Costain

Copyright © 2020 by Nadia Pace

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-1578-5 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-1577-8 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-1579-2 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Going to Dennytown

Estate or Mistake?

Painter Man

Becky

Swimming

Water Dream

Painting Reality

Training

Russian Prince

A Rat and a Bunny

First Dance

Lake of Nightmares

Making Things Right

Bad Boy

On My Own

Mother’s News

To Paint or Not to Paint

The Truth about Jordan Feith

Big Swim

New Art Man

Pick up the Phone

Payback

Love or Hate

Healing

Author’s Note

Costain is lost in cyberspace. Today, the 6th of February, somehow this story has disappeared. As my body panics, I try to understand how and why this has happened. Terrified of the implications, terrified at the prospect of the loss of two years of work, I feel the loss of my dreams of my younger self. As soon as I awake each day, visions of her life pop into my head. I see her several times a day. She could be a toddler at the pool, a teenager buying shoes, or a young girl looking over books for college. Our personalities are so mingled, where does Costain begin and I end?

Why do I shut out a lifetime of memories, to explore a world that does not exist? It is a task only for the strong-minded. I am completely defeated when only two thousand words have been produced in a day. Salvation comes in the form of cups of tea and coffee. I wonder if this is what every artist, writer, and trailblazer has to endure? Or are they so talented their craft just flows like maple syrup in the spring?

Anyone that knows me soon realizes that writing is like oxygen to me. Without it, I’m gasping for a reason to carry on. My husband says, It’s all in your head, just get it onto paper again.

So here it is. Costain has been retrieved. After three days, the story was found amongst other sporadic starts I endlessly churned out every morning. Trash to me is never trash - just ideas dying to be reactivated.

Going to Dennytown

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

Matsuo Basho

Humanity has had many heroes over the decades. Isaac Pasio is a hero you have never heard of, an inconspicuous man who influenced a whole town into thinking they were normal.

I was named after my mother’s favorite author, Thomas B. Costain. A petite woman, she scrutinized the world with cornflower blue eyes, her best feature. Flaming red curly hair made her easy to spot in a crowd. When she was dressed up, she was stunning, but her demanding personality gave off a sour vibe five seconds after making your acquaintance.

Although her name was Shirley, I always called her Sam. I would get her attention by calling out for Sam, my stuffed dog, and she laughed. In my eyes, she was definitely not a Shirley.

We were traveling in a hunter green station wagon just bought from Mom’s admirer. Mom called him Mr. Bobby because she said it made him feel important. He had a new car every week procured through his nefarious dealings with the Italian mob. He bought Mom coffee and told her one day he’d take us away from this hellhole of a city. Mom just sneered and told him dealing with the mob could get him in cement boots. I wondered what cement boots were and hoped they wouldn’t hurt Mr. Bobby. When Bobby and Mom stood side by side, they looked like brother and sister with their blue eyes and red hair. The contrast lies in Bobby’s personality - he was gentle and soft-spoken with a heavy Irish accent. Mother’s heavy Irish brogue had been softened through accent reduction training but her temperamental nature erupted without warning and revealed her Irish DNA. Mom’s recent change in marital status caused her to be habitually busy, either cleaning or more often, running about town telling all the neighbours her latest luck and misfortunes.

I was astounded by their condemnation towards a man they never met. The grocer, hairdresser, bank tellers, and librarian all said the same thing: Shirley, that husband of yours should rot in hell. Take care of yourself, you’re too smart for that low-life.

After speaking to the neighbours, Mom walked taller, fixed her hair and applied makeup. Everyone noticed her clothes, which were Grandmother’s high fashion hand-me-downs. You see, my grandparents are The Barnes’. Grandfather started the Barnes Boat Club, which took off in the sixties, and he kept investing in New York property, either building apartments or corner stores. Being rich never stopped them from being frugal. Grandpa stated, Excess is pride on steroids.

When my grandparents married in 1965, they bought a small bungalow which 5,000, and even though their income increased over time, the size of their house never did. Passing on clothes and household items to family members was their habit. Writing down who got what (and its value) in The Black Book was a ritual they performed once a month. Relatives fearing exemption from an inheritance never refused or discarded the humble used gifts. The items were always in plain sight no matter how ugly or old they were.

When Uncle Jack received a rabbit pelt, he proudly hung it above his toilet, telling visitors, The bathroom is hare to the left.

Mom laughed and said. Jack, you’re hare-larious.

We were traveling to Dennytown, a bucolic town two hours west of New York. Great Aunt Sarah’s estate has been bequeathed to Mother at an opportunistic time in our lives; you see, Dad was leaving us. According to Mother, Dad is a lazy, lard ass lunatic. He had run off with the neighbour’s twenty-three-year old babysitter. We are destitute. Even at twenty-one months, I understand that big word. Putting on a show for the surrounding neighbours, Mom throws Dad’s stuff out our fifth-floor apartment window. The D-word echoes off the high rises and the wandering audience applauds.

We are destitute! You are no better than a whore, leaving your daughter with nothing, and no male figure in her life.

Another brown oxford shoe falls close to Dad’s head. He swats it away with the other discarded shoe. You know Shirley, I’m a free spirit.

Mom yells one more time before she throws an old brass ashtray at Dad’s head. Be free, fly away and never swim up this stream again. And before Mom slams down the window, Dad yells. You wouldn’t be able to spot me... I mean, a man does have to eat.

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say to a woman scorned. Going into the kitchen she grabs the green compost bin, widens the window and throws the contents of the bin onto Dad’s head, saying. Here: eat this! You are a slimy bottom-feeding excuse for a man!

Looking over her shoulder at me, she slams down the window and says. Costain, don’t repeat what I say unless you have to.

After receiving the letter from Aunt Sarah’s lawyer, Mother decided to downsize. What wouldn’t fit in the wagon she gave to our non-husband stealing babysitter, other stuff went to a homeless man that lived in the doorway of La Rose Café. Mom had a fair paying job as an online travel agent, but most of the time Dad didn’t work, therefore we barely had enough money for rent and household expenses. Mom worked at home most of the time. We would travel on the bus to the head office on Madison Avenue. I would be passed around like a day old dish of cabbage rolls. Glossy red lips devoured my cheeks until I looked like I had slap-face disease. Then, stale donuts would be dipped in carnation milk and pushed into my tiny mouth. I never remembered going home or being stuffed in the stroller for the sugar coma rendered me unresponsive.

Mom had the most idyllic working conditions: there were hardly any babysitting expenses, and her at-home wardrobe was jogging pants and t-shirts. On the other hand, I had limited exposure to people; as a result, I became shy and introverted. My world consisted of cuddles by an extraordinary but temperamental woman. I believe she transferred all the love she wanted to give to my Dad onto me. I loved the attention lavished upon me, until I got a mind of my own, which seemed to take forever to acquire.

I’m a millennial. Mom wanted to call me Zebra but thought that was vainglorious. Totally a Hollywood stars thing. My true birth date is June fifth, but for years I thought it was June thirteenth, the same day as William Butler Yeats, whose birthday Mom celebrated every year. When Mom was upset about the breakup with Dad (which was most of the time), she would recite lines from one of Yeats’ poems, which I never understood until I was much older.

Sweetheart, do not love too long

I loved long and long

And grew to be out of fashion

Like an old song.

At nine months old, I could maneuver from couch to chair, and then to the coffee table. At nine and a half months I dispensed with the props and went solo. Curly brown hair framed my angelic face and Caribbean blue eyes. I was petite like a China doll, with very delicate features. The public wanted to invade my space, usually by touching my hair and saying. Oh, is she real? I was precocious, absorbing monotonous events and recalling them when I was older, much to the surprise of Mother. You see, the world I grew up in deserved my full attention. It was not going to last forever, and like anything that is unusual and rare, it must be preserved and stored for future reference.

I loved continuous noise. As soon as a washing machine or an air conditioner started, I was lulled into oblivion. When the noise ceased, I awoke with a start, alert as ever. This time was different: it was not to be a peaceful Sunday drive. Mother drove like she was trying to kill something or someone. The inevitable effects of the summer heat caused Mother to stop and undo three buttons of her blouse, take off her socks, roll down her window and crack my back window. Once on the road, I stretched my neck, smelled the fresh country air and felt the breeze whip through my hair. Like a film on a loop: houses, cars, and telephone poles passed by faster than I could count. My attention was briefly diverted when I accidentally kicked my right foot and a small box toppled from the pile on the front seat and grazed my right knee.

Mom turned. Costain, let it drop; it’s just costume jewelry.

At each stoplight, Mom looked left then right for half a second then stepped on the gas propelling me forward. She constantly muttered under her breath, No good, son-of-a-goat, irresponsible, womanizer, free spirit my ass, more like a freeloader.

Humming no particular tune reduced her high-strung personality by thirty degrees. Anyone that was around her while she hummed gave her a sideways glance and quickly retreated. Sometimes she calmed down with radio tunes and the woman I loved surfaced. When a flashback of Father surfaced, a full sermon would follow. I was amazed at her extensive vocabulary. She would try to string words together that began with the same first letter. ‘Alliteration is the sign of an active mind’, Mom quoted after accomplishing a nasty sounding sentence.

He’s a monstrous maggot mutation mostly moving mindlessly. He’s a slimy selfish sexing serpent. Costain, don’t remember that one! With a laugh, she’d lapse into silence once again.

Finally, there were no cars, buses or trucks whizzing by. We were surrounded by woods, reminding me of my favorite book, Robin Hood. To my right inside the car were open boxes containing our dilapidated household articles: dented pots, soiled, worn toys, mismatched china and grandmother’s old German clock. I peered out the window into a field of black-eyed susans fronting a deserted grey barn precariously hanging onto life. A gust of wind would return it to Mother Nature.

A brown rabbit flashed across the road, causing Mom to swerve. She screamed out the window. Shit shit shit shit shit.

I laughed because as she cursed, frothy spit sprayed from her mouth and settled on the side of the car door. She said. Costain, that was almost your dinner. Thank God I missed Thumper! It’s a heck of a job cleaning fresh guts from tire rims.

Mom was getting apprehensive, so she turned off the music and chattered on trying to make sense of her surroundings. Words would crescendo upwards almost to the point of hysteria. Did you ever see so many trees? Is this a national park? We’re almost out of gas and what happened to the road signs?

Out of the blue, a homemade sign appeared in black and white letters: Pen Cook 5 Miles ‘Home of Tigers Football’.

Finally, the village Mom was looking for was just minutes away. We were headed for a new life, new people with a grand estate for a home. What could be better?

Because I was ingenuous, this adventure was the highlight of my life. I didn’t realize Mother was going through a devastating separation from everything she knew and loved. Leaving behind her support system of family and friends would either break her fragile self-esteem, or create a stronger, independent woman.

I whimpered a little when we passed Pen Cook, but Mom was in no mood to stop. It was a small town and as we whizzed by, I saw the town clock on a very large white building with red barn trim. In the middle of a small park, there was a large red delicious-looking berry with water spraying from its crown. Young children were swinging and running around enjoying the beautiful day while city workers groomed some of the plants in the nearby vicinity.

As we drove on and on, my patience was wearing thin and my bottom grew numb. I whimpered. Mom looked at the paper in her hand and said. Should be right up here. If it’s not, I’m stopping the car and going for a tinkle.

We finally pulled into our new driveway on a beautiful August afternoon in 1992. There was a light fog engulfing the massive house. The soundless atmosphere was disquieting. There were no other cars, people or houses.

Where did Auntie ever get her money? Mom sputtered.

In our old apartment, before I went to bed, Mother would read us ‘Gone with the Wind’, so I was just as surprised to be looking at this mansion as she was. There were two square white columns on either side of the veranda. Twelve windows framed by blue painted wooden shutters. At the very top of the house was a weathervane. A large gold sailboat sat atop a gold ball. Beneath the ball were black arrows with letters north, south, east, and west pointing in their respective directions. Mom whistled as she emerged from the car, then in a Southern accent said, Dear God, I believe Scarlett has died and gone to heaven. Is this a dream, Costain, or is there a catch to all of this? Was someone murdered here, or do I have to rent out space in order to pay the heating bill? Perhaps I have the wrong house.

Mother searched in her pocket for the key, and after the door was opened, she retrieved me, and we stood to stare again at the house. A white verandah hosted grey wicker patio furniture arranged around four small coffee tables. Once in the double front doors, the entrance was as large as our old apartment. Hanging from the ceiling was a gold chandelier; its lights were encased in translucent white china teacups attached with strings of blue and yellow beads. There was a faint smell of bleach and Windex.

To the right was the front room, where ghostly looking sheets covered all the furniture. At the very end of the front room was a sliding glass door leading to the library. Six bookshelves lined the back wall from floor to ceiling, holding withered, faded books ranging in dates from the 1800’s to the 1990’s. A grey fuzzy blanket was draped over a large tattered brown leather chair. Next to it was an oval table holding a green gooseneck lamp, and a frayed book, both lightly coated with dust. An ottoman with a folded beige wool blanket was off to the left. To our far right was a mahogany dining room table with matching fiddleback claw-foot chairs.

Mom kept shaking her head and running her hand along the top of each chair. Thirty people could easily sit around this monstrosity.

She then pointed towards the ceiling. Costain, above you are Victorian green crystal. Green crystals mean growth, wisdom and wealth. If I sold that chandelier, I could get us a new car. There: I have the wisdom to put wealth to good use.

There were no pictures on the walls, and no apparent personal effects except for the blankets and books. Mom ran her hand over the faded green book’s cover, saying. Auntie loved those 1930’s mysteries. The men were clean-shaven, impeccably dressed, and were physically fit. Women wore hats and used their figures to get higher up on the corporate ladder. Trust me, the ladder was not easy to climb, and with my knobby knees, I wouldn’t have made it to the first rung anyway.

Straight in front of the entrance was a dark oak staircase with curved polished banisters on either side. I looked up the steps and thought the width could hold six people or three sumo wrestlers. Standing on tiptoes and stretching my neck I tried to see what was beyond the massive handrail. Mom shook her head and ventured in another direction. I followed.

She called out, Is there anyone here, hello? It’s Mrs. Hacker, I mean, Miss Hacker. Hello!

Mother strained her ears, walking to the left of the stairs to a set of white glass doors. Costain, look out - there could be anything living in this old house. The mischief of mice, a nest of snakes, or a colony of ants.

Behind the glass doors were a black stone fireplace, a large desk, and two comfortable looking armchairs. Floor to ceiling bay windows overlooked the front of the estate.

Mom spoke with a thick English accent. My dear, this is where the perfidious guest hides out while waiting for the lady of the manor.

Closing the waiting room door, we proceeded to the kitchen. The focal point was an old cast-iron cooking stove with a chimney vented into the wall. I wondered where the TV, microwave and other modern appliances were.

On the wall to the right of the stove were eight silver bells. Touching one of the bells Mom said. "These are servant