After You've Gone

by Lori Hahnel

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” he answered.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” I said.

  “I guess I’d better go,” he said. “But I’ll see you soon?”

  “Yes. Goodbye.”

  It took all the strength I had not to burst out singing as we checked out Charlie’s books and I carried the National down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and across the street to the car. Charlie and I sang at the tops of our voices all the way home, and I kept singing the whole time I made lunch for the two of us.

  He’s a very modern man, I thought many times. Maybe all these things, the words, the looks, the gestures that I interpret as flirting, are just friendliness. Maybe men and women relate in a different way these days. Or maybe it’s just been so long I don’t remember how it goes, can’t tell the difference between flirting and friendliness. I told myself these things back then, but I think men and women are pretty unchanging. Attraction is universal, has been the same for all of human history.

  This attraction, though, was certainly beyond reason or logic. I have language for it now. I didn’t then. My body was crying out for him at a cellular level; I felt the endorphins rush every time I talked to him. They used to call women interested in sex nymphomaniacs, or hysterical. Especially women my age. They’d send us to doctors to have our sexual organs removed, so we’d be normal again. Maybe John thought I was after younger men all the time. I don’t know. The truth was that the last time I’d been with a new man was with Jacob, in 1937. Nearly thirty years earlier.

  But it was more than just attraction. I’d found a friend in John, an ally. Someone who understood me. Someone who knew how alone an artist can be. Who wasn’t put off by the fact that I was different, seemed attracted by it, in fact. Always, I’d felt like an alien with other people, even before I understood why. I was a Gypsy. A woman working in a male-dominated field. For a long time I was poor. A musician, an artist. I was different from Bill’s family, different from Jacob’s. With John, I thought I’d finally found someone who’d accept me for who I was. I didn’t realize it until I met him, but I was desperately lonely for someone who understood me, who was like me. Who maybe even wanted me.

  Jake, when pressed, would say that he loved me. But he no longer acted like he loved me, hadn’t for years. We didn’t have conversations, beyond things we needed to talk about. He didn’t want to go places with me, or spend time with me. I felt like another of his many possessions. I was his. His wife. I had been his wife for a long time, he had a right to me. All that was true in a strict sense. But was it love? Did he love me? I think our love had died a slow death a long time before this.

  At times I felt selfish. How selfish of me to want to betray Jake. But then, was it any more selfish than Jake withholding affection from me? Maybe wanting John was wrong, but I had a hard time convincing myself of that. Funny, I never would have considered, when it came to Bill and Darlene, that his side of the story might deserve compassion, that maybe he really had loved her. Maybe he only did what he felt compelled to do. Maybe Bill never thought that what he felt was wrong, either. Because loving John never felt wrong to me. It wasn’t so simple as right or wrong, black or white. Was loving him any more wrong than Jacob taking me for granted, treating me like a piece of furniture, ignoring my emotional needs? But it wasn’t that I fell in love with him to spite Jacob. I know two wrongs don’t make a right. I couldn’t help feeling the way I did. It took me a while to start to understand all this, but it ended up giving me insight into why Bill did what he did, useless as it was to have empathy for him all those years after he was gone.

  All too soon the end of June came. John had gotten cold feet. After mentioning going for coffee, he backed off. I brought it up once and he said maybe we could go sometime in the summer when he wasn’t so busy.

  The last Saturday of June was warm and sunny. I wasn’t even going to go in for the last story hour, but I decided I had to say goodbye to him. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I guessed he was afraid. It made me very sad, and that morning I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, watched his every move. It was like I had to drink him in, keep him with me that way.

  Charlie was distraught, too. She shook and wept and I tried to comfort her as best I could while the other kids left. John tried to talk to her, but she was too upset. She just could not say goodbye to him. I wasn’t faring much better. Tears rolled down my face. I decided the best thing to do was take her home.

  “Lita. I’m sure we’ll be in touch over the summer.” His eyes glistened, I swear.

  “Goodbye.” I put my sunglasses on, in hopes that no one would see the mascara streaking my face, put my arm around Charlie and guided her out. I looked back at him just before we went up the stairs. He stood in the doorway of the story room, white as a sheet, watching us go.

  We went out the doors, across the street, got into the Buick and started driving. All I could hear was Charlie’s sobbing, and the pounding in my ears.

  “Charlie,” I said as soon as I was able to talk again. “How about we go to the Milky Way and have ice cream sundaes for lunch?”

  The days went by, then the weeks. I thought he might call, maybe write a letter, or even drop by some afternoon. He’d said he and his wife were going to Toronto for a while, but they wouldn’t be gone the whole summer. He was the first thing I thought of when I woke up and the last thing I thought of before falling asleep. It was like that for weeks. I dreamt of him almost nightly.

  One stormy Friday evening at the end of July, I suggested to Jake that we go out to a movie. I thought it would help me get my mind off things.

  “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf is playing at the Cap,” I said.

  “That’s that one with Elizabeth Taylor and her husband, isn’t it? I heard they argue all the way through it,” Jake said, almost looking up from his paper.

  “It’s supposed to be good.”

  “Now, Elizabeth Taylor. There’s a good looking woman.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Can’t a guy admire a beautiful woman?”

  “So do you want to go admire her in this movie or what?”

  “I don’t know, Lita. I’m tired. Couldn’t we stay in tonight?”

  “We stay in every night, Jake.”

  “Look. How about if we go out tomorrow night? I had meetings all day. I am really beat.”

  “Fine.” I thought about going by myself.

  “Isn’t there a movie on TV tonight? We could crack a bottle of wine. Nice night to stay in.”

  I picked up the TV Guide. “At 9:00, there’s Casablanca.”

  “There. That’s a good movie. It’s lousy outside anyway.”

  I knew what would happen. So why did I let it bother me so much when he fell asleep after his first glass of wine? Shouldn’t I have been used to it? In a few minutes his snores ripped through the air so loudly I couldn’t even hear the TV. Was this what the rest of my life would be? Sitting in front of a TV listening to Jake snore? I couldn’t stand the idea. I couldn’t stand it. I poured myself another glass of wine, tried to watch the movie, but I couldn’t hear it.

  “Jake. Wake up.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “I can’t hear the TV over your snoring. Why don’t you go to bed?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “Jake, please. You were asleep. Why don’t you go to bed?”

  He stalked off, as if I had done something wrong. Now at least I could hear the movie. But I couldn’t keep my mind on it at all. I kept thinking of John. Was that it? Was it over, before it had even begun? Would I ever see him again? Why, why, why had this all happened?

  Then something occurred to me that hadn’t before. Maybe he didn’t know that I loved him. That could be. Hadn’t Bill always talked about my icy exterior? Maybe I hadn’t shown enough interest. Of course, that had to be it. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  I flipped the TV off, topped up my glass, and
headed into the study. I found some nice cream-coloured heavy bond writing paper and envelopes and sat at the desk, listening to Jake’s faint snoring from upstairs. The rain still pelted against the bay window that overlooked the lawn and the long driveway that led to Connaught Crescent. My heart was full. I had to think, had to word this carefully. I found some stamps in a drawer, looked up John’s address in the Sask Tel directory. There was only one John Lair, on Retallack St. I addressed the envelope and then I started to write.

  Dear John,

  The summer’s been so long already. It seems like ages since I’ve seen you. It crossed my mind this evening that maybe you weren’t aware of how fond I’ve grown of you over the last few months. But I have. And it’s been very hard not to see you. I miss you so much.

  Fondest regards,

  Lita

  I read it over a couple of times, folded it, slid it into the envelope, and sealed it. I put on my raincoat, slipped out the front door, walked to the mailbox at the corner. I kissed the letter and dropped it in the mailbox. And I immediately felt better, lighter.

  The rain fell even harder. What would Jake think if he saw me coming into the house after midnight, soaked to the skin and a little bit tipsy? As soon as I opened the door I heard the dull roar of his snoring. Just as if nothing had happened.

  Twenty-Five

  Lita

  Winter 1966

  “LITA, CAN I STAY UP AND watch the late show with you tonight?” Charlie asked me one rainy Saturday afternoon in late October. CKCK ran a late movie after the news, at 11:30. Sometimes the show didn’t end until close to two. Kind of late for a ten-year-old.

  “I don’t know, Charlie. What’s the movie?”

  She pointed at the TV Guide entry. “Anna Karenina.

  ” “The one with Greta Garbo?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s supposed to be a good story.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it is. It’s a very sad story, too. A love story.” I remembered going to see it with Bill at the Cap. I’d sat beside him trying not to let him see me wipe my tears away. I don’t know why I hadn’t wanted him to see me cry at a movie. I guess it just seemed silly, weak. “Does that sound like the kind of movie you’d want to stay up late and watch?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Tell you what. We can watch it if you have a nap after supper.”

  I was glad to have someone to watch it with, actually. Jake was out of town again. Though, really, whether he was home or not made little difference by this time. Even if we did sit down to watch a movie together chances were very good that he’d fall asleep within the first half-hour. If he started snoring I’d send him to bed, but either way I’d end up watching the movie by myself. It would be nice to have some company for a change. Sofia’s sister was now in Regina, at the hospital, so Charlie wasn’t staying with us as much.

  She went to bed at 7:30. While she slept, I steeled myself. I knew that watching this movie might be difficult, but this was a special occasion, the end of summer. I woke her up at 11:00 and she helped me make popcorn, got a bottle of Canada Dry out of the fridge while I poured myself a glass of wine. We settled down on the couch. Charlie talked and laughed. She was very excited to be staying up so late.

  I’d made sure there was a box of Kleenex nearby, just in case. Turns out that was good thinking. If I’d been affected by this movie as a young girl, just married, in 1935, watching it at this time in my life was — not exactly a mistake, I knew what I was in for, but . . . I guess I’d forgotten the details of the story. I’d expected Charlie to fall asleep part way through, but she seemed mesmerized by the movie. It does cut out most of the intricate subplots of the novel and just sticks with the story of Anna and Vronsky, which is pretty compelling. The opening sequence with the soldiers playing a drinking game made me think of Bill, and of Steve. I’m afraid most of the rest of it made me think of the present, though. The train station in Moscow looked almost identical to the one in downtown Regina, although maybe it was just the snow. I wanted to cry out loud when Anna told Vronsky, “The days go by, life goes by without you.” But I just couldn’t upset Charlie. I brushed away my tears with the back of my hand as discreetly as I could. I don’t think she noticed, though I couldn’t say for sure.

  She turned to me with dark circles under her eyes when the end credits started to roll and said, “Wow. I loved that movie. Thanks for letting me watch it, Lita.”

  I got up and switched off the TV. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes, I did. More than when I saw it the first time, a long time ago. But it’s twenty to two. Time for both of us to get to bed.”

  I put Charlie to bed. I didn’t actually sleep for quite a while.

  I tried for a long time to make my guitar sound like coyotes at night. The sound is unearthly — kind of like a scream, like some hellish bird. Nothing else sounds like it. But I couldn’t figure it out. How to make that noise with my guitar, I mean. I kept thinking, Where’s Django when you need him? He’d find a way to do it.

  Around Christmas, I saw John outside the library. I parked and went over to talk to him. It had been so long since I’d seen him. I felt silly about the letter. I’d felt silly about it the morning after I’d sent it. He never did get in touch over the summer like he’d said he would, and I kicked myself for sending it. I’d made a mess of things, but now I thought maybe I could explain.

  He turned my way as I approached him, looked at me for a moment and then turned his back and went inside. I stood there feeling a little dizzy, a little sick. Had that really just happened?

  But if I rationalized what had happened that morning — he hadn’t seen me, he was nervous, or late for something — over the next few weeks he made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want to talk to me. He walked away every time I tried to come near him, avoided making eye contact. Needless to say, I was crushed. If things happen for a reason, I had a hard time seeing the reason for this. To break my heart? To kill me? To teach me a lesson — that being what?

  There are a couple of questions I’ve learned not to ask. One is, “What next?” Often you don’t want to know the answer. Another is, “Why?” Like Bob Dylan said, “Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right.” Amen to that.

  At any time a voice in my head, one that sounded like Ma’s, would start up. You should be happy. Don’t you have everything, and more? You’re spoiled, that’s what you are. All that was true. But deep in my heart, I knew it wasn’t. Maybe I had all the material things I could ever want: a beautiful home, car, money to buy whatever I wanted. But I was lonelier than I ever imagined it possible to be, and I wanted John more than I could remember ever wanting anything or anyone before.

  The weeks went by. I tried to forget him, but it was no use. Finally, one day in January I decided I had to talk to him, clear the air. I went to the library one Saturday morning and waited outside the story room. The kids ran out the door and up the stairs and in a moment he came out, too, carrying books and a coffee cup.

  “Hello,” he said. He didn’t stop, though, just kept walking and went up the stairs. It all happened so fast. I thought about calling his name, get him to come back and talk to me, but I felt sick. I went home and wept like a schoolgirl.

  The next day the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Stone? This is Marian MacKay. I’m head of the Boys and Girls’ Department at the Central Library.”

  “Yes, Mrs. MacKay?”

  “Mrs. Stone, I . . . I’m calling concerning John Lair.”

  “John Lair?”

  “I understand you helped out in his story hours last year. He tells me that you wrote him a personal letter last summer. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  I sat down on the chair that seemed to be spinning around the room.

  “And then you showed up at his story hour on Saturday. He said you were waiting for him.”

  “Well, yes. I was . . . ”

  “He said that you looked a
ngry.”

  “Angry? No, I . . . not at all. I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “He says that all this — the letter, waiting for him — is making him very uncomfortable. He asked me to tell you that.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I felt my voice growing quieter and quieter. I wanted to disappear.

  “Mrs. Stone, I’m sorry to have to tell you all this. I really thought that he should have called you himself, but he insisted I do it.”

  I felt like I had to get off the phone before I started crying. “I’m sorry you had to get involved. Tell Mr. Lair not to worry. I won’t bother him again. Thank you for calling, Mrs. MacKay.”

  I put the phone down and lit a cigarette. For some reason I didn’t feel like crying right away. But when I did start a little while later, it was really hard to stop.

  Why would he hurt me like that? I didn’t understand. Did he hate me, and I just couldn’t see it? Was he afraid I’d get violent or make a scene? What about my side of the story? He’d asked me out, hadn’t he? I suppose this was easier for him. But it hurt me so much to hear it from someone else. Rejection is one thing. Cruelty is another. He was a coward.

  After that the wind was knocked out of me. I was finished. I don’t remember ever feeling that way, feeling that bad, before or since. It wasn’t just disappointment or losing face, though there was definitely some of that going on. This was a deep sense of loss and melancholy, worse than I’d ever thought possible. Worse than when Bill died, strange as that sounds. I couldn’t help sometimes thinking of Pop, wondering if this was how he felt at the end. I know none of us knew for sure what was going through his head that day. But that winter, suffering the twisted rejection from John, I thought I had a pretty good idea.

  One bitterly cold, dark afternoon at the end of February I looked out the frost-framed kitchen window and saw nothing but swirling white, heard the wind whistle and pitch and howl. It sounded remarkably like the coyotes whose voices I still failed to mimic on my guitar. My heart sank. More of this weather. I didn’t know if I’d be able to stand the madness of another prairie winter. Not so much the madness of being inside, alone, isolated much of the time, or the madness of my heart feeling emptier than it had ever felt before, but the whole idea of being in Saskatchewan in winter at all seemed mad. What lies the Canadian government told the poor and desperate of Europe about this paradise on the other side of the ocean — verdant, fertile, welcoming. They didn’t mention how much the prairies resembled Siberia, especially in winter.