Olympia Page 2

  Ruby’s wearing a pink knee-length dress with a white sash wrapped around the waist. The new dress is carefully rolled up to her hips so she can feel the breeze on her legs hotter. Her shoes sit beside her feet, shiny and white and stiff. She hasn’t said anything, but from where I’m sitting I can see the brown dot on both of her white Achilles tendons where the new shoes have broken the skin. She doesn’t want to bug our mother. We both know the tension in the air. For now, better just to sit.

  Our parents are dressed the way all adults dress for weddings. They look serious, important, as if they’re going to greet the president of a foreign country, or perhaps a returning Olympic gold medallist. Ruby and I are not used to seeing them like this. Our father never wears a tie, something he says he’s thankful for. He says he’s most comfortable with a pencil stuck behind his ear and dressed in his shop apron, which he wears when he works on the sailboat in the basement. He started it last fall, a small two-man racer which he hopes to finish by next year. It’s taken him longer than he expected because he only has weekends to work on it. The whole house has smelled of fibreglass for six months. This is something I don’t mind, but it troubles my mother. She says he builds boats like boys build model airplanes. Sometimes she says this with admiration, as a comment on his eternal youthfulness. Other times I’m not so sure. This could be something else that’s bothering him: a weekend away from his sailboat, his strips of fibreglass, his moulds, his protective goggles. The clothes he’s wearing smell of bleach and detergent instead of glue.

  We arrive at Bobcaygeon and drive slowly through the little town, observing the 15 m.p.h. speed limit. On the sidewalks people are dressed in short sleeves and cut-off jeans or track shorts. The younger ones wear their sneakers without socks, most of them tanned from top to bottom. You can tell who lives in town. They aren’t many among the paler, better-dressed tourists. The townies wear baseball caps, the laces of their shoes broken or missing, scornful of the summer fashions we bring from the south. There are people carrying two-fours of beer from the Brewers’ Retail to their cars. It’s beer-drinking weather. They know to open their trunks before they buy their beer so they won’t have to struggle with keys while their hands are full. Slowly we drive past the parking lot, looking into the popped-open trunks like dentists examining a line of gaping mouths. There are a few Michigan and New York State licence plates. I imagine these belong to the people with narrow heads and large sagging bodies, their children dressed in striped shirts and khaki shorts with zipper pockets.

  Our father knows where we’re going. We’ve been here before. We drive over the lock with the white-and-red signs on both sides warning us not to fish from this point. Then turn left, corralled by a driftwood fence into the parking lot of the houseboat rental, the marina where we’re to meet between green pine forests and the smooth black waters off the tip of the dock. The parking lot crunches under the weight of our slowing tires.

  Everyone’s already here, including my aunt from California. After the wedding she’s coming to stay with us. She’s been with my grandparents in Kingston since she arrived two days ago. She’s wearing a modest dress, almost casual, as if her long journey exempts her from the less comfortable wedding costumes forced upon my parents. At her ankles are the braces she’s worn on her legs since she was a girl. When she sees us pull into the parking lot, she hobbles over and sticks her head through my mother’s open window and gives her a big kiss. Aunt Marian’s a painter. We have some of her landscapes displayed on our walls at home. They show a desert of large purple cactuses and looming blue mountains. My father talks about Aunt Marian fondly, but with a sad look on his face, as if there were something about her that he just can’t pin down.

  Ruby fixes her dress, my socks come up. I help her put her shoes back on. I take some Kleenex from my breast pocket and quickly make temporary pads for the cuts on her feet. We’ve never seen or heard of most of the guests. They are all large, a bit tense, showing their teeth through festive smiles. Aunt Marian shows surprise at how much I’ve grown. This makes me feel obvious, adolescent. I’m intimidated by the grey area between childhood and adulthood. I can’t remember much of when I was a boy and I can’t see myself when I look into the future. I close my eyes and see my parents, sitting old and toothless in rocking chairs. I see colonies in space. I can even see the day when the planet’s overrun by insects. But I can’t imagine my part in all this.

  There are people here whom I’m supposed to remember from the times we visited Kingston. I don’t remember any of them. I try to disguise my perplexed look by facing the sun, by turning the question mark on my face into a squint. The woman who taught my mother English at the Palm Diner hugs me like a long-lost son. Those big pearls grinding into my bony chest. She stoops slightly, too tall to embrace me without embarrassing the both of us. She tells my mother I have an angel’s complexion. Then my mother leads Ruby and me over to Pastor Hawking, who is pairing his fingers in the middle of the crowd, graciously nodding his head up and down. I’ve heard the name before. He’s been a friend of my parents since they came here fifteen years ago. He looks younger than my father, but not by much. We share hugs and kisses all around. I watch the grey streaks run through the thick black hair of the pastor’s wife as she fingers her own set of pearls. Pearls they are, like milky seeds, but not as proud as the looping circles cast around the neck of Irene, the Palm Diner waitress.

  There are also three old women my grandmother’s age. It looks like they’ve come together. Literally, a set. Sisters, maybe. They’re standing at the edge of the crowd, dressed as if by the same designer. They have kind faces, pink and luminescent with age, their heavy bodies propped up on spindly legs. It’s obvious that the one in the centre is wearing a wig which, under the bright sun, takes on the light blue tinge of new fishing line. There are more people here. Ruby and I are introduced to them all. We forget their names as soon as we hear them.

  The dockhands are getting the houseboat ready for launching. My grandfather has told me with some pride that it’s the biggest one on Sturgeon Lake. It’s been reserved since last winter. We wait politely on the large wooden dock with white poles evenly spaced around its perimeter, from which hang orange life preservers. The rental office is behind us, beside the parking lot, where people sign receipts and daylong insurance policies. There are three other houseboats, secured by heavy ropes. The rest are already out on the water.

  Sweet Dreams is mostly white. A small house-like cabin rises from its centre, a yellow-and-white-striped awning stretches from the stern to the back portion of the cabin. It will provide a bit of shade if the sun proves too much for us in our rich costumes. Up front are neatly arranged stacking chairs, forming an aisle that runs up the middle of the deck to a white altar perched at the tip of the bow. Honey bees buzz in dizzy circles, attracted by the bouquets of flowers placed in white porcelain vases. Everyone boards but my grandparents, who haven’t arrived yet. They plan to meet us out in the middle of the lake, chauffeured in a polished mahogany cigarboat—I’ve seen the brochure—with a tiny Ontario Union Jack sticking out its nose.

  People are fishing out on the water, not far from where the houseboats are docked. Any serious fisherman knows you fish for walleye at dusk, or better yet after dark and under a full moon. As I watch them cast out their lines, I wonder whether my grandparents had known ahead of time that they were planning on being remarried in the middle of a full-blown walleye tournament, surrounded by professional anglers from all over the continent. Both my father and I knew this because we were here two years ago, just when the tournament began.

  In the middle of the lake we are surrounded by boats of various sizes: dinghies, aluminium outboards, canoes, cruisers. We’re still waiting for our grandparents to arrive. The shoreline is clearly visible from here, a clean continuous wall of pines broken only for a moment by a cabin or dock. We’re milling about, waiting for things to get started. Everything is in place. All we have t
o do is sit down. The pastor is ready. After the ceremony we’re staying on the houseboat for the reception. The food and drink are set up at the stern under the awning. There is also a squared-off area, possibly a dance floor. Who is going to dance?

  Pulling up in a separate boat, where did they get that idea from? Just like their first wedding somewhere in Germany long before I was born. These are all rituals of the land, clumsily transferred to the sea. Limo to the floating church. The only difference is water slows movement, makes things lighter, more dream-like. Probably this is why our floating church is named Sweet Dreams.

  Somebody’s head turns and we all look towards a dock on the far side of the lake. My grandparents. One of the employees from the boat rental helps my grandmother into the boat first. When she gets both feet in safely she motions to the young man. He leans towards her and she kisses him on the cheek. As she does, I see an earring catch the sun like a hot pinpoint. Then he helps my grandfather get in. The pastor’s head is still gently bobbing up and down, his smile eager and calm. A few minutes later they pull up alongside the houseboat and are taken aboard. After more kisses and handshakes, my grandparents meet one another at the tip of the bow, nervous as two virgins. The polished mahogany cigarboat with the Ontario Union Jack has returned to the dock at the far end of the lake. Sitting beside the boat, smoking a cigarette, is her pilot, the young man my grandmother kissed, his feet hanging over the edge of the dock, his head turned towards us.

  My father has helped everyone to their seat. We are respectful and quiet, as if at a funeral. Silence drops over us and I listen to the lake noises come from all directions, the hum of motorboats, splashing, weak conversations that pass over the flat water like tired sparrows. A speedboat roars by in the distance. The pastor formally welcomes us and thanks the Lord for this beautiful day. I am sitting beside Ruby. Although we know this is a serious matter, we feel like laughing and jumping into the water.

  “Dearly beloved,” he says. “We are gathered here this afternoon to reaffirm the holy bond of matrimony between this man and this woman.” The pastor’s head nods more deeply now. He is like a plastic bird poised on the edge of a drinking glass, insatiable, monotonous. On the upswing he looks into the eyes of my grandparents. As he does this the houseboat begins to rock, slowly, once, twice, echoes of the speedboat that has passed by in the distance. Then the big wave comes. The boat jerks slightly, suddenly, and the three standing figures adjust their footing. I am looking at the inside of my eyelids the moment my grandmother disappears over the side. Bright red with white dots following the quick jump and curve of my eyeballs. Voices scream with the rush of bodies to the bow to look over the railing. Like a stone. Down, down my grandmother goes, fading into layers of darkness and shadow and finally and forever into memory.

  We spend the rest of the day until nightfall looking for her, some of the men diving in again and again. They slide into the water and return in frantic lunges for air. Those who are young and strong enough. Suit jackets and dress shoes are scattered over the deck. In their shoes, the divers have placed their watches and rings for safekeeping. Those who are too young or too old stand silently and look on in disbelief. I notice with shameful pride that my father stays under the longest. I wonder what he sees in that black underwater forest.

  My mother collects Ruby in her arms when the harbour patrol begins shuttling guests back to the marina. She goes easily, drained now and weak from the crying. My grandfather sits in a folding chair, waiting, as if for a train. Alone now, as I’ve never seen him before. The young man my grandmother kissed is still sitting on the dock, dangling his feet in the water. I can see he knows what happened. It isn’t long before the whole lake knows. The authorities begin dragging the bottom in a matter of hours. It’s twilight when my father surfaces for the last time and is pulled from the water, panting and blue, teeth chattering. By now most of the guests have been taken ashore. At the stern, early evening bees gorge themselves on chicken salad and melon.

  My parents decide it’s better to stay in Bobcaygeon tonight instead of driving all the way home, even though we’re unprepared. Between us there is not one toothbrush. Aunt Marian has already taken my grandfather back to Kingston.

  We check into a motel with a yellow vacancy sign shaped like a boomerang, its centre directed upwards to the heavens. The motel is just on the edge of town, where the wind in the trees and the thin traffic through the dark drowns out the sound of crickets and bullfrogs. The last available room has only two beds, side by side. I lie beside my sister’s small warm body, our parents an arm’s length away, and listen to their slow, deep breathing. Crisp foreign sheets prevent sleep. It’s years since I’ve slept in the same room with my mother, in the same bed as my sister. Another move backward in time. My father’s teeth begin to chatter. I hear my mother’s hand searching the dark to comfort him, her palm softly cover his crying mouth.

  In my dream a silent fraternity of boats gathers in the area where the accident took place, a congregation of those who believe the scent of a drowning attracts prize fish. They risk the chance of pulling her up for the equal chance of bringing in a trophy. I go down to the dock where my grandmother kissed the young man and watch the procession of fishermen float guiltily into the twilight. They don’t anchor. They consider the currents and follow my grandmother’s slow drift. I know their luck is good, for I hear them pulling the big ones out and the weight of the fish hitting against the bottom of the boats.

  At seven the next morning, the motel keeper comes to our door, rubbing his red puffy face. The sun is shining through the spotted window. We’re waiting for someone to tell us what to do next. On the brown dresser between the two beds little boxes of cornflakes and a carton of orange juice sit, a still life of this abruptly re-arranged morning. The man at the door tells my father there’s someone on the phone in the office. They leave together. While my mother and Ruby wash up in the bathroom, I slip out and walk down to the docks, fifteen minutes along the highway. At the edge of the water I overhear a rumour that someone found an old lady last night on the east shore, tangled in the bulrushes. They say her hair was still neatly tied back, her jewellery shiny in the moonlight.

  A weak light from the street lamp opposite the house enters through the big front window. The house is settling into itself for the night. It creaks as the heat of the day drains from its dusty rafters, its secret corners. I’m standing at the fireplace mantel. I remember this photograph from years ago, when I used to play in the attic during the day. It’s faded since then, but my grandmother is wearing the same smile, as if she sees something waiting for her on the horizon, something in the future.

  There are the two sisters, Louise and Greta, just as I remember them, looking into the camera, uncomfortable. Now I know why they’re sneering, half defiant, half terrified. Out of view their hands search for one another, convinced of something terrible to come. And here is Erika, the skinny girl with the pointy nose, efficient and wary. Then Silke, the girl with the heart and arrow drawn beside her name in my grandmother’s youthful flowing hand. She hasn’t changed either, though so many other things have since this photograph was taken, back when the world was new and alive with light, before there was any need to look back and remember.

  II

  A man filmed the three boys playing football on Mohrenstraße. Silke sat on a nearby doorstep, knitting. She smiled at the man with the camera. Two Brownshirts came around the corner then. One of the men picked up the ball and kneeled and motioned to one of the boys with a finger. Silke put down her knitting needles and wool and watched her son walk towards the man holding the ball. An old woman sat in the shadows of her living room and looked out a ground-floor window and watched the man with the ball place his right hand on the boy’s shoulder and say something to the boy that she could not hear. The man’s partner laughed when he made a scissors with his fingers and viciously snipped at the air. Both men laughed when the little boy put his hands betwee
n his legs and grimaced. Tears welled in the little boy’s eyes. Just then a roar came across the city from the direction of the Maifeld, where the national team had just scored against Czechoslovakia. The photographer propped the camera back up on his shoulder and began to make his way out of the ghetto and back to the stadium.

  Olympia

  In August 1972, just before my fourteenth birthday, almost a year to the day after my grandmother drowned, my uncle Günter came to us from Germany and found cracks at the bottom of our swimming pool. Because war stories had always been a part of my family, I thought I knew something of my mother’s brother. All the grown-ups around me then had lived through war, including my father, and everybody had a story they seemed willing to share—friends of my parents, the teller from Frankfurt who worked at the Bank of Montreal at Lakeshore and Charles and spoke to my father in whispers over folded fives and twenties. It seemed that everyone my parents knew back then had escaped to this country from that dark place, as they had, after the war ended. But it took me until that summer to find out that there were things I hadn’t been told, that there were secrets in my house.