Stone Mattress: Nine Tales(30)

“I hope this schoolhouse venue isn’t a hotbed of kitsch,” says Tin.

“Do we have a choice?”

After ferreting through her closet, Jorrie holds up three of her outfits on hangers so Tin can evaluate them. It’s one of his demands – one of his requests – on the days when he agrees to attend events with her. “What’s the verdict?” she says.

“Not the shocking pink.”

“But it’s Chanel – an original!” Both of them frequent vintage clothing stores, though only the upmarket end. They’ve kept their figures, at least: Tin can still wear the elegant three-piece ’30s ensembles he’s sported for some decades. He even has a lacquer cane.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says. “No one’s going to read the label, and you are not Jackie Kennedy. Shocking pink would draw undue attention.”

Jorrie wants to draw undue attention: that’s the whole idea! If any of Gavin’s wives are there, and especially if What’s-her-name shows up, she longs to have them notice her the moment she walks in. But she backs down, because if she doesn’t, she knows Tin won’t come with her.

“And not the faux-leopard stole either.”

“But they’re in fashion again!”

“Exactly. They’re far too in fashion. Don’t pout, you look like a camel.”

“So you’re voting for the grey. May I say yawn?”

“You may say it, but that won’t change reality. The grey has a beautiful cut. Understated. Maybe with a scarf?”

“To cover up my scraggy neck?”

“You said it, not me.”

“I can always depend on you,” says Jorrie. She means it: Tin saves her from herself, on those occasions when she takes his advice. By the time she walks out the door she’ll be confident in the knowledge that she’s presentable. The scarf he chooses for her is muted Chinese red: it will perk up the complexion.

“How do I look?” says Jorrie, turning before him.

“Stupendous,” says Tin.

“I love it when you lie for me.”

“I’m not lying,” says Tin. Stupendous: causing astonishment or wonder. From the gerund of stupere, to be astounded. That about covers it. After a certain moment, there is only so much a beautifully cut grey outfit can redeem.

At last they are ready to set forth. “You’ll have to wear your warmest coat,” says Tin. “It’s frore out there.”

“What?”

“It’s very cold. Twenty below, that’s the predicted high. Glasses?” He wants her to be able to read the program for herself, without pestering him to do it for her.

“Yes, yes. Two pairs.”

“Handkerchief?”

“Don’t worry,” says Jorrie. “I don’t intend to cry. Not over that bastard!”

“If you do, you can’t use my sleeve,” says Tin.

She sticks out her chin, the flag of battle. “I won’t need it.”



Tin insists on driving: being in a car with Jorrie at the wheel is too much like Russian roulette for him. Sometimes she’s fine, but last week she ran over a raccoon. She claimed it was dead already, though Tin doubts that. “It shouldn’t have been out anyway,” she said, “in all that weather.”

They proceed cautiously through the icy streets in Tin’s carefully preserved 1995 Peugeot, tires squeaking on the snow. The accumulation from the day before still hasn’t been cleared away, though at least it was only a blizzard, not an ice storm like the one that hit over Christmas. Three days in the Cabbagetown house without heat or light had been trying, since Jorrie viewed the storm as a personal insult and complained about its unfairness. How could the weather be doing this to her?

There’s a parking lot north of King – Tin has taken care to identify it online, since the last thing he needs is Jorrie issuing false directions – but it’s a surprisingly tight squeeze: several cars behind them are turned away. Tin extracts Jorrie from the front seat and steadies her as she slides on the ice. Why didn’t he nix those spike-heeled boots? She could have a serious fall and fracture something – a hip, a leg – and if that happens she’ll be propped up in bed for months while he carries trays and empties bedpans. Grasping her firmly by the arm, he propels her along King Street, then south on Trinity.

“Look at all the people,” she says. “Who the hell are they?” It’s true, there’s quite a crowd heading to the Enoch Turner Schoolhouse. Many of them are what you’d expect – the geezer generation, like Tin and Jorrie – but oddly enough there are quite a few young ones. Could it be that Gavin Putnam is now a youth cult? What an unpleasant notion, thinks Tin.

Jorrie presses closer to his side, her head swivelling like a periscope. “I don’t see her,” she whispers. “She’s not here!”

“She won’t come,” says Tin. “She’s afraid you’ll call her What’s-her-name.” Jorrie laughs, but not very heartily. She doesn’t have a plan, thinks Tin: she’s charging in blindly the way she always does. It’s a good thing he’s here with her.

Inside, the room is crowded and overly warm, though it does have a gracious atmosphere reminiscent of a bygone era. There’s a subdued gabble, as of distant waterfowl. Tin helps Jorrie out of her coat, struggles out of his own, and settles back for the duration.