View From a Kite
Authors: Maureen Hull
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Historical, #General, #JUV000000, #JUV039030
THE VIEW
FROM A KITE
Maureen Hull
Copyright © 2006 Maureen Hull
E-book © 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.
Vagrant Press is an imprint of
Nimbus Publishing Limited
PO Box 9166
Halifax, NS Â Â Â Â Â Â B3K 5M8
(902) 455-4286
Printed and bound in Canada
Interior design: Mauve Pagé
Front cover: Heather Bryan
Author photo: Cathy McKelvey
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
         Hull, Maureen, 1949-
         The view from a kite / Maureen Hull.
         ISBN 1-55109-591-2
         E-book ISBN 978-1-55109-816-6
I.Title.
PS8565.U542V53 2006 Â Â Â Â Â Â C813'.54 Â Â Â Â Â Â C2006-904645-X
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Canada Council, and of the Province of Nova Scotia through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Heritage for our publishing activities.
CONTENTS
Thanks to: the Canada Council for the Arts for crucial support during the early days of this project; the late Pierre Berton, who so kindly invited me to apply for a residency at Berton House; the Berton House Committee and the many, many wonderful people in Dawson City who made my stay there such a happy and productive experience; dearest Jane Buss, of the WFNS, for unlimited help, encouragement, astute advice, and life-sustaining hugs; Sandra McIntyre, Penelope Jackson and everyone at Nimbus/Vagrant for their enthusiasm, energy, expertise, and for keeping me informed, reassured, and connected; Amy and Moira Harding, the best daughters and friends in the world, and David Harding, my beloved husband, co-adventurer and indispensable computer wizard.
I am a Dangerous Woman in a Dangerous Dress.
The gym is foggy with chiffon: rose, peach, aqua, and mint, with dyed-to-match pumps spiked to the bottom, strings of pearls looped around the topâa pastel smear of background for the scarlet shout that is me. Gwen. My dress is a lick of silk, the molten edge of a suicidal sun. I move through the crowd like a reckless kiss, a flash of crystal at my stiletto heels, nails enamelled in heart's blood.
His hair is too long, dark curls thrown into confusion by the knife edge of his collar. He draws frowns but no direct criticism because he just doesn't give a damn and can't be made to. He pulls me into his arms, the band blasts me up off the bed, trumpets and trombones in a frenzy, a dozen big booming drums, some crazed person hammering the bells off her tambourine. I cling to the edge of the metal frame, tangled in the sheets, hyperventilating, what is that tune? Sweet Jesus, it is not, yes it is. “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
I see them through the half-open door, the Salvation Army Band, all dressed up in black wool, red collars, and shiny brass instruments. The leader winks at me as he whips the ensemble into a straight and narrow line, aims them at the crashing, metallic finale. Then, with the barest pause for breath, they fling themselves “Into the Garden Alone.”
I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Check my pulse. One hundred and thirty, roaring and frothing though my veins and arteries. Check my watchâ9:30, still the same damn Sunday morning. I have napped for less than half an hour.
Mary did this. She planted them at my door.
But when Mary staggers into my room a few minutes later, she looks as stunned as I feel. Her hair isn't combed; it is a rat's nest. Mary doesn't go for a pee in the middle of the night without first combing her hair. She boots the door shut with her bum, crawls up on the bed, kicks her slippers off the edge, and reaches past me to the bedside cabinet where I stash a quantity of medicinal chocolate.
“You'll catch shit for closing the door. And you've just insulted a bunch of well-meaning Christians.”
“Well-meaning Christians don't make that kind of a racket in a ward full of sick people,” she says, stabbing the creams with one sharp nail, looking for caramel centres. “They could have given old Mrs. Cyr a heart attack.”
“She's too deaf to hear them.”
“Vibrations. She'd feel the vibrations and think it's the end of the world.”
“She's ninety-seven. The end of her world's not that far off.”
“Nice talk on a Sunday. Got any smokes?”
“In the bedpan.”
We gather chocolates, cigarettes, and matches, climb up on the broad window ledge and hang out the open window to blow the smoke away. The centre block and the west wing of the Sanatorium angle away from us. A few plots of purple crocuses, ringed with painted white beach stones, rise from the mud and straw of the lawn. Dirty scuts of April snow shrink and slowly spin off down the ditches on either side of the long drive that leads to the main gate.
“Did you hear Joe come in at three this morning?”
“I heard him offer to marry The Witch. She was some wild. Lectured him for almost half an hour and made more noise than he did.”
The first time I met Joe he scared me shitless. This guy, maybe forty, walked into my room, sat down on my visitor's chair and smiled. He smiled and smiled and smiled. He wore pyjamas and slippers and a ratty plaid robe so I knew he was a patient from the men's ward upstairs and he wasn't supposed to be in my room. He wasn't supposed to be on our floor at all. He didn't say a word, just sat and smiled.
“Hello,” I said. Nothing. “Can I help you?” I said, louder. Still nothing. I began to get very nervous, but he didn't make any move to grab me. There was no one in the halls: no nosy patients, nosier visitors, nosiest of all, nurses. After five minutes or so I concluded the guy was simple, and possibly dangerous if I didn't come up with whatever social interaction he was expecting. You never know what people will do when their expectations aren't met. I slid along the wall, excused myself, backed out the door and scuttled for Mary's room.
“The weirdest man is in my room. He won't quit smiling.”
“Well we can't have that. Call the cops.”
“No, I'm serious. I mean, it's really creepy. He's really creepy.”
She yawned and put down her
True Confessions
.
“What does he look like?”
“Creepy. Deranged. I think he's from Ward C.”
Mary went off down the hall, came back and said, “It's only Joe Paul. He wouldn't hurt a flea. He's in Sister's room now, smiling at her with his jaws hooked back like a couple of curtain swags. She's frantic, assaulting her buzzer in an attempt to get Fat Lily off her overstuffed polyester ass to come and rescue her.”
“Why doesn't he say something? What's he smiling at?”
“He didn't say.”
Fifteen minutes later, when I tiptoed back towards my room, he was in cranky old Mrs. Cyr's room, smiling, smiling. She was tickled to have someone to yell to about the crooks and liars who run the government and steal all our tax dollars. Joe just kept on smiling. I decided to keep on going and hide out in the second bathroom. My room's next to Mrs. Cyr's, I thought he might decide to visit me again. He might be harmless, but making conversation with him was heavy going, if not impossible, and I'm supposed to be an invalid, after all. I'm not supposed to strain myself. After ten minutes OFN (Our Favorite Nurse) flushed me out of cover.
“You're supposed to be confined to bed. Scoot before Mrs. Wharton finds you here and we both catch it.” Mrs. Wharton: horse teeth, two black bands on her hat to show she's the boss of us all. She's the one we fondly call The Witch.
“Not until you get rid of that crazy guy. The one that keeps smiling like he's got an axe up his sleeve and means to use it.”
“Oh, for pity's sake. Joe is harmless. He got his new teeth yesterday; he just came for a little visit to show them off. He's so proud of them and not one of you told him how nice he looks.”
I got used to Joe after a while. Every so often he gets bored and wanders down to the women's ward to visit. It gives old Mrs. Cyr a chance to exercise her lungs and distracts Sister from her misery. I never know what to say to him so I just smile and he smiles back. By the time I'd worked up enough confidence to tell him how good his new teeth looked they were gone. He went to a dance in Coxheath and some idiot knocked them out and stepped on them.
At last the band marches off to Ward C. Mary runs my brush though her hair and goes back to her room to properly style her coiffure and paint on today's version of her face. I can't go back to sleep, I'm wide awake and bored. I have no good books left to read and it's hours till I'll have the pleasure of dissecting an inedible lunch. I dig my journal out from under the mattress and begin to write. In code.
