Olympia Read Free Page A

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