The Women of Saturn

by Connie Guzzo-Mcparland

  Bringing Angie to Antonio’s office was not in character with Lucia’s past passive but secretive behaviour, and it surprised me. She had taken a big step, leaving her home and then being seen at a banquet all primped up. Had Antonio told her that his latest live-in companion had left him? Antonio may have had a bigger role in Lucia’s sudden re-awakening than he is ready to admit.

  I asked Angie whether she had finished her composition for Bruce’s class.

  “I finished it. I finished it,” she grumbled, “even though I hate writing compositions.”

  “How come?”

  “Because whatever I write sounds fake.”

  Once in school, Angie and I are both drawn into the dress-up games played by the rest of the school. All day long, my classroom’s many mirrors will attract students like magnets. I’m usually a good sport and will let them adjust their wigs, and even help them with their make-up. But this year, teachers have received strict instructions to stick to regular class schedules, and homeroom teachers are to approve the costumes before letting students out of class.

  The students buzz around the room, creating their alter egos: a hobo, a Barbie doll, and a blonde movie star. Angie comes out of the stockroom sporting a studded black-leather jacket over black leotards that don’t belong to her.

  “Angie, you make a great biker,” Linda says. She’s wearing a nun’s habit, cut strategically low on the bosom.

  “I’m a naughty nun. Gina is going to be a priest,” Linda says.

  “You won’t be allowed in at the dance with that outfit,” I warn her.

  “I rented it for tonight’s party at Charlie’s. It cost a fortune, so I’m wearing it!”

  Gina works on spiking Angie’s hair. For the finishing touch, she applies a heavy coat of black lipstick on Angie’s large lips, making her look even more menacing.

  “That’s sooo you, Angie!” Gina exclaims. “Doesn’t she look like Alice Cooper?”

  “She looks like a bum. I don’t think she’ll be allowed into the dance either,” Franca says, wrapping a white veil around her head.

  “And you look like a wimp,” Angie retorts. “What are you supposed to be anyway, a virgin?”

  “A genie, don’t you watch I Dream of Jeannie?” Franca pulls a bottle from her purse.

  Someone wearing a witch’s hat and a black cape comes in. A man’s voice booms: “The Wicked Witch of the West is here. Let me look at you goblins.” It’s Mr. Champagne.

  “I hate to be a poor sport,” he says, pointing to Linda. “You’ll have to change your costume.”

  “Why, Sir?” Linda pleads.

  “It’s in very, very bad taste. This is a Catholic school, girls. Remove it or cover it up. Remember, it’s a regular school day.”

  As the principal leaves, Linda grumbles. “Yeah, right, a regular day! What planet is he from? I’m not changing. I’m going out to Jarry Park.”

  I remind Linda that if she leaves, I’d have to mark her absent.

  “Sure, Miss,” Linda says, and she and Gina leave.

  Angie runs out to join them in the corridor. They whisper together for a few minutes and then Angie returns to class.

  I’m pleased to see Linda and Gina leave. It’s going to be a long, difficult day, trying to keep the students quiet and occupied, and it will be much easier keeping Angie in check without her two friends around. The administration staff can deal with the students skipping classes if they wish.

  I try in vain to give a semblance of a lesson on hair colouring. No one volunteers for a demonstration with their costumes and make-up on, and the theory lesson falls on uninterested ears. When the lunch bell finally rings, I rest my head on the desk, exhausted by the nerve-wracking morning. After a few minutes, I collect myself to look over the material I had shown Antonio. I study the colour wheel I had improvised with the names of my novel characters. In the play of circles and triangles, I see a mandala.

  “‘Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind’s eternal recreation.’ And that is the self, the wholeness of the personality, which if all goes well, is harmonious, but which cannot tolerate self-deceptions.” Jung’s words come back to me.

  Self-deception! Maybe I have been wavering too long, listening to the voice in my head that is whispering fears, doubts, and all the rational justifications about why I should re-consider my relationship with Sean, making expediency the moving principle that guides my life. I cannot accompany Sean to a masked ball pretending I’m Desdemona and he the wronged Othello. I call Sean’s office, leave a message, and return to my writing.

  Franca disrupts my thoughts and brings me back to the present. She’s the only student who shows up after lunch, but that’s because she needs to adjust her costume.

  “Nobody can tell I’m a genie,” she says, removing the long veil wrapped around her head.

  “Would you rather be Marie Antoinette?” I offer her my costume and mask.

  “Wow!” Franca is thrilled and changes costumes.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I see a tired face; my hair badly in need of a shampoo. I have been assigned a thirty-minute supervision. “Can I borrow your veil for the rest of the day?” I ask.

  “Sure, Miss, but why did you give me your costume?”

  “It’s not for me. I’d be too uncomfortable in it. Make sure you bring it back on Monday.”

  “Sure, Miss. See you at the dance.”

  I slip the caftan over my clothes, put on the turban and then pin Franca’s veil on it to cover my face, except for the eyes. There is something to be said about the anonymity of a veil.

  For the sake of students wanting to go trick-or-treating at night, the Halloween dance in the cafeteria is held—to the seniors’ disapproval—in the early afternoon. It’s open to all levels, but senior students snub it as being too babyish, and leave school instead. They know the administration can’t check attendance at the dance.

  Except for the dizzying strobe lights, the cafeteria is pitch black and, when I enter, I have to stand still until my eyes become accustomed to the dark. Rock music, played by a professional DJ, blares, and I wonder how long I can stand it. It also feels unbearably warm. I walk around the room watching the students dance feverishly, but can hardly recognize anyone, except for Franca whose blonde wig can be seen prancing above everyone’s heads.

  Supervisors have been asked to look for signs of drinking and drug use. Students continuously stream in and out of the cafeteria, venturing along the train tracks to sneak a drink or smoke pot. I look for Angie, but know she won’t stand out in the dark in her black leather jacket. Other teachers, dressed in their regular clothes, walk by without recognizing me, and I feel a sense of freedom. The only person who acknowledges me is Bruce. He smiles and says something, but I can’t hear him. At the end of our shift he is waiting for me outside the cafeteria.

  “I need fresh air,” I say.

  “Let’s go outside. But you might be cold without a coat.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m wearing three layers of clothes. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  “It’s the eyes.”

  It’s still light outside, though the sky is a monotonous expanse of murky grey. Bruce lights his pipe and we walk toward the train tracks. There’s a huge hole in the wire fence, through which students cross the tracks to get to Jarry Park. Bruce holds the edges of the broken fence so I can pass through safely. “Watch your robe,” he says.

  I lift the hem of the caftan and move carefully. Bruce’s small, courteous gesture makes me feel warm toward him, but also sad at the absence of a man’s tenderness in my life. It has been a while since a man has watched out for me, or has seemed to care about my well-being.

  The veil pinned on my turban has remained in place over my face. No one seems to notice me, and the park is full of the costumed students who have left the party.

  “I haven’t
seen Angie since this morning,” I say. “Have you?”

  “I saw her at lunch with a nun and a priest. They made quite a trio.”

  “Was the nun showing some cleavage?” I ask.

  “I didn’t want to bring it up, but yes, the nun was … well-endowed,” he says. “In fact, I think she was one of those nuns who sees to it that other nuns get none.”

  I laugh.

  “Eh, I made you laugh. That’s good.”

  “But I need to see her. I have no idea what she’s up to—Angie I mean, not the nun.”

  “She seemed a little high from all the attention, in her studded leather jacket, but she was fine.”

  I walk around nervously, looking around. Someone in a white mask is staring at me.

  “What’s the matter?” Bruce asks, holding me by the shoulders.

  I feel steadied by Bruce’s hands. “I’m worried about Angie,” I say and move on.

  “More than worried, you’re incredibly sad.”

  Tomorrow will be the first of November, the first day of the month of the dead.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it,” I say weakly.

  “That veil can’t be doing you any good. Come on, there you go…” he says, lifting the veil from my face, draping it over my head.

  I just smile and he squeezes my shoulders.

  “Don’t you have a party to go to?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course, Susan’s. Aren’t you going?”

  “I don’t feel up to the drive. I’m tired.”

  “Come with us. I’ll drive,” he says, holding my gaze. “I’ll pick you up right here in about forty-five minutes.”

  “I might be intruding,” I say.

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait for you at the entrance. Maybe I’ll have seen Angie by then.”

  “Good, let’s go back to the zoo and get our stuff.”

  The sky is turning darker by the minute, and I can’t shrug off the nagging feeling that Angie may be getting into trouble.

  Despite Mr. Champagne’s orders to carry on as usual, Halloween is turning out to be as disruptive and chaotic as any other WLHS Costume Days. Along with the school’s two thousand students, my concerns over costumes, parties, and friends have taken priority over school regulations and rules of conduct. I never took the time to call Alfonso’s house to check about him picking up Angie at school, as I had intended. After the walk in the park, I became fully engrossed in preparing for Susan’s party.

  She waves at me from the front seat of Bruce’s car, “What a great costume, Cathy!”

  “I hope I’m not the only one dressing up,” I say.

  “Everyone has to. It’s a masquerade party,” Susan replies, and I notice she has changed from the clown costume she wore during the day into a very sexy nurse’s costume.

  I feel oddly out of place. If only things were as they should have been between Sean and me, I’d be driving with him to the ball. I think of him and J.P., elegant in their costumes, and smiling their fake politician’s smiles. I feel like recoiling into my shell, like a snail, and disappearing.

  Susan passes me back an open bottle of wine and I take a swig. She offers some to Bruce but he says he’ll wait until the drive’s over.

  The wine relaxes me. I close my eyes for the length of the drive.

  55. DECEPTIONS AND FLOATING DEVICES

  “YOU HAVE TO TAKE A SHOT to get in,” Susan says, pouting a little, as each guest arrives. It seems that in the absence of Bruce’s attention, Susan is turning her flirtations to others. Soon the cottage is filled with the loud throbbing of music, the buzzing of voices, bottles being opened, and liquor being poured. The dining room table is pushed against the wall to clear a dancing area. The reflections in the large picture window show a bunch of overgrown kids in funny hats, moving their arms and legs to the beat of the Bee Gees.

  “Let’s dance,” Steve says, and pulls me up from the sofa. We move awkwardly.

  Bruce appears out of nowhere to rescue me. “I need air,” I say, fanning my face with my hands.

  “Let’s walk out to the lake,” Bruce says. As we exit, I look back and see Susan dancing with Steve, but she is looking our way.

  We walk beyond the patio; Bruce offers me the last sip of whiskey from his glass. I make a face after drinking it, and tiptoe on the squelchy dead foliage that lines the banks of the lake.

  “Care for a swim?” Bruce asks.

  “It looks pretty cold out there.”

  “It’s a shallow lake.”

  We stand and look at the water. A full moon shines off and on through heavy clouds. It lights up a bright yellow and brown object in the centre of the lake.

  “What’s that floating in the water?” I ask.

  “Just a loose a pedal boat carrying a load of dead branches and leaves.”

  I cross my arms tightly, and Bruce gives me his coat.

  “Thanks,” I answer, looking up at him and wanting to tell him how grateful I am for his concern. Instead, I say, “This must be a pretty spot in the summer.”

  “Except for the fucking black flies. The little bastards will eat you alive. I’ve lived in the bush all my life. I know.”

  I look around the lake and then back at Susan’s cottage. The surrounding chalets are silent, their lights off—the maples, birches, and evergreens indistinguishable one from the other in the menacing shadows of the night. Susan’s picture window is all lit up, moist and hazy from the heat of the dancing bodies inside. Some people have come outside, and are dancing and drinking on the patio. The whole house is vibrating with light and music. Their frenzy overwhelms me—so much effort and energy for such little joy.

  “You’re very quiet,” Bruce asks

  “I’m feeling down. All of the business with Angie and school, it’s taking a toll.”

  “It must be more than that. What are you thinking of?”

  “I don’t know…. This lake freezing over soon … with the boat, the mud, the weeds all preserved till the spring, and then….” My voice trails off. My whole life, I think, I have been trekking and trekking for miles, looking for clear water, only to be stuck in stagnant, backwater pools.

  “Then let’s get the pedalo to shore,” Bruce says running into the lake.

  I have never drank so much hard liquor before and my limbs feel weightless. I follow him into the water, as if floating on air, but stop at ankle depth to hold my costume up.

  Bruce turns back, lifts me up in his arms.

  “I can’t swim,” I scream, thinking he’ll throw me into the water.

  Instead he sits me on the pedal boat and pulls it to shore.

  Back on my feet, I’m shivering but exhilarated by the unexpected adventure. Bruce is dripping wet from the waist down; my shoes and the hem of my caftan are also soaked.

  “Let’s go back in,” I say.

  “No, it’s too loud in there. I have a blanket in my car. There’s a bar just off the highway. We can talk.”

  “What will the others say?”

  “Ah, they won’t miss us. Look at them. They’re too busy dancing their worries away.” He runs towards the car.

  I look inside and catch a glimpse of Susan’s face peering out the door. Should I go back to the chalet and speak to her before leaving? She will certainly feel stranded by our sudden departure. But Bruce has already returned with a blanket, wrapping it around both of us and enveloping me in a bear hug to warm up. He smells good. I can hear his heart beat. The clear-minded shoulds or should-nots will have to wait, I think. I take Bruce’s hands, and we hop and trip through the mud towards the car.

  Bruce drives along the country road quietly.

  “It’s getting late,” I say. “I’m all wet. Maybe going to a bar is a bad idea. Let’s just go home.”

  Bruce stops the car in the bar’s parkin
g lot. We’re overlooking the silent black lake, the vibrant white moon, and far in the distance, the tiny flickering light of Susan’s cottage. Bruce brushes his face against mine, and then unpins the veil still draped over my head. “We can talk right here,” he says.

  “Where do I start?”

  “Tell me about you and Sean.”

  “I find it hard to talk about it.”

  “You know that the longer things remain lodged deep inside, the harder it is to get them out,” he says. “They might petrify.”

  I blurt out the story of my last encounter with Sean and J.P. “I feel trapped…. I’ve decided to leave, but I’m still afraid to face the consequences.”

  “You can’t do anything tonight, so don’t fret about it” Bruce starts the car again, “Why don’t we go to my place for a drink?”

  “I can’t have another drink.” My head is spinning as the car moves.

  “I have something to show you. It’s about Angie … a composition.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Don’t be alarmed, but I find the content … troubling, to say the least.”

  “What did she write about?”

  “She kept to the theme of the composition, all right– Halloween terrors, dreams, fantasies.” My head is aching. I can’t quite grasp everything he’s saying. “But she’s embellished it with sex and graphic violence and I am not sure how to read it … whether I should take it seriously, or dismiss it as an adolescent’s overactive imagination.”

  “Violence and sex? Didn’t you say her friend, Eddie, helped her?”

  “Yeah, but the writing’s too sleek for either one of them and the symbolism is too crafty.”

  I suddenly fear that this may have something to do with the day that Angie had been left home by herself, and then brought Antonio my notebooks. It’s all too much to try to explain to Bruce.