N.A.C.L.– “Della Renfrew” by Jessica Grant, from her Collection, Making Light of Tragedy. ENTER TO WIN A COPY!

If you’ve read Jessica Grant’s multi-award-winning novel, Come, Thou Tortoise, then you would not say no to reading more of her.

Some people seem unaware she has collection of shorts out there as well. The title story won both of the country’s top short fiction awards — The Journey Prize and the Western Magazine Award.

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This is an astonishingly original piece of work, perhaps most notable for its off-kilter, endearing, and often over-contemplative characters: “It’s the kind of ceiling that bursts helium balloons … what if sometime I need to bring helium balloons in here?”

I fell in love with  a few characters. Well, every one. Whether you want to read something for its creative merit, its originality, or because it’s Goddamn funny, read this book and meet these characters: “I learned there is nothing sexier than damaged fingers. But I was a soak-in-Palmolive kind of girl. I didn’t have the balls to let loose on my own hands with a hammer and achieve an authentic damaged finger of my own. So I opted for painting my nails blue.”

Every story is delectably unpredictable, delivered in a distinctive way, and she plain has fun with language, and this combo makes her the most readably original voice in Canada.

I figured I’d post “Della Renfrew” since it hasn’t appeared in as many places as some of the others … enjoy.

Contest closes Sunday.



“Della Renfrew” by Jessica Grant

My mother and I, in search of the underground Science Shop,

entered through Holt Renfrew. It was a Saturday. The winter sun

was low in the sky. We stepped into Holt’s and the light was

something brighter than halogen.

I paused, big as an astronaut in my winter coat. God, I said.

How do you get a job at Holt Renfrew? How do you ever become

crisp enough?

The women behind the counters wore interesting glasses. They

were of a higher resolution than me.

Mum was making for the escalator. Somewhere below us, in the

underground concourse, she would find an up-to-date globe.

Wait, I said.

Della, she warned. The rubber rail moved under her hand. She

was about to step on. But I shook my head.

I knocked on the counter. Right. I’d like to apply for a job.

There were many women to choose from. But the one I’d

selected had skin the colour of the room — concentrated

white — so that she was just disembodied nostrils, interesting glasses,

and red, unlicked lips.

She did not smile. She glanced right to left like a bad

actress. Maybe she was hoping for back-up. None came.

That’s right, I said. Me. Job. Holt Renfrew.

I’m not sure that we’re hiring, she said, her voice an

amplified whisper.

I’ll fill out an application anyway, I whispered back.

Her nostrils flared. Then, keeping her eyes on me, she sunk

down behind the counter. I removed my astronaut coat and looked

around for my mother. No sign of her. I let the coat drop to the

floor. It retained my shape.

An application was reluctantly produced.

So there really is such a thing, I said, rubbing my hands

together. Whaddya know. Better give me some extra paper.

Disembodied frowned. She pulled some loose leafs from a

drawer. Maybe you’d like to take it home?

That won’t be necessary. I’ll fill it out right here.

She slid a pen across the counter. I’ll be around the corner

if you need me, she said.

Great.

In the space for my name, I wrote: Della Renfrew. Ha! See

what they make of that.

The first question was: Have you ever had a blemish? If so,

when?

Well that’s an easy one. Funny you should ask, I wrote. My

most recent blemish was just this morning. One of those

in-the-eyebrow variety — so easily hideable. I hope my having eyebrows

doesn’t prohibit me working here?

2. Please describe your work experience, beginning with your

current or most recent job.

I am currently employed as a liaison. Due to the sensitive

nature of my responsibilities, I am not at liberty to discuss the

details.

Prior to becoming a liaison, I was simply the child of Holt

Renfrew.

3. Why do you want to work at Holt Renfrew?

I have never been close to my father.

4. Do you consider yourself a hairy person?

Yes.

5. Please describe your relationship history, beginning with

your current or most recent love interest. In the space

provided, explain why the past relationships failed.

April 2003 to present: Lee van Rossum

Like me, Lee van Rossum is a liaison. He is ten years my

junior and fairly new to the trade. We met last spring at a

conference for liaisons. What Lee lacks in experience, he makes

up for in personal style. He is always impeccably dressed. In

fact, he shops here, on a different floor.

Lee’s only flaw is his penchant for the word ‘perhaps.’

Indeed, it may become a point of contention, though I’m trying to

be optimistic. According to the dictionary, ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’

are synonyms, but those of us in the business know better. No

word is closer to a liaison‘s heart than ‘maybe’ (or in Lee’s

case, ‘perhaps’). And while I completely endorse the use of the

work-related ‘perhaps,’ I’m not so fond of it in informal

conversations with my loved one.

Me: Do you think traffic will be bad?

Lee: Perhaps.

Me: Is that tornado heading straight for us?

Lee: Perhaps.

I’ve tried subtle hints. Remarkably Lee seems impervious. I

say remarkably because the subtle hint is one of my specialties.

The most effective subtle hint is the highly symbolic dream.

Simply begin, ‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ and proceed

from there.

The dream I invented for Lee went like this: I had the

strangest dream last night. I looked up the word ‘annoying’ in

the dictionary, and the definition was ‘perhaps.’ I looked up

other words – ‘aggravating,’ ‘irksome,’ ‘pompous’ — and all the

definitions were the same: ‘perhaps.’

What do you think that means? I asked Lee.

He shook his head. That is a pretty strange dream, he said.

1998-2000: Basil Stopes

I should probably explain the three-year gap between Basil

Stopes and Lee van Rossum. It’s been said that I have discerning

taste in men. This is true. But my high standards (and the

failure of most men to meet them) were unfortunately not the

cause of this particular dry spell. Probably you’ve already

guessed that Basil is dead. Thus the period of mourning.

Approximately three years.

Basil was not a liaison. Basil was a choreographer. Sometimes

he was difficult to be around. Patience was not Basil’s middle

name.

The only time I accompanied him on one of his `tours,’ our

luggage was lost. Delayed! the airline representative corrected.

Not to worry. Our bags would be delivered to the hotel as soon as

they arrived. We were given a tracking number and an 800 number

to call.

Basil called that number incessantly. It was the very first

thing he did when we checked into our room, and he didn’t let up

for three days. Most of the time — and this contributed to the

mania — there was no answer. He would count the rings out loud to

me. Twenty three rings! Twenty four rings! Holding the receiver

away from his ear in disbelief. When he finally did get through,

an automated voice asked him for the tracking number, and, when

he punched it in, the voice laughed. So Basil said. I never

called the number myself.

I began to wonder what was in those goddamn bags. Had they

contained 50 kilos of heroin or a small arsenal, I might have

forgiven his compulsive behaviour. But when the bags finally did

arrive, there was nothing in them but the usual suspects:

underwear, electric toothbrush, ‘choreography’ notes.

Over breakfast one morning, Basil told me his theory. Where

do you think that 1-800-344-3602 number goes? he asked.

Goes? I tried not to be annoyed that he could recite the

number by heart.

Where do you think it actually rings?

Oh. I don’t know. The airport? The airline?

He laughed — and although I’d never heard it, I felt pretty

sure he was imitating the laugh of the automated voice.

Okay, I said. Where?

An empty warehouse in New Jersey. There’s a black phone on

the floor. That’s it.

Ah.

And it just rings.

Right, I said. And the automated voice?

God.

Poor Basil. I shook my head. But three weeks later, when he

was dead, I considered that perhaps God really had been laughing

at him, at his `choreography,’ at his lost baggage, and I thanked

my lucky stars I’d never called the number myself. I thanked my

lucky stars I was a liaison. And I cried for Basil, of course. No

one should be the victim of his own stage set. But you’d be

surprised at how often this happens. The number of letters I’ve

received since, from others who have lost choreographers in

similar accidents, it just boggles the mind.

1997-1998: Bryan Macready

Bryan Macready was tragic for the first five minutes of every

single day. This I could not abide. We lasted less than a year.

Get up for the love of Christ.

Tears in his eyes.

It’s not that bad.

You have no idea.

Yes, I do. It’s goddamn contagious. You make me want to kill

you. Get in the shower.

This sounds harsh. But it was necessary.

It was as if all the little moments of semi-sadness that

others feel over the course of a day were, for Bryan,

concentrated into this moment of waking. As soon as he stepped

into the shower, he was cured. He never once emerged from the

bathroom the same pathetic creature who went in. But those five

pre-shower minutes in the bedroom were unendurable.

One morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to

pinch him. I said: I had the strangest dream last night. You were

in it.

Bryan pulled the blankets up under his chin. Really?

I dreamt you were that guy in the Viagra commercial. You know

the one who wakes up, jumps out of bed, and dances all over the

house singing `Good morning, good morning — it’s great to stay up

late!’ You were doing these crazy acrobatics. It was wild.

I patted his leg gently with my open hand. I did not pinch

him.

That doesn’t sound like me, Bryan said meekly.

Nope. It sure doesn’t.

The application was endless.

6. How would you describe your relationship with your mother?

There was a place below for her signature and the date. I

knocked on the counter and summoned Disembodied.

Is my mother’s signature really necessary here?

She turned the application towards her and studied it for a

long time. I suspected she was reading about my relationship with

Bryan Macready. I coughed.

Yes, she said finally.

Even if I’m well over eighteen?

She pushed the application back across the counter. We don’t

hire people under eighteen.

What if my mother was dead?

We don’t hire people whose mothers are dead.

No, of course you don’t.

Look, Ms. — she twisted her swan’s neck to read the top of my

application — Ms. Renfrew. Would you like to complete the

application at home? Where your mother can sign it?

No. I’ll finish it here. But I think you should know, I find

this question about my mother intrusive.

She shrugged. Frankly I agree with you. But we all had to

fill it out. And why should you, Ms. Renfrew, be any different?

She arched a missing eyebrow.

Just what are you implying?

Disembodied said nothing. For a moment I saw myself in her

interesting glasses. Oversized pores. A forest of eyebrow. She

turned away. I’ll be around the corner if you need me, she said.

My coat pressed against my leg. I looked down. Not quite so

pouffy now, are you?

I returned to the application.

6. How would you describe your relationship with your

mother?

My mother and I go way back, I began, then crossed that out.

The first time I heard my mother use the word ‘fuck,’ it was

in the same sentence as the word ‘Santa.’ It was five in the

morning. She was on the toilet. I was going to be a gingerbread

man in the Santa Claus parade. I was already in my gingerbread

suit. I sidled into the bathroom, my brown arms stiffly

outstretched. I was whining — I don’t remember about what.

Probably I had to go to the bathroom, and Mum had just got me

into the ‘bloody gingerbread suit.’ Anyway, she was on the

toilet, and I’d been whining. Finally she wiped herself and said:

Della, I was up till two in the morning working on that bloody

costume. Now I’m up at five to take you to this fucking Santa

Claus parade. You might show a little gratitude.

Wow.

She flushed the toilet. I was scared of her. But I admired

her too. In my head, I was already telling my friends on the

gingerbread float this story. And then my mother said: I got up

at five in the morning to take you to this fucking Santa Claus

parade. You might show a little gratitude. There would be much

laughter and appreciation on the float. Your mother’s a riot. I

love your mother.

Yeah. Me too.

I love my mother so much that sometimes when I leave on a jet

plane, and she’s back there on the ground, I hurt so bad that I

have to assume the crash position. I imagine her having breakfast

without me, or watching Larry King Live by herself, and I have to

put my head between my knees.

Once, when my mother, my father (Holt R.), and I went to

visit a waterfall, we all set off up the mountain together, to

get to the source. This was what tourists did at this particular

waterfall. First you took pictures from the bottom, which is

naturally where the view is best, then you walked up the mountain

to the source.

The trail was an endless series of switchbacks. Halfway up,

we came to a rest area with a bench, and Mum said, I think I’ll

stop here. You two go on to the top.

She’s not in the best shape, see. But Holt, as I’m sure you

know, is a paragon of youth and vigour. So the two of us carried

on without her, winding our way up. As we got closer, Holt

increased his pace, as if magnetically drawn, while I began to

flag. I could think only of Mum, alone on that bench, while the

other chatty tourists, not abandoned by their families, paraded

past. It got so bad that I had to assume the crash position. Holt

thought I was merely winded. Take a breather, he said cheerfully.

No, I have to go back.

Silence.

Sorry. And I started down the mountain without looking at

him.

Fuck the switchbacks. I clambered straight down, vertical,

hanging onto roots, sliding on my butt, until I reached her.

Mum — I’m sorry. Were we gone a long time?

She said no. But she was lying. And I had this horrible

stitch in my side that felt like something so much worse.

Disembodied asked how I was coming along.

I just finished question 6.

Oh boy.

My mother will never sign this, I said. And the moment I said

it, I experienced vertigo. I was high up a mountain. I was on a

airplane without her. She had gone downstairs in search of a

globe — how long ago?

My astronaut coat rolled onto its back.

By the time she returns with an up-to-date globe, the

countries will have names I don’t recognize. Mum, I will say, I

started this application process and it’s taken a lot longer than

I thought. I’m sorry.

Della, for fuck’s sake, do you really want to work here?

Of course. Will you sign my application?

Absolutely not.

I had the strangest dream you signed my application.

Don’t pull that with me.

Question 7 wanted to know how often I replaced my foundation.

A good question. Have I ever replaced my foundation?

My foundation and I go way back, I began, then crossed it

out.

Disembodied walked her fingernails across the page. We’re

closing soon, she said.

You close this early?

It’s not early.

Does my father know you close at — what time is it?

Why don’t you just take the application home?

Did you take yours home?

Yes, she said.

I don’t believe you.

She sighed. Look. There are certain documents you’ll need

later, for questions 30 through 45, and it’s highly unlikely you

have them with you. So you might as well –

Like what?

A recent utility bill for one thing.

I just happen to have one. I reached for my coat.

But do you have the three letters of reference? She lifted

her nostrils, triumphant.

Holt Renfrew is my goddamn father. If I write that three

times in the referee section, will that be enough?

I can’t answer that.

I looked down at question 7. How often do you replace your

foundation? I asked her.

Once a month.

Even if there’s a lot left?

She looked at me sadly. Have you ever replaced your

foundation?

Okay, I’ve never had any foundation.

She nodded. It shows, she said.

Behind me the escalator stopped. The store was closing. Where

was my mother?

Disembodied gathered up the papers of my application. How

about I submit your application as is, and we see what happens?

I nodded, and picked up my coat. I had the strangest dream

last night, I said. I worked at Holt Renfrew and I made sense.

She winked. Nice try.

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