Loddy-Dah
Page 26
She caught Jacob’s fleeting expression. He knew about the business card. Loddy had sworn him to secrecy.
“You’ll be great, Loddy, great. Just remember the back of the wall,” Jacob said.
xxx
She filled the days between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve hauling furniture and Fury’s clothes to the Salvation Army; destroying personal effects; storing books, albums and Fury’s unfinished canvases in Ulu’s basement for safe keeping. She purged every ounce of her former self except Fury’s paint-stained, red plaid shirt and the birthday painting with the card. They would always accompany her like a good-luck charm. Ulu purchased the motorcycle and, although Loddy considered selling the Omni, she decided to drive it to New York — another fear to overcome.
And when all the rooms were spotless and bare, she had one final task. She stepped into Fury’s sunless, vacant studio, her eyes shut, she felt his spirit. Dormer had presented her with a cheque from the sale of Fury’s paintings, more than she could ever imagine, enough for a year of frugal living in New York City. She had learned from a skilled teacher how to live on pennies. She examined the Eclipse of the Sun and remembered how she and Fury had whitewashed the Rising Sun, the red sun, dawning in her cockroach-ridden basement apartment. This time, alone, she covered the black sun with a roll of Snowball paint. Fury would have approved of her decision to leave Montreal. It was the right thing to do. The Eclipse of the Sun took twice the number of coats required to whiteout the red Rising Sun. Sorrow took longer to heal than pain.
xxx
New Year’s Eve. It was the white light, the kind people with near death experiences rhapsodize, that convulsed her from a deep slumber of dreams. The winter sun slashed through every uncovered window in the now-empty flat. On the floor, on her back, in a sleeping bag, she didn’t want to get up. She would be travelling light — one medium-sized suitcase, a carry-on bag and a tote now held her life.
Loddy bid Montreal farewell: stopped by Ben’s for a final smoke meat platter; drove by the former Garage Theatre, a For Sale sign stapled onto its boarded-up box office window; past the Limelite-A-Go-Go, now a parking lot. She wandered along the boardwalk in Verdun, and applauded the Christmas decorations on Wellington Street. She headed back to downtown St. Catherine Street and parked the car near St. James United Church and envisioned her wedding: she and Fury stepping through the black double doors, arm-in-arm with a cascade of confetti at their backs. She traipsed through wet snow to Phillips Square and paused on a bench to soak in the anticipation of a new year as Montreal buzzed around her, clogging traffic in preparation for a night of revelry. She crossed the street to Eaton’s corner window, captivated, as always, by the Christmas display of mobile stuffed mice and teddy bears, passengers on a train to nowhere in a traffic circle of toys.
“A good window display is like staging a play,” Fury had once told her. “It’s a slice of life.”
A final stroll through McGill’s Roddick Gates and the campus with all its memories of youthful naïveté and rebellion. When she reached Milton Street and Lorne Avenue, she ran with long confident strides in the middle of the street until she reached her old flat. She fought an urge to peep inside the basement window.
Loddy drove to Old Montreal, the finale. She stood in the centre of Place Jacques Cartier, rested on the lip of the fountain, pennies now buried under ice. Fury. Fury. Fury. She joined the sparse group of worshippers in Bonsecour Church, lit candles for Alma, Bettina and the children in Africa, and prayed to Mary, just in case there was a God. The pews would be overcrowded for evening Mass around the time she would be crossing the Champlain border into Plattsburgh.
She took a long walk in the cold. A coat of snow, like paint, concealed the narrow, cobbled streets and the overhead street lanterns now guided her way. Ahead of her, at a familiar corner, she could see Fury packing up his easel and portfolio, an expulsion of frosty air, like fog, surrounding him.
“Fury!” she rushed towards him, slipping on hidden ice. “Fury! Wait!”
The artist looked up.
“Sorry,” Loddy said. “You reminded me of someone.”
The artist continued packing his wares until Loddy spotted a charcoal sketch of St. Joseph Street with its surrealistic snarl of spiral staircases.
“How much?”
“For you, fifty dollars,” he said with a trace of a French accent.
“Pour vous.” She knew of an artist’s struggle to make a living wage and handed him five twenty-dollar bills.
“Merci, merci, merci,” he said, cheeky grin, broad and strong. Was that a dimple? Fury. Fury. Fury.
It started to snow, a light dusting of crystallized rain. Loddy wandered by the expensive boutiques, the bistros and jazz bars she and Fury had frequented. She stumbled across an antique shop with its clutter of ancient models, sailing ships trapped in bottles, vintage china, vases, glassware, a mangle of antiquated dolls, obsolete comics, music sheets and other collectibles drooping over restored furniture. She cupped her hands over her eyes like a visor and peered inside. That’s when she caught The Blonde peeping back. Loddy hadn’t seen the girl since the encounter in Room 1742 and the Bed-In for Peace.
She stepped back and The Blonde stepped back. She twisted around in an effort to scare her away, but The Blonde remained steadfast, reflected in the shop’s window. A malfunction of the retina, Loddy thought, perhaps she needed glasses. She drew closer, touched the window pane — a convergence of hands — every facial tick identical, simultaneous, a smile, a frown, a scowl, a laugh. She stepped onto the curb and caught her own reflection in the window, abutting with The Blonde’s.
A sudden fierce wind unbalanced her, punched her backwards across the street, now a sheet of ice. She could not stop sliding until she reached the other side. Snow whirled about her like a miniature tornado and then everything stopped. She looked up and the sky spilled out stars. At a nearby bar, a door opened and then closed in a muffle of voices singing Auld Lang Syne. She tightened Alma’s scarf and pulled up her collar. I am beautiful, she kept repeating as she walked to her car. I am beautiful.
And, with that, she knew she would be all right.
(FADE TO BLACK)
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to the following: Guernica Editions for taking on the book and to Michael Mirolla for his meticulous edits; Juanita Ottens, Ellen Kelly, Alexis Kienlen, Kathleen Betteridge, Billie Livingston, Todd Babiak for their valuable reading time; Margaret Macpherson, Shirley Serviss, Kath MacLean and Rona Altrows for their insightful critiques as Writers-in-Residence for the Canadian Authors Association, Alberta Branch. Linda Goyette, who from the beginning said I was a writer and, as Writer-in-Residence for the Edmonton Public Library, coaxed me into reading those first awkward pages to a library audience. My appreciation to the following on-line Verdun and Montreal groups who shared their stories and memories — Verdun Connections under the management of LesF; and The Sunshine Gang — Laurie Etienne, Bob Pilon, Linda (Noble) Campeau and John Winston Allison. And always lending support since we met in the sandbox in Ville Emard, my very best friend, Jane Hikel; my former bosses, Lorne Sundby and Jackie Bardsley, for providing me with opportunities to develop as a writer while holding down a full-time day job; Gayle Dussault for her encouragement and shared memories of Verdun, and Denis Payne, my mentor — both said I could do it but didn't live to see me do it. Also to David Moratto for a brilliant book cover. And always to Rick and Tyler who put up with me when I am writing, which is every day.
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