On her way home, she stopped at Jack’s Variety Store to pick up a few things. The location was convenient, though the short blocks from Yonge Street to her place felt like a long way in bad weather. The little store had everything she needed, and she liked the owners a great deal. Tonight, she pulled open the door and smiled at Esther Weisbroad, the owner’s wife, standing by the counter. She was a sweet, quiet woman with tucked-back brown hair and an apologetic smile. Most of her vocabulary was Polish and Yiddish.
Marion had been shaken up on her first visit to the store. Esther was packing Marion’s groceries into a paper bag when her sweater sleeve had slid toward her elbow, revealing a dark smudge on her forearm. When she lifted her arm again, Marion peered closer and felt her stomach roll. It wasn’t a smudge at all, but a dark, hateful, twenty-year-old tattoo made up of six inked numbers. The easiest thing for Marion to do would have been to pretend she hadn’t seen the indelible mark, but she didn’t feel right doing that. As she paid for her groceries that night, Marion smiled gently at the woman. She told her she was very sorry for her past experiences, and that she hoped her life in Canada was a good one.
Today, Marion headed to the back of the store for eggs and milk. She passed Esther’s nine-year-old daughter, Roshelle, at the magazine rack, where she often dawdled—much to her mother’s chagrin. One of her two long brown braids had come partially undone, and Marion spied chocolate on the corners of her full lips.
“What are you reading?”
The little girl closed the cover of a bright yellow comic book, covered by a cartoon drawing of a puppy. “Scamp. He’s one ofLady and the Tramp’s puppies. Scamp is very naughty.” She leaned intently toward Marion. “Sometimes he even talks to the junkyard dogs.”
Marion feigned horror and was about to ask more, when Esther’s scolding voice travelled over. “Roshelle!O kurcze! Oy vey!”
Roshelle’s shoulders jumped up to her ears, and she bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, Mama!” She gave Marion a guilty little smile, put the comic book back where it belonged, and skipped outside.
Marion set her eggs, milk, butter, bread, and jam on the counter then waited patiently for Esther. She was busy with another customer, a woman with a thick mess of chestnut hair falling over a stylish brown tweed suit.
“Just a minute. I have more in here,” the woman said, shaking her purse and peering inside.
She was young and quite pretty, but the quick glimpse Marion got of her profile made it obvious that she was not happy. There was a patchy red flush on her cheekbones and a definite redness around her eyes. Her mascara was mostly washed away.
“Oh, I know I have more in here,” she was muttering. She pulled her hand from her purse and opened it to reveal a few coins, but not enough.
“May I help?” Marion asked, her heart going out to her. She took out her wallet and paid the difference.
The woman turned, regarding her with wide, surprised eyes the colour of spring grass. Her fingers were shaking. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said with a sniff. “I’ve… I’ve just had, oh, the worst day at work. I got fired.”
There was the tug Marion always felt, the psychiatrist in her, wanting to know how she could help. But she was tired. It was time to close up for the day.
“There’s no need to thank me.” Marion had already calculated her own bill, so she put the correct amount on the counter, smiled at Esther, then slipped past the other woman. “I hope your evening gets better,” she called over her shoulder.
Marion hoped the same for herself, but it was not to be. Daniel’s pleafilled her thoughts: the panic in his voice as the needle approached, and the way his face had melted into submission under the influence of the medication.
Let me out. They need me. They’ll die.
What was he seeing?
Daniel had a story he needed to tell. Something that was tearing him apart. He had stared at Marion with such hope in his tortured expression, and she had walked away without lifting a finger to help. She had a terrible sense that she had let him down in the worst way.
That’s when she remembered that her date with Paul McKenny was the next night. Paul was Daniel’s doctor. Maybe this was her chance to make things right.
sixSASSY
Every minute of every day since she’d left Jamieson, Baines, and Brown, Sassy’s gut had churned. She’d tried to tell herself it was the flu or something, but she knew perfectly well what it was. Sassy had never lied to her father before, and she had always insisted with Joey that omission was the same as lying. She should have told her father about her job right away, or rather the lack of one, but having delayed her confession for a whole week, she was now stuck in the middle of an even bigger omission.
Out of guilt, she went the next morning to visit Mr. and Mrs. Moore, her father’s war buddy and his wife. She rarely saw them outside of the building unless it was Mrs. Moore carrying groceries. Whenever she saw that, Sassy carried them for her. Today she went to visit, but Mrs. Moore turned her away, saying Mr. Moore was feeling out of sorts. So Sassy returned to her room and tried to keep her mind off the inevitable meeting between herself and her father. Like the Moores, Sassy spent as much time as she could in her apartment, watching television, trying to concentrate on books, eating potato chips, and playing guitar.
Music had always been Sassy’s happy place. Her father had no musical talent whatsoever, meaning that when she encouraged him to sing with her, his version sounded nothing like hers. He was tone-deaf, he couldn’tmaintain a rhythm, and he was content with spending a day without listening to a radio or a record player. But Joey and Sassy were born with music dancing through their veins, just like their mother.
In the large glass-domed parlour of their massive old house stood a Heintzman mahogany baby grand piano. Years after her death, her father told Sassy that her mother had been able to play anything by ear on that piano. Of the very few memories Sassy had of Rita Rankin, she clung most tightly to one. It felt dreamlike, but it filled her with such nostalgia, she knew it had to be real. Every night, her mother had played soft, sweet music after the children had been put to bed. But on one special night, Sassy snuck out of her bedroom to listen, tiptoeing as quietly as she could. Her mother hadn’t seen her there, tucked underneath the piano, barely breathing in an attempt to keep quiet. Sassy was held spellbound by the majesty of the instrument vibrating all around her, and the wonder of the chords and melodies her mother created. The sweetness of the memory was tied to one clear image: soft brown slippers beneath cream satin pant legs, slowly lifting then lowering on the pedals.
After her mother’s death, and before they were tall enough to reach the pedals, Sassy’s father signed both children up for piano lessons. Scales and arpeggios were torture for Sassy, but they were even more agonizing for Joey. After six months, their teacher, Miss Lilly, frostily informed their father that Joey refused to play a note during lessons. The little boy’s protest eventually won out over his father’s insistence and Miss Lilly’s weak objections, and Joey happily shifted his attention to baseball. Sassy stuck with Miss Lilly, forcing herself through the tough stuff so she could get to the fun. She even learned music theory and history, though the whole concept of chord progressions initially baffled her.
What Sassy hadn’t expected was that during those long, repetitious scale sessions, she would fall in love with the mindless intricacies of the process. While her fingers worked, her mind sang, creating vague little melodies that wrapped around the arpeggios and wound through the scales. One by one Sassy added to her colourful stack of John W. Schaum piano method books, working all the way through until she finished the Grey Book. That’s whenMiss Lilly finally gave in to Sassy’s campaign for sheet music of current popular music. “The Great Pretender” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” were the first two, since Miss Lilly enjoyed the Platters, but the notes on the paper were simple and felt dull to Sassy. She asked for more, and Miss Lilly challenged her with a stack of Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals. Sassy melted into the romantic songs, livening them up with chords she’d perfected through learning theory.
One night in October 1964, she turned on the television to watchThe Ed Sullivan Show, excited to watch a band from England that everyone was talking about. At school the next day, all the girls were swooning over Mick Jagger. For Sassy, it was all about Keith Richard’s guitar.
The next day, her father bought Sassy the most gorgeous guitar she’d ever seen. He’d bought it off a client, who guaranteed she’d love the clear sound. Right off the bat, she noticed the trademark gold “Martin” written above the pegs.” Jazzed, Sassy carried it to a girlfriend’s house, since Nicky had been playing guitar for a year already.
“Sassy!” Nicky cried, astounded. “This is the same guitar as Bob Dylan plays!”
