Little Boy Blues. Mary Jane Maffini
silver-haired woman. I pegged her on the high side of sixty with the kind of features and carriage that could make Lauren Bacall chew her nails in envy. The younger women flanked her. Their hands hovered at her elbows.
A least a half-dozen small children darted in and out. There were those genes again. Slightly slanted sooty-blue eyes, dark eyelashes, crisp chins and cheekbones you could cut bread with, plus the unfair advantage of glowing ivory skin against nearly black hair.
I tried to figure who was who. Tracy was easy. I recognized her voice. The woman closer to my age must have been Frances Ann. Frances Ann had a bunch of kids and was some kind of health administrator.
The only man in the group stepped forward and spoke. “Do you always have to think of yourself, Allie?”
Mary Frances said, “Knock it off, Vince.”
I looked around. No one else seemed to find this in the least bit unusual. Alvin’s earrings jingled. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Vince said, “We’re all sorry. So don’t start with the bullshit.”
I stepped forward in case Alvin landed in a heap on the grass, but he braced himself. “Camilla, meet my brother, Vince.”
The deep blue eyes narrowed.
Ever since Alvin got pneumonia in my service, my name has been mud with the Ferguson clan. It wasn’t enough they had shot my phone bill into the next galaxy for the last twenty-six months, but they got to pretend I was the bad guy too.
I gave Vince my best bonecrushing shake before he could whip his hand safely behind his back. “Glad to meet you.”
Vince kept his mouth shut. “Ma,” Alvin bleated.
Mrs. Ferguson opened her arms and Alvin fell into them. The rest of the gang surrounded them protectively. Except for Vince.
Alvin was hugged and kissed and patted. Three beautiful women cried. Alvin blew his nose.
“You have to meet Violet,” he said.
I guess everyone had heard good things about Mrs. Parnell. They did everything but bear her on their shoulders into the house. When the front door slammed behind them, I found myself standing alone on the lawn as the clouds burst. Donald Donnie and Loretta lit cigarettes and watched with interest. I nodded grimly when they gave me the thumbs up.
Tracy must have taken pity on me. She stuck her head out the door and said, “Ms. MacPhee? Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea with us?”
• • •
The Ferguson home was large, airy and smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon. The three-story house, probably built before the nineteen twenties, sat on a tree-lined street with a wide sidewalk on one side and a park on the other. It featured a bit of gingerbread trim, a neat lawn, a few dozen Siberian irises, plus a porch swing.
The entrance way was soothing faded blue, last painted who knew when. A row of hooks held the rain gear neatly in the hallway, and the well-placed water-colours on the wall spoke of organization. On the telephone table sat three Daily Missals in a stack. I saw nothing to indicate that Alvin’s unique temperament had been nurtured within these walls.
We were herded into the living room, where Alvin remained the centre of attention. “Come on in, Allie.”
“Sit here, Allie.”
“You want something to eat, Allie?”
“Can I try on your earring, Uncle Allie?”
So much for Mrs. P.’s notion that the family was the source of his problems.
It took less than a minute for a giant earthenware pot of tea and a plate of shortbread cookies to appear. Alvin got freshly sliced homemade white bread and butter. Of course, the anxiety about Jimmy was reflected in the frenetic movements, the race to grab the telephone at every ring, the outbursts of tears, and the hushed conversations with other Fergusons who were out combing the hills for Jimmy. I couldn’t miss the muted hostility toward me, but I felt this would be a pleasant place, as a rule.
I guess if you have seven kids and twice as many grandchildren, you’d need two sofas and four large comfortable arm chairs. Books and magazines occupied most surfaces. I spotted an entire collection of P. G. Wodehouse in tattered orange covers and shelves of green-backed Penguins. Plus hardcover novels by Alistair MacLeod, Linden MacIntyre, Lynn Coady and Ann-Marie MacDonald. Giller stickers glistened on book jackets.
The graduation pictures took pride of place over the sofa. High school, university, grad school too, judging by the variety of gowns. Vince made it three times, including one that must have been a Ph.D.
Alvin didn’t eat his fresh bread.
Small children raced up and down the stairs and past the adults calling “Uncle Allie watch me! No, watch me.”
They all looked so much alike, I doubted even their parents could tell them apart. The dog, Gussie, chased after them, barking. Every now and then someone shouted at Brianna, Ashley, Dylan, Cayla or Brittany, “Cut that out right now. Yes, you.” I resolved not to remember the children or their names.
Tracy spoke non-stop to Alvin, her small hands moving in a blur. Like his mother, Alvin stared without speaking out the window at the dark, wet street as if expecting Jimmy to appear from behind a shrub.
Vince didn’t say a word. No one else made eye contact with me. That was fine.
Someone pressed a plate of cinnamon buns towards Alvin. He didn’t seem to notice them. I ate a couple to be polite then stepped across the room to check out the cluster of First Communion pictures artfully arranged on the top of the upright piano.
I spotted Alvin before his ponytail and earring phase, a scrawny child with a face full of apprehension, wearing dress pants that stopped above his ankles. Frances Ann and Tracy looked like miniature versions of themselves in fluffy white veils, gleaming ankle-length dresses and tiny gloves. The others were recognizable too. Vince’s broad grin showed off his missing front teeth.
Jimmy’s picture sat in front of the others, a palm frond attached to its frame. A smiling priest stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Every few minutes, someone’s eyes would light on that photo, then look away. Jimmy’s absence hung like a fog, draping everything in grey.
• • •
All I needed was a hotel with a nice shower and a meal without company. I managed to catch Mrs. Parnell’s eye and hiss in her ear. “Where are we staying? I need to shower and change.”
“Encountered some obstacles, Ms. MacPhee.”
“What do you mean?”
“A bit of a stumbling block in securing hotel accommodation.”
“What?”
“Didn’t want to dwell on it before we left, in case it slowed down our departure.”
“But you said you would make arrangements. We can’t sleep in the Buick again.”
“Best of intentions.”
“How hard can it be?”
No one paid any attention to me as I stepped into the hall. The Ferguson telephone was kept free for calls about Jimmy, so I used my cellphone and blew an hour working my way through the phone book. To hear the responses, they were stacking the tourists three deep in the hallways of every hotel, tourist home and B & B on the island.
Sometime during my search, Gussie, a large, shaggy dog of uncertain breed, had discovered me and laid his or her chin on my knee. That would have been heartwarming, except someone must have been feeding him or her beans.
Mrs. Parnell slipped up behind me. She’s the only person in the world who can be stealthy using two canes.
“It looks like we’re stuck with the Fergusons for a while,” I whispered.
“Step outside, Ms.