[C. MacP #5] The Dead Don't Get Out Much Page 2

  I lowered my voice. “This is a special moment. Don't spoil it by getting yourself all worked up over nothing, Alvin.”

  Alvin continued to obsess in that irritating way he specializes in. His voice got higher with every sentence. “I thought she needed someone to walk with her. I offered to do it. She turned me down cold. She wouldn't even accept a drive. She took a cab to the meeting point.”

  “Alvin, your concern is commendable, but Mrs. Parnell has been having the time of her life lately. We can't hold her back. She's getting exercise and fresh air. Been on trips, been up in balloons, might I remind you.”

  Alvin said, “Been shot at trying to rescue you.”

  “The last time was months ago, and anyway, I think she kind of likes that sort of thing. Takes her back to the war. Besides, she wasn't hit. She loved the adventure. She keeps reenacting it for anyone who'll listen.”

  “I still say it would have been way better if I had been marching with her.”

  “Shh. Listen to the speeches.”

  “Hey, I wonder if I can get a good look at the Governor General's hat from here,” Alvin mused.

  I will never understand that boy.

  The speeches are always short and heartfelt, but if you ask me, all everyone wants is to see the planes fly over, to hear the gun salutes and the pipers and to applaud the vets. It's our opportunity to think about how goddam lucky we are.

  “Every year, it's a smaller number of vets,” Alvin said before honking his nose.

  I didn't answer. I was clapping for the passing vets along with everyone else. Anyway, what could I say? My father and Mrs. Parnell were both well into their eighties. I didn't like to think about where all that was leading.

  “It's so sad,” Alvin sniffed.

  I already had a lump in my throat, since I thought I saw my father marching by. I imagined Alvin felt the same way. My father had lost two brothers in Sicily, and Alvin's grandfather was killed in the battle for Ortona. The uncles were real to me. I saw their pictures, I heard the stories of the mischief they got up to as boys. More than sixty years after the war, they were still important in my family.

  People shouted “Thank you!” and clapped as groups of vets marched by.

  Alvin slipped off his fogged-up cat's-eye glasses and whipped out black binoculars. They looked a lot like a pair I used to have.

  “I don't see Violet yet. Where is she?” he fretted. “Will they give her a wheelchair if she can't keep up? She should have her walker at least.”

  “For God's sake, Alvin. This is Mrs. Parnell we're talking about. She's as tough as they come. There are lots of vets the same age, some are even older and much more fragile. Please, try to control yourself. They'll be here,” I said. Not that I was relaxed. A woman with a red umbrella and a bad attitude kept shoving me in order to get a better spot. I wasn't keen to get too close to the edge, since it was a couple of storeys above the sidewalk. You can't really growl at someone at this particular time and place. Besides, I'm still working on my nice side.

  “I think she's coming now.” Alvin stretched up and out. He leaned forward and adjusted the binoculars as a small group of marchers passed by. “Lord thundering Jesus,” he said.

  “What?” I may have said that a bit louder than necessary since heads turned.

  “Something's wrong with Violet.”

  “Hand over those glasses.” I snatched the binoculars and peered through, looking for yet another opportunity to prove him wrong. There was an upside to our bickering as the crowd around us had shifted away.

  I zoomed in on Mrs. Parnell. I could feel Alvin's anxiety, maybe because he was gripping my arm. I expected bruises.

  I stared straight at Mrs. P.

  “See what I mean?” Alvin said. “Look at the way she's holding herself. You know how fussy she is about proper military bearing.”

  “Please let go of my arm, Alvin.”

  “And she isn't keeping step. It's like she's not even aware of the other marchers.”

  “There's nothing wrong with Mrs. Parnell that a couple of Benson & Hedges and a tumbler of Harvey's Bristol Cream won't fix.” I hesitated slightly, because Mrs. Parnell didn't appear to be keeping step with the other vets. I wondered for a second if I was catching Alvin's panicky behaviour.

  He grabbed the binoculars back. “We have to catch up with her and find out what the problem is.”

  “We can't disrupt the parade. She'll be going to the Chateau Laurier for the vets’ lunch right afterwards. We'll catch up with her then.”

  Alvin plunged right through the juniper. “We can't wait that long. Let's go.”

  Easier said than done. As we pushed our way through the crowds and down the stairs, things got worse. People were lined ten deep around the edge of the street. I couldn't even see where the vets were.

  Alvin zigged and zagged through the mass of milling people, using his elbows as weapons. “Get the lead out, Camilla.”

  “For heaven's sake,” I puffed, “if you don't stop stressing yourself out, you'll need an ambulance.”

  Most likely a lot of fuss about nothing, I told myself as I plunged through the crowd after him.

  * * *

  “Keep a cool head, Alvin. We don't want to ruin her moment,” I said half an hour later when we'd finally managed to cross Wellington Street and push our way into the green-roofed Chateau Laurier. The hotel was holding a luncheon for hundreds of vets, and the marble hallways were jammed. Excitement ran high. We shouldered our way through the sentimental crowd, everyone wanting to shake the hands of a vet and express their thanks.

  Alvin paid no attention to me. He was still cheesed off that I hadn't leaped over the barricades to connect to the marchers. He craned his scrawny neck, ponytail flicking in anxiety, heading for the ballroom where the lunch was being held. A few people attempted to stop him. That was a mistake on their part. I spotted Mrs. P. outside the ballroom. I felt a flood of relief.

  “There she is. Look. Now will you relax, Alvin?” I said, nudging a couple of people out of the way and pushing ahead of him.

  Mrs. P. sat by herself, in her CWAC uniform, her cap in her hand. Maybe she was still recovering from the march, or maybe she needed a Benson & Hedges. Plus Bristol Cream might not have been on the lunch menu.

  “Mrs. Parnell,” I called, galloping toward her.

  She looked up blankly.

  “Mrs. P.?”

  She said nothing, staring beyond me.

  I whirled to see who she was looking at. There was nothing but a blank wall behind me. I said, “It's Camilla.”

  She blinked and shook her head. Her hair hung loose and straggly. Deep purple shadows ringed her eyes. Her skin was as grey and mottled as the marble floor.

  I felt my heart begin to thud. Alvin was right. Where was the perky and upbeat Mrs. Parnell I'd expected? “Has something happened?”

  Alvin pushed in like a leather-clad tornado. He screeched to a stop in front of her. “What's wrong, Violet?”

  Mrs. Parnell seemed not to notice him, quite an achievement considering he was now on his leather knees.

  I bent over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Something wrong, Mrs. P.?”

  Alvin blurted, “Violet, what's going on?”

  She shook her head and blinked. “I'm terribly troubled by a dead man.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Whoa,” Alvin said. “How long has he been dead?”

  “Too long.”

  “That's amazing,” Alvin said.

  Something flickered in Mrs. Parnell's eyes. “Precisely. You can imagine how it took me by surprise.”

  Alvin's mouth hung open. Not a good look for him.

  I said, “Obviously, something's upset you, but I think you must be mistaken. Easy to make a mistake in a crowd like this.”

  “There's no mistake, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “This is crazy,” I turned and whispered to Alvin.

  “Like I wouldn't figure that out for myself?”

  Mrs. P
. scowled. “There's nothing wrong with my hearing. And, in this case, I would far prefer to be crazy than right.”

  I was formulating a sensible response when Mrs. Parnell gasped. The gasp became a strangled gurgle. Her hands gripped her chest. As Alvin and I stood frozen, her eyes rolled back and she slid from her chair into a heap on the marble floor.

  412 Dunbarton Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  October 6, 1941

  Dear Violet,

  I do hope you are able to receive letters. You are so far away, and you have chosen to take such risks. I know you are afraid of nothing, but I wonder if you have gone too far this time. The war is no place for a woman, and I think you should know that. It is bad enough that Perce has signed up and gone overseas. Now I have to worry about you as well as my brother. There is no one much to associate with in Chesterton, since Hazel is the only person from our crowd still around. She is sillier and more scatterbrained than ever. All she can think about is hats. I suppose she daydreams about men too. Mother says that's the one good thing about Perce going overseas. At least we don't have to worry about her, if you can read between the lines.

  So many girls from Chesterton have married boys they hardly know, it is a scandal. These boys have signed up and shipped out, and now the girls are working in factories. Can you imagine that? What is the world coming to? I took your advice and decided not to postpone Normal School. I will be finished my education and back home in no time. Even so, I hated to leave Mother, as she is on her own, with just the maid, especially since it is so hard to get good help these days. She misses Perce terribly. How could the government take a man who is the emotional support of an ailing widow? That is truly appalling. Of course, Perce is so patriotic, he insisted on doing his duty. It is such a shame for a capable and ambitious boy like Perce (and Harry too, of course) to have to put his life on hold. As you like to say, we must all be brave. I remind myself that Perce has a lucky streak, although I realize that is just silly and superstitious.

  I am beginning to settle in at the school. I have a nice furnished room with a very respectable family. Toronto is so large compared to sleepy little Chesterton. Some of the other girls are much too frivolous to spend time with. I cannot imagine how they think they'll make competent teachers. However, one or two seem quite solid. Time will tell if they will be worthy friends, as you have always been, Violet.

  Yours truly,

  Betty

  Two

  Lucky for us, there was no shortage of medical help at this particular gathering. Mrs. Parnell opened her eyes as the first paramedic approached. In a pre-emptive strike, she said, “There's nothing whatsoever wrong with me.”

  “We'll just confirm that, ma'am,” the paramedic said briskly.

  “I'll be the judge of how I am, young man.”

  I was relieved to catch a glimpse of Mrs. P. in her normal mode, but I sided with the paramedic.

  “You have to be seen by a doctor, just to be on the safe side. It shouldn't take long. Alvin and I will come along for the ride.”

  “Ms. MacPhee, I do not need to see a doctor. The world will not stop because of a moment's lightheadedness and a bit of indigestion. I have things to do.” She turned to the paramedic. “That will be all, young man. I'll be on my way now.”

  “You fainted, Violet,” Alvin said. “You can't just walk away.”

  “Watch me,” she said.

  By this time, we were ringed by observers, veterans and visitors alike. A hum of comment surrounded us.

  “But…” Alvin said.

  Mrs. P. struggled to her feet. “I'm leaving now. You two can decide whose side you're on.”

  “What?” I said, not for the first or last time that day.

  “We're on your side, Violet,” Alvin squeaked. He looked truly, deeply distressed. I could sympathize.

  “It's best if we get you checked out in the hospital,” the paramedic said.

  She said, “I can't be tied up for hours. I have places to go and people to see.”

  Dead people? I wondered. I decided to tough it out. “As soon as the doctor gives you the green light, you'll be on your way.”

  “No time to dally.” She straightened her shoulders. “Everything's fine. Excuse me, please.”

  It crossed my mind that maybe Benson & Hedges and Harvey's Bristol Cream were also calling. Even so, I had to admire her sense of drama.

  “Maybe she is okay,” I whispered to Alvin, as we stood uselessly watching Mrs. Parnell clump with her cane toward the exit.

  “Do you think?” he whispered back.

  “She sounds like her old self,” I said, “although she's a funny pasty colour.”

  “And her knees are wobbling. You can see them.”

  The paramedic was not as useless as we were. He followed her. “If you don't mind, we'd like to confirm that you are all right.”

  “I do mind.” Mrs. Parnell fixed him with a look that should have terrified a lesser man.

  He didn't even blink. “Won't take any time at all. And, I'll make sure you get some privacy,” he said, giving us a dismissive glance.

  * * *

  “Well, you can't just let that go,” my sister Alexa huffed over the phone line. “It sounds like the start of dementia to me.”

  “What are you talking about? Mrs. Parnell doesn't have dementia. But something's wrong, and I wanted to tell you Alvin and I are here at the hospital, because I know you're planning dinner. I don't know when we'll be out.”

  “Don't be silly. Dementia's extremely serious.”

  “Once more for the record, it is not dementia. She seems to have had some kind of shock. We haven't had a chance to talk to a doctor. Mrs. P. was whisked away, in case it was a heart attack.”

  “You said she was talking to dead people. I was a nurse, in case you have forgotten, and I can tell you when people are in their eighties and they start having conversations with those who have gone before, it's not a good sign. So just this once, don't argue with every word that comes out of my mouth.”

  “I'm not arguing,” I said.

  “Of course you are.”

  “Am not.”

  “As usual.”

  I massaged my temple, something I find myself doing in every conversation with one of my older sisters. It's not enough that I have to be the short, dark, stocky one in the family, the three of them get to be tall, blonde and elegant. Apparently part of the deal is that they have the answer to everything. Always. My sisters are very attached to the notion of being right.

  On the other hand, I was working hard to be nice.

  Alexa said, “Edwina wants to talk to you.”

  Great. Just what I needed. The supreme commander. “No time, I have to go right…”

  “Now look here, missy…” Edwina began.

  “Okay. Let's start again. I didn't call to have an argument.”

  “It certainly sounds to me like you did, missy.”

  “I wanted to let you know that I'm in Emerg with Mrs. Parnell, and I may not make the family dinner tonight because…”

  “What? You really are incredible, Camilla. You miss out on so many family events. You know how important this day is to Daddy.”

  I took a deep, soothing breath. “Daddy will understand. I have to stay here until we find out if she's all right.”

  Edwina sniffed. “Alexa has worked very hard to make this special dinner. She's livid.”

  I said, “Alexa doesn't get livid. You're the one who's always livid. Alexa does the guilt trips. Never mind. Put Daddy on the line. He really likes Mrs. Parnell. I'll explain.”

  “This is a very emotional day for him. You'll manage to upset him about this. I'll make up a plausible story.”

  “What do you mean make up a story? Just tell him the truth.”

  “Leave it with me. I'm sure you'll show up eventually.”

  Oh, what the hell.

  * * *

  “I'm a bit tense, try not to make it any worse,” I said to Alvin. We both
knew this waiting room too well. We had now been hanging around in useless mode for what seemed like hours, breathing in air heavy with body odour and disinfectant. Our backsides were numb from too long in the molded plastic chairs. Hours earlier, Mrs. P. had vanished into some examination room along with a pack of highly-focussed medical personnel. At least they had behaved as though sudden headache and collapse in a woman in her eighties was worth taking action.

  Alvin said, “Me? You're the one who always makes things worse.”

  “Who used the word ‘crazy’?”

  “You don't really think that made her…?”

  All right, I didn't. He just gets me going, and I was worried. Maybe Alvin had been right. Maybe I should have tried harder to talk her out of marching. At the very least, I could have stayed in touch with her more in the preceding week. A good solid Catholic upbringing equips you to wallow in guilt over many issues. I was wallowing big time.

  In the few years since we'd met her, Mrs. P. had begun to dote on Alvin, who didn't get much of that from other sources. She'd also saved my bacon more than once. She'd ended up in the ICU as a direct result of some of our investigations. In a pinch, she was game to spend the night guarding a client who was in danger. At the moment your life was flashing before your eyes, you could count on her to pop into the picture brandishing her Benson & Hedges and the appropriate military motto. She'd provide you with a tumbler of Bristol Cream to help you get over whatever trauma you'd be facing. I couldn't imagine life without her.

  Alvin reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and produced a brightly-coloured notebook. Unless I missed my guess, it had repeating images of Margaret Trudeau on it. Very Andy Warhol. He clicked a hot pink gel pen, bent his head and began to write.

  “What's that?” I said.

  “It's my journal. Do you like the cover? I designed it myself.”

  “It's very interesting, and I'm not surprised you designed it yourself, but since when do you keep a journal?”

  “I just started. I'm using it as an ongoing process of self-discovery. Not that it's any of your business.”