left behind, hoping she was follow-

ing me. She was. When she took a seat at the other

end of the couch, the dogs, in unison, once again

lowered their heads onto their paws and practised

closing their eyes. For a moment, the four of us—

this temporary, makeshift family of sorts—sat qui-

etly except for the music, which was slowly doing

its job, relaxing my nerves and filling the uncom-

fortable emptiness between my mother and me.

As we sat there, watching the fire, I recalled that

my mother’s home—once my own—did not have

a fireplace. Maybe she’d never sat in front of one

before now, letting the dance of flames entertain

and warm her. Maybe it bored her.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, not surprisingly.

I shook my head and smiled at her. “No.

Sereena and I ate at the party.”

“Ya, the neighbour voman, uh-huh? Nice

lady?”

I knew she meant to test the waters to see if,

despite what she knew about me, she should start

taking Sereena’s measurements for white silk.

“She’s a good friend,” I told her, sending a definite

message.

190 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“You vere vorking? Eets late to vork.”

“Ya…Yes, I had to go to a client’s Christmas

party.”

“Vhat kind client?”

This was something new. Asking about my

work. Was this my mother trying to get to know

me? I gulped my wine. “Well, you know I’m not a

cop anymore, right?”

“Oh ya, dat’s…when did you do dat?”

“Couple years ago. Now I’m a private detec-

tive. People hire me to find stuff out for them. You

know, like the TV shows you watch. My current

client hired me to find someone who is blackmail-

ing him.”

“Oi, dat’s dangerous, Sonsyou. Mebbe you do

someting else?”

Still more wine. “That’s what I do. I like it. I

like it better than being a police officer.”

“But dangerous, Sonsyou.”

“Sometimes, I guess, but not always. Being a

policeman is dangerous too sometimes.”

Another silence. A sip of wine. A sip of warm

milk.

“I’m glad you decided to spend Christmas

with me this year,” I started. Stopped. Took a deep

breath. Decided to jump in. “But I’m surprised

you’re not spending it with Joanne or with Bill.

You seem…more comfortable with them. You and

I…well, we don’t really know each other too

well.”

“Not true!” she said quickly, rolling the
r
with

a shocked trill, surprised to think one of her chil-

dren thought such a thing.

Anthony Bidulka — 191

It came spilling out. “Well, I just worry, Mom,

that I don’t know what you like to do and don’t

like to do and I worry you’ll be bored here. I work

a lot…this case came up by surprise…I didn’t

think I’d be away from home so much…so I worry

about you here alone when I’m not home.” Then I

just couldn’t shut up. “I know you’re uncomfort-

able with my being gay, just like you were with

Uncle Lawrence. In all the years since I left the

farm, this is the first time you’ve ever stayed in

my home. You’ve always visited with Bill and

Joanne, but never with me. Don’t get me wrong,

Mom, I’m not upset about that.” Right? “I think I

understand, but it makes me wonder why you

would choose to come here now. If you think you

can change me or change my life or change who

my friends are…well, that won’t happen. I have a

life I love and I’m not looking to change it.” Where

did this come from?

I’d said more than I’d meant to, but it just came

out. The words needed saying. I obviously had

more on my mind than I’d realized. My mother’s

presence had turned my life and my home topsy-

turvy. And, if I was being totally honest with

myself, it wasn’t just her. It was Kelly’s odd

behaviour and having Brutus around and work-

ing a case I couldn’t get a handle on and a million

other things that suddenly seemed alien to me. I

looked deep into my mother’s face and hoped I

hadn’t hurt her feelings. What I saw surprised me.

She wasn’t hurt, but she quite obviously didn’t

understand where I was coming from any more

than I understood where she was coming from.

192 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“I don’t vant to change anyting,” she answered

quietly. “But mebbe you’re right about dat one

ting.”

“About what?”

“About your uncle.”

I had to remind myself to breathe. I had never

heard my mother talk about her strained relation-

ship with her brother, Lawrence. I only knew the

strain had existed and imagined I knew why. It

was because he was gay; it was because he was

gay and had a lover; it was because he was gay

and had a lover and didn’t hide the fact. At the

end they rarely spoke to one another. And now he

was dead.

“I love my brodder,” she told me. “But ve

deedn’t know vhy he deed dose tings he deed. Ve

deedn’t like dose tings.” “Ve” meaning she and

my father, “don’t like” meaning don’t understand.

“Ve deedn’t talk, ve deedn’t see each odder…for

long times ve deedn’t see each odder. And

den…he’s gone.” There were tears in her eyes now

as she remembered a brother who had this bigger-

than-life life, so far removed from anything she

knew or understood or ever wanted for herself. It

eventually wedged them apart. Forever. Because,

for Uncle Lawrence, forever wasn’t a very long

time. “I geeve anyting to see heem now. To talk vit

heem. Ay, Maria, but he’s gone, Sonsyou.”

What could I say? I didn’t know what it all

meant. Was I her second chance? Did she come to

realize that what happened with her brother was

slowly happening with me, her son? The same

wedge, the same distance, the same misunder-

Anthony Bidulka — 193

standings? Was it too late for us too? Or not? Here

she was, my mother making the grand gesture,

accepting my invitation when really she would

have been more comfortable, more welcomed,

more familiar in one of my sibling’s homes.

Accepting my invitation…my fake, insincere invi-

tation. If the truth be told, the wedge between us

wasn’t all her doing—it was mine too. I allowed it

and maybe I even pounded it in a little further

each year, by accepting and expecting my moth-

er’s non-involvement in my life.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I told her again, this

time meaning it much more.

The next thing I heard was my mother’s

scream and a flurry of Ukrainian epithets. Barbra

and Brutus jumped up and began to bark. All bad

signs. Barbra and Brutus rarely barked and, as far

as I knew, my mother rarely used the words she

just had. As I jerked to attention my wineglass,

thankfully empty, flew to the ground, landing

harmlessly on the rug.

“What?” I called out, “What is it?”

My mother had risen from her seat and was

now standing behind the couch clutching at the

neck of her housecoat. “Outside, oi bojeh, outside,

I saw a face!”

She pointed at the window next to the fire-

place, the same one where the dogs were directing

their vocal talents. Brutus had rushed up to the

pane and was leaving froth on the glass as he

mixed deep woofs with ferocious sounding growls.

Barbra did the same at another window on the

other side of the fireplace.

194 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Someone was in the backyard.

I knew looking out the window would be use-

less. I raced from the room, jumped into the shoes

and coat I’d taken off when I’d come home and

made my way through the kitchen and out the

back door in what seemed like seconds. I was fast

enough to see a figure disappearing behind a

clump of skeletal mock orange bushes. There was

only one place he could be heading. At the back of

the yard was a gate I used to access the garbage

dumpsters in the back alley. Other than through

the garage it was the only way out. I ran for it

ignoring the bitter cold and enveloping darkness.

When I arrived, the gate was hanging open. I

dashed through it and, because I lived at the end of

a dead end street, I knew the peeping Tom could

have only turned left, so I followed in hot pursuit.

The back alley was even darker than my yard

but as I galloped along I thought I could see a

black-coated figure running far ahead of me. I

wished I could stop, just for a moment, to listen

for footsteps or heavy breathing, but I couldn’t

waste the time. Instead, the sound of my own foot-

steps in the crunchy snow and my own laboured

breathing filled my ears. I kept going. Looking

ahead I saw the figure as he reached the end of the

alley and almost stumbled into a pool of light

compliments of a nearby street lamp. Other than a

dark coloured coat, it was impossible to tell any-

thing more about the runner. He made another left

and I raced forward, not sure whether I was gain-

ing or falling behind. When I came to the end of

the alley I could see him easily, fleeing down the

Anthony Bidulka — 195

street. Was he heading towards a car? Did he have

friends? Was this just a kid playing a prank or

someone truly dangerous? Was he armed? There

was no time to think about the answers to my

many questions. He ran. I ran. It was easier going

on the street with the shovelled sidewalks and

light posts, but I knew the pursuit would have to

change somehow. We seemed to be evenly

matched for speed and kept an unchanging dis-

tance between us. Would it come down to who

was in better cardiovascular shape?

Nope. The figure must have been thinking the

same thing and turned right at the next cross

street. I did the same and saw him duck into a

thickly treed yard. Damn! I reached the yard and

stopped. Did he just run right through or was he

waiting for me in ambush? Well, I’d come this far,

I thought to myself, I might as well keep going.

Bad mistake.

I had plastered my back against the house

preparing to slide along its side into the backyard

when it hit me. Some kind of spray. Was I being

maced? Or was it…hairspray? It smelled suspi-

ciously like Herbal Essences.

I fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, cov-