by John O'Neill
“It’s all right,” Leonard said. “A bit isolating. Kingdom of the car and the van people. You can’t walk anywhere.”
“Yeah, walking,” Stiv-or-Steve said. “I couldn’t live there. My parents live on the Danforth. My uncle lives in Ajax, in one of those McMansions, and that seems like Mars.”
Stiv-or-Steve went on to describe his uncle, a bit of an eccentric: the lawn of his home in a new subdivision was so crowded with ornaments, various angels, elves, fairies, dwarfs, that the neighbours complained, circulated a petition to force him to conform to the look of the rest of the street. He enraged them further by ribboning his house and all the creatures with so many strings of Christmas lights that his house became an attraction, the street at night choked with idling cars. The strange thing, according to Stiv-or-Steve, was that the interior of the house was near empty, just a few plain chairs amidst the group of lawn ornaments he hadn’t pressed into service. “I’m beginning to think my uncle’s in contact with aliens, he’s so obsessed with his lawn.” Leonard did his best to listen, to be polite. But he was also trying to pick out the words passing between Alison and Beverly who were walking arm in arm a few feet ahead.
When they reached the Rivoli, Alison hugged Beverly with resolution. Something had been decided. Beverly nodded at Leonard and there was an awkward moment when Stiv-or-Steve just hovered. Leonard worried that he, too, had decided to call it a night.
But Stiv-or-Steve raised the palm of his hand, said: “See ya very much,” and followed Beverly in through the Rivoli’s glass door.
Alison began to walk. There was mean efficiency in her movement, a scrupulous sense of purpose. She’d abandoned her usual gait, how she moved in short bursts, with intervals of slowness, deliberateness. Leonard told himself this was discipline from her dance training. He began to feel a dream-like sensation. Alison shot forward; he receded. He was encouraged when Alison stopped and let him catch up. But she didn’t speak or look at him, at this point only willing to submit to his physical proximity. It was a start.
“Alison, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very distracted. I got a phone call today. Concerning you.”
Alison did not stop or respond, perhaps waiting until they passed out of earshot of another couple, near the corner of Dundas and Manning, who were engaged in a loud conversation under a streetlamp. The man wore a subtly striped silver suit, the woman a skirt and glittering Chinese top, buttoned down the side.
The man said: “It’s up to you if you want to come.”
“Don’t you get it,” she said. “I don’t want it to be fucking up to me.”
As he walked farther, Leonard could hear the click of hard shoes as the couple circled one another. He and Alison came upon a homeless man seated against a bus shelter. Leonard got ready to ignore him but Alison stopped and crouched down. She dropped a ten-dollar bill into the plastic bowl between his legs.
“How are you?” she said. “You having a good day?”
The man was wearing sandals, cut-off pants and a flowery long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned down the front. The gap showed a swamp of blondish hair, out of which winked a pendant, pyramid-shaped. Leonard thought this frivolous. The man’s face was dirty, yet oddly translucent. It resembled a burned-out light bulb. Leonard had to stare hard before the man’s features materialized. For a moment, he thought they might be located, as in a Picasso, elsewhere. Leonard guessed the man was in his mid-thirties, and wondered whether he’d arrived on this corner through circumstance or dumb choice.
“But for the humidity,” the homeless guy said. “We live on a lake, though, don’t we?”
Alison smiled. “Right on. You probably feel it. Smell it, too. You should go to Vancouver. It doesn’t get humid there, but the rain’s a drag.”
“I could use a bath anyway,” the man said, laughing, years of smoking in his voice. There was a tin-foil plate piled high with cigarette butts under his elbow.
“You take care,” Alison said.
She stood and began to walk. Leonard grinned at the man; but his look of translucence had returned, as if he’d put his features away, needing to preserve them for monetary transactions.
Finally, as they neared College, Alison said, over her shoulder: “My friends are important to me. I need to hear music sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What phone call?”
“Your father. Your father phoned me.”
Alison stopped. She turned and faced Leonard.
“My father? Why would my father? What did he say?”
“Nothing, really. It was a message. I didn’t actually talk to him. He said something about our having a meeting. How would he even, did you say something to him?”
“I don’t talk about my relationships.”
“Maybe he phoned. Maybe Beverly said something.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Have you told your mom?”
“She wouldn’t either. She knows him. She won’t discuss my personal life with him. And no, I haven’t.”
She began to walk again, but faster. Leonard was silent, floundering in her wake. But he was glad Alison’s reaction had been strong enough to justify how he’d ruined her evening. On her front porch, Alison pulled out her house key, held it in her right hand. With the other she stroked the seat of her bicycle, which was fastened to the railing. When she faced him again, her expression was tight. He waited for her to say goodnight, to tell him she needed to be alone, to think. But she just stared at him. Leonard thought of the homeless man. He spoke first, in a falsely deferring tone.
“I’m really sorry. I guess it’s a big problem that your father knows?”
“He might have seen us. He sometimes drops by here, but. Maybe he saw us. I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re an adult. None of his business. I’m just worried if he knows my situation ...”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“I can’t have him phoning.”
She turned, jabbed the key into the lock, opened the door. Leonard waited. She turned, reached out and clutched his hand, pulled him toward the stairs.
“I guess I’m coming in,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Unless you want to fuck on the porch.”
Alison led him, not to her bedroom, but to the kitchen. Told him to sit. She went to the window, glanced outside. Walked past him into the hall. He had a sense that she was about to phone her father. He imagined this represented some kind of verdict. Remembered the last time Alison had told him to wait. Already, circumstances had changed.
He decided to make himself a tea. If Alison was embroiled in argument, it might be a long wait. He filled the battered kettle, found a box of matches, lit the element. Sat down again. Closed his eyes, contemplated Alison’s behaviour. Congratulated himself that he’d held fast, been prepared to be sent home. Perhaps she’d sensed his resolve and it provoked her desire, despite the news about her father.
The kettle screamed. He switched off the gas, lifted the kettle, put it down again when he realized he hadn’t prepared a cup. Heard Alison in the doorway, turned around to find her naked. Said: “Oh.” Then, jokingly: “Hold on, just making a Tetley, my dear.” He turned back to the stove, hesitated. Her breasts looked dirty, and they were strangely flat, but with the nipples pointing upward. He wasn’t sure if they were attractive. When he turned again, Alison had the tight look on her face. He smiled to defeat it. She walked up, leaned down to dislodge some kitchen remnant from her heel, squeezed Leonard’s hand, let it go, motioned for him to follow.
The stark hallway light, a bare bulb on a wire, emphasized the paleness of Alison’s back and a series of moles there, forming a rough sideways W. Some were large, big as dimes, others barely discernible. Once she’d closed the door, she pressed against him, began to kiss his neck. He closed his eyes, let her proceed.
“I thought you were phoning your dad,” he said.
“I’ll phone him when we’re fucking,” she said.
She swit
ched off the light. Around the room, candles flickered. She crouched, undid his belt buckle, unzipped his jeans. He stripped off his t-shirt, embarrassed, now, that it was inside out. She stood before him, stroked his penis outside his underwear. He leaned in to kiss her, but she stepped away.
“Do you never learn?” she said. “Not the mouth. Everything else first.”
She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned back. “Lift me up,” she said. “Put me on the bed.”
“Why?” asked Leonard.
He shrugged, put an arm around her shoulders, scooped the other under her legs. She threw her head back like a heroine on the cover of a pulpy romance novel. Surprised at her heaviness, he had to shift his feet to maintain balance. Lowered her. Gave her a smile as if it had been effortless. She was more passionate than she had been before. She did a thorough sweep, kissed his neck, his back, his wrists. All but his mouth. Spaces opened, closed when she retreated. He entered her from behind, but the contact was strained, dry. Tried to turn her face to face but she resisted. He focused on the backs of her hands. Said to himself: These are a woman’s hands, a woman’s hands. He needed to talk himself through it. Began to feel, along with the excitement, that he was outside the experience. “I’m cheating,” he said. “Finally cheating. I wish I didn’t have to.” (Imagined they were surrounded by a frame, and flattened, as if on a plasma TV.) I hate TV, he thought.
He pictured her behind an enormous drum-kit, her arms hammering away. Through the hard forest of microphones, guitar necks, metallic rims and cymbals, she stared directly at him.
Leonard wondered what image might appear if he connected the dots on her back. A pencil wouldn’t do for the job – a black marker would be best. Or he’d use the burnt ends of her incense sticks. Maybe something would be revealed, oblige her to surrender. He’d sketch a mouth between her shoulder blades, create a new entry point, press his tongue against it, pretend she wasn’t withholding the real thing. But Leonard wasn’t sure, anymore, what the real thing was.
Alison made a sound like fabric tearing. She collapsed, slid out from under him, was on her feet and getting dressed. Her quickness was like sleight of hand. He expected she was about to present him with a rabbit: rabbit and fox. Leonard pouted.
“Why won’t you kiss me?” he asked. “We haven’t really kissed since that time in my car.”
“I’m going to hook up with Bev.” He pushed his pout into real hurt. “I told Beverly I would. I want to see what she thinks about my dad phoning you. I’ll see you later in the week, when I’ve figured things out. I’ve got a lot going on.”
Leonard was about to say that she hadn’t known about her father’s phone call when she’d made plans to meet Beverly again. But he resisted, lifted himself up.
“We should talk. You’ve been sort of unavailable. I don’t know where we stand. Then you invite me in ...”
“I know what I need. Don’t worry. Why don’t you take your time, have that tea? You can let yourself out. I really have to go. Don’t want to miss Bev.”
You live with her, Leonard wanted to say. Instead, he let her kiss him on the cheek. Her faint kiss was like a punch. Then she was gone.
18
INDIGESTIBLE
Alone in Alison’s room. Dresser, first. Leonard slid open the top drawer. Raw wood, musky smell. He lifted a powder blue pair of panties. Recalled how he had once cradled a newborn kitten, afraid of its fragility, its proximity to not even existing. Some pink and black leg warmers. Rolled up socks. Tights. Nylons: silk, vintage, seamed. He ran a black one through his hands, had an urge to bind something, to tie up a loose end. Put his hand inside, spread his fingers. Thought of stealing it. Didn’t.
Second drawer: folded shirts, less delicate. Imagined her buying them, pausing over rickety tables and riffling through second-hand racks at Kensington Market. Was a boyfriend waiting as she tried on a retro cowgirl shirt, little lariats embroidered on the sleeves? Did they sit over coffee as she grinned at the thought of unbuttoning it for him? What inspired each purchase? Did each transaction change her, or reinforce something that would never change?
Third drawer: wide, enveloping things. A shawl; an Irish wool sweater; black scarf with specks of white. A comforter. Leonard tingled at the idea of curling up with Alison under it, while January scratched her window. On top, small objects: incense holder that resembled a casket; a fat beeswax candle. A tiny green sculpted bear with a fish in its jaws. A gift? What occasion would inspire such an animal, decidedly uncute, strangely fierce? Snowglobe of the New York skyline. Tiny Empire State building, Chrysler Building, Twin Towers. Suspended, wintry world. When had she visited? Beside whom did she walk in the anonymity of Times Square, the sadness of Central Park?
An old film reel propped against the wall. Leonard thought of Alison at work, how he’d trade his whole past for a short future in one of those humming rooms. Maybe not the whole past. He sought something more provocative. Searched through her bulging closet, pressed himself up against the wall of clothing, most of it in dark shades. Smelled her smell, wondered how life could go on without her. How it would go on without her. Ran his hands over the top shelf, hoping for brown-paper wrapped pornographic photos of Alison, a record of her entanglements. Things she couldn’t admit were missing. Or a ribbon-tied collection of private letters whose words might bring pain and pleasure. Found a shoebox containing a worn pair of ballet slippers. Put it back, reminded of a similar pair his wife kept in their bedroom closet. In doing so, discovered a metal box. Lifted it down, found a fat lock on its lid, the body of the mechanism like a turtle’s carapace. Sat on the bed with it in his lap, shook it. Inside, weight shifted. Letters, maybe a diary. Suddenly felt the hair on his neck, sensation as if he were being watched. Replaced the box, switched off the bedroom light, moved to the living room.
Thick wide couch, with balding velvet arms. Orange vinyl chair. Coffee table resembling a ski, turned up at the ends. Pine bookcase stuffed to capacity: mix of psychology, philosophy, fiction: Ernest Becker’s The Denial of Death, Harry Greener’s Fathers and Daughters, Aristotle’s Poetics. Two novels by Edna O’Brien. A whole row of Kurt Vonnegut. Textbooks: Film Theory and Criticism and Perspectives on Stanley Kubrick. From the ceiling, a large faux medieval chandelier, hanging ponderously. It made the high corners of the room recede.
He sat on the couch, noticed a sheet of dog-eared paper on the table. Read his own name there, his phone number written in large looping style under it, and the word LUNCH. Under this, at the bottom, written in smaller, harder hand, Al, your dad called. Perhaps he’d visited and happened upon, just as Leonard had, this message. Had recognized his daughter’s former teacher’s name, had let his imagination expand from those words, feared that the arranged lunch might extend into a more exhaustive devouring. Was right. But the devouring had barely begun. Too much of himself left. Too much Alison.
The house began to pull out of shape, like a tent yanked by its cords. The walls closed in, while every corner stabbed into the distance. Leonard fumbled through the corridor, down the rippling steps, one hand on the banister. The movement stopped when he landed on the street. He looked back to see the narrow house, solid and almost haughty now, still under the moon. Felt a constriction in his chest, as if he’d swallowed something large, indigestible. The house was inside him. Relief when he slid into his car and felt a driver’s simple pleasure in placing both hands on the wheel, the tug of the engine. He concentrated on the dumb specificity of this moment.
19
GRACE
Life beyond the Cynthia/Alison/Leonard triangle was pressing in with more force. September arrived. In three days, Leonard would return to teaching. His anxiety manifested itself in a dream he’d had the night previous.
He sat in a dark, damp, dingy room at a small table before rows of broken desks. Above him, fluorescent lights flickered and the dented PA box popped and crackled, as if someone was trying to contact him. He searched through student records, discovering that his classes were
full of felons with offences ranging from petty theft to mass murder. As he worked through the files, he became aware of movement from a far corner of the room. The mildew had come alive, was creeping toward him on umpteen legs, a giant centipede. Its mouth dribbled something white. Panicked, he stood up, jogged his elbow into the towering stack of unmarked essays that were piled floor to ceiling beside the table. The top one fell, glided down, cut off his head. Somehow he could still see, and was looking at his face which had landed on one of the desks.
The eyes blinked open, stared back at him, while the mouth asked in a prolonged adolescent whine: “Sir, can I go to the bathroom?”
Leonard said: “Yes,” though he wasn’t sure from which orifice he made the reply.
He dreaded work. Every year the same fear asserted itself, a sense that the fortitude, patience and vigilance that the profession required had drained from him during the summer months. And Leonard’s summer, the latter half of it, had been spent in watching the disintegration of his marriage and his mother. Lastly, adding to his foreboding, the ominous message from Frank Corvu. That this coincided with Leonard’s returning to the place where he’d first met Alison lent the message weight.
The only positive aspect of return to work was that he’d see some of his colleagues, chief among them a person he considered a dear friend, though their interactions were restricted to the crumbling geography of the school: Mrs. Mavis Grace, head of the Visual Arts Department. They’d been friends since Leonard had begun teaching some 12 years before. He was drawn to her by her love of the arts; also by her compassion, which made anyone who shared a confidence with her feel they were the centre of the universe. He’d had a manic crush on her (her beauty and self-assurance an irresistible aphrodisiac to a fumbling first-year teacher) but nothing had come of it. She had tolerated his idiot fawning, extravagant misery, but made it clear that was all she would tolerate. Mavis commanded her classes with a combination of firmness and generosity, exuding a quality Leonard still found intoxicating: she seemed happy. There was purpose in her deportment, as if everything made sense to her. One of the hackneyed phrases Leonard sometimes unpacked for his students was Life is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel, and the phrase always put him in mind of Mavis. She lived at both ends of that sentence, in perfect balance.