Chapter 19
On the morning of our birthday, actress Sharon Tate’s body was found butchered by a lunatic named Charles Manson. She was eight months pregnant. Ma was sitting at the kitchen table sipping her tea and staring out the kitchen window, having just listened to the gruesome news on the radio. She didn’t know who Sharon Tate was, and neither did I, neither of us saw The Valley of the Dolls, but the thought of something like that happening, especially by a group of hippies, was terrifying. Ma just couldn’t believe that something like that could happen to anyone and “to an innocent baby who hadn’t even had a chance to see the world yet” she cried.
Our pre-occupation with the Sharon Tate murder was all we could talk about so that when Beth showed up with a plate of pastries and singing happy birthday, Ma and I looked at her like she had two heads. “Jo, it’s your birthday!” Ma said, jumping up and giving me a hug. “I got so wrapped up in that murder, I almost forgot.” She gave me an embarrassed squeeze and then quickly started to bustle around the kitchen making more tea and putting out more cups and plates for breakfast.
“Harold’s on his way over with his mom,” Beth said. “I thought we could start the celebrations early.”
Dan called from the couch in the living room. Since her accident she had been sleeping downstairs where she was closer to Ma and the bathroom.
“Ma!” she cried, “what’s going on?”
“I’ll get her,” I said, getting up before Ma could answer. “Come on squirt we’re having a party.”
“For breakfast?” Dan asked.
“Why not?” I replied. “As good a time as any ain’t it?” I could feel Ma frown when she heard me say ain’t. I could hear her say inside her head ‘Jo quit talking like an imbecile. How many times do I have to tell you not to use that word?’
“Sure Jo,” she said. “As good a time as any.”
I picked up Danny’s little body, which was about ten pounds heavier than usual and awkward to carry with the casts on her legs. She was wearing a soft pink baby doll nightshirt and she smelled like bubble gum and dog fur. Her dark hair was pulled up in a high ponytail that was messy and falling out from sleeping on it. I just wanted to bury my head inside Dan’s little body and breath in her sweet little girl smell forever. Soon enough the passage of time would change all that and other scents would come and take their place and she would never smell so sweet again. I was only sixteen and already my sweetness was only a memory hidden inside my sister’s body.
Harold and his mom came in the kitchen door as I was settling Danny onto a chair. Mrs. K. gave Ma a hug first than went to Dan and hugged her than finally me and said the same thing she said to me on every birthday.
“Yeeees, I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday,” Mrs. K. said. “You and Harold, both so cute. Cutest babies born that day.”
Then I said the same thing I did every year, “only babies born that day,” and then Harold said the same thing he did every year, “we were enough,” and everyone else laughed like they always did. You would have thought we were Rowan and Martin the way we made them laugh.
We spent the next two hours devouring sweet sticky pastries and pots of Red Rose tea while Ma and Mrs. K. entertained us with their repertoire of cute Harold and Jo stories, recounting our entire childhood, chapter and verse; some things Harold and I couldn’t even remember.
Usually this was the point where I would roll my eyes skyward and groan but things were different this year. And it didn’t help that Beth kept them going with her dumb questions like “what was Harold like when he was three?” Or “how did Jo get the tiny scar that cuts through her right eyebrow?” If she had wanted to know about that scar why didn’t she ask me? The truth was I didn’t remember getting cut there. The scar was more like a birthmark, something I had had all my life as far back as I could remember. By the time we had eaten the last icing topped Persian, drank six pots of tea, Beth knew more things about Harold’s life and mine than I remembered. Like being hit by the car when we were six. Nothing serious. We didn’t even get bruised, not even psychologically. We were racing our tricycles down the street when Mr. Greene backed his
Buick out of the driveway without noticing that Harold and I were drag racing. He barely touched us when he realized what he had done. He leapt out of the Buick and was crying and already checking us out for cuts and broken bones when Mrs. K. and Ma both came running to the scene. Imagine a grown man crying like that. This was precisely the kind of thing that would have made Mrs. K. hysterical but old man Greene’s crying was so disturbing that it became the focus of her attention. Harold and I, oblivious to the seriousness of what might have happened carried on down the street, neck in neck, as we raced our tricycles to some imaginary finish line.
“I won!” Harold said.
“Bull!”
“Jo Frances, watch your language!” Ma scolded.
“What? I didn’t say nothing.”
“You know what I mean,” Ma said, giving me the look. There’s this way mothers have of giving their kids the five-minute warning without having to say a word. It’s generally reserved for times when other people outside of the family are around but just one flash of the look says you’re in trouble and you better stop now before you regret your actions. The other thing about it is mothers never forget why they gave you the look and when you least expect it she’ll remind you of what a jerk you were.
“Bull,” I repeated. “Since when is that bad language?”
“Quit being smart-aleck,”Ma said, her face flushed with color partly because she was embarrassed and partly from the heat. “Sorry Ma,” I apologized, feeling badly that I had pushed her emotionally in front of people. But not badly enough to have the last word where Harold was concerned, birthday or not. “But he did not win. I did.”
“You didn’t even remember it happened,” he said, licking icing off his fingers from the last Persian. “So how could you remember who won or not?”
“It’s all coming back to me,” I said, “clear as a bell. And I definitely won.”
“All right you two. It was a tie,” Mrs. K. said silencing us both. “I saw the whole thing. You both won.”We looked over at Harold’s mom like she was nuts. She shrugged her shoulders and winked, then we all started to laugh. Good old Mrs. K., the peacemaker and my mother’s protector.
“How old did you guys say you were today? Beth asked sarcastically. “Was that six?” Everyone started to howl even harder. The rest of the afternoon Beth, Harold, Dan and I lazed around in Beth’s backyard while Ma and Mrs. K. prepared our birthday feast. Dan played fetch with Sam while Harold and I listened to Beth play her guitar. It was her latest passion. Ever since the love-in she had been playing it non-stop. She had taught herself a few chords and could already play a few simple songs, mostly folkie type tunes: Blowing in the Wind and You are My Sunshine. But that afternoon she was teaching herself a new song. The three of us sang as she practiced Cat Stevens’ Morning is Broken. We’d get four bars into the song and she’d stop to figure out the chords and start all over again. Ordinarily this was the kind of thing that would drive me nuts, but I didn’t care because this was one of those perfect afternoons; the sun was shining, my belly was full of sugar and tea, I was surrounded by my best friends, my little sister was well and happily playing with her adopted dog, my mother and her best friend were busy doing what they loved to do, spending time with each other and cooking for the ones they loved. Yes, all was right in the world. It was one of those afternoons where you wished you could stop time and make it last forever. It’s funny how in the end it’s the everyday, small moments in our lives that are the most precious, that make you turn skyward and say “thank you God for giving us this day, this life.”Maybe that’s all a good life is—a string of sweet little moments strung together like pearls. Later that evening we all gathered together at our place. Joe had set up a table in the backyard because the house was so hot from Ma and Mrs. K. cooking all afternoon. He set it up underneath the Manitoba maple so “we could enjoy the shade” he said. Even though the summer was still steaming hot, the top leaves of the tree were already starting to turn, a warning that autumn and cooler weather was just a heartbeat away. I felt a twinge of sadness at the sight of the red tipped leaves; Mother Nature’s subtle hint that Summer’s carefree days and nights would soon come to an end. What would happen once it was over?
It wasn’t an endless summer; school lurked around the corner and with it came a different routine, a different scene. I shuddered at the thought of things changing and went back to tossing the baseball to Danny who still could toss a pretty mean ball despite her temporary handicap. She was starting to get good at maneuvering herself in the chair almost as if it was part of her body. Ma and Mrs. K. brought out supper, which was a combination of our Italian favorites—lasagna, garlic bread and Ma’s tomato, fresh basil and cheese salad and Mrs. K.’s Finnish dishes of pickled herring on rye crisp, mojaka and cardamom laced bread, food that our family had grown to love over the years—even the fish stew, eyeballs and all.
Mrs. K. made the cakes, one for each of us, glorious with sixteen candles plus one for good luck: mammoth double chocolate made with chocolate milk, her “secret ingredient” that we all knew about.
We stuffed ourselves silly.
Our mothers retold the same old stories of Harold’s and my birth and how they met and became the lifelong friends. “More like sisters” they said in unison, giggling like teenagers. They reminisced about how Joe Senior taught us to play ball, swim and skate, all the events of our lives that defined who we were as a family—us and Harold and his mom, one big crazy quilt living and dancing the dance of life together.
Everyone gathered around as Harold and I opened our presents, alternating by gift so we could each watch the other open theirs. Every year our gifts were pretty much the same, practical things like clothes or school supplies.
But this year Ma gave me a special gift.
“I thought you could write down your thoughts,” she said, blushing and lowering her head shyly.
“It’s beautiful Ma. The most beautiful thing,” I said, as my fingers traced the embossed design on the cover of the leather bound book. A tear snuck out of my eye and dropped onto the back of my hand. As the summer progressed I became less and less able to control my emotions. They betrayed me at every turn. Tears came from this hidden reservoir that held all joy and sorrow and leaked spontaneously from my body without warning.
Both Beth and Ma took pictures. Ma with her little Kodak Brownie coaching everyone to smile and say cheese into the camera, while Beth using her Nikon shot from the hip in her super spy fashion, every now and then actually looking into the camera to see what she was taking.
After dinner Joe Senior, Ma and Mrs. K. sat around the table sipping homemade dandelion wine that one of his customers had given him earlier that afternoon. Joe provided the usual after dinner entertainment. Ma had that anxious look she got whenever Joe drank, especially the potent homemade brew that contained the spirits of all his past life and a particular anger that they unleashed. As Joe poured himself glass after glass of wine, I could see Ma’s mind working. “Will he know when to stop or will this be the night that he has one too many drinks and all hell breaks loose?” The days were growing shorter and by nine-thirty it was already dark. Beth had everything arranged for the “secret after dark celebrations.”We hopped in Sally and sped off into the night, giddy with anticipation. As we headed across the Kaministiqua Bridge and veered off towards Chippewa Park, both Harold and I began to question Beth’s sanity. It was too late to visit the pitiful collection of caged animals, mostly hollow-eyed brown bears, which was a depressing experience in broad daylight never mind at night. And then there were the “amusements,” which weren’t so amusing, bumper cars that stalled and jammed and took the operator, an old Ojibwa with no front teeth and one good eye every ounce of strength he had left in his ancient body to tear them apart and “get them suckers back in action.”
“Chippewa?” Harold groaned. “What’s here?”
“You’ll see,” Beth said, winking at Harold as she pulled the car into the parking lot. There were a few other cars in the lot but otherwise the place was deserted. Places like this gave me the creeps after dark but Chippewa Park gave me the creeps any time. We got out of the car and headed down towards the beach. “I don’t know about this place Beth,” I said. The ground was hard and dry underfoot and every now and then you stepped on something mysterious that crunched or snapped and echoed through the night air like little bombs exploding at your feet. “It’s kinda creepy. I don’t think we’re even supposed to be here at night.” “Yeah, I think there’s some kind of rule eh,” Harold agreed. And then he did something completely out of character: he put his arm around my waist and held it there as we walked through the darkness and I did something equally out of character and didn’t shake it off. It’s strange what fear can do sometimes. “Nonsense, there’s no rule,” Beth said. “This is a free country. Or at least it was the last time I checked.”
As we drew closer to the beach, a smell that had become so familiar drifted in off the shoreline. Marijuana and bonfire. There was a small group of people sitting around the fire, a huddle of dark figures illuminated by flames. It was everyone we had met that summer along with Wendy and Brenda. Josh was there with Robert and Donny and Shar and the lead singer from The Sharks with a gorgeous girl who looked a little like Maryanne Faithful especially by the glow of the fire. They were all sitting cross-legged and passing around a joint. There were a few other people that I recognized from the park and Josh’s place but didn’t remember their names. As soon as they saw us approach, Josh started to strum “happy birth- day.” Everyone started singing as we made our way into the circle. I squeezed in between Brenda and Robert. Brenda gave me a hug while Robert offered up a kiss on the top of my head. I looked over at Harold who sat on the other side of Wendy next to Josh, smiling like a goof as he took the joint Josh handed him and flashed a peace sign to Donny and Shar. Beth was sitting next to the guy from the band, not the least bit unnerved by the fact that he was with another girl.
It was an incredible night, the sweetest sixteenth birthday ever. We sang songs around the “magic circle” as Josh called it, laughed hysterically at everything, told spooky stories and then had to stop because we were scaring ourselves, held hands, discovered the group hug and then we all lay on our backs in a row and watched the Aurora Borealis, the best natural light show in the world produced by God himself. Everyone said it was because of Harold’s and my birthday’s that the Aurora Borealis happened that night, that we were special, cosmic children of the universe. Imagine that, Harold and I special cosmic children of the universe? “Will wonders ever cease?” as Joe always said. We were higher than kites, not just from the pot but from the intensity of emotions that flowed like the mighty Kaministiqua River herself.
Donny and Shar were the first to go skinny-dipping, followed by Josh and his entourage of girls. I guess Harold had smoked just enough pot to shed his Finnish inhibitions and everything he was wearing because even the birthday boy dove into the warm moonlit water. He was able to coax Brenda but not Wendy, who was too worried about her new boyfriend, to “take it all off baby” and jump in. They played in the water like young dolphins, splashing, squealing, frolicking while Beth, the The Sharks singer and his girlfriend, Robert, Wendy and I sat silently around the fire, hypnotized by its flames and feeling “mellow yellow” Donovan. Robert and I slipped away for a moonlit ride on his motorcycle. He was heading back to Toronto to finish school, salvage his relationship with his girlfriend if he could and get on with his life. We rode along the highway towards the border and at one point I thought we might just keep going, end up in Duluth or something, but a few miles from the States, Robert pulled the bike over onto a side road and parked. He turned off the bike and just sat there staring into the bush. I got off the bike to examine a new burn from the muffler.
“That thing gets pretty hot,” I said, touching the skin where a blister had already formed.
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never ridden back there,” he said as he got off the bike.
He bent over and put his hands on my shoulders. I had to strain my neck to look at him because he was well over a foot taller than me. Then he kissed me, a soft gentle kiss on the lips. My first kiss. I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamed about her first kiss, wondered what it would be like and who it would be with. I never gave it much thought except when Brenda and Wendy carried on sometimes but now that it happened I knew I would never forget. Not that fireworks went off or anything like that, it’s just that it was so beautiful, I could have cried.
We stood there holding onto each other for a while, as if we were both afraid to let go, not wanting the moment or the night to end.
Then Robert pulled himself gently away and we mounted his bike and drove back to the others who were all gathered around the fire again. Brenda and Harold were holding hands and looking horribly romantic. Had this been another time, I would have thought they were both nuts but somehow that night it seemed right. Josh, Beth and the lead singer were playing guitars and singing their version of Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.
Around three in the morning we headed back to Beth’s to spend the night. The three of us jumped into her bed with just our tee shirts and underwear and her in the middle like an Oreo cookie. She handed us our birthday gifts, both in identical boxes, identically wrapped. We both hesitated before we began to unwrap. Harold had to be thinking the same thing I was. What could Beth possibly give both of us that would be the same?
“Jeez Beth, you didn’t have to give us a gift especially after that great party you threw for us eh,” Harold said.
“Hey Korkala, speak for yourself,” I teased. “Just kidding. That was the best party I’ve ever had. That was enough.” I said, although truthfully I had wondered why Beth had not presented us with a gift earlier in the evening with all the others. I tore a corner of the purple tissue paper off the tiny box. Harold ripped the paper off excitedly and stared perplexed at the blue box. Anxiously, he waited for me to finish picking away at the wrapper before he removed the lid.
“She always does that. Picks away at the wrapping like a little bird. Pick-pick-pick,” Harold said cupping his hands under his armpits and flapping them like a bird. “Every year she takes twice as long to unwrap her gifts than me. Like she’s afraid of what’s inside or something.”
“I just hate to wreck the paper, that’s all,” I replied.
“Wreck the paper? It ends up in the garbage pail along with mine, except mine is all crumpled like it’s supposed to be and yours is all in this neat little pile.”
“Lighten up Hank. What difference does it make how Jo-Jo opens the gift?” Beth said coming to my defense. “But do you think you could get this done before you both turn seventeen?” I ripped at the paper through fits of laughter. We were giddy, not just from Beth’s joke but from the entire day. Harold and I sat there looking at our small identical blue boxes. Birks. I had never gotten anything from Birks before. Trust Beth.
“You go first Korkala,” I said.
“Un-un,” he said shaking his head.
“Come on you two. What’s the big deal? Open your gifts. It’s not one of those trick gifts that jump out and bite. Promise.” “You promise,” Harold and I said together.
“Yes!” she said emphatically. “Okay this is what we’re going to do. On the count of three you both open your box at the same time,” she said holding up her pointer finger and waving it like it was a miniature flag. “One. Two. Two-and a-half,” she joked. “Three.”
Harold and I sat motionless staring at our boxes. Neither of us could make the first move.
“I don’t believe you guys. What do you think is going to happen when you open the box?” she asked as she removed the blue lids from both of our gifts. “There. See no explosions. No gags.
No goofy tricks. Now get at it!” Inside each of our boxes was a gold chain with a gold charm attached: identical hearts broken in half in the shape of a thunderbolt. “See if you hold them up together they form one heart,” Beth said holding the two hearts together in the air. “One perfect heart. Jo-Jo yours fits into Hank’s and see Hank how yours completes Jo-Jo’s. Just the way you two are.”
Harold and I were stunned. Completely, absolutely, positively dumbfounded. We sat perfectly still as Beth placed the chains around our necks. I reached up to touch mine and watched as Harold did the same.
“Well? Do you like them?” she asked, looking from me and then to Harold for some sort of sign.
“Yeah. I do. I’ve never had a necklace before eh,” Harold said, rubbing the half heart like it was the magic lamp and he was Aladdin.
“It’s beautiful,” I said softly, brushing a tear away from my cheek with the back of my hand. “The most beautiful thing.” “Good. Now let’s go to sleep. I don’t know about you guys but I’m beat. That was some day huh,” she said shimmying her tiny body down the bed.
Harold reached for the light next to him and turned it off. The three of us rearranged our bodies on the bed. Beth curled up next to Harold as I lay on my back holding my half of our heart. “Yeah. It was,” Harold whispered.
“Beth?”
“Mmm,” she said dreamily.
“Thanks,” I said, as I reached over and lightly kissed the back of her head.
What seemed like hours later I was still wide-awake staring up at the ceiling while Harold and Beth had slipped into the harmonious rhythm of peaceful sleep like two cats napping together in the sun. Thoughts of the day rolled through my mind one after the other like waves lapping against the shore of Lake Superior. It had been perfect in every way. Beth really knew how to throw a good party.