Cut to the Quick

by Joan Boswell

  She had juxtaposed documentary evidence with more photos. Hollis felt like a voyeur when she read the diary excerpts. What an unhappy, unloved teenager Ivan had been. Where had his mother found this private document? How cruel it was of her to exhibit his confessed pain. She hoped his year at George Brown had made him happy.

  Beside the exit from the second room, Lena sat in an alcove behind a table draped with a black silk-fringed shawl. An open notebook’s white pages, a sign requesting “comments” and a vase of red gladioli, a summer funeral flower, contrasted with the black tablecloth. Hollis had procrastinated—she hadn’t arranged to speak to Lena. She promised herself to make an appointment soon but also admitted that she didn’t want to. The woman frightened her.

  Lena wore a long black voile dress, lavishly decorated with jet and bugle beads. With its stand-up collar edged with lace and its voluminous leg-of-mutton sleeves, it was either an original or a replicated Victorian mourning dress. It underlined Lena’s theatrical presentation.

  Although she had the same washed-out blue eyes as Ivan, mascara set them off like well-displayed artwork. Acne scars faintly marred her fair complexion, but her over-generous carmine mouth, perhaps enhanced by botox injections, drew attention away from her skin. Her thick blonde hair, again like Ivan’s, skewered in a perfect chignon, added to her imposing presence.

  The desire to rush over, grab Lena’s neck with both hands and tighten her grip until the woman crashed senseless to the floor almost overwhelmed Hollis. While she struggled to control her feelings, she tried to focus on inhaling through her nose, expanding her rib cage and exhaling until she’d emptied her lungs. Distraction intended to diffuse her rage.

  When another woman moved close to the table, Lena looked up at her. “Well, did he do it? Did he kill Ivan?”

  Did he do it? What a question. The woman was crazy— crazy and obsessed. Hollis shook her head slightly and moved backwards, but not quickly enough. Lena’s jaw jutted forward. She rose and pointed a long fingernail tipped with scarlet polish. “You!” Her voice rose.

  Nearby gallery viewers moved closer. Probably they anticipated a confrontation, a scene to titillate and provide them with a good dining-out story.

  “You,” Lena repeated at a decibel level louder than the repeating accident tape.

  Hollis took another step back. Lena strode forward, shaking her outstretched finger at Hollis.

  “You,” she shrieked for a third time and jabbed her sharp nail in Hollis’s shoulder. “You were there after his murder. You were at the funeral. You are that woman’s friend. You engineered their affair.” She reared back and launched a gob of phlegm that landed on Hollis’s shoe. “I spit on you, and on all women who break up homes, who cause pain and destruction.” Her voice dropped. “I will have my revenge.” Her sibilant whisper penetrated like a knife.

  The mucus insinuated itself under Hollis’s sandal’s strap and slid between her toes. If only she could whip off her shoe and immerse her foot in a pail of disinfectant. Or defend herself. She wasn’t a homebreaker.

  There was no point. A rebuttal would antagonize Lena even more and bring on another attack. There would be no apology—she had nothing to apologize for. Imagine anyone forcing Curt to do anything. If the situation hadn’t been so embarrassing, she would have laughed in Lena’s face. Hollis pushed aside Lena’s stiletto finger, rhythmically stabbing a tattoo on her chest. She forced herself to walk away at a measured pace.

  Outside, hot Toronto evening air assailed her almost as forcefully as Lena had. She sucked in deep breaths, even though she knew the summer air’s high pollution level. Before she moved, she waited for her pounding heart to resume its normal rhythm.

  A man aggressively swinging a placard jostled past. A second then a third person carrying signs followed. “Save Our Children”, “Parents Against SOHD ”, “Curt Hartman: Baby Killer”; the slogans varied as widely as the people carrying them. Pedestrians hurried by. Those scurrying into the gallery resembled furtive porn parlour patrons.

  “Wow, what a performance! Hey, there’s one out here too,” a female voice said. Kate, Patel and David clustered on the porch behind her. Inside, wrapped in her own drama, she hadn’t noticed them.

  Patel took her arm. As if they’d agreed on a course of action by osmosis, her fellow students hustled her away.

  “We’ll buy you a drink. You look like you need one. Lena Kalma is one crazy woman,” Patel said keeping his hand under her elbow.

  “Crazy is an understatement. That was a shocking show. Let’s make for the Star Tavern. I need a couple of tall cold ones,” Kate said and the quartet set out.

  “In India, what did you drink?” Hollis asked Patel, to change the subject. “When I think of Asia, I think of the drinks mentioned in novels written about the thirties and forties—Pink Ladies, Side Cars, Black Russians. I imagine a Singapore Sling in Raffles bar or a gin and tonic on the long shady veranda of a tea plantation in Malaysia’s Cameron Highlands. I visualize huge fans hanging from the ceiling, operated continuously by servants pulling on ropes.”

  “It wasn’t as glamorous as Somerset Maugham made out,” Patel said. “And don’t forget how racist those societies were. People like me served the drinks or swished the fans. They’d certainly be privy to all the secrets, because white people didn’t see them, didn’t think of them as people.”

  David, walking in front of them, turned. “It was the same in Canada then and even now. Even though it isn’t politically correct to use racial slurs, discrimination is alive and well.”

  Hollis wanted to ask Patel and David if they spoke from personal experience but figured she’d been tactless enough in her romanticized version of life on the subcontinent.

  “I’ve never suffered much,” Kate said. “But then I’m younger, and Toronto is so racially mixed.” She giggled. “Actually, I grew up in Markham. You guys probably don’t know the Pacific Mall, but if your first language isn’t Chinese, some stores would be a total mystery.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” David said.

  “I’m not. And it isn’t the only one. There’s a herbal store and a restaurant next to it in one of the plazas near my house where nothing is in English—not the menu, not the signs—nothing.”

  “That’s because you’re the majority there. Try being the minority. I come from B.C., where there’s lots of prejudice, particularly on Vancouver’s lower east side,” David said.

  “It can’t be against the Chinese. They’ve got to be the majority in parts of Vancouver. I know, because I’ve been there, that sections of Richmond are one hundred per cent Chinese,” Kate said.

  “I wasn’t talking about the Chinese or about Richmond,” David said. “You manage to turn the conversation the way you want, but you don’t have a clue about a lot of things.” He scowled at her.

  “Enough of serious topics. I’m drinking Molson Canadian in honour of my new homeland.” Patel smiled at Hollis.

  No gentrification marked the tavern on Queen Street. Dark mirrors, stained wooden tables and dim lights preserved the atmosphere where the patrons drank beer, sometimes with whiskey chasers, and ordered greasy fries if hunger pangs struck. Hollis looked around with interest.

  “Not your usual stomping grounds?” David said to Hollis. “What do you think Curt will do about the show?”

  The show. She didn’t want to think about it—the horrifying sounds, motorcycle parts strewn randomly, photos and documents recording Curt’s failure as a father.

  “My guess is nothing. Lena may be out of control, but she was crafty enough not to accuse him directly. She allowed the photos and documents to do her dirty work. He’ll consult his lawyer and tape any TV or radio interviews she gives. But unless she flips out and makes specific accusations, what can he do?”

  Patel tapped the table. A frown on his normally long and serious face and his repeated clicking signalled his disagreement. “But those damning photos—he clearly never liked the child. And it seems to me...”
<
br />   Kate interrupted. “Not necessarily. Remember, she also made photo collages for the visitation, and they were totally different. Lena’s an artist, a compulsive photographer—she must have thousands of slides and photos. Think about it—in those numbers there were bound to be ones portraying him in a bad light. Curt might have held Ivan at arm’s length because he had a dirty diaper. In those later shots, he could have felt angry because Ivan had dashed out in traffic. The before and after are important.” She sipped her beer. “And another thing—if his mother was recording true hostility, where the fuck was she in this story? People will wonder why she wasn’t protecting Ivan.”

  Hollis could have added another question. What was Ivan’s stepmother doing? Where did Manon fit in this picture?

  “Good point, Miss Social Worker. In your perfect world, mothers are supposed to keep their children safe. Fathers and mothers have responsibilities to be there. They pay a price if they’re not.” David paused. What could have been the beginnings of a smile marked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were cold. “Sometimes the cost is very high, but Kate has a point. You can make photos say anything you want. How did you all react to the show?”

  “It shocked me,” Hollis said. “In my opinion, Lena designed it to shock and horrify. She wants the viewer to jump to her conclusions without posing the questions we’re asking. She wants viewers to leave the show thinking, ‘Curt Hartman is a monster’. How did it affect you?”

  David leaned back and said nothing for a minute. The other three waited for his pronouncement.

  “It’ll stir up a controversy. The art world will love it. Legitimacy will be an issue. Is it legitimate to exploit family and friends in your art? I remember an American photographer who photographed her naked children and almost lost them to a social services agency because the police charged her with pornography. Critics will question whether or not it is art. They’ll challenge Lena Kalma’s motives—her disregard for her dead son and her obvious intention to harm Curt.”

  “It’s awful that the family has to cope with this,” Kate said. She sipped, put down her bottle and looked from one to the other. “In my community, they’d be taken care of. It wouldn’t just be Hollis who’d be there to help. There’d be food and visits and support.” She fixed her gaze on Hollis. “Is that happening?”

  “It did right after Ivan died. They’re getting cards and letters.” Hollis shook her head. “But it isn’t the same. Manon’s mother is a widow with her own business. She had to go home. There aren’t any other relatives.”

  “When there aren’t relatives, that’s when my community really swings into action,” Kate said.

  “Mine too,” Patel added.

  “Since they don’t have a Chinese or Indian support network, it’s a good thing you’re there,” Kate said.

  Hollis didn’t want to be painted as the do-gooder. “It works both ways; it’s lovely to have a place to stay where my dog is also welcome.”

  Conversation ranged back and forth. Eventually they talked about their hopes and dreams for the future and shared their insecurities—their difficulties expressing their vision. But they divided into camps: professionals who worked on regardless of obstacles, and amateurs who talked more than they worked. Hollis was beginning to believe she could move from the second to the first group and make it as a professional painter.

  The server stopped for repeat orders. Hollis considered a third and reluctantly declined. MacTee drank gallons of water in the summer and would need his evening walk. The others also refused.

  They gathered up their belongings, ready to pay and leave. Hollis reached in her purse for her wallet and managed to upend her bag on the floor. She scrambled to retrieve her belongings. A lipstick tube rolled far under the next table. When David crawled to retrieve it, his black T -shirt crawled up his back and revealed a blue tattooed spider hovering at his waist. He handed the lipstick to her.

  “I love your spider,” Kate said. David’s face registered surprise. Kate grinned. “I have a daisy in the same place. I planned to do a daisy chain, but it hurt too much. How come you chose a spider?”

  David shrugged. “It was one of those nights. A bunch of guys ended up in a tattoo parlour. They’ve got books of designs. You pick one.”

  “Does it have any significance?” Patel asked.

  “What do you mean?” David said.

  “I don’t know. Aren’t they supposed to represent how you feel or who you are? Give anyone who sees them a message about you.”

  David stared at Patel. “You’ve been seeing too much TV . It’s a spider. That’s it—a spider.”

  “I’ve contemplated a tattoo—maybe a ying yang somewhere inconspicuous. Or a crow—I like crows. But tattooing hurts, and I hate pain,” Hollis said.

  “You aren’t missing anything,” Kate said.

  David nodded in agreement. The four painters made their way to the street.

  “Who needs a lift? Lots of room in my van,” David said.

  Quickly they arranged for David to drop Patel and Kate at the subway then drive Hollis home.

  “You must find it tough to live with the Hartmans. Did you say Curt or his wife was your friend?” David asked as he pulled away from the subway stop.

  “Curt taught me when I studied at OCAD . My friendship with Manon dates back further, to the years when we lived in residence at U of T .”

  “You went to OCAD after your BA ?”

  “Yes. My mother insisted I study a subject I could use to earn a living. She’s an accountant who once aspired to be a professional pianist. She lived in poverty for several years before she decided eating was a bigger priority than art.”

  “And were you the villain Lena Kalma accused you of being? Did you introduce Manon and Curt?”

  “Yes and no. I did have a class party and invited my professors and their wives. Manon did meet Curt and Lena there. But let’s face it—how many people are you introduced to, and how many times does romance result? Not too many. Yes, they met at my place. No, I’m not a villain. I resent her accusations.”

  “Take care. You aren’t responsible, but she believes what she said. She sounded pretty crazy to me. I can’t figure how Curt’s holding up, and I’m glad he didn’t cancel the course, but I sit in class and wonder how much pain he’s feeling. What about his other kids—how are they doing?”

  “They’re sad. Tomas supports his dad. They have a lot in common; they both love competition. Tomas swims competitively, and they compete together in motorcycle rallying and sailing races.”

  “They’re still keen on motorcycles? If my brother died in a crash, I’d never, ever want to see another bike, let alone own and ride one.”

  Her reaction exactly. She’d wondered if she was off base. “Me too, but they often ride together. They also love the sailing races at the RCYC .”

  “That’s a passion I understand. In Vancouver, I crewed whenever I could. Sailing every weekend becomes a way of life.”

  “I remember you said how much you liked it.”

  They slowed on Winchester. David searched for a parking spot. Half a block from the house, he found one and insisted on walking Hollis to the door. They passed houses sitting a few feet from the sidewalk. People crowded many front porches, chatting and drinking. Clinking glasses and diverse music coming from different sound systems along with bursts of laughter combined to create a warm, convivial streetscape.

  “I love a neighbourhood like this. I lived in one in Vancouver.”

  “I thought la la land never let people go. When did you move and why?”

  “You’re right. Vancouver’s great. After my mother...” he paused, “…died, I decided to come east and try to make it as a painter in Toronto.”

  “Sorry about your mom. Is your dad still there?”

  “My mythical dad—who knows who or where he is,” he said. “I was an only child. For my entire life, she was a single mom.”

  “My dad died when I was young. I’m an ‘only’
too. I have a friend who throws an ‘only’ party once a year. She figures we’re special.”

  David laughed. “That’s a good approach.”

  “This is the house. Thanks for walking me from the car.”

  “Hey, no problem. If you or the Hartmans ever need me or my van, feel free to call.”

  * * *

  Rhona arrived at Lena’s show shortly before closing time.

  “What a scene.” An impossibly thin young woman in a black linen dress whispered to her companion, an older man in a black linen blazer, as chunky as his friend was wraith-like. Did they live together and conspire to appear in matching outfits? Or did it happen the way people grew to resemble their dogs or vice versa?

  “She totally surprised the poor woman she attacked. Imagine how she must have felt when Lena spit on her shoe, poked her in the chest and vowed to take revenge,” the woman said.

  “She’s off her rocker. This show depresses me. Let’s cut out of here. I don’t know why we came.”

  “Yes, you do, John. You said it would be interesting because both Curt Hartman and Lena are important in the art world. And the police haven’t solved their son’s murder. You wanted to see the show in case Curt files a libel suit against her.” She giggled and fluttered her lashes. “Be honest. You hope Curt will retain you if he sues. And you also said Lena was totally crazy and would stop at nothing to hurt Curt.”

  Deep in discussion, the couple hadn’t been aware of Lena’s approach. “You got that right,” she said. “He’s going to pay, and pay. And so will his wife and her friend Hollis Grant.” Hands on her hips, she pivoted and addressed the crowd. “Everyone here is my witness.” She scowled at the man named John. “You’d better write down their names if you think you’re representing Curt. You’ll need their statements.” She jabbed a red-tipped finger. “Mark my words. My son Ivan’s death will be avenged.”

  Seventeen

  On Thursday morning, Hollis and Etienne sat at the breakfast table after Manon and Curt had raced off to work.