The Second Life of Samuel Tyne (9 page)

The other shops along the street had been left unattended, some of the doors flung wide. But no one was interested in stealing. Everyone’s attention was directed at the smoke gathering in the sky, a dark patch like a flaw in wood. It was so thick it looked like a solid object. Samuel felt as though everything had stopped, including himself, though he saw with detachment he was still moving. He turned the corner onto Dickson Street.

An enormous crowd stood before Thorpe’s Diner. Urged back by the lay firemen, the crowd continued to surge forward, screaming above the dull roar of the fire. The smell of sulphur, usually so acute on warm afternoons, had given way to that stench only the burning of artificial things can produce. It clotted the nostrils and stuck in the throat, and Samuel found himself gasping. Others were choking, and a few men held the heads of wives who’d leaned over to throw up onto the nearby grass.

The flames became more violent under the water jets, simply shifting out of the way, before they began to sink. Each extinguished flame made a hissing noise and threw out a gale of black smoke that drew relieved sounds from the crowd. Once the fire was contained, Samuel was amazed to see how little of the building had actually burned. Brown water dripped from the singed awning, smoke spiralled off the roof, but the building’s structural integrity was preserved. The fire ended suddenly, and exhausted, the local fire team dropped their hoses almost in unison, gripping their knees and catching their breath. But the crowd continued to stand there, their silence heavy with coughs and groans, staring at the diner as if the fire was still going.

“Fifty-five years,” someone cried. “Fifty-five years.”

“… electrical wiring, and I said that’s no wiring. We know, we …”

A crying woman, her sobs choked with asthma, threw her arms around a red-faced man.

Dazed, Samuel pushed through the crowd. Before he knew it he was standing among the damp people at the front, their pale, astonished faces looking at the smoke overcasting the sky. Studying the entranceway, which dripped with sooty water, Samuel realized he knew this place. Ray had brought him to this diner the day they’d found him the shop. Samuel started at the memory. Everything seemed connected in some dark and meaningful way.

He gave his head a shake. “Once you begin with the superstitions, you can kiss your rationality goodbye,” he muttered.

Ray Frank appeared as from nowhere, and Samuel watched as he rolled up his sleeves to calmly direct the fire team. Beside him stood a fat, fussy-looking little man in a wrinkled black suit, also shouting orders, but in a less self-conscious way. Samuel walked up to them.

“Ray, did you see my wife? My children? I hope they were nowhere around.”

Distracted, Ray barely acknowledged him. “No, no, didn’t see …” He drew a hose towards him. “Oh, that’s right, Eudora said she was having them in today. Should be safe and sound.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.” Samuel realized that the obese little man was staring at him, and hesitating, he nodded. “Oh, hello there,” he said, as if the man’s height might indicate he was actually a child.

The man raised his eyebrows, and seeing his sudden interest in Samuel, Ray dropped everything to introduce them. “The Honourable Don Gould, this is Samuel Tyne. Sam, this here’s the mayor.”

Samuel shook hands, conscious that his were damp. He was dying to leave, to close up shop and see his wife and children, but he instinctively waited for some kind of dismissal. He nodded towards the diner. “I cannot believe this has happened.”

The mayor assessed him with cold eyes. “I don’t have time to stand around chatting about it. There’ll be time enough to talk at next week’s meeting.” And he left to go direct things again.

Ray coloured a little. “Well. I’ll call on you, Samuel.” He turned to follow the mayor.

Samuel felt dazed. Taking off his moist jacket, he slung it over his shoulder and walked back to his shop.

chapter
NINE

T
hat morning, before the fire began, Mrs. Tyne had badgered the girls into immaculate dresses and marched them over to the Franks’. Eudora came to the door in a tight dress, a white carnation tucked into her top buttonhole.

“Well, you girls certainly aren’t the most polite neighbours I ever had, waiting so long to call on me,” she joked. That jutting tooth made Ama nervous.

The Frank house displayed surprising good taste. Most of the furniture was beige, with the occasional coloured chair, and Eudora hung only paintings, not prints, each chosen with a refined eye. Ama could tell by Mrs. Tyne’s vague smile that it flustered her.

But Eudora’s coarse joking soon gave way to restraint; she ran her hands down her clothes, fiddled with her satin cushions and responded to compliments by slightly lowering her eyelids. She set a kettle on the new gas stove, shoving a plate of cookies in Ama’s hands before herding the girls downstairs to watch television.

In “Ray’s Recreation Room”—“We call it the three Rs,” said Eudora—sat a blond rug, a recliner and a dinner tray holding a small television. “Ta-dah!” said Eudora, gesturing at it with her usual enthusiasm. As if remembering her earlier forbearance, she continued, “You may watch as much television as you please. I know you don’t have one.”

The girls sat rigid on the rug after Eudora left. Ama reached out and turned on the set, looking at the twins on either side of her to see if she’d done right. Chloe’s face remained sober, but Yvette’s reflected pleasure, and Ama smiled at her and sat back. She knew Yvette wanted to befriend her, but was merely too shy, or possibly too afraid of Chloe to try.

Without warning, Chloe stood and yelled, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Ama was appalled and, apparently, so was Mrs. Tyne. From the top floor her mortified voice called out, “Where are your manners? And how old are you?”

They could hear Eudora laughing. “Little door to the right of the washer down there.” Her voice became demure. “We just had it installed.”

When Chloe left, relief seemed to come over Yvette. She smiled strangely and, standing up, gestured for Ama to follow. Startled, Ama looked from the bathroom door to Yvette, who’d begun to creep up the stairs. When Yvette’s expression darkened, and she mouthed the words
Come on
, Ama weakened.

Mrs. Tyne and Eudora took their tea in the kitchen. The girls tiptoed past, unhinged the storm door, and fell from the house into the streets.

It was a hot, fragrant day. Wild roses, marigolds and sunflowers finally awake, everything felt wonderfully alive. Even the sickly birches looked lustrous. The pavement radiated heat.

After running for a few minutes, the girls sat by the roadside to catch their breath.

“Why did we leave Chloe?” said Ama.

Yvette didn’t answer. She drew up her knees and began to pick at a scab. Ama was surprised by how weak and thin her knees looked, like the knees of a three-year-old.

Fat purple dragonflies began to pester them, and frustrated, Yvette swatted them away.

“I can’t stand these goddamn things,” she said. Seeing she’d shocked Ama, Yvette laughed. She stood and wiped her hands roughly on her thighs. “Come on, let’s go.”

They explored the town for half an hour, barely speaking. Aster seemed an oasis, a small, isolated place amidst miles of nothing. Its streets were inconsistent, some changing their names every few blocks, so that tourists (the few who arrived each year) were often confused. Of those streets whose names remained consistent, half ended abruptly in wilderness. The commercial district was confined to three streets, the rest being either residential or derelict. The girls took Pine Creek Street to its end, and sat in a thicket of three-foot-high weeds.

Ama didn’t understand why Yvette ignored her. Hadn’t they run away from Chloe because they had wanted to be alone together? But Yvette only became interested when Ama stopped trying. Then Ama felt Yvette’s huge eyes scrutinizing her. When Ama tried to engage her, Yvette looked away, only to begin the whole uncomfortable process again a few minutes later.

Yvette swore every time she killed an insect. And yet, when Ama asked her if she’d like to leave, she only scowled. The foliage was filled with slow-moving black-and-yellow grasshoppers, ants and maddening blackflies.

“Know what?” said Yvette. “You’re just like these flies. Pesky.”

Ama searched Yvette’s smiling face. “You don’t mean that,” she said. When Yvette’s smile grew even wider, Ama laughed nervously.

“Let’s go!” Yvette rose to her feet and, hopping off on one leg, accidentally jumped onto a tall anthill. “Mother of Christ, get them off, get them off!” As Ama slapped the few red ants off Yvette’s legs, Yvette began to twitch and dance and scream. And she was such a sight, so comic, that Ama laughed. A dark look crossed Yvette’s face, but she seemed to realize her ridiculousness and began to laugh, too. Holding her hands to her mouth, she ran back to Pine Creek Street with Ama trailing behind.

Yvette came to a halt. Her face had hardened, erasing any trace of her earlier excitement. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said in a cold, unemotive voice.

Ama felt disconcerted. “All right.”

“Let’s go to Thorpe’s,” said Yvette. “Last one to cartwheel there is a rotten egg.”

Yvette turned a series of cartwheels. Ama was perplexed that someone who supposedly had to go the bathroom was physically comfortable enough to strain herself this way. “Okay,” screamed Yvette, as Ama continued to walk, “it’s the walkers versus the cartwheelers.” And she flipped the entire way to the diner.

When they entered, dressed in their Sunday best but with weeds in their hair, they were stared at so fiercely that Yvette walked out.

“I hate that,” said Yvette, trembling. “Even though this town used to be all black, everywhere you go they stare at you.”

“Well, we don’t exactly look like queens.” Ama pulled fluff from her hair.

Yvette gave Ama a sullen look. “It’s a
diner
, Asthma.”

Ama flinched. “Don’t call me that. You don’t mean it.”

Rolling her eyes, Yvette grabbed Ama by the sleeve and led her to the diner across the street. Jackson’s had that heavily varnished look that implies filth even when extremely clean. They took a booth by the back, the farthest from the washroom, and making a drama of clutching her gut, Yvette ran to use it.

Ama sat looking out the window. On one side of Aster, the roads sloped gently down to the river, so that Ama could almost see over the copses of spruce to the water. She drummed her knuckles on the table, glancing around. A man at the counter looked over his shoulder at her, smiling when their eyes met. Ama looked quickly away. Only two other booths were occupied, both by people sitting alone. In the farthest one sat a thin, amiable-looking man with a newspaper, whom everyone seemed to call “Cap’n Ron.” He had the throat of a flute, whistling so luminously his range rivalled the weathervane.

“Listen to the old pipe,” said the counterman.

In the middle booth sat a small Asian woman with the bones of a bird, her eyes downcast. She appeared to be arguing with someone who was no longer there. She ate her breakfast one item at a time.

Finally, Yvette returned from the bathroom. “Did you fall in?” teased Ama, instantly sorry she’d said it. Yvette gave her a dark look.

When the counterman came to take their order, Yvette stood to leave. Ama grabbed her hand. “No, no, it’s okay, I’ve got money. Let’s get two strawberry milkshakes, all right, Yvette?”

Yvette shrugged, crossing her arms against her chest. Instinctively, Ama felt there was something different about her. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you sick in there?”

Yvette laughed through her nose and gave Ama a haughty look.

Ama’s face flushed. She didn’t understand the hostility.

The counterman placed the milkshakes on their table. Sipping hers nervously, Ama studied the indifference on Yvette’s face. Yvette guzzled hers down, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. An idea occurred to Ama.

“Chloe?” she said, searching Yvette’s face.

Yvette looked startled. “Chloe?” She laughed. “You’re just as crazy as she is. You know she sees signs in everything? Like if the weatherman says it’s going to rain and it stays sunny, then that’s an omen. Or if rooms are painted dark colours, then they’re sacred, and so are dogwoods, and the number six, too. But she can’t count anything out loud. To her, counting something is like cursing it, and anyway, she seems to think everything in the world is connected so that there’s really no point in telling things apart.” Yvette scoffed. “Chloe thinks she was born so that the sun would have a reason to shine.” Yvette pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and said in a falsetto, “Her life is one of awful responsibility.”

Ama continued to drink, not knowing what to say.

“Just between you and me,” said Yvette, winking, “she’s completely insane.”

Ama kept her eyes on the table. The girls drank in silence.

“Now
I
have to go to the bathroom,” said Ama, sliding out of the booth. Once there, she feared Yvette would leave without her, but part of her wanted that to happen. Washing her hands, she took a deep breath and swung open the door.

Yvette had switched sides in the booth. Her face looked tired, almost sensitive, and sitting across from her, Ama felt a pang of guilt.

“Did you fall in?” said Yvette, and Ama smiled at the joke. “I couldn’t sit there any more. The sun was in my eyes.”

Ama cupped the sun from her eyes and studied the face before her, convinced that it was Yvette who sat across from her. But for a moment she’d believed it was Chloe.

“You know,” said Yvette, “Aster used to have what’s called the Aster Family Picnic. Mr. Tyne told me. Even the Stampede couldn’t beat it. They had greased-pig chases, taffy pulls and everything. Potato-sack races, horse races, dancing …”

Across the street people began to rush out of Thorpe’s Diner. There was a blast, cracking the storefront, and voluptuous smoke poured from the windows.

“Thorpe’s is on fire,” said the counterman, dashing outside. An astonished murmur went through Jackson’s. Dazed, everyone dropped their money on the table and ran out to see what was happening.

Ama couldn’t believe it. The yellow awning fell across the storefront, edged in fire. Flames flew off the weakening roof, and a smell of burning plastic weighed down the air. Ama’s chest seized up.

Yvette looked frightened, the light of the fire filling her eyes. Her lower eyelashes were wet.

“I need to go home,” said Ama. “I’m choking to death.”

They walked back in silence. No one was home at the Tyne house. With unexpected tenderness, Yvette put Ama to bed, giving her her medication and insisting on holding the cup for her as Ama drank. Ama lay prostrated, with delusions of sainthood, until an hour later, when they heard the door open downstairs.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Tyne. Reaching the girls’ room, Mr. Tyne looked tired, and a little sheepish, his bowler crushed in his awkward hands. But Mrs. Tyne’s outraged face looked like a stranger’s, her cheeks puckering unnaturally, her eyes cold. Mr. Tyne lowered himself onto one of the cots while Mrs. Tyne paced the room, agitated, making strange movements with her hands.

“How dare you run away like that? How
dare
you!” Her voice rose an octave. “And without telling me, without even—how disrespectful! And now this fire—don’t you know how terrified I was?” She gestured to her husband. “How terrified we both were? God, you just don’t think! You’re so selfish.” Her whole face trembled, and as she turned to shield her face from the room, Ama was struck by the enormity of their actions. She began to cry.

The crying seemed to ground Mrs. Tyne. She ran a hand over her mouth and assessed them. Her voice sounded parched. “You’ve got asthma?”

Ama was too scared to answer.

“I gave her her medicine,” said Yvette flatly.

Mrs. Tyne didn’t look at her daughter. Turning to her husband, she asked, “Where’s Chloe?” then she turned to Yvette. “Where’s your sister?”

When Yvette shrugged, Mrs. Tyne looked as if she would throttle her. Ama spoke up. “She didn’t come with us. We went without her.”

“She’s still out there?” said Mrs. Tyne. Her angular face made her eyes look huge and sombre. Wearily, as if it pained him to waste the energy, Mr. Tyne rose from the bed and said he would go find her. “Finally, a little help,” muttered Mrs. Tyne as he left. She berated Ama and Yvette for a solid hour.

Afterwards, Yvette and Ama lay on their cots not talking, intermittently falling asleep and reading. At dinnertime, Mrs. Tyne called them down, and the three ate a silent meal of kenkey and spinach stew, which Ama hated but ate out of fear. They were ushered upstairs again, and around nine in the evening they heard the storm door click downstairs. Ama raised her head off the pillow, Yvette shut her book; holding their breath they sat looking at each other.

Only the intonations of Mr. Tyne’s muffled voice could be heard. He sounded tired and a little defensive, and Ama concluded he hadn’t found Chloe. But then they heard a higher, gruffer voice, unmistakably Chloe’s. For once in her life she sounded reticent, even scared. Mrs. Tyne’s voice continued to rise in pitch, culminating in a great scream: “I’ve had enough of this three-way mischief! You’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.”

“The Iron Lung,” said Yvette.

“What?” said Ama.

Yvette turned her face to the wall.

A series of feet trod up the stairs, past the girls’ room, to the small room the twins referred to as the “Iron Lung” because of its cold emptiness, its grey decor, its single frosted window. Behind the wall they heard Chloe pacing.

Ama lay awake in the dark. She thought of how strange the day had been, and wondered if anyone had gotten hurt in the fire. She wondered, too, if it really had been Yvette the whole time in that diner, or if she’d been the victim of one of the twins’ jokes. What most disturbed her, though, was Mr. Tyne’s reluctance to go and find his daughter; in fact, his reticence to enter family life at all. It seemed unnatural. But as soon as this vague thought occurred to her, she felt guilty; who was she to criticize her elders? She closed her eyes, then opened them again. In the dark she could feel Yvette staring at her. No, not so much staring. Listening to her breathe.