Loddy-Dah

by Dolly Dennis

  “Your house? So it’s true.”

  “Please leave. Get out of here.”

  “Fury, at least let her stay the night. The buses run late at this hour.”

  “You shouldn’t take that kind of abuse from anyone, especially your family. Come on Bettina, out you go.” He took her coat and boots and practically threw her out into the puddles of spring rain.

  “Fury, if anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Make up your mind, Loddy, me or them.”

  xxx

  She was expecting a call from Alma and, sure enough, the following day, after lunch, after church, she wasn’t disappointed.

  “Is Fury there?

  “You want to talk to him? Fury, my mother wants to talk to you.”

  “Loddy, no, no,” Alma said, voice rising. “No want to talk to him.”

  “Hello Alma, how was church? Did you visit the nuns today?”

  “You throw out Bettina. What kind man you? I want to talk to Loddy.”

  “Sure Alma. Nice talking to you.” After he handed back the receiver to Loddy, Fury turned up the volume on the radio.

  “You live with Fury?”

  “Yes. We love each other.”

  “Love? There is no love in the world. Šhudas. Everything shit. You break my heart, Loddy. You will go to hell.” Alma’s voice carried somewhere between downtown Montreal and Verdun then stopped.

  “I think she hung up on me,” Loddy said. “Guess, I won’t be hearing from her for a while,” She surprised herself with the lack of tears. Not even a sob. “Hungry?”

  SCENE 24:

  Ville Emard

  Easter Sunday arrived in late March and Loddy had still not heard from either her mother or sister. She called several times, but they always hung up.

  Today, Alma and Bettina would have awakened for the Easter service before the sun rose and walked the long route like pilgrims to the Lady Gate of Dawn church in Côte Ste. Paul just across from Verdun.

  When Loddy and Bettina were children, Alma would dress them up in their new spring outfits and take photos along the way, posing the girls on a park bench with City Hall in the background, or in front of the library. Then it would be Loddy’s turn to take snapshots of Alma solo or with Bettina, both reclining on a slope of grass near the aqueduct, models on a fashion shoot: Alma resting against the aqueduct bridge, Loddy advancing forward for a head shot and Alma admonishing her: “Move back. You no see my legs.”

  After the service with its hallelujahs and socializing in the church basement, the girls would run home to follow a trail of Easter eggs that led them to a once-a-year indulgence: Laura Secord chocolate eggs and bunnies. Alma, being the frugal cleaning lady that she was, never used commercial dyes for her eggs but instead boiled onions and beets and used the residual liquids instead. She displayed an assortment of eggs in various shades of red and orange in a wire basket on her Easter table alongside the cold baked ham, stuffed goose, vegetable salad and Easter bread. As always, the food was plentiful. Later as they grew into young adults, Bettina continued the custom of attending dawn mass with Alma in celebration of the resurrection of the Lord while Loddy slept in.

  This time it would be different. Loddy would be joining Fury for Easter dinner and finally meet his family. She had been avoiding this day, but his persistent mother demanded to put a face to the conversation that was always about this girl named Loddy.

  “They’re going to hate me and then what?”

  “They’re going to love you,” Fury said. “Trust me.”

  xxx

  The unpredictability of the weather, with a layer of snow still remaining, created slippery roads, and a fierce cold bore down on the city. The motorcycle still in storage, they took the old Dodge to Ville Emard. The Fortunatos lived with Fury’s eccentric grandfather above his grocery store on Monk Blvd., the same modest flat where Fury had spent his childhood. Primo, spry and stubborn, a Sicilian in his mid-seventies, refused to upgrade his lifestyle to St. Leonard and leave the familiarity of his Italian neighbourhood. John Bosco church was just around the corner and his card-playing friends from the old country lived on nearby Briand Street. His business was downstairs close to all his appetites and pleasures: Prosciutto, a crusty loaf of Italian bread, and a good bottle of homemade wine. His needs were simple but adequate. The rest of the family lived in the vicinity except for his granddaughter, Rosalinde, Fury’s sister, who had married a military man and had settled on the base in St. Hubert. Primo, as patriarch, followed Alma’s template and insisted the entire clan gather every Sunday and on special occasions, an expectation they never broke or took for granted.

  As Fury had predicted, the Fortunatos greeted her with familial affection and admiration.

  “Ah, Loddy, we finally meet,” his mother said. “Avanti! Avanti, come in.” She pulled up a chair for her at the king-size kitchen table, overflowing with every type of pasta dish, platters of ham and chicken, vegetables, and leafy collard and dandelion greens.

  “Like, I think your mother wins over Alma in the food department, Fury.”

  “Mine thinks eating is one of the sacraments, so don’t be shy and dig in.”

  Everyone with impatient appetites forgot their manners and rallied around the buffet of food. They lunged over the table and forked large servings onto their dinner plates as though it was their last day on earth.

  “So you like my family?” Fury said as he added more pasta onto Loddy’s plate.

  “Yeah, like, they’re fun.”

  “Wait until everyone gets drunk, and then I’ll ask you again.”

  Primo said something in Italian and Rosalinde translated: “My grandfather says my brother finally found his head when he met you, a girl with some meat on her.”

  “He said that?”

  “Grande, grande,” Primo said with a wide grin, gold teeth flashing, his grey handlebar moustache rising as he used his hands to shape an hourglass figure in the air.

  “Yes, my love. We Italian men like women with substance.”

  “We do not bite, Loddy,” Mrs. Fortunato said. “Here. Mangia. Mangia. Eat, eat. You too skinny.” Mrs. Fortunato passed her a basket of Italian garlic bread just out of the oven.

  After the meal, an uncle roused everyone with his accordion and those still able to comfortably rise from their seats danced around the kitchen while others floated into the living room.

  “You grew up like this?” Loddy asked as she stood with Fury on the back veranda sipping on wine.

  “Yep. Oh, it wasn’t always fun and games. Being the youngest of the three kids, I got teased a lot by my cousins, but Mario and Rosalinde would always be there for their little brother. My parents were, and still are, pretty strict Catholics but liberal too in some ways. They came to this country with nothing, and my grandfather started the grocery business downstairs. At least we never starved.”

  They both stared somewhere into the dark. A moonless night and only a glow from the security light at the end of the shed, where newly arrived shipments of produce were stored, illuminated the alley.

  “You know,” Fury said, pointing to the yard, “When I was a kid, we had chickens and a goat running around down there. Dinner was always fresh.” He chuckled. “My grandfather would cut their heads off and they’d run around blindly into the lane or neighbours’ back yards if their gates were open. There were complaints to the city and we, eventually, had to get rid of the animals.”

  “Your parents, like, they still seem to be so in love. He teases her and they’re always kissing and slapping each other on the rump with such affection.”

  “Yeah. She’s the love of his life, he once told me. Something, isn’t it? All these years. Thirty, I think.”

  She dropped her head to her chest; hugged herself against the chill. “Yes, something.”

  “Marry me, Loddy. We c
ould surpass them.”

  “Marriage is not a race, Fury.”

  At that point, the screen door opened and Rosalinde joined them, having obviously overheard.

  “He’s made you a very good offer, Loddy,” she said. “I would take it if I were you.”

  “Work on her while I get us more wine,” Fury said. “Tell her what a great guy I am and that she’d be a fool to say no.”

  Rosalinde grasped the porch railing, and scanned the sky. “My little brother. The family hasn’t seen him this happy since Avia.”

  “Avia?”

  “He didn’t tell you about her?’

  Loddy had the stunned expression of a passenger just notified the plane was about to crash. “Tell me.”

  “Not sure if I should.” Rosalinde moved to open the screen door, but Loddy blocked her.

  “Who was Avia? Please.”

  “Okay, you’ll find out anyway, I guess. She was his first wife.”

  “He ... he was married before?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I guess he wanted to forget that part of his life. Can’t blame him.”

  A boulder of pain landed in the pit of her stomach.

  “Like, I better see what’s keeping him.”

  He was dancing to a polka with his five-year-old niece. Loddy butted in. “Liar,” she hissed.

  “Hey, I didn’t forget the wine,” he said with a grin.

  She turned, collected her things and walked away with long angry strides.

  “I’ll be in the car,” she said, slamming the door behind her with such force the room trembled.

  “What happen?” Primo asked, bewildered and alarmed.

  “She knows about Avia,” Rosalinde said.

  “Shit! I was going to tell her.”

  xxx

  The drive home was intolerable. He wanted to talk and she didn’t.

  “Let’s not, like, discuss this right now,” she said, eyes brimming with tears. She hated that she cried so easily and hid behind sunglasses even though it was night. She opened the window, let the breeze dry her cheeks. Finally, they were home and parked in front of the flat, each biding their time, waiting for the other to make the first move.

  “Loddy.” He turned to her. “Loddy, why are you wearing those sunglasses?”

  “Decarie Blvd is dusty and I didn’t want to get any dirt in my eyes.” She removed them and looked away.

  “I see.”

  Then she lashed out at him, punched his arm, “You didn’t tell me!” she said. “See! See! You didn’t tell me. That’s why I don’t want to marry you or anyone. Lies! Always lies!”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I just couldn’t talk about it. Not yet. It happened three years ago.”

  “I don’t care. I’m moving out tomorrow.” She was on the sidewalk now, about to run inside. Fury stopped her.

  “Loddy, please listen to me.” She was blubbering now, on the brink of hysteria, blindly searching her bag for the sunglasses. “Listen to me.”

  He settled her down and they sat on the wet front steps.

  “Avia was this fashion model I met through friends at Les Beaux Arts. Gorgeous girl. She worked on international runways with Jean Shrimpton and Twiggy. That’s how good she was. I adored her and wanted her in my life. I thought she loved me too, so we married and I was so happy. I was only 19. Avia was away a lot and got caught up in that whole fashion scene in London — you know, the drugs, the parties, beautiful people, as she called them. More than she loved me, she loved herself. The woman in the mirror was the love of her life. I realized later how shallow and narcissistic she was but at that time ...” Fury stood up and shuffled his thoughts. “Friends told me she was actually touring with some of the rock bands out there, sleeping around, taking drugs and missing appointments. I didn’t believe them because she always came home to me and she looked fine. And I was busy at school. It was my last year.”

  Fury stopped to catch his breath.

  “Then one day, I get home from a class and find her in bed with another model and I don’t mean a guy. Both of them dead. I freaked out. The coroner said it was heroin killed them both. I swore after that I would never love again and never some skinny bitch ever again. I had had enough.”

  “Enough so like your next choice was an ugly fat girl like me. Someone safe. Someone no one else would touch, no one would want. You are just as cruel as her.”

  Loddy shoved him hard. He lost his balance but caught himself on the balcony railing.

  “Loddy. No, my love. Please.”

  “Don’t ‘my love’ me. I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I don’t want to lose you. Please.”

  “That’s a weird way to show me. Liar.”

  The cold moved the conversation inside and they sat on the living room floor in front of the fireplace, their only source of heat and light — another power outage.

  “The city should really pay its electrical bill,” Fury said, trying to lighten up the situation. But Loddy turned away from him and covered her ears.

  “I didn’t lie, love,” he said, removing a hand from one ear. “Listen, the wounds were just beginning to heal when I met you. I fell in love with every delicious morsel and contour that is you, Loddy. You were opposite to everything she was. Completely. Kind, considerate, generous, funny and beautiful inside and out.”

  “Oh, like, don’t give me that beautiful inside shit.”

  “Loddy, I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you at that cast party. I told Dewey it must have been fate when he asked me to look after you and take you home that night. You were flat out on your back, high as a kite. Remember?”

  Loddy uncovered her other ear and listened now with eyes shut.

  “And you wanted to take advantage of me, even then.”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Why do you love me? Or have you changed your mind?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m not handsome.” He guided her hand to his face as though she had lost her sight.

  She had no choice but to face him.

  “See, I have a Roman nose, hairy chest and skinny legs and I’m just a struggling artist. Not some wealthy lawyer or businessman who’s going to give you everything you deserve. I’m not perfect, my love.”

  There was only the hiss and pop of wood crackling in the fireplace. “You are cute in an Italian way, Fury.” His index finger tracked down to her mouth and she licked it like a lollipop then kissed his nose. “I love your Roman nose.”

  “And you don’t mind that I’m an artist and will never make you rich?”

  “Let me think about that one.” She posed as if thinking then looked at him. “Just kidding.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “No problem.” Loddy forced him back until he was on the floor, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  “I love your hairy chest.” Her tongue caught his nipples and circled them. She descended further and unzipped his jeans while he raised his buttocks to accommodate her. With a swift tuck, she pulled them off and found him vulnerable and wanting.

  “Aw, no underwear.”

  “Didn’t get a chance to do the laundry, love.”

  She ran her lips up and down his legs and moaned: “I love your skinny legs.”

  Her mouth moved higher and higher, closer and closer, until she connected. His hands in benediction rested on top of her head, guiding, directing her, when the lights suddenly came on and the fridge began to hum.

  SCENE 25:

  Intermission

  Riding on the success of Adult Games, Samuel produced more Canadian plays. But even with government grants, The Garage Theatre Company continued to lose money. It was Miss-Ile who had brought the entire Montreal gay community and the curious to The Garage Theatre. Nobody had ever seen a drag queen give s
uch a performance in a serious play. Nothing Samuel produced afterwards came close to the stir caused by Evening Star.

  The troupe began to disperse and find work wherever they could to supplement whatever Samuel and Marvel threw their way. Danny was doing more modelling with bookings taking him to Toronto and New York; Stanley performed in community playhouses and church groups; Percy was a regular at a lunch-hour theatre on the food court of Place Ville Marie or doing occasional voiceovers for commercials; and Aretha, who had miscarried two months after her announcement, was again working at the Y with Ulu.

  Loddy, in the meantime, still had not heard from Alma and Bettina. She didn’t care and instead pressed the pause button on her life and framed her entire world around everything that was Fury. She became his partner, mistress, assistant, and once again Rubens’ model as he prepared for another exhibition at the Gallery Den for October.

  She stopped dieting and accepted that she would never look like Twiggy. Besides, Fury wanted to keep her fat and fabulous. Towards that goal, he fed her platters of steak with potatoes and bowls of spaghetti. He posed her without constraints: reclining in the nude on a wrinkled silk red sheet in the manner of a Playboy centrefold, or sitting upright against a large embroidered cushion on the window seat, reading a book. Fury also sketched a series of Loddy portraits — a face in motion conveying emotion — joyful, gloomy, teasing. He drew from photos taken that weekend by the lake: a petulant Loddy in the row boat, sensuous and full in the lake, racing towards the outhouse, lost in the tall flora. It was all Loddy.

  Art critics defined Fury’s work as Magic Realism, Canada’s answer to Andrew Wyeth. But he was already dancing to his own rhythm, experimenting with surrealistic concepts and abstractions juxtaposed with reality and testing brush strokes and palettes of pigmentation, still searching for his fingerprint, his style. The Montreal art scene viewed him as multi-talented, versatile and a uniquely gifted young artist — someone to watch.

  xxx