When we did, finally, all four of us, arrive back alive in our small town that lay just on the far western side of the rocky Shield in the middle of blue and yellow fields, we weren’t relieved. We were in our new house now. My father could sit in his lawn chair in the front yard and see, through the trees across the highway to First Street, the empty spot where our old house had been. He hadn’t wanted his house to be taken away. It wasn’t his idea. But the owner of the car dealership next door wanted the property to expand his parking lot and made all sorts of voluble threats and exerted relentless pressure until finally my father couldn’t take it anymore and he buckled one day and sold it to the car dealer for a song, as my mother put it. It’s just business, Jake, said the car dealer to my father the next Sunday in church. It’s nothing personal. East Village had originated as a godly refuge from the vices of the world but somehow these two, religion and commerce, had become inextricably linked and the wealthier the inhabitants of East Village became the more pious they also became as though religious devotion was believed to be rewarded with the growth of business and the accumulation of money, and the accumulation of money was believed to be blessed by God so that when my father objected to selling his home to the car dealer there was in the air a whiff of accusation, that perhaps by holding out my father wasn’t being a good Christian. This was the implication. And above all, my father wanted to be a good Christian. My mother encouraged him to fight, to tell the car dealer to take a hike, and Elfrieda, being older than me and more aware of what was going on, tried to get a petition going amongst the villagers to keep businesses from expanding into people’s homes but there was nothing that could be done to assuage my father’s persistent guilt and the feeling that he’d be sinning if he were to fight for what was his in the first place. And besides, my father was thought to be an anomaly in East Village, an oddball, a quiet, depressive, studious guy who went for ten-mile walks in the countryside and believed that reading and writing and reason were the tickets to paradise. My mother would fight for him (although only up to a point because she was, after all, a loyal Mennonite wife and didn’t want to upset the apple cart of domestic hierarchy) but she was a woman anyway, so very easily overlooked.
Now, in our new house, my mother was restless and dreamy, my father slammed things around in the garage, I spent my days building volcanoes in the backyard or roaming the outskirts of our town, stalking the perimeter like a caged chimp, and Elf began work on “increasing her visibility.” She had been inspired by the ochre paintings on the rock, by their impermeability and their mixed message of hope, reverence, defiance and eternal aloneness. She decided she too would make her mark. She came up with a design that incorporated her initials E.V.R. (Elfrieda Von Riesen) and below those the initials A.M.P. Then, like a coiled snake, the letter S which covered, underlined and dissected the other letters. She showed me what it looked like, on a yellow legal notepad. Hmm, I said, I don’t get it. Well, she told me, the initials of my name are obviously the initials of my name and the A.M.P. stands for All My Puny … then the big S stands for Sorrows which encloses all the other letters. She made a fist with her right hand and punched the open palm of her left hand. She had a habit then of punctuating all her stellar ideas with a punch from herself to herself.
Hmm, well that’s … How’d you come up with it? I asked her. She told me that she’d gotten it from a poem by Samuel Coleridge who would definitely have been her boyfriend if she’d been born when she should have been born. Or if he had, I said.
She told me she was going to paint her symbol on various natural landmarks around our town.
What natural landmarks? I asked her.
Like the water tower, she said, and fences.
May I make a suggestion? I asked. She looked at me askance. We both knew there was nothing I could offer her in the way of making one’s mark in the world — that would be like some acolyte of Jesus saying hey, you managed to feed only five thousand people with one fish and two loaves of bread? Well, check this out! — but she was feeling magnanimous just then, the excitement of her achievement, and she nodded enthusiastically.
Don’t use your own initials, I said. Because everyone in town will know whose they are and then the fires of hell will raineth down on us, et cetera.
Our little Mennonite town was against overt symbols of hope and individual signature pieces. Our church pastor once accused Elf of luxuriating in the afflictions of her own wanton emotions to which she responded, bowing low with an extravagant sweep of her arm, mea culpa m’lord. Back then Elf was always starting campaigns. She conducted a door-to-door survey to see how many people in town would be interested in changing the name of it from East Village to Shangri-La and managed to get over a hundred signatures by telling people the name was from the Bible and meant a place of no pride.
Hmm, maybe, she said. I might just write AMPS, with a very large S. It’ll be more mysterious, she said. More je ne sais quoi.
Um … precisely.
But don’t you love it?
I do, I said. And your boyfriend Samuel Coleridge would be happy about it too.
She made a sudden karate-chop slice through the air and then stared into the distance as though she’d just heard the far-off rattle of enemy fire.
Yeah, she said, like objective sadness, which is something else.
Something else than what? I asked her.
Yoli, she said. Than subjective sadness obviously.
Oh, yeah, I said. I mean obviously.
There are still red spray-painted AMPSs in East Village today although they are fading. They are fading faster than the hearty Aboriginal ochre pictographs that inspired them.
Elfrieda has a fresh cut just above her left eyebrow. There are seven stitches holding her forehead together. The stitches are black and stiff and the ends poke out of her head like little antennae. I asked her how she got that cut and she told me that she fell in the washroom. Who knows if that’s true or false. We are women in our forties now. Much has happened and not happened. Elf said that in order for her to open her packages of pills — the ones given to her by the nurses — she would need a pair of scissors. Fat lie. I told her that I knew she wasn’t interested in taking the pills anyway, unless they were of such a volume that their combined effect would make her heart seize, so why would she need a pair of scissors to open the package? Also, she could use her hands to tear it open. But she won’t risk injuring her hands.
Elfrieda’s a concert pianist. When we were kids she would occasionally let me be her page-turner for the fast pieces that she hadn’t memorized. Page turning is a particular art. I had to be just ahead of her in the music and move like a snake when I turned the page so there was no crinkling and no sticking and no thwapping. Her words. She made me practise over and over, her ear two inches from the page, listening. Heard it! she’d say. And I’d have to do it again until she was satisfied that I hadn’t made the slightest sound. I liked the idea of being ahead of her in something. I took real pride in creating a seamless passage for her from one page to the next. There’s a perfect moment for turning the page and if I was too early or too late Elfrieda would stop playing and howl. The last measure! she’d say. Only at the last measure! Then her arms and head would crash onto the keys and she’d hold her foot on the sustaining pedal so that her suffering would resonate eerily throughout the house.