The Company We Keep: A Novel

By Frances Itani

On Tuesday nights in the backroom of Cassie’s café, six strangers seek solace and find themselves part of a “Company of Good Cheer”

Hazzley is at loose ends, even three years after the death of her husband. When her longtime friend Cassandra, café owner and occasional dance-class partner, suggests that she start up a conversation group, Hazzley posts a notice on the community board at the local grocery store. Four people turn up for the first meeting: Gwen, a recently widowed retiree in her early sixties, who finds herself pet-sitting a cantankerous parrot; Chiyo, a forty-year-old fitness instructor who cared for her unyielding but gossip-loving mother through the final days of her life; Addie, a woman pre-emptively grieving a close friend who is seriously ill; and Tom, an antiques dealer and amateur poet who, deprived of home baking since becoming a widower, comes to the first meeting hoping cake will be served. Before long, they are joined by Allam, a Syrian refugee with his own story to tell.

These six strangers are learning that beginnings can be possible at any stage of life. But as they tell their stories, they must navigate what is shared and what is withheld. Which version of the truth will be revealed? Who is prepared to step up when help is needed? This moving, funny and deeply empathic new novel from acclaimed author Frances Itani reminds us that life, with all its twists and turns, never loses its capacity to surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781443457545

Frances Itani

FRANCES ITANI has written eighteen books. Her novels include That’s My Baby; Tell, shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize; Requiem, chosen by the Washington Post as one of the top fiction titles of 2012; Remembering the Bones, published internationally and shortlisted for a Commonwealth Writers’ Prize; and the #1 bestseller Deafening, which won a Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and was shortlisted for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Published in seventeen territories, Deafening was also selected for CBC’s Canada Reads. A three-time winner of the CBC Literary Prize, Frances Itani is a Member of the Order of Canada and the recipient of a 2019 Library and Archives Canada Scholars Award. She lives in Ottawa.

Book preview

September

The Notice

HAZZLEY

No one knew that Hazzley was emptying her house, one room at a time. An early riser, she’d been up since six, working on room two, Lew’s office. She pulled at his desk, which refused to budge. She went around to the other end and shoved hard, hip against the side. Years ago, Lew had insisted on sticking felt pads to the bottom of everything. As long as there was no carpet, even the largest pieces would slide across the floor if she could get them started.

Carpets were already gone.

She stopped after manoeuvring the desk through the doorway and into the wide hall. She had emptied its side shelves the night before. She went back for chairs, a tall and narrow set of drawers and a low filing cabinet. Lew had been thorough; the filing cabinet, too, had pieces of felt stuck to the bottom.

The small items were easy. Her conditions, also easy. Do not shift items from one place to another; that solves nothing. Get rid of it all. Unclog your space, give yourself some air. Think of the pleasure of living in an empty house.

Everything was lined up, ready for the truck. She leaned into the door jamb and thought of what Sal would say. Mother, why is your furniture in the hall? Why are all the rooms empty?

And Hazzley would reply: I am clearing my life. Or should that be cleansing? Didn’t matter; her daughter lived in another city. Not her decision. Hazzley suspected that if Sal pushed her to explain, she’d have to admit that what she was really trying to do was recreate a life—her life, the story of herself as she wanted to be right now.

AS PROMISED, Habitat for Humanity had its ReStore truck at the house by eight thirty. Two strong men loaded everything she’d pushed into the hall. She couldn’t believe the size of one of the men. He must have been seven feet tall, maybe six-eight or -nine. He and his lifting partner were efficient and made the work look easy. Since the truck was half-empty, Hazzley told them to take the hall sideboard, too. At the last minute, she threw in a wingback chair. Men and truck were gone by eight fifty. She closed the door and stretched out her arms, did a forward bend, touched the floor with her palms. She’d better quit while she was ahead or she’d wreck her back.

She went to the kitchen, thinking of what lay ahead. The basement was the nightmare. If anyone thought of a basement as ballast for a house, hers would never fit the description. Her basement was emotionally fraught territory. At least she didn’t try to fool herself. She just wasn’t ready to face it head-on.

She had no plans to move out of her house, even though ownership was becoming . . . well, onerous. Simple as that. She called up the Latin: onerosus, meaning burden. Indeed, yes. Burdens could be oppressive. The more she owned, the more things to look after. Things: exactly what she didn’t want. Maybe she should tackle the dining room next. Furniture was bulkier, higher; she might have to call in assistance. ReStore again? How many times a year did she use the dining room, really?

Think of the pleasure of strolling from one empty room to another. Think of the pleasure of a journey through an empty house. A tear escaped onto one cheek, and she brushed it away. Come on, she said to herself. It’s been three years. You like the idea of paring back. You use the kitchen, bathrooms up and down, one bedroom, your office upstairs. That’s about it.

She reached for the mug she’d abandoned when the men arrived, but her coffee was cold and she dumped it down the drain. She stared out into the backyard. The leaves were turning red and gold; it was that time of year. Change went on outside the house, no matter what transpired within.

Maybe she needed a new idea, a different sort of journey. She sat at the long kitchen table, pulled a piece of paper toward her and reached for a black marker. Think, she told herself. Write things down. This is what you’re good at. Think this through.

She went to the phone and hit the memory key for Cass’s number. While waiting for her friend to pick up, she thought: Change, to make or become different. Cambiare, Latin; changer, French. Yes, change would definitely help.

MARVIN’S GROCERIES OPENED AT NINE. By ten, Hazzley was in front of the community board, which was fastened to the wall in a narrow space at the end of the checkout aisles. She had her sheet of paper in one hand and four red push-pins in the other. Although extra pins were scattered about the edges of the board, Hazzley had brought her own. She pinned her notice in a prominent spot and scanned the board, marvelling at the earnest business of information exchange. Never, until this day, had she posted anything. A few customers were usually standing around, taking photos with smartphones or scratching numbers and websites onto bits of paper. On this Thursday morning, no one but Hazzley was present.

The rules of the board, enforced by Marvin, were printed in bold lines across the top:

Notices must be dated and will be displayed for two weeks before being removed.

Offensive or distasteful material will not be tolerated.

Hazzley looked up to the inside window of the main office on the second floor and proffered a wave. She knew Marvin would be up there looking down. He waved back, and then quick-rapped the glass twice with his knuckles in a sort of solidarity gesture. Marvin had a wide head that Hazzley thought of as scrunched, the way heads looked on TV when the setting was slightly off. His jet-black hair, ungreased, stood up like wire. He was grinning down as if to reassure her that he enjoyed rising early to supply food to the neighbourhood. Sometimes he could be found in the aisles, supervising staff or assisting customers, but most days he was up there at his desk, managing, overseeing the space he’d inherited from his father, also Marvin, and that was now under his rule. He worked hard to earn loyalty and made it clear to customers that he was aware of big-box stores edging into the core of Wilna Creek. One new mall with a huge supermarket had opened on the far side of Spinney’s Ravine. The mall satisfied high-tech workers in that area of the city, but it created competition. As for the noticeboard, Marvin viewed that as a responsibility to shoppers, whether they were loyal or not. He also believed that not every communication between humans had to flicker across a tablet or a lighted screen, or had to be tweeted, or needed a thumbs up or thumbs down. Despite the relentless march of technology, Marvin let it be known that as long as he owned the store, he would protect space for pencil and paper, pen and ink, thumbtack and push-pin.

Hazzley turned her attention back to the board. In a corner of one notice, someone had drawn a rainbow, along with a half sun and a few strokes of rain. The image made her think of the word parsec, a surprise in the morning crossword. A couple of times a week, she was stumped by some such word. Parsec had something to do with astronomy, distance. She’d looked it up but knew she’d never use it in a sentence.

The aroma of baking bread wafted past, drifting from the rear of the store. In response, she closed her eyes and rocked on her heels, almost losing her balance. Once upon a time, she’d made her own bread. A different time in her life. Every woman of her generation grew up knowing how to make bread. If they didn’t know how, at the very least they’d watched their mothers knead dough and lay damp towels over glutinous mounds that mysteriously grew rounder and higher. Hazzley wondered if she should take home a loaf of rye or a couple of blueberry scones. She heard a hissing noise and watched a sleepy-looking clerk in the vegetable aisle give a shake to a length of rubber hose as he aimed a spray of mist over the fresh produce. The young man hadn’t bothered to comb his hair.

This week’s notices included promises made by people who offered to look after children, teach yoga and fly tying, purchase military medals, form choirs or prayer groups, administer safe tattoos, predict the end of the world, practise meditation, provide instruction in ventriloquism, sell lotion guaranteed to soften cracked heels, exchange seeds, teach sermon writing, look after cats, run a boot camp, join laughter groups and divulge foolproof ways of making money. One notice asked for extras for Friday night poker. Another hinted at discreet services; Marvin must not have spied that. An index card advertised Sam the Man with Truck. Some ads required severe editing. Half a dozen were posted by people who needed or offered the services of a handyman. She read one of these and laughed aloud: Handy Andy, supplies own tools. She was not taken in by that.

Her own notice was clearly written and direct:

GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP

Weekly: Tuesdays 7–8:30 p.m.

Backroom at Cassie’s (Cassandra’s Café—38 Beamer Street).

First meeting September 18. All welcome.

Cassie’s was located two blocks from the grocery store. Anyone from the east side would know its whereabouts; anyone coming in from farms or suburbs on the west side could find it easily enough. In recent years, the café had become a popular drop-in place. Cass Witley, Hazzley’s friend, was generous about allowing people to use the backroom, at no charge, for community purposes. During this morning’s phone call, she’d assured Hazzley that the space was available Tuesday evenings. Hazzley, new to this sort of venture, booked the backroom for four weeks. Cass had told her she could use one of the round tables for the meetings. She had three, of different sizes.

Hazzley rechecked her notice for precision and inclusivity. She had slit fourteen tear strips along the lower edge, each printed with address, time and date of the first meeting. She did not include her personal phone number and email address because she wanted nothing to do with crank calls or lunatics. She had no firm plan for the meetings, but she would not schedule talks on how to do your own banking (for women whose recently deceased husbands had run the entire show) or how to boil an egg (for men whose late wives had fed them three squares a day). She would not invite earnest guest speakers who would expound with PowerPoint. She wanted nothing more than a quiet and uncluttered setting. Cass’s backroom could provide that, along with coffee, tea, maybe a glass of wine—all of which could be purchased at the café. Hazzley envisioned honest men and women who would support one another, share conversation and companionship. She admitted to herself that her expectations were vague. Life’s events would unfold. After four weeks, if participants wanted to continue, she would rebook the room and carry on.

She would also keep track of events in her journal, a practice she’d kept up for fifty years. She had never shaken the desire to write things down. For a long time, she’d been making her living by the pen.

She wondered what her daughter would say about this initiative. Once or twice a week, she and Sal exchanged emails, but for now, Hazzley wouldn’t mention the notice. Sal, fifty-three, had moved to Ottawa decades earlier to work for Heritage, or whatever the department was called. Communications, or maybe Citizenship—Hazzley couldn’t keep up with government name changes. Sal’s husband also worked for the government, and from what Hazzley could see, they lived a hectic life. They had five children, two of whom attended university. The other three were in their teens. Framed photos of the five grandchildren hung in a row along the upper hall of Hazzley’s home. She stayed in touch and tried to keep up with their lives. They sent emails and called her on FaceTime to tell her about a race won, a mark achieved, a pet that died, a disappointing argument with a friend. Hazzley loved them all dearly and wondered what they’d say about her partly empty house.

Well, she wouldn’t mention that, either.

She stepped away from the noticeboard, forgot about buying bread or blueberry scones and left the store. She had to get home to finish an assignment for a popular science magazine. She was editing an article about bones, teeth and early tools discovered in a cave. She had a three-day window to deadline.

A wind had come up while she was inside. An outdoor geranium on display had tipped over, and crimson petals were trapped in an eddy between the front of the store and the parking lot. She tightened her jacket and stepped around petals that swirled about her ankles. Despite the wind, she was sorry she’d brought the car. She usually left it at home, unless there would be too much to carry. She walked most days, in an attempt to keep her heart (and brain, she reminded herself) healthy. She did the crossword every morning and dabbled at sudoku. She had a membership at the local gym—useful in bad weather—and stared at a muted TV screen while walking on the treadmill. She tried to stay abreast of the news and had learned multiple ways of averting her attention from American politics. She read the obituaries daily and was saddened by death—early death, any death. Too much cancer, too many accidents. She tried to keep her weight under control, knowing that many in her generation could no longer see their own feet. She was a strider, a fast mover. Lew had once referred to her as fleet of foot; she smiled, thinking of this. She liked to believe that she was wending her way through a life that was in no way sedentary, even though she spent hours at her computer while she worked at freelance editing jobs. She kept her hair dark and tidy, but she knew that despite her efforts, outside attitudes prevailed. People in their twenties and thirties had begun to address her as dear. She ignored this. She felt strong and, if anyone had bothered to ask—no one had—ageless.

Nonetheless, she was putting on a bit of beef in the thigh. No matter how much effort she put into keeping fit, her body had begun to take its own twists and turns. Four weeks earlier, she and Cass, who was eight years her junior, had signed up for swing dance lessons. At the first class, Hazzley was not bothered by the fact that she was the oldest person there. She was happy to be with Cass, who had the most infectious laugh of any of her acquaintances. Cass loved dance, loved music, loved having fun. I predict that you’ll be the best dancer in the group, Cass told her. Hazzley sometimes wondered about the accuracy of her friend’s prophesies. These were subtle, buried in conversation, unremembered until after the fact. Cass had always been amused by the name her mother had bestowed upon her—Cassandra—along with its mythical narrative. She’d been nicknamed Case, also by her mother, but that abbreviation was used only by immediate family and her partner, Rice. To everyone else, she was Cass or Cassie.

Rice was a jazz musician who occasionally performed at the café. He had not been interested in signing up for swing lessons. From Hazzley’s point of view, Cass had a solid partnership, and a few dance lessons without Rice wasn’t going to bother anyone. After dance class, Cass went home to Rice. Hazzley went home alone.

Well, she thought, I could always join the Friday night poker group that’s advertised on Marvin’s board. Or I could put a white sock over my hand and paint on a lipstick mouth, an eye on each side, and teach myself ventriloquism. Learn how to work around those seven difficult consonants—BFMPVWY. I know that much; I’d have a head start. I talk to myself anyway, so I may as well talk to a sock in a mirror with my lips partly closed.

What would she tell the sock? Ventriloquism was about deflection, wasn’t it? Deflection of attention, change of direction.

One thing she could say for certain was that since Lew’s death, she’d been as lonely as a person could be.

And what would the sock reply?

Before she started the car, she spotted the end table wedged into the back seat. She remembered that she’d run back into the house, earlier, and carried the table out. Another item gone. She felt lighter already. She’d drop it off at the Sally Ann on the way home.

Tonight, she would add this to her journal: First step taken. Notice pinned at Marvin’s. Now I’ll have to wait and see what happens Tues. night.

Flock

GWEN

Gwen heard screams as she pulled up to the garage, but she sat for a moment and allowed the sun to warm her. Despite the wind, she left the car windows down. She loved the crisp air, summer’s ebb, the perfect fall day. A maple tree on the next lawn had begun to scatter a few red leaves across the browning grass. The screams turned to shrieks, raucous and shrill. She got out of the car and fit the key to the front door. Abrupt silence at the click.

Dead quiet means predator approaching.

Hey, Rico. It’s me, Gwen. Remember?

She kept up a foolish banter as she walked into the family room. From the farthest corner of his cage, Rico was taking her measure with what Gwen interpreted as hostile indifference. She wondered if hostility and indifference could coexist in a parrot—or in anyone, for that matter. She had invaded Rico’s space, his home. Perhaps he was formulating a plan to extend and sustain the mood as long as possible. Small black pupils stared. Rings of white around the black. A white mask was fitted to perfection around the eyes and above the beak. Chain-mail hood of soft grey. She had not attempted to smooth a finger over those intricately layered feathers. He will allow you to pet his head, but give him time—don’t try right away. He’ll learn soon enough that you are his source of food.

He tried to press himself against the back corner, but he was already at the far end of the perch. His perch—one of several in the large cage—was thick, made of braided rope. In the short time since Gwen’s morning visit, pellets and seeds had been scattered in a wide crescent over the tiled floor.

Beady, she said. Your eyes are beady. She, too, could be hostile—or indifferent. And you’ve made another mess for me to clean up. This observation was unhelpful; he turned his back. She knew he was watching.

Vision is his strongest sense.

He began to examine every angle of the room except the one where she stood, but she knew he could see her. She went to the kitchen to get the broom.

This was her third day, sixth visit. Duties included preparing and providing food, as well as supplying him with fresh water. Visits were twice a day, every day. Her most important task was to converse with the parrot one full hour every morning and a second in the late afternoon. Rico needed to socialize. Rico needed flock.

He had not yet spoken. He’d created a variety of sounds—certainly screeching when she approached the house—but no utterance had come close to resembling a human word. Cecilia Grand had told Gwen over the phone that he’d be talking before the end of visit one.

Cecilia, a stranger to Gwen, had failed to provide hands-on orientation, a distinct disadvantage. An emergency had come up; details were vague. Cecilia and her husband had a daughter in LA who was undergoing a crisis, and they were compelled to depart a week earlier than intended. That’s what Gwen was told when she’d received a frantic phone call. The house key would be stashed under an upturned wheelbarrow at the side of the garage. The Grands had no choice but to leave for the airport before Gwen could get to the house to meet them or the parrot.

When Gwen had first replied to the ad by phone, she was told that she would be meeting the parrot and shown what to do. When the well-intentioned plan fell through, Cecilia, in emergency mode, had written instructions on both sides of a piece of foolscap and fastened the sheet to the fridge door with a magnet. Every detail of care was squeezed onto those two pages. A separate sheet on the kitchen counter contained a recipe called Rico’s Chop. Gwen had never heard of a parrot’s chop, but she was to prepare said chop and pack it into a plastic container in the fridge. With lid. To keep it fresh. Every three days. Fortunately for her, Cecilia had made chop the day she departed, so at least Gwen knew what it looked like in its prepared state. To make the chop, she was to choose from a long list of vegetables that included carrots, snap peas, Brussels sprouts, cucumber, radish—the list went on and on. Fresh herbs and cooked pasta could be added. No celery—strings too dangerous. And only 10 percent of the diet was to be fruit. Today was chop-making day. Vegetables were in the crisper drawers, money for extras in an envelope on the kitchen counter.

The parrot-sitting job was meant to last seven weeks, possibly eight. Gwen would be notified by phone as soon as the Grands had booked their return flight.

Was trust not a factor? Didn’t they care about hiring a stranger who would be wandering in and out of their home for seven weeks? I trust you, Cecilia Grand had said over the phone. Now Gwen wondered if she was the only parrot-sitter who’d responded to the ad. Well, of course she was. Maybe the Grands had skipped town and abandoned a parrot who’d become an unbearable responsibility.

Gwen reconsidered. Everything had sounded sane and reasonable during the preliminary phone call. Cecilia answered Gwen’s questions and inquired about her previous work record. She asked for a work reference, which Gwen supplied. Cecilia might even have taken the time to check with her former boss. Gwen imagined the staff in the accounts section of Spinney’s Office Furniture hooting with laughter over supplying a reference for her role as parrot-sitter. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. They probably don’t give you so much as a second thought.

When Cecilia had called Gwen about the crisis and early departure, she’d said, I’m truly sorry I won’t be able to meet you to provide a proper orientation. But I can tell the kind of person you are just by talking to you. I know you’re honest. I’m completely confident. Before Gwen had time to think up a reply, Cecilia rang off because she and her husband were short of time and facing a two-hour drive to the airport.

GWEN HAD FIRST come across Cecilia’s ad on the noticeboard at Marvin’s and had pulled off one of the tear strips for a lark. She’d taken it home and stared at the phone number. She imagined introducing herself to a parrot: I am Gwen. Recently retired, age sixty-three.

Maybe the job would not be entirely dull. Better than sitting at home imagining a replacement at her accounting desk in what used to be her tidy and familiar office. Better than thinking of the golden handshake and early retirement. Better than standing in the doorway of Brigg’s clothes closet, wondering what to do with his as-yet-undistributed belongings.

How difficult could it be to talk to a parrot? The job was about conversation, companionship. She had

Reviews for The Company We Keep

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Grief is a powerful emotion. It can almost immobilize a person and it can pop up in the most unexpected times. Obviously different people handle grief differently but it's probably fair to say that it will disrupt our way of life for a substantial period of time. In this novel Frances Itani takes a disparate group of people who have all lost a significant person from their lives. The first person we meet is Hazzley. Her husband died three years ago and she still hasn't moved on with her life. She puts up a notice in the local grocery store inviting others to come to a meeting at a coffee shop to discuss grief. Gwen is also a widow but more recently than Hazzley. Chiyo is a middle-aged fitness instructor who lived with her mother who recently died. Addie has a close friend with terminal cancer who is still alive although she doesn't tell the group that her friend is still alive. Tom is the only male. He runs an antique shop and he came to the meeting hoping that there would be cake because he is missing that since his wife died. After the first meeting the group agrees to keep getting together every week. They all find that they are getting something out of the meetings (even if there is no cake). In fact, Tom talks one of his customers, Allam, a Syrian refugee whose wife died during the war in Syria, into coming to the group. In subtle ways each person is taking steps to proceed with the remainder of their life. Gwen buys new bedroom furniture. Hazzley finally gets rid of the boxes and boxes of empty bottles left by her husband who was an alcoholic. Allam is drawn to Gwen and they start to spend more time together. After her friend dies Addie accepts an invitation to join her ex-husband at a conference to see if there is any future for their marriage. Chiyo joins a soup kitchen as a volunteer and spends more time with her boyfriend. And The Company, as they have styled themselves, agree that they will continue to meet monthly.I am a major Fan (with a capital F) of Frances Itani. I have read all her novels (this is the sixth) and two books of short stories. I sure hope she has more books in her although she just turned 80 and her husband of more than half a century died last year so she might be forgiven if she takes retirement. I find it interesting that she wrote this book, which is about grief, before her husband died.

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My book club chose this book. I found myself reading it within weeks of my husband's sudden and unexpected passing. And it helped. The solid writing and strong characters let me get to know people going through something similar. At times, I felt as if I were actually part of the group. I learned a lot, including the importance of community support and the different perspectives and needs different people have.The ending of the book was, I think, a bit "Hallmark-ish". But overall, I found it was gentle, supportive and always provided a bit of hope. And good for Hazzley for having a "fling" at 70 years old!