The Dead Don't Get Out Much. Mary Jane Maffini
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flags fluttered, and the provincial and territorial flags cracked and flapped in the wind and rain. Thousands of poppies provided splashes of red.
I scanned the crowd for signs of my three sisters. They'd be wearing their designer sunglasses, like so many others, even though the sun never shines on Remembrance Day, and today the weather was particularly vile. Alexa, Edwina and Donalda would not be pleased if anyone spotted their Christian Dior mascara making black tracks through their high-end blusher.
I was not wearing sunglasses. In my view, if you can't shed a public tear at the Remembrance Day ceremony, what the hell is wrong with you?
Next to me, my so-called office assistant, Alvin Ferguson, stood uncharacteristically silent, his bony shoulders hunched in his black leather jacket, his ponytail drooping, his cat's-eye glasses fogged, droplets of rain glistening off each of his nine visible earrings. A bit of advice to anyone running a small non-profit: if you wish to avoid a lot of headaches, don't allow your aged father to saddle you with an office assistant with the temperament and inclination of a performance artist, the office skills of a chimpanzee and the attitude of a minor dictator. Just a suggestion.
When the second boom marked the end of the silence, Alvin opened his mouth. Whatever he was saying was drowned out as the piper struck up the Lament and four CF-18s roared overhead in formation.
Alvin may be an accomplished pain in the backside, but he has his positive points. He thinks the world of Mrs. Parnell, and rightly so. The feeling, for some reason, is mutual.
As the sound of the planes faded, Alvin said, with a catch in his voice, “Violet loves to see the planes.”
“True enough.”
Alvin nibbled on a finger nail. “Do you think she's okay? It's a long way to march. And this is such friggin’ revolting weather. What if she loses her balance?”
“We've been over this, Alvin. She's not going to trip. She's been doing strength and balance exercises and yoga for months just for this chance to march. She's in better shape than she's been in years. I'm really proud of her.”
“Yeah well, in this rain, she might get pneumonia.” In the last couple of months, Alvin had become extremely protective of Mrs. P. It's weird, considering he's in his twenties and singularly lacking in sensible behaviour, and she's well past the eighty mark without any help from anyone, thank you very much.
“She'll be fine. Mrs. P. is as keen on battle as she ever was.”
Alvin sniffed. “They have ambulances here. If anything happened, they'd rush out to get her. Wouldn't they?”
“Nothing's going to happen. She waits for this moment every year. The ceremony puts a spring in her step.”
“She sounded upset last night when I tried to talk to her.”
“Really? I didn't notice that she was upset.”
“You've been so busy crabbing about your house and your boxes of files, you haven't even seen her this week.”
All right, so that was true, although I'd called her practically every day. Alvin's not the only one who thinks Mrs. Parnell is something special. She'd saved my life on several dramatic occasions, and she's an entertaining conversationalist to boot, not to mention a first-rate strategist. What's not to love?
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