Short story: "The Amethyst Broach"

 

The Amethyst Broach

 

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, and 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 visited often, still resided.

“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. ‘I want a hot dog,’” she mimicked, and laughed again.

“Well I do. Hot dogs always taste better at carnivals, don’t they?”

“That’s what I love about you,” she said, with a radiant smile.

“What? My boyish 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?” she replied.

“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?”

 “That’s what my husband would have said.”

“Really? That bad?” I said.

“Worse,” Cathy said, with a straight face.

“No kidding?” I said. “He could lose it over a hot dog?”

“Oh, 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 told me in the hospital last week that he’s going to bring Maggie and Bob over from England this summer.”

“Who?” I asked, not recalling who she meant.

“His aunt and uncle. I told you about them. We went to England to visit them one summer. I really like Maggie and Bob, but my husband was his usual asshole self. He ruined it for all of us with his temper. And for what?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?” I said, curious about her ex.

“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. From what I’ve heard, English food doesn’t exactly have a great international 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 when we were there.”

“How did you put up with him for seventeen and a half years, then?”

“I don’t know why I stayed as long as I did,” Cathy said, and frowned as the memories flooded in. “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.”

I snickered. “It costs to be a good man, sweetheart.”

“I know,” she said…

 

The Nesbit 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 lot like a crazy bee low to the ground.

Inside, seven or eight 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 suspenders 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 hair, was working behind the counter; the oddest couple in Nesbit, I thought whenever I saw them.

“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?” I asked, with some surprise.

“Yeah.” Clifford said, as if it was all very natural.

“Great. Would you like one, sweetheart?”

“Please,” she said. “Just mustard and relish.”

“No onions?” I asked.

“Not today,” Cathy said, and smiled.

Clifford laughed, then he took a big slow bite of his smoky that 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,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and smiled at him. Cathy had introduced Clifford to the Weight-Watcher program one night at the Country Corner restaurant where she would often bring her senior friend Martha for coffee 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 big mystery, Clifford.”

“Maybe I should look into it,” he said, but he never did. He took another bite of his smokey. “They’re really good,” he said, upon swallowing. “And they’re going fast.”

I 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 said, and I went into the kitchen and got two smokies wrapped tightly in a napkin and foil and brought one over to Cathy who was sipping her coffee and catching up on the local gossip with Clifford who knew everything that went on in the area. “We’ll catch up later,” she said to him, and we walked over to the condiment counter.

They had ketchup, mustard, relish, and a small jar of diced onions. I unwrapped my smoky, which stuck out on both ends of the regular hot dog bun which was stuck to the smoky because it had been over-steamed and squeezed too tightly when they wrapped it. I chuckled to myself at the ironic coincidence of playing Cathy’s malcontented husband on our drive to Nesbit as I pried the bun apart from the smoky to put on the condiments and onions, and I deliberately mimicked Cathy’s ex-husband, “Fucking buns are too soggy!”

Cathy caught on immediately, and laughed. “That’s what he would have said.”

I didn’t have much room for onions with the big smokey. I squeezed out a red line of ketchup onto my smoky (which I never used to do, because I never thought ketchup would go with mustard and relish; but to my surprise, it did) and then I spooned some mustard and relish on top, and some onions on one side, but I had to be extra careful eating it.

I took a bite as I walked over to Clifford, enjoying the taste of the smokey, and with a big grin on his country face, Clifford said, “Good, eh?”

“Much better than your weenie hot dog,” I said.

“That’s for damn sure,” he confirmed.

“But not as good as Octoberfest sausages,” I said, being mischievous.

“Really?” Clifford said. “I never had Octoberfest sausages.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, Clifford,” I said, milking it for all I could get. “They make great Octoberfest sausages in the Kitchener-Waterloo area.”

“Yeah, they have a festival down there, don’t they?” he said, looking wise.

“Octoberfest. There’s a large German population down there. But to tell you the truth, the best Octoberfest sausages I ever tasted wasn’t in Kitchener, or Waterloo; it was at the farmer’s market in Stouffville. Cathy and I were exploring the back roads down there a couple of years ago, and we found ourselves in the farmer’s market in Stouffville, just north of Toronto. It put every farmer’s market that Cathy and I had gone to to shame.”

“That big, eh?” Clifford said, dead serious.

“What’s big?” Cathy, who overheard Clifford, said.

“The farmer’s market in Stouffville,” I said.

“That was big,” Cathy said. “I don’t suppose you’ve been there, have you Cliff?”

“No. I never get down that way. Just for my heart operation at the Toronto General. How’s the smoky? Good, eh?” Clifford said, with an impish grin.

“It’s excellent,” Cathy said. “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 seven years after she got married. One night at the Country Corner restaurant, Clifford whispered into her ear while she was having coffee with her elderly friend, “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 said, quoting Irene Maki, the chain-smoking career waitress (she always broke the filters off her cigarettes) who was married to an alcoholic bush-camp mechanic and who died of lung cancer the summer that Cathy did the books for the Husky House Restaurant where Irene worked.

Clifford, who still worked with Cathy’s ex in the paper mill at Rock Point, said, “That’s good. You deserve a good man after that miserable jackass.”

“’There aren’t many of you around,” Cathy said, and laughed.

Clifford laughed too; but in my mind’s eye, I saw him putting his thumbs behind his suspenders and pulling them out and proudly snapping them back onto his puffed-up chest, with a smile on his face warm enough to toast bread…

 

I got myself another smoky, added the condiments, and walked over to one of the craft booths, leaving Cathy to catch up on the local gossip with Clifford and his beautiful wife in her 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. “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 lady standing at the other end of the table had a name tag also. Bonnie Anderson. “No. They’re all hand made,” Jeff said, and smiled proudly.

“No kidding? The detail is incredibly 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 in my hands. “That’s a nice one, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” I said. “By happy coincidence, Jeff; I have an eagle theme going at our home,” I said. “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 tag on the back. “Sixty dollars. Do you charge tax on this, Jeff?”

“No. That’s the full price,” he said, 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 pocket money left. You’re not set up for plastic, are you?”

“Pardon me?” Jeff said.

“Credit cards,” Cathy said.

“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 pure 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?” I said.

“Are you from here?” he asked.

“No. St. Jude,” I said; “but Cathy grew up in Nesbit.”

“Oh sure,” Jeff said, with some relief.

“I’ll take it, then,” I said, and Cathy wrote out the cheque and I signed it.

Jeff’s wife put the carving—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 their display table. I didn’t recognize it as an eagle when I scanned the table with my first look; but upon closer inspection, I saw that 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 little sculpture.

I picked it up for a closer look. “This is beautiful,” I said. “Look at this, Cathy?”

“Is it an eagle?” she asked.

“Yes. Unique, isn’t it?” I said, smiling at the intricacy of the carving.

Cathy nodded agreement. “It is beautiful,” she said.

“How much is this one,” I asked Jeff’s wife, not bothering to check the sticker.

“Twenty dollars,” she said.

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.

“Actually Cliff, he got two eagles,” Cathy said, and smiled.

“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 it’s pine. Is it?” I asked, looking at Jeff.

“Yes,” Jeff replied, “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 disturbing his comfortable homespun perspective on life. “I don’t know. I just like eagles, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” Jeff Anderson cut in. “I like wolves. I’ve got half a dozen wolf figures in my house, and one or two paintings. I’ve got a 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, grimacing as he scanned the table like a laser. “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. But 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 at Clifford’s crafty wisdom…

 

Cathy and I sauntered over to another table, also displaying wood carvings, this time much smaller, and in a completely different style.

I studied them, picking up another eagle. Cathy thought she recognized the man and woman 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 Bolten?”

“Yes. Actually, it’s Collingwood now. 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,” Dorothy said.

“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?”

“Gary Nyman and his wife. You’re still at the fish hatchery, aren’t you?”

“Hell no. I retired from that racket four years ago.”

“Really? 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?” he asked, looking happy and content with himself.

“I’m at the St. Jude District Hospital. I’m in the office.”

“Good for you. So, are you married again?”

“I wish,” she said, and laughed. “But that’s okay. It’s working, Albert; that’s all that counts. Oh, I’m sorry. Where’s my manners,” she 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 in a circular designed piece of light oak, it’s mighty wings raised high and about to descend and force the air to lift it up and away with the large fish clutched 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’s 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 circle of oak 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 Dorothy the twenty-dollar bill I said, “Any tax?”

“No tax,” she replied.

“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 display 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 also? 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 fits.”

“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 couple of days,” he 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 that I took to an amethyst gift shop on the way to the city when she was visiting 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.  “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 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 dollars,” 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’s thirty dollars,” she said.

          “Well,” I sighed, “my heart’s leaning towards that one—”

“But your pocketbook is leaning towards this one,” Linda said, and laughed.

Cathy laughed too, but I just smiled. I didn’t say anything for a moment or two; and then, with a chuckle, I said, “I hate being torn betwixt. I’ll tell you what—” 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 won’t come back; 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; and, chuckling, I turned to Cathy and said, “Sweetheart, you have another one of my cheques, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good. I want both, Linda.”

“Are you sure?” Cathy said.

“Of course, I’m sure,” I said.

She took out my cheque. “How much, Linda?”

Still surprised, 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 little hint of guilt on her face.

“I’m all tapped out now,” I said. “What do you say we go home and go skiing?”

“Sure,” Cathy said. “Why not? I’m happy now!”

Linda laughed. And 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.

 

——