Seven December 1967
SEVEN
I missed John when we didn’t see one another. After his family left each October, I would mope around the house for days. Kiju made me tea and my favourite sugar cookies to try and lift my spirits.
“You remind me of your mother just now, and a little of myself as a girl,” she said one evening while I was reading, dunking the cookies into a cup of hot chocolate, she with her knitting and a cup of tea on the little table beside her chair.
I tore my eyes away from the page, waiting for her to continue.
Her comparisons of me to my mother brought me a mix of joy and sorrow—joy because these stories were my link to my mother and sorrow because that link had been broken so soon after our meeting.
“I do?”
“Mooning over that boy John.” She smiled but didn’t look at me, so she could not have seen me blush.
“No, I don’t.”
“Nothing wrong with a little lovesickness. I had it when I was your age. I thought your mother had it for Ben when she was small, but it turned out to be friendship. Equally, if not more, important, I wager.”
“How did they know each other?”
“Same as you and John. Ben would come with his family each year and camp in the field. They became inseparable, those two.” She stopped knitting, hands mid-air, yarn twisted around her aging fingers, and looked out the window into the dark.
I followed her gaze but saw nothing except the night.
With a sigh, she returned to her work, the clacking of knitting needles the only sound between us.
“John’s a good boy, good family.”
“I’m twelve, Kiju.”
“Yes, yes, you are,” was her only response, leaving me to wonder what she meant.
Adults were always so cryptic when I was young.
So many things went unsaid. But I was a thoughtful and careful child and knew something bigger often lurked behind those conversations, especially the ones spoken in hushed tones, ones that were cut short when children entered the room.
I knew that more than a few of those conversations were about me, yet I never thought to ask. Perhaps I should have.
The first Saturday of Christmas break was a snowy one. I remember waking up to the smell of cookies and fresh bread. I got out of my bed and pulled my quilt around my shoulders.
“There’s oatmeal on the stove for you, lazy bones.” Kiju pointed to the old pot at the back of the stove. “And some honey on the table.”
I ladled myself some of the porridge. Kiju placed a cup of tea and a slice of toast with butter on the table in front of me.
“Some mail came for you yesterday. It’s on the table by the door.” Kiju pointed her fingers, dough strung through them like a thick spiderweb.
“For me?” I’d never gotten mail before.
“Yup. Looks to be from John.” She smiled and turned back to her task.
I jumped from my seat and my quilt fell to the floor.
There were two letters on the little table by the door reserved for mail and keys.
I saw that one was from Sally and addressed to Kiju and one was from John; and there, in his boy-like printing in the centre of the envelope, was my name.
His name was tiny and scratched in the upper left-hand corner.
I still have that letter. I remember the thrill of receiving my first bit of mail and the additional thrill that it was from John.
I held the envelope for a moment without opening it.
I returned to the table, placed the quilt across my lap, took a sip of tea and opened the letter.
Dear Aliet,
This is John Bear. I asked my mom if I could write you a letter and she said yes and she would mail it for me.
I hope you are doing good. I am doing good.
It was fun hanging out with you in October.
I am looking forward to it again next year.
I just had my birthday. My mom says now that I am 13, I have to have more responsibilities, so my dad taught me how to chop wood into kindling.
Nothing else new. I hope you are having a good winter.
John Bear
It was brief, but it was also perfect.
“You might want to write him back and let him know that we will be travelling up his way for New Year’s.”
I turned my head so quickly, I thought it might fly clean off my shoulders. Kiju pointed to the other letter on the little table by the door.
“Ben and Sally have invited us to celebrate the New Year with them. I think we should go.”
I wrote back, telling John we would be arriving on December 27 and staying through the New Year.
I was so excited about our trip that Christmas was a bit of a blur.
A new set of mittens with a matching hat and a new book from Kiju.
I had made her a tiny embroidery with wildflowers in home economics class.
She hung it on the wall immediately and stood back to admire it.
It wasn’t anything special, but I guess it was to her.
The day we left for the tiny village where Ben and Sally lived was cool but clear, so we decided to walk to the station with our suitcases and an extra bag with homemade sweets and breads for Ben, Sally and the little ones.
The snow was so clean and white, and the time between Christmas and New Year’s brings a quiet to the world that doesn’t exist any other time of the year.
When we arrived, Ben met us at the train station. He looked massive with the bulk of a winter jacket, big snow boots and a pair of mittens that I swear could have fit my entire arm. When he hugged Kiju, she nearly disappeared into his largeness.
“John was down earlier asking if you’d arrived yet. I told him to come back later.”
I blushed. I wasn’t sure why I turned pink at the mention of John, but it had recently become something that my body did of its own accord, without my permission. The blush felt especially warm against the cool winter air.
While Ben and Sally lived in the little village, John lived up the hill on the reserve with his family, a few doors down from Kenneth. They knew each other better than I knew either of them. I was excited to see John, but I had no desire to see Kenneth.
We arrived at the house just as John was walking into the yard.
He smiled and waved as we got out of Ben’s old truck.
I loved their home. It was old and needed work, but, like Kiju’s, there was love soaked into the walls and everyone could feel it.
It was one of the oldest in the little village and sat two houses down from the bridge that crossed over a lovely river, which I swear I could hear sing.
The rush of the current over stones, the sound of water brushing the leaves of the trees that stooped too low, the gentle sound of cattails in the wind.
“Just in time, John. Help me get the ladies’ suitcases into the house.”
John took my suitcase from the back of the truck and followed Ben. Kiju placed her arm around my shoulders and we followed them inside. Sally welcomed us and gave us each a hug. On the stove, water was already boiled, anticipating company.
“I’m making hot chocolate. Thought you might need a bit of warming up,” Sally said, as John helped me out of my jacket and hung it up beside his.
A little Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, adorned with tinsel and lights.
That Christmas is imprinted into my memory.
Yet there are times when I think back and wonder if I imagined it all.
In an act of self-sabotage that has become the hallmark of my adulthood, I searched my memory for grief, anger, despair, positive that such a happy memory could not possibly belong to me.
The children were well-behaved and playful, the food was delicious, the conversation full of laughter.
We played so many games of cribbage in the evening, and drank so much tea.
“You have to count your cards and you want them to add up to fifteen, like this, see.” I showed John my cards, two queens and two fives.
He’d never played cribbage before, a fact we all found incredible.
He wasn’t very good at it and didn’t take to it the way most people I knew did, so we played crazy eights instead. He won each game.
“I have to get going home. Mom has chores for me in the morning. And I can almost hear her telling me that I’ve been annoying you all for too long now,” John said, as he smiled at Sally.
“You’re never a bother here, John. You come by any time. Tell your mother I said hello and tell her she should come down here for a cup of tea and a little gossip sometime.”
“Will do.”
I walked John to the door.
“I’m glad you came down,” I said.
“Me too. Although I don’t think I will ever get the hang of that game.”
“Are you coming over for New Year’s?” I asked.
“I think so. I think Big Ben mentioned to my dad that the whole family should come. It’d be a busy house if that’s the case.”
“I like a busy house. It’s only ever Kiju and me in ours. Sometimes it’s so quiet, it’s creepy.”
“Except during apple season.”
“Except during apple season. My favourite time of year.”
“Me too,” he said, as he slid on a mitten.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I have to help around the house tomorrow. Been slacking since you arrived,” he joked. “But I’ll be here New Year’s Eve.”
I want to say I wasn’t disappointed, but I was. I hope I didn’t show it, but I think he saw it in the way my shoulders slumped forward. He didn’t say anything, just moved in and gave me a hug. I rested into him.
“Well, I gotta go before I melt with all these clothes on.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek.