Last Song Sung. David A. Poulsen
you’re having a lovely day and that you’re up for what folks in these here parts refer to as a strawberry shortcake fest. Kyla knows it’s one of your favourites, and apparently thinks we should spoil you. I tried to talk her out of it, but without success.”
“Hnh,” I said.
“Excuse me, but that sounds just a little south of enthusiastic.”
“That’s because, as I am outnumbered two to one, said fest is likely to be followed by my being subjected to a chick flick, a film genre that ranks just slightly above horror on my ‘most hated’ list.”
“Colour me guilty.” She laughed. “Sorry, but the testosterone extravaganzas offered by the likes of Stallone and Schwarzenegger are seldom on the bill at the house of Sawley.”
“‘Seldom’ as in …?”
“Never.”
“Exactly. However, the promise of strawberry shortcake will offset the pain of having to watch Love Actually one more time.”
“Thought that might happen.” Jill laughed again.
I turned serious. “Is strawberry shortcake okay for Kyla?”
Jill’s nine-year-old daughter, who had stolen my heart within minutes of our first meeting, had been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease a few months before, and I was constantly wary that this or that food item might cause her discomfort, or worse.
“It’s not something she should be having often, but in moderation I think we’re okay.”
“Then count me in. Want me to pick up a movie on my way over?” While most of the video stores had disappeared over the last couple of years, there was still one that I frequented and it seemed to stay busy, perhaps because the selection rivalled, and likely surpassed, that of any online carrier.
“Already handled.”
“I was afraid of that.”
I had a couple of hours and spent much of that time writing out and studying the lyrics from the Ellie Foster song, hoping I had missed something in my listening. Scratched out on paper, the words offered no more meaning than they had through the earbuds. I stared long and hard at them.
Summer sun. Summer fun. Some were done
They walked the gentle path
At first asking only that the wind and rain wash their shaking hands
Stopping peace to fame
That person’s name
Man at the mike … so, so bad
But good at play
And always the sadness, the love over and over
The long man points and tells
An owl sits and stares, sound around and through his feathered force
So much like the other place. And so different …
Midnight. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. A time with no day of its own
The last of sun. The last of fun. The last time won
They circle the windswept block
At first telling the youngest ones it’s only a dream
See the balloons, hear them popping
Are they balloons?
No more the sadness, the hate over and over
The long man points and tells
An owl sits and stares, sound around and through his feathered force
Midnight. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. A time with no day of its own
Eventually my eyes ached and my frustration level had me shaking my head and tapping the page hard enough to break one pencil and threaten the welfare of another. And still I saw nothing. The inaccessible ranting of a pharmaceutically modified mind? Or a message? Or something else? Or nothing?
I was having trouble believing that a CD containing one song would suddenly appear fifty years after the disappearance of the person singing the song without there being anything significant about it. It made as much sense to me as the lyrics themselves. I hoped that Jill or Cobb would have more luck deciphering the thing and closed my notebook.
I decided to try something else. I’d been in situations before when having a story appear in the Herald and other national newspapers had been helpful. This was one time when I thought we really had nothing to lose. If reading and remembering the story jarred even one mind to recall a detail that had previously been unknown, then the story would be worth the effort.
And writing it would force me to review again what we did know — mostly from newspaper accounts and the file folder Monica Brill had given us during her visit to Cobb’s office.
I tapped at my keyboard for the next seventy-five minutes, constructing a piece I knew the Herald would use. I forced myself to stay away from conjecture and used only the information that was known: the details about what had happened in the alley behind The Depression that night and the few meaningful facts the police had managed to piece together as to what had happened after that.
As I read it over, I realized the story was pathetically incomplete. But it was all we had for the moment. I added a plea for anyone knowing anything at all to please get in touch with either Cobb or me, and I texted Cobb to let him know what I’d done and that I’d like him to see the piece before it ran. I wanted to be there when he read it to gauge his reaction and answer any questions he might have. I added that I’d read through Monica Brill’s file folder and would bring it along. He got back to me in less than a half hour to say he liked the idea and to suggest we grab coffee or breakfast in the morning.
I texted him back saying I was just heading out the door en route to Jill’s house and that I’d bring Monica’s file folder and a copy of the song lyrics the next morning. Then in capital letters I typed “BREAKFAST.” I was already running late for the strawberry shortcake festival, so I didn’t wait for the answering text.
Before picking up my car from the parking lot behind Cobb’s building, I stopped off at the two-storey brick structure that had once housed The Depression. Parm promised terrific pizza and great wine; neither was an unworthy goal, in my opinion.
Though Cobb and I had been in the place a couple of times, I’d paid little attention to the layout or decor. Once inside, I ordered a beer from the pleasant server I’d seen there before. She told me, in answer to my question, that she had been working there for a little over a year.
While I waited for the beer to arrive, I looked around. Parm was pleasant, clean, and friendly. And offered nothing in terms of instant clues to the world that had existed there fifty years before.
When the server delivered the beer, I asked her if she was aware that the basement of the building had once housed Calgary’s first folk club and coffee house. She shook her head and regarded me suspiciously. I introduced myself and told her I was writing a story about the club and other similar establishments from yesteryear for the Herald — sort of a “Where Are They Now?” piece.
I was skirting, or at least stretching the truth, but didn’t want to scare her off by relating that the place had been the site of one of Calgary’s most infamous unsolved crimes. Later when she came by to ask if I wanted food or another beer, I asked if I could have a look at the basement.
“It’s just storage now,” she said.
“I understand,” I told her. “Just a quick look — it would really help me with the story I’m writing.”
She looked around and apparently decided the young girl who was serving a couple three tables away from me could handle things for a few minutes while she showed me the downstairs area. She led the way to the stairs that wound their way to the basement level, turned on a light near the bottom of the stairs, and stepped aside at the bottom to allow me to see.
“Like