The Amethyst
Broach
“Let’s go to the carnival, and if we come back in time
we’ll go skiing…”
The Nesbit Winter Carnival had shrunk. It didn’t even
have a bingo, which always attracted people. All they had was the disking
tournament and some craft booths set up in the community hall and a torch
parade. They had no log-sawing contest, no broomball, no hockey, no races of
any kind, three-legged or otherwise, no bicycle decorating contests, no games,
no pancake breakfast, no spaghetti supper, no king and queen of the carnival,
they didn’t even have a dance this year; but truth be told, I didn’t feel like
going cross country skiing. I preferred taking a nice leisurely drive out to
Nesbit where Cathy had grown up and where her widowed father, whom I liked and
often visited, still resided in the “Rusty Nail Ranch” that he build with his
own unschooled hands when Cathy was still a child.
“I want a hot dog,” I said to Cathy. The sun was
bright, the thermometer was creeping up slowly, and I enjoyed the Sunday drive.
“I haven’t had a hot dog for a long time.”
Cathy laughed. “What?” I said.
“You,” she said.
“What did I do now?”
“You’re just like a little boy. You want a hot dog.”
She laughed again. “Well I do. Hot dogs always taste
better at carnivals, don’t they?”
“That’s what I love about you,” Cathy said, with a
radiant smile.
“What? My innocence? I’m lucky to even have my
innocence at this age. Did you ever stop to think about that?”
“I know. But it wouldn’t be you, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t. Would you like to hear what I would
be like if I had lost my innocence? Goddamn
hot dog! They overcooked the fucking thing! And the bun’s so fucking soggy it’s
like a wet sponge! They can’t even cook a goddamn hot dog! How in the Christ do
they expect people to come to their fucking carnival?”
Cathy laughed. “That’s what my husband would have
said.”
“Really? That bad?”
“Worse.”
“No kidding? He could lose it over a hot dog?”
“Oh yeah, easy. He could lose it just like that,”
Cathy said, snapping her fingers. “I never knew when he would lose it. And
speaking of my ex, he’s going to bring Bob and Maggie over from England this
summer.”
“Who?”
“His aunt and uncle. I told you about them. My ex and
I visited them in England six years ago. I really like Maggie and Bob, but my
ex was his usual asshole self. He ruined it for all of us with his temper. And
for what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Nothing. He’d lose it over nothing. The cars were too
small, the streets were too narrow, they drove on the wrong side of the road,
the food was terrible, you name it.”
“Maybe he was right about the food. English food
doesn’t exactly have a great reputation,” I said, with a chuckle.
“It’s not that bad. I didn’t mind it. But it wasn’t
just the food. It could be anything. He could lose it over nothing. He made Maggie
cry two or three times.”
“How did you put up with him for seventeen and a half
years?”
“I don’t know why I stayed as long as I did. Everyone
was wrong but him. He was perfect. A perfect asshole is more like it. I used to
tell him that all the time. But it didn’t make any difference. I hope he
doesn’t ruin it for them this summer. He said I could have them for a day. I
want Maggie and Bob to see what a good man is all about.”
The irony made me snicker. “It costs to be a good man,
sweetheart. It costs much more than most people are willing to pay.”
“I know,” she said…
The community center parking lot was about one third
full, with four or five kids standing around playing with an electronic
miniaturized toy car that zoomed up and down the snow-packed parking lot like a
crazy bee low to the ground.
Inside eight or nine booths were set up, with small
groups of people standing around talking. They had a table at the door with a
guest book. We signed our name and went over to the counter where they served
hot and cold drinks.
Clifford Daniels, a heavy-set local dressed in his
usual casuals, grey work pants with wide black suspenders to hold them up and a
grey work shirt, was eating a hot dog. His wife, a slim, classy-looking lady in
black leather pants and neatly trimmed boyish-cut silver hair, was working
behind the counter; the oddest couple in Nesbit, I always thought.
“Where’d you get the hot dog?” I asked Clifford.
“Back there, in the kitchen. It’s not a hot dog. It’s
a smoky. A lot better than hot dogs.”
“They’ve got smokies?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Cathy, would you like one?”
“Please,” she said. “Just mustard and relish.”
“No onions?”
She smiled. “Not today.”
Clifford laughed and took another bite of his smoky
which was smothered with onions, chewed two or three times, thoroughly enjoying
the taste for Cathy’s sake, then grinned. “It’s not weight-watcher food, that’s
for sure.”
“I know,” Cathy said, smiling at Clifford. She had
introduced him to the Weight-Watcher program one night at the Country Corner Café
where she took her senior friend Martha for coffee once a week just to get her
out of the house. Clifford had just had a triple bypass operation and was told
to lose some weight, so Cathy shared her Weight-Watcher experience with him.
“It works, Cliff,” she said. “I lost twenty pounds in two months, and I didn’t
have to deprive myself of food.”
“How did you do that?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“I just watched what I ate. Weight-Watchers isn’t
about eating less. It’s about eating smarter. It’s not a big mystery, Cliff.”
“Maybe I should look into it,” he said, but he never
did. He took another bite. “They’re really good,” he said, upon swallowing.
“And they’re going fast.”
We laughed. “What do you want on yours?” I asked
Cathy.
“The stuff’s over there,” Clifford said, pointing.
“Oh,” I said, spotting the condiments on the counter
by the kitchen door. “Would you like a cold drink, sweetheart?”
“I’ll get a coffee,” she replied, and I went into the
kitchen and got two smokies wrapped tightly in foil and brought one over to
Cathy who was catching up on local gossip with Clifford who knew everything
that went on in Nesbit and the area. “We’ll catch up later,” she said to
Clifford, and walked over to the condiment counter with me.
They had ketchup, mustard, relish, and a small jar of
chopped onions. I unwrapped my smoky and it stuck out on both ends of the
make-do regular hot dog bun which was stuck to the smoky because it had been
over-steamed and squeezed tight when they wrapped it. I chuckled to myself at
the ironic coincidence of my playing the part of the malcontent with Cathy and
my reaction to hot dogs that didn’t meet my perfect standards, then I pried the
bun apart from the smoky to put on my condiments.
I like a lot of onions with my hot dogs, or smokies as
the case may be, but I didn’t have much room for onions in the small bun. I
squeezed out a red line of ketchup from the President’s Choice Ketchup bottle—which
I never used to do before because I never thought ketchup went with mustard and
relish, but to my surprise it did—and then I spooned on some mustard and relish
on top and some onion on one side, but I had to be extra careful eating it and
held it in a couple of extra napkins just in case.
I took a long, slow bite as I walked over to Clifford
and enjoyed the taste of the smoky and onions and condiments, always, always
better than at home, and with a big grin on his face Clifford said, “Good, eh?”
“Much better than your weenie hot dog,” I said.
“That’s for damn sure,” Clifford confirmed.
“But not as good as Octoberfest sausages,” I said,
just to be mischievous.
“Really? I never had Octoberfest sausages,” Clifford
said, all serious.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, Cliff,” I said.
“They make great Octoberfest sausages in the Kitchener-Waterloo area.”
“They have a festival down there, don’t they?”
“Yeah. Octoberfest. But the best Octoberfest sausages
I ever had wasn’t in Kitchener, or Waterloo; it was in the farmer’s market in
Stouffville. Cathy and I were exploring the back roads down there a couple of
years ago and found ourselves in the farmer’s market in Stouffville, just north
of Toronto. Man, what a farmer’s market. It put every farmer’s market that we
had gone to to shame.”
“That big, eh?”
“What’s big?” Cathy asked, overhearing us.
“The farmer’s market in Stouffville,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Have you ever been there, Cliff?”
“No. I never get down that way. Just for my heart
operation. How’s the smoky? Good, eh?” Clifford said, with an impish grin.
Cathy laughed. “It’s excellent. But it’s going to cost
me a lot of points.”
Clifford laughed. He liked Cathy, who had also grown
up and lived in Nesbit for a few years after her marriage. One night at the
Country Corner Café a month or so after the Nesbit carnival he was walking by
her table where she was having coffee with her senior friend and bent over and whispered
into her ear, “I’m glad you dumped that husband of yours and got yourself a
good man. He is a good man, isn’t he?”
“He’s the last good man in St. Jude,” Cathy replied,
quoting Irene Maki, the chain-smoking career waitress married to an abusive
alcoholic and who died of lung cancer the summer that Cathy did the books for
the Husky House Restaurant.
Clifford, who still worked with Cathy’s ex in the
paper mill, said, “That’s good. You deserve a good man after that miserable
jerk.”
“’There aren’t many of you around,” Cathy said, and
patted him on the arm.
Clifford laughed, but in my mind’s eye I saw him
putting his thumbs behind his suspenders just above the brass adjustments and
pulling them out and proudly snapping them back onto his chest with a smile on
his face warm enough to toast bread…
I bought another smoky, added my condiments, and went
over to one of the craft booths leaving Cathy to catch up on the local gossip
with Clifford and his gorgeous wife in her tight sexy black leather pants and short
silver hair who had come out to join them.
The first booth had a display of wood
carvings—animals, birds, locomotives, and other images—that were so intricately
carved they caught my attention.
I studied them as I ate my smoky, picking one up to
study the details up close. “Are these computer-generated?” I asked the tall
man with thick-lensed glasses and untrimmed beard standing behind the table. He
had a name tag on his chest. Jeff Anderson. The short, chunky red-haired woman
standing at the other end of the table had a name tag also. Bonnie Anderson.
“No. They’re all hand-made,” Jeff Anderson replied, and smiled proudly.
“No kidding? The detail is meticulous,” I said.
“It’s all in the blades,” he said.
Cathy came over and stood beside me. “An eagle,” she
said, noticing the carving I was holding. “That’s a nice one, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” I said. “I have an eagle theme going at
home, Jeff,” I added. “What kind of wood is this?”
“Cherry. That’s a nice one, isn’t it?”
“What do you think?” I said, looking at Cathy.
“I like it. How much is it?” she asked.
I looked at the price tag on the back. “Sixty dollars.
Do you charge tax on this, Jeff?”
“No. That’s the full price,” he replied, with a
hesitant smile.
I took out the money I had in my pocket, three
twenties and a ten. “If I pay cash I won’t have much money left. You’re not set
up for plastic, are you?”
“Pardon me?”
“Credit cards.”
“No,” I’m afraid not,” Jeff said, with a nervous
tremor in his voice.
“Do you still have my cheques in your purse?” I asked
Cathy.
Cathy had put two of my business cheques in her purse
the day before when we went to the city to shop for a new computer and pick up
groceries. “Yes,” she said.
“You take cheques, don’t you Jeff?”
“Are you from here?”
“No. St. Jude,” I said; “but Cathy grew up in Nesbit.”
“Oh sure,” Jeff said, with relief.
“I’ll take this eagle, then,” I said, and Cathy wrote
out the cheque and I signed it.
Jeff’s wife put my cherry wood eagle—the raised
profile of the eagle’s head stared proudly out into the world—into a plastic
bag, but as she was packaging it I noticed another eagle on the table.
I didn’t recognize it as an eagle when I scanned the
table with my first look, but upon closer inspection I saw it was an eagle with
its wings wrapped around to form a circle around its head, and the eagle’s tail
feathers formed the forked stand upon which it rested on another piece of wood,
a fascinating piece of sculpture.
I picked it up for a closer look. “This is beautiful,”
I said. “Look at this, Cathy?”
“Is this an eagle?” she asked.
“Yes. Unique, isn’t it?” I said, smiling at the
intricacy of the carving.
Cathy nodded agreement. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“How much is this one,” I asked Bonnie Anderson, not
bothering to turn it over to check the sticker.
“Twenty dollars,” she replied.
I took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her
and she accepted it with a big smile. Clifford Daniels stepped up beside me.
“Some pretty nice stuff here, eh?” he said.
“It sure is,” I said.
“You getting the eagle?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“He got two eagles, Cliff,” Cathy added.
“Two? How come? Do they come as a couple?” Clifford
said, and laughed.
“No. They’re two different families. One’s cherry wood
and the other is white pine, I think. Is it?” I asked, looking at Jeff.
“Yes,” he said. “But the stand is cedar.”
“I gather you like eagles,” Clifford said.
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“How come?” he asked.
I shrugged, not wanting to disclose my reason for fear
of threatening his comfortable, idiosyncratic country-spun belief system. “I
don’t know. I just like eagles, I guess.”
“I like wolves,” Jeff Anderson said. “I’ve got half a
dozen wolf figures in my house. I’ve got one customer who loves bears, and
another who loves moose. I guess it’s all personal.”
“What about you, Cliff? What animal do you like?”
Cathy asked.
Clifford thought for a moment, scanning the table as
he thought. “Owls. I like owls. I don’t see any owls here.”
“No. I don’t have any owls. I haven’t carved any owls
yet. I’ll have some next time,” Jeff said, making a mental note.
“Okay,” Cliff said, happy to be off the hook. “I’ll
check you out next time around.”
I smiled to myself at Clifford’s crafty wisdom…
Cathy and I sauntered over to another table, also wood
carvings, this time much smaller, and a completely different style. I studied
the carvings, picking up another eagle.
Cathy thought she recognized the man and woman sitting
behind the table. “Albert? Is that you?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, a bit disconcerted. He studied Cathy’s
face for a moment, then his face lit up. “Cathy Bolton?”
“Yes. Actually, I went back to my own name. God, it’s
been years Albert! I hardly recognized you!”
“I guess not. I used to be thin when you knew me.”
We all laughed. “And you must be Dorothy?” Cathy said.
“Yes. I don’t think I remember you, though.”
“You must remember Cathy Collingwood? She was married
to one of the Bolton boys. They used to live in the house trailer on the east
end of the loop. Who lives there now, Cathy?”
“I think Gary Nyman and his wife. You’re still at the
fish hatchery, aren’t you?”
“Oh no. I retired from that racket four years ago.”
“You’re not that old, are you Albert?”
“I took a package at fifty. I got fed up with all the
politics. So, what are you doing these days?”
“I’m at the St. Jude District Hospital. In the
office.”
“Good for you. So, are you married again?”
“I wish. But that’s okay. It’s working, Albert; that’s
all that counts. Oh, I’m sorry. Where’s my manners,” Cathy said, and introduced
me. “We’ve been together for almost ten years now.”
“No kidding?” Albert said, reaching over to shake my
hand. “Pleased to meet you. Has it been ten years already?” he said, looking at
Cathy. “You were still married the last time I saw you, weren’t you?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Time sure flies, doesn’t it?” Albert’s wife said.
“It sure does,” Cathy said. “So this is what you do
with your time now?”
“This and other things. You know me, I can’t sit
still.”
“While you guys catch up, I’ll go and put these in the
car,” I said. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got my eye on that one,” I added,
pointing to the eagle profiled within a circular designed piece of light oak,
it’s mighty wings raised high and about to fall and force the air to lift it up
and away with the large fish trapped in its talons.
As I walked to the car the lady sitting behind the
table displaying amethyst jewelry next to the exit doors gave me a big smile.
“Hi Oriano. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you,” I said, and smiled back. I knew
her, but I couldn’t think of her name. Her and her husband owned and operated
the Clearwater Trailer Park on the outskirts of St. Jude. I had done some
painting for them at their home in St. Jude, but her name escaped me. “I’ll
check your stuff out when I come back,” I added.
“I’ll be right here,” she said.
Cathy was still talking with Albert and Dorothy when I
returned. “Cathy, who is that lady at the table by the door? I know her, but I
can’t remember her name.”
“Where?” Cathy asked.
“The one selling amethyst jewelry. She owns the
Clearwater Trailer Park.”
“Oh, that’s Linda Towns. You did some work for her.
That job paid for our little getaway last spring. Remember?”
“Right! I
couldn’t think of her name. Anyway, I like this one here,” I said, and picked
the eagle with the fish in its talons. “There’s no price on it.”
“That one’s sixteen dollars. They’re all sixteen
dollars except for the small ones here. They’re only four dollars each.”
I picked up one of the small carvings. It was a four
inch in diameter circle of oak wood with an eagle in flight in the middle of
the circle, perfect for hanging in the window. It even had a fish line loop for
hanging the ornament.
“I’ll take both,” I said, and reached into my pocket.
As I handed her the twenty-dollar bill I said, “Any tax?”
“No tax,” she replied.
“Good. Thank you. Now, which table do you want to look
at next?”
“How about the amethyst jewelry booth,” Cathy said,
and laughed. Albert and Dorothy laughed too.
“Okay. You go ahead. I just want to look through their
book here.”
Cathy knew what I was up to, but she didn’t let on.
She just smiled and walked down to Linda Towns’ table. “I want to get her
something for Valentine’s Day,” I said to Dorothy, whose eyes studied me with
some intrigue.
“Oh, nice,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”
“This one,” I said, picking up the piece of
intricately designed oak rose with the engraved lettering LOVE IS A ROSE on the top half of the circle.
“I think she’ll love that,” Dorothy said.
“I know she will. But could you put a yellow backdrop
instead of the pink?”
All the larger pieces had a velvet cloth backdrop to
highlight the carving in the center of the circle. The eagle I had just
purchased had a deep blue velvet cloth backdrop to represent the sky. I wanted
yellow to represent my favorite rose.
“We can do that for you,” Dorothy said.
“Good. And could you change the lettering for me to,
please? I’d like you to put I LOVE YOU CATHY instead. Is that asking too much?”
“Not at all,” Albert said. “I can put anything you
want as long as it will fit.”
“Good. I’d also like to order one of your eagle clocks
here. How long would it take?”
“I could have them both ready for you in a week,”
Albert said.
“Wonderful. I’ll give you my phone number. And if you
don’t mind, I’ll pay for them when I pick them up.”
“No problem,” Albert said, smiling for his happy sale.
Cathy was talking with Linda. She was also holding an
amethyst bracelet in her hand. “They’re only ten dollars each,” she said,
showing it to me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes,” I said. “It sure is.”
“But I like this one too,” Cathy said, picking up the
other bracelet. “I can’t make up my mind which one to buy.”
“That’s not a problem. You get one and I’ll get one.”
“Problem solved,” Linda said, and laughed.
We paid for the bracelets, but my eye zeroed in on a
deep purple amethyst broach. I picked it up. It was an oval shaped perfectly
smooth little gem that could only be found—according my geologist niece whom I
took to an amethyst gift shop on the way to the city when she was visiting from
Oakville one summer—in two or three places in the world, with one of the
richest deposits of purple amethyst right here in our own back yard in
Northwestern Ontario. “I just love this one.
Look at this, Cathy. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Cathy held the broach in her hand. She smiled. “I love
it too. I just love the color.”
“How about this one?” Linda said, holding up a silver
broach with an inset purple amethyst and tiny little diamonds that reflected
the light and sparkled like stars.
I took the broach and looked at it closely, and I knew
instantly that was the one I wanted to buy Cathy for Valentine’s Day; but I also
liked the deep purple one too.
“Price?” I asked.
“One hundred and thirty,” Linda said.
I handed it to Cathy. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
She smiled. “I don’t have to say, do I?”
“Of course not,” I said, and laughed. Linda laughed
too. “How about this one, Linda?” I asked, taking the deep purple broach from
Cathy.
“That one is thirty dollars,” she said.
“Well,”
I sighed, “my heart is leaning towards that one—”
“But your pocketbook is leaning towards this one,”
Linda said, with a nervous laugh.
Cathy laughed too, but I just smiled. I didn’t say
anything for a moment or two; and then, with a private chuckle, I said, “I hate
being torn betwixt. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—” I saw the look on Linda’s
face, one that said, Oh, no; he’s going
to pass. He’s going to go away to think about it and pass on the broach;
but I surprised her: “I’m going to take both.”
Instead of a happy surprise on her face, she was
shocked. “And whosoever shall compel thee
to go a mile, go with him twain,” I said to myself with an ironic smile,
and turning to Cathy said, “Sweetheart, you have one more of my cheques in your
purse, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good. I want both.”
Smiling, but not surprised, she said, “If that’s what
you want.”
“I do,” I said.
She took out my cheque. “How much, Linda?”
Still in shock, Linda said. “I’m going to give you a
discount. “Make it out for one hundred and forty dollars.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“No tax?” Cathy asked.
“No,” Linda said, with a hint of guilt on her face.
“Well, I’m all tapped out now. What do you say we go
home and change and go skiing?”
“Sure,” Cathy said. “Why not? I’m happy now!”
Linda laughed. So did I. I turned to leave and noticed
Clifford leaning on the counter, looking intently, his eyes focused on us like
a curious owl. I smiled and waved to him. So did Cathy, and we left and went
cross-country skiing.
——
