Winnipeg, Manitoba, September 13, 1971
To lose Claude a second time was worse than the first. This time, Felicity didn’t realize at first that she had lost him. She took a taxi home from the airport. Her mother was at her house with Mara, and Aunt Rose was there. Mara was already in bed. “Hello, Felicity,” her mother said. “How was the funeral?”
Felicity tried to remember, and settled on, “It was fine.”
“Was it in a Catholic church?”
“Yes.”
“You know Catholics don’t believe in —”
“Salvation by grace, I know. You know I’m not interested in any kind of religion.”
“Did you bring back a prayer card?”
She had forgotten to take one. “Maybe in my suitcase.”
Aunt Rose said, “It’s so good to have you home, flower. It’s going to be difficult, but you know we’re here for you.”
It was convenient that they thought she was grieving. She was, but not for Anthony. The sadness was exhausting. She went to bed thinking of Claude, certain she would lie awake all night remembering his touch, but she slept so heavily that Mara had to jump on her, diaper dragging almost to her knees, before she woke. She sat with a score at the piano Anthony had bought before she moved in, practicing for Fledermaus and learning roles her agent suggested she get into her voice. She wondered when she would work again once this show was over. After only a few minutes, she had to get up and lie on the couch. One evening, she woke to find her mother standing over her, holding Mara. “Felicity, I’ve been knocking and knocking!” she said.
“Sorry.” Felicity yawned and stretched. Her head felt heavy, as if she hadn’t slept at all.
“You’re sleeping at this time? You haven’t made supper? Take Mara.” She passed Mara over and she brushed against Felicity’s chest. A sharp pain caused Felicity to yelp.
“Felicity, I know you miss your husband,” Mom said. “But you have a child to take care of.”
Mara put her hand on Felicity’s face and Felicity batted it away.
“I’ll make something to eat,” said Mom.
On the weekend, Mom took Mara to her house, and Felicity picked her up at Salvation Baptist after the service. They had agreed on this arrangement: Mara got the religious education her grandmother felt she should, and Felicity got to avoid attending services. When Felicity arrived at the church, Aunt Rose offered her a plate of food as usual, but Felicity looked down at the ham shining with oil and stifled a retch. “No, thank you,” she said.
“Oh, flower, are you dieting again for that show you have coming up? I made meatloaf. Just have a little. I know you can’t resist my meatloaf.”
“No, I can’t,” Felicity said. “But I will have some bread, if you have any.” Aunt Rose placed a basket of buns on the table. Felicity saw Aunt Rose exchange a look with Mom as she stuffed one into her mouth.
“Flower, is it possible that you’re pregnant?” Aunt Rose asked.
Of course she was. She knew she was. Her mouth was full of bread, so she nodded her answer.
“But that’s wonderful!” Aunt Rose said. “You’ll have a piece of Anthony to keep with you forever.”
A piece of Anthony was the last thing she wanted. A piece of Anthony would be a wedge between her and Claude. It would keep Anthony’s name from fading from her tongue; she would have to say it again and again to her child. Aunt Rose went over to her and gathered her into an embrace. “I know it will be hard without your husband, but we’re all here for you. We’ll make sure both your children are loved.”
Aunt Rose urged Mom to help Felicity more in the house for the time being. “It isn’t easy, in that early part of pregnancy, you remember,” she said. “It’s so tiring. We were lucky, we lived with my parents, but Felicity has to do it all on her own and look after a little one too.”
“I worked double shifts at the hospital when I was pregnant,” Mom said. “I mopped floors and cleaned toilets.” This was the first Felicity had heard of her origins. She listened for more, but Mom’s lips were pursed.
Aunt Rose said, “Because we worked so hard, our children don’t have to. Isn’t that right? I’ll help you too, flower.”
With Mom and Aunt Rose doing her housework and Mara spending most of her nights with her grandmother, Felicity was free to work on Fledermaus. Rehearsals were starting in Calgary in a couple of weeks. She was glad she would not be showing much, but she hoped she would have enough energy to get through the run. She had worked at the Royal Opera House in early pregnancy after Claude had left, but this time, her fatigue and her sorrow were insatiable, demanding ever more of her. “You’re pregnant, not ill!” her mother reminded her. But she was sick with the absence of Claude.
When Mom was over one evening, she turned on the news. Mara toddled around with a toy. Felicity lay on the couch in her housecoat, eating toast, heedless of the crumbs dropping to the floor. She paid no attention to the commentary on events in the House of Commons and the Vietnam draft, but then the announcer said, “And now to St. George’s, Grenada.”
Mom stopped dusting. Felicity stopped chewing and sat up straight. There was the seawall, the Carenage, and the familiar intersection of Church Street and Market Hill, just past the cathedral. She could not walk in the capital with Claude by day as people might see them, but one night, he had driven her through the city, pointing out the major landmarks.
“As Independence from Great Britain looms, the island is faced with growing unrest from those who oppose the formation of an independent nation with Percy Tibbs as leader, most notably the trade union movement known as the Black Pearls, led by Neville Carpenter. Today, a general strike turned violent, and five people were killed.”
Felicity must have made a noise, because Mom said. “What is it, Felicity?”
“I know Neville Carpenter,” Felicity said. “And some of the others.”
“How would you know them?” Mom asked.
“From London. The West Indian student group.”
“I didn’t send you there to associate with hoodlums,” Mom snapped. Mom’s voice barely registered. Felicity’s eyes were fixed on the screen, where she was sure she had seen Claude walking away from a gurney draped with a sheet. She would recognize his stride anywhere.
“… the security forces of Premier Tibbs, known as the Nutmeg Squad. One of the fatalities has been identified as local businessman, Albert Buckingham, whose son Claude —”
The announcer’s words broke into a cloud of static that whooshed through Felicity’s brain as a great wind. Her blood rose up to meet it and the television screen turned grey and then black.
“Felicity. Felicity.” Mom was tapping on her cheek. She opened her eyes. She was lying on the couch. The TV was still on, but it no longer showed Grenada. “You fainted,” Mom said. “Don’t sit up yet. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Claude’s father was dead, killed by his mortal enemy, Tibbs. Claude loved his father. The loss would only strengthen his resolve. His sole focus now would be to see that Percy Tibbs was removed from office, whatever the cost. Felicity could imagine the look in his eyes, the conviction in his voice. She ached with the desire to hold him, to let him weep in her arms. She recoiled at the thought that he might be doing that now, with Marlene.
Mom returned with water, and a sandwich stuffed nauseatingly with cheese and tinned meat. “You’re not eating enough for the baby,” Mom said. “No wonder you fainted. I don’t know how you think you’re going to Calgary to sing in a silly opera.”
Felicity didn’t know how she was going to do it either. Her mother was right. Die Fledermaus was a silly opera. It was a comedy. Her character, the chambermaid Adele, was an aspiring actress who got dressed up in her mistress’s clothes and snuck out to a fancy party and showed off her high notes to all the guests. She would have to flirt and giggle while Claude and four other Grenadian families mourned. She heard Neville asking, “What are you doing for our people? How are you helping the Revo?” She had no reply.
The night before Felicity left for Calgary, Josiah and Jack came over for a visit. Jack brought his guitar. As his fingers moved up and down the strings, Felicity said, “You’re getting it. That’s the blues scale. That slide from the flat three to three.” She had studied the blues by listening to recordings on an old record player she had borrowed from Aunt Rose’s parents. When she should have been working on Die Fledermaus, she had laid on the floor — the couch was not hard or punishing enough — and let the music work on her soul. Jack had studied it too; music was an easier means of communication than words.
“Want to sing something?” Jack asked.
Felicity began to improvise, “Missing you, feeling blue, oo-oo.” Jack twanged on the lowest string, and the notes marched onward in their despair. Felicity went on “Without you here, I shed a tear, you’re nowhere. Oo-oo, I got the lonely heart blues.” It was the strength and sadness of Black music that she needed, from places opera could never go.
They were interrupted by a piercing, ethereal sound, like a tiny gust of wind boring into the room. Felicity turned to see Mara, humming the blues scale exactly as Felicity had just sung it, note for perfect note.