Generosity
by Joan M. Baril
Ethel Kowalchuk holds both her son’s hands in hers. The loudspeaker announces the first call for Air Canada, flight 405 to Toronto. “All
passengers should now board at Gate Two.”
“Don’t
cry, Ma,” Ken says. “I’ll be back at Christmas.” He bends and kisses her on the
cheek. “When you have time, send me some of those sesame cookies, okay?” His
beautiful smile, high beam and happy, always twists her heart.
Rudy
Kowalchuk, in plaid shirt and work boots, shakes his son’s hand and then envelopes
him in a giant hug pounding him on the back. “Stay warm,” he says. “Take care. God
bless you. Be careful with your money. Study hard. Your mom and I are proud of
you.”
Ethel
takes her husband’s arm as they watch their only child disappear through the
departure doors. One day he’ll come back as a lawyer, she thinks. It seems
impossible but then, as her parents often said, in Canada everything is possible.
In
the truck, she mentally goes over all the items she packed into Ken’s suitcase.
“I wonder if he has enough warm socks,” she says to her husband. “I hear the
winters are damp in Toronto.”
“Don’t
worry about it. You can send him some.” Rudy guns the Dodge Ram along the
Expressway passing the turn-off into Westfort and home. “I have to pick up a
few things at Canada Tire,” he says. Ethel knows her husband can’t go home just
yet. The sight of Ken’s room, the printer, the books, the over-sized speakers,
the Lakehead University diploma on the wall, the hockey trophies and the
fishing stuff in the garage will be too much for him. Poor old husband, she
thinks. He’ll probably cry, and he won’t like that. She’ll cry too of course,
but that’s different.
In
Canada Tire, she spots the very thing at once and on sale too! Nipigon nylons,
the best wool socks made. She puts two pair in her cart. Her eye is drawn to a
display of small flat boxes each holding an array of tiny screwdrivers. By some
miracle, a Canadian Tire salesperson is at hand.
“What
are these for?” she asks.
“Small
machines, like sewing machines or computers. Very handy.”
Yes!
Ken has a new laptop. She’ll slip these into the box with the socks. And over
there, a display of toothpaste at a good price. He has a new tube with him but
how long will that last? Better send two. Now to find some plastic containers
for the cookies.
Three months before graduation from
Osgood Law School, Ken phones. He’s snagged a great articling placement with a
prestigious Toronto firm. Ethel tries to sound happy for him even though her
voice falters. Then he says, “I met a girl, Ma. Her name is Spicer Bonnycastle.
I know you’ll love her. She’s in my law class and she’ll be articling with me at
the same firm.”
“What
the hell name is Spicer for a girl,” Rudy says at supper. “Sounds like a
grocery store.”
“Yes,
but maybe it was the Toronto fashion at one time. You never know.” Ethel is
thinking of many things at once, a possible wedding and then grandchildren but
also she is considering what to get for Spicer to put into the latest box.
Perhaps some lipstick from Shoppers or would fancy knit gloves be better? She
saw some on sale at Wal-Mart when she dropped in to pick up the peppermints Ken
liked.
At
Christmas, Spicer and Ken arrive with strange presents: a salad spinner, a set
of champagne glasses and something called a mandoline to slice tomatoes. Spicer,
thin and tall with glossy black hair to her shoulders, has a short-stepping
snappy walk. She wears her heels in the house. Ethel can barely see the outline
of a breast under her silk shirt. Spicer eats hardly anything, smilingly
turning down Ethel’s pickles, her perogies and Rudy’s homemade moose sausage.
She picks at her potato salad and has an apple for desert. She and Ken generally
don’t show up for supper and Ethel knows from certain overheard remarks that
the young couple go to the gluten-free restaurant on Cumberland Street.
In
bed, Rudy says, “How the hell can she bear a child with hips like a snake. Her
behind would fit into a tea cup.”
“Two
teacups,” says Ethel.
“Now
your behind,” he says, giving it a little slap. “Now that’s a behind.”
Ethel
laughs, wiggles against him. “Sh, sh,” she says. Such a small house with Spicer
next door in the spare room and Ken on the couch in the front room. “We have to
be quiet,” she says.
“Sure
thing,” says Rudy.
For Spicer and Ken, the expected
sequence. First, graduation, then the call to the bar, followed by a fancy
wedding in Rosedale, a two-million-dollar high-rise Toronto condo and a Porsche
in the garage below. A hefty line of credit at the bank. Ken sticks to real
estate and makes money in a hot market. Spicer specializes in criminal law and,
besides making money, garners a bit of fame. After one high-profile trial, the
Toronto Sun pictures her in black gown, tabs, and four inch heels with the caption,
The Hottest Hot Shot in Law.
But no children,
Ethel thinks, as she packs the box she sends every three months. Luckily, she
cannot see Spicer pick it up in the condo mailroom a few days later, nor hear
her daughter-in-law’s deep sigh nor see the angry woman slam the package on the
kitchen counter.
“Another goddamn
box of junk,” Spicer yells at Ken. “Every three months. Every three goddamn months.
You have to phone her, Ken. Tell her to get a life. Stop sending us this crap.”
“I like the
cookies,” Ken says, trying for a light tone. He takes out the Henkel scissors
and slices open the heavy layer of mailing tape. He smiles at Spicer who does
not respond.
“I don’t want to
look at the stuff,” says Spicer, fiddling with the stainless steel espresso
machine. “Remember those wooly gloves, every finger a different colour. What
was that? And the wedding present. A table painted with flowers and hearts.”
“Ukrainian
design,” Ken says trying another useless smile. He lifts the lid off the shoebox
and sees the familiar plastic tub of cookies. Mmm. His favourite. “Sesame! Hot
damn!”
But Spicer is
not finished. “I told her our décor was minimalist. I said, very clearly, ‘our
colours are black and white.’ How do you put a blue painted table with goddamn
hearts on it into a minimalist décor?”
“I don’t think
Ma understands the concept of minimalist,” Ken says.
“No kidding.”
Spicer reaches into the shoebox, grabs a couple of objects and tosses them into
the air. Two packages of toothpaste hit the floor. “A book about the fucking Sleeping
Giant.” She flings it against the wall. “A deck of cards.” The little box hits
the side of the fridge. “A his-and-hers razor set. Jesus. Ear muffs. Who the
hell wears ear muffs?” She pitches each item hard against the cupboards on the
far side of the room.
“How does she
cram so much junk into one shoebox? Does she think we’re poor and might run out
of toothpaste? We must have forty tubes in the cupboard in the den. And what’s
this?” Spicer pulls out a small envelope and opens it. “A recipe. She sent me a
recipe. I can’t believe it. Borsch. Fucking borsch. Does your mother think I
actually cook?” She balls the recipe up and lobs it into the sink where it
lands in a dish full of water. “Phone her, for God’s sake. Either you do it or
I will.” She stalks out of the room toward the den, carrying the espresso.
Ken reaches
across and retrieves the recipe, spreading it out on the counter. The blue ink runs
off the paper and he brushes the drops into the sink. The top of the page is
dry and readable but the rest is water sodden. He reads. Dear Spicer, This is my mother’s borscht recipe that she brought from
the Ukraine. Maybe you would like to try it. Love Ethel.
Ken puts the soggy
paper in the trash and takes out a cloth to wipe the blue stains from the
stainless steel counter. He remembers his grandmother well. The old lady spoke
a mangled English but he had no trouble understanding her. He sees her in her
back yard putting ripe tomatoes in a basket and then holding out the biggest to
him, a child, who had to use two hands to take it. He remembers her red bobble
hat, easily visible from the ice as he skated by. She came to every one of his
hockey games. Every one.
Ken stands very
still watching a blue water drop slide down the side of the stainless steel
sink, head slowly to the drain and disappear.
After Ethel gets the call about the
divorce, she can hardly bear to tell Rudy at supper.
“So what are you
crying about?” her husband says.
“The church does
not approve of divorce.”
“Who
the hell cares?” says Rudy. “No more hot stuff the lawyer. Did you really think
Miss Minimalist would ever give you grandchildren? Pfff,” he says helping himself to more potato
pancakes.
The next summer, Ken has four weeks’
vacation and plans to drive up to Thunder Bay. “And I have a surprise for you,”
he says on the phone.
The
surprise is Marcie O’Hare. “She’s from Newfoundland,” Ken says when he introduces
her as she steps out of the Toyota Rav. “She’s a nurse, head of the children’s
ward.” Ethel can barely keep the pleased look off her face. Marcie is plump,
with short blond hair and bright blue eyes. She wears tight capris that cling
to her heavy thighs. She lifts a suitcase out of the trunk as if it were made
of cobwebs.
“Pleased to meet
you, Mrs. Kowalchuk,” she says, shaking Ethel’s hand. It was then Ethel notices
the wedding ring beside the engagement ring.
“That’s
the other part of the surprise,” Ken says quickly. “We, uh, we married a month
ago. Just a small ceremony with friends. Justice of the Peace.” He’s talking
fast, getting it all out at once. He knows his parents will be upset at not
being included. And the non-church wedding would be doubly upsetting, especially
for his mom. “But, you see,” he stammers, “we were living together anyway so we
thought it was the right time.”
Living
together? Ethel opens her mouth but stops. Marcie has turned sideways to hand
the suitcase to Rudy and what’s that? A baby bump? Such a big girl, on the
plump side, not easy to tell. Another quick peek and she’s still unsure. “Come
on inside,” she says. “Supper’s on the stove. I’ve got borsch. Holuptsi and
perogies. Cake and cookies for dessert.”
“Isn’t
that grand now,” says Marcie following her mother-in-law into the kitchen. “I
was hoping for cookies. If it’s not too much bother, Mrs. Kowalchuk, could you
find a bit of time to show me how to make those wonderful cookies you send to
Ken. They’re the best ever.”
“Call
me Ma,” says Ethel.
Many years later, seven-year-old
Owen is walking home from school when he spies the box on the ledge beside the
front door. A Gramma box! It’s the right size and all covered with clear tape
as usual. He hasn’t seen one for so long, months and months. He snatches it up
and runs back half a block where his twelve-year-old sister is walking with her
friends.
“Kayla.
Kayla,” he screams, leaping up and down. “Look what came! A Gramma box! A
Gramma box!” He capers about, waving the box in the air with both hands.
Kayla
grabs hold of him. “Stop it,” she says. She kneels down on the slushy sidewalk
and puts her arms tight around him. She takes the box from his hands. “Stop it,
Owen. Stop it. It can’t be a Gramma box. Don’t your remember? Gramma died just
after Christmas. Dad and Mom went to the funeral and left us with Auntie Rea.
Remember? And we’re all going up to Thunder Bay at Easter to clean out the house
and help Grampy move into this special home because now, he’s all alone.”
Owen
stares at the box, confused. He feels dizzy like when he fell off the swing and
hit his head. Like when he climbed on the garage and couldn’t get back down. But
maybe an angel… He stops the thought, hangs his head. He wipes the snot from
his nose with his mitt. He takes a big sniffle. He will not, will not, cry.
Kayla
studies the box. No return address. Under the black lettering and the heavy
criss-cross of tape, she makes out the shape of an envelope. She takes Owen by
the hand and leads him to the house. They put the box in the middle of the
kitchen table just as if it were a real Gramma box. When her parents come home,
they’ll open it all together after dinner as usual. Maybe there’ll be cookies.
Then she shakes her head to clear it. No more cookies. Never any more cookies.
I
can’t believe it,” her mother says to her dad at dinner. “All our married life
we’ve had these wonderful, crazy, surprise boxes. Every three months. The kids
grew up on them. And now out of the blue…” She stops. Sighs.
Owen stares at
the box as he eats his ice cream dessert. At last his mom stands and reaches in
the drawer for the Henkel scissors. But she only cuts down to the envelope under
the tape.
Dear Ken and Marcie, Owen and Kayla. I am
slowly cleaning out the house and so I found a few things that Ma put away for
her next grandmother box and I thought I would send them on. I am feeling
pretty good in spite of everything. Love to all. Take care. See you all at
Easter, Grampy.
Kayla
watches as Mom lifts the lid and brings out the first item and holds it up. A
box of toothpaste. Kayla joins the collective groan. Then they all laugh. There’s
always toothpaste. The mood lightens. To Kayla it feels like old times. Next
come two small teddy bears. Mom hands one to Owen and one to her. Kayla frowns.
She’s too old for stuffed toys. But, on the other hand, it’s so cute. She tucks
it into the pocket of her hoodie. A whistle on a lanyard. Owen holds up his
hand and Mom passes it over. A pair of pantyhose for Mom follows. Then horrible
pink socks for her. They’ll go into the Diabetes Clothes Line bag where many of
Gramma’s gifts end up. A set of razors for Dad, is followed by a bar of soap,
and a bottle of perfume wrapped in a tea towel with a picture of the Sleeping Giant
on it. A wooden box containing a Ukrainian Easter egg wrapped in straw causes Mom
to give a little cry in pleasure. “Oh, how lovely,” she says carefully lifting
it out so they all can see. Lastly, Mom brings out a little carved stand to
hold the egg. The end. All in all, Kayla thinks, it’s been a pretty good Gramma
box.
At
the bottom is a second envelope. “Your name’s on it,” says Mom, handing it
over. Inside Kayla finds a piece of paper. “A recipe,” she says in surprise. She
reads. Dear Kayla, This is the old
Ukrainian recipe for sesame cookies. They are easy to make. I hope you will
try. Love Gramma.
“Oh boy,” cries
Kayla, delighted.
The late winter
dark invades the kitchen. Ken stands to switch on the overhead light. He turns
and looks at his family. Hyper Owen, working on the new whistle. He’ll have to
take it off him in a minute. Kayla, that solemn worrier, is reading out loud the
ingredient list on her recipe. His wife, larger than ever, is cleaning up the
table, directing the children, and getting out more ice cream. Add in himself,
a little out of shape from too much sitting and not enough gym.
Noise, chatter, clutter,
the usual. So why is he suddenly so happy? Gratitude perhaps. A feeling of good
luck? It’s as if they’re all caught in a vortex spinning together. He cannot
say why.
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